Lost my religion

There are times when I envy people who have a firm conviction in their religious beliefs. While those convictions often lead to wars, the oppression of minorities, and a whole host of other things that often delightfully stand in stark contrast to the teachings of their respective religious tomes, I can only think what a relief it must be to be able to just take life as it is and not be on a constant search for some kind of meaning in this world.

While it is probably wrong headed, I have often sought that kind of meaning in pop art. The bands I listen to, the film and television I watch, and the books I read are less about entertaining myself for a few measly hours and more about setting out on a quest for, if not the meaning of life, than at least some kind of explanation for why we do what we do and what we can do to be better. I realize the folly in my quest, and it is never good when even Oasis is letting you know you’re going down a particularly twisted rabbit hole(“don’t put your life in the hands/of a rock ‘n’ roll ba-ya-and”).

As I write this, it occurs to me that it would not be surprising if the majority of people who watch dreck like Dancing with the Stars or Real Housewives of Whatthefuckever would consider themselves devoutly religious. Not because I feel they are dumb, but because they do not particularly ask for anything from their entertainment other than to be mindlessly diverting for an hour or so.

Despite the acknowledged folly of my ways, I do look to entertainment for some kind of meaning and one of the shows that had seemed particularly simpatico on this quest was the recently late, lamented Lost. It was just over a week ago that the last ever episode of Lost was aired and, while many people were not happy with the finale, it is hard not to appreciate what a unique show it was.

And when I say, “unique”, I am not necessarily talking about the weirdness that became the show’s hallmark- Polar bears, time travel, smoke monsters, immortality-these are things that made for some compelling fantasy and edge of your seat intensity, to be sure.

But it was the decision to toss around weighty themes such as fate, destiny, the nature of good and evil, the need for community, and the preservation of the self. These are issues that are not often tackled on American network television, yet Lost gleefully wore its philosophical and literary influences on its sleeves.

Yes, many fans were upset with season 6 and I must confess, I was too, until I decided to “let go” and experience the final adventure for what it was. When scouring the message boards (yes, I am sad nerd. Let’s keep it moving) for comments in the finale and what people thought of the overall arc of season six, one of the most often repeated complaints was that there weren’t enough answers. It is my feeling that if you step back a moment, more answers would have actually made this season worse(not that it was that bad, or at least not after the riveting finale revealed what the end game was).

It is true, there are a lot of dangling plot lines and questions that just weren’t answered and, it seems, never will be. To this I say, “Thank God(or Jacob or Hurley)!”.

Every time a lingering question was answered this season, I was inundated with a vague sense of disappointment. I call this the Anakin Effect. Remember back in the winter of 1997 when the prospect of a new Star Wars movie coming out didn’t make you seethe with anger? That’s because Darth Vader was still one of the great movie villain icons and The Force was a mystical energy that allowed you to levitate stuff and tell storm troopers that these are not the droids you are looking for when they so clearly are the droids they are looking for.

Now, fast forward to the summer of 1997 when you found out that Darth Vader was a really annoying kid who could fix stuff and that The Force was caused by a bunch of weird organisms called midi-chlorians.

Exactly.

I believe Lost was able to answer the lingering questions better than Star Wars (though, you would be pretty hard pressed to do it worse), but the answers they provided, never matched up with the answers I had formulated in my own mind. I had my own theories about Jacob, The Man in Black, and what exactly was going on in the sideways universe, and no answer that was given would have done justice to what I had imagined. About halfway through this season, I had to make the choice to “Let go”. Much like the characters were instructed to do so that they could move on.

Once I had decided to settle in for the journey and accept everything that happened in it’s own terms, I had to admit, it was a rollicking season. There was definite forward momentum, some wonderfully acted pieces, and an ending that was beautiful and elegiac.

The next day, I checked the internets and found that I was seemingly in the minority. The message boards were lit up with fanboy nerd rage and even the critics were howling for the scalps of Damon Lindeloff and Carlton Cruse.

This threw me for a loop! Sure, going into the finale, I knew there would be some backlash. There is no way that the end of a show, which always divided viewers into love it or hate it type loyalties, would receive unanimous praise, but this was something all together different.

