LIFE IS PAIN

When I think of baseball, I envision my brother’s childhood friend, Craig, sprinting for a deep fly ball, his choppy strides tearing up the freshly mown grass, his outstretched arms reaching toward the sun. I hear the dueling voices, “I got it, I got it, I got it!” and I see the sudden melding of uniforms and ball caps in centerfield. This is the last inning, the last out, depending on the catch.

After the collision, the centerfielder shakes off the cobwebs and rises; Craig, on the other hand, writhes in pain, as if he’s convulsing. Still, the ball is tightly secured in his mitt, the game is over. But Craig isn’t getting up.

I’m not sure where Craig is today, what type of career he chose, or if he raised a family, but if it weren’t for the quick actions of his coach, if it wasn’t for the corkscrew in his gym bag, Craig probably would have died on that field.

“I opened his mouth,” the coach told us in P.E. Class, “and couldn’t believe it, he’d swallowed his tongue.”

No one questioned the coach’s instrument of choice; it didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was prying a kid’s tongue out of his throat.

I look back on the significance of that corkscrew, its purpose, its everyday use, and suddenly my Coach-Hero, my P.E. instructor, is transformed into some kind of wino—a nobody, uncorking a bottle of red to ease his own pain. I shouldn’t be so cynical. I shouldn’t. Seventeen years of working in a prison will do that to you.

I can’t ignore the stats either. We have a former major league pitcher at our facility serving time for his seventh DUI. According to the local paper, after the police arrested him, his blood alcohol level registered a .48. Most people would be dead with that much poison in their system. I’d like to ask him about the game of baseball and the use of a corkscrew. He’d probably tell me it’s for re-lacing an old glove or scraping mud off dirty cleats. I know better. I see the aftermath of that game every single day.

BRIDGES

A homeless man—not that I actually have the scoop on his situation (it’s much nicer than calling him a bum)—asks me, “Would you like to buy my Ugly Stick? I’ll sell it to you real cheap.”

“No thanks,” I reply. “I don’t have my wallet on me.”

I’ve heard about break-ins at the nearby marinas. As I continue along my journey, I imagine tackle-boxes and other expensive fishing equipment stolen by homeless bums leaving their shrink-wrapped lodging for shelter under the freeway. They do this while Michigan’s boaters revel in the morning sun, peeling off plastic, filling their tanks, and leaving the canals for a day of Coppertone, beer, and windburn.

But I get ahead of myself. As I walk my dog past the undercover cop reading the newspaper from a parked vehicle on our street, I remind myself that no matter how safe we try to be, we are all potential victims of crime. My wife refuses to take my favorite route under the bridges, so today, like most days, I walk alone. In no time at all I see the latest graffiti, the prophylactics, a few articles of clothing, the empty bottles of Robitussin, and one overturned plastic worm container.

This place has tremendous appeal. For the homeless searching for a place to rest. For teens experimenting with sex and drugs. For anglers dreaming of that record fish. I take this route as often as I can. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s filled with hope and despair. I sit down. I let the man snap my picture. He smiles more than I. His teeth need work. So do mine. He hands my camera back.

MY FIRST READ INTERNET NOVEL

I've been asked more times than I’d care to count: What criteria do you use in deciding where to send your stories? Is there a method to your madness? Or do you use the wet-toilet-paper-approach, tossing malleable wads onto high ceilings in hopes of something sticking? Seems somewhat juvenile, somewhat aimless. Better to have a plan, a target, a something. I’m not certain what I have, or what approach I use, although I will say this: I’m not willing to pay to publish.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve already paid a price … in time, in frustration, in anger, in loneliness, in heartbreak, in _____, _____, and _____ (please feel free to fill in the blanks with all the afflictions currently available to middle-aged hacks such as myself).

I read a book review in the local paper this weekend announcing the debut novel of a young writer in my very own stomping ground. I didn’t oooh and aaah. Instead, I investigated her publishing history. What did I find? Not much. A fancy website. A poorly written excerpt from her book. Xlibris … such a dirty, dirty word … (the name of a self-publishing company). They chased after my money once. Why not? I’d gotten slighted in a writing contest with an honorable mention.

