It's gonna be a lean Christmas, kids
Just like my Daddy said
No one hiring an honest man
Or even a dishonest one
All my rich kin, long buried and dead.

Family business is looking black
Grandpa might not be coming back
No one wants their picture taken with Santa Clause
Since the drunk old fool got into a scrap
With the casino cops and lost.

Can't even look at my wife no more
She spent all the rent money
Scored six pairs of shoes, Black Friday,
Her favorite on-line store

Kids drooling over the fancy catalog toys

They won't be gettin
Nothing but holey hand-me-downs
Broken toys from the Goodwill clearance bin
No more unemployment checks coming in

My wife tried to kill me
And she's got nothing to say.
Since I forget to clean the bathroom
And sold her Hitler boots on e-bay.

Now I've been living in my broken down old car
Since I pawned my best friend's thousand dollar guitar
Tried to enlist in the National Guard
But I just turned forty and the work's too hard
Plus they got me on some list
Cause I didn't support the Patriot Act
Too many damned taxes in arrears
Merry Christmas, kids
Daddy might not be back til after New Years . . .

No Tomorrow

Running for your very life's breath

Along the snaking cemetery path

Where the black squirrels play

Blackbirds watch your every move

Captivated by golden light of lofty willows

Autumn leaves falling like there's no tomorrow

King raven cries from his mighty perch

Go, lowly human, go

This is a place of only sorrow

The time you spend is time you only borrow

Cold breath rolling out in November dark

Curious dog chasing invisible cats beneath Milky Way stars

First frost of winter fogging in my broken car

Heart is cold, my head is clear

A prisoner only to myself

Lost on this long long drive to nowhere . . .

Desert Dreams

Desert Dreams


The night drags along like a tired old man
Trudging through a field of killer quicksand
Chasing away the moon
The heat of day comes soon
No escape from the sun
Sucking the life out of everyone

There is no love left in this house
The dog renders more affection
Than any human being
The deafening silence of bitter tears
Fading fast, so many years
Dirty secrets never told
No shelter from the midnight cold

A speeding car leaves you behind
Stranded in the desert, the middle of nowhere
The folly of youth
Kicks you in the ass
All that is left,
A bittersweet mirage
Dark and distant dreams
That may or may not come to pass

Black Man on a Skateboard

Black Man on a Skateboard

Up and down the Boulevard
Back and forth he rolls
Black man on a skateboard
Dredlocks flying low

Rolling at sunrise's bleeding rays
Sailing by the midnight moon
Today how many times?
So many skateboard man just might be
A figment of my mind

Block upon block, mile after mile
Neither wind, rain, snow present
A roadblock to his Zen ascent
Burning like a crack house fire
Faster than 5-0 to the donut shop at dawn
On and on and on and on
Flying past my backyard again
Dont bat an eye at my mean old dog
Chained up on the lawn

Dont need no home, dont need no job
Though an Olympian he could be
Rock-hard thighs and sprinter's calves
Feet flying like Ali

From whence he came
And where he goes
No one knows
Dont give a damn
Never even see him
Black ghost in the wind

Wild eyes beneath flying dredlocks
Til he rolls up on your blind spot
Kills that crosstown daydream respite
Roll up that window real quick like
Hit those power locks down tight


Be he saint or criminal
No one will never know
Mile after mile after Zen-like mile
Rolling by my house again
Flashing a wink and devil's smile

Dog Day

Dog Day

"Nobody told me there'd be days like these . . .

Strange days, indeed . . .

Most peculiar, Mama . . ."

--John Lennon

(based on a true story)

Of course it just had to be one of those devil dogs, the ones they always used in horror films, with its beady little black pearl eyes totally devoid of emotion, those razor-sharp fangs, sinister shark fins for ears. No tail to speak of; what the hell was up with that? It just had to have been a Doberman Pinscher, or maybe, just maybe a Rottweiler, perhaps some freakishly evil mixed breed of both, that runaway monster mutt that effectively ruined Marshall's day, to say the least, and would, by no deranged stretch of the imagination, come dangerously close to destroying his life.
Dangerously close to ending it, really, no joke.
Not that Marshall Goodman really got a good look at the wayward beast, at least not right away. Shit just went down too quick, a proverbial lightning flash of his entire life suddenly running across his windshield, tearing across the peripheral vision of his unsuspecting mind's eye. No doubt emotionally scarring him for life, even if he did manage to survive this ridiculous, dare he say surreal, ordeal.
Of course it just had to be the hottest day of the summer, not even noon and a hellacious ninety-eight, according to one electronic bank sign, one hundred and seven according to another, and him at least a good forty-five minutes away from Lake Shore Drive, his ass still sitting in the Mickey D's drive-thru in the sweltering suburbs precariously late for work. Only the second month of his first big city job. A shit job really, relatively speaking, as he was fast coming to realize. But at least he was working, as his beloved Gram would humbly, proudly proclaim upon his mandatory semi-weekly mission of mercy, dutifully alternating with his sister to chauffeur the old girl to the grocery store, Italian butcher shop, Polish bakery, bank, beauty parlor, etc. Though his title was pretty impressive sounding at least to Gram: Assistant Watch Commander of Protective Services. Truth be told, what was he? Just another security grunt, a glorified rent-a-cop at one of Chicago's biggest, most overrated, at least in Marshall's opinion, tourist attraction, consistently called upon to work grueling twelve-hour shifts at the Museum, a few hours of relentless nerve-grating in-your-face public contact, then, lock up the old mausoleum and call it a night, pray for daylight, then no choice but to pull another double when your predictably slothful midnight relief fails to show, yet again. Thank you so much, Mr. Shit Heel. Stuck chasing phantoms on the graveyard too often. Wandering through the execrable depths of the U-505, that creepy haunted Nazi submarine exhibit out of sheer unadulterated nocturnal boredom, despite countless warnings from some of his more thoughtful peers to steer clear of the unspoken Forbidden Zone.

Some bad-ass mojo down there, Brother. A couple dudes went down there before, never was heard from again. Some say ghosts, hearing growls of invisible devil dogs, whatever. Won't never catch my ass down there, dead or alive, you feel me, AWC?