Words like betrayal were being thrown around. People who had been fans of the shows for its entire run claimed that it was all a waste of time. Some people even claimed they were disappointed that they felt the show creators had gone with a sappy, melodramatic ending to be please the middle of the road base, which struck me as ludicrous. Say what you will about the show, but it has never seemed to intent on playing things safe.

So, why the vitriol? Why such a venomous reaction?

Like me, I would assume that these people whether they are aware of it or not, also invest the pop culture they consume with some meaning-or at least-they are hungry to find some meaning in it. For most of the people who have complained about the ending of Lost, they have taken issue with the many answers they did not get from the show.

It seems as though this may be the most meta argument in television history. One of the running themes throughout the run of the series has been the clash between faith and science. While the last season has leaned very much in the former’s direction (I will admit that I was a bit disappointed in the show creator’s decision to go in that direction), it is fitting that in the end, the viewers most disappointed with Lost are the ones who demanded answers to the many lingering questions. The others, who decided to “let go”(a phrase heard often in the final season), and trust in whatever direction the creators decided to take the show, were the ones most rewarded.

As Lost came to a close, with the gorgeous scene where Jack takes his place in the bamboo, where we all started this journey, it is amazing that the show has left us with a story and mythology as deep, rich, and polarizing as any religion. In the end, it was about the characters. About how people form bonds, and about how we may be able to avoid many of life’s miseries, if we open ourselves up and communicate.

While there are still many questions left unanswered, it seems that, just as in life, the answers never live up to what we have built them to mean in our heads. It turns out the answers are not so important as the mystery and adventure of the questions.

The IFAd

Well, the IPad has been out for over a week now, and despite what we have been led to believe by the media, the human race has not entered into a period of enlightenment and beauty heralded by angels and a cleansing light. That will probably happen for the next generation IPad.

Seriously, though, the news coverage for the IPad was nuts! That thing was getting so much coverage, I thought maybe Tiger Woods had sex with it.

It made the cover of Time and Newsweek! Just to get a sense of context, The most recent person to make both of those covers was Barack Obama. Are you telling me this thing is as newsworthy as electing the first black president of the United States of America? How do you think Obama feels about that?

That would be like if someone came up to you and said you are one the wittiest, cleverest, and most original comedians they have ever seen, then overhearing that person a few seconds later say the same thing to George Lopez, you know what I mean?

Now, for the device itself, it has gotten some pretty good reviews, but for the most part it is pretty impractical. Some day, after they work out some of the kinks, it could be a real game changer, but for now it is Basically just like having a large Ipod touch. Which I think is pretty weird. For two decades, everyone has been trying to make computers smaller, but now Apple releases this thing that is 4 times larger than an existing product. It’s like they are so cocky they are releasing items and daring people to buy them. Their next phone is going to be the IRotary.

Is it cool? Yeah, I guess so. It’s not very practical, though. If you already have a laptop and an Ipod, it it pretty unnecessary. And there are a lot of limitations. It doesn’t support Flash, the virtual keyboard is not very responsive, you can’t work from it because it doesn’t have any of the software to get things done. It…it…

Oh God, I want one!

I mean have you seen it? It’s like someone turned sex into a machine!

Now, do I need it? of course not! but it’s kind of like dating Megan Fox, oh sure it’s stupid and will probably make me miserable, but it’s so hot!

I think they could have chosen a better release date though.

Around 212,000 people will be losing their unemployment benefits this week. That’s just cruel you know. That’s like someone deciding to start a Stable Ground Festival and holding it in Chile.

But I feel bad for those unemployed people. I was unemployed for a while and If they are anything like me when my benefits ran out, that can mean only one thing: time to start looking for a job!

And I would like to give a quick pep talk to some of you out there who my be unemployed:

Listen, we all know it’s tough out there. Oh sure, you are unemployed now and probably incredibly broke. But you have also been stayin up late, sleeping in, and drinking PBR when you go out at night. Basically you have been living like a college student, but without those tiresome classes getting in the way.

Now, I know you don’t want to go back to work. They will expect you to come in at the ungodly hour of 9 am-or earlier! They will probably expect you to wear some kind of humiliating uniform-or worse-khakis!

But the good news is: after a while, you’ll pay off those credit cards you’ve been living off of, save up a little cash and at that glorious moment you will be able to march right into your nearest apple dealer and buy yourself a new Ipad. And for a good week, you will be happy.

Of course, after the novelty wears off, you will be right back in the crap again. But, oh what a week!

