Numb

This year’s LPGA Safeway Classic event has already come and gone. I feel like I’m leaving a summer camp crush, filled with heartbreak, knowing full well that I will never see them again. Of course, I don’t know that feeling, because I never went to summer camp until a boy’s basketball camp during high school and that was about as bad as it sounds and smelled worse. Also, I should be able to see the LPGA come through town again next year, so scratch all of that. Maybe my problem right now is that I don’t know what to feel. The previous two visits have left me foaming at the mouth excited and re-energized despite my manic need to be out on the course watching every moment I can take in for 10 to 12 hours each day that they’re here. That excitement was there this year, though hampered some by a lack of energy which I have blamed on my health. My doctor has not found a physical cause for my fatigue and lack of energy after numerous tests (back story can be found here) and now I’m starting to wonder if her initial thought of depression might actually be the problem. The only thing is that when she asked me that question on a sunny Thursday morning over a month ago now, I didn’t sense the least bit of unhappiness coarsing through me. As this mysterious setback has progressed, my resolve has continued to weaken and some serious sadness has taken a hold of me. But I digress. This year’s LPGA event had an added element, when they asked me to write a fan diary of each day’s events. This was an amazing honor that didn’t seem possible until this past weekend when it all actually happened! I wrote frantically every night after hours and hours of roasting in the sun all day to get the story sent in and sometime the next morning, amazingly the story and pictures I sent in were up there (and can be read here). It was additionally surreal to see the picture I took of “Snacks” (fellow caddy during the Pro-Am last Thursday) and South Korean LPGA player Jee Young Lee standing in front of the Oscar Meyer Weiner Mobile next to the first tee box at Pumpkin Ridge’s Ghost Creek golf course flash across the top of the LPGA homepage as a featured story. It was hard – much harder than I thought it would be. When I so enthusiastically agreed to write for this event, I thought it would be easy. How many times have I talked people’s ear off about the previous experiences? This was not the case. My crazy stories of experiences are mostly made up of inside jokes mixed with a mild psychosis that doesn’t translate well to anything, but especially a real website where some people actually go for information. So, I found myself reporting. I have often found sports reporters to be a hateful bunch. Who wouldn’t be when charged with writing about the same thing over and over each day? It never felt right, when I hit send each evening. I find that there are no words that I can conjure up that actually represent what I go through out there.

This year’s journey has me questioning what it is that draws me to the event with such drive. I think it’s because I feel like I belong there. I have always had a passion for golf, if not the game. I remember as a little kid, before I had any inclination of golf, being overly curious about golf courses that would pass by the car window as we drove wherever we were going. There have been two times during my adult life where I’ve entered an arena where I felt completely at home: walking into a real professional recording studio and every time I’ve walked onto the golf course to watch the LPGA. These are two places where I feel I truly belong. It makes me wonder about how my decisions have led me astray from these things. How do I consistently find myself doing things that I don’t really want to do all day every day. This is not unique, I know – this is something most of us go through – but at this time it is all so fresh and I am not quite ready to do what we all always find a way to do, and swallow it down and push on through the daily grind until the disappointment fades away. I still don’t know exactly what it is that makes me so crazy. I have mentioned before how welcoming this tournament is. It’s remarkable to me to enter the course and immediately be surrounded by the players that I see on TV most weeks – walking to and fro. They all are always willing to stop and say hello to anyone that approaches, and they always seem genuinely glad to do so – almost as if they are surprised! Much of what I have written about previously has been my efforts to cheer on specific golfers as I trail them over entire rounds of 18 holes. I like to completely immerse myself into what they’re doing. They are not necessarily in the hunt for the tournament and sometimes may be really struggling, but the effort and the emotion that I see and feel sucks me in and I truly do live and die inside with each and every shot. This last Saturday, I followed my new girl Jee Young Lee from the Pro-AM, who I was honored to see play up close, a tour rookie, who I had not previously heard of, Dori Carter and a fading LPGA star Jennifer Rosales. Besides the father of Jee Young and the mom and dad of Dori’s, I was the only one watching these three players in the gallery. As we came down the final fairway of the day, I introduced myself and let them know that I was writing the fan diary for the LPGA website. I asked them if I could take some pictures. When their kids – these young women - had finished and signed their scorecards with the officials, they signed a few autographs and then went to their parents. It was there that they thanked me for following and for the support. They thanked me! It amazed me. Dori and Jee Young both seemed surprised and happy that I had been there, and despite struggling through a really difficult day of golf for both of them and trying to earn a living, they were smiling and obliging as I had them pose for my silly pictures. Unfortunately, I was not able to track down Jennifer Rosales during all the commotion, which is too bad, because I remember rooting her on to a couple of victories several years ago, while watching the LPGA tape delayed on ESPN. At any rate, the parents asked me to email them the pictures I took so they could share them with their family. They were all so warm and kind that I felt like I was at a family summer barbeque.