Graveyard shift was definitely not for everyone; certainly did seem to affect some people in strange ways. Then dead tired the next day even when he wasn't called in, too tired to work-out, to spent to do anything but sleep, really. Totally taken out of your normal routine, haunted by the weirdest dreams.
At least his college degree afforded him some semblance of so-called authority over a handful of his newfound chronically disgruntled colleagues, at least theoretically. There's a new Marshall in town, boys, he cheekily chided his grim, seemingly humorless new charges. But not one of the lethargic grunts ever seemed to get his private joke. The one or two minimum wage flunkies hailing from the Lakeside Projects or South Chicago ghetto who actually, rarely but occasionally, gave a shit. But, on the bright side, he was now graced with untold opportunities and unlimited potential for exciting, rewarding career advancement. At least according to those suspiciously too-hot Stepford femme-bots at Corporate HR downtown. And for the first time in his life he was finally out on his own, able to pay his own bills, support himself one hundred percent. Or he would be able to very soon, as soon as he found the time to start searching for the perfect apartment, at least a semi-habitable one, could finally get the hell out of his sister's smoky, one-bedroom kitty litter palace. Obviously young Marshall had to vacate himself from the Queen of Clutter's lair tout suite if he planned on landing his first big city girlfriend. And, word hot off the grapevine, that smoking hot strawberry blond Siren from Visitor Services was definitely gunning for the new guy. Yes, things were finally looking up for the nearly down-and-out Indiana boy.
And with so much going for this unsuspecting, otherwise completely law-abiding young man, who among us could have reasonably predicted that a most happenstance and bizarre tragedy was only moments, one wholly unavoidable traffic mishap away? As Marshall Goodman innocently cruised down a quiet, tree-lined stretch of Oak Park Ave, only slightly above the posted speed limit, only slightly distracted by, on one hand the incessantly buzzing, blinking and vibrating work pager that had very un-fortuitously landed unseen for the moment at his feet, and on the other, the precariously over-filled Jumbo-sized beverage, the enormous girth of which wouldn't quite fit into either one of the convenient front seat twin cup-holders of his recently purchased Grand Prix, this slightly distracted driver simultaneously attempting to safely, discreetly change lanes to better accommodate his very necessary and timely exodus from suburban traffic, not to mention execute an even more crucial and inconspicuous entry to the forthcoming expressway lane, the slim and speedy black beast seemed to come out of nowhere. But not quite speedy enough, it would seem. The dog, if in fact it was a dog, one of the few facts to which the subject in question would be able to attest to the authorities in the ensuing investigation, suddenly ran out into the street at reported breakneck speed, causing a similarly startled VW Bug in the opposite lane to perpetrate a screeching halt, almost instantly became helplessly lodged beneath the undercarriage of said subject's almost equally immobilized vehicle. In retrospect, Subject Goodman, admittedly not a religious man by any stretch of the earthly imagination, would very shortly swear up and down, to any and every higher authority applicable, despite the contradictory word of any and all highly questionable so-called eyewitnesses in question, that, Yes, Officer, he had, in fact, applied the brakes of his vehicle as quickly as humanly possible. The conspicuously fresh and still-smoldering tar-black residue of thick, serpentine skid marks, only slightly obfuscated by a glaring and unsightly crimson smattering of what appears to be fresh blood, most likely non-human, would, at least, seem to verify this portion of the Subject's testimony.
In any event, the world seemingly frozen in time, soundless, save for the unforgettable sound of the most ungodly sorrowful non-human whimpering from somewhere, below, enveloped in his own private bubble of panic, Subject Goodman relates the following: Immediately bringing his vehicle to a stop, promptly exiting the vehicle to investigate. Upon seeing no visible signs of the reported animal, cautiously lowers himself to the ground to peer beneath the vehicle, retreats just in the nick of time as he sees a potentially lethal set of jaws viciously closing in upon his defenseless visage. Yet, beneath the vehicle, whether voluntarily or not remains unclear, the demented beast remains. A small but weirdly assertive crowd, so far about half a dozen aggressively curious onlookers, indignant residents and mostly unsympathetic fellow motorists—the mouthy old matron in the babushka who had just needlessly emerged from the nearest bungalow; the impatient gentleman in the Sikh turban whose cab was held at a standstill by this unfortunate melee; his even more indignant passenger, some asshole powerhouse attorney in a thousand-dollar suit by the looks of him, probably late for his power lunch or some earth-shattering mundane court hearing; the clueless posse of glue-sniffing thrasher brats who just happened to be skateboarding by—seemed to materialize almost as quickly as the dog had appeared just moments ago, the damned thing still somehow inexplicably lodged in the shadowy, sweltering underbelly of Subject Goodman's vehicle. Dual and opposing contingents of the strangely spontaneous gathering issuing, shouting a litany of confusing, contradictory directives.

Sir, you have to move this car, you're blocking two lanes of traffic. The poor thing is trapped under your wheels, you have to move the car. Man, you can't move that car, the poor animal will be crushed, you have to pull it out yourself. You have to move the car forward, very slightly. No you have to move it in reverse. That poor dog is under there, man, it's dying and you have to do something and you have to do it fast, GET MOVING, MAN . . .

Subject Goodman, understandably discombobulated by the drama, unspeakably flustered under the extreme and unexpected circumstances, this protective services professional perhaps slightly less so than the average civilian would be, was nevertheless predictably at his wit's end as to precisely the right thing to do, and even further distracted by the endless trill of his work cell phone, no doubt his superiors calling to investigate the unexpected delay of their thus far exemplary new employee. Finally, he decided to take matters into his own hands and simply return to the illusory sanctuary of his vehicle; he was, after all, late enough for work as it was. Perhaps ill-advisedly hoping to depend on the more helpful and hopefully wiser contingents of the burgeoning, for lack of a better word, mob, Subject Goodman, secretly cursing the stupid animal to high heaven among other places, tentatively placed his vehicle in gear, gingerly applied the slightest of pressure to the accelerator to move the vehicle forward in hopes of freeing the poor, demented creature who had so mindlessly placed him in this highly unenviable predicament. For better or for worse he snap-judged that forwards would be a safer bet than backwards, considering the added complications and potential dangers of striking any of several malingering members of the thus-far-not-very-helpful crowd, not to mention the too close for comfort independent taxi who, Subject Goodman suddenly recalled, had been foolishly riding his ass since he'd pulled out of the Mickey D's. But when a sudden discordant tone rose up from the crowd, our poor overwhelmed driver, understandably fearful he had made the wrong choice, perhaps misinterpreting the general consensus of the alarmingly fast-growing crowd, hastily pushed the gear lever in the opposite direction, pressed on the gas to place the vehicle back in its original position, slowly reversed. Apparently not slow enough. This time an even louder, angrier clamor surrounded him, as did the seething mob, quite literally, the human blockade collectively drawing so near to his inescapably debilitated Grand Prix that Subject Goodman couldn't have made a run for it, either on wheels or on foot, if he had wanted to. Truth be told, this option, cowardly or not, was suddenly looking more and more attractive. Too bad for him it was such an inconceivable impossibility at the moment. What the hell could he do?
Call 9-1-1? And tell them what? He was trapped in his car, surrounded, being attacked by an angry neighborhood mob for just running over and killing, or at least horribly mutilating, an idiotic stray dog who didn't have the common sense to look both ways before it crossed the street? How embarrassing was that? And just who else could he call to his defense? Not that they would even be able to reach him in time. Even if he wasn't so inconveniently sitting on his cell phone, frozen in terror. His Gram, who resided a mere four or five blocks away, sweet old lady probably lazily indulging in her daily afternoon cat nap, just champing at the bit to lead the cavalry charge in her low-powered electric wheelchair. The preposterous notion almost made him laugh, if only to keep from crying. There was his big sister, as well, who lived nearly equidistant, tireless workaholic no doubt predictably sleeping off her daily night shift paralegal hangover. Not exactly Jenny-on-the-Spot, to say the least. But come to think of it neither one would be at home; this afternoon Gram and Gabby were at the White Sox game, proudly accompanying their collective kitty clan to Pet Day at the ballpark. He'd been especially sad that he couldn't make the game because he had to . . . work. And of the few friends he'd made thus far at the Museum, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't collected a single phone number. He had Kristen's, of course, but they'd only gone out a few times with friends, their first official date planned for this coming weekend. Goddess willing and the Powers That Be don't call, she had coyly declared, fucking up his first well-deserved scheduled weekend off since starting the job. But much to his dismay regarding current circumstances, his fetching new love interest had ironically revealed herself a total canine freak—she owned three dogs, ran a small dog grooming business on the side and helped her aunt and uncle breed Alaskan Huskies in her spare time.

Perhaps pulling a runner, making a run for it, was exactly what the captive audience to this unlikely afternoon freak show suspected him of attempting to perpetrate. Thus collectively closing in to prevent such a dastardly escape. Not so fast, buddy boy. Goddamned dog killer, what the hell kind of gutless police officer is this guy? They should take away his badge and his gun, hell maybe we should do it for 'em!

