Time Without Consequence

It was a small county in southeastern North Carolina. It had been named Llanden County from the immigrant family that had settled there during the infancy of the United States. The settlers had grown cotton and tobacco for trade and lived on a lavish plantation. The history of the Llanden family could be called a short one, as after three generations the family had disappeared with the exception to two sisters. The town had lost it's luster, and consisted of nothing more than a general store and a livery. Two brothers named Bridges settled there and re-built the town and it's damaged pride. One of the Llanden sisters had married one of the Bridges men and that is how the Family Bridges was born. They built a cotton mill, a bank, restored the trade for cotton and tobacco and had grown more powerful through generations. The Llanden blood had lived on in another family ready to take and maintain it's legacy.
Kind of dramatic, huh?
I made that stuff up years ago, after I had finished my book 'Brothers' and set part of it in a small Southern town named Llandenboro. I thought that when I finished the book that it would be my only reference to the fictional town I conjured up...somewhat based on Bladenboro, N.C. Anyway, the thought of something bigger swept through my mind. A bigger story told with a variety of characters who inhabited the town. I also wanted to give the place a history, so that it could quite possibly sound like any town in the nation. I ended up spending time imagining an entire county. Doing that gave the story - simmering in my head - a bit more depth, I think. Granted I only had two places named: Llandenboro and Llanden City. Maybe I could go on and name other places within the county line. That, I think, will probably come in time if I get the opportunity to write about this town.
When the idea first came to me, I thought about the story being written through the eyes of a young black kid. But I gathered that the kid wouldn't be able to see nor hear everything, thus relying on gossip and heresy to move the plot along. I had remembered my story 'Encounters' and thought that I had already wrote a story written in the point of view of a young gay teenager. Though it was a weird sci-fi story, I wanted to try to give different points of view of the various characters moving through this world. Characters started to form in my head and stories about them started to come through them.
In the center of the story is the 4th generation of the Family Bridges, whose history held secrets, and their involvement with other families in the surrounding country areas. There would be the Daniels, a poor family whose past with the Bridges held a dark secret of love and tragedy. There would be included the Reynolds family, an African-American family whose patriach returns to his home town with a new wife and kids, one of whom is his step-son who is in the midst of accepting his sexuality.
Supporting characters were born, some of them who would have a story of their own, to give the action more of a populated feel. 
I smile right now because of the soap opera feel I'm thinking might dominate a story of obsessive love, lust, secrets, rejection, friendship, forbidden love, power, regret, loss, mystery and kind of a murder.
(i just took my notes out)
Seems kind of gothic? I think so, although I'd like to steer clear of that atmosphere.
The question - I'm sure you're asking yourself - why don't I start to write this? First, it's still in development even after some years have passed. Second, I'm in the midst of other projects. Third, me and the story just are not ready yet.
When John Steinbeck wrote 'East of Eden' he said it was his big book; the book he'd been preparing for after years of writing. I believe this will be my big book. It is a passion, a goal...the treasure at the end of a rainbow.
As I flip through the spiral-bound notebook that holds my notes and cast of characters, I feel something inside of me gurgling. I wanted to write something tonight after a long day at work and after washing the dishes in the sink. I wanted to focus on something that would keep me writing - in my journals, my blog, my notebooks and even my computer. A poem started to form in the back of my mind earlier at work today. I took a few minutes of my day and jotted down a stanza in the composition book in my backpack.
Writing about 'Llandenboro' came to mind when I had a cigarette, thinking about another story. It has brought back a lot of memories, but also tickled an ambition to write more than just a few words here and there.
'Llandenboro' will absolutely be my big book. It is what I am preparing myself for.

Laying Down The Law

The lone wolf, as a person, is usually described as someone who prefers to be alone - in work and life in general. It has been stated that the general perception of a loner is that there is something wrong with a person because they don’t generally move with the flow of society; that being alone is something to be pitied or can be fixed. Usually when a lone wolf crosses over into society an anxiety develops and he or she becomes somewhat inept, clumsy and chaotic.

Granted, the lone wolf does have friends or even a lover or spouse. But the fact remains that the loner is content with himself or herself and need no further involvement with the world that surrounds them.

In the summer of 2004, I traveled back to the D.C. area to visit my family. My brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews made conflicting suggestions in order to make my visit more fulfilling. My niece stopped the erratic debate and asked me what would I like to do.

“I’d like to take the Metro into D.C. and walk around downtown like I used to do when I was a kid,” I said.

And with that, I boarded the train and walked around the monuments and museums that were familiar to an awkward child growing up in the big city. An awkward kid who went to the movies alone and walked the streets alone; who played alone and found himself excited whenever he could find time to loose himself without the need to interact. When I got back to my sister’s house, my mother had mentioned that I had always went my own way. When we would go to the movies as a family, I usually went to see another show. When we went on family vacations, I would take off by myself while everyone visited with friends and family.

