Chin Up

Uninvited, this man, Duncan Chapman, pushed into Zach’s office and slouched on his couch.“Why are you sitting in the dark without even your computer’s illumination?”

(Click here for the first episode; here for the previous one.)

Zach shrugged. He stood up and flicked on the lights. Back at his desk, he said, “What is it you want, Professor?”

"Don’t pretend you don’t know me, Severins.”

“I am pretending no such thing. And yet I must ask, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Is that so? If indeed you know me so well, what’s my field in SIPA?”

Before protesting—what an insufferable twit!—Zach said, “You teach that racism continues to ruin the global economy, destroying any hope for progress in the foreseeable future. All well and good but it hasn’t yet affected my own work in public policy.”

“Unfortunately, true. But congratulations. I didn’t expect you to know anything except that our wives are best friends.”

Duncan grinned and Zach glared. “I’ve never had any interest in Beth’s tennis or housewife coffee klatches.”

“I suppose not. But if you haven’t eaten already, what about dinner at that Mexican place?”

Zach hadn’t eaten all day. And he was no homophobe; just deeply aware, and proud, of his manhood as well as far too secure for this guy’s limp wrist to bother him.

Besides, he loved Mexican food and without Duncan’s invitation would have eaten alone with a sorry few at the nearest diner. So without directly looking at this intrusive weirdo, he said, “Mexican? Yes, I’m hungry.”

Duncan then smiled idiotically, crossed his legs like a woman, and watched Zach put on a new, well-cut sports jacket. Careful to block the man’s view, Zach nonetheless felt keen attention trained upon him as he straightened his jacket and buttoned it in the middle. He refrained, however, from adjusting the lapels while this creep stared at him.

They walked to the restaurant, which was distant enough so that Zach would have taken a taxi. Duncan stepped so close to him that their shoulders and hands might touch except Zach kept zigzagging, stalling, and even drifting off the curb and into the street.

At Alma’s Cantina, over an uncomfortably close table for two, they ordered enchiladas and Negra Modelo—on tap. Duncan asked for details about Zach’s impending divorce.

“Not open for discussion. Comprende?”

“All right,” Duncan said. “Can we talk about mine then? Because for me, divorcing Wren after so many years is devastating.”

Devastating? Fine, Duncan’s vocabulary tended toward theatrics. Zach had expected as much. Yet what he had not expected, after firmly setting the boundary, was for Duncan to allude to the Severin’s dissolving marriage relative to his own amicable split. Apparently, Duncan visited Wren often and more often than not, Beth joined them. Weekdays, while their children were at school, Wren and Beth spent hours discussing their marital disappointments. On top of which, they visited a fitness trainer named Leon together twice a week. “Leon coaxes them into important upper body-work with kettle balls—so crucial for the female anatomy—and on alternating sessions he gives one or the other an hour-long deep-tissue massage.”

Zach maintained a neutral, if frozen, expression.

“If I were a jealous man, I’d be bothered by this fellow,” Duncan said, and gave Zach a pointed look.

Zach presented a pained grin (fast becoming his stock expression with Duncan) and they split the bill.

Walking back, the man wasn’t so clingy and Zach managed to ask, “If you’re divorcing your wife, aren’t you too angry and frustrated to talk about other people and their situations? Specifically, Duncan, mine?”

“My divorce from Wren is all the more painful because we still love each other. My guilt toward her and about the child will haunt me the rest of my life. Every step of the procedure is awful, a notch below death on the grief-meter.”

“Grief-meter?”

“Laugh if you want, but you’ll see, the expression is apt. It may sound like psychobabble but I’ve yet to hear anyone else use the term.”

“For good reason.”

“Listen, Severins, at Beth’s request, I’m happy to help you.” Outside the SIPA building where Zach’s office was, the men stood in dim, yellowy light. “You don’t have to be my friend, but I’ve done you a huge favor. Danny Gibbons in University Housing is a very dear friend of mine and Beth and Wren asked me if I could expedite things for you. Danny has assured me you’ll be incredibly lucky with the UAH. The waiting list runs into the thousands.”

Zach saw the pieces fitting into place. UAH—University Apartment Housing. Still, Duncan, Wren, and Beth had anticipated this? And gossiped about it?

