My Way

I wasn't a trouble maker when I was young. I didn't go looking for it. It just always found me. I suppose it had to do with location and association. I didn't have friends. I didn't drink to get drunk, I didn't get into drugs, I didn't sleep around, I wasn't in any gang. I was an Outcast. I truly believe it's because of a combination of my childhood experiences and the resulting adult insight into life. This confused my fellow youngsters.

Having no friends in such rough places didn't do me any favors. At first, I was prey. A punching bag. I adapt quickly when I want to, though. Soon, it was known that I was no prey. Where it wasn't known, it was conveyed to the general prey at large, in my eyes and in my step. Fellow predatory people could sense that I felt I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

This reputation did me no favors either. It got me profiled. By the Authorities. By good, kind people I always dreamed of becoming. By girls. Sure, they like their "bad boys". But they don't like them as vicious as I was thought to be.

I was an A-B student. When I was IN school. I got along great with my teachers, as long as
they wanted to teach. Still, as an outcast, the Authorities perceived me as the threat that my peers perceived me as. Damn them.

As you can imagine, my reputation eventually brought trouble my way.

After I'd been egested, I was compelled to move to Arizona. My sister had moved there not long after she graduated. To insure that she wouldn't need to come back, she got married. To a former gang member.

In California, fresh out of Camp, as I call it, and right after graduation (for my peers), I got a tip through the grapevine that there was a hit out on my sister. Allegedly she'd been cheating on her husband. While he was willing to slink off and nurse his wounded heart, his remaining "brothers" were stirred to action.

Feeling rather put out by California, I decided to go to Arizona and clean up. After arriving, I tidied up in short order. Then I learned that my sister had, indeed, been slutting around. I know, that sounds mean, but seriously. I moved away from my territory into her husband's turf, defended her honor, chased off her would-be assailants and essentially transferred the "honor-bounty " from her head to mine. I was pissed. Having talked to her Sauncho, I realized he was little more than a witless victim: a pretty girl whining about how she's mistreated, hanging about, drinking, flirting. Few men still exist who wouldn't accept such an invitation.

There I was. Nowhere. I decided to commence becoming a BETTER person. After an exhaustive look at religions, I felt even more frustrated. More disgusted with people. Having left no other stone unturned, I agreed to study with Jehovah's Witnesses. Ultimately, I became a volunteer minister myself.

Typically, something such as this is a source of pride--and it was. But not so much anymore. See, I screwed up. I always assumed that my vice was violence. Then my future wife came along. I fell for her. Hook, line and sinker. That's fine and dandy. Where I went wrong is that I was so insecure and SHE was so insecure that I devoted literally all my time and effort into her. I wanted to be absolutely sure that she fell in love with me and that she had no doubts that I loved her. I left nothing to chance. I left nothing to Jesus Christ, the Savior. I left nothing to Jehovah God.

After sinking all four tires deep in the mud, I realized what I'd done. I had essentially turned my back on those who had set me free. Worse, I held my folly against my wife. I tried not to let it show. But she's quite sensitive. She felt the change. We rapidly declined. We completely stopped preaching. We stopped going to meetings. We stopped associating with our friends altogether.

Not that I could ever say a thing bad about my friend SandSurfer, but he was not a good role-model for me, an aspiring minister with a dark past. My dark side came back in spades.

What'd we do to fix it? We moved 3,000 miles away. Since then, I've held several jobs. Two of significance. I've told NOBODY of my time as a minister. The happiest, proudest time of my life.

I have, unfortunately, told many of my violent youth. I have to keep them at bay somehow. Apparently people think I'm a good person, want to get to know me. No.

I'd never felt truly week before. Honestly defeated.

Our trip out West a few weeks ago revitalized my strength. I floundered a bit, but last week, I started attending meetings again. I can't do too much just yet, seeing as how I got into a wee bit of trouble out West. Once I can show that I'm no threat to the flock though, I'll be up and running again.

Nonetheless, I'm scared. I swear more than anybody I've ever known or heard of. My sense of humor is as warped and morbid as you'd expect from my past and I brandish it like my great-grandfather's sword or somethin'. My wife's happy for me, but she's still not going to meetings. This frustrates me. And I wish I knew how to solve things without aggression, but the best I can usually do is growl at her.