For a long time, I never thought much of being an introvert. I remember my life back in Los Angeles where I seemed to be happy with just myself. Even in work situations. When I worked at my very first law firm, I found that I created situations where I could work alone. I participated in many functions the firm would have, yet found that I did not exactly move along in the general direction of my professional peers. Most times, I’d find that there were plenty of interactions and assorted personal intrigues than what I saw on the surface. And I was glad that I had no part of it.

After my first visit to Seattle, I mentioned to a co-worker that I would like to live in Seattle. The co-worker turned his nose up at me and said: “Yeah, you’d fit in up there. You have that loner personality thing going on.”

I never thought of myself as a loner. I mean, actually, who would? I reflected back on my life to search for any proof of that. I came up with a particular time in my life where it just was not possible for me to be a loner: my years spent in the Air Force. I took out my journals from my Air Force years and read through them. And, sure enough, I came across an entry I wrote where one of my best friends at the time asked me why I seemed so reserved and separated myself from the other guys.

People often think of the loner has having been badly hurt sometime in their life which was probably a catalyst for their choice to be alone. That can be true for some. I think that for me, it wasn’t until I stepped out of my introversion where I experienced someone or a group of people that I have decided to give my trust to and ended up being smashed with a sledgehammer. Trust has always been an issue with me, and I’m glad that that issue has returned. It has took awhile, but I have learned my lesson. 

I miss my life as a loner.

When I finally did move to Seattle, I decided to explore a more extroverted sense of myself - with much invitation. I met a lot of people, I made some very good friends, I interacted with so many groups and mingled with clubs and volunteer work and jobs that sometimes I could not walk somewhere in the Seattle and not run into someone that I knew either in the first degree or the third degree.

I think that maybe it got to be a bit too much. When I had made the decision to move back to California, a good friend sat me down and told me that I was probably a part of so many groups and cliques that I was becoming confused and exhausted. I had begun to hate Seattle, and I now guess that hate had stemmed from the fact that my extroverted experiment was not going as well as I thought it would; I was not like so many extroverts I had witnessed throughout my life. I think I got wrapped up in what I thought life would be like if I went with the flow.

In the Bay Area of California, I would often take the BART into San Francisco and walk around the various neighborhoods, stop in at bars in SOMA (as compared to the castro where i usually ended up meeting someone or a group), go to film festivals and street fairs alone. It was just me and my iPod. Sure, I met some people and developed new friendships. But my time sitting in a coffeehouse with my laptop or having lunch on Columbus or smoking pot at my new hangout(s) or walking around taking pictures and shooting video footage was - and is - priceless. Even at work, I was the center of no one’s attention. My job required that I work alone with minimum contact. Yes, I liked the people I worked with and they liked me. My roommate could not understand why I wanted to spend my birthday by myself or why I wanted to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge alone. I was back to something familiar. And it felt so good.

But I missed Seattle. A lot. So much that it hurt sometimes.

If only I could have this back in Seattle, I said one Friday evening as I left work, jumped on BART and headed to SOMA.

My decision to move back to Seattle was made when I decided to move back to be more serious about writing, to expand the creative filmmaker in me, to go camping with my friends, to again become a hiker and to generally live my life under my own rules. And so I returned to Seattle. And I got caught up in a new version of my former life in the Pacific Northwest. My heart and trust went to the very same people that impressed me before. I love being back. I love being amongst a plethora of interesting people. I love the rain. I love my friends.

However, the extroverted introvert exists no longer. Stepping back into shoes that had become too small proved to be painful on so many levels.

A few years ago, I met someone who wanted to date me. I did not ever think I would find someone to fall in love with or someone to date (i.e. have fun with) because everyone seemed to be so focused on themselves that a thought or emotion outside of that box is not feasible; it is not something that can be controlled or engineered. To be honest, I still have feelings for this guy who is terrified of the world outside of his own perception. And though I know we will never be together, I find myself with a kindred spirit of some sorts. I think one our only differences is that I like to explore while he likes the familiar.

I think of him when I think of how people hurt each other so badly. I sometimes wish that I could take all of that hurt he has experienced, wrestle it into a bag and stomp on it until the death of his pain can be celebrated and I can hold him in my arms and try my fucking best to protect him. Ah, but such a perfect world cannot exist. The fact that I would never purposely hurt him does not matter because the stone has been set and he has to protect himself based on past experiences; and having control over his surroundings is basically a fort. I look at people like him and wonder if they are indeed loners or just lonely.