The final round on Sunday is always difficult for me. It is the last day and I go in knowing that I don’t want it to end. I do not want to say goodbye, but I do want to reach a conclusion. It is the nature of competition. There’s not a lot of satisfaction without an ending, though golf is different. The real competition in golf is between the player and the course, or really the player and themselves. Sometimes just making the cut and actually earning a few thousand dollars in the case of an LPGA tournament is a victory. While sometimes getting that first top 20 or top 10 is a huge victory. The storylines are varied and deep and never simple. Once again, I followed around my new favorite Korean Jee Young Lee on Sunday, along with the ravishing and model tall German Sandra Gal. Jee Young had vaulted herself into contention during the first round with an impressive 5 under round, but played one over par the second day, so she needed to make a big move to be able to earn a victory (she started the day 7 strokes behind the leader). I wanted to will her to that victory. I know it doesn’t work, but I was going to try and root her cool flat orange golf ball into the hole with every possible shot. Overall, she played pretty damn good, but ended the tournament where she was after the first day at five under par, which was good enough for a tie for twelfth place. When she finished, my companion Christine followed me around behind the grandstands, where I shook hands and offered continued support to Jee Young’s father, where he thanked me profusely again for my support. What I really wanted was a chance to get a picture of me with her after the round, since I had taken so many of her with other people. But as we circled around where the players exit the big stage of the 18th hole and where there are generally autograph seekers and such, I saw Jee Young and her caddy alone with their heads down walking directly to the driving range to practice – with her father trotting over the join them. It was that moment where I kind of lost it. I think I confused Christine as I kept walking back and forth and leading us nowhere with lots of golfers and action still to be witnessed. But it was that moment when I knew that this was it. The tournament and the writing gig that I had been building up with anticipation for nearly an entire year was ending and I didn’t want it to. This place is where I belonged! In that moment, I didn’t want to go back to my stressful job. I didn’t want to go see all of my doctors anymore. I didn’t want to go back to my apartment and be alone. I wanted to race down the hill and embrace Jee Young and console her and hopefully console myself in the process.  Being at that tournament and around those players lifted me to another plane where my illnesses and limitations no longer were a part of my life. My constant daily headaches were barely noticeable, my energy level maintained enough to get me around those damn hills each and every day without fail, and I was filled with feeling and passion and confidence that often drift away from me during regular days.

I realize that this sadness will fade away over time, at least until next August, like apparently those old childhood summer camp crushes do, and I will re-immerse myself into the real world. Though, if the LPGA decides that they need someone to fill the position “Ambassador of Awesomeness,” I would definitely like to offer my services.

They Said Tomorrow

Here is a very old story that has been posted and removed more than once.  It is a story that I find to be too specific for anyone to truly identify with, yet I think it finds the voice of struggle for those who have not found any confidence.  This is painful to read - looking back at my younger self - but I have never been able to revise this quickly written story, because of its brutal honesty and immediacy.  It is the second part of the Max series of stories - all of which were originally written as letters to an old friend.

Max 2
written: 12/15/97

I'm standing outside Pioneer Square, around Five PM, less than two weeks before Christmas. It's festive out here. The sky looks pitch black this early in the evening, because of the bright contrast the Christmas lights in the Square create. It's cool out today, but not wet. The city's official Christmas tree towers behind my back, as I stand and wait for the Max like I do most days after work. I was considering doing my Christmas shopping, but doused that plan. I don't know what to get anyone anyway. This time of year used to be my favorite. The vacations from school, lots of presents, the chance for snow; what could be better? Even with most of these benefits vanished as an adult; I would still love this season, if my Mom were still alive to share it. She was my family's Christmas spirit. Nowadays, it's just another time of year with extra expenses that I cannot afford.


