PLEASE & THANK YOU

This is not a formal apology, nor is it an angry diatribe. I have no platform, no soapbox, from where to preach. I’m not sure the general public would understand my actions, my position, as much as my thought-out but never-acted-upon reaction.

I believe in saying “Please” and “Thank You,” and opening doors for others. It’s the right thing to do. It’s civilized. I’m sure you would agree.

“Let me get that for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

That’s how our conversation went. He held the door open. I said, “Thanks.” An exchange of pleasantries.

So why did this small act of kindness become a festering wound? Why did I regret what I had said?

He entered the administration building from the back, while I exited. His destination: The courthouse for sentencing in the brutal rape and murder of a thirteen year old girl. My destination: The prison school building beyond the chow hall.

During our passing I didn’t know his identity, although I will admit he looked familiar. Then, after our kind words to one another, it dawned on me: I’d seen his mug shot in the Detroit Free Press.

I wanted to ask him: What you did—was it instinctual like opening a door? Or did you think about it? Did you plan it? But how would he answer? Would he say, “I don’t know,” or would he say, “You’re welcome.”

BLOG FODDER!

My first instinct for not posting in awhile was to hang my "Gone Fishing" sign, but truthfully I'd only went once and got skunked. Thus my Freyish pic falsely advertising victory, yet realisticly depicting too much blood on my hands (yeah, I know - gloves - work with me, ok?).



You see, my wife's cousin SA from Chicago, the one living downtown in an old building where they filmed a "Chucky" sequel with Meg Tilly, informed me of a "24 Hour Short Story Contest," and after much consideration and discussion, we both coughed up the 5-buck entry fee and took the plunge.

On Saturday, 12 O'Clock noon (Central time) we received the following emailed prompt:

The bells on the door were still echoing as she stepped further into the old toy store. The owner winked at her and turned back to his black and white television set. She reached under the rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was just where she'd left it last week. She approached the counter and put the item down. He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale." WORD COUNT: Stories for today's topic must not exceed 900 words.

Twenty-four hours later, we were left picking up a million little pieces. I complained to SA that my entry (submitted in the body of the email) had the following (WINDOW-1252?) crap inserted throughout. Their confirmation, which included my story, showed this. I resubmitted.

SA in turn reminded me that my 2nd submission would be deleted. I quoted Rule No#9: If you find part of your story missing, try sending a text-only attachment.

Could I resubmit under Rule#9? Nope. Why? Because my story did not have any missing parts; IT HAD @#%$!!! ADDITIONAL PARTS!!! Instead, I retyped my short story in that stupid little email box (how many writers write this way?) and resubmitted. They acknowledged receipt of both stories.

SA, who followed the rules, who emailed her story much earlier (or should I say much later - Chicago time), never received confirmation, which in turn meant disqualification.

The only redeeming aspect of this whole screwed-up experience is: 1) they will read my first submission "as is," 2) it was worth the practice, and 3) I can always use my short story as blog fodder.

I'll know the results in a month.

CAUGHT IN THE POSSESSION OF . . .

If I were standing I’d’ve stumbled backward. But I was sitting, my hands comfortably intertwined and resting on the kitchen table. Still, her accusation seemed unwarranted, unprovoked ... un ... unAmerican. The conversation started something like this:

—You’re breaking the law.

—Huh? What? I had just shown her my catch of the day; one sheephead, one catfish, and one pike. I always snapped a few pics for proof then tossed the fish back into the water. It’s not like I demanded she clean the slimy bastards. I only wanted her to praise my skills as a fisherman.

—I checked the DNR site. It’s illegal. She was referring to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources’ website regarding a species of fish called the Goby. She needn’t say more, but she did —You are in possession …

—No I am not!

—If they’re on your hook, then you possess them.

I believe she was referring to page four of Michigan’s Fishing Guide. —It doesn’t make sense to catch a Goby then throw it back in the water, especially if it’s a highly invasive species.