That's not fair. She didn't exactly force my hand. I could have tried having faith. But I still keep kicking myself over it. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I wonder sometimes if I was wrong to marry her. If I was wrong to get married. Sometimes I feel like I was ruined before I ever had the chance. That my poor wife is stuck with someone who is unfamiliar with love. I don't know how to talk nice. I think calling someone a punk, brat--whatever, is affectionate. A love tap on the shoulder is like a hug to ME.

I actually have moments where I crave a beating. When I miss the pain. I have moments where I fear my wife. I think she's out to get me. Do me harm. When she loses her cool, I expect a fist-fight. My body tenses. I find my jaw and fists clenched. It's like I never left the streets. What the hell am I?

I don't hit her, no. But who says you have to? All it takes is coldness, mean words--or no words at all. And that's where I often fail. Afraid of sounding hateful, like I am, I remain silent. How can I help anyone when I feel like I hate everyone? I have yet to know somebody who I haven't envisioned pulverized by me. It's all I seem to KNOW. All I want is to break the cycle, start my own legacy. But it's like all I NEED is to hurt.

And so, knowing that I'm like this, I'll let people take advantage of me. I'll play all tough until it gets down to it, then I'll back down. I don't WANT to hurt people anymore. But I am SO good at it. It comes so naturally.

You know, I actually forget to breathe sometimes. But I've NEVER ONCE felt like I've forgotten how to break bones, shatter skin. As I said, I'll avoid most fights, even worthy ones, because I'm afraid of myself. Afraid enough for the both of us. Me and my adversary. But when I DO get my blood up, I don't know what to say. My wife can get anyone to understand her displeasure and seek to make amends. Me, I just end up choking down a snarl, grasping after my profanities with useless hands that won't grab because they're clenched into fists.

And my wife, she thinks I can't fix any of my problems. That I NEVER stand up for myself or what I want. Basically, I feel that she thinks I'm weak. I've managed to stand up for myself without physically harming someone before. I'm not quite sure that I wasn't abusive, but I've pulled it off plenty of times. Before her. Now, I just let her handle it. She's good at it. More, she won't tarnish our marriage with a visit to prison.

It wasn't like that when I was a Witness. I was still too intense for some of the brothers. Most of the sisters. But I was happy. I felt calm, collected. Secure. Sane. Like I was finally doing some good. Like I had purpose. That perhaps I could forgive myself for not being vicious enough soon enough to protect my mom.

I hope I get that back soon. I miss it. I NEED it. Otherwise, why didn't I join the Army?

McCoy

McCoy. The real deal. As genuinely good a guy as you'll ever meet. Smart, humble, soft-spoken, masculine yet compassionate. Infectious laughter that is frequent. A good listener. A true friend and a friend to count among your blessings.

Hank McCoy in the X-Men is known as Beast. If you know his character, you have yet more insight into my friend. Incidentally, he resembles Beast.

Polaris

Polaris. Glass and I have this mutual friend since the beginning. She is the daughter of Pine and CedarElm, sister to Gecko.

She is an attractive young lady, with an even more attractive personality. Seemingly an extrovert, yet enigmatic, with a quirky sense of humor. Never fails to brighten the moment. I had a crush on her before she took off to New York to court her then fiance. As with all my crushes, I knew it was nothing real, just a self-prescribed infatuation to keep my mind off my loneliness and fear of possessing an unloving heart. Even when I heard she was engaged, I maintained the crush. I was finally at an age of independence; I figured I'd crush on her until I found my true love.

Like sailors using the star Polaris. They set their sights on a star, never hoping to reach some beautiful yet alien galaxy. Rather, they follow it to a safe, fruitful harbor.

Polaris's engagement fell through. She returned to her recently purchased home, not with a husband, but with a roommate!

I'm sure you can figure out the rest...

By way of mentioning. Before Glass and I started dating, we were talking about attraction. I said on the phone: "You know who has the most beautiful eyes--real or imagined?" Glass swooned, ready to take her sappy compliment: "Who?"

"[Polaris]," I stated. Fool.

My wife takes great pleasure in recounting this tale to all her friends-of-the-female-persuasion, most recently out in San Diego, when we were visiting for Polaris's wedding. Different guy. I'm glad they all have quirky senses of humor...