I take a deep breath. I'm thinking that I should go grab a pack of cigarettes. If you're waiting for the Max and you decide to light a smoke, the Max will show. It always happens. On the other hand, if I run across the street to grab the smokes, the Max will arrive during that transaction. Instead I'll just be patient and look around at people and hope I can manage to score a seat on the train. It will be doubtful with the size of crowd that's hanging around tonight.

To my left, down the block about 10 or 15 feet, my eyes catch a familiar face, a face that I will not ever forget - a face that I used to gaze at longingly throughout the summer of 1993. That was the summer when all of my friends and I went haywire. It was the summer of 70+ hour work weeks at two different jobs. The summer of playing hoops at Oceanlake School with Bad Religion cranked from Matt's VW Rabbit and piles of "Dino-size" cups and fries lying about. It was the summer that I fell in love with Little Debbie and her tantalizing treats. And who could forget about all the Blitz Beer? It was the summer that "Emmaline" broke my heart. It was a summer lacking sleep, or any real direction. It was that summer that I relied on my friends to keep me from spending time alone.

I have always had great friends, but have mostly lived as a loner. This has been self-imposed to a large degree. I have never wanted to hassle anyone with my medical issues, or my crazy phobias. I have always kept everyone at arms length, especially women. It's not like women are clamoring to get at me anyway, so it isn't very difficult to build a wall to hide behind and focus on survival. But it was her face, the one down the block that ruined everything.

I'll refer to her simply as "R" and she is waiting for the Max train as I am now. Her face is older and her features more striking than before. She is tastefully dressed, wearing a clean cut, dark woolen winter overcoat, and a black skirt that drops to her knees. Below the skirt, she has on dark stockings that hug her muscular calves. This is quite a change from the shorts and T-shirts she usually wore that summer. She is standing close to some guy and huddling into his left shoulder, as I peer at her profile. He seems oblivious. I can see a small strip of her soft brown hair twitch as it sits lightly on her long eyelashes.

***

I was trapped in Lincoln City that summer after another false start with college in Seattle during the fall of '92. Unfortunately, both of my kidneys were full of tumors and another surgery was necessary. This has been the story of my life: false starts and incompletes. The summer of '93 was sort of a last hurrah for me and my friends – most of who had just graduated from college. I hadn't. This was the last summer "back home" for us, before heading off into whatever directions to deal with the crapheap of adulthood. The fun that we seemed to be having every night drinking and joking around felt frantic with desperation. Personally, I was afraid to be alone. I could not sleep, so I would just stay out all night. If I didn't, there was a good chance I would cut my throat, or something wacky like that. I could no longer trust myself alone.

I remember seeing "R" around that summer, when she used to hang out with the usual clan that would slide into Gallucci's Pizzeria near closing time on most nights. The pizza place was a hangout joint for the under-21/over-18 crowd. They would gather in huge groups for hours and only order the 30 cent cheese bread. I worked days at a One Hour Photo lab and nights making pizzas and those orders of cheese bread. We got to know each other by sight, but we never spoke. I asked some friends of friends and co-workers and anyone else I could think of about her. I found out she was new to town, 20 years old, and by all accounts a cool girl. She was gorgeous. Her lips and eyes, her deep tan skin, and her long slender body overwhelmed me every time I saw her around, until long after she had gone away. She was way out of my league. She was driving me crazy.

The first time I ever saw her she was surfing. She was pretty good. I was out there attempting to surf as well, but I never got the hang of it. My old hippie high school chemistry teacher was also out there on his long board. I was afraid that he would run me down and bust my head open, causing me to drown in a mixture of seaweed, blood and patchouli oil. Besides, the ocean didn't need this fat fuck paddling around like a wounded manatee.

It took me the entire summer to build up the nerve to talk to "R," and I doubt I ever would have, until she gave me an opportunity.