Celebrities at Large

So, I will admit, I am a huge Woody Allen fan. I go to his movies, I listen to his old comedy
albums, and I have read his short story collections. I like Woody Allen more than anyone raised Southern Baptist in Florida should.

Of course, it is difficult being a Woody Allen Fan these days. His last few films have been hit or miss, he has become a much more reclusive public figure, and probably the biggest obstacle to overcome as a Woody Allen fan: he married his daughter.

I mean, she was adopted. She wasn’t a blood relative or anything like that. That would be creepy!

For those who may not remember, the Wood-Man(that’s what all of his fans call him), was dating actress Mia Farrow at the time. Keep in mind they weren’t married or anything, they were just, you know, seeing each other for over a decade. It wasn’t like a big thing!

Anyway, Mia adopted a lot of kids. She was Jolie-esque in her thirst for acquiring third world orphans. Sure, now a days, African Orphans are all the rage, but back in the 70s and 80s, everyone was crazy about Asians!

Well, one special day, the Woodster (again, a fan nickname), was visiting his then girlfriend, Mia at her home, and he was greeted at the door by the nanny. As he was led through the litter of orphans that covered every square inch of what was most probably a fashionable upper east side apartment, he spied a young lady named Soon-Yi.

“Who is that?” Woody asked the nanny.

“Why, that is Soon-Yi, Mia’s daughter,” she answered.

“Is she a new one?”

“Oh no, Senor Allen, she has been here since she was just a child. Why, you yourself, taught her to read and write. You have been a part of her life for almost the entire 17 years of it,”

“17, eh?” was Woody’s reply. And the rest, as they say, is history.

I bring all of this up, because over the weekend, I saw the newest Roman Polanski movie. It was a great film. It really was. The direction was tight and gripping. The story was layered and nuanced, and the acting was genuine and real.

The film, The Ghost Writer, played to a full house.

Now, some people would argue that this man should not be directing movies or doing anything other than serving a prison sentence -all because one time he got a thirteen year old girl high and drunk and had sex with her.

Before you judge the man, let’s go over a couple of the finer points of this seemingly dastardly act. First of all, this happened in the seventies. Back then it was considered rude not to get a young lady drunk and high before making love to her.

Second of all, and this is possibly the most important point: he is a great film maker. This is the man who made Chinatown! Ever hear of it? It’s only considered one of the greatest movies ever made. Roger Ebert once said of Chinatown, that “it is a film so well constructed, thrilling, and influential that it makes Citizen Kane it’s little bitch”


Of course, this got me thinking of the mercurial relationship we, the public, have with our celebrities. What are we willing to accept from our heroes? What line do we draw?

For those whom are merely curious and for those whom have been given the gift of great talent, fame, and-the greatest gift of all-not having to be one of us, I have devised a handy set of guidelines.

Celebrities, please feel free to print this out and keep in your pocket.

Regular people, now you will know exactly how much scorn to place on a celebrity the next time they are caught murdering an underaged, roofied, transvestite.


1. Drunk Driving. As long as you have not killed anyone, this is pretty much a freebie. Hey, who hasn’t had a little bit too much to drink and gotten behind the wheel of $80,000 luxury automobile? Basically, it just amounts to a little free publicity. The one caveat to this, of course, is when being arrested for drunk driving don’t go on an anti-Semitic rant while calling the arresting officer sugar tits. This will only confuse us, the general public, because, while we don’t like anti-Semitism, calling the cop who is arresting you sugar-tits is awesome!

2. Domestic Violence. Listen, we all know ladies can get a little lippy sometimes, but before you treat your sweetheart to a quick Hillbilly counseling session, keep in mind that this is one of the few things that you can’t walk away from. Chris Brown. Ike Turner. Those guys used to be musicians once, right?


3. Waking up in stranger’s house after a three day bender. Well, Robert Downey Jr. is one of the biggest stars in the world, so yeah, you can get over this hurdle and, hell, you know that guy must have the best stories!

4. Drugs. Like drunk driving, this too, is pretty much okay. If you are crazy and self-destructive, people will assume you are a deep artist struggling with a darkness and addiction that is harrowing. If you come through it, people will fawn over your courageous victory. If you die, then cha-ching! Your estate will be able to cash in on you for years to come, possibly decades. You will be an artistic light snuffed out in its prime. Beware: if you hover between these two things for too long, then you become Courtney Love.