Glass

Glass. My new name for my wife. Formerly Freeness.

Sharp, fragile, useful, pretty. In the brightness you can see through it, see in. But that doesn't mean that you can get inside. When dark, it's like a mirror, reflecting a darker version of yourself.

There's a glass platform over a section of the Grand Canyon. Imagine walking out on it. Exhilarating. Beautiful. Empowering. Like walking on air.

Cracked.Broken. Shattered. Regardless of the degree of damage, walking on broken glass is painful.

Your Momma Wears Combat Boots!

I have this memory of my mom and me. I was quite young. Pre-kindergarten, I'm sure. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend Church again.

We had been living in his apartment. It was in a two story complex, I think. I know his level had a 6 foot wooden fence around a very small sitting space outside the slider door.

It had rained the night before. Everything was wet and sloppy, but the sun was shining. My mother had snuck into the "back yard" to collect the belongings she either threw out there or felt were entitled to her. She couldn't get into the apartment itself. Church must have locked it when he went to work. She didn't seem too concerned. We were picking through the stuff she had crammed into garbage bags. My eye caught a soggy, rolled back book of matches. I rubbed off the ruined chalky white heads before my mother confiscated them.

Suddenly a figure materialized on the other side of the glass. The door didn't go flying open, though. Rather, Church slid it purposefully, with a careful malice, standing with chest puffed out. Head down with a confident predator's grin. Ina flash he grabbed my mother's hair, rushed his face toward hers and growled some threat through his teeth as the spittle flew from his lips.

My mother had a look on her face. Same plane, opposite end of the spectrum. While his rage was hot and uncontrolled, my stereotypically dumb-blond mom had a steady, determined look in her currently abysmal eyes. A cold, calm rage.

She rammed her knee into his thigh, ripped her head away from his grip leaving behind a thick handful of hair, reached off to the side of the slider door and grabbed a flathead shovel that I hadn't noticed propped there. Without a verbal threat, just a quick menacing glare, she swung back and let loose.


KLANG!

Like steal hitting rock. She connected with the side of his head with the breadth of the shovel. Church went reeling into the slider door, bouncing off and landing ass and elbows into a puddle. My mom threw one of the bags over her shoulder, looked at me and handed me the shovel. Shovel firmly gripped in my one hand, she took the other. We strolled away, the shovel clattering as I dragged it behind like expired prey.

Puma

Puma. My mother now. She's finally simmering down. By OUR family's standards. She hasn't had a man in her life in nearly 6 mos. Mostly I'm just glad that she seems to be clean. No drugs in a couple years I think. And she's studying the Bible. Drawing wisdom and strength from it. At the moment, I think she's spiritually stronger than I. And I got her studying! Now she spurs me on, reminding me that dark, cynical and cantankerous is not who I really want to be.

Church

After my father, he was the first significant boyfriend in my mother's life. He kept a decent apartment. Had a huge collection of mirrors stacked by his entertainment center. He wouldn't move them despite how often we cut our toes on them. They were for the cocaine.

He had a childish temper. Given to regular tantrums. He liked to punch things. Walls, windshields, my mom.

Clay

My grandfather. He won the war but lost the battle. From a little town in Tennessee, he lied about his age to get into the Army back when WWII broke out. Got into the Army Air Corps before it became the Air Force.

He fought in World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Obviously he had some great stories. He unfortunately spoke in a monotone. He struck me as a solid individual, it's just that he never stood up to my grandmother. Rather, he would commence beating us when she'd get worn out.

Clay. It can be artistic, useful, sturdy. It can also be molded.

DewClaw

My father. He shaped up before I could effect my vengeance. He's 5'2" and looks like a cross between Papa Smurf, Robin Williams and Kurt Russell. people always mistaken him for Kurt Russell.

In his youth, he was a mean S.O.B, picking fights with anybody who didn't flee in his wake. Became a black belt several times over, then married my mom as a "sparring partner."
She divorced him. I think it had something to do with being thrown in a dumpster.

He's quite a mellow guy now. Still strong as an ox. I want to get to know him and his side of the family, but then I don't. I waited impatiently for my known family members to scratch out.


