It is important to note that that is a fake fire hydrant, donated by some generous soul so that your dog may pee on it.
I never saw one of these signs before either.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Something Silly
I was out in the desert and saw this silliness at a rest stop.
It is important to note that that is a fake fire hydrant, donated by some generous soul so that your dog may pee on it.
I never saw one of these signs before either.
It is important to note that that is a fake fire hydrant, donated by some generous soul so that your dog may pee on it.
I never saw one of these signs before either.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Fear and Loathing At the Millcreek Library Book Sale: No Country For Vampire Haters: and A Weird Tangent About My Weird Obsesssion With "The Road"
My phone rang at 9:49 AM and scared the bejeezus out of both of my cats. I sprung from my bed wild-eyed and confused, still shaking off the cobwebs of some old, re-running dream about The Destroyer, or something like that. I grabbed at my phone next to my bed just as I saw the furry shadows of Loki and Leonard sliding out the door.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Are you going to be at the library at 10:00?"
"Of course. I said. I'm on my way right now. I'm almost there, in fact. Don't you worry about me, little sister. I'm a responsible morning person. I'm in heavy traffic. See you soon."
I hung up and sprung into action. I had almost forgot about this trip. The Millcreek Library is closing, and all their books are up for grabs to the most brutal shopper. It goes without saying that as an amateur doctor of journalism, and professional appreciator of fine literature, I had to be there.
I wasn't expecting too much trouble, really. Just a bunch of old people crowding around tables and sifting through mountains of forgotten titles. I figured I could pluck myself a copy of "The Crossing" by Cormac McCarthy if I was lucky. Why not?
Nineteen minutes after I woke up I arrived at the scene, and was confronted with the sheer terror of a very long line. There were people backed up out of the rec center, and then for 100 yards or so down the sidewalk. I was already beginning to lose my will to live.
Now you should understand, I have worked hard for many years to avoid standing in lines. I always sneer at those who live in tents on the sidewalk in front of the BestBuy during November. Last year I actually asked one of them if he thought it was worth it to miss Thanksgiving Dinner to get a discount on a laptop computer? He told me that it was all good because his family was going to bring some Thanksgiving Dinner to him right there. At that point I thought about verbally assaulting him, or maybe a firm kick to the teethe was called for, but then I reflected that even if I did he would never understand why.
But that was a beast of a different flavor. This line would take no more than two hours at the most, I figured, and I was determined to get some books for 25 cents each. So I settled into the line with my sister. I made some casual conversation with some middle-aged ladies. It seemed like a civilized crowd. There were no sinister elements. We learned that every twenty minutes they were allowing 75 people inside who would then have 20 minutes to peruse, then they would be forced into the check-out lines, and out the door for the next group. All in all it seemed like a fairly reasonable, and efficient way of doing business. Two hours later I learned the truth.
At the door there was a shiny-headed man who briefly explained the rules to us, and then unleashed us beyond the doors. I was one of the first in the group, and I was walking quietly toward the fiction section when I heard a shrill voice ring out above the crowd.
"Quick! Go look for the Twilights while I look for....."
The rest of that sentence was lost to me. The mention of Twilight had suddenly kicked every female in the room into an hormone-induced frenzy. It was a bloodlust that I knew could only be satisfied by the death of all non-Edward males in the room. I barely had time to scream, "God's mercy on you bitches!" before I was trampled over and absorbed by the mob.
I tried to let myself go. Don't fight it, I thought to myself. It will be over soon. Just a few more agonizing moments and then eternal sleep. But then I found myself suddenly lying under a table clutching two strange books that I had never seen before in my life, and a voice was calling out, "15 minutes!"
I'm alive. There's no time to waste. I peered out to get my bearings. The bestial frenzy was magnificent to behold. Never before had so many people tried to look at so many things all at the same time. At this moment I understood with perfect clarity what is meant by the phrase, "running to and fro", because that is exactly what was happening all around me. Amidst the chaos there were a few calm souls. They were methodically scanning the barcodes of all the books one at a time with devices attached to their iphones. I have no idea what this means. But I didn't have time to think about it for very long.
I began scanning the titles of all the books in the fiction hardcovers, With my eyes.(Incidentally, I was doing this much faster than the iphone scanner people). I found myself a copy of "Cities of the Plain", by Cormac McCarthy. That book follows "The Crossing", in the Border Trilogy. But "The Crossing" still eludes my grasp. Alas. But I found a whole bunch of other worthwhile books in the process. All in all I bought 16 books for $7.00. I call it a successful shopping adventure. I now go home to nurse the stilletto heel shaped wounds in my back.