Swallowing his rage, he managed to say, “Unlike you and the wives, I had not anticipated a divorce until this morning. So thank you. Housing hadn’t dawned on me yet.” (Zach was far too cultured, despite his wish to shatter Duncan’s pointy skull, not to behave graciously.)

“Danny expects a vacancy in Lenfest Hall sometime this month. A furnished studio, top floor in a building reserved for law students. And Lenfest has that nice bamboo garden.”

Zach said, “Bamboo garden. Well.” He was anxious to escape. High time he returned to listing quick, impressive career steps. Now that he would no longer be jetting back and forth to Washington, he would be on campus nonstop, and needed to prioritize exactly how to turbo-charge his profile.

Duncan lingered; Zach felt unable to hurry away, let alone slam the door in Duncan’s face. Near the entrance, they looked at each other. Zach turned away but looked again.

“How is that you’re divorcing your wife if you still love her? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking, why?”

“Wren and I are still in couple’s therapy and will continue it long after the legal rigmarole. But we’re past delusion—and embarrassment.”

Zach seconded that; embarrassment was unmanly and ridiculous.

“At my age?” Duncan continued, “In these days? If I feel any stigma, it’s my own pathetic issue. Who knows why it took me forty years to come out? It’s not as if I didn’t know. But as much as I love Wren and my children, as much as I love being a father, sometime last year I just couldn’t hide anymore. I was tired of lying. My life is half over—time to stop denying who I am.”

Zach wasn’t surprised but he had never imagined he would have to listen to this—no retreat possible. By now he had recalled that Duncan was highly regarded by all of Columbia and uncommonly popular with both students and faculty.

“We’re all like that, Duncan. As long as you can fool yourself, you will.”

“Exactly. I misjudged you, Zach. The women led me to believe you disapproved of gay people—your commitment to Boy Scouts and such.”

Just when he assumed his queasiness had hit its peak! And yet, his career, his profile: he couldn’t afford to alienate this man. Hesitating, he managed to raise a non-hostile eyebrow.

Duncan laughed, shaking his head. “Please don’t be disappointed, Zach, but you’re not my type.”

Shit, Christ, Goddamn! Now Zach was embarrassed. “Good,” he said.

“So no hard feelings? None of us can have everything, can we?” Duncan Chapman then held a loose fist under Zach’s chin, as in, “chin up.”

(click here for the next episode) 

Misery Loves Company

Zach backed into the cul-de-sac and changed his mind. He had nothing more to say to Beth—nothing. Shifting gears, he returned to the driveway. When he pulled his key from the ignition and looked up, Beth in her new PT Cruiser honked the horn, gave him the finger, and peeled out of there.

(Click here for the first episode; here for the previous one.)

Meaning: he was free! He stormed upstairs and crammed his stuff into a suitcase, a garment bag, and two backpacks. Heading for the university, he bought a supersize meal at the first drive-through—wolfed the food and spilled Diet Coke while speeding and switching lanes in a fury.

His computer shed a nice light inside his stale, little office. Regulating his adrenaline, he emailed the local BSA Council, resigning as Scoutmaster. His next impulse? He made the mistake of phoning Vida, hanging up before the first ring fully sounded. No doubt the call registered at her end, but what were the odds that in her cumbersome state she caught the caller ID?

Before his own phone could ring in retaliation, he hurried to the gym, changed, and hopped on a treadmill. Vertigo threatened his stride, but Zach slowed his pace and hung on. Sweating profusely, he survived sixty minutes. In the locker room, he sat on a bench in oblivion. Was a colleague, in fact, laying his hand on Zach’s bare thigh? The pale, skinny man seemed to know Zach a lot better than Zach knew him. Delving for a name, he thought—Duncan, who said he missed them being neighbors but now that they were both going through a divorce they could be neighbors again. The noisy crowd faded away, and Duncan blathered about an optimistic spirit and then listed the pros, cons, and intricacies of his own divorce. Blinking as if Duncan’s uninvited confessions might dissolve like a daydream, Zach allowed his apparent friend’s hand to remain where it was.

“Guess we’re in the same boat,” Duncan said.

“What boat?” Awakening to fact that the interaction was all too real, Zach shoved Duncan away.

