GOOD PEOPLE ARE OUT THERE

Unlike our public and/or private school teachers, I reported for duty. Not that I saw any action; Classes were cancelled for the holidays. I started my yearly online computer training—real repetitive stuff, accompanied by sleepy elevator music. Had to remove my headphones after the first hour so as not to yawn.

Not all of it was dull. In my Hostage Awareness Course I’d been warned: The program you are about to complete IS NOT to be discussed with persons other than Michigan Department of Corrections employees. Guess I won’t speak about the Scott Freed incident where Prisoner Zane Sturgill held him hostage with a skillfully made shank. I won’t even tell my wife. I’ll spare her the details.

Instead, I’ll pay tribute to the kind-hearted family who read about my Grandmother in the Fall 2009 Issue of “Faith” (The magazine of the Catholic Diocese of Saginaw). This family sent my Grandmother a letter explaining how every year they send a gift of money to someone in need. For Christmas she became the recipient of their generosity.

When I visited her, you could see the joy in her eyes. “Grandma,” I said rather jokingly, “whatever you do, don’t report it as income.”

*Update: I visited both Grandmothers this past weekend. My other Grandmother has been released from the nursing home.

DELMA JANE

My Grandmother isn’t doing too well. She had to be placed in a nursing home right before Christmas. A few years back, after the death of my Grandfather, she gave me some handwritten stories, asking if I’d edit them for her. I never got around to it—until now. I thought I’d share my personal favorite. Here it is:

Once upon a time—as all good stories should start (but this isn’t just a story, this is something that really happened to your Grandfather)—this family living on a farm near Kinde, Michigan in the 1920’s, had six children: Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy, Leland, and Delma Jane. Delma Jane was the youngest at 3 months old and she had been very very sick. Roy and Mary, the parents, knew their baby was dying and sheltered their other children as best as they could from the inevitable.

It was a nice day, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Roy and Mary told their children to go into the field and bring the cows back for milking. So off the children went down a long lane, through some woods, and into an open field. They gathered the cows and drove them through the woods. But as they entered the lane the cows stopped. The children thought that maybe something had startled the cows. They looked around, but couldn’t see anything. Then, one by one, each child looked up over the fence line. They weren’t sure about what they were witnessing; it looked like a young man with golden hair and a gown; and if so, he didn’t speak.

They prodded the cows to keep moving, which they did, and the person near the fence glided along, keeping pace. As they approached the barn yard to milk the cows, their acquaintance began to fade away. By this time, the children were so excited that they ran to see their mother and father.

When they entered the farm house, they found both of them crying. They learned that poor little Delma Jane had passed. They were too little to understand the permanence of death, or perhaps their anxiousness outweighed their sadness; they wanted to tell their parents about the flying person.

After a brief moment of silence, once their mother and father stopped crying, Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy and Leland retold their story, each adding a bit more detail. When they had finished taking turns describing the flying person, their mother and father informed them that God had sent an Angel for Delma Jane; that she had went to Heaven.

This happened a long, long time ago. These children have grown old; some have gone to heaven themselves. But whenever there’s a family get-together, someone always mentions the beautiful Angel and Delma Jane.

-The End-

Merry Christmas everyone!

BURNING BRIDGES

Once again I’m receiving complaints regarding Christmas music in my classroom and there’s no reason for it. I understand that being locked-up during the holidays can be downright depressing: no loved ones to gather around the Christmas tree with, no spiked eggnog to drink and no mistletoe for … (on second thought, because the prisoners are known to improvise, strike those last two). As I was saying, the radio station, I changed it, changed it last week to an easy listening format. Dick Purtan in the morning. Sure, he sandwiched “Jingle Bells” between Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and The Monkee’s “I’m a Believer,” but still, it’s better than Christmas music on the airwaves 24-7.

Prisoner H, a 20-something-year-old, is the biggest cry baby. “Turn that shit off! I hate Christmas.”

“There must be a few fond memories from your childhood that you can reflect on and smile,” I suggest.

“Not a one.”

I’m not so sure about his claim, but I know not to press certain issues; He may have burned every bridge, every connection to his family. I ignore him instead.

Within a half-hour “Frosty the Snowman” hits the rotation.

“Look,” he says, pounding his fist on the table, “if everybody in the room is warm, but one person says they’re cold, you gotta close the window.”

“That’s a bad analogy,” I reply. I’m hoping for Aaron Neville’s version of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” I think that’ll warm him up.

GOBBLE GOBBLE HEY

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

—"Pinhead"
by The Ramones




Every Thanksgiving I pose for a blog photo, me smiling (sort of) with a turkey pulled from the oven, a turkey that I did not cook. Afterward, while examining the pic in its unaltered digital form, I try to come up with something witty to write, or serious, the usual we-have-so-much-to-be-thankful-for message.