On another note. I also found my fourth copy of "The Road". I paid only 25 cents for it, of course. Before you accuse me of having a weird obsession, allow me to defend myself. It goes without saying that I do have a weird obsession with that book. I feel compelled to keep buying it. I have read it twice, and I think today I might read it again. I bought my first copy at Walmart because I wanted to read it. I bought the second copy at Sam Wellers because it was in hard cover and I intend to keep that. Then I loaned out my original copy to a lot of people. It is currently somewhere in West Valley at this moment. I'm not sure I'll ever see it again. Nevertheless, people keep wanting to borrow it, so I reluctantly loaned out my hard cover. It is somewhere in Provo right now. So then I saw a copy of it at Sam Wellers, of the first paperback edition, without any Oprah Book Club, or Pullitzer Prize stickers on it. So I bought that one, and almost immediately loaned it out somewhere.
I feel completely obligated to keep on spreading that dark gospel, so I think from now on I will just buy them whenever I come across them, and amass a ridiculous collection of it that can be spread across the globe so that whenever I want to read it I can just call up my nearest friend and demand they give their copy back to me immediately.
So you see, it all makes perfectly reasonable sense.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Are you going to be at the library at 10:00?"
"Of course. I said. I'm on my way right now. I'm almost there, in fact. Don't you worry about me, little sister. I'm a responsible morning person. I'm in heavy traffic. See you soon."
I hung up and sprung into action. I had almost forgot about this trip. The Millcreek Library is closing, and all their books are up for grabs to the most brutal shopper. It goes without saying that as an amateur doctor of journalism, and professional appreciator of fine literature, I had to be there.
I wasn't expecting too much trouble, really. Just a bunch of old people crowding around tables and sifting through mountains of forgotten titles. I figured I could pluck myself a copy of "The Crossing" by Cormac McCarthy if I was lucky. Why not?
Nineteen minutes after I woke up I arrived at the scene, and was confronted with the sheer terror of a very long line. There were people backed up out of the rec center, and then for 100 yards or so down the sidewalk. I was already beginning to lose my will to live.
Now you should understand, I have worked hard for many years to avoid standing in lines. I always sneer at those who live in tents on the sidewalk in front of the BestBuy during November. Last year I actually asked one of them if he thought it was worth it to miss Thanksgiving Dinner to get a discount on a laptop computer? He told me that it was all good because his family was going to bring some Thanksgiving Dinner to him right there. At that point I thought about verbally assaulting him, or maybe a firm kick to the teethe was called for, but then I reflected that even if I did he would never understand why.
But that was a beast of a different flavor. This line would take no more than two hours at the most, I figured, and I was determined to get some books for 25 cents each. So I settled into the line with my sister. I made some casual conversation with some middle-aged ladies. It seemed like a civilized crowd. There were no sinister elements. We learned that every twenty minutes they were allowing 75 people inside who would then have 20 minutes to peruse, then they would be forced into the check-out lines, and out the door for the next group. All in all it seemed like a fairly reasonable, and efficient way of doing business. Two hours later I learned the truth.
At the door there was a shiny-headed man who briefly explained the rules to us, and then unleashed us beyond the doors. I was one of the first in the group, and I was walking quietly toward the fiction section when I heard a shrill voice ring out above the crowd.
"Quick! Go look for the Twilights while I look for....."
The rest of that sentence was lost to me. The mention of Twilight had suddenly kicked every female in the room into an hormone-induced frenzy. It was a bloodlust that I knew could only be satisfied by the death of all non-Edward males in the room. I barely had time to scream, "God's mercy on you bitches!" before I was trampled over and absorbed by the mob.
I tried to let myself go. Don't fight it, I thought to myself. It will be over soon. Just a few more agonizing moments and then eternal sleep. But then I found myself suddenly lying under a table clutching two strange books that I had never seen before in my life, and a voice was calling out, "15 minutes!"
I'm alive. There's no time to waste. I peered out to get my bearings. The bestial frenzy was magnificent to behold. Never before had so many people tried to look at so many things all at the same time. At this moment I understood with perfect clarity what is meant by the phrase, "running to and fro", because that is exactly what was happening all around me. Amidst the chaos there were a few calm souls. They were methodically scanning the barcodes of all the books one at a time with devices attached to their iphones. I have no idea what this means. But I didn't have time to think about it for very long.