The strange sensation that the defenseless driver's embattled vehicle was rocking back and forth, and not in a gentle baby's cradle kind of way, was much more than Subject Goodman's overactive, stress-induced imagination at work, soon became painfully clear. And before he could give a second thought to his seriously limited options, such as hitting the power lock button before it was too late for instance, the driver's side door was thrown open by so many angry, justice-seeking hands—unbelievably, many of them armed with baseball bats and tire irons among other potentially lethal makeshift weapons—and, before you could radio code a 10-69 or whatever it was, Officer Needs Immediate Assistance, Subject Goodman was involuntarily and quite rudely pulled from the mounting pendular hazard of his short-lived vehicular sanctuary.

What was the meaning behind this insanely irrational collective over-reaction? Was it the unexpected but not totally unseasonable heat? Did they fear he was packing heat? A badly misdirected knee-jerk reaction to a series of highly publicized local police brutality incidents?
Couldn't these idiots read a lousy uniform patch, could they not tell the difference between a poorly underpaid and sadly unarmed rent-a-cop and the real deal? Why was he being singled out as the bad guy? At least until this fateful day, he had held no particular grudge against the canine race. Perhaps his father, who as a child had been reportedly savagely attacked by a South Side stray, forced to endure a terrifying series of painful treatments that supposedly bordered on so many medieval torture sessions, had instituted in him an irrational, unnatural aversion to dogs in general. Never allowing him to own a dog, constantly, relentlessly issuing a neurotic verbal barrage of warnings to him and his siblings to Beware the Savage Beasts who roamed the otherwise placid and picturesque countryside of their bucolic childhood landscape. Once again, all his earthly troubles could be traced right back to that sad, sorry, crazy-assed excuse for a shamelessly absentee so-called father.

At this point, having no choice but to defend himself, Assistant Watch Commander Goodman found himself reluctantly beating off the brutish dog-defending masses with his hefty protective services-issued Mag-lite, of which he was almost instantly relieved, along with his work-issue cell phone, overwhelmingly outnumbered by this shockingly massive mob that now appeared to fill the greater part of four traffic lanes from curb to curb.

DOG KILLER! DOG KILLER! DOG KILLER! Subject Goodman now at the mercy of several units of the local suburban police department, just now arriving slightly past the nick of time to rescue out embattled anti-hero and disperse the angry crowd. Lifted several harrowing feet off the ground as he presently was did afford our Subject an ironically fortuitous vantage point at this very moment, allowing him the perfect view of the original antagonist to this entire bloody mess, at least in the biased opinion of our troubled Subject, namely the dog, evil trouble-making devil dog, suddenly emerging from the back end of the crowd, innocently slipping away, almost totally unnoticed, scampering off, limping slightly, not horribly, hopefully none the worse for wear, into the awaiting sanctuary of a corner lot kiddy park.

Though Subject Goodman did end up taking quite a savage beating from the mob, his freshly pressed painstakingly pristine work uniform shamefully ripped to shreds, by the time police managed to come to his aid, pulling him into the long-awaited safety of a sweltering patrol car—along with his sole defender, the driver of the VW Bug, perhaps the only viable witness to the split second incident sparking this entire sordid affair—our anti-hero was still marginally conscious when the fleet of local TV news crews arrived. Followed very shortly by the riot squad. At which point the unruly crowd was effectively dispersed by the dutiful stormtroopers in a manner of moments. Unfortunately, not in time to save our poor distracted driver's recently purchased Grand Prix, which at this point had been violently scratched and smashed to all hell, overturned with surprisingly vehement alacrity, not to mention lack of remorse, and, accidentally or not, set on fire, burned beyond recognition.

HIT N RUN DOG KILLER INCURS WRATH OF SUBURBAN MOB

Somehow the story of Mitchell Goodman's harrowing personal ordeal was deemed sensationalistic if not newsworthy enough to be plastered over every news media outlet imaginable, both locally and nationally, for days, with heated and vitriolic public opinion divided roughly fifty-fifty as to whether young Goodman was a victim or a villain in the sordid affair. In the end, perhaps due in no small part to his heretofore squeaky clean driving record, he was issued nothing more than a measly citation for a relatively minor traffic violation. Meanwhile, at least a dozen others involved in the incident were arrested, charged with a multitude of egregious offenses, from resisting arrest to assault with a deadly weapon to inciting a public riot and so on.
Following a doctor-ordered overnight stay at County Hospital, another day or two at home in physical and spiritual recovery, forced to fend off a small but vehement army of reporters and outraged animal rights activists, graciously playing host to a slightly smaller contingent of determined protectors of civil liberties who had admirably rushed to his defense, A/W/C Freeman took the El train to the Museum. Upon reporting dutifully back to work he was immediately called into the office of the Director of Protective Services, informed he was being assigned by Corporate a temporary “lateral transfer” due to the past few days' unfortunate publicity.
His new assignment: midnight watch commander at a quiet, little industrial park just shy of the Illinois-Wisconsin state line. Same salary, same benefits, same unlimited potential for rewarding career advancement. Slightly less public contact. Plus, he'd be all on his own, wouldn't have any troublesome subordinates to worry about. Plenty of free time to peruse the plethora of interview offers, book deals and unsolicited ambulance chaser referrals pouring in like . . . an angry mob.
But sadly, his short-lived new love Kirsten, the red-hot strawberry blond Museum tour guide, never did return any of his calls or messages. At least not directly. She did send vague word through the grapevine: Timing just wasn't right. She wasn't looking for a relationship right now. It wasn't him; it was her. Hope we can still be friends. Keep in touch now, okay. The Siren's primary messenger: the most adorable little Latin cutie from Special Events who had just so happened to be admiring A/W/C Goodman from afar since Day One.
Ana Maria Santiago wasn't particularly fond of dogs, herself, though she did lay claim to a testy little calico stray she had rescued from the cold last winter.
The slashed tires, the unprovoked raw egg attacks, the front door flaming dog poop deliveries, the endless prank calls, the anonymous death threats to himself, his family, Gram and Gabby, their poor defenseless kitties from psychotic dog lovers, it all gradually slowed to a laughable trickle a few months after his sister strongly encouraged baby brother to find alternative living arrangements ASAP, kindly kicked him to the curb. Though to her credit big sis did manage to finagle little bro a promising interview for a decent entry-level legal assistant position at her Powerhouse Sears Tower firm, at nearly twice his present salary no less, thus indispensably assisting in facilitating her young charge's ascendant housing situation.
After all, she did have to be most concerned with the safety and well-being of her and Gram's cats, above all else, of course.

Waiting on an Angel, Part 2 (excerpt from "Ain't Gonna Grieve: Lost Tales from the Family"

FOUR: Waiting on an Angel, Part Two

“They say Jesus died on the ol' rugged cross,
To save you from people like me . . . “

--John Mellencamp




Though I have proposed countless theories in my mind over the years as to precisely what it was that propelled my father into such an unusually irrational rage on this day, motivating him to abandon the family, at least temporarily, reduced to hot-wiring his own Kawasaki motorcycle, and upon Momma's darkest hour of need no less, the ugly truth remains a mystery to this day.
Most likely for the best.