Heading for the shower, he walked slowly and cautiously in case his ex-neighbor and equal in the poli-sci department followed him. Luckily, he did not. Zach stood under the shower, alternating the blast from as hot as he could stand it to as cold. Yet his mind continued to match details that evidently had filtered through Beth’s chatter with Duncan’s surreal litany. Beth and Duncan’s wife, Wren, played tennis twice a week. That was how Duncan knew Zach’s marriage was limping miserably through its last lap. While Zach knew—none of this was a hallucination—Duncan had been living in graduate student housing for months. He and Wren had retained lawyers, who were partners, both benefiting from the shared billable hours. His children were small, which probably made everything easier. At least their questions were easier to answer.

In twilight, he headed back to his office. Throughout the walk, he vacillated between dismissing Duncan’s sticky camaraderie and admonishing himself: Why did he suppose his personal situation was uncommon?

In any case, he knew what to do and booked a room at the Hotel Belleclaire through the weekend. His children, Matt and Rosalind, were old enough to be absorbed in their own lives. They might protest or even take sides, but what choice was there? Zach would assume all the blame, because he could bear it, not because he deserved it. The compelling, intelligent, lifelong Eagle Scout, blond, strong, disciplined Zach, who had once practiced his gestures in a mirror to check his ambition—which had raced, and still raced, faster than he could metabolize it—required no justification. He owed nobody anything.

Certainly, he owed Beth nothing. Zach had managed to play his role in their marriage by not limiting his energies. She did not possess the sophistication to appreciate how Zach might figure in the world-at-large. He had reached the juncture where he could no longer live with such a simple-minded woman. When she looked at him now, with her round blue eyes, her plump cheeks burning with hope and desire, he understood all too well she would never comprehend a fraction of who he was. What could he possibly tell her? They were already divorced. That much was indisputable.  Done and done, Q.E.D.

He skimmed through random documents on his computer, looking for a way to salvage his career, which he had ignored for years. The accolades from V.I.P.s raining upon him while he stood beside Vida had blinded him. His connection to her, which had put him front and center among the serious, more original thinkers at the Institute, had suddenly hurled him, body and soul, into the undergrowth. For Vida had gotten what (in hindsight) she had wanted from him all along. Zach had to pull up his bootstraps and publish an important book, posthaste. Make it known he was available to serve as keynote speaker wherever and whenever. Above all, he must wage a take-no-prisoners campaign to impress Dorothy Zimmerman, with or without the Institute’s imprimatur.

Unfortunately for him, Professor Zimmerman, the university’s dean for the School of International and Public Affairs (SIPA), had never seen Zach in action. Their entire acquaintance consisted of faculty meetings and tenure reviews. He should have written a few serious papers that examined Developing World political strategies. Dorothy topped the list of authorities in that field. Of course, she valued the Institute’s efforts to rally the private sector. How else would Zach have come to be the Julian Wilson Professor of Policy and Economic Dialogue? Tenure or not, however, he would lose his stature unless he found another benefactor. Those carefree days of squiring the beautiful Vida in the company of deep-pocketed men and women; of directing and leading his sweet little family; of volunteering as Scoutmaster, and teaching a few graduate courses in Environmental Economics, had vanished.

If his telephone rang, he would have ignored it. But someone was knocking on his office door. Without looking up, he said, “Not now. I’m busy.”

“This cannot wait,” someone said.

When it dawned on him that whoever kept knocking was not going to quit, Zach swung open the door and grunted at Duncan. “What it is?”

(click here for the next episode)

The Underground Nest

by kathleen maher

the first episode in a serial

Trail Markers
A furious up-rush had driven Zachary since adolescence. He craved every advantage, trophy, scholarship, and fellowships a man could attain. The youngest Boy Scout in his region to attain Eagle, at age 13: That he considered the trailhead from which he would ascend to ever greater honors. He lived by the Scout Law, Scout Oath, Motto and Slogan, all of which he knew by heart, should anyone want to hear them.

He had graduated from high school a year ahead of his classmates and attended the University of Illinois in Champaign. He paused only long enough to marry Beth Lawrence, a Presbyterian minister’s daughter from Wisconsin, before earning his doctorate in public policy. With his eye on the Younger Institute in Washington, D.C., he attended every policy forum and conference around the country, even the minor ones.