I began scanning the titles of all the books in the fiction hardcovers, With my eyes.(Incidentally, I was doing this much faster than the iphone scanner people). I found myself a copy of "Cities of the Plain", by Cormac McCarthy. That book follows "The Crossing", in the Border Trilogy. But "The Crossing" still eludes my grasp. Alas. But I found a whole bunch of other worthwhile books in the process. All in all I bought 16 books for $7.00. I call it a successful shopping adventure. I now go home to nurse the stilletto heel shaped wounds in my back.
On another note. I also found my fourth copy of "The Road". I paid only 25 cents for it, of course. Before you accuse me of having a weird obsession, allow me to defend myself. It goes without saying that I do have a weird obsession with that book. I feel compelled to keep buying it. I have read it twice, and I think today I might read it again. I bought my first copy at Walmart because I wanted to read it. I bought the second copy at Sam Wellers because it was in hard cover and I intend to keep that. Then I loaned out my original copy to a lot of people. It is currently somewhere in West Valley at this moment. I'm not sure I'll ever see it again. Nevertheless, people keep wanting to borrow it, so I reluctantly loaned out my hard cover. It is somewhere in Provo right now. So then I saw a copy of it at Sam Wellers, of the first paperback edition, without any Oprah Book Club, or Pullitzer Prize stickers on it. So I bought that one, and almost immediately loaned it out somewhere.
I feel completely obligated to keep on spreading that dark gospel, so I think from now on I will just buy them whenever I come across them, and amass a ridiculous collection of it that can be spread across the globe so that whenever I want to read it I can just call up my nearest friend and demand they give their copy back to me immediately.
So you see, it all makes perfectly reasonable sense.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Pumpkin Carvings
Some intense brainstorming by Karalee and Ryan. All jack-o-lantern's must be previsualized with great care.
I like to pick the ugliest, most scarred pumpkin, and then I wait for it to reveal it's inner soul to me as I repeatedly stab it with a long knife.
Rachel prefers to play with the dismembered pieces of her victims.
Aww. So cute.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Brandon + Rachel Part 1: Message In A Bottle
It was exactly a year ago, as of yesterday, that Rachel came into my life. Has it really been a year? It doesn’t seem like that much time has passed. So many things have happened in between. Nevertheless, I feel that it would be appropriate to take a little time to look back and reflect on how we got here, and to express my gratitude for the mysterious fortunes that have smiled upon me.
It all started in Iceland where I had a weird sort of mid-life crisis. I won’t go into any details about that because no one cares. I’m not sure I even care any more. It’s in the past. Let’s just say that I went to the far edge of everything and stared off into the empty space on the other side for just a little bit too long. (I highly recommend it by the way, just not for too long.)
I came back hungry for something else. My life had degenerated into a series of bad reruns. I had seen all these episodes before. Basically, I was bored. Of course, I felt completely powerless to do anything about it. I felt like my life was following a pre-destined course that would require more than just your average monkey wrench to derail. So I swallowed my considerably snobbish pride, and made myself a profile on Match.Com.
For a long time this seemed to be just another failure. I tried all manner of tactics and strategies, but all with the same result. No women would talk to me. I read the advice that the site gives you for getting more female response. I did everything they advised. Still no women would speak to me at all. (Except for a couple of crazy, and/or scary women who would e-mail me for a while, but then even they would disappear.) So in the end, my only logical conclusion was that I was simply not cut out for dating. So I got over it.
Most women’s profiles on Match.com say something like this:
“I’m just a happy-go-lucky, 23-year-old girl. I just want to find a guy to date, and maybe more. I love sushi and drinking beer with the guys. I love hiking, biking, running, reading, flirting, and camping on the weekends. I want to find someone who is smart, confident, funny, open-minded, and will travel all over the world with me, and accept me for who I really am. I have an open mind and will try anything once. So send me an e-mail and we will talk. Also I don’t want to date any married men.”
I figured I had most of that covered. Except maybe the confidence, and the money to travel all over the world at the drop of a hat. So I couldn’t understand why I was being universally snubbed. I guessed that it probably had something to do with my profile picture, and/or the fact that I refused to tell them my income. Those were my two best guesses anyway. In any case, I stopped caring. I got over my mid-life crisis and decided that the glass was half full. Why should I worry so much about finding women to love me. I survived this long without love. Who needs it?.
