The Bird

He pulled into the driveway, just four hours past his usual bedtime and only 3 hours left before he would normally get up to start his usual day at the office. Vireen had only been asleep for a couple of hours when they had called him to say the network was down and NOC, Network Operations Center, had been unsuccessful in getting service restored. Some data backups would have to be run manually once it was up again, provided he could get the services switched over to the secondary equipment they kept just for this kind of emergency. He couldn’t believe both routers had managed to fail at the same time; the second was just six months old and had been a successful failover the first month it was installed. The company was upgrading much of the network hardware and was almost complete. With the slowdown in the economy, some purchases had been delayed by several months. Vireen warned that outdated parts or equipment that had outlived their usefulness might be prone to failure, but the CEO, Nelson Morgan, felt it was necessary “to sustain profitability in today’s market,” as he put it. Well tonight would cost them some downtime and certainly some money, but once again Vireen had managed to pull off another miracle. His one hundred and fifty thousand dollar salary was a mere pittance compared to the 50 million dollar profit the company made last year Vireen thought as he slammed shut the door of his 2006 328i.

His tie was already loose as he swung open the door to his two bedroom condo. He tossed the keys into a small weave basket he acquired from his business trip to Taos, kicked off the brown leather loafers he put on as he rushed out the door at 12:33am, and headed towards the bathroom to take a quick shower. He dumped his suit in a heap on the bathroom floor, climbed under the hot stream of water now rushing out of the showerhead, washed everything that mattered, and rinsed off quickly. Reaching for a bright yellow towel whiling turning off the shower, he dried off and wrapped it around his waist. He walked into the dimly lit bedroom, past the mahogany chest of drawers, and dropping the towel onto the floor at the foot of the bed climbed under the cream colored sheets, pulling the gold and green comforter up over his chest. He was thinking about the last time he saw his girlfriend. She was a beautiful Indian woman, about five feet, seven inches tall, slender with long black hair, dark eyes, striking features, and a birthmark on her left hip. They looked great together when they went out to the movies or dinner as they usually did on Saturday nights. He had meant to call her when he got home tonight, but had gotten an email from NOC no sooner than he entered the condo. He had spent some time working on the router remotely and thought the problem was resolved when he fell asleep around 10pm. He had been dreaming about riding a horse around a lake with Najima, his arms wrapped around her, that broad smile with those full red lips facing his own smile. The sound of tinkling bells had broken the moment when the call came regarding the network trouble, jerking him awake.

He is standing on a cliff with a bird telling him to get on his back. “I can’t, I’ll crush you,” he replies, but the bird insists. Vireen steps over the bird and suddenly it grows, lifting Vireen up under it. With a now twenty foot wingspan, the giant crow-like bird spreads its wings and sails off the edge of the cliff. The ground below is orange, purple and green, like someone dropped paint on it. Suddenly it becomes a large block of cheese and they fly around it. The bird says “Grab the cheese, grab the cheese!” Vireen reaches towards the cheese but it keeps moving away from him. The bird laughs and then sails up over the cheese and away. There is an ocean above them and fish are jumping out of it, landing with a splash, but the ocean is upside down. Vireen cranks his head around to look at them right side up, but falls from the bird’s back. He screams as he falls toward the ocean. He reaches back towards the bird but is suddenly in a stainless steel chair like the one’s in the lunch room at work, and the bird is now standing on a matching steel table, restored to his original size. The bird tells him to stop trying to eat him. His girlfriend is across from him seated at the table and says, “You know it’s not ok to eat Corbi, he’s our son.” He blinks several times, unsure of what to do. The bird vanishes. “Pass me the Palak Paneer, honey,” she said to him. The cottage cheese and spinach dish is in front of him. He picks it up to hand to her but drops it when it starts to crow like a rooster.

Crap, he thinks as the crowing sound stirs him from the few hours of sleep he managed to catch. Already time to get up? He rolls over, smashing the pillow under his head tightly, and tries to close his eyes again after clicking the snooze button on his Blackberry smart phone. His stomach grumbles and he felt the urge to urinate. No use, he’d have to get up in five minutes anyways. He yawns, stretching his arms from beneath the covers to either side above his head, and wriggles his toes. Whew, what a dream, he thinks. Maybe I should stop eating pizza while working on call at 2 in the morning. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. He rises, walks over to the bathroom, turns on the hot water to warm up while he relieves his bladder, then flushes the corn colored liquid down the pipes. He lathers his face and shaves while carefully avoiding his mustache, and then rinses clean. His phone beeps and he strolls back over to the small nightstand next to the bed while drying his face with a small white towel. I love you honey, Najima’s message started, can’t wait to see you tonight and try that curried chicken dish you promised to make for me. BTW, I found a great movie to go with the food, it’s called “The Birds” by Alfred Hitchcock. You’ll love it. L8r

am I home yet?