5. Infidelity. While not a crime, this could be a deal breaker in the court of public opinion, depending on your reputation. For example, if Charlie Sheen gets caught cheating, you are more likely to be angry at the wife or girlfriend he was with at the time. You will find yourself yelling at the screen, “He’s Charlie Sheen! What did you think would happen?”. On the other hand , if you are Tiger Woods and you have tons of endorsement deals coming in based in part on your squeaky clean image and then it comes out that you have boned what is the equivalent to the population of Montana, people get upset. What you must always remember is that people, as a whole, are very stupid.

6. Robbing a bank while drunk. Okay, actually this has only happened to Rip Torn. Rip Torn does these things, sometimes. No matter where you are on the celebrity scale, you absolutely must not drunkenly try to rob a bank unless you are Rip Torn. It just won’t end well.

7. Questionable sexual/romantic. Which brings me back to the beginning. To have a creepy, inappropriate sexual encounter with someone, you must surpass the title of mere celebrity. You must be Legendary. Michael Jackson has been plagued by accusations of pedophilia for decades, but when he died, all was forgotten. I mean, his fans claim that he never touched the kids, but he just wanted to sleep in the same bed with them. Which is somehow creepier to me. Eddie Murphy picks up transvestite hookers, Woody Allen marries his adopted daughter, Roman Polanski and so on. The exception to the rule-it’s called the Hugh Grant rule-you must be endearingly British.

8. Murder. I got to say, this is a tough one. As far as public opinion goes, you may never completely walk away. Just ask Fatty Arbuckle. However, there is little chance you will do any time. It's almost as bad as Domestic Violence. Basically your best protection is a couple of Emmys or at least a Hesiman Trophy. One exception: Even if you are legendary pop music record producer, you will still go to prison if you show up to court looking like this:

2010-Jesus, what next?

The Christmas season of 1999 was a time of dread and confusion. Oh, sure, we were excited about getting a new sweater and perhaps even those nice Argyle socks we had been hinting at, but underneath it all was the quivering suspicion that it would all be over by the morning of Jan 1^st.

That’s right, I’m talking about Y2K.

Sure, you were going to look mighty sharp sporting those argyles, but what good does that do you while you’re shoveling mud out of a pit and building up the defenses of your compound in an effort to fortify yourself against the hordes of looters that were sure to be roving the country side with only hunger and bloodlust as their companions?

As you know, Y2K never happened and so there we all were, clamped down in our bunkers wondering what we were going to do with all of this ammunition and cans of baked beans.

Me, I traveled the Appalachians for a couple of weeks, and quickly sold my stock. Luckily, the mountain people were still readying themselves for the onslaught.

“I appreciate you taking this off my hands, but you know now that 2000 is here, all of this Y2K business is nothing to be afraid of anymore,” I said, always honest to a fault.

“Y2 what now?” was their reply.

I simply smiled good-naturedly and bid them great success in the future. I will always remember my time with the mountain people fondly.

So, as the ball dropped in Times Square and the calendar page was turned to reveal a “20” instead of a “19” the world didn’t end. The computers, who apparently were now our quiet overlords, still kept computing, and the market share for high-grade weaponry and abandoned lots of land were returned to the domain of Rush Limbaugh listeners.

Of course, something bad did happen in the 2000’s, lots of things, really; 9/11, the war in Iraq, Katrina, the war in Afghanistan, the collapse of our entire economic system, and of course, American Idol.

The question, as we stand in the doorway of 2010, is what now?

“Maybe we really should start building bunkers and loading up on guns and ammo again,” you’re thinking, “ I just know Obama can’t wait to take that away from us, along with our freedom and turn this country into some kind of Communist wasteland where everyone dies of old age because we can’t shoot each other and we all have excellent health care. Holy shit, I’m going to go order the Dirty Harry box set off of Amazon!”

Whoa, settle down.

No one is going to take away your guns. Everyone in America is too stup..er, independent for that. And while we there may be a health care bill that passes, don’t worry, it will be too washed down and weak to be of much help to anybody.

One thing we should understand, however, is this: Bad shit is going to happen this decade. Just as it happened last decade and just like it has happened for every decade since we climbed down from the trees.