DewClaw. An unnecessary toe on a paw. Some are painful and need to be cut off. Some are functional and serve a purpose.

Things I've Been Hit With

• An epiphany!
  
• A car
  
• A truck
• Aluminum baseball bat
• Wooden baseball bat (there's a DISTINCT difference)
• Pepper spray
• Gun
• Knife
• Lead pipe
• 2x4
• Rock
• refrigerator
  
• clothes dryer
• door
• plate
• mirror
• drinking glass
• glass
• belt
• boot
• foot
• fist
• diamond studded ring
• hand
• knee
• elbow
• head
• bottle - I wonder if it would have hurt less if it had broken
• nails from a air-powered nail gun
• teeth
• Friggin' more teeth
• chair
• desk
• couch
• book
• bola - it HAD to be my own...
• tree limb
• staff
• nunchaku - flippin' ninja wannabes

It's been a while.

• 
  
• 
  

List of Injuries

Trying to list from head to toe:

1. Dog attack - small scars, thank you plastic surgeon
   
2. Dog attack - scar across eyelid - damn, that was another close one
3. Dog attack - chipped tooth, scar in lip - what's with the face, damn it?
4. Molar torn in half - Now&Later x filling = PAIN
5. Torn acromio-clavicular ligament - hit by a car
6. Dislocated shoulder (the OTHER one) I was a stupid kid, at times
7. Hyper-extended elbow - it came with the dislocated shoulder...
8. Crushed ulnar nerve - sparring, I missed - Look ma! Fire doesn't hurt me! What's smells tangy?
9. Pinched nerve - made worse by ACL issue - I think I did this jumping from a building trying to escape some rowdy enemies.
10. Hip displaced - hit by truck - it's not that bad, really
11. Shifty knee - running from some other nut job - I returned the favor
12. A BROKEN BONE!!! My little toe! - Rock climbing. Didn't know about the rock buried in sand when I leaped of a small cliff.
13. Every ligament in my heel EXCEPT the Achilles (which is a tendon anyway). Rock climbing in wrong shoes.

I know there's more. Those are just off the top of my head. I'm always amazed by how few injuries I picked up on the streets.

SandSurfer

My good friend. He was one of a kind, and he knew it. A Government Assassin of the highest order. He was an Army Ranger that served two tours in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne before going on to compete in and win the Best of the Best. Damn right.

He could chill your blood just looking at you. But he loved his wife and kids unconditionally. A hard worker who held to his moral code with an Iron Hand until the end.

I had the privilege of working with him at the last job I held in Arizona. He was, as I told him on our second day as partners in the truck: "The only person at the this place I haven't wanted to pick up and throw out the window." He laughed: "You got some balls. Yeah. I can work with you." Eight hours a day, five days a week, three states out of fifty. We shared a lot of tough stories with each other. He was the first, and likely the last, who could understand me.

I like to imagine that if I had gone down "that route", I'd be comparable to him when I was 60. One of my two REAL-LIFE role models. They don't make men like him anymore.



You'll never be forgotten my friend, not by me (LM: 1948-2007.)

Tecomde

My mother. Before. Back when she was into drugs and such. This name was in reference to her excessively destructive ways.

Torch and Lighthouse

My spiritual parents. I studied the Bible with them, ate them out of house and home, then they moved away. I remember that I started studying with them on January 8, 2002. Three studies later, on Jan. 22, I had more answers to both life and the Scriptures than I had gathered in my quarter-century of searching.

Everyone thought I'd grow to be something like Torch's protege, proving to be a pillar. That the torch would be passed to me. Oops. He did prove to help light my way. His wife, Lighthouse also proved to be a beacon that led me safely out of the storm-tossed sea.

Window (Innuendo)

My closest friend during my Dark Years. America's most eligible bachelor. Tall, lean, super-intelligent. Good sense of humor, morals, and purpose. Arguably a man's man, quite possibly a lady's man, without a doubt a Jehovah's Witnesses' Jehovah's Witness. In middle school he was actually shorter than me and annoying. I tended to try to bully him. I hated him at first. Now I love the guy's whole family. I met his dad for the first time while I was trying to shove 'Window into a puddle of mud outside our GATE class (Gifted and Talented Education). Came to respect him as an artist, a scientist, a fellow goof-ball. After my Dark Years (Darkest, I should say), when I was looking for answers from God, I reflected upon the strength and peace that Innuendo possessed and instilled in others. His example inspired me to study with the Witnesses. After trying in vain to disprove their teachings, I ended up proving that I was meant to be one of them. I once said that I was always looking for a way out, a door that was unlocked and would lead someplace safe. I found my way out not through a door, but a Window.