And we do.

But this year, while greeting my wife’s family at the front door, I did what I’ve been doing for most of November: I checked on the Praying Mantis hanging outside our living room window. I felt the brick for warmth to see why he (yeah, I assigned a gender) did not succumb to the cold weather. And, in nontraditional form, the wife snapped a picture.

I’m no longer involved with the elementary schools’ Science Olympiad insect program; therefore, I no longer order Mantid egg casings from the North Carolina biological society. Not that it matters, these mantids have been reproducing for the past four years anyway. I wonder why this little critter is still alive. It’s as if he’s making a statement about Global Warming, about our changing climate.

Al Gore may have raised awareness regarding this issue; however, my concerns are more immediate. Did I install the nine windows on my house correctly, or is there warm air seeping through the caulk, giving this little guy more life than he deserves?

OVERWHELMING NUMBERS

When you’re looking for something, searching with all your might, and when you put your finger on it (in this case: a childhood photo circa 1973), the reality behind the search and the reality behind the subsequent discovery, can leave you speechless.

On March 8, 1973, I was a 9 year old boy. (Here I am, posing with my brother.)

On March 8, 1973, a Detroit teenager learned his fate.

Twenty-five years later we would meet: I, the convict-teacher, and he, the convict-student. He would earn the nickname “Speedboat” due to his learning difficulties, for what was written in his court transcripts, that he would never earn his high school equivalency diploma, that with an IQ of 75 he was mildly retarded. However, he proved the experts wrong; he passed his GED after studying mathematics in my classroom. This was approximately 10 years ago; It took him 17 years to complete.

Last week, he gave me a rather large envelope and requested that I look at its contents. In it I saw an official looking document with an embossed gold seal. Here’s part of what it said:

To the Michigan Department of Corrections,

Whereas, in the Circuit Court for the County of Oakland, (______) was convicted of the crimes of First Degree Murder and Conspiracy to Commit First Degree Murder. He was sentenced to imprisonment for two life terms;

And Whereas, the Michigan Parole Board has recommended . . .

Now Therefore, I, Jennifer M. Granholm, Governor of the State of Michigan, do hereby commute the sentences of (______) to terms of thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum and thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum, thereby making him eligible for parole on February 27, 2009.

You are hereby required to make your records conform to this commutation.

With approximately 18 years correctional education experience, this is the very first Letter of Commutation I’ve seen. Speedboat made the following announcement to my students: “Never give up hope. Keep trying.”

I remained speechless, overwhelmed by the numbers.

IN THE MIND OF RUSSELL SLEVKOVITCH

His name is Russell Slevkovitch. As a young man, he did a brief stint in a correctional facility. If you were to question him about it, he’d tell you he served time in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior. He would sprinkle it with a few “Hallelujahs” and “Praise the Lords.” He’d say, “God gave me a second chance.”

Two decades earlier, after his parole, he'd meet a young girl, take a liking to her, and force her into his rusty van. He'd show her his Biblical tattoo and quote scripture. He'd say, “We’re destined to be together. You and me.” He'd wipe away her tears with his meaty hands and promise not to hurt her. Over the years he'd provide her with food and shelter; He'd have sex with her regularly; He'd even bathe and clothe her.

A few years after her abduction, she'd bear him a child. He'd preach about the God Almighty, how their special bond was a gift from Him, how through the Lord’s work they were able to produce a beautiful baby girl.

Russell Slevkovitch never doubted his actions. He believed he had a positive influence on the inexperienced mother. “Do not wander beyond this fence, beyond these hedges,” he'd often say. “There are evil forces out there.” She, in turn, did her best to watch over their child, to make sure she did not slip into the valley of darkness.

The days rolled into weeks, the weeks rolled into months, the months rolled into years. The midday sun, in its infinite brightness, offered very little in the way of guidance — that is, until Russell Slevkovitch refocused his attention on their lovely preteen daughter.

Physically, escaping consisted of squeezing through the bushes, scaling a relatively small fence, and yelling for help; but mentally, mother and daughter doubted their efforts. Luckily, at that instant, a passerby rescued them.

The only saving grace about this whole ordeal is that Russell Slevkovitch is make believe, he’s fictional; yet, he’s out there every time a pedophile is released from prison. He’s out there preying upon innocent children. It’s our job to make sure that he’s put away for life. No more chances, no more victims, no more Russell Slevkovitches.

FIGHTING CANCER WITH BATS

I am a survivor of cancer (10 years and counting) and like you, I am not dead. In fact, I’ve got plenty of fight left in me.

Last weekend I participated in a Relay for Life Fundraiser at the local high school. It didn’t go as planned. Teenagers sporting hunters-orange sheriff’s vests stood near strategically placed cones; their mission: Allow only “Regional Baseball” participants and their fans entrance to the empty school parking lot and no one else.