What is it about this day I will remember?
Time itself seemed to stand dead still. More than slightly touched by the heat even by mid-morning, I imagined, daydreamed, perhaps hallucinated the formidable and unmistakable figure of red-headed stepchild and big sister Gabby Lynn, purposefully roaring down Ridge Road in a surreal cherry red metallic blur. Her partner-in-crime, Bonnie Johnson's sweet super-charged street racing machine, B.J.'s widely coveted '72 Nova “Cherry Bomb” wildly rumored to be able to outrun any deadly Kentucky State Police Interceptor the pigs had ever rolled out on the merciless interstate blacktop. The sight only slightly less terrifying for a child than seeing Clockwork Orange for the first time, the two-ton Terrible Twosome, undisputed juvenile delinquent heavyweight division tag team champions, stopping by the roadside mailbox in a flash to elicit the illicit daily interception of our surprisingly reliable rural postal delivery.
The deceptively cherubic Gabby flashes me her patented playful-malicious grin, gives me the peace sign.
Big, fat Bonnie, longtime dropout, unapologetically flips me the bird. She believes me a narc and a spy; maybe I am.
Then peeling off again into the choking red clay dust they go, disappearing around the mendacious bend of Blind Man's Curve with a predictably obnoxious blast of the car horn version of the Confederates' beloved battle hymn, just as quickly as they had materialized.
But truth be told this vision seemed an impossibility. Yet another unrequited mystery to befuddle my troubled young mind.
Hellbent as she was to keep Daddy and Cathy from finding out she'd been expelled from Marshal County High for chronic truancy, pounding the pulp out of mouthy cheerleaders and any number of other undisclosed miscellaneous borderline felonious juvenile transgressions, going on nearly six months ago now, maybe longer, Gabby Lynn wouldn't bat an eye at abandoning her desperate daily mission to keep from missing out on her mandatory summer globetrotting vacation with Grandma Lana, back in Chicago. Right about this time the happy wanderers should have been doing a lot more than California Dreaming: exploring the Pacific-kissed tourist delights of Disney World, Hollywood, the Golden Gates and haunted island prisons of San Francisco and no doubt anywhere else within modern transportation's reach Gabby Lynn's shamelessly manipulating motherless little heart desired to go. This land was made for you and me . . .
Who knew? Maybe the not-so-little runaway never planned on coming back to Kentucky at all.
Had Daddy finally found out about Gabby's expulsion? Or figured out his eldest daughter's treasonous plan to escape this horrific domestic nightmare?
"Hey there, kiddos."
Had Daddy finally, finally noticed the Final Eviction Notice conspicuously posted to the front door like a Black Death caveat for the past several weeks? Had the incessant ringing of the telephone driven him to a deeper level of sensory madness? More likely, the poor man had just realized he'd run out of coffee or smokes or pills or toilet paper. Maybe Cathy had neglected to pick up the newest Playboy or Penthouse, or forgotten to fix him a properly labelled four-course lunch. Whatever the case, the man of the house appeared on the front porch some time this day, familiarly zombie-like, a ghastly figure in his jaundiced tidy whities, black socks and ancient duct-taped loafers, like some mutant tourist, a newly freed hostage seemingly blinded by the harsh light of mid-day, ghostly pale and disoriented as a northern tourist on the beach first day of summer.
Eventually spying the listless heat-stricken pair of his youngest progeny lying about in apparent purposeless abeyance, he issues his standard mildly concerned inquiry: “Shouldn't you kids be in school by now?”
“Summer vacation, Daddy! ” Six year-old baby sister Alyssa Lee gingerly reminds him.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” comes Big Daddy's groggy, more than slightly fazed reply. “Okay then, you kids just stay out of the street, all right? You hear me?”
“Yes, Daddy!” she dutifully assures him.
“Sorry, kiddos. Daddy's just feeling a little under the weather today. Maybe tomorrow we can take a little ride, play some putt-putt, ride the go-karts, go grab a bite at the Dog 'n' Suds. Would yuze guys like that?”
“Sure, Daddy,” comes our automated, cautiously optimistic reply. Another vague, meaningless quasi-promise instantly discarded, just so much dust in the wind. As always, it's the thought that counts.
“Okay, then. You kids stay out of the street,” he repeats. Not really a street at all, to be precise, Ridge Road was the very definition of a country-ass bumpkin backroad to Nowhere—though there were some pretty nice million dollar mansions back there in Paradise Acres--long, lonely, ceaselessly winding, serpentine, two-lane asphalt pathway, fraught with hairpin turns and deep, treacherous ditches, unseemly caked with untold splats and splotches of sun-baked roadkill, racoons, possum, mostly dead pets and the like. The Chicago-based Moody-Butkowski clan no longer residing in the exciting, culture-rich domain of the big city anymore, but sadly, involuntarily had somehow become indefinitely stranded in this godforsaken piss poor backwater purgatory for the past six years, two months, and eight and a half days--but who's really counting.
Innocent bystanders, most of us really, just forced to chase along with Daddy and his half-baked dreams of untold real estate riches. Sadly, the dream had died long ago. Now we were little more than half-starved castaways stranded on the shoulder of Desperation Highway, trying to beg, steal or prostitute a ride back to civilization. Even so, Marshal County could be a great tourist trap to grow up in, or so they said. At least until you hit your teenage years, which we'd reportedly be lucky to survive around these parts. At least the statistics showed this place seemed to be afflicted with an alarmingly aberrant rate of youthful suicides, car wrecks, fatal gunshot wounds and fireworks accidents, drug and alcohol-related fatalities, runaways and unexplained disappearances, local enlisted men killed or wounded in the line of duty, etc. Something in the Indian-cursed water, perhaps? Thanks a million, Daddy.

“Yes, Daddy . . .” Alyssa Lee and I dutifully patronize the man, doing our best to placate the most paramount of his darkest, seemingly endless fatherly fears. Kids run down in the street by maniac driver. Attacked by wild dogs run loose from the nearby gypsy trailer park. Abducted by aliens in the driveway. Kidnapped by the crazy lady, an ex-clerk at the Kwik-Pik recently fired for undisclosed reasons, who'd been stalking him, stalking all of us, for weeks now. Just to name a few.
"Hey, have you kids seen Daddy's car around here anywhere," he tentatively inquires.
Intently scanning the bleak front yard surroundings in obvious abject confusion, our father appears to have suddenly recalled the sad fact that his trusty rust-ravaged neon green Gremlin had either been repossessed by the Man or, more likely, jacked by teenage hellions in search of a quick and dirty joyride. Or, most likely, secretly sold by Mama to help pay some bills. She still had Grandpa's old Gran Torino to get herself and the kids around.
Fruitlessly fiddling with the stubbornly non-responsive dirt bike, it must have slipped his steel shark trap of a mind that his beloved back trail rice burner had become yet another innocent victim of Gabby Lynn's bitter teenage angst-inspired sabotage. Another senseless and wholly misdirected petty act of juvenile spite, I suspect, in self-righteous retribution for Cathy's wholly ineffectual month-long “grounding” after the chronically recalcitrant stepchild had taken the Kawasaki out on an unauthorized Zen road trip about the county. (In truth, just another routine “secret mission” to retrieve another round of Daddy's essential supplies from the Kwik Pik. As much trouble as she could be, the helpless ungrateful bastard, Daddy, really had hung her out to dry on that one, I must confess.)

"Mothereffingoddammitsonofagoddamnedbitch!!!" Cursing up a frightful shit storm, Daddy emits a mighty roar right out of his own highly animated bedtime monster tales, shamelessly plagiarized from the old Abbott & Costello Meet Whoever flicks, beloved since his own long-lost childhood. In his unrequited and impotent rage Daddy quickly retreats to his frigid lair, the overburdened a/c unit set at warp speed as per his standing orders, and proceeds to trash the house without mercy. As we would shortly come to discover, he effectively destroyed anything that wasn't nailed down or too heavy to hurl across the room—from barren kitchen cupboards and fridge to living room, overcrowded with a Bohemian's warehouse-like melange of Daddy's framed photographs and photography supplies; half-hearted attempts at becoming the next Andy Warhol or Jackson Pollock or penning the next great American underground novel; an atrocious mess of books, leaflets and magazines documenting the latest U.F.O. incident or Apocalyptic occult phenomenon to catch his fleeting interest.
Without wheels, he, too was trapped, ad infinitum. Welcome to our world.


