ANGELS' NIGHT IN DETROIT

I’m all tapped out.
Hollow on the inside.
But face still intact.

In order to fight the evil spirits of the night,
I am requesting that all comments be left at:

"I am Batman"

Everyone should be a superhero.

Have a Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA

Mothers should not, I repeat SHOULD NOT, make their children's Halloween costumes. Nor should they be able to accessorize. Let the kids come up with their own attire.

Many moons ago (not long enough to forget) I had wanted to be a brave warrior, one with war paint, a tomahawk, and a feather. Do you see a feather? Do you see war paint? Do I look fierce? Does the ring on my right hand scare you? Does it make me more Native Americanish?

My brother (the old white man/traditional hobo) and I may have scored plenty of candy that year, but at what cost? At what damage to my psyche?

"Trick or Treat!" We'd yell. "Trick or Treat!"

It didn't matter who was behind the door; The reactions were pretty much the same. "Here's a Bit O'Honey for you little man, and here's one for your little sister."

The rabbit's foot around my neck did not bring me one ounce of good luck. Everyone thought I was a squaw! A SQUAW! The make-up on my face didn't help either.

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (Part 2)

Here’s why mother’s shouldn’t let their sons grow up to be cowboys, or should I say dress them to be cowboys? Look! Just look at my outfit! Oh sure, at the time I was smiling. Wouldn’t you?—I’d just opened a present, the camera was pointed at me. But I think my smile was forced. Or at least I’m now wishing it were forced. I’m pretty sure I wanted to be a cowboy. A Clint Eastwood type of cowboy, not a Gene Autry type of cowboy! Not to be disrespectful, Mr. Autry did serve in World War II, but I’m not a musical type of guy. What happened to A Fistful of Dollars (1964), For a Few Dollars More (1965), The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966), Hang’em High (1968), and The Outlaw of Josie Wales (1976)? I know, the last one was seven years after this photo, but so what—these were spaghetti westerns filmed in Italy and no one complained.

Now the complaints. Where’s my gun holster? Where’s my six-shooter? I’ll tell you where—there isn’t any! I had a guitar instead. I’m posing with it in another picture. My brother’s by my side. Guess what he is? A damned Indian Chief with complete headdress. Tons of feathers too. What was I to do? Shoot him with my six-stringer? Sing him to death?

So there you have it—another Halloween trauma. Like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Hell, I’d rather be in West World, a Malfunctioning Robot Cowboy, not a Village People “YMCA” Cowboy. I think you understand—a Macho Macho Man type of Cowboy! Or do you think I’m confused?

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (Part 3)

I’ve been damaged beyond repair. I’ve searched every closet and every photo album of my childhood for that scary evil costume and came up empty. Let’s face it—there aren’t any. I’ve come to the conclusion that my mommy—yeah, might as well say it (even at this age)—my mommy selected my costumes.

Here I am, not as a ferocious animal of the Wild Kingdom; I’m no King Kong (If I were, I would’ve been dressed like Curious George); I’m no King of the Jungle (If so, I would’ve been Kimba the White Lion); I’m not even a Hippopotamus, which is by far the most dangerous creature on the planet (If so, I would’ve been a Ballerina Hippo from Disney’s Fantasia). No, I’m none of these. Yet, I’m traumatized.

Perhaps at an early age I knew my mother’s influences, her motives, her maternal instincts, how she’d soften my costumes, how she’d transform them from evil to good, from that killer instinct to something of beauty and grace.

“What do you want to be for Halloween this year?” she always asked.

The answer’s obvious, just look at the picture: A giraffe! How’s that for sticking my neck out? —A store-bought costume. Only problem, did I truly choose this animal? Or was I trying to play it safe? And even more puzzling—I’m standing next to (not Smokey-the-Bear) but a nasty growling bear! Grrrrr!!!

INSPIRE (HALLOWEEN FLASH)

The basketball’s leather exterior, porous as it may be, did not dampen the free throw line. Leonard made sure of that; it’s surface coat smooth as a pumpkin’s rind.

Leonard hid in the trees, waiting for an unsuspecting baller (that’s what he called the little boys, sometimes stressing the first syllable in a mock-anxiety-tone: “BAAAWLER”), and to pass the time he polished his Church retreat rock, given to him by Father Joe, their mutual do-not-tell-a-soul relationship long expired once Leonard figured out there had been others.

As the wind sighed, Leonard noticed a frazzled tendril of leather dancing atop his basketball and this annoyed him to no end. “I should cut it off,” he kept thinking, but to do so meant climbing down the large Maple tree. He decided against it. He’d wait, alternating his time between polishing his rock and whittling a small snapped branch.

Eleven-year-old Jamaal, on his way home from school, decided to cut through Welter Park, and when he reached the basketball court, Leonard’s heart spoke through his ears, the same reassuring message pounding into his head: Inspire, inspire, inspire... He preferred someone a bit older, someone around the same age he had been when Father Joe touched him with a speech about “Inspiration.” However, this younger boy would have to do. “I will lead the way,” Leonard whispered. “I will lead the way through the valley of darkness.”

Once Jamaal reached the top of the key, Leonard shouted down to him, “Hey there, you. Yeah, you.”

Puzzled as to where the voice came from, the gentle breeze manipulating its origins, Jamaal did a clumsy pirouette.

“Up here,” Leonard shouted. “Toss me the ball.”

Jamaal proceeded with caution.

“Come ‘on, I don’t have all day.”

Jamaal dropped his backpack and quickly picked up the ball. With both hands, he tossed it with all his might.

“You gotta do better than that,” Leonard shouted.