Art leaned on his crutches while fumbling in his pocket for the key to his single story house. Behind him a pair of headlights turned onto the street that dead ended at his front lawn. He withdrew the keys but they slipped out of his grip, landing at his feet. The headlights were closing in fast as he bent over, supporting himself between the door and a crutch. Art nearly fell over as a ground shaking boom vibrated around him. Balanced on one leg, he retrieved the keys. Dazed and shaken, he opened the door. A silver Toyota Camry was now parked decidedly on top of his sofa in the living room.

“Am I home yet?” blinked a disoriented blond woman as she climbed out of the car, dust and debris settling around her. I should’ve stayed in bed today, Art thought. He slipped and broke his leg this morning on a patch of black ice in the driveway while leaving for work. He just wanted to get home and rest since leaving the hospital after his cast was set.

Lord, it can’t get much worse. “No, but since you’re not going anywhere soon, perhaps I could interest you in a beer,” he said, as he hobbled over to the virtually intact kitchen. “It’s been a helluva day!”

Black Suede and Sunglasses

Helena opened the glass door to the bright marketplace. Directly in front of the door were two long aisles filled with an assortment of foods from Greek olives, tahini mixtures, and cans of garbanzo beans to various cuts of lamb, chicken and beef in the refrigerated counter to the right. She picked up a package of Ak-mak bread as she strutted in her three inch heels, her black suede purse swishing, her gold dangle earrings banging off her cheek surrounded by long curls of thick black hair. The young Iranian meat-cutter, preparing deli-cut ham slices for a short middle aged man in a tweed jacket with thinning hair, paused and caught his reflection in the large tortoise trim sunglasses she had perched on the nose above those plump red lips. The young man, mildly flustered, turned back and finished cutting, wrapped the slices, and placed them in a small brown bag while moving towards the cash register where the customer paid the bill and left.

Helena had replaced the package of bread on the shelf and continued to the rear of the store, rounded the corner and walked up the stairs. She turned a small oblong knob on the dingy white door which sounded more like a bleating lamb than a doorbell. The door creaked open, a thin hunched over man in his mid 60’s holding the scuffed metal knob. The room was stuffy, the furniture looked like it came out of an episode of All in the Family, a tweed style couch, tan and gold wallpaper, a small wood table, and two high back fabric chairs. She sat down in a chair between the wall and the couch, smoothing the edges of her black dress against her toned legs.

“Abou,” she began politely, “I have to have an answer tonight. They will not wait any longer.”

He limped from the doorway after closing it quietly behind his untimely guest. “Helena, I don’t have the money for them right now. My wife is not well, she is sick from the stomach with pains that come and go. I have to pay for all the doctor visits and our business is sluggish,” his voice trailing off as he slowly made his way into the kitchen. “Can I offer you some tea my dear?” He brought down two dainty china tea cups from a cupboard and sat them on gleaming white saucers.

Helena reached into her handbag. “That would be wonderful Abou.” The Organization wanted their money. They did not want any more excuses from this old market man. The two Mercedes Benz were well kept albeit ten years old, he could afford his wife’s chemotherapy treatments, and the old couple had taken a long cruise vacation the last four years in a row. Abou worked every day otherwise and the middle Eastern market did very well with its sales. The Organization would not be a mockery of tonight. She withdrew three gray composite pieces, sat them beside her on the green couch’s arm, and found two cylindrical objects she wanted below the first piece she withdrew.

He reappeared from the kitchen with a small silver tray carrying the two teacups, saucers, sugar, milk, and two spoons. Abou sat down on the chair across from Helena on the opposite end of the table. He took a teabag out of one cup, poured some milk in it, picked up a spoon and stirred the tea then pushed the tray closer to her.