Tuesday, January 27, 1998

This is an old journal entry I found:

I saw a picture of a mission in Mexico in my Spanish class today. The frame was crooked, but the picture was straight. It reminded me of my life (or life in general); sometimes you have to move the frame to straighten out the picture, even if it means making the frame crooked.

Cruizer

I've had far too many encounters of the wrong kind with dogs in my life. Both before and after the incident I'll be discussing briefly.

Cruizer was a white pit-bull my mother found limping down her street, thus the name. His previous owner had obviously mistreated him. He was quite hand-shy and distrusted other animals. Despite this, against common sense, she and her boyfriend took him in. My mother is forever in that "can we keep 'im" stage, and believed that she could change Cruizer.

He was an exceptionally strong dog. He had to be kept in the garage because of my mother's cats. However, her boyfriend Asterisk was usually working in the garage. Because of this, they tried tying Cruizer up with a nylon rope. he broke it. So they tried doubling the rope. It worked for awhile. Until he saw someone walking their dog. Then, he just bit through it. Not chewed; just one bite. He didn't attack though. He just intimidated the heck out of them. After that, they chained him to one of the studs in the garage. I guess he got excited, he pulled the whole dang 2x4 out of the frame.

A few months after finding Cruizer, Tecomde and Asterisk had to move. While they were searching for a new home, they left Cruizer with my grandparents and me. Although I'd had many bad experiences with dogs, I liked him. He reminded me of my first dog, Ranger. I liked to talk to him, walk with him (he was burly and intimidating), and sit in his shed with him when it rained. He hated thunder. Once again, though, his territory was restricted. He had to be kept out in the chain-link kennel. We already had dogs. He grew to be even more muscular sprinting up and down the fence, barking with them.

When Tecomde and Asterisk found a place to move into, Cruizer and I moved with them. It was an apartment complex, so he was kept inside. We didn't want him frightening the parents of all the kids who were running around. There were no yards and we weren't even supposed to have animals, but the land-lady was sympathetic. He didn't like being inside much. He gave us heck always sneaking and darting out the door. We walked him often and kept a large tow chain on him to "slow him down" when, and if, he'd dash out. It didn't really work though. If anything, it made him that much stronger and more agile. i still remember the sound of that chain dragging on the kitchen tile. It brings mixed emotions. Feelings of sadness. And terror.

The setting we were at later became what I refer to as the Dark Time. The apartment complex was not legally owned and operated. But cops NEVER came into this town without packing heavy--numbers and weapons. Having been tormented by The Darkness, I had recently started a campaign against it, using, of all things, The Dark Arts. I intended to use any powers I gained for good, to combat Evil. How...stupid. One too many episodes of "Buffy" you think? As a warlock's apprentice, I was studying a certain language I will never name. Not mine, Sezjeghn Koasz, but a dark one. Allegedly you could command animals with it.

As if a town with drug-runners needed sorcerers or a town with sorcerers needed drug-runners. My "instructor" and I had nothing to do with drugs. Or at least I didn't. We were arguably more foolish. Nonetheless, I swear that drugs and demons go hand-in-hand. Several months after my arrival and new studies began, people in town started going insane, then dying. More than a dozen people if I recall. Incidentally, the dark language was being found throughout the town. Most people mistook it for graffiti. I know I wasn't doing it. But, indirectly, try to imagine what was transpiring at home. All your cliche ghost-story occurrences. Levitating objects, doors opening and slamming shut on their own. Hot spots followed by freezing cold air. Our names, whispered when we were seemingly alone. Nightmares. The kind everyone wakes from bolt-upright, sweaty and screaming. Only to try to pacify ourselves wide-eyed in the fetal position

One day, while Asterisk was playing with Cruizer near the "animated" bedroom door, he attacked. 'Risk managed to hold him back and not get hurt. It was brief, but it shook us up. Tecomde wanted to get rid of him immediately. Asterisk and I refused. 'Risk played it down. I said I'd hang around Cruizer, see if he continued to act funny. Talk to him, pet him. Try to soothe him. I tried. But finding no success, I decided to try the Other language. He gave me the funniest look. So human, yet so unworldly.