The problem was that I had paid for my Match account through the end of November. So I figured I might as well keep it going for the sake of experimentation. I decided to take no more prisoners. I had some things on my mind that I wanted to say. So I changed my profile from whatever polite, generic bull crap it said before to the following:
“Live Every Week Like It’s Shark Week.”
“Let’s get down to brass tacks. I know you are looking for Mr. Right, and I don’t blame you. If I had my way I would be married to Tina Fey, or even Rachael Ray, but you and I both know they are far out of my league. I will admit that without shame. If my game was on that level I wouldn’t be here. I’m still young enough to want it all, but old enough to separate fantasy from reality.
“I don’t want a fairy-tale romance. I don’t need a woman to save my soul. You don’t need to agree with my political opinions, or share my odd musical tastes. I’m not looking for a hiking buddy or a travel partner. I would love to take you around the world, but I have walked alone on the far side, and I will do it again if necessary.
“I will be perfectly honest. The truth can’t stay hidden for long. I have many personal quirks to amuse you, but I also have flaws. These things might drive you wild, or even make you crazy. It’s hard to say what could happen if you never take a chance. I have made mistakes, and there are plenty more where those came from. Like Voltaire, I believe that meaning is found in the journey. Life is so much more than a means to an end.
“I am smart enough to know that I don’t know much. Life is too short to stop asking hard questions. I don’t expect you to know the answers. I’m not rich or powerful, but I don’t live in my Mom’s basement either. I take care of myself, so you won’t have to be my cook. I have a sense of humor, but I don’t live to entertain you. I don’t know my future after this weekend and I don’t want to.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for. I won’t narrow down the search with a long list of criteria. I do understand if what you really want is a hard body with a huge chest and a fat wallet. I really do understand, and it’s ok. Just say so, and you can save us both a lot of time. We all deserve what we really want. I want to be with someone who loves me more than she needs me. If your profile says you want a man with a $250,000 income then I won’t bother you. Please don’t say you are open-minded to trying anything at least once unless you really mean it.
“I will try anything once. Most times I’m willing to try it at least twice. I used to hate shrimp. Now I love it. First impressions are often wrong. Richard Avedon said, “All photographs are accurate. None of them is the truth.”
“An e-mail is not a commitment. Send me one and I will be happy to talk. I don’t care if you are a 0% match to my profile. I really do have an open mind. I am willing to talk to anybody. If I e-mail you first, and you don’t want any part of me then that’s just fine. I can handle rejection. But please have the courtesy to say ‘No, thank you.’ It’s really the least you can do.
“That is about all I can say here. If you think I have told you anything at all then you will be vastly surprised by the real me. You can ask me anything you want. I don’t mind personal questions, but if you want my phone number, address, annual income, or my astrological sign, then you will have to be willing to look me in the eye first.”
Even I thought, when I wrote this, that it was extremely arrogant. Maybe even outright rude. It was bitter and sarcastic and kind of ugly. But it was also true. I also find it to be deviously clever and subversive. Those pointy words still tickle me a little. It also might be the best thing I have ever written because it changed my life.
Would you believe it folks? I started getting responses to the e-mails I was throwing out to women. Many of them were just telling me that they weren’t interested. I told them that I appreciated their direct honesty. Others were asking me questions about things I said, and then would disappear shortly after hearing the answers. Some other ones said they didn’t want to date me but wanted to be friends, then disappeared. A couple of them proceeded to actually exchange e-mails with me.
So now I was at least getting something out of the money I paid to Match.com. This proceeded for a couple of weeks before I sent an e-mail to Rachel. I don’t remember what it said because I don’t have my sent e-mails saved. But I know what she said back. On October 6, 2008, she wrote back to me that while she agreed with my appreciation of the classics I was all wrong about Twilight, and I should give it a try. I might be surprised. And that was how it all began. Now, a year later, I’m still not sure about Twilight, but I have found myself madly in love with this girl.
Internet dating is like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean and hoping someone who picks it up on the other side knows how to read it. Somehow I got lucky in it all and found something truly special. I wasn’t looking for a fairy-tale romance. I ended up with something better. What Rachel and I have is real. I know that we do love each other for who we are, which is more important to me than anything else. She is also smart, sexy, funny, and all that generic stuff that guys are always looking for too. But most importantly she sees me and accepts me for who I am, not for who I might become. She also sees through my bull crap and isn’t afraid to call me on it when necessary. She pushes me to be the best person I can be, and I know it is because she genuinely cares and wants me to succeed. Did I mention that she is a smokin’ fox, drop-dead gorgeous, and drives me insane? But never mind.