The lesson we should be taking from the last decade is quite simple. Our economy is where it is because of greed. Our situation in the Middle East is because we let our fear cloud our thinking. Katrina was bad because we stopped thinking about the less fortunate. What we should remember are those few days after 9/11 when we truly pulled together as a country. We mourned for strangers living a thousand miles away and ordinary people going out of their way to help strangers lifted our hearts. The lesson we should be taking from the 2000s as we enter this new decade is this quote from Kurt Vonnegut, “Goddamn, you must be kind to one another.”

In the Aftermath of 9/11 we saw that we could become united for the greater good and that is the one great gift we got from the passing decade.

Oh, and iPods! I don’t even know how I got on without one!

Bright Guy

Okay, I’ll come clean: I’m not smart. This may not seem like much of revelation, especially if you know me. And let’s face it, if you’re reading this, you probably know me. However, many people think I am smart. Random people will accost me on the street and ask for directions or some other kind of difficult question, but as they are speaking, all that is going through my head is the theme song to Gilligan’s Island.

Now, it is true; I wear glasses and read a lot. I mean I have all of the accoutrements of the smart, so I could see people making the initial mistake. Like, you see a tall guy and you figure he must play basketball or you see an Italian guy and you figure he must have mob connections. Of course, it’s not true; not all tall people play basketball, but we have a tendency to do quick, lazy stereotypes when we first meet someone. I mean, why not, it’s fun and easy!

When I was in school, kids used to cheat off of me all the time. And I get it: chubby guy +glasses+ clothes picked out by mom=genius. It’s an easy mistake, but, at some point, don’t you think it they would figure it out? Wouldn’t someone look over and see me penciling in the answer “George Washington” to the question, “Who is thought to be the father of modern astronomy?” and breathe a sigh of annoyance and look for some fresh brains to cipher off of?

They wouldn’t though. They would lean over, as obvious as can be, and copy whatever half assed shit I could think up like they were the slickest cats in the world. The teacher would never interfere, of course. I mean talk about only cheating yourself. While I knew I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the tray, I took solace in knowing I was not quite as dumb as these guys.

Over the years, I have come to terms with the limited mental capacity I was given in this crapshoot we call life. Oh, sure, I may never win the thing-a-ma-jiggy, you know-the award they give to scientists and junk-but I have gotten this far and, hell, say what you want about him, but George W. Bush was the God damn president! I don’t agree with his politics, but knowing that one of us (you know, morons) was able to become President of The United States of America! It stirs a sense of both revulsion and pride. I can only imagine this is how black Republicans must feel.

So, yes, I am not going to be splitting the Adam any time soon (which is such a gay saying, am I right?), but I have accepted my lot in this life. For the most part, I feel the serenity and peacefulness that comes with knowing your place in the world.

However, every so often, something happens that throws me off balance. A moment materializes that makes me realize that I am not as smart as I think I am, which is depressing, because that is not too tall a cliff to fall off of in the first place.

The axe came down on Halloween night. I had just got home from my part time job and my girlfriend, Laura, had a few friends over for drinks and scary movies (although, when I got there, they were watching From Dusk ‘til Dawn, which, I for some reason don’t think qualifies, but we can save that for another discussion). As all conversations do after a few drinks, ours turned to the impending time change. Now, I think I have made it clear that I do not consider myself an Einstein, or even a Salk, for God’s sake, but I am able to complete the simple task of setting the clock back an hour. However, I soon learned that if time travel is ever invented, you probably won’t want me as a travel companion.

“The worst part about the time change” I whined with the casual arrogance of one who understands a simple process, “Is that it will be dark out now when I got to work.”

I explained that I wake up for work at 6:30 am every day. I usually leave the house at around 7:10 and that at that time it is still pretty dark out. Now it would be even darker because it was an hour earlier. This seemed like an even, intelligent, and logical assumption about what would happen if I set my clock back one hour.

It seemed that way, but of course, I was absolutely incorrect.

“No, no. It will actually be 7:30 when you wake up now,” said Rachel. She was a friend of the group’s. She lived in DC and while we have met on several occasions, we didn’t know each other that well. It is good we do not know each other that well, because as I am more behaved and diplomatic with people I don’t know as opposed to being pretty much a jerk with good, lifelong friends, it stopped me from, replying with, “What the fuck you talking about?”