I was drawing my hand for art class later that night. 'Risk was out looking for extra hands to help him work on the Mustang. My mom was cleaning up their room. The way the apartment was set up, I was lying beside their bedroom door, facing the front door, and with the kitchen behind me.

He had continued to act odd that day, but I told no one. While I was lying on the floor, drawing, I felt a funny feeling. That feeling you get when somebody's staring at you. I looked up. Cruizer was standing in the way of the front door. All his muscles were bulging. His head was down, and because of this, his chain had pushed the flesh up around his head, framing it I suppose. His eyes chilled my soul, I kid you not. They were black, all black - no white. His eyes were lifeless: there were no flecks of light caught in them. Just black. More like holes than eyes. I remember saying: "Why are you looking at me like that Cruizer? You're scaring me. What's the matter boy?" In response, he lifted his head and walked passed me into the kitchen, dragging his chain on the tile. I heard him sit down. Well, at least he wasn't staring at me. Or was he? Even worse--in my mind-- he was now behind me. I rolled over to look at him. He was indeed sitting and his eyes had caught some light, but I was still frightened; now he was twitching. His whole body was shaking, and he was popping his head back and forth. It seemed like he was trying to avoid looking at something, but it demanded his attention. Indecision--and fear, he was surely more frightened than I was. "Come here, boy," I said, "what's wrong?" I petted him and scratched him for a moment, talked to him, tried to calm him. But he was still twitching. At last, he glanced at me sadly, turned his head away, and returned in a flash of teeth. I'm thankful he was so close because his teeth bounced off my face. In reflex, I grabbed his jaws and pulled. I held his jaws open as he whipped and snarled.
Tecomde stormed out of her room, and in doing so, slammed the door into Cruizer and me. We remained "locked in combat". The only thing that physically hurt was the sting of the blood pouring into my eye, turning half my vision a syrupy red. I don't remember too much from there. Tecomde was screaming: "Let him go! Let him go!" I'm still not sure who she was screaming at. Later, she told me that I was yelling at her to get me my knife. I remember her screaming for Asterisk. I remember seeing Asterisk standing in the doorway, holding Cruizer off the ground by his chain. I remember grabbing my coat and telling my mom: "Talk to me, I"m going into shock." I remember telling her to calm down while thinking: Damn! I have to go to the hospital wearing shorts and sandals!

Everyone stared at me in the ER's waiting room. In the restroom mirror, I saw why: I was covered in blood. It's amazing how much blood is in your head. I, as usual, had the doctor "in stitches" as he sewed me up. I joked about it all the way home.

'Risk had him shot by a concerned neighbor ten minutes after Tecomde and I left for the hospital. For many years, I'd wake up from nightmares of eyeless dogs, in a cold sweat. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Sometimes I think I'll never full trust a dog again. Other times I hate myself feeling that I shouldn't be trusted. I trusted that dog, I damn near loved him.

Born Free

I rock. Literally. It's a habit. Some think it may stem from some form of Autism or something. I didn't always rock though. I think it's from other things...

In the dark I like to listen to my music and imagine that I'm a panther running through the jungle. I run at an uncanny speed for what seems like forever. In life, I can run fast but I can't run for very long. I can only ignore so much physical pain. But I dream.

Long before I ever read the Bible, I thought of myself as a watchman, a protector. So, when I read this, it gave me an indescribably intimate feeling. It's my favorite scripture:

Isaiah 40:29 He is giving to the tired one power; and to the one without dynamic energy he makes full might abound. 30 Boys will both tire out and grow weary, and young men themselves will without fail stumble, 31 but those who are hoping in Jehovah will regain power. They will mount up with wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not tire out.”

The House was a Mess

The house really wasn't a house-- and it sure as hell wasn't a home.
Nearly eighty years old, the walls were solid cement. The ceilings were mostly dry-wall and all of the electrical outlets were attached to the walls with pipes coming from them to conceal the wires. Nearly all of the switch plates were cracked, broken, or just gone-- and half the light switches sparked when the electricity was on. The bedroom was lower than the rest of the house and had the only normal wall in the apartment. It probably used to be a garage. The apartments were originally built for the workers of the cement plant across the street.