Prior to all of that, I had a blind date early that summer with a girl recently moved from San Francisco named Alexandra. She was the daughter of the drummer from the 60's band Paul Revere and the Raiders. You know, "Cherokee People," and a whole bunch of other songs that get played on oldies radio? She wrote me a letter. My friends and I used to occasionally Xerox a terrible 'zine called "This Wreckage," and she liked it. The 'zine almost never received feedback for our efforts, so I excitedly wrote back to her pages and pages of thoughts along with copies of the back issues. We corresponded a few more times before deciding to meet. The meeting went well. We hit it off and we started to hang out. She was pretty, funny, smart, and we liked a lot of the same music, books and movies. My best friend Wil really liked her too. The three of us would stay up all night on the beach drinking beer, or up in the old cemetery above Spanish Head drinking more beer, talking about crazy times and singing the sad songs of Mark Eitzel. Wil fell for Alex big time, and I was distracted by my huge crush on "R," so it was easy for me to step aside. This is assuming that I was in the game, which is never a lock. Whatever the case, all of my thoughts were about "R." Every song I listened to pertained to her or my attraction to her. Every moment my mind was free to wander, it wondered about her. Would she be interested in someone like me? Would I ever get over myself and talk to her? What would I say? What would she say?

***

Looking up from the grey sidewalk, I see "R" talking to her companion. They are arm in arm. She is looking at him, so I can see her face directly. It is definitely her. She's smiling. I recognize that wide smile where her full lips part slightly to show off a glimmer of her teeth. Her boyfriend is shorter than her and looks like a total shit. I am terrified by the jealousy I feel toward some stranger who is spending valuable time with a girl who I once dreamt about. Something about seeing her with him bugs me. I cannot shake the thought of that weasel with her. I may be old fashioned, and most likely a sexist bastard, but I'm sickened by the idea of some jackass sportfucking a woman who I once held in such high regard. I can't seem to stomach the thought, despite knowing better.

***

I'll never forget that day when I was working at the Photo Shop, when she wandered in. My Dad owned the shop and had some of his paintings on display around the front counter. She quietly walked in with no film to be developed. She was looking around at the paintings with a content expression in her eyes. We crossed glances several times, as I sat on a stool at the machine adjusting light densities to badly taken pictures. I did not know what to do. Normally, my exposure to her had been when she was surrounded by a huge group of people, but now she was on her own. We were on our own. I kept looking over at her, feeling serious panic. Finally, I asked her if she needed help, wondering why she was there. Asking her this simple question that I was being paid to ask felt difficult. I could feel each word stick in my throat. She nodded with a shy smile and, after a few moments, she silently walked out the door. Maybe she was there to see me. I needed to stop hating myself and do something, so I suddenly bolted after her, catching her outside the doorway.

"Hey!" I mumbled, out of breath, not from the quick sprint, but because of nerves and adrenaline. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I had no plan.

"Yeah?" She turned and grinned as if she expected my affront.

What ensued was remarkable. Somehow, as if possessed by someone who knows what they're doing, my mouth formed some words that formally introduced me to her. I told her how beautiful I thought she was, and I managed to ask some general questions. She continued smiling throughout, and never broke our eye contact. She said that she would love to meet up for lunch sometime, when I asked her for a date. She wrote down her phone number and asked me to call her at such and such a time.

This may seem routine, but then you don't understand. She said yes. For the first and last time in my life, a girl who I had amassed a major crush on said yes!

***

Moving closer to "R" on the platform while waiting for the Max, I can see her eyes tearing up from the cold, dry breeze. My eyes begin to tear up from not blinking for so long, like that day when I asked her out and our gazes were locked.

***

She was the girl who said yes. She had told me on that sidewalk outside the Photo shop that she was working at Subway and that maybe we could meet for lunch or coffee before her shift in the next couple of days. I watched her tongue explore her top lip as she wrote her phone number on a slip of paper. She slid the paper into my hand and held it for a moment, before turning to walk away from wherever she had appeared from. I was shuddering from her touch and breathing in her sweet scent. My heart was pounding so hard that my shirt was hopping up and down. After a few steps, she turned her head over her shoulder and reiterated that I call her. Her smile was gentle, smooth and cool. She had a seductive ease about her. I was shocked that she said yes.