Instead, I used the more genteel, “come again?”

Rachel explained it once more and then once more after that. To her credit, she quickly gleaned what the rest of the party had yet to. Which was basically this: I wasn’t going to get this. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. Maybe on my deathbed, I would spring up one last time exclaiming, “Oh! So, a an hour back, so when I wake up at 6:30, it will actually be..wait, I just had it…” and then I will pass and those will be my last words on this earth.

Rachel excused herself and Allison slid into position to take the reigns of driving through my thick skull what setting the clocks back an hour would mean.

“So, when you wake up now, it’s dark out, but after the time change, it will be light out at that time,”

“But it will be an hour earlier!” I cried.

“No, it will be an hour later.” She said, with the kind of look on her face people usually keep in reserve when explaining to a child why he can’t live on candy.

“…But…But…We are setting the clocks back!” I countered with what I felt to be a compelling argument.

“Well, you’ll see. On Mon when you wake up, it will be light out.”

We dropped the subject and I smiled and joked with everyone and as the evening turned to early morning, we all said our goodbyes and turned in for the night.

Oh, but I didn’t forget. I may forget my keys, wallet, and middle name, but when I think I am right, I hold on to that like an old miner holds onto a gold nugget. Which is to say, very tightly.

The alarm went off at 6:30, just as it always does during the weekday. I hit the snooze button, but as my eyes caught sight of what was outside, I vaulted out of the bed. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning. I practically threw open my window and peered my head out to ask some passing street urchin, “ Did I miss, boy? Is it too late?”

“Miss what,” the precocious urchin would ask.

“The time change boy! Has it happened?”

He would have answered yes because, of course, it did happen. What got me out of bed was not the dark, but the complete absence of it. A steady stream of sunlight shone through my bedroom window and illuminated so much more than the hardwood floors. I had been wrong, of course. The sun was out. We had set the clocks back, but that also meant that it was actually 7:30 right now, and not 5:30 and if I think more about it, my head may explode.

I walked to work, feeling a slight twinge of defeat. It didn’t help that the shower failed to produce even a drop of warm water this morning. I was forced to wash myself of in the sink like a hobo at the Public Library.

So, there I was, walking to work, feeling out witted again, and smelling of hand soap and tap water. I felt foolish in my faulty logic, and this turned over in my brain a few times. After having some coffee and a cigarette, I quickly forgot about the intellectual thrashing I had suffered. I surveyed my Brooklyn neighborhood and took in the charming buildings and the busy Flatbush Ave parade of commuters. Life was teeming around me and the sun took it’s rightful place up in the blue sky.

I suppose that is one good thing about being stupid. I soon forgot what I was feeling bad about or why. I simply looked ahead and continued on the bright, sunny path ahead; content to stay out of the shadows.

Blog update

I have only started this blog and am already two weeks behind posting. Sorry about that. I have been working like crazy, lately and just haven't has as much time as expected to put into this sucka.

I have about half a dozen half- finished essays written up and this weekend, I am going to buckle down and knock a couple out and get some stuff posted.

For now, though, I am hoping to start serializing some stories. I have just started my first one. I will be honest, i just finished and am just throwing it onto the site, so there s a chance that this will be coming down by the weekend and reposted with the errors taken out.

For the story, itself, I am trying to write a horror-mystery that I have been kicking around in my brain for a while and I want to get at least a couple of parts up in time for Halloween!

I hope you like it!

Mirror, Mirror part1

She came shambling into the Sheriff’s office lobby wearing a pink, shabby, and dirty sweat suit. She was thin an gaunt and her eyes were surrounded by deep dark circles that gave the upper half of her face the appearance of always being in the shadows. She was a woman of 45 years of age, but the weathered lines on her face and hands grown rigid due to years of hard labor gave her the appearance of someone at least fifteen years older.

She paused at the empty booth protected by surrounding walls of bulletproof glass.

“Frank!” She called out sounding like a wounded reptile.

No one answered. The sleepy Sheriff’s office was as deserted and quiet as the Minerals museum out on Woodchuck Road.

“Frank!” she called out again, her cry sounding more desperate and pleading.

A harsh voice cut through the silence and echoed off the porcelain-tiled walls. It came from the intercom box just inside the booth.

“ ‘S that you Loretta?”

“You damn well know it is Tom!”