I now know the importance of family (and, man, do i love and feel lucky to have mine), I have always tried to be as best of a friend as I possibly can, I honor trust and honesty and I feel that in order to judge one only needs to look in the mirror first. I am growing older and there are things that an aging person must realize in order to live out the rest of his life in peace with his own decisions and goals. That first thing is acceptance for who you are, what you are and your place in the world that surrounds you. The second thing is knowledge that there are somethings beyond your control and that you can only fix what you can if it is broken or altered. The third thing is belief that you have lived your life as fully and with as few regrets as possible.

According to The Joy of Gay Sex (2003 edition): “The appellation wolf is a latecomer to the bear totemic system, meaning someone who is a loner, perhaps an independent-minded otter not as integrated into the gay scene as those in mainline bear culture.” 

While I am not really in the bear culture, I have adopted the moniker of wolf as I find myself returning to who I actually am. And I am proud of it.

That's The Way Of The World

He liked this time of the year, where the days were getting longer and the weather was warming up a bit. It was early evening. The happy our crowd were just paying their tabs and going home. The streets were still busy with commuters. The light of the day was slowly fading and, soon, the dinner crowd and the late drinkers would be occupying restaurants and bars.
He walked through the thick leather strips hanging in front of the bar. There was the familiar smell of musk. A couple of patrons sat along the bar sipping their drinks as the alternative music thumped through the speakers. It was a bit dark inside with most of the light coming from the bar. He inhaled deeply.
It was good to be back.
He sauntered up to the bar. The bartender, Jose, looked up and smiled. He walked over to the well.
"Hey, how's it going? I heard you were coming back.," Jose said.
"It's going. You're looking good."
"Thanks! Are you back for good or for a visit?"
"Not sure yet. I just got in the day before yesterday."
"Well, it's good to see you. Your usual?"
"Thanks, Jose!"
Jose poured a scotch neat and placed a bottle of beer next to it.
He paid for his drink and took a breath. When Jose counted out the change, he left a two dollar tip. "Would you know of any part-time jobs available anywhere?" he asked.
"Do you still have your California bartender's license?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"We could use some help around here if you're interested."
He thought for a moment. Working in a bar was a great job to have, but he had refrained from going back into another situation. "Thanks, baby! Let me think about it for awhile."
"Okay, just bring me your resume. I'll make sure Carlton gets it."
"You are indeed a very sweet guy."
"I just hope it keeps you here this go round."
He picked up his drinks and settled next to a pinball machine. He deposited a couple of dollars and started to play the game. 
Jose was the only bartender he knew at the bar. It used to be his hangout when he lived in San Francisco a few years ago. When he moved back to Seattle, he and Jose kept in contact through social networks and whenever he would fly down for a short visit. Now, he was back. Maybe for good. Nothing turned out the way that he thought they would when he returned to the city he had missed so much. When would he learn that people would always hurt him?
Finally, he thought, he got the lesson that life had been forcing on him since social interaction was thought to be a way to live one's life. He had somehow missed being alone. He had missed having no one in his life. They called him a loner. He never thought of himself as much, but he knew that they were right. He knew that there was no other way to live his life in peace and acceptance. People usually kept their own agendas intact - never bothering to explore a more kinder side.
He drank and played two games of pinball. When he was through with the second game, he gulped the remains of his beer and ordered another round.
There were a few guys standing around towards the back of the bar, chatting with each other or watching the porn on the monitors. He kept walking through the bar until he was in the back. The heavy and thick stench of cigarettes, marajuana and musk was familiar to him. There were a few guys standing and talking as he walked out. More towards the back stood three guys, smoking and talking.
Someone offered him a toke on a joint. After he blew out smoke, he made his way towards the back and sat down on a bench. He took out a cigarette and lit it. The three guys greeted him. Two of the guys wore suits. It was obvious that they had come here directly from work and were on their last cocktails. He didn't pay much attention to their conversation. He had rather stay out of it.
He settled back and relaxed as he smoked and drank. Tomorrow he would wake up and return working on the screenplay he had been paid to write. An independent producer had read his online book about two porn addicts who meet and fall in love and decided to purchase the movie rights. He had gotten an agent who settled the deal. The producer wanted him to write the screenplay. And with what he had made with selling the rights and being paid to write the screenplay came the decision to leave Seattle for good; to re-settle in San Francisco where he could fade into the mix of the city by the bay and recapture a life alone. 
The two guys wearing suits finished their drinks and left. The other guy, dressed in a long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of jeans, remained. The guy lit a joint and smoked it, offering him a hit or two. He started to feel the effects from the first joint and hit the one that was offered to him. The guy did not try to make conversation. He was relaxed - enjoying being stoned. The guy had started to rub his crotch, helping an already noticable bulge get larger. Harder.
He watched when the guy took his dick out of his pants and started to masturbate. He watched as other guys had gotten closer and offered to suck him. The guy declined all of the advances, settling to jack off on his own. He watched as the guy stroked on his thick cock and play with his heavy ballsac until his breathing became quicker and deeper. The guy shot cum onto the cement floor of the back and still fondled his cock as it got soft.
The guy tucked himself back into his jeans and announced that he needed another drink. The other patrons stood around, rubbing their crotches while staring at the puddles of semen on the floor. They had started to pair off to suck each other off.
He settled back, lit another cigarette and did not bother to watch the other men engaging in sex. Soon, the masturbator returned. He settled down back where he had sat before, smiled and lit a cigarette. The guy did not pay attention to the orgy his one-man show had incited.
He was intrigued by the guy; proud that someone had showcased their need for no one else. He had that once. And it was a life he chose to return to.
He decided that he would not give Jose his resume. He would not walk back into a situation that he had encountered before. He would not leave himself vulnerable to the slight chance of again being tricked into thinking that honesty, loyalty and kinship were the basis of relationships.
He finished his drink and walked out of the back room. He walked through the bar, peering up at the porn still playing on the monitors.
He said goodbye to Jose and walked out of the bar.