“Mikey?” she hesitantly inquires, Alyssa Lee never one to give up driving her only accessible sibling to madness quite so easily, if ever.
“What?” I reply, finally, unapologetically impatient. Irritated by the unforgiving heat. Nearly bored to palpable tears.
“Nothing,” she says, suddenly withdrawn, uncharacteristically reticent. Cherub-faced little devil child.
“What is it now?” I disinterestedly insist, high above, lost in my umpteenth speed-reading of my beloved dark and brooding Dark is Rising series from the shady confines of the dilapidated tree house just across the cabin's barren dirt driveway.
“Where do you think we go after we die?” childishly inquires the clueless flaxen-haired sprite.
Oh, brother, here we go again . . . Precocious little imp already questioning her own mortality at seven years old, blushing baby sister only thirteen months younger than I.
“I don't know,” I say, listlessly throwing back another modestly energizing handful of Tic-Tacs. “Why don't you go ask one of your invisible little friends?” I reasonably suggest.
“That's not nice, “ she childishly scolds. “It's mean talk like that what made poor Midnight run away. Can I have some of those?”
“No.”
Just plain beat, on the verge of dehydration, Alyssa and I had been all morning engaged in a fervent but ultimately fruitless search—all around the cabin, the nasty spider-nested crawlspace, the woods behind the house—for our missing cat, a shady little perspicacious character we called Midnight. Spookiest green eyes since Alyssa Lee's haunting little peepers caught sight of the world. Not officially our pet, but we'd claimed her a few days after she kept showing up at our doorstep several months ago, materializing just as mysteriously as she had now seemingly vanished without a trace. MIA for the past two days now. Creepy cat wasn't allowed inside the house, of course, Mama possessing an irrational aversion to all pets for some unknown reason. From canines to amphibians—let's not even bring up reptiles or rodents—anything lower than human not being served for dinner was strictly prohibido en Casa Moody. Though one time the little ebony rogue did manage to sneak in somehow, scratched up Mama's old couch, Daddy's La-Z-Boy something fierce. Scared the shit out of Daddy that day, creeping into bed with him; big loser taking his daily day-long catnap, supposedly in recovery from his latest month-long mental breakdown. Now inevitably cursed with seven years of additional bad luck to boot. Tatiana, a deeply superstitious Sicilian born in North Africa, likewise refused to come near the thing, solemnly advised us to take heed. Claimed the sudden appearance of the strange-eyed black cat—possibly the earthly manifestation of some evil spirit, perhaps the “walking soul” of some well-meaning dead elder—was a warning, a portent of some imminent bad luck or danger. Crazy lady had even sprayed some homemade exotic concoction about the front and back doors, likewise around each window of the rotten banana-colored trailer next door, solely to keep the evil creature from cursing her home.
Though I kept my subtle suspicious to myself, I secretly suspected either Mama or Tatiana, possibly both, could have had a dubious hand in the sudden “mysterious” disappearance of our short-lived, wayward house pet. Daddy claimed he was allergic to cats. And a lot of other things. Dogs. Bee stings. Big city air pollution. Country well water. Mama's cooking. Her mother's cooking. Come to think of it this could very well be another fine example of Daddy's evil passive-aggressive handiwork.
“Go get the phone, Daddy!” Little Boss Alyssa Lee foolishly calls out in vain for about the hundredth time.
“Don't waste your breath, sister,” I cynically advise. A two-ton wrecking ball couldn't break through that zombie man's prescription pill-induced wall of sleep.

Big Daddy's sleepin' at the wheel again, ha-lay-loo-oo-oo-jah . . .

The kitchen telephone, the family's only phone, had been ringing with ominous insistence since shortly after breakfast. Cold Pop-Tarts and Kool-Aid, again. As usual, there was no bread and what little milk was left had been sour for days. Which never stopped Daddy from dashing a generous splash of the toxic stuff to liven up his mandatory morning jolt of instant java, at least when the coffee creamer was gone. Mr. Coffee. Good old Joltin' Joe. I'm surprised Mama hadn't thought of it first: a subtle way to off him, finally free herself of the two hundred plus pounds of walking, talking, stalking dead weight she'd been carrying around for almost a decade now. Maybe she had, and his Münchhausen-esque system had just become immune, or at least somewhat tolerant of the constant inexplicable intestinal irritant. One more sympathy-garnering ailment Mr. Hypochondriac could add to the list of incurable harbingers of his imminent death. As if we could ever be so lucky. Of course Big Daddy seemed strangely contented to do without so many of life's little necessities—shelter, food, water, toilet paper—at least when it came to other people's basic needs. Supposedly the man had grown up in the fleeting wake of the last (but not final) Great Depression—at least in the Great Pretender's own mind, he had. Harold Dick Moody was living in the Great Depression alright, but, no doubt, of the dreaded mental health variety.

“I don't know,” I finally reply, admittedly not having given the existential matter a proper amount of thoughtful consideration. “A place just like this, I suppose. Except with more food. And always something cold to drink.” Ungodly drop dead hot as it was today, this thoughtless mortal being had a one track mind. Today, it was all about survival.
“Why do you ask?” I foolishly inquire.
“No reason,” she lies. “You know sometimes you're about the least helpful big brother I've ever met,” Alyssa Lee reasonably assesses the elemental nature of our relationship.
“Excuse me for livin',” I sourly reply.

My brothers and sisters and cousins are all aboard, hal-lay-loo-oo-oo-jah . . .

Meanwhile, little Alyssa and I weren't allowed to use the toaster or any kitchen appliance or gadget. Under any circumstances. Or at least not without so-called “proper adult supervision.” Which meant under the watchful eye of Catherine the Great. Eldest daughter of a grudgingly retired Chicago cop and a deadly efficient homemaker on the precarious verge of eternal empty nesthood, she rarely dares show an emotion outside of fruitless matrimonial frustration or pointless parental disappointment, or vice versa. She is tall, dark, slender. Though suspiciously ever less and less svelte as of late. Coldly taciturn yet white hot tea kettle quick-tempered. Merciless as a barehandled waffle iron left on the burner too long. Lightning gunslinger quick to draw and fire her hair trigger bitch slap at her own kids. (Sadly, she regards her horribly incorrigible stepchild as a hopelessly lost cause, hardly worth the effort anymore, thus disregards Gabby Lynn's terribly inconvenient presence altogether.) Daddy frequently jokes Mama is his “poor man's Jackie O.” Dead ringer Doppelganger for the presidential widow turned international icon of infinite grace, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. If his derisive brand of dark humor registers anywhere in her consciousness, she cagily chooses not to acknowledge it, her purposeful shun often revealing him to be the pompous self-serving ass he is, has always been, just chose not to show it until after marriage. And for this, he bitterly, secretly resents her to no end.
Needless to say not even Mama's incessant domestic ironclad rules would stop us incorrigible rascals from slathering endless pieces of brick-hard burnt toast with Grandma Geraldine's heaven-sent cherry, berry, apricot or peach preserves, so long as the Iron Maiden wasn't around. Too bad we'd also run out of Grandma G's generous annual Christmas appropriation of homemade morning ambrosia well before Easter.
“Mikey?”
“What?”
“So, why would we need food if we're dead?” Alyssa Lee curiously muses aloud, the uncharacteristically philosophical little shit apparently not at all eager to drop the matter.
Frankly I was leaning towards nihilism these days. But that shit was way over her helium-filled little circus animal balloon head.
“I don't think angels really eat much. Or even need to,” she says, painfully perpetuating her pointless monologue. “Or drink water. Or much of anything else for that matter. You think?”
“Sounding a bit presumptuous there, aren't we, little cherub?” I dryly reply, a subtle jab to burst the little neophyte's Jesus-loving bubble.
Whatever inevitable bad news, whatever life-shattering family emergency, whatever involuntary long-distance messenger of doom happened to be hanging on the line like a very unlucky high wire acrobat would have to wait at least until dinner time. If not later. Much like us, just hanging in the weeds hoping for any semblance of human relief aid. If and when Mama ever came home from her unenviable ten hour day of changing dirty linens, scrubbing toilets, cleaning up after untold throngs of thankless tourists at the Ken-Lake Resort, then freelancing with Auntie Tatiana along the endless line of pastel washed Mom 'n' Pop motor lodges up and down Old Highway 421, Marshal County's notorious Tourist Trap Artery. This was a time long before voice mail or cellphones or even answering machines, at least in the backwards backwoods confines of verdant western Kentucky.