Blond and strongly built, he possessed a commanding voice and military bearing. With vigilance and discipline, he taught himself to regulate his extraordinary energies so that they worked like a magnetic field, coloring the air around him. After years of monitoring how others responded to him, he perfected a trademark style. Seeing anyone he deemed important, Zach would march up, shake hands, and lavish direct praise. Thanks to hours practicing this approach in front of a mirror, he managed never to appear calculating or sycophantic. His over-the-top compliments suggested only a straightforward style and a discerning mind.

Still, his trek was long. No amount of inspired boot-licking could propel him to the summit quickly enough. Year by year he had to blaze his own path.  He found opportunities to write for the Institute’s newsletter. He promoted events for the website and contributed research to white papers that carried the bylines of Younger’s Senior Research Fellows.

Zach Severins endured three years teaching political science in Champaign before a tenure-track position arose in Public Policy at Columbia University—which was closely connected with the Younger Institute. The department director and the provost had conducted telephone interviews with him before extending an invitation to meet formally.

The night before Zach’s interview, really several interviews over two days, Beth put the children to bed while he rehearsed in his basement office. Beth read to two-year-old Rosalind first, kissed her good night, and turned out the light. She then read a chapter of “James and the Giant Peach” to five-year-old Matthew, only to find Rosalind whimpering outside the door because she wanted to hear both stories. Beth rarely finished the children’s nighttime rituals before nine. Afterwards, she insisted she and Zach share a few hours together.

He always protested—no time—but Beth held her own. If he wanted a family (and while neither came out and said this, an attractive, artistic wife and two healthy young children on his resume broadcasted stability), Beth expected him to share his last waking hours with her and no one else. Marriages didn’t work any other way.

Zach found no ground for disagreement. His own father, a dentist, had run off when Zach was ten. The man had made sure to attend the big events in Zach’s life, but his son would always see him as a cheater and a quitter. His once admirable father was morally weak and thus, reprehensible.

But tonight Zach and Beth could not relax, even with glasses of wine, watching television in their bare feet. Zach punched one hand into an open palm, sparring with himself.

“What time’s your flight?” Beth asked.

He peered into her eyes. “Damn it, Beth, my head feels like it’s going to explode!”

“Well, yes,” Beth said. “Tomorrow is your big chance. But who on earth knows better than you how to walk the walk and talk the talk?”

Zach punched his hand even harder. “I know you’re trying to help. But you have no idea how annoying it is to hear such a stupid cliché: walk the walk; talk the talk! You don’t understand anything about this. You know about young children, cooking, and pottery.”

“Don’t be mean to me just because you’re anxious, Zach. You’ll do great.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Thanks, Beth.”

She touched his cheek and remained standing in front of him until he looked at her. Finally, she kissed his cheek: “Don’t stay up too late.”

*

Zach woke at five a.m., a habit he had developed in high school. Getting a jump on the day mattered much more to him than sleeping. Before sunrise he had showered and dressed in clothes for the flight. His carry-on was divided: one side structured for business attire with appropriate slots for his shoes; the other side for gym clothes.

 In the afternoon light filtering through beveled windows, he would not smell like someone who had driven two and a half hours to the St. Louis airport, sat stuffed in the middle seat for two hours, arrived at LaGuardia and waited for a cab. He had packed clothing for a good long run outside, whatever the weather. At four this afternoon, he would look sharp and casual when the conversation in cozy chairs turned to what he, Zachary Severins, might do teaching undergraduate political science classes at Columbia.

Before he got to the airport, however, his neck, chest, and arms itched as if covered with hives. His leg shook up and down until he tensed his muscles, planting his left foot heavily on the car floor. While he circled, looking for parking, his head grew light. These symptoms, he knew from previous incidents, meant he needed a brief, side excursion if he were to perform at optimum level.

Since he worked with such intense single-mindedness, he grew dizzy when facing occasions of freedom. In these cases, his Eagle Scout ideals, keeping him always trustworthy, always loyal, kind, cheerful, brave, and reverent, needed a short, secret respite. Not that he believed anyone, himself especially, lived above the law. These rare side-trips, like switchbacks to a hiker, were acceptable diversions from the straight path. Enough hesitation: he parked in the extended lot.