Forever Young

There is a soundtrack to every life. There is a soundtrack to particular times in our lives.
Okay, I got that out of the way.
But we have all been there when we hear a particular song, especially when we haven't heard it in a long time, that will bring back memories of a time in our lives. I have wanted to write about this before, however choosing a particular period proved troublesome. Until a week or two ago. I was sitting at my desk at the office and decided to save battery power of my iPod. I logged onto You Tube and searched from something to listen to while I worked. After listening to Fleetwood Mac's 'Rumours' I found something that I haven't heard in awhile: 'The Lost Boys' soundtrack.
I grinned and put it on play.
I remember buying the cassette for the songs 'Cry, Little Sister' and 'Lost In The Shadows (The Lost Boys)'. And I remember how I played that tape for the next year or so.
It was 1987 and I had just got out of the Air Force. I lived with my friend, David, and his family for 6 months before moving into a room in an old house. The house was on Harvard by the Coloseum. I worked as a Processor (i.e. metal cleaner) at McDonnell-Douglas in Long Beach. I drove a 5 speed silver Ford EXP that had red interior and a sunroof. I was all of 24 and 25 years of age.
The house had several other tenants. There was the black couple in the biggest room, the huge biker guy right next to them, another black guy, El, next to the biker and there was Desi in the smallest room. Dest was a black singer/performer who worked at a restaurant while looking for work as an entertainer. He was newly divorced and not only talented but handsome as well. I think The Biker guy's name was Bill. He had a pre-op transsexual living with him named Janice. Bill had a phone in his room and whenever someone wanted to make a call, he would let them...for a few coins.
I lived upstairs (i used to live in the big room for 2 or 3 months, but decided to economize). Next to me was Don, a tall black guy who collected the rent for the owner of the house. Across from Don was R.J. who was always working as a temp and had a thing for twinks. R.J. was in his early thirties, I think, and was a geeky guy. He was probably the first geeky guy I did not have the hots for. The room next to R.J. had a heavy of rotation of occupants.
At McDonnell-Douglas, I worked the 2nd shift: 4 to midnight and had my own station, setting various airplane parts in a basket and using a crane to dip or soak them in various chemical cleaners and solutions. Mostly, I would have two baskets going at the same time. While one was being processed, the other might be in another vat or in the drier. I would get home every Friday night and find half of the house stoned and maybe sitting in the communal kitchen drinking and smoking. Once in awhile, I would join them. Most times, I'd just go upstairs and work out. I was using dumbells and a barbell loaned to me by my friend Gary, who worked at the station opposite mine. Now, Gary was a cool cat. He was a bearded Latino guy who loved porn. Gary and I would shoot the shit sometimes while we worked. I remember the guy who worked the station before Gary, but he only stuck around for a month or so after I got assigned my station. He, too, was a cool guy who used to tell me about all the women he'd meet. There were a lot of other characters who worked in the factory, but way too many to mention.
Paydays were usually on Thursdays. I'd cash my check and then go to the Ralph's Giant and buy food for the week: sandwich items, Budget Gourmet meals, fruit and fruit juice. Then, I would drive up to West Hollywood to treat myself to a chicken parmesan sandwich from the pizza place on Santa Monica Blvd. I'd put in some overtime on Saturdays which meant that Sundays was my only day off. I would usually go out to Rage on Sunday nights - meeting another bunch of strange people. I usually would carry only about 20 bucks with me and drink beer. I became friends with one of the bartenders, Steve. I remember going back to Las Vegas to visit with my old buddies from my squadron and flying home to visit my family (after coming out). And each trip I made, I would bring Steve a mug. He collected them. Steve would sometimes let me have a scotch and 7-Up for half price if I was particularly poor some nights. The last I heard of him was that he had gotten a boyfriend and they adopted a little girl.
I was newly out, on my own and wanted to do some exploring. Don was sort of like the queen who took me under his arm. He was older and did part-time work. We used to treat ourselves to dinner at cheap eateries whenever we had a little extra cash. I would buy him something that I new he was out of. He let me use his phone so that I wouldn't have to go down to Bill all the time.