I received an email from George Dila, author of the impressive short story collection The End of the World. Here’s what he had to say about his latest publishing experience (or lack thereof): A couple of years ago I finished a novel called ‘The Big Bang Theory’ (before the bad sitcom of the same name). Following its completion, I spent a year or so looking for an agent to represent the novel (an ugly process at best, which I could discuss at length). Got a few nibbles, but no offers. Then I spent another year or so sending the ms out to independent publishers who don’t require agency representation. Got a few more nibbles, but ultimately, no luck there, either.

Not once did Dila sound bitter in his explanation. Instead, he offers us the fruits of his labor absolutely free on his no-frills website. I’ve read The Big Bang Theory (my first experience with an internet-based novel). I couldn’t put it d… I mean … I couldn’t stop scrolling and clicking until the very end.

The story’s main character, Lawrence Lesinski, a down and out carpet salesman, tries to leave his boyhood hometown with a tidy sum of money when a small time cop with a thumb size nose pulls him over and hands him a piece of paper. This leads Lawrence, aka Lucky, to a 60-something blind clairvoyant named Winnie Bussle, ten years his senior. Through a series of events, he discovers the fate of his childhood acquaintances (twins Kenny and Karen Kleeber), the murder of their father, the presumed accident of his younger brother Mel at Mongo Brick, and the mysterious disappearance of his high school teacher Riley Harrison. The backdrop for this story is Thompsonburg, a place where turkey vultures roost.

Most chapters start with the history of Thompsonburg, its townsfolk, and the mysteries of the Big Bang Theory, before transitioning into action and dialogue. Dila mixes it up too—changing the POV at pivotal moments: Winnie Bussle’s retelling of her long lost love (how it gave her momentary sight), and Karen Kleeber’s retelling of her father’s murder.

The only negative criticism I have regarding Dila’s novel is the endless notes left for Lucky. Dila’s smart enough not to use this vehicle near the end of each chapter (avoiding appearances of advancing his story with gimmicks). Yet my reaction at times: “Oh God! Not another note.” Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m jealous with envy.

Once again, Dila proves that a productive writer is someone who completes a project and moves on to something else, monetary gain or not. I hope that the right person comes along, some agent, some somebody, and contacts him. The Big Bang Theory is worth reading. Access it here.

WRITE WHEN YOU CAN'T

If I distance myself from writing, step back far enough into the pile of objectivity, I’ll feel the doodle on my heel. I say, “Doodle,” because it’s not just a visual thing, it’s an assault on my olfactory. Back up, back up, back up. Do the Igor slide. Drag your shoe along the grass. There are lines drawn through entire sentences. Certain words fight to untangle themselves. Here’s why:

Hello James,

Thanks for submitting your story. Solid work but we’re going to let this one slide. Came into the top four. I’m sure this’ll be placed with ease elsewhere. Keep up the good work and thanks for your patience. Cheers,

Kenneth Mulvey,
A Thieves Jargon Fiction Editor



Thanks so much for your submission, James. I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t seem like a good fit for Monkeybicycle. Best of Luck placing it elsewhere. And please keep us in mind if you have any other stories that need a home.

Eric Spitznagel
Website Editor, Monkeybicycle



Dear James,

We enjoyed your work in the past and would like for you to submit any additional stories you may have. Please submit for our last issue of the school year. Thank you,

M.D. Thomas
Foliate Oak Staff



Dear James,

We’ve received your submission. We will contact you as soon as possible to let you know whether we’ve chosen to publish your work. Please allow four to six weeks before inquiring as to the status of your submission. Typically, we will be in touch much sooner. Thanks again!

Dave Clapper
Editor, Smokelong Quarterly



Dear James,

Thank you for letting us read your story. After careful consideration, we’ve decided we won’t be able to use it in The First Line. Sincerely,

David LaBounty, Editor



Dear James,

Our apologies for the delayed response, but we would sincerely like to thank you for considering The Means worthy of publishing your work. After a careful reading and consideration, we feel that your submission does not quite fit our vision. With that said, we thank you for your support of the arts and wish you well in placing this piece elsewhere. And don’t be discouraged. What do we know anyway? Fondly,

Christopher Vieau
Co-Editor, The Means