Impromptu reconnoitering was risky, but he had managed it before. He would change his ticket for the next flight to Washington, D.C. and book a next-day flight to LaGuardia, postponing the interview. Done correctly, it could work to his advantage, making him seem in demand. He handed his printout of an e-ticket to a stringy-haired woman, who was not altogether unattractive. She blushed, taking his credit card to change his flight itinerary.

The telephone call to William Emerson, the Public Policy department head, was the tricky part.“Bill, this is Zachary Severins. I’m at the St. Louis airport, but before I passed through security…Linda Simmons from the Treasury called. We wrote a white paper together for the Institute and the editor there wants us to meet this afternoon to discuss some fine points.

“I told her I didn’t think so, but I’d ask you—on the off chance rearranging my schedule wouldn’t  inconvenience anyone—a long shot, I warned her. Because, Bill, you know how much I want this interview. If tomorrow morning won’t work for you, I’ll call Mark Levine, the editor, and tell him to make whatever changes suit him…

“Ten-thirty tomorrow? You can do that?” Zach asked, keeping his voice slightly tentative. “And the others…last time we spoke my impression was…” He paused, holding the phone down near his leg. What if this switch backfired?

“Oh, thank you.” He stopped and paused again. “Bill, you don’t know how much I appreciate it. The Institute makes a big deal out of everything. But I’d rather deny them than inconvenience anyone at your end…

“Well, if it you’re sure…okay, ten-thirty tomorrow. You don’t know how eager…or no, of course you know how much I want this. It’ll be great to see you, Bill. Really great.”

So far so good—he hoped. Walking the other direction, he telephoned Beth. “The more time they want, the better it looks. I’ll be home Wednesday evening. Thank you, sweetheart. Sorry if I was brusque last night; don’t know what I’d do without you…love you, too. Kiss the kids for me.”

He sank into a chair, so relieved he watched the jets rolling in and out before phoning Susan Cottler, an IBM lobbyist he met at a conference several months ago. They had sneaked off, enjoying two days at the Atlanta Omni suite.

They chatted about how busy they were, (“Grueling, really. The pressure never lets up…”) But they both knew why he was calling.

The Fairmont. Did she prefer a garden or a city view?
(click here for the next episode)

Heavy Brother

Our last week here Emma’s not teaching yoga. So we swim, make love, and swim. Charlie hangs at the yoga pavilion but comes here to cook dinner. Emma’s grateful, I guess, because otherwise she’d cook. I, however, have to ask why he’s doing it.

“Because I want to, Scott. And if that’s not good enough, let’s say I need the practice.”

“Practice for what, Charlie? You’re not opening a restaurant.”

(click here to read the first episode and here  for the previous one)

“No, I’m not—” Charlie tips his head back, sniffing hard, “—opening a restaurant, Scott. I like cooking for my family.”

“What family is that?”

“All right then. My friends, you and Emma.”

He registers a rise in my continual exasperation, and asks, “What’s so terrible?”

“Nothing’s terrible.”

Tonight Charlie’s cooking something special. Emma hints there’s a reason but won’t give me a clue even when we’re walking back from the waterfall and are almost home.

She’s wearing her black bikini and playing tag with the waves—leaving me alone awhile.

Ever since Charlie arrived this year, he annoys the shit out of me, and I can’t figure out why. He’s the same as always: a living, breathing party with keen intuition.

That day the policeman stopped by, Charlie was doling out the goods to anyone who felt like getting happy. That’s why those girls stripped on the beach in the first place. What pissed me off wasn’t the stupid B-12 injections; that’s Logan’s thing. But Charlie sitting down with the cop and telling him jokes in Spanglish that he learned from my dad’s housekeeper. It still bothers me, which is just insane.

Buddying up to the cop was smart. Necessary, really if Kitty wants to stay in business. And—Charlie was really funny with his Chicago Spanglish. He had the cop laughing and slapping the counter. Soon he’s trying to correct Charlie’s pronunciation. “¿Cómo está?” the policeman demonstrates. Charlie flattens it out like a south-side Chicagoan saying, “Come on Esta.” A little more lemonade and more laughs and the cop’s waving, “Pure Vida,” all around. Afterwards, Kitty grabs Charlie from behind, her arms around his wide girth until he spins to face her and she kisses his head. “Leave it to you, baby.”