—Do you keep them in your minnow bucket?

Now I felt like I was on trial. —Yes. Yes, I do.

—Are they swimming in your minnow bucket?

I’d had enough of this interrogation. I had refused to answer.

—Possession. You are in possession. Possession is illegal.

I knew not to argue. It wasn’t until later, after I had done my own research, that I had discovered my intentions were honest and I was indeed within the guidelines of the law. —I cut the Goby into two pieces and bait my hooks. They are no longer alive at this point; therefore, I am not in possession of them. It is perfectly legal to use a Goby for bait.

—But don’t you still have live Gobies in your minnow bucket?

True, I was ignoring this point; I could’ve been some crazed “save-the-Goby” lover. I decided to compromise. —From now on when I catch a Goby I will immediately cut him in half before placing him into the minnow bucket.

—Make sure your bait doesn’t have eggs on it.

I never knew fishing could be so damned complicated, so damned controversial. I refuse to let anyone take the fun out of it for me. How else can I relax after a hard day of working with convicted felons?

CHAIN SMOKING BABIES

Every educator has one—that student, that know-it-all perched upfront, intercepting every question lobbed toward the teacher’s desk.

“Spansky,” I said, “let me do the answering, not you.”

He volleyed back. “I’m trying to help. Can’t I help?”

“Spansky,” I rephrased, “I’m giving you a direct order: Mind your own business.”

Deterrence? I doubt it. Spansky knew everything AND I MEAN EVERYTHING. All you had to do was ask him.

As for respect, he never received it. No one appreciated his assistance. On that rare occasion when he was actually correct, the questioner questioned the origin of Spansky’s answer. “Thanks, Parrot Head,” the recipient of Spansky’s good deed would say.

“Don’t call me that.” Spansky didn’t appreciate the title.

“I saw Brookes whispering to you.”

“I already knew the answer,” Spansky claimed. He defended himself, justified his expertise on many topics, his mouth in continuous motion, a nervous chatter box. “I don’t need Brookes’s help or anyone else’s,” followed by some long-winded story involving Spanskyworld.

One day, Prisoner Evans asked, “What’s whooping cough?” and as usual Spansky beat me to the punch.

“Whooping cough,” he answered, “is what chain smokers get. It’s fairly common. I know a couple of inmates in our unit who have it. Officer Fowler has it too.”

Ignoring Spansky, Prisoner Evans repeated the question to me: “What’s whooping cough?”

I referred him to the World Book Encyclopedias.

“Fine!” Spansky interjected, “Don’t listen to me. See if I care!”

In a matter of minutes Prisoner Evans located whooping cough and read the passage out loud. “Hey Parrot Head,” he chuckled, “I didn’t realize how many chain smoking babies we got in this world.”

Spansky quickly changed his tune, “I never said anything about chain smoking.” Then he talked about his kids, how they grew up, how their mother left them at an early age, how he practically raised them on his own.

No one listened.

CLARITY OF NIGHT

Place a nursing home escapee on a motorcycle and let him ride into the night. That’s what I rolled with in the “Running Wind” short fiction contest. Three words shy of the maximum 250 and I’m not sure I hit all the right notes. Did I try to do too much in such a short space? Did this in turn lead to discontinuity? Would I have faired better with a simple chronological story? And then there’s word choice… Read my story here.

The self-doubt lingers, but I’ll move on.

Wait! One last thing—actually two—I revised my main character’s last line from “I had an accident” to “I didn’t make it.” Do you think it was the right decision?

Secondly, my odds on favorites to place in the top five are:

Henry Young “Bitch” - A biker gets his revenge on a relationship gone bad.

Charles Gramlich “Precious Cargo” – A biker makes a heartwarming rescue.

Sheri Perl-Oshins “GPS” – A daughter handles her Biker Dad’s navigation while simultaneously facing a dilemma of her own.