On Saturday nights, I'd watch a late movie in Westwood. I did my laundry at a laundromat in West Hollywood so that I could get a sense of being out and open. I frequented Unicorn Bookstore, which was a gay bookstore on Santa Monica Blvd. I remember going through so much gay literature and poetry and magazines. I went to my first Gay Pride, so excited that had saved up a few dollars to have a good time. I met a couple of guys to make out with and a couple of guys to have sex with. Those first few years of sexual exploration can be damaging, but the experience of it all makes it wonderful!
I bought my clothes from swap meets and outlet stores anywhere between Long Beach and home.
There is so much I remember and can tell you about my experience in that house, but that's way too much for this entry. It might take several entries. And even when I moved out of the house and into a one bedroom apartment with my friend Kirk, 'The Lost Boys' soundtrack was there. And that  collection of songs will always remind me of something. Maybe the time I came home and everyone was stoned and me and R.J. and Janice went into R.J.'s room and watched 'The Women'; or the time when we were all in the kitchen waiting for someone to stop using one thing or another while we talked about this and that; or the time when I took Don to Rage and he did not like it one bit; and the time I was awakened one Saturday morning by Bill beating Janice and I went down and pulled him off of her.
Those songs remind me of when I had a freedom I thought I would never experience nor could have dreamed of. I am reminded of how not only being out to my family but to have a sense of being out to so many people. I was still in the closet at work and did not share much information about my life outside of work except that I was trying to do some modeling and that I loved movies.
I often think of the older people I had worked with like Benjy (who I had met in another processing department), who worked Gary's station during the day. And Wanda, a big beautiful white woman with big hair and a sassy mouth. They were good people!! I remember driving the various freeways of Southern California, becoming familiar with which led where. There were times when I would get a bit antsy and cruise around the San Fernando Valley, sometimes wondering where the porn companies were located. (by the way, I ended up working for catalina video as a receptionist)
Yeah, I was young and let loose in a city I had always wanted to encounter. I had a job, a car, a place to live and the absolute power of personal choice.
I'm listening to the album right now. And I think back to that first year living in L.A. Well, the first year after moving from my friends' home and venturing out on my own.
It was all so new. West Hollywood was almost as magical as a castle when I thought about gay bars and gay restaurants and gay services and gay laundromats and gay bookstores.
Do you feel me experiencing the excitement all over again?
My struggles seemed small at the time. Budgeting right seemed to be my only struggle that I can recall. McDonnell-Douglas paid very well, so I had enough money to live practically as well as have fun.
One night R.J. and I were out at Rage. R.J. met some guy named Kirk and they had a couple of good nights together. They came over to my room one night after I had gotten off work. We sat and talked and smoked a bowl. After R.J. and Kirk stopped seeing each other, Kirk would come over to see me and we became friends. Good friends. And that was how I had come to leave the house: Kirk needed a roommate and asked me.
When I moved in with Kirk, I barely missed the house as Kirk and I and the circle of friends we would create was another chapter of my life. We ran into R.J. during a trip to San Francisco. He had relocated to S.F. and we met him out for drinks at The Stud. Kirk and I would sometimes talk about that house. Not much, though, as it is only the place where we met and became friends. However, I will never forget it.
And when I moved, 'The Lost Boys' soundtrack was still being played, but slowly becoming played less and less as time moved on. I was about to discover more about being young and being adult.
I guess the album reminds me of when it was all so fresh; when the experience reminds you of how wonderful life really is.
I might enter something on here about this time in my life written just a little bit better with more focus.