***

The Max pulls into position at the stop and the doors slap open, releasing a collection of homeless skate punks, Goths, drunks, Christmas shoppers, commuters and in-betweeners like me. Unfortunately, a far greater number of people are attempting to squeeze into the Max. These are mostly people heading home from their various jobs downtown. I manage to slide into the Max using the same door that "R" and the guy use. Once I am inside, I stay by the door and lean against the backside of the elevated seats. This position is easy for getting out in a hurry when the train is jammed. "R" and her little buddy find a seat to share with their backs toward me. I can see them sitting close, unknowing of my intent stare.

***

I remember that first call. I was over hanging out with Wil at his Mom's house in Taft. He and I had a few beers and he gave me a pep talk rivaling any speech from a sports movie. "R" had told me a time to call so I did. She answered and I told her who I was, half expecting her not to remember. Wil left the room, leaving me to pace back and forth nervously, while talking with my hands. She did remember me to my surprise. I asked her if she wanted to meet up for lunch the next day. Instead, she said she wanted to get out of town. She said that Lincoln City was getting too claustrophobic for her. She asked if I had any other ideas. Did I ever? I had already envisioned a plan while I was working up the guts to ask this girl out.

The plan was to leisurely drive up the coast to Oceanside. Oceanside is a quiet coastal town, mostly devoid of the usual family tourist trappings. It's nestled into a large cliff that juts out to the sea on its north end, making the small town reachable only from the south. Plus it's off the main highway, providing one of the most secluded and scenic beaches around. Visiting there a couple of times earlier that summer, I found a rare inner peace. It instilled in me a sense of comfort - a sense of home - I hadn't felt in years. "R" and I would walk the beach to the end by the cliff, where the driftwood collects, and sit there as the sun set behind the rock island that towers up a few hundred feet off shore. We would talk and hopefully (at least) hold hands. At dusk we would stroll back to the cozy restaurant at the south end of the beach and enjoy an incredible dinner. This was and still is my most romantic daydream. It may be my only romantic notion. In this vision, however, my car would not have been the tiny piece of shit Subaru that I drove at the time. A car so rusted out that the driver's side door was taped on, forcing me to climb in and out through the passenger's side door. I could never sort out this problem with my plan. I could open the door for her, but I'd have to climb in first. Or I could pretend to be gentlemanly and help her into the car, before jumping into the open window of the driver's side like the Duke Brothers used to do on TV. Of course the chances of a coastal mist soaking the inside of my car were too high to leave the window down. I left the door details out of my description, as I tried my best to tell her my date idea, while trying to make it sound as if I were inventing it on the spot. Telling her this plan felt unbelievable and magical to me. Here I was, rambling on, and the girl of my dreams was listening. When I finally shut up, she paused and then sighed, sending shivers down my spine.

"That sounds so nice," her voice cracked. I will never forget the sound of her voice as she said this. She sounded so sultry and sexy that I stopped pacing and dropped into a chair and melted into the phone. I was hooked on this girl and could not believe what was happening. Maybe there actually is a merciful God or whatever, instead of the bleak black hole that life had previously presented itself to be.

We spoke for a few more minutes. She said that she had to go, but would call me back, so we could set a date. The inflection of her voice told me that she liked my idea.

***

I couldn't help but stare at her, while standing on the crowded train. She is so fucking alluring. Her friend was looking straight ahead as she whispered to him. I could not hear her words, but I could remember how her voice had given me goose bumps. I stare at the side of her face and stop breathing.

***

A week passed after that first phone conversation. It seemed like an eternity. I went into Subway for lunch hoping to run into her. My patience was not as strong as my excitement. She wasn't there. The girl who made the sandwich I felt obligated to order seemed to know who I was. She told me that she was "R's" older sister. She encouraged me to call "R" and not to wait any longer. So I did, after forcing down the sandwich, but nothing came together.

This all happened at the end of that summer. Eric and I had been planning to be roommates and move to Portland to get out of town. She was right when she told me that Lincoln City was getting claustrophobic.