And on and on she sings: Chocolate milk and honey on the other side, hal-lay-loo-oo-oo-jah . . .

The sole, purposeful occupant of the Moody's spacious urine-tinted five-room fishing cabin, Big Daddy the reality fugitive wouldn't be getting out of the bed anytime soon. Especially not to answer the phone of all things. And with his mind-boggling assortment of all-important medications and “nervous pills,” his handy-dandy smokes within easy nightstand's reach, certainly not for anything short of an earth-shaking bowel movement or, more likely, the long-awaited Great Extra-Terrestrial (not alien) Invasion (his so-called “earthbound liberation”) Space Captain Tricky Dick so often cheekily proclaimed was inevitably forthcoming.

Cold, cold water chills the body, but not the soul, hal-lay-loo-oo-oo-jah . . .
Ain't no plug gonna' fill this hole, hal-lay-loo-oo-oo-jah . . .

“Well, if you're so freakin' smart, little girl—despite your understandably limited six and a half year old Kentucky public school-enriched vocabulary—what the heck are you asking me all these questions for?”
“You see anyone else around to ask?” she points out, reasonably enough.
“No. Not really,” I grudgingly admit. “Do you?”
“Maybe,” quickly comes her purposely cryptic reply. Along with that patented creepy butt crack grin. Neighbors seemed to love it for some reason. Ate that shit up like honey fresh out of the hive. Clueless backwater hicks.
“Do me a favor,” I say, foolish to even bother wasting my breath. “You start seeing dead people again, just keep it to yourself, would ya?”
“Not a chance, Michael Lance,” Alyssa Lee coldly assures me. “Not a chance in H-E-double hockey sticks,” she sneers coyly.
Thankless ingrate little earth devils that we were, Alyssa or I might have answered the phone if we'd had half a suicidal mind to cross Commander Daddy's longstanding battle orders: never do so under any circumstances. (This was a time long before caller i.d. But certainly not bill collectors.) Then again sad fact was little sister and I, left to fend for ourselves once again, had been locked out of Daddy's one man mental health retreat on a daily basis all summer vacation long. No Captain Kangaroo. No Price is Right. No All My Children today. At least when Gabby Lynn, the Enforcer, was around, doggedly staking her undisputed claim to the TV for the better part of the day, we were afforded some semblance of sanctuary. And would it really be worth the trouble to wrench open perpetually wayward fifteen year old big sister's trusty bedroom escape hatch? Unless we happened to be starving. Which we usually were. Fortunately our merciful empty calorie AM sugar buzz usually kept us TV babies going for hours. Though the friendly neighborhood carrion crow circling a guarded patch of pale blue sky directly overhead was not a feel good sign. Hopefully Mama wouldn't have to work too late tonight.
Every once in a blue Kentucky moon some kind stranger or other would stop and take heed of our conspicuous but sadly depleted dummy roadside lemonade stand. Bestow a merciful lifesaving gift of modest alms upon us poor orphaned ragamuffins. There was always water from the garden hose. Earthworms and insects were a delicacy in many foreign lands, supposedly a good source of protein. The latter of God's meaty little creatures—rhinoceros beetles, Jerusalem crickets, rainbow grasshoppers, army ants, assassin tree spiders, Daddy long legs—were certainly creeping around in savory abundance today. The vibrant, though notably drought-depleted fleet of dragonflies fluttering about like mini-cemetery pinwheels would have likely made a tasty treat, though nearly impossible to capture, and hardly worth the considerable effort in this heat. Hungrily spying a mouth-watering mini Hostess cupcake-frosted plant bug, a juicy concatenation of unsuspecting tree slugs, my culinary attentions became suddenly distracted by a promising diversion. The Charles Chips man was making a timely early morning delivery to the fortuitously junk food-friendly Gay-bors next door, who had just left for town in their asthmatic little baby blue VW Beetle. “God does provide, little sister, God does provide . . .”
“Mikey?”
“What now?”
“When's Mama comin' home?”
“It won't be too long now, little sister, “ I lie, a feeble effort to be kind to the poor dying thing. “Won't be long at all. You just hang in there now. Mama's comin' home soon.” It is barely half past noon.
“Have any more gum?”
“No,” I say, honestly.
“Have some more Tic Tacs?”
“Sorry, all gone, sister,” I shamelessly lie again. My empathy does have its limits. Especially today. Ninety-eight in the shade, or so they say.
“Mikey?”
“What?”
“You know you're a terrible liar,” she coolly informs me.
“Like another Tic Tac?”
“Sure. Thought you'd never ask.”