Send Me On My Way

1978. Bladenboro High School. Bladenboro, North Carolina.
As gossip in small towns goes, if you hear it then it must be true. And the rumours of the high school principal being the grand poobah or whatever of the Ku Klux Klan was as rampant as any tiny scandal given it's due.
I had written a play entitle 'Disco 2000'. It was the story of three siblings who lost their parents and ran a small disco. Our school did not have a drama department, and any plays that were produced - and there were rarely any - usually consisted of class projects and acted out in the class room. I thought about seeing schools in television programs that did have a drama department and produced their plays onstage and usually at night so that the entire neighborhood could watch.
I had gotten a few good reviews of my play from various peers. I wanted to produce and direct the play. I wanted to put it up on stage. A few of my classmates told me that I should go for it. I talked to my English teacher who said that she would sponsor my production if I got permission from the principal, Mr. Allan. Like any normal producer/director, I went about casting the play before any important preliminaries were taken. I had a black and white cast and made notes on who to hire as a crew. I told everyone that was thus far involved that we would finance the play ourselves and everyone agreed.
I was excited. My friends were excited. My mother was proud.
A few days later, I had yet to get an appointment with Mr. Allan. I was too busy in pre-pre-production. Suddenly, all of the white kids started to drop out of the production. I was given no other reason than they just didn't want to. Yet I stood stern. I would get my play produced and on that stage. This was just a temporary setback.
I had finally gotten my appointment with Mr. Allan. I went into his office and asked for permission to use the school's stage to produce a play for the community. He told me that I would need a teacher as a sponsor. I told him that Mrs. Jones said that she would sponsor when he gave me permission.
Mr. Allan leaned back in his seat, never taking his eyes off of me. Then he told me that he would only give me permission if I had a white and black cast. I told him that I did have a black and white cast but that the white kids started to drop out so I re-cast with my other classmates.
"If you don't have any white kids in your play then I can't give you permission to use the school stage," he said.
I left Mr. Allan's office having just been slapped harder than any physical attack against me. My production was dead. Mrs. Jones told me that she was sorry. My cast was pissed and whispered the rumour that I had so often heard and felt was more than true.
My play fell into a box in my parents' attic.
I would run into another obstacle when I felt that our school needed a newspaper. The biology teacher said that she would be glad to sponsor. But that too grinded to a hard and painful halt, as no one really wanted to participate in organizing and publishing a school newspaper.
Thinking about this has open up a box of memories of me going after what I wanted - and needed - to begin a life in the arts and broadcasting. I presented my art teacher with a suggestion of our class taking a couple of semesters to work on a play or some kind of production. She did not take my suggestion until my senior year of high school when there was no Art IV...and I had completed Art III the previous year.
The county newspaper was looking for high school students to take photos of school events. My aunt had just given me an old 35 mm camera and I had graduated from pocket camera. A 10th grader whose father ran advertisements in the paper got the job. I applied for a part-time job at WBLA, Bladen County's radio station. I got a callback. The sales department wanted a high school kid to intern. I was excited. He said he would keep in touch. In a meeting with my guidance counselor I mentioned the phone call from WBLA. She advised me to bug him about the job. I visited the station. The guy in the sales department yanked me into his office and told me that the job was top secret and that I shouldn't have come there. Needless to say, he did not call me back. I tried to get on the yearbook staff, but those positions were usually reserved for the smartest and most popular kids in school.
I don't know why I felt the need to include the story of the newspaper and the radio station in this entry. I guess I needed this to flow a bit more so that I can get all first roadblocks out of my system.
Back to the rumour if Mr. Allan was head of the Ku Klux Klan: I don't give a shit anymore. He's dead and I got my ambition back.

Lost In A Portrait

No guts, no glory. This is said to have been Bette Davis' creed. And it was this creed, more than likely, that made her an actress in which most actresses admire and try to measure to.
I have been repeating this exhaustively in my head over the past week. I think it's more because that I feel my creativity come alive again. I have one more story to finish for my collection. It is a story that has been in my mind for years, but only started to take more shape over the past few months. It is the story of a hot new bad boy director who is about to meet his biological father (who is also a film director) and a film journalist searching for a gay-themed lost film supposedly made during the early part of the 20th century.
Because of a broke MacBook and a new laptop that does not have a word processor, I took out a couple of notebooks and asked myself when would I find the time to take a deep breath and start writing this story? Usually, I go to a coffeehouse or the library or to Madison Pub and just let the story spill out. Now, it has been decades since I wrote a story longhand and I found myself staring at my notebook and pricing MS Office to download onto my laptop. And in trying to make a choice, I thought back to an earlier piece of work from high school. I remember writing the story in my bedroom at home. I can't remember how long it took me to write, but I was happy with the way it turned out. I entitled my story 'Encounters'.
I wrote 'Encounters' in a spiral-bound 200+ page notebook in sparse, bare prose. Some sections or chapters were only dialogue exchanges. The first part of the story was basically the story of a small town high school as seen through the eyes of a teenager. There were two main storylines unfolding: the story of a girl who had been dumped by her boyfriend and a boy discovering his sexuality. Other chapters dealt with other students and their everyday existence. The girl was trying to find out why her boyfriend broke up with her and the guy was fighting to keep his love for another boy a secret.
The second part of the story told a further story of the girl and the guy noticing changes in their classmates. At first the changes were illustrated in the minor characters who had been mentioned in passing in the first part of the book. The girl notices the changes first when she encounters her ex's new girlfriend. She mentions it to the guy and they both start to notice the strange metamorphosis of the student body. And it isn't until the object of the boy's affections accidentally hits his head that they start to find out the truth: that their peers were being turned into robots.
The third part of the story dealt with the girl and the guy investigating who was turning the students into robots: the principal! (haha!!!) And his evil plan to rid the world of progression.
I remember having fun writing that story. I remember being satisfied with the outcome. I know it was not the last time I wrote a story using pen and paper, but it was what came to mind when I was trying to choose between my notebook and Microsoft Word. Sitting at my desk and writing in my apartment has been very uncomfortable. I would like to remedy that. I don't know why sitting at a table inside Madison Pub with the music and bar noise surrounding me makes for a comfortable writing space. I guess we all have something a bit quirky that gives us complete satisfaction.
And now that my present focus - entitled 'The Unicorns of Atlantis' - is starting to come together into a coherent and, hopefully, involved story I find myself wondering if it would be worth it to invest in a computer program so that I can type the story out or to take pen to paper and see what can flow onto the pages of a notebook...