Together we have been through a lot in the past year. And I know that we can get through anything together. More importantly I am ready and willing to accept that challenge. We both know that we have a long way to go before we cross the finish line, but I have no fear when I am with her. I still don’t know what the future holds, but as always I am eager to enjoy the journey.
..To Be Continued on October 25
It all started in Iceland where I had a weird sort of mid-life crisis. I won’t go into any details about that because no one cares. I’m not sure I even care any more. It’s in the past. Let’s just say that I went to the far edge of everything and stared off into the empty space on the other side for just a little bit too long. (I highly recommend it by the way, just not for too long.)
I came back hungry for something else. My life had degenerated into a series of bad reruns. I had seen all these episodes before. Basically, I was bored. Of course, I felt completely powerless to do anything about it. I felt like my life was following a pre-destined course that would require more than just your average monkey wrench to derail. So I swallowed my considerably snobbish pride, and made myself a profile on Match.Com.
For a long time this seemed to be just another failure. I tried all manner of tactics and strategies, but all with the same result. No women would talk to me. I read the advice that the site gives you for getting more female response. I did everything they advised. Still no women would speak to me at all. (Except for a couple of crazy, and/or scary women who would e-mail me for a while, but then even they would disappear.) So in the end, my only logical conclusion was that I was simply not cut out for dating. So I got over it.
Most women’s profiles on Match.com say something like this:
“I’m just a happy-go-lucky, 23-year-old girl. I just want to find a guy to date, and maybe more. I love sushi and drinking beer with the guys. I love hiking, biking, running, reading, flirting, and camping on the weekends. I want to find someone who is smart, confident, funny, open-minded, and will travel all over the world with me, and accept me for who I really am. I have an open mind and will try anything once. So send me an e-mail and we will talk. Also I don’t want to date any married men.”
I figured I had most of that covered. Except maybe the confidence, and the money to travel all over the world at the drop of a hat. So I couldn’t understand why I was being universally snubbed. I guessed that it probably had something to do with my profile picture, and/or the fact that I refused to tell them my income. Those were my two best guesses anyway. In any case, I stopped caring. I got over my mid-life crisis and decided that the glass was half full. Why should I worry so much about finding women to love me. I survived this long without love. Who needs it?.
The problem was that I had paid for my Match account through the end of November. So I figured I might as well keep it going for the sake of experimentation. I decided to take no more prisoners. I had some things on my mind that I wanted to say. So I changed my profile from whatever polite, generic bull crap it said before to the following:
“Live Every Week Like It’s Shark Week.”
“Let’s get down to brass tacks. I know you are looking for Mr. Right, and I don’t blame you. If I had my way I would be married to Tina Fey, or even Rachael Ray, but you and I both know they are far out of my league. I will admit that without shame. If my game was on that level I wouldn’t be here. I’m still young enough to want it all, but old enough to separate fantasy from reality.
“I don’t want a fairy-tale romance. I don’t need a woman to save my soul. You don’t need to agree with my political opinions, or share my odd musical tastes. I’m not looking for a hiking buddy or a travel partner. I would love to take you around the world, but I have walked alone on the far side, and I will do it again if necessary.
“I will be perfectly honest. The truth can’t stay hidden for long. I have many personal quirks to amuse you, but I also have flaws. These things might drive you wild, or even make you crazy. It’s hard to say what could happen if you never take a chance. I have made mistakes, and there are plenty more where those came from. Like Voltaire, I believe that meaning is found in the journey. Life is so much more than a means to an end.
“I am smart enough to know that I don’t know much. Life is too short to stop asking hard questions. I don’t expect you to know the answers. I’m not rich or powerful, but I don’t live in my Mom’s basement either. I take care of myself, so you won’t have to be my cook. I have a sense of humor, but I don’t live to entertain you. I don’t know my future after this weekend and I don’t want to.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for. I won’t narrow down the search with a long list of criteria. I do understand if what you really want is a hard body with a huge chest and a fat wallet. I really do understand, and it’s ok. Just say so, and you can save us both a lot of time. We all deserve what we really want. I want to be with someone who loves me more than she needs me. If your profile says you want a man with a $250,000 income then I won’t bother you. Please don’t say you are open-minded to trying anything at least once unless you really mean it.