Pathetically she languors in bittersweet heat-stricken oblivion within her usual meager patch of front porch shade. Daddy's broken down cherry Kool Aid red Kawasaki loosely chained to the corner post. Sun-fried frizzy-headed little sister weakly crooning out a catchy, slightly skewed, interminably repetitive death bed medley of antediluvian African slave spirituals. More recently hijacked by virally infectious fundamentalist Jesus lovers. Apparently the discombobulated mental remnants of a mind-numbing musical tuition she'd picked up during our short-lived stint at the Baptist vacation bible thumpers' camp. Perhaps more so out of public humiliation than maternal protectiveness, late last spring Mama pulled us out of St. Bartholomew, Marshal County's sole Catholic hole in the wall of worship. Good old St. Bart. One of the twelve Apostles as mentioned in the Synoptic gospels. Witness to the Ascension. Skinned alive and crucified at the Maiden Tower in Armenia. Body recovered off the coast of Lipari, hauled to shore by island children after the saintly corpse failed to yield to men. Somehow considered a miracle. Patron saint of bookbinders, butchers, shoemakers and nervous disorders.
Meanwhile, Alyssa's scandalous revelations to her Sunday school teacher, appropriately effervescent and sunny-faced Miss Sun, also my second grade teacher from last term, had caused the family, meaning Mama, an unbearable backlash of public scorn and humiliation from the church faithful, however subtle. (Unceremoniously relieved of her duties as back-up church organist. Cordially un-invited from her weekly Bible study and book-banning circle. Summarily dismissed as co-chair person of the St. Bart's annual “Let's Put the Christ Back in Christmas” food and toy drive for the underprivileged. A prestigious position which really came in quite handy around the lean Moody holidays, let me tell you what.) As Alyssa's story goes: Supposedly, infamous self-appointed surrogate father figure, Victor “Big Pappy” Winkleman, one of St. Bart's most devout and longstanding deacons, our volunteer Communion tutor, no less, had been a predatory wolf in sheep's clothes, as it were, secretly preying on the defenseless little lambs of the flock. Said malfeasance in particular, attempting to perpetrate untold acts of perverse pedophilia upon several outdoor “study sessions” pretty far off the beaten path along a mostly secluded backwater stretch of Wildcat Woods, which roughly meanders to the rougher, lagoon-carved, non-tourist side of Kentucky Lake. A little too close for comfort, I couldn't help but observe at the time, from the dreaded Bad Medicine Bogs. A locally notorious, purposely avoided No Man's Land. A treacherous natural quagmire fraught with pernicious patches of prickly vined deadly night shade and belladonna, poison oak and ivy. The tumescent labyrinth of pretty-flowered vegetation beguilingly concealing pitiless death traps of quick sand. More commonly known around these here parts as the Land of the Lost.
Unspeakably disheartening, today the little urchin had come home from her compulsory morning rounds—shady sweet-cheeked nymphet adroitly peddling her ridiculous hand-colored driveway rocks, shamelessly pawning armfuls of sunflowers and posies picked from the neighbors' own painstakingly kept gardens—hauling another shit load of those dreadful Death Canyon dry store-bought peanut butter cookies, barely a dollar's worth of Buffalo nickels in change from old Miss Ella, desperately lonely shut-in just down the way. Strange thing was sweet old shut-in had passed on last winter, though she still frequently visited her favorite little socialite.
Sadly, Alyssa Lee's measly morning take proved not even worth the miserable effort to make the forbidden trek past the scary rabid dog-infested gypsy trailer park, down the daunting declivity of Suicide Hill—a quick side stop at the “Mom 'n' Pop” roadside shop, the candy store that is no more, where the over-anxious Freeman quartet giddily anticipates the celebrated arrival of Grandma Lana and her Golden Pontiac, who will inevitably steal Gabby Lynn away for the better part of the summer—careful to avoid the Red Barn burger bar, teenage hoodlum hangout, just to get to the Kwik Pik out across the daunting two-lane gauntlet of semi-heavy 421. The usual ungodly late summer's heatwave moving through the Land of the Lakes, the Cumberland Gap, the greater Ohio River Valley like a phantom army of damned Yankees, suffocating the very life out of us poor Southern folk, old Ridge Road was a virtual ghost town today, its usual mid-day dead quiet, soulless self.

Where is everybody today? There's just nobody. Almost nobody. A while back my little friend and sole academic rival, young Robyn Greenback, along with her mama, a former Miss Kentucky, had come riding by on their blue-blooded, white-spotted mares, Destiny and Grace. Despite the subtle socio-economic objections of her folks—Senator Garth Greenback, also a prominent local vet who came from old horse breeding money, and Delta Dawn (what's that flower you have on?) the county real estate maven born and bred from Big Tobacco—young Robyn, who lived in the white stone palace on Hummingbird Lane, insisted on perpetuating our strange friendship cum rivalry.