After allowing me time alone, Emma’s holding my hand. “What is it about him that’s bugging you?”

I stroke the nape of her neck. “We’re not brothers. Maybe I’m tired of pretending we are. It’s time to start separate families.”

In truth, Charlie’s the oldest of four brothers that I doubt he’s seen since ninth grade when he moved in with me. His overwhelmed mother, working two jobs, told him he had to quit using or leave—he was supposed to babysit, not pass on his bad habits. His dad had moved to Atlanta when Charlie’s youngest brother was three. Kinda like my mom moving to Florida.

My dad liked (if not loved) Charlie. His serious, money-fixated eyes changed and brightened when I asked if Charlie could live with us. “Nothing I’d like better, Scott. The kid makes me happy.”

“Why didn’t I know this?” Emma acts like I’ve kept this from her on purpose. “Are you jealous of him? One thing you’re always saying, Scott, like it’s part of his name is that ‘everybody loves Charlie; everybody just loves him.’”

I tug her hand. “Emma, don’t talk like that. I mean it. Because nobody loves Charlie as much as I do. Nobody.”

We walk awhile, the two of us still confused about the same thing, when she says, as if this might be the thing: “He’s never even looked at me, Scott. Nothing close.”

“I know that, Emma. I’d be surprised if Charlie has ever intentionally looked at a woman. He’ll go along, like with Kitty, if coaxed, but it’s not what he’s after.”

Emma edges away from the water, wanting to sit in the shade. Like, maybe if we talk about this all the way through, we’ll discover a solution. She inches close to me and lays a hand on my thigh. That’s okay, though. She can leave it there. But goddamn it, why’d I mention that shit about Charlie not being my real brother? I never cry, but no way in hell I’m letting this once in a million fluke happen when Emma’s with me.

“Enough ancient history.” I fling her over my shoulder and she shrieks as if it’s scary. I toss her into the water and jump on her as a wave curls over us. We ride it in, side by side and let the next one drag us out where we swim side by side, like a pair of dolphins.

(click here for the next episode)

Surf’s Up

Strange to say, I’ve almost enjoyed Emma taking care of me. The first month she had to do everything that used two hands—feed me, wash my hair, even put on my shorts and climbing shoes.

(click here to read the first episode and here for the previous one) 

Her goofy scenarios: “Pay attention, Scott. No more Emma. Tonight the big bad nurse is on duty,” distracted me from the pain, which for weeks came and went, and sometimes came back full blast.

That was one thing. The other was her overall affection and considerable beauty which never palled, no matter how warped I felt. If I couldn’t sleep late at night, she sang to me. Lullabies, she called them, but they came close to what I wanted her to record in the studio.

“Maybe my patience will last,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

Meanwhile, Pedro and Hugo finished the house and Moira gave birth to Conchetta. Emma asked if she could invite the three of them here for dinner.

“Emma, you can invite anyone you want here. Mi casa es tu casa.”

“Anyone?” she’s looking at me over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. “You don’t mean that.”

“What are you talking about?” I’m still resting a lot and sometimes even a little addled. “Invite who you like…oh, I get it: Not Logan.”

In a second, lighter than light, she’s nestled beside me under the mosquito net. “Tell the truth. You like him much more than I do.”

“Do not.”

She smiles. “Let’s say we feel the same then.”

Pedro and Moira are proud and happy. Moira’s nursing Conchetta, who looks comically like a baby Pedro, and Emma’s coaxing me to finish a coconut drink and raise my arms above my head.

Moira says,“Too bad you and Conchie didn’t undergo your big transformations about six months apart. ’Cause then you’d be on the same schedule. I’d be telling her to drink up and raise her arms, ‘Soooo big!’”

“Moira,” Pedro says, “Scottie’s not a baby. And a snake bite’s no birthday party.”

“It’s almost dying, though, so there’s some connection.”

Pedro has more to tell her, but I interrupt. “The upside is having Emma baby me.”

Six more weeks and I’m almost back to normal. Conchetta can raise her head and I’m taking Emma’s yoga classes, which equal an intense surfer fitness program. I follow all the “Surfing Training” DVDs so I know: Emma’s taking the whole regimen ten times farther. A few weeks of her vinyasa class every day and my arms and legs have never looked stronger. And lots of balance work. Half her class you’re standing on one leg and lifting the other to touch your nose, which is impossible for everyone except for Emma.