The move took place early in September, but I hadn't given up. I felt like a new man. I had broken through my insecurities and was finally growing up. Besides, it had only been a few weeks since I had asked her out. Since I was planning to drive back to the coast the first weekend after the move to get a final load, in a new-to-me car, I decided to give her another call. Now I had a car with functioning doors, so I wouldn't have to resort to Dukes of Hazzard tactics during the date and she could come visit me at my place whenever.

After collecting the last of my things at my Dad's house, I phoned her. I was brimming with my renewed confidence. We chatted for a long time, and she told me that she was sorry that we hadn't ever met up. She told me that her life had recently been hard to deal with, because lots of "bad things" were happening to her. She asked if I would be in town all weekend. If so, she wanted to meet up Sunday afternoon. I tried to pin down a time and place. Instead she asked me to call her.

***

Thinking about that conversation, I begin to grind my teeth - forcing myself not to look at her sitting in front of me on the train. At that moment, I hum to myself the lyrics of a song my memory of her always brings to mind: "If I bother you / please tell me to go away / I don't want to bother you / but it's not for me to say." Those words always acted as my motto for the few times I have asked women out. I simply want honesty. I am not as afraid of rejection as much as being misled.

I focus my attention on the windows of the train. The blackness beyond made the reflections of the other passengers as sharp as a mirror's. Thinking back on that call, I cannot figure out how I could be so naïve. There she is in front of me now. I swivel my head back toward her. The last time I saw her, she left me shaken with an excitement and a high that I haven't felt since. Here she is again, with her hazel eyes and long eyelashes, looking better than before. Her head turned over her shoulder as it had been when she asked me to call her in front of the Photo shop all those years prior. That's when we make eye contact, as she stops her diatribe to her silent partner. She does a double take when she sees me. I fix my eyes on her and do not blink. The train comes to a stop and the doors open to allow the cool breeze in and several people out.

***

On the afternoon of that Sunday, I was about to drive back to Portland from Lincoln City. The promising phone conversation that "R" and I had two days earlier had not been enough for me. Something didn't feel right, so I was giving up. I was feeling like a pest and I had moved out of town. If we couldn't manage to meet up while living in the same small town, how would we manage living 90 miles apart? In addition, I had two passengers returning to Portland with me. I was driving Wil and Alexandra back to Portland. They were now a couple living together in downtown Portland. As we were heading out of town, Alex convinced me to give "R" one last call.

It was a grey day. I remember that detail vividly. Everything seemed grey. The road, the buildings, and the sky were all grey.

I pulled into the Safeway parking lot near the north end of town, parked, and went to the payphone feeling dread well up inside my chest.

"R" answered the phone after several rings. I took a deep breath to settle my nerves - determined to get something definitive out of her. Before I could say anything, aside from the hello that followed hers, she asked me to hold on. After what seemed an eternity, there was a clatter on the other end of the line, followed by the voice of a male.

"Don't call here again," the voice said flatly. The line went dead.

I glared at the payphone for several moments and slammed the receiver before storming back to the car. Alex, sitting in the back seat, quietly said that she was sorry. We rode back to Portland in verbal silence. I played music loudly, while trying to keep my frustration and anger inside. But every song on the drive home broke my heart. The songs were still all about her, but at least now I finally had my definitive answer.

Why didn't she tell me? I clearly couldn't figure it out on my own. If she wasn't interested, she could've told me or not acted so interested initially. It would've hurt, but not like this. Apparently, she had to stomp on my heart after coaxing it from its dark cavern. Maybe she had been interested, but I did something wrong along the way to change her mind. Maybe I was blind from the beginning.

***

Another stop. The Max stops about every two blocks as it trickles through downtown. "R" and the short man stand up and move toward the door I am lurking near. Her eyes are fixed on mine. I sense the recognition in her eyes. Her face had already been burned into my memory forever. I would recognize her face more quickly than my own, but she had to search her memory. Not surprisingly, I had been forgotten.

As the line of people pass in front of me to escape the density of the train, she moves to within a foot of me. She breaks our silent staring contest and turns to the dwarf on her other shoulder.