“So, how many points have you racked up so far in the Super Summer Speed Reading Sprint, Speed Racer?” she presumptuously inquires, my sandy-haired little sun goddess fresh and deeply tanned from her recent stay at Daddy's third vacation home in Costa Rica. His second, a private isle in the French Riviera. “I've got almost a thousand.” 750. But in my own defense, all my favorites have been unceremoniously banned by the all-powerful, all-knowing Marshall County Library Commission. “Bridge to Tarabithia.” The death of a child deemed too controversial, too potentially traumatic for unsuspecting young Kentucky readers. The entire “Dark is Rising” series, irrefutably excommunicated. An obvious plethora of satanic, anti-Christian references there. Along with “The Lord of the Rings.” The apparently not-so-harmless Hobbit supposedly presenting the same phantasmagoria of shameful pagan, Jesus-hating themes. “Catcher in the Rye,” for it's so-called anti-social, homosexual-inspiring leanings. Stranded hotel horrorshow, “The Shining,” for obvious reasons.
Of course, I was almost finished translating “Les Miserables,” French to English. Two hundred fifty fantastique point. And I still had my piece de resistance firmly tucked under my belt. “Crime and Punishment.” Three hundred points, to send me catapulting to a glorious, insurmountable victory.
Nobody ever remembers second best.
“Maybe we can go on another marathon bike ride, sometime soon,” she sanguinely suggests, evoking a noticeable cringe from mommy dearest.
“Come along, darling. Mustn't be late for Power Ballet. You know how Ms. Natasha can get . . .”
“Just a minute, Mama . . . And I hope you do plan on attending my birthday party, Mr. Michael,” my filthy rich young friend generously calls out from her lofty equestrian perch. Mas-ter My-khal. Predictably highlighting the front page of the Marshal County Courier's sickeningly fluff-filled Lifestyle section, the junior socialite's fabulous annual birthday bash pales only in comparison to the Senator's own yearly July Fourth lakefront extravaganza.
Last year's decadent festivities featuring an exotic petting zoo flown in from Thailand and, for slightly less refined entertainment tastes, a mini-rodeo from Montana. This year the bottomless spenders supposedly renting the lion's share of some traveling circus from Paris.
“August 15, “ she gently reminds me. “Feast of the Assumption, same birthday as Napoleon. But I'm sure you've already marked your calendar.”
“Whatever.” Doggedly perpetuates our friendship, despite my reticent ambivalence.
Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away . . .
Down the road, the dynamic duo disappears, nobly continuing the rounds of their humble kingdom of dirt poor serfs. Strategically avoiding the general direction of the canine-crazed gypsy trailer park, I can't help but observe.
Aside from the lovely Lady Greenbacks, a while back now, there's just nobody.
The often total silence of this place is disquieting. Unreal. Otherworldly. Yet oddly comforting at times, like something that never changes. This was cemetery quiet. Strange and stagnant. Dormant as the half-built shell of a vacant duplex the currently estranged Brothers Moody had gone in on together half a dozen years ago. The one that sits like a future spook house in long-abandoned tragically aborted Weeping Willows subdivision. The one so ill-advisedly built on the verboten grounds of an ancient Chickasaw burial site. Which also happens to border the toxic razor-wired government-restricted confines of an old uranium plant shut down by the EPA a few years back. Who knew?
All in all, Marshal County could be just fine for a weekend getaway, but three hundred sixty five days a year, could drive a man to madness. Especially a city boy—a rabble-rousing, street-fighting, hot rod racing South Side hood like Daddy.
“Poor sunstroked babies, you all just look bored to tears.” Who comes now but comely thirteen-year-old cousin Lucinda from right next door. Sister Golden Hair Surprise, a highly welcome human mirage of hydrogen peroxide and overpowering designer impostor opium perfume in delightfully skin-tight Daisy Dukes. Gracefully emerging from the precariously leaning canary yellow trailer perched on a deceptively treacherous little hill, begrudgingly she trudges her umpteenth load of laundry to be haphazardly strung out along the ghostly clothesline on the shabby willow-shaded knoll barely separating our respective “short-term” rental properties. “You know I've got ice cream 'n' candy for any good little helpers.” Bored to tears, maybe, but definitely not born yesterday. Budding dishwater bombshell was a well-practiced bold-faced liar to boot. Who could blame her? Desperate times called for desperate measures. Doritos and sunflower seeds, maybe. Uncle Mickie's family was equally poor and perhaps twice as penurious, by necessity. Though things were looking up, at least for them, since Uncle M got his CDL and a semi-decent gig with North American. Now he was just never home. Which wasn't always a bad thing. Moody as his far more melodramatic manic-depressive next door twin, if not more so, the man's drinking temper had driven Tatiana and the kids to emergency evac overnight flights down to the No Name Motel too many times.
“No thanks, Cuz. Don't think we'll ever be that bored,” I politely decline her generous, but feeble attempt at bribery. “All righty then. Suit yourselves, little cousins. Don't say I never offered you godless little heathens nothing,” she fumes, scorned drama queen storming off in a self-righteous hough. “Heads up, y'all here comes trouble . . . Hey Grandpa Hank . . . “
"Hey there yourself, little lady. How's Lucinda Lou today?"
"Please don't ever call me that again, old man--"
“Grandpa!” Alyssa Lee just now lets out a heart-stopping banshee's shriek, capricious imp suddenly showing her first signs of life for ages. And who comes roaring up the bare grassed lawn now but bald-headed, bespectacled Grandpa Hank, old gas bag furiously puffing away on one of his ever-present monster stogies, impertinently driving up the way in his familiar rust-colored Caddy convertible to carry out an uncharacteristic mission of mercy.
“Why don't you all come on down to the house for a minute now,” he says, reaching over with a painful sounding groan to throw open the behemoth passenger side door. “It's hotter than Hades' shithouse out here and Lord knows you two yard rats shore could use some fattenin' up. Did that plum fool father a yours lock you all out the house again? Damn sure know I raised that boy better'n this, I did. Judas Priest, when I get my hands on that sorry some-bitch . . .”
Unfortunately rotten apples do fall from rotten trees. Like father, like son, the old man was mostly talk, little action. In fact this was the fastest I'd seen the lazy old fart move in forever. Something heavy must really be going down. Okay, who died?
“Gonna' wish he weren't never born, by God . . .”
Ever dutifully Grandpa Hank manages to evacuate the little refugees from the desolate scene of untold future chaos without too much fuss, our very temporary guardian nervously delivering us to the pine-shrouded ranch house a mere quarter mile down the road. Into sweet little ole Grandma Geraldine's comforting old school country kitchen.
“Well, ain't you two just the cutest thangs,” she squeals, like to squeezing our defenseless cheeks to death. “Skinny as beanstalks though,” she kindly observes. “Bless your poor little hearts.”
There the masterfully multi-tasking ole girl, bless her heart, served us up a formidable lunchtime feast of homemade fried chicken, dumplings, home fries, hand-picked sweet corn on the cob, fresh greens, apple pie a la mode, and ice cold Coca-Cola or home-brewed iced tea. Which of course we politely wolfed down like little savages as the neighborhood guardian busily talked on the phone, sweet little ole Geraldine somehow attempting to coordinate the incoming news of this horrendous affair. As it was universally secretly agreed amongst the family, that slick bastard, old Grandpa Harold's unwitting sugar mama, sweet simple country girl with a heart of gold, ole Grandma G was a living saint compared to that city slicker snake oil salesman of a second husband of hers. Tearfully, stoically the old Southern dame received and in turn promptly delivered word of the impending tragedy up North, back in Chicago.
And word is spreading quickly, a barely containable drought-fueled brush fire by the end of lunch. Too bad we were stuck well within the closely guarded containment zone. Within the hour an impressive gathering of friends and neighbors had convened at “the safe house” to lend moral support. The ageless Martins, eternal retirees. Psychic Connie, the welfare mom. Brainy Buddy Russell, Gabby's old pal, along with his Mama, the RN who helped Mama and Tatiana with their student nurse classes. Even old man Crabapple, the grouchy old bastard who, along with his rabid pack of demon Dobermans, eagerly chased us kids off his precious orchard lots like we were invading Huns. Not missing a beat, Geraldine thoughtfully invited over her fat, friendless, socially retarded nephew to “help keep us little ones company.” Poor Marvin “The Martian,” the social scourge of our highly intolerant school bus route who along with Lucinda would be a freshman in high school next year, was teased and beaten unmercifully on a daily basis by the so-called “cool kids,” cousin Anthony prominent among them. The creepy acne-faced fathead would probably grow up to be a homicidally bitter billionaire mad scientist and blow up the world in the most horrific of doomsday scenarios. An unapologetic science geek and computer whiz (before there even were computers) who in turn amazed and confounded me with an endless display of his award-winning experiments, Marvin was also a die hard U.F.O. buff who never missed an opportunity to spend the night so he and my father, the most inconvenient of soul mates, could spend endless hours, deep into the starry night heartily comparing alien tales. Despite the tragedy slowly unfolding all around us, I secretly, selfishly dreaded that there were larger, far more sinister forces aligned against me here. Sad as it was, poor clueless brilliant Marvin vociferously counted poor silent unsuspecting eight year old me as his best, perhaps only, friend. (But, truth be told I strongly suspected it was my father.) An unmitigated pain in my ass under the best of circumstances, needless to say at this point Marvin the Martian was presently the most unwelcome of bothersome distractions.
“Hey, buddy, wanna come check out my new GPS extra-terrestrial radar tracker? Say, how's your Dad? Do you think he's home by any chance? What the heck's goin' on around here? Somebody die or somethin'?”
Clearly, something terrible has befallen somebody. Someone has died. Someone young. Someone widely beloved. Someone especially close to Mama. Quite suddenly, unexpectedly. And in rather dramatic fashion, it appears. But who?

What is it about this day that I will remember? Wide-eyed, terrified, nervously rocking in Grandpa Harold's oversized earth-tone plaid lounger, Alyssa Lee clings, white-knuckled to her beloved threadbare “silky,” holding on for dear life. Terrified little girl becomes lost in the disturbingly catatonic rhythms of another bittersweet Jesus-loving dirge.

I saw Jesus walking on the water, walking on the water, walking on the water . . .

I surreptitiously turn down the volume on Batman, showing on the old Zenith, discreetly eavesdrop on the grief-stricken conglomeration of grown-ups in Grandma Geraldine's comfortingly overcrowded country kitchen. Already in full crisis mode, doing the only thing she can think of to do, Geraldine is solemnly gathering up the essentials to whip up a batch of consoling blueberry pies, some mini-baked apples cups or peach cobbler, maybe.
The kitchen telephone rings again.
Marking the top of the hour, the conspicuous living room grandfather clock strikes an ominous tone.
Materializing at my side, an uninvited phantom, the frustratingly occasional psychic Alyssa Lee suddenly whispers in my ear a prophetic piece of terrible news.
"Aunt Lucy! From Chicago." Mama's baby sister. Of all the horrible luck, she always had been our favorite.

From Grandpa Hank's easy chair, Alyssa Lee cries like a baby.
Otherwise, the palpable silence here is suddenly deafening.

Strays

The black dog is wandering
Through the neighborhood again
Trespassing, stealing worthless things
The lost and mischievous ghost of a child

Late autumn stray cat appeared on the lawn
Raking leaves with my baby girl, eve of last Halloween
Soul of a pet my sister and I kept long, long ago
Long long long ago

Soft silken coat
Black and heavy as Deep South summer nights
Light eyes green and bright
Sharp as the pain of the hornet's sting
Nestled deep in the darkest corners
Of the slanted concrete porch
Of our sad old Kentucky home

Lightning quick
Lithe little stray slipped into the house
Lost and lonely ghost
Of a wayward summer wind
Baby girl and I chased the uninvited guest
For days on end

But not for long
She went away
The day the big storm came
Swept away the leaves
And everything else that day

Last I saw she was headed for the lake
Lost in the wake of the hurricane
Refusing every helping hand
Swallowed up by late October waves
And too many problems for one little girl
Long-lost sister
Never to be seen again
Until the day perhaps we shall meet again

Too-early dawn
Surly crow fat as a stray cat
Belligerent bully blue jay
Big as a house, loud as a train
Caterwauling outside my window pane