“You know I can’t talk to you right now. Not without a lawyer present”

“To hell with that, Tom! Your Goddamn goons is all over my house!”

“Not without a lawyer.”

“Damn it, Tom!”

“Lorretta.”

“You sons of bitches took my boy! You certainly to holy fuck will talk to me!”

Loretta balled up her bony hands into weathered, husks of fists and banged them against the bullet proof plexiglass. She screamed and shook with a dark rage. She screamed out all kinds of profanity, but they swirled together to form a symphony of deep, primal hurt. She lept away from the booth and made her way to the thick metal door that separated her from her quarry. That kept her from Sheriff Tom Morgan.

A loud, oppressive buzz broke the evil spell cast over the frail woman and, her hands still on the door, she could feel the lock give way. She gently and hesitantly pressed the door open and slowly padded over the threshold.

She turned to watch the door close behind her and, once it did, she turned back to see Sheriff Morgan standing in the hall, a silhouette against the streaming afternoon sunlight.

“Well, come on in.”

Loretta padded down the hallway and stood cautiously in the Sheriff’s office doorway. She pulled out a Benson and Hedges 100 and screwed it into her lips.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked as she lit the cigarette.

The Sheriff only chuckled.“Well, I suspect not,” he said

She only grunted in reply.

“I do apologize for the ruckus we are causing you right now, ‘Retta.”

The Sheriff leaned back in his chair and broke into a small, genial smile.

“Yeah. I bet you are”

“Well, I certainly am. Whether you believe it or not, I don’t much enjoy this part of the job.”

“Right. This kind of shit is what makes your type’s dick hard.”

Lorretta continued smoking her cigarette, glaring at Sheriff Morgan as she did. All of the pain and anger she carried inside her resided in that stare and gave weight to it.

Sheriff Morgan took it in. He took it in and stared back with a benevolent, placid look that he hoped would calm her, if only a little. Tom Morgan had been at this type of work for over twenty years. He, too, was 45 years of age and had spent over half his life as a Coconut Grove police officer. For the most part, it wasn’t too demanding. It was a relatively small community in Northern part of Florida, actually over one hundred miles from the nearest beach. The one thing he learned, however, is the usually the best weapon needed to diffuse a tense situation was human kindness.

“What can I help you with, ‘Retta?”

“Don’t give me that cute shit. You know God damn well what you can help me with. You can call of your dogs, for starters!”

“Well, I can’t do that and you know it. As much as it pains me to have to do this, it simply must be done. There just ain’t no other way.”

“It’s my home!” She cried, “I..It’s our home,” she finished, softly.

“Loretta, as much as I would like to just skip going through your personal property, I just can’t. Your Henry…”

“No!”

“Your Henry..”

“Damn it!”

“Loretta your son is the prime suspect in the first murder case Coconut Grove has had in damn near 15 years!”

There was a shock of cold silence in the room. Loretta collapsed onto the floor and her half finished cigarette rolled under the Sheriff desk.

Sheriff Tom Morgan jumped from his seat and rushed to the woman’s side. He bent over as her body heaved with anguished sobs. He leaned over and under the desk and picked up the cigarette. He brought the cigarette up and held it up to view against the daylight. The burning ember of the tip of the cigarette did not look so harsh in the light of the day. He brought it to his lips and pulled in a deep drag.

Beneath him the broken woman trembled. He gathered her up into his arms. Down the hall he could hear loud, careless footsteps pounding on the cold linoleum floors. The footsteps grew ever louder until they found themselves stopped in the Tom Morgan’s door way.

A young, shocked face surveyed the scene trying to process the moment.

“Um, Sheriff, uh, we uh…”

The sheriff cradled the wounded mother in his arms. In her grief the young deputy’s presence went unnoticed.

“Not now, Phil”

“Well,”

“Phil,”
“When, uh, your finished. We found something.”

“Something?”

“We think you might want to take a look,”

Tom Morgan thought this over.

“All right. ‘Retta? I have business to attend to. Deputy Coins will take care of you, should you need anything, okay?”

She nodded in acquiescence.

“So, you heading to the house?”

“Your damn right. You take care of Ms. Wood, over there. I got work to do.”

Sheriff Tom Morgan then pulled on his beige Sheriff's cowboy hat. He turned on his heels and walk down the hall, disappearing behind the large metal door.