We had a van loaded with fundraiser baskets and the nearest parking lot was unaccessible. We explained our situation, emphasizing “drop off only.” “Sorry,” we were told, “you need to use the other parking lot near the high school pool.” This didn’t make sense. Why would we unload from a distance farther away? We parked our van across the street in a friend’s driveway and made our way toward the Relay for Life area. The Baseball Gestapo informed my wife and me that we could not walk across their reserved parking lot. Again, this made absolutely no sense. Were they concerned that we’d get hit by a foul ball? That we would die that instant? I doubt it. I kept my cool even though I had visions of driving my van over their cones and yelling out the window, “I guess baseball’s more important than finding a cure for cancer!”

On a positive note, our booth raised the most money. In the above picture are some of the survivors, including a dear friend diagnosed with breast cancer eight months ago.

BUYING FEMININE DOUCHE

When there’s a family emergency the night before my midterm and I’m instructed to buy feminine douche—males are perfectly capable of using the self-checkout I’m told—I immediately cringe. “What if someone I know sees me?” There’s no time for argument. I’m off the hook … kind of … with a compromise. “Let’s go together,” I suggest.

My wife steps out of the half-bath, slides the pocket-door closed. “Hang in there baby,” she says. “We’ll be right back.”

We purchase two packets, Country Flower and Vinegar and Water, eight douche bags total. And even though we do use the self-checkout, a female Kroger employee—who happened to see us entering through the exit door—gives us one of those Why-is-this-couple-buying-feminine-douche (AND ONLY FEMININE DOUCHE) at-11:30 PM-on-a-Friday-night look. Why can’t it wait?

I avoid her stare. My wife, on the other hand, feels the need to explain. “Our dog got sprayed by a skunk and our veterinarian said this was the best way to get rid of the smell.”

I’m happy to report that I did okay on my midterm, that our dog is as fresh as a the premature spring breeze, and that our house reeks something awful.

UNPUBLISHING

I tried warning JR and that little wife of his. “Don’t go to the nursing home, the stomach flu’s incubating there, searching for new hosts.” They wouldn’t listen. He’s at Meijer’s right now, waiting for their prescriptions.

He wanted to be here to discuss the merits of on-line publishing. I’ll do that for him; I’ll summarize what’s going on. Two on-line editors (HTML Giant and Thieves Jargon ) had a misunderstanding. One thing led to another, until Blake Butler (HTML Giant) found himself “unpublished” at Thieves Jargon. As a side note, JR’s been “unpublished” himself when a certain on-line magazine severed his link like Lorena Bobbitt.

Anyway, here’s the whole enchilada regarding these two editors and the pro’s and con’s regarding on-line publishing: Now You Read It, Now You Don't: A Cautionary Look at Online Literary Magazines . If you’d like to add your two-cents regarding this incident or the entire online publishing scene, please do.

As for JR, hopefully he’ll be back soon.

Sincerely, Charlie.

P.S. Did everyone enjoy my cameo appearance in Adopted Behaviors?

S.E.E.

Isn’t it funny how our perception gets all distorted in times of change? My 84-year old mother-in-law fell and broke her hip and arm and during this S.E.E. (Significant Emotional Event) we had thoughts of confiscating her driver’s license, putting her in a nursing home, and … gasp … selling her house in a depressed real-estate market.

I’m happy to report that she is doing fine. She IS in a nursing home, but it’s not what you think—three to four weeks of rehabilitation and it’ll be business as usual. She’s already maneuvering the hallways with the aid of a crab-walker. In the meantime, my wife and I are cleaning her kitchen, living room, etc… so she’ll be able to get around her house better.

As for Charlie, her travel-companion-dummy, he’s an emotional wreck and misses all those road trips, especially those short jaunts to Canada. According to my mother-in-law, Charlie refuses to declare his citizenship. “Ma’am,” the Canadian border-patrolman will interrupt, “HE has to answer for himself. Sir, your country of origin?”

Thanks for all the well wishes. I hope to be traversing the blogosphere soon.

VOLE (FOR LACK OF A BETTER TITLE)

I was going to tell you about the traps I baited with peanut butter; how a vole got its neck snapped in my garage, but I never got around to it.

Then I decided I’d share the story about my student who threatened to kill himself last week; how he held a razorblade to his throat in contempt of a transfer notice. He was in the process of GED Testing and didn’t want to leave our facility. I’m not sure why I passed this up, why I failed to tell you.

I made myself a deadline—Saturday, February 21, 2009—I would do a two-for-one, I’d write about the vole and the student, my way of making up for lost time. I’d dispense this information like so many other bloggers—one detail after another.