After reading 45 entries, my pick to win the whole enchilada is “GPS.” However, the contest is still open (click here: The Clarity of Night ), but you better be quick if you’re going to enter.

BUS STOP, 1970

Prisoner Wright positioned himself next to my desk, seeking the attention his cellmate could not give him. A cellmate in protective custody.

“Put my stapler down,” I said, trying to act indifferent.

“You know who my Bunkie is, don’t you?”

I stayed with my paperwork, checking to see if my students signed their work-evaluations. “Yeah, I know who he is.”

“He’s one stooopid motherfucker!”

I warned Prisoner Wright about insolence, that I could write him up. He rephrased his statement, again indicating his disapproval of his cellmate’s actions. “Why?” I asked. Prisoner Wright never told me, like some inmates do, that pedophiles should be castrated and left to bleed out.

“Why!” he shot back. “First of all, why would you reveal the whereabouts of the victim’s body after twenty-two years?”

“Maybe he wanted to clear his conscience, give the family closure.”

He shook his head. “He got no deal!”

I ignored him.

“You heard what I said didn’t you? He got no deal.”

I continued with my paperwork, thinking, is this what it’s all about?—manipulating the system, making it work for you—or is it about the sudden realization that a family has a right to give their little girl a proper burial? “Yeah,” I smiled, “he got no deal.”

To the family of Cindy Zarzycki, your daughter's coming home. May she rest in peace.

SHEEPHEAD

A student doing time for retail fraud and uttering & publishing, when confronted for the umpteenth time with the same procedural error: You cannot add the denominators of fractions, defended himself.

“I,” he said, “was a mathematical genius at my old school.”

What school? The school for dummies.

I asked, “What grade?”

“Fourth grade.”

I wasn’t in the mood to unearth the truth in his statement; after all, he internalized it, he believed it, and quite possibly, he’d stake his last dying breath on it. So maybe, just maybe, he had been the sharpest fourth grader in his class … his school … his district. He spoke with such conviction, such sincerity. He believed himself and that took precedent over all else.

“How old are you now?” I continued.

He started mean-mugging me, watery eyes and all. He knew where this conversation was headed. “Twenty-seven,” he answered.

Then I said it. I probably shouldn’t have. But I said it. “And you’re stuck at the fourth grade level.”

Then he did what most convicts do. He played with my emotions, he tugged at my heart strings, he announced that he had a closed-head injury which in turn led to short term memory loss.

“When was this?”

“Fifth grade,” he answered.

STAYCATION

I have nowhere to be, nowhere to go. It’s called a staycation—stay put, save money, burn less fuel. I’m not bellyachin’ about it, not like the bald, pot-bellied, middle-aged man I saw on the 6 o’clock news whining about his prized possession, his big azz boat, his mini-ocean liner, not leaving the marina.

The anchorwoman (not the snivelin' boat owner's wife, but the t.v. gal) reported that gasoline was $3.03 per gallon last 4th of July in Michigan. Most of us had complained, seems like a bargain now.

I wonder how many folks, such as myself, have decided to stay home. I wonder how many of these folks have joined carpools for work—that is—if they aren’t unemployed.

Have a safe, fun-filled holiday everyone. I’ll be thinking of you. Don’t be a gas-hog. Think GREEN.

IMAGINARY NONFICTION

I’ve taken up this new sport called “imaginary nonfiction,” my thoughts racing full-blast into the eye of a storm. I’ve been searching for the disappearance of a coworker, for a limb, for something to toss a lifeline to. He’s been submerged for far too long, the dark green water churning my thoughts.

In the school office in a plastic tray in plain view lay a copy of my Traverse City expense report, my social security number crossed-out, yet my address and phone number clearly visible. What if an inmate-porter intercepts this information? And if so, how will it be used against me? Perhaps he'll sell it to another inmate who will enter my phone number into a smuggled cell phone, and if caught, concoct an elaborate story of how I knew him in the “real world,” how I knew he was at our facility and didn’t report it, how I willingly keestered in a bag of dope every day of every month in exchange for a considerable amount of money.