“I will try anything once. Most times I’m willing to try it at least twice. I used to hate shrimp. Now I love it. First impressions are often wrong. Richard Avedon said, “All photographs are accurate. None of them is the truth.”
“An e-mail is not a commitment. Send me one and I will be happy to talk. I don’t care if you are a 0% match to my profile. I really do have an open mind. I am willing to talk to anybody. If I e-mail you first, and you don’t want any part of me then that’s just fine. I can handle rejection. But please have the courtesy to say ‘No, thank you.’ It’s really the least you can do.
“That is about all I can say here. If you think I have told you anything at all then you will be vastly surprised by the real me. You can ask me anything you want. I don’t mind personal questions, but if you want my phone number, address, annual income, or my astrological sign, then you will have to be willing to look me in the eye first.”
Even I thought, when I wrote this, that it was extremely arrogant. Maybe even outright rude. It was bitter and sarcastic and kind of ugly. But it was also true. I also find it to be deviously clever and subversive. Those pointy words still tickle me a little. It also might be the best thing I have ever written because it changed my life.
Would you believe it folks? I started getting responses to the e-mails I was throwing out to women. Many of them were just telling me that they weren’t interested. I told them that I appreciated their direct honesty. Others were asking me questions about things I said, and then would disappear shortly after hearing the answers. Some other ones said they didn’t want to date me but wanted to be friends, then disappeared. A couple of them proceeded to actually exchange e-mails with me.
So now I was at least getting something out of the money I paid to Match.com. This proceeded for a couple of weeks before I sent an e-mail to Rachel. I don’t remember what it said because I don’t have my sent e-mails saved. But I know what she said back. On October 6, 2008, she wrote back to me that while she agreed with my appreciation of the classics I was all wrong about Twilight, and I should give it a try. I might be surprised. And that was how it all began. Now, a year later, I’m still not sure about Twilight, but I have found myself madly in love with this girl.
Internet dating is like throwing a message in a bottle into the ocean and hoping someone who picks it up on the other side knows how to read it. Somehow I got lucky in it all and found something truly special. I wasn’t looking for a fairy-tale romance. I ended up with something better. What Rachel and I have is real. I know that we do love each other for who we are, which is more important to me than anything else. She is also smart, sexy, funny, and all that generic stuff that guys are always looking for too. But most importantly she sees me and accepts me for who I am, not for who I might become. She also sees through my bull crap and isn’t afraid to call me on it when necessary. She pushes me to be the best person I can be, and I know it is because she genuinely cares and wants me to succeed. Did I mention that she is a smokin’ fox, drop-dead gorgeous, and drives me insane? But never mind.
Together we have been through a lot in the past year. And I know that we can get through anything together. More importantly I am ready and willing to accept that challenge. We both know that we have a long way to go before we cross the finish line, but I have no fear when I am with her. I still don’t know what the future holds, but as always I am eager to enjoy the journey.
..To Be Continued on October 25
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Alcohol and Pain Killers
I have spoken before, in various places, of my friend The Stranger. He lived some of the time in the #22 of my building. I called him The Stranger ever since I moved in there because he would often stand outside at the railing, smoking a cigarette and speaking to anyone who might cross his path, but it was a long time before I learned his actual name, which was Kent Williams.
The residents of Central Park Condos are, for the most part, very quiet. We keep to ourselves as much as possible. Of the 30 or so residents I have only ever learned the names of about 7 of them. We pass by each other outside our doors and try our best to keep a safe distance. The Stranger, as strange as he was, somehow knew almost everybody. He would tell me all sorts of things about all of my neighbors. I’m not sure if I’m willing to believe all the things he told me, but nevertheless he seemed to know what he was talking about. I often wondered what he told the others about me.
He was often drunk, sometimes high. He was a person who had good use for pain killers. I suppose it was always inevitable that these things would one day do him in. He could be a very crude man at times when he was clearly under the influence. I often felt I had to warn new visitors to my home about him. He spoke with shocking candor most of the time, and I would get nervous about what he might say to people I brought around. Most folks, after all, are more easily shocked than I.
He would tell you scary things if you were willing to listen. He did serious time in prison for attempted murder, he told me. But I knew he was not dangerous. He also told me that he once had everything, but the world somehow got the better of him, and the ex-wife kept all the good stuff. His angry rants would sometimes give way to an undercurrent of existential bitterness. I always got the impression that he was once meant for better things, but somehow got just a little off the main road and never found his way back. I never judged.
There but for the grace of God go I.