Of the two front windows, one was cracked and the other was a collage of cardboard, trash bags and tape. I had to shove through the front door because it's off two of its hinges. There are piles of clothes and such covering most of the floor, little alleyways meandering through them and framing the bare, stained mattress on the floor. Several crates are arrayed around the mattress; some organized, with gaudy junk and cheap nick-nacks set upon them,others with papers carelessly tossed upon them all helter-skelter.

The trash in the kitchen lines the wall knee high. Dishes overflow the sink and counter. An extension cord runs in through the grease-stained kitchen window supplying power to the fridge and only lamp. There's a puddle on the floor, coming from the leaky refrigerator. Inside the refrigerator is a wet box of crackers, a fermented quart of milk and a discolored pond at the bottom with its countless bodies of drowned roaches.

In the bedroom, once again a pathway carves its course through the trash, clothes, and used dishes while framing the mattress, upon which lays a plate of marijuana and some mirrors with razors slumbering in a scatter of white powder.

My Chain/Chain of Thoughts

My Chain: It looks like a miniature bicycle chain. It sounds like a zipper being done and undone as my pendant slides to and fro while I stride. It feels like a serrated-knife gone dull as I run it through my fingers. It's warm as I move, retaining my body heat, but cold when I put it back on in the morning. It's heavy for a chain, but still quite light for it's durability. Sometimes, up close, it smells similar to a handful of pocket-change. When I clean it, it actually smells cold, with only a hint of the isopropyl I used as solvent. Sometimes, when I'm putting on a sweater or something, I hold it between my lips. It tastes gritty, and the metallic flavor is both foreign and familiar; it reminds me of the taste of flatware, only instead of delivering literal meat it delivers the meat of my memories.
=======
This chain is like a silent friend through the years. And like a true friend, it's stood with me through all my trials, beside me even through my mistakes. When the dirt of dusty roads was in my throat, it was in the gears of my chain. It hangs over my heart and knows its beatings better than I do. The tears that I have managed to shed didn't just fall onto my chest but were caught by my chain. It times my stride like the pendulum of a clock. If my chain were alive, it would be my closest friend; if it weren't for my wife, it would be my best friend.
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Arizona. Terrain. Sand. Rock gardens. Avenues with no trees. Post-card sunsets. Mountain vistas too colorful for any painting. Authentic Mexican food. 125 degree heat - in the shade. Crickets - always the sound of crickets. Ruggedly beautiful - like how a little boy sees his dad. But everything is dangerous: the flowers worse than poison oak, scorpions, tarantulas, rattle-snakes, cacti, spikes hiding under the leaves of every tree, heat-strokes handed out like advice from a mother-in-law.
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Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. Blood may be thicker than water, but I'd rather drink water. I developed a family out there: my wife Freeness; my spiritual parents Torch and Lighthouse, who guided me away from bitterness, providing me food and shelter - especially in a spiritual sense; Baguira and Raksha, my "aunt and uncle" who's stories assured me that someone always has it worse, and can always be better.
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Cer Torch. Kept everyone at arms length, but warmed their hearts nonetheless. Called a jerk a jerk, and a salvageable heart a good one. Almonds in a bottomless bowl - dry but addictive. A man's man and a mentor's mentor. Happy despite his scars.
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People try to hide their heartaches, and usually fail. Torch grew up in an orphanage, moved out at sixteen and lied about his age to enlist. Some people would be scared enough to call this a triumph; some, like Torch, acknowledged that something was missing - and pursued it. He strove to convey that you don't have to be a genius to look for the truth, and understand it.
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Credulity. Apathy in borrowed robes. I recently realized it's nothing more than fear. People are afraid of what they don't know or understand. Most think it's childish to explore with round-eyed wonder, which is why they cease to learn, stagnating in intelligence. When something unknown comes along, rather than exploring for the truth, they'll accept the first idea presented to them so they don't have to feel so scared. This is precisely why these kind (most) of people guard their opinions so viciously - like an immature toddler with their dingy security-blanket.
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Regarding dog-fighting in the news a while back, somebody actually said that Michael Vick was doing the world a favor by killing pit-bulls; that pit-bulls should be wiped out because they're dangerous. What a Nazi-without-a -cause. That's the exact equivalent to advocating genocide. And all because they know nothing of the virtues of a properly raised pit-bull and this terrifies them. They are too vain to admit ignorance and do some research, and so, latch on to the first idea to be handed to them. Credulous people might be excused due to their fear, but if that's the case, junkies should be excused for wanting to get away from it all for a while.