Need I remind you, dear reader, that this is “imaginary nonfiction,” and, although it poses a real threat, only exists in the deep gray matter of one’s brain. We all have our price, but the inmates can’t afford me, and I sincerely believe they couldn’t afford my coworker as well.

A deputy warden, having done time himself, once said: It’s the prisoners’ job to ask and our job to say “no.”

—No, you can’t have a bathroom break.
—No, I’m not bringing magazines in for you.
—No, you can’t leave the classroom to go to the yard.

“No” breeds contempt. “No” breeds retaliation. The trick to longevity is to fight back with all your might. Fighting back means hiring the best defense lawyer money can buy. I’ll wait for my coworker to reappear. I’ll wait for someone to give me an explanation as to what happened. But I won’t wait to throw him that lifeline. It's the least I can do.

I BRACE MYSELF

I once loved a woman who grew teeth all over her body. The first one came in as a hard spot in her navel. It grew quickly into a tooth, a real tooth with a jagged edge and a crown, enameled like a pearl.

from “Dentaphilia” by Julia Slavin, first appeared in The Crescent Review


I’ve ground down my teeth into tiny little nubs. My dentist has me chewing on a bite-splint. “It’ll protect your teeth from further damage,” she says. “Wear it when you sleep.”

A year later, after examining the mangled plastic, my dentist says, “JR, you’re a rather handsome young fellow, and you have such a beautiful smile, have you considered veneers?”

I massage my mandibles. Then reply, “Ask my wife. She’s the one who has to look at me.”

Another year vanishes. My dentist reminds me, “JR, you really should consider veneers. I’m afraid your bite pattern is shifting.”

I have no rebuttal.

I go home, discuss it with my wife. She talks. I listen. We agree. I need a mouth full of porcelain.

The dentist sends me to an orthodontist. The orthodontist molds me a retainer. Thus my lisp. I could never pronounce the orthodontist’s long Indian name anyway. Or spell it. I bet he’s a good speller. “Call me Kumar,” he suggests. “Dr. Kumar.” He says my teeth need straightening before I can have veneers. “You need braces first,” he says.

I’m not thinking about the added cost. I’m thinking about a movie with “White Castle” in the title. Somebody goes there. For sliders. Kumar, I think, and his friend, college buddies.

Dr. Kumar sends me to a gum specialist. The gum specialist says my gums are perfectly healthy. “In fact,” he warns, “you’ll probably need to have some excess tissue cut away.”—For the veneers, naturally.

More trips to the orthodontist.

“How’d it go?” my wife asks from Dr. Kumar’s waiting room, it’s the day after the Detroit Red Wing’s triple overtime defeat.

“I snored so loud, I woke myself up.”

“Is that why everyone was laughing?”

I tell her that Dr. Kumar should tighten the wires on all those kids mouths, shut’em up.

My wife reassures me that everything will be okay. “Three years will go by fast. At least you’ll have your braces off by the age of fifty.”

Thank God for that! I feel so young.

CONVERSION

As a sophomore in a new high school finding my way among strangers, I became acquainted with the metric system. The media had been warning us for God knows how long, and since I wasn’t a mechanic who would need two sets of tools, I embraced it like an aggressive, friendly girl—somewhat peculiar, yet easy.


During that period in my life, the school district resurfaced our high school track, painted an Olympic curved starting line near the first turn, and hung an empty record board of all the events on our gymnasium wall. Instead of running the mile and the 2-mile, I would run the 1600-meters and 3200-meters. I was filled with hope. There was a chance at name recognition. Just be the best that year in your event and own a record.

It never happened.

Twenty-eight years later and I’m puzzling over the metric system. Why didn’t it become popular?

At our annual catfish tournament, with a half-hour left, my old man landed a 12-lbs. 5-oz., 30 ½ in. catfish—enough to secure third place. Poor Dan Ingles was bumped to fourth place and out of the money. Little did he, or anyone else at the time, know that his catch should’ve remained in third.