She’s at the yoga pavilion and I’m coming out of the shower when the phone rings. “Yup.”

“I’m outside Trixie’s.”

“Charlie? Since when?”

“Since five minutes ago. Wanted to say hi to Trixie, but she’s too busy at the restaurant. Tourists. So, Colossus, how soon can ya get here?” (Charlie calls me “Colossus” because of the old X-Men comics, which he collects. Don’t mention the movies to him.)

This season of serious waves sneaked up on me.

“Muchacho,” Charlie says through the phone. “Ya doin’ okay?”

“Fine. But why didn’t you call last week or even last night? So we’d know you were coming.”

“Since when do I need to make a reservation, Scott? Don’t I always show up to surf?”

“Yes, you do, Charlie. I’ve been sick and lost track.”

“After fifty breaks, you’ll be fixed. I’m waiting under the awning between Trixie’s and the air strip.”

It takes me a little longer than usual to get there so I explain that I’ve just resumed driving.

“You’re here now; who cares?” Charlie’s wearing a sombrero and blue reflective Revos.

Is he clean? Charlie’s never clean. He’s steady, though. A lively, fun-loving guy, agreeable to practically anything as long as he gets his daily minimum, which he tries to limit to a gram. And if he’s doing more, you’d never know it. I’d never know it.

He slams the truck door, “Man, am I amped; I am ready to pop!” Trixie told him this season’s waves are pumping like she can’t remember.

“So who’s ‘we’ this time?” Charlie asks. “The ‘we’ you wished I’d called ahead for?”

“Come on, Charlie. I know you know it’s Emma.”

“Emma from my band? The hottest little singer you ever stole. That girl loves me like her funky big brother.”

We park by the mango trees, and before he even unloads his shit, he’s asking, “Where’s Pedro?”

“Pedro’s got a baby girl. See the new bungalow to the far right?”

“No shit. He’s still got his sideline, I hope.”

“Call him first, Charlie, in case the baby’s napping.”

Charlie goes in for blow, weed, and tequila. He’s never loopy or dazed, though. At the most, you might say he’s unfettered.

I head over to the yoga pavilion. Emma and I are home in three minutes and Charlie’s already lit.

Emma leaps up and wraps herself around him. He sets her down and tells her she look great, which she certainly does.

“Did Scott tell you about the pitviper?”

“We didn’t get into specifics.” I show Charlie the underside of my wrist, which still looks like a twisted mass of blue-black crud.

(click here for the next episode)

Howler Monkeys

Nightmares, fever, delusions—they’re the same. We’re stuck between past and present, which aren’t in sync.

After midnight, my mother slams the door, gone for good. But then she runs inside again, slamming the door again and screaming that my dad’s not worth it. Listen, she yells! She drove to the edge of a Lake Michigan pier, front wheels riding the night air, her foot ready to press the pedal sending her and the car to the icy depths, when just in the nick, the question arose: how in hell is he worth her life? He’s an asshole who should go drown himself. He deserves lake water filling his lungs, not her!

(Click here to read the first episode and here for the previous one.) 


Simultaneously, my dad’s screaming at me, “Who broke the Christmas angel if not you?”

 Do I think he did it? Or, Mom? “That leaves your sister Annie. Are you telling me your sister, who’s not even crawling yet, grabbed the Christmas angel from the mantle and snapped its head off?”

My dad’s punching me but I don’t get up, but because this isn’t real. So he’s free to keep beating and punching and kicking me all he wants.

“You’re lying to me, Scott! What makes you think you can lie to me?”

My head pounds. It weighs two tons at the top of my fossilized neck, which itches like hell. I’m lying flat, stripped except for my shorts. And what should be my right arm is twice as big as the rest of my body. My mind’s spinning in colorless, odorless, and extremely lethal vapor.

A voice says, “Don’t move!” “Don’t twitch!”  A plastic case covers my mouth and nose. A metal tank by the bed clanks out loud how fucking stupid I am. A tube connects the tank with the face mask, which I can’t rip off, because of another tube attached to my arm, the one that still is an arm. That swollen growth where my right arm used to be boils and bubbles, the scalding fluids searing at gristle that’s still me because otherwise it wouldn’t sting and burn in my mind like a sick reptile, bristling with fangs.