"That's the fool who wouldn't stop calling me, when I lived in L.C.," she belts out so loudly that it numbs my ears and makes me cringe. Her right hand points at me to make sure everyone around are aware who she's shouting about. As they reach the door, they both turn back towards me. They look at me with malicious grins. I continue to stare back blankly, against my better judgment. "What is your problem? Did you ever get a clue?" She laughs at me, as she disappears outside.

I put my head down as the doors clatter shut and the train shudders back into motion. A hush takes over my surroundings and I no longer feel anyone around me. My vision blurs and my temples begin to pound. I feel boxed in and claustrophobic. I feel like I did seconds after last Halloween's debacle, when a gang of Russians jumped Jeff and I ran in to try and stop it. I managed to stop the attack, but not in time to keep us both out of an ambulance ride to the Emergency Room. I remember sitting on the edge of the examination table, with my eyes swollen shut and a head the shape of the Elephant Man, as some doctor told my roommate to check on me while I was trying to sleep that night. Apparently, sometimes when people get their face kicked in they wake up with panic attacks. I am already familiar with panic attacks. I know them from years of being butchered by surgeons and from waking up alone in my own skin.

I didn't want to bother her. Apparently I did.




more MAX stories can be found here:

MAX I
MAX III
MAX IV
MAX V

Sick, Sober & Sorry

The sun shines down upon the front door of Harrison and Sara’s condo with an increasing intensity as the day nears noon and the freshness of the summer morning air burns away to stifling. A demented menagerie of summer related items litter the sidewalk. A pink flamingo leans against a tree about 15 feet up the walk, while a kiddy pool sits in the middle of the sidewalk impairing the travel of anyone who may happen to pass this way. Two folding lounge chairs are set up against the building in front of the pool. There are two young and attractive girls that move towards this mess.

“OMG! There are so many hot guys around here!” the brunette with tight fitting jeans and a tank top tells the blonde excitedly. “Two words for the guy back there: Buns of Iron!”

“Don’t you mean four words? Abs of Steel!” retorted the blonde as she reached down to adjust her short shorts. “These guys are everywhere and probably rich too!”

“I LOVE SUMMER!” both girls shout in unison and begin to giggle.

Their dialogue ends as they reach the plastic pool blocking their path and they begin to navigate around it in silent contemplation.

Suddenly Harrison rockets through the screen door in the attire of one of his alter egos: King Summer. He’s sporting a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, mirrored sunglasses, a Panama hat, a neon green zinced nose, Ocean Pacific long swim trunks and pink striped flip-flops. He’s carrying a huge fishbowl of green liquid, that overflows with tiny umbrellas and exotic fruit, which he extends outward like a chalice. He clears his throats for an announcement.

“KING SUMMER HAS ARRIVED!”

The brunette nearly stumbles into the pool from shock. The blonde girl grabs her hand and shouts “Run!” as they tear off up the sidewalk, almost running into Chuck who is approaching the condo from the opposite direction. Harrison continues to stare into the blue sky as if he is waiting for a response to his announcement from the heavens.

“AND IT IS A WHOPPING DEL SCORCHO HERE IN DOWNTOWN PORTLAND!” Harrison continues his announcement to the neighborhood. He holds his pose for a few moments longer, before his eyes start to dart around with concern. “That was your line.”

“Why?” Chuck asks as he reaches Harrison’s side. He is wearing casual black shorts and a silk shirt that is identical to “The Daddy,” a shirt that played a vital role in the prior evening’s activities.

Harrison plops himself onto one of the folding chairs, careful to balance the huge glass in his palm.

“AND IT IS A WHOPPING DEL SCORCHO HERE IN DOWNTOWN PORTLAND!” he repeats with a bit less enthusiasm and is once again met with silence. “And?”

Chuck looks down at Harrison and sees his own reflection in the sunglasses. “What are you doing?” he asks and turns toward the direction the two hot girls ran off to. “Did you do something to them?”

Harrison uses his mouth to blindly search for an unseen straw amidst the jungle of fruit in his fishbowl. His nose knocks several items off the rim and then he gives up the effort.

“KING SUMMER DECLARES THE ARRIVAL OF…” he holds his free hand out by way of introduction.