Here’s the goofy scoring system (combining weight and length):

3rd Place: My Dad – 12.5 + 30 1/2 = 43.000
4th Place: Dan I – 12.11 + 30 1/8 = 42.235

Do you see the error? Dan would’ve been better off reeling in a catfish at 12-lbs. 9-oz. (12.9). Oh well, I’m sure he enjoyed the tournament. And once again, I never made the board.

SHARING SOMETHING SMALL

NANO Fiction has selected my short story “Pitch” for their fall issue.

Thank you Kirby Johnson, Fiction Editor, and the undergraduate students at the University of Houston. It’s been a long dry spell between publications.

Catfish tournament pictures coming soon.

GONE FISHING!

A PTERODACTYL IN MY YARD

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. He—the male aggressor, the hunter, the gatherer of food—circles my house before landing on the rooftop, before landing on the chimney, before landing on the shed, before landing on the telephone pole. He watches. He waits.


I shoo him away. “Git,” I yell. “Go on, git!” I flap my arms to get his attention.

He glides above the treetops and disappears. I survey the damage, the carnage. It’s minimal. For now. His shadow darkens my spirit. He’s big, he’s huge, he’s stubborn, he’s predatory. He’s on the endangered species list, and if not, I’ll put him there. I’ll pay the hefty fine. I’ll justify my actions. I’ll call it self-defense.

My wife says, “Let’s buy some netting.” I’m not so sure this is the solution—covering beauty with ugly black nylon.

I’ll get my gun.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. I need to protect myself, my property, my toads, my frogs, my fish. My neighbor’s pond is decimated. “I’ll kill him first,” he yells.

“I’ll turn my labradoodle on him,” I compete. A pterodactyl’s lift-off is slow, cumbersome. My dog will pull him down, tear his limbs to smithereens. I’ll finish him off. I’ll ring his neck. I’ll get a heavy duty garbage bag and conceal the remains.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard.

WOMEN DRIVERS

Now that I’ve gotten your attention with the title of my post, raised your dander so to speak, it’s only appropriate that I mention two crashes by two women at the Indy 500. But before I go into it, let me tell you about my experiences at Indy. As a young boy in the mid 70’s, I witnessed all kinds of inappropriate behavior leading up to race day. My family would make a long weekend out of it, camping in a field that funneled into the inner track where the real race began, where everyone jockeyed for position to get the best view. The third turn was preferable, statistically speaking, because that’s where most of the racing cars kissed the wall.

While we camped out, I witnessed enough drunken debauchery to last a life time. Men pooled their money together for women to pop their tops, and hey, since there was money to be made, there were mammary glands to be seen. Call it the mardi gras of racing. Another pre-race activity that wasn’t such a good idea were grown-ups playing a serious game of football, only one problem—there wasn’t enough ground—which meant passing, running, and tackling took place on the hood of cars. Of course injuries occurred, but I seriously doubt anyone felt any pain until days afterward; at least not like the drunkard who walked through someone’s campfire and was busy picking embers from the bottom of his feet. I observed him on race day drinking whiskey from a bottle, hobbling to the bathroom, sun burnt and dehydrated, his guttural moan less audible.

When the gates opened to the race track infield, the real competition began. Engines started. Fists waved. People swore. Horns blared. My uncle, who traveled by himself and camped out longer than most, warned a man in a corvette not to take cuts or he’d hit him. The man didn’t believe him and a fender bender ensued. Once inside, platforms were built on top of vehicles—our own private grandstands. Here’s a picture of yours truly in his early teens, shirtless, waiting for the race, and since my binoculars couldn’t possibly keep up with the blur of cars, I focused in on the spectator shenanigans instead.


