Unfortunately the weekend has passed. So much for deadlines. Call it procrastination. I have my reasons. How about this one: Saturday night my 84-year-old mother-in-law tripped over a piece of duct tape on a dance floor, fell, and broke her arm and hip. My wife coordinated a 3-hour ambulance ride from a hospital in Clare, Michigan, to Detroit where my mother-in-law could have surgery closer to home. I cleaned out her refrigerator, stuffed five bags of mini-carrots, two rotten apples, some apricots, moldy pita bread, and cottage cheese down her garbage disposal. She’s not coming home any time soon. Rehabilitation will follow. “Don’t you put me in a nursing home,” she warned. I stayed out of it. My wife will handle the arrangements. It’ll probably be a 3 to 4 month ordeal.

Today I’ll retrieve her vehicle. I’m sure her senior citizen friends will miss their designated driver.

THREE DOWN, TWO TO GO

I suspect that if I had been a bit more cooperative, I might’ve become more than I am, I might’ve really gone places instead of painting myself into that proverbial corner called “prison employment.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful to be working, I’ve heard the same first line of a Tom Petty song each weekday morning for the past two years, She’s an American Girrrrl, and have never hit the snooze button. I kill the alarm and get up immediately. I've got bills to pay. I’ve even done my part to stimulate the economy with that dreaded activity called: Christmas Shopping.

This year, for reasons I’ll try not to delve into, I’m forced to celebrate Christmas FIVE times.

A week ago, we exchanged gifts at my parents’ house, this past weekend we celebrated SA’s homecoming. In case you may have forgotten, SA (I Am Batman) is my wife’s cousin from Chicago. She’s also the one who discovered a common, yet subtle theme throughout my blog—The Voice of Reason. Now I’m more deliberate regarding whom that voice is. But I digress.

Christmas #2 was spent in the Grosse Pointes so SA could reunite with family. As we traveled west on I-94, I gave her my camcorder and some brief instructions on how to use it; thus the following short video footage. I’ll warn you now: I had my braces tightened the evening prior; The orthodontist stuffed my mouth full of gauze due to an abscess that wouldn’t stop bleeding. There’s no arguing that my teeth and upper gum line contributed to my weekend-long, crabby disposition and perhaps played a part in the edited selection of photographs and Christmas music. But I’m much better now.

I included very little footage of Christmas #3—just me clanking my Miller bottle against some holiday knick-knacks.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and hope to visit everyone’s blogs soon.

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!!!

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.

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.

A Wedding, a Knife; A Finger, a Death

I’m married. No secret there. Had my fifteenth wedding anniversary last month. If you were to ask about my, about “our” most memorable moments, there’d be a lack of uniformity in our descriptions. Our memories, for whatever reasons, seem fragmented, seem splintered. Small episodic events, unless photographed and studied, never quite achieving accuracy. Where to begin?

We both agreed about the cake, at least the cutting tradition, how someone from the kitchen grabbed an engraved knife (the names are lost on us, the proofs returned long ago) and helped stage the close-up hand shots for the inebriated photographer. What type of cake? How many tiers? These questions are better answered by my wife, her active role in the planning stage a clear advantage. She could quote the cost too, I’m sure. And what of the wedding date (definitely not ours) engraved on that silver knife with an off-white marble handle? (I do remember that.)

So why, you may ask, have I mentioned the knife? Why focus on what’s not “ours”? (Here’s the rub: what happens to be mine, my wedding ring, has another woman’s name engraved in it. I didn’t make that discovery until some ten years later.) So why reflect on the negative? Why not reflect on something positive? Why, after a month’s delay, have I decided to write about our wedding?

Here’s why: During Monday’s breakfast of Shredded Wheat (yes, my braces can handle it), while sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, I came across the photo of the Reverend Father Pasquale LoGrasso. He performed our wedding ceremony. I asked my wife, “What do you remember about him?” She mentioned her family’s moment of sadness, the grief, the sobbing heard inside the church, how Father Pasquale, against our wishes, dedicated the mass to her 92 year old grandfather who had passed away one day prior to our wedding (her Grandfather’s proclamation: I’m going to see my last grandchild get married). I asked again, “Yeah, I know all that, but what distinguishing characteristic do you remember about Father Pasquale?”

My question had been lost on her. She stated the obvious: He was a man of the cloth. He wore glasses. He spoke with an accent. It wasn’t until my leading question did she remember. “Wasn’t his index finger severed at the first knuckle?” I asked. “You’re right,” she answered, only to inquire as to why I would bring that up. “I’ve always wondered,” I continued, “what happened. Did someone pinch it in a car door? Did he shave it off with a table saw? Did he poke it through a chain link fence harboring a pit bull? What happened?”

Neither of us knew. I cut out his obituary. I read it again. He died at the age of 76. May he rest in peace.

POLAROID

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.