Whenever I got home alone, and passed him smoking on the balcony, I would go over and say hello. I always had a feeling of guilt if I passed without that courtesy. We talked about a lot of things. He would sometimes yell at me like a crazy person. He would rant and rave, throwing out racial and sexual slurs like they were going out of style, and peppering it all with the most flagrant obscenities against any who would oppose his argument. I would usually just nod and say, “Absolutely, man. Absolutely.”
He possessed a large tool box. More than once I knocked on his door to ask if I could borrow a wrench or if he had an odd sized screw or bolt that I needed. He taught me some clever tricks for dealing with various technical difficulties with the pool. He had no car but rode his rickety bikes around town. Many times he knocked on my door to ask for advice on mechanical issues. Together we solved some very weird problems on more than one occasion. We helped each other out when we could. We were, after all, neighbors.
Just last week I gave him a ride to Checker Auto to get a new battery for his mom’s car. It was no big deal, but he insisted upon paying me $5.00 and a Diet Pepsi for my troubles. He put the money in my hand without a word, and I knew better than to refuse. A man who had everything once and lost it all must be allowed to keep his pride, if nothing else.
I did not see him again after that. Then last night I thought I heard a thud. I was watching Star Trek, so I wasn’t sure. My two cats both jumped. I listened for a minute, but did not get up to look out my window.
Oh God! Why didn’t I just get up and look out the window? It would have taken no more than 3 seconds.
A few minutes later I heard sirens approach and then stop. Then I heard a lot of feet coming up the stairs outside my door. I got up and looked outside and saw what must have been the entire South Salt Lake Fire and Police Departments milling around outside my window. I stepped out to see what was going on and there was a police officer with a point-and-shoot digital camera taking pictures of something below the #22 on The Stranger’s door. I took another step out and saw that it was, and was not, my friend Kent lying half propped against the wall in a pool of blood. Another officer was putting crime scene tape around. The paramedics were standing around, but not attempting to do anything. There was no doubt in my mind that he was gone.
His body lay askew in the doorway. It was as if upon walking outside his spirit had simply left and his body had just fallen right there in place like a dropped glove. I looked at it and didn’t cringe, or look away. I felt no fear, or shock. Just a sadness that seemed like it had already been there and I just hadn’t noticed it before. The whole scene was oddly peaceful, almost beautiful in a way I can not explain. It was cold, and sad, and horrifying, and yet compelling in a way that made me embarrassed. For some reason I thought of Robert Capa’s photograph of the Death of an American Soldier, Leipzig, April 18, 1945.
A couple of my nameless neighbors were standing out on the balcony watching. I could see other nameless eyes peering through window blinds. Several police were taking pictures and I couldn’t understand why. I walked up to one of my neighbors who lives next door on the other side. I don’t know his name, but he said, “Hey Brandon.”
“Hey. What happened?”
“Alcohol and pain killers”, was all he said.
“Oh.” I said. I could hear Kent’s mom Norma crying and giving some sort of statement to the police inside #22. Another of my neighbors was also in there trying to comfort her. The rest of the police and paramedics were standing around laughing quietly and asking each other about their kids. It happens every day. I wanted to go over and put a sheet over Kent’s body, at least. It all seemed so undignified.
I was shivering in the cold, but I wanted to stay. I had no morbid curiosity. There were no answers to be had. I had nothing to offer. I just felt like someone who knew him should be there. Soon the police got a call that someone had a gun at one of the hotels, and they all ran to their cars, leaving only one to stand guard over the remains, and one still questioning Norma inside. The curious neighbors withdrew into their units. A young girl, who appeared to be the official crime scene photographer, arrived and began photographing everything with a proper SLR camera. For hours people in various uniforms wandered in and out of the building. Eventually they put my friend in a bag and took him away, and I lost sleep over what is and what could have been.
The residents of Central Park Condos are, for the most part, very quiet. We keep to ourselves as much as possible. Of the 30 or so residents I have only ever learned the names of about 7 of them. We pass by each other outside our doors and try our best to keep a safe distance. The Stranger, as strange as he was, somehow knew almost everybody. He would tell me all sorts of things about all of my neighbors. I’m not sure if I’m willing to believe all the things he told me, but nevertheless he seemed to know what he was talking about. I often wondered what he told the others about me.