Stinger

I know it's really creepy that I name my knives--that I even have them, but hey, I'm Dusk. I've earned it.

What started it all was Stinger. It has nothing to do with Lord of the Rings. It's a Police issue Spyderco knife with a 4" fully serrated blade and partially sharpened spine. That's three kinds of illegal in several states. When I was living OUT IN the desert, I didn't have the luxury of leaving valuables behind. So I took them with me everywhere. Including school. I have never drawn a knife (or gun for that matter) on a person. I have used weapons on vicious stray dogs. And I collected nearly a third of my knives from jerks who thought they could take me on with a knife.

My few friends often joked about me and my formidable knife and "the unlucky fool who crossed my path". Somehow we got to referring to such a situation as me Stinging them, with my Stinger. I think it had something to do with the knife having the word POLICE etched into it.



When I was living in an abandoned van in the middle of the desert, Stinger came in very handy. It got quite abused. Even though knives are just another tool, you shouldn't use knives as screwdrivers or saws unless the need is dire, and even then... Thankfully, somebody actually tried to use a Leatherman knock-off utility knife on me before I got too stupid with Stinger.

Stinger was unfortunately sitting on the table out of reach the night Cruizer went possessed on me. I don't know, I just have a ton of memories with it. It's been a part of me for almost as long as my chain, Pacer. Yes, I named it too. I lost Stinger in late 2002, when I was just starting to excel in my studies to become, of all things, a minister.

On my visit to the West Coast, my sister returned Stinger to me. She was working with the son of the lady I rented a room from back then. He had stolen it. My sister took it back. How? Well, she IS my sister :)

It feels good to have it back. Between seeing all my old spiritually strong friends out West and getting back this virtual talisman, I feel I can really have success returning to the only job that ever gave me a sense of joy and purpose.

Smoke and a Pancake?

Sandsurfer and I used to have this thing. It never really became a full fledged "code" or language, but it was a collection of phrases we used to discreetly communicate about our customers while in their presence. One phrase I remember quite fondly is: "Smoke and a pancake?" This was adopted from Austin Powers Goldmember. The part where Goldmember offers Austin every conceivable IHOPish combo from smoke and a pancake to bong and a blitz. After Austin refuses all of his options, Goldmember states: "There is no pleasing you." That's the meaning we adopted. When a customer could not be pleased, we would remind/notify each other of the fact with that phrase.

I introduced that one to the truck, but SandSurfer introduced: "On the other hand...she wore a glove." YOU figure it out!

Camp II

The paternity test proved that "DewClaw" was my father. Which meant he had a lot of back-owed money to pay. Not to us, we got ours via welfare years before. Now California wanted restitution.

Seeing as how we were living illegally in a condemned building, I had to return to my grandparents.


Did I mention how we were discovered by the marshals? We were in this early 1900s apartment complex. It was being run by a Mexican family. We actually payed rent. We had water from a well. Usually it was contaminated. The electricity was piped in through a complicated arrangement. I didn't examine it too closely.

There was this crazy lady living in the apartments across from us. She was married to this ding-bat who lost his kids to his former wife. Later, his son was literally eaten by a German Shepard while in her care and keeping. The boy lived, but they couldn't do anything with his original face after digging out of the dog's gut. I digress.

The crazy lady. She did a long stint in a psych ward somewhere having murdered her former husband by slashing his throat. Now she was married again. Living across from us. Allowed to roam freely while her ding-bat husband scrounged for work. One day, she can't handle the hyper-abundance of cock roaches anymore. She decided to kill them with a blowtorch that was handy. The only thing that survived on their side of the complex was the three Metallica CDs I loaned to ding-bat. I still have them in my possession!