“What are you –“

“OF!” Mr. Summer emphasizes again.

“Prince Celsius,” Chuck finally responds nearly inaudibly.

Harrison, satisfied, leans back into his chair, “AH, YES, KING SUMMER’S ONLY SON, PRINCE CELSIUS!”

“You got a beer or something?”

“BEER? ROYALTY DRINK NOT SUCH AS THAT! THE WENCHES HAVE MADE SOMETHING ELSE FOR THE PRINCE!”

“Were the wenches the ones who went off running?”

Harrison, ignoring the question, carefully sets down the drink and leaps into the condo. He continues his monologue inside: “KING SUMMER’S DEL SCORCHO EL ESPECIAL!” Chuck hears him, puts his hands on his face and begins to nod his head side to side. “YES, FOR THE PRINCE! I WILL GIVE HIM YOUR LOVE, MY LADY!”

“If only this could be blamed on heatstroke,” Chuck mumbles to himself.

King Summer returns to the sidewalk with another leap and another giant fishbowl glass. This time the liquid inside is a deep red with nearly half a pineapple floating within.

“COME AND JOIN ME BY MY SIDE! RELISH THESE JUICES OF PARADISE!”

Chuck begins to fumble with the other folded chair still leaning against the building. No matter what he tries, the chair will not unfold. He is clearly getting agitated. “Fucking chair!” he shouts as he slams the still folded chair against the pavement.

“You have to get into character,” Harrison tells Chuck in his real voice. “That is the problem with you. It is all about the character!”

“Okay, how about this character?” Chuck starts with a threatening tone, as the chair unfolds itself. He immediately sets it down next to Harrison and sits down, as he continues: “I’m Prince Pissed Off and my minions will Del Scorcho your stupid ass!”

“You’re missing the point. This is all about the screenplay.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. You mean the one without the plot?”

“So much negativity,” Harrison waves the back of his hand at Chuck, who has spilled some red liquid on “The Daddy.” “Look at how many movies have been made without a plot. It’s all about the characters. They are the movie! No one cares about whatever Steven Segal’s motivation or purpose is. Don’t mess with the cook! Come on! Hell, people will pay ten bucks as long as he is beating ass. They’d pay more if his next nemesis turned out to be the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show.”

“So, I’m seeing King Summer versus Segal. Who can make the worst drink?”

“Herdy Ferdy Foo,” Harrison waves his fingers around as he loses himself in his Swedish Chef impersonation. “Fine!” he shouts as he regains focus, “Bitch all you want, but the bottom line is that I am right and you are scared.”

Chuck ignores him and adopts a deep announcing voice: “Segal. King Summer. Taste the wrath. It’s not fear, but reality!” Chuck gives it up. “Okay, I agree, there have been some big box office hits that have no actual plot, but…”

“What? Then with the right characters we can have a big, plot less, box office hit too. Good characters are what people go to see. All we need to do is find them.”

“What? The people who would watch that shit?”

“No, you jackass, the characters. Characters are where it’s at. Without memorable characters, it doesn’t matter how good the story is.”

“Good point. So where do we find these new friends of ours? I hear 7-11 has some solid characters on sale now! Not only that, but with the purchase of a new character, you can get a free Thirsty Two Ouncer and a Big Grab of Chipsssssssss!” Chuck trails off.

“I think we know some people, who might know some people,” Harrison says as he stands up.

“Alright, fine,” Chuck concedes as he stands as well.

The two begin to head down the sidewalk in the direction the two girls had sprinted off to earlier, leaving the summer wreckage behind them with their drinks still in hand.

“Sara is going to be pissed about this mess,” Chuck points out, now several yards away from the debris.

“Nonsense, she appreciates our art.”

A skateboarder winds his way around King Summer and Prince Celsius after building up an enormous burst of speed. Unfortunately, his efforts to avoid those two left him distracted and he hits the pool at full speed and crashes over the top and onto the hot cement.

“No, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.”

“She will awake from her slumber to find us missing.”

“And hope that we’ve been abducted.”

“And realize that the muses have claimed us.”

“Praying that we never return.”

written with Jeffrey Piering