Two guys are arguing. “You could’ve killed him. If he was allergic, Pedro, he’d be dead.”

“Not with the sheep serum. This wasn’t the horse shit, Polivalentes. I stuck four sheep vials in his butt.”

“And what if he was allergic to sheep antivenom? You didn’t know.”

“What about all those shots you gave him, Doc?”

“Standard tetanus. And cortisone because he’s got that rash in his throat. Why am I explaining this to you? Inside the wrist is the worst place for snake bites. Especially pit vipers. Their venom gets into the veins and you get blood clots, strokes.”

“But he’s okay, now. Or do I call for the plane?”

“Overnight here. After two days he can go to San Jose for chest X-rays and an EKG. I’m not sure if they’ve got MRI there or not.”

Emma’s screaming, “Oh my God!” She’s flying, wearing a bikini, about to jump on the bed.

“Who are you? What’s she doing? Pedro, get her out of here.”

“It’s Emma, Doc. Scottie’s amante.”

I fall into a solider darkness with the howler monkeys. Their howling is funny and scary. They wake you at dawn, but it’s not dawn. I’ve got no idea what time it is, but it’s not dawn.

Pedro’s leaning over the bed before he leaves. “You’re gonna be fine, Scottie. Just rest. Pura vida, hombre.”

Emma’s saying, “Dr. Arelleno,” and he lets her touch my forehead while he shoots me up with more antivenom. “Every six hours now,” he says.

He’s measuring the roiling, man-eating creature that used to be my right arm. “Stabilized but not subsiding.”

It’s right out of a tired cartoon. A cheapo Frankenstein movie where I’m the monster. Emma tugs on Dr. Arelleno’s sleeve and they step into a shadow. She says, “He’s trying to say something. Can’t you see? He wants to talk.”

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The Flying Bus

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In San Jose’s airport my friend Pedro is waiting at the gate. When I ask him how he got past security, he winks at me and touches his nose. He takes me and Emma to a courtyard ristorante behind the runway while we wait for the puddle-jumper, which may arrive any time but probably minus a part somebody will have to scrounge before it gets too dark even for these native stunt pilots to try flying to Puerto Jimenez. After we’re seated, Pedro closes the menu and takes first Emma and then me to the restrooms where he ceremoniously treats us to Peruvian flake, which he says comes through Panama.

While we’re drinking cerveza and waiting for huevos rancheros, Emma jumps up and returns three minutes later with a pair of scissors. How she’d do that? She doesn’t even speak Spanish. Excusing herself, Emma glides out of the courtyard and I can’t help noticing how every man in the place stares at her. She soon returns with the frazzled white tips of her hair snipped off—the remnants of a bad hair-salon experience that bleached her hair so it looked like cotton candy.  Now a honey-colored nimbus ripples the air surrounding her head; soft curls fan away from her face.

Her eyes gleam, taking in the sun and road, the palm trees, and pastel-painted cement block shelters. She looks delectable in her little white shift and dirty sandals. I pull out her chair, thinking, good enough to eat—or better yet hold by the wings and keep in a jar. Yeah, I know, evil thought. No keeping Emma in a jar. No keeping her until she’s anxious and stifled and I start to hate her.

A local kid runs in and says the airplane is leaving in ten minutes. Emma must be awfully high because she asks how many people fit in the bus.

“Depends how much you weigh, Emma,” says Pedro. “It holds a maximum of six Americans or eight Costa Ricans. But you and Scott are both skinny. We better run before we miss it. The bus, that is.” He winks at me.

The propellers have started already but I don’t think Emma notices. We enter through the back and she says she’s afraid of getting carsick.

She can’t get her seatbelt fastened and come to think of it, the plane does look like a worn out van: three long seats, a few missing seatbelts. When we pick up speed and the scarred metal crate lifts off the runway, she startles, rising from her seat. “Oh! Wait! What?”

Pedro and I are cracking up. Pedro turns around and asks Emma, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of death?”

The girl is too cool. Sweet little Emma crosses her perfect young legs, raises her chin, and shakes her head. “Afraid of death? Not unduly.”

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