He was often drunk, sometimes high. He was a person who had good use for pain killers. I suppose it was always inevitable that these things would one day do him in. He could be a very crude man at times when he was clearly under the influence. I often felt I had to warn new visitors to my home about him. He spoke with shocking candor most of the time, and I would get nervous about what he might say to people I brought around. Most folks, after all, are more easily shocked than I.
He would tell you scary things if you were willing to listen. He did serious time in prison for attempted murder, he told me. But I knew he was not dangerous. He also told me that he once had everything, but the world somehow got the better of him, and the ex-wife kept all the good stuff. His angry rants would sometimes give way to an undercurrent of existential bitterness. I always got the impression that he was once meant for better things, but somehow got just a little off the main road and never found his way back. I never judged.
There but for the grace of God go I.
Whenever I got home alone, and passed him smoking on the balcony, I would go over and say hello. I always had a feeling of guilt if I passed without that courtesy. We talked about a lot of things. He would sometimes yell at me like a crazy person. He would rant and rave, throwing out racial and sexual slurs like they were going out of style, and peppering it all with the most flagrant obscenities against any who would oppose his argument. I would usually just nod and say, “Absolutely, man. Absolutely.”
He possessed a large tool box. More than once I knocked on his door to ask if I could borrow a wrench or if he had an odd sized screw or bolt that I needed. He taught me some clever tricks for dealing with various technical difficulties with the pool. He had no car but rode his rickety bikes around town. Many times he knocked on my door to ask for advice on mechanical issues. Together we solved some very weird problems on more than one occasion. We helped each other out when we could. We were, after all, neighbors.
Just last week I gave him a ride to Checker Auto to get a new battery for his mom’s car. It was no big deal, but he insisted upon paying me $5.00 and a Diet Pepsi for my troubles. He put the money in my hand without a word, and I knew better than to refuse. A man who had everything once and lost it all must be allowed to keep his pride, if nothing else.
I did not see him again after that. Then last night I thought I heard a thud. I was watching Star Trek, so I wasn’t sure. My two cats both jumped. I listened for a minute, but did not get up to look out my window.
Oh God! Why didn’t I just get up and look out the window? It would have taken no more than 3 seconds.
A few minutes later I heard sirens approach and then stop. Then I heard a lot of feet coming up the stairs outside my door. I got up and looked outside and saw what must have been the entire South Salt Lake Fire and Police Departments milling around outside my window. I stepped out to see what was going on and there was a police officer with a point-and-shoot digital camera taking pictures of something below the #22 on The Stranger’s door. I took another step out and saw that it was, and was not, my friend Kent lying half propped against the wall in a pool of blood. Another officer was putting crime scene tape around. The paramedics were standing around, but not attempting to do anything. There was no doubt in my mind that he was gone.
His body lay askew in the doorway. It was as if upon walking outside his spirit had simply left and his body had just fallen right there in place like a dropped glove. I looked at it and didn’t cringe, or look away. I felt no fear, or shock. Just a sadness that seemed like it had already been there and I just hadn’t noticed it before. The whole scene was oddly peaceful, almost beautiful in a way I can not explain. It was cold, and sad, and horrifying, and yet compelling in a way that made me embarrassed. For some reason I thought of Robert Capa’s photograph of the Death of an American Soldier, Leipzig, April 18, 1945.
A couple of my nameless neighbors were standing out on the balcony watching. I could see other nameless eyes peering through window blinds. Several police were taking pictures and I couldn’t understand why. I walked up to one of my neighbors who lives next door on the other side. I don’t know his name, but he said, “Hey Brandon.”
“Hey. What happened?”
“Alcohol and pain killers”, was all he said.
“Oh.” I said. I could hear Kent’s mom Norma crying and giving some sort of statement to the police inside #22. Another of my neighbors was also in there trying to comfort her. The rest of the police and paramedics were standing around laughing quietly and asking each other about their kids. It happens every day. I wanted to go over and put a sheet over Kent’s body, at least. It all seemed so undignified.
I was shivering in the cold, but I wanted to stay. I had no morbid curiosity. There were no answers to be had. I had nothing to offer. I just felt like someone who knew him should be there. Soon the police got a call that someone had a gun at one of the hotels, and they all ran to their cars, leaving only one to stand guard over the remains, and one still questioning Norma inside. The curious neighbors withdrew into their units. A young girl, who appeared to be the official crime scene photographer, arrived and began photographing everything with a proper SLR camera. For hours people in various uniforms wandered in and out of the building. Eventually they put my friend in a bag and took him away, and I lost sleep over what is and what could have been.
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