Like Ice In Water

(rough draft of a short story)

When they walked into the bar, they felt the rush of the cold from the bar’s air conditioning. It was early evening on a hot summer day and an early dinner to celebrate Baren’s birthday had just ended at a nice little eclectic restaurant that had become his favorite.

There was a sparse crowd. Happy hour had just ended. Steve found a table for the four of them and Bruce offered to get the first round. Steve wanted a rum and cola, Baren figured another martini wouldn’t do him harm and Patrick asked for a margarita.

“Bitch, I need to talk to you,” Patrick said to Baren. Patrick had a loud voice. He liked to think of himself as ghetto fabulous, but, actually, he came off as annoying.

“Please, not before he opens his presents,” Steve said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Baren said to Steve, then turned to Patrick. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you give that waiter your phone number?”

“What?”

“He was all over you!”

“Maybe you should sum that up to him probably wanting a bigger tip or just trying to give me a little attention for my birthday. You did kind of yell it out when we got to the restaurant.”

Bruce and a bartender had just walked up to the table with their drinks and set them down.

“Thanks,” Bruce said to the bartender and sat down at the table.

“All I’m saying, girl, is that I don’t wanna hear no more complaints about how you can’t find yo’self a man and ain’t having no sex,” Patrick said before taking a sip of his margarita.

“I don’t think I heard Baren say anything remotely similar in a couple of years or so,” Bruce told Patrick.

“Yeah, why can’t you just leave Baren alone?” Steve chimed in.

“It’s alright guys,” Baren said. “We know Patrick has to hear his own voice even when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. That guy had no interest in me other than casual sex.”

“When did you get so holier than thou?” Patrick asked.

“Casual sex has never been my thing. No judgment, but I will leave it with those who enjoy it. I’m going to go to the juke box and play some music.”

“Why you gotta be all cunty like? I’m just speaking the truth,” Patrick said as Baren walked away from the table.

“You really need to calm down,” Bruce said.

Patrick almost said something, but thought twice about it. He knew not to go up against Bruce, who was the only one in the group who could shut Patrick up.

“Why are you always on his case?” Steve asked.

“I’m not on anybody’s case. You saw how that waiter was flirting with him! And Baren needs some dick really bad!”

“Is that all you can think about is dick?” Steve asked.

“You’re talking to a nymphomaniac,” Bruce said to Steve.

Patrick put down his drink. “I ain’t no nymphomaniac. I’m just good at what I do. That’s why I’ve had more boyfriends than all of you bitches!”

“And you’re proud of that?” asked Bruce.

Patrick turned up his nose and stood. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Why is he always on Baren’s case?” Steve asked. “Baren’s a sweet guy, and I don’t understand why Patrick always has to try to undermine him.”

“He’s trying to mask his insecurities. Patrick feels like the tramp that he is.”

Baren returned to the table. “Please tell me one of you killed him and hid his body in the alley.”

Baren and Steve laughed. Baren took a sip of his drink while peering up at one of the many television screens in the bar.

Steve rubbed Baren’s shoulder. “So, you having a nice birthday?”

“Yeah, it’s really nice. I’m having a good time. Thanks for dinner and thanks for the drinks.”

“Our pleasure,” Steve said.

“Anything else you want to do for your day?” Bruce asked.

“This is pretty much it. The forties are fast fading and I have to start taking it a bit easy.”

“What? And ruin your party boy reputation?”

They all laughed. 

Patrick returned to the table and sat down. “Did you put this music in? What is this?”

“It’s Pete Yorn,” Baren said. “And shut the fuck up. Nobody cries when you put on your Eighties music.”

“That’s because that was when music was real. You and this indie rock shit. I don’t get it. You ain’t no real black man.”