As for those women racers this year: Sarah Fisher finished 30th due to Tony Kanaan hitting the third turn wall and spinning out in front of her, and Danica Patrick finished 22nd because of a pit area collision with Ryan Briscoe. Danica wanted to teach him proper racing etiquette; fortunately, for his sake, security wouldn’t let her near him

This year, Milka Duno had the top women’s spot, finishing 19th overall. Not a very good Indy 500 for the women. Perhaps they should form their own racing team. Maybe then, the world of racing would change for the better. What do you think?

TRAPEZOIDAL, HEMEROIDAL

My moment of tranquility—if there is such an event (we’re told to never let our guard down, never)—had been inevitably interrupted. I had convinced an officer to unlock the door to the school principal’s office, a sacred place away from convicts; somewhere I could put my feet up and contemplate my significance in the greater scheme of the Michigan Department of Corrections. Peacefully seated in the Big Kaahoonah’s chair, the muffled sounds of Mutha-this and Mutha-that a distant memory, and the phone, that damned phone, ringing before the air left the cushion.

What? Did they see me on surveillance camera? Were they questioning my separation from the troops? Reluctantly, I picked up the receiver. “School Office. JR speaking.”

“You haven’t been punching in!” It was the Assistant Deputy Warden, his accusation flowing like tap water. I could imagine him with his rubberized thimble perusing the time-clock printouts. “Last Wednesday and Thursday you didn’t punch in.”

“I was sick,” I said.

“Well what about the previous week? You didn’t punch in at all.”

I wanted to slam the receiver back onto its cradle. I knew better. “I was in Traverse City for an Adult Education Conference.”

“Did you have prior approval?” He asked.

“What do you think?” I challenged. He decided he wanted to speak to my boss. “She’s not here,” I added.

Here we go again. Rule Number One: assume your employees are no better than the prisoners. Convoluted Interpretation: Dishonesty runs rampant in this department because the employees learn deviant behavior from the inmates.

He never questioned why I cancelled classes for the day. I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as I punch in ... and ... out.

DOGFISH

Once upon a time—Isn’t that how we begin things? We start out full of hope, full of potential, only to realize most of us are full of shit—once upon a time (repetition may help ease the pain) . . . once upon a time I was a rising star in the Michigan Department of Corrections. Call it the inside scoop to career advancement. Instead of seizing the opportunity, instead of saying, “Yeah, I’m your next school principal,” I transferred. A lateral move. For less money. So here I am—a veteran teacher, stuck in a classroom, my roster of rapists, murderers, drug dealers, thieves … you name it. And I’m perfectly comfortable in that environment.

Last week I represented my facility at the Michigan Adult Education & Training Conference at the Grand Traverse Resort & Spa in Traverse City. While sitting in the lobby, surrounded by cold marble with a fake fire crackling nearby, an acquaintance, a MDOC school principal, asked, “So … do you have a view of the bay or the golf course?” She must’ve been staying on site with all the other administrators.

I replied, “I have a wonderful view from my room.”

She waited for more details, her entourage of DLEG people, Department of Labor & Economic Growth, aka Michigan Works, whom I’d already informed that Michigan ain’t working, ignoring me.

“My room,” I continued, “has a lovely view of Sam’s Club and Cracker Barrel.” I told her I was twelve miles inland. I told her about the construction workers in front of the hotel drinking their six packs of beer before checking in for the night.

She questioned my choice of lodging. I explained that the state’s travel agency recommended I stay there. She shook her head, as if to say, You know better than to follow the state’s guidelines, there are ways around the sixty-five dollar per diem.

I knew I didn’t fit in with this crowd. I didn’t rub elbows with anyone; I didn’t hob-knob with all the right people. Instead, I took a back seat to their ambitions, their presentations. They said we, as educators, are changing Michigan’s landscape, that we can help others during this time of economic turbulence.

I wasn’t buying it. If this were a bass-fishing tournament, I’m sure they’d thumb their nose at the six-pound dogfish I had to offer. I kept my mouth shut.

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.