No matter how hard the boy tried, he could not throw the ball high enough. “I’m sorry Mister,” he said. “I’ve got to go home.”

Leonard had hoped to deliver his own version of the “Inspiration” speech, and as luck would have it, Jamaal wiped the salty sweat from his eyes.

A SECOND CHANCE

I had asked my father what he had asked his surgeon, “Prakash. Why does that name sound familiar?” The young phlebotomist (half my age) ignored us, content on searching for a good vein.

“His niece,” my father answered, “is a news reporter for a TV station. I can’t remember which one.”

“That’s right. Anu Prakash,” I replied. The name stuck with me—don’t ask me how?—but I couldn’t recall her face. A week ago my father was changing the plugs on his four-wheel drive truck, preparing for his annual Wyoming hunting trip when he doubled-over in pain. In forty-some-odd-years he’s never missed that trip. My mother rushed him to the hospital where he underwent a major operation. Now he’s home, still bed-ridden, but healing.

“I asked the Doc, ‘Where did the name Anu come from?’” My father never did have a problem striking up a conversation. “The Doc told me when his niece was born the hospital requested a name from his brother. His brother held the baby high in the air for everyone to see and said, ‘A new Prakash.’ So the name stuck—with a variation in the spelling of course.”

I never met my father’s surgeon; I’m sure he fabricated the story, reconstructed it to perfection. My father had one set back on his road to recovery: His surgeon redid his navel, re-cored and tied it; however, due to a lack of blood flow, the skin died back. As for the origin of my father’s name—I refuse to make something up.

TICKLE ME ELMO

On my desk cradled in a tape dispenser sits a lacquered wooden paddle. It’s a grab-and-go bathroom pass. My way of saying: This is adult education, where you don’t have to ask for permission to tinkle. However, Posted Rule Number 8 clearly states: The school bathrooms will be closed during the last fifteen minutes of each class session. It’s a non-issue because I lock the pass in my desk drawer to limit temptation.

I hear it all the time: “This is bullshit; I should be able to go whenever I want.” Oh sure, prisoners have their rights—don’t we all? —Only problem: using those rights to gain an unfair advantage is a definite no-no; in other words, leaving my bathroom pass in the can and sneaking out of the school building early is grounds for a ticket.

I recall one inmate in particular, (I'll call him Prisoner Elmo) he cussed me out. “I’ll go whenever the f*%k I want!” He did just that. Much to his credit (Am I assuming too much?) he returned with a corrections officer in tow. “Give me your I.D.,” the C.O. ordered. Prisoner Elmo complied.

Later, after class had ended, this corrections officer gave me a lecture. “You need to have better control of your students. You need to keep them in class.” When I mentioned this incident to a peer, he said, “What did he expect you to do—tackle and tickle him?”

“I think so,” I answered.

OUR DYING YOUTH

We go about our business in Detroit as if we are immune to the killing of our children … I believe we need the death penalty for anyone that kills a child in Michigan. Detroit City Council President Monica Conyers, Detroit Free Press

Regardless of how much education I have (or get) I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll spend the rest of my natural working life in prison. It’s all there, spelled out in black and white, clear as today’s headlines. But I had my eureka moment last week when an older, heavily medicated, black gent sitting in the front of my classroom told me he shot a man for raping his daughter. “I got no use for pedophiles,” he said, “or for anyone who harms children. They need to be shot.” Because there were probably a half dozen students directly behind him who fit that description, I deflected his comments the best way I knew how.

They all have unique stories of what went wrong in their lives, what they’d do differently (if anything). The older, heavily medicated, black gent sits in the front row, expressionless, serving his time with honor. I treat him no differently than the others, the baby rapers, the car-jackers, the wanna-be-gangstas.

He approaches my desk. He says, “You know what saggin’ spells backward don’t you?” He’s referring to the low riding pants that most of my students wear. I’m indifferent. I shrug my shoulders. He writes it down on my desk calendar: Niggas. “The only good one is a dead one,” he adds.

“We were all young once.” It's the best I can do.

“Yeah, I know,” he responds.

I've tried to understand, but now it doesn’t seem to matter.

I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!!!

I’ve been traumatized by my wife’s cousin and I can’t let it go. It ain’t even Halloween yet and I’m hearing Jennifer Tilly’s voice—(disclaimer: in no way is this a reference to severed vocal cords; I am not that insensitive)—yes, I’m hearing Jennifer Tilly’s voice whispering in my ear, Sorry your 24-hour short story entry didn’t do as well as mine. I’m feeling the spirit of Chucky. I’ve got to fight back. I’ve got to protect what little pride I have left. Did we, or did we not, offer suggestions to each others entry prior to the deadline? Granted, your advice was better than mine, but how dare you remind me of my failure! It's time you walk the plank!

We need to settle this once and for all. I’m calling it a two story contest—yours against mine—a duel to the end. "Promises" vs. "Ruth Mondo's Chance Encounter." Chicago vs. Detroit.

Here’s the deal: If you like her story better than mine, leave a comment on her blog (because I don’t want to hear about it). If you think my story is far more superior, then by all means leave a comment here. Since I’m already kicked and down, negative comments regarding my story are welcome too.

Positive canned statements worth copying and pasting:
1. I liked the conflict in your story better.
2. Your story’s ending surprised me the most.
3. The characters in your story seemed more interesting.

Of course this is all in fun. Winner-take-all (boasting rights I guess). If you don’t feel like participating, check out her blog sjawriter, vote on her TV Show proposals, or watch her friend on You Tube cozying up to Kevin Costner.