Bruce slid the present he’d been carrying over to Baren. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

“Thanks, Bruce!”

Bruce had gotten him the coffee table book he had wanted. Steve gave him the final season of Friday Night Lights and a collection of essays. And when Baren opened the gift Patrick handed to him, he found two dress shirts and two very busy-looking ties.

“You need to stop wearing those boring one solid color ties,” Patrick said.

“Thanks, but I like my boring one solid color ties,” Baren said. 

He hugged each of them.

“Who’s ready for another round?” Steve asked.

They all raised their hand in unison, and Steve went to the bar.

“Make mine a scotch and soda,” Baren yelled to Steve.

“We should go back to that restaurant so that you can give that waiter your number,” Patrick said to Baren.

“No thanks.”

“I don’t understand you. You complain and complain about not being able to find dates and boyfriends and when someone shows a little interest in you, you turn your back on them. Bitch, you got problems.”

Baren stood. “I’m going to go have a cigarette.”

“Whore! I thought you quit!”

Bruce looked over to Patrick. “Chill the fuck out!”

“You are always jumping to his defense. Why don’t you two just fuck and get it over with?”

Baren walked out of bar.

For a moment, Patrick and Bruce sat at the table not saying a word to each other. Bruce just watched the Food Network that was on one of the television screens.

When Steve got back to the table with their drinks, he asked where Baren had gone.

“He’s out killing himself,” Patrick said. “No wonder he can’t get a man.”

“What is with you today?” Steve asked.

“Today?” Bruce asked, sarcastically.

“Well, at least I’m honest,” Patrick said.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Bruce said before standing up. “I’m going to go out and join Baren.”

Bruce found Baren sitting on the bench in the smoking area, quietly smoking a cigarette and looking out at the traffic. He took a seat next to Baren, looking out into the traffic himself.

“You shouldn’t let Patrick upset you,” Bruce said.

“When did you ever see me get upset from something he said?”

“True enough.”

“I’m seriously re-thinking this group friendship thing. He has become someone I don’t like spending time with anymore. And as wonderful as I think Steve is, I feel like I’m leading him on every time we do something together.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about Steve. He falls in love with anyone who’s nice to him.”

“Yeah, but I wish he would realize that I love him as a friend and no so-called miracle is going to make me feel otherwise. It’s like wanting the cosmos to make it possible for my brother to fall in love with me.”

“That’s just not right.”

Baren smiled. “Patrick seems to get worse as the years go by,” he said. “I bet he has no idea that that waiter is a notorious chocolate chaser with a severe case of jungle fever.”

“Patrick’s problem is that he’s so insecure with himself that he has to project faults onto people. He knows the problems that you face and he feels so fucking lucky. You can almost hear the screams between his lines.”

“Screams between the lines...”

“He thinks he’s so ghetto fabulous and all anyone really hears from him is what he’s screaming between the lines: that he’s so glad that he’s white.”

“Yeah, I’ve come to realize that.”

“He’s much more focused when it comes to you. He’s so obsessed with sex and having the perfect boyfriend, even for a short while, that he finds you just that much more better than him. If he can get you to whore around or to settle on a guy, and any guy will do since he knows you, then he can spin back up to this pedestal he thinks he was once on. The fact that you’re beautiful with a wonderful heart tears him up inside.”

“Beautiful...”

“Yeah, dude, you are. Inside and out. I think that’s what scares most guys. And if we weren’t family I’d probably fall in love with you myself.”

Bruce put an arm around Baren’s neck, pulled him closer and kissed him on the head.

Baren finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into an ash can.

“You ready to go back inside?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah, I want to put some more music on.”

They walked back into the bar and sat at their table. Patrick was talking about how wonderful he is to his present boyfriend. Steve just listened, not paying close attention.

Baren sat down and took a sip of his drink.

“So, do you like the present I got you?” Patrick asked Baren.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I thought you could use some new work shirts and new ties.”

“I really would have liked something not so practical.”

“Fuck you, bitch! That’s the last time I try to make you look good!”

Steve turned to Patrick. “I think Baren has a great sense of style.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

“You would,” Patrick snapped. “Hey, look at that guy that just walked in. Man, he is hot! You should go and talk to him.”

“I don’t think so,” Baren said.

“See, you passing up another opportunity like you did with that waiter.”

Baren grabbed his scotch and soda. “I think I’m going to play some more music. I’ll be right back.”

“What is with him? He’s a beautiful black man and can have anyone he wants. Why does he piss that all away?”

Bruce looked at Baren standing in front of the juke depositing dollar bills. Baren looked content and happy. Bruce smiled. He knew his friend loved his music.

“How do you know that?” Bruce asked.

“How do I know what?”

“How do you know that he can have anyone that he wants?”

Patrick picks up his drink and doesn’t say anything.