“I love the smell of cardamom and cinnamon, don’t you my dear?” he asked as he raised the cup to his lip, the shiny ruby ring on his pinky finger looking conspicuously out of place in such a dank surrounding.
“Yes Abou.” Helena made no move towards the tea. “I love the smell of fresh cardamom and cinnamon very much.” Her mouth curled into a lopsided grin. “You know,” she adjusted herself in the chair, draping her left leg over her right, “I can’t leave her tonight without the money. They won’t allow it. Its gone on too long, makes them look,” she paused, shifting leg position again, “…weak.” She picked up the gray composite pieces and commenced assembling the odd body, each piece snapping harshly together. “The Organization feels you have not been respectful.” Helena picked up one of the cylindrical objects, placed it in a chamber. “You must pay.” She picked up the other cylinder.

Abou had been sipping gingerly on the tea, watching her movements, but there had been no noticeable recognition until she began loading the second cylinder. His mouth agape, he moved like cold molasses, setting the tea cup back down on the saucer in front of him.

“What are you saying Helena?” he asked, leaning back in the chair, his eyes like big brown marbles ready to roll out of his head.

She finished chambering the second piece of ammunition. “Abou,” she smiled wider now, “I’m telling you I must get the money from you…tonight. All five hundred thousand you owe The Organization for its help.” She picked up the short end of the makeshift derringer and leveled it at him. “If you don’t, I’m authorized to take whatever steps are necessary to retrieve the funds owed,” she said while manually cocking a small hammer backwards with a sharp click, “or make you an example for the community.”

The old man’s breath came in short bursts as he urgently unbuttoned the almond colored shawl cardigan sweater to relieve himself of the heavy knit covering. He looked left then right, the phone on one side, his cane on the other near to the door where he placed it upon retiring for the evening after working his shift. Helena knew he could get to neither first. She leaned forward, the strange gray pistol moving closer to his chest.

“Which will it be?”

“I can give you two hundred thousand now, but I can’t get the rest until tomorrow Helena. Please,” he begged, his voice whiny and small, “ you have to tell them just one more day.”

“We’ve waited nearly nine years while your business has thrived Abou, and still you do not pay.” Helena had risen and gradually moving towards Abou, pistol in front, dress swaying gently, each step disappearing softly into the worn carpet. “The Organization has been patient with you, but it’s obvious you have mistaken our kindness for stupidity.” She stood a mere meter away, feet spread shoulder length, gripping the gun loosely but securely, her eyes fixed on his frozen stature.

“I’m a man of modest means Helena. I have put all my monies into the store and my wife. We spend very little on meager pleasures and have paid the rest of the monies back as swiftly as possible.” He was fixated on the plastic piece moving towards him with the tall woman in black, still wearing sunglasses at this late hour. His ragged breathing was now accompanied by multiple beads of sweat on his face and forehead. He swallowed, licked his lips, and pressed them together. “But,” he began again, “the cancer has spread and my wife’s condition has worsened. The bills take most of the store profits and I can’t afford to pay both her bills and The Organization. Please,” he got down on his knees, clasping his hands together in a tight ball, looking up at the tall olive skinned woman, “please, give me more time. I promise to have the money together by the end of the month.” He crawled closer to her.

“Abou, we are not heartless. We’re just business people.” She stepped back a foot and squeezed off a shot directly above the nose and between his eyebrows. Blood, bone, and brain mass splattered out as a single hole the size of a .37 magnum opened up on the backside of his head. “Now my friend, you are relieved of your worries.” She turned and walked into the bedroom, where the man’s wife had been laying, struggling to get out of the bed. Helena stopped at the foot of the peach lace comforted bed. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer without your husband and the medical services he affords you.” Helena raised the weapon level with the woman’s face, squeezed the trigger and a sharp smacking sound reverberated through the room. The woman collapsed back onto the bed, her white pillow becoming pinkish, then a bright red, her eyes staring straight at the ceiling. Helena took a yellow straw hat from off the bedside dresser and placed it over the woman’s face. She pivoted around on her heel and strolled out into the living room where Abou was slumped over, prayer-like with his arms swung around his head, the blood running out the hole like lava running down a mountain. Helena stopped next to him, mentally photographing the scene, then strolled towards the door picking up the black suede purse from the couch arm while sliding the handpiece inside, slung the strap over her shoulder as she opened the door. She pulled her dress down, retrieved a compact from her purse, checked her lips, adjusted her large framed sunglasses, plumped her hair with her free hand, snapped the compact shut, returned it to the purse, and shut the door behind her. She made her way down the stairs, through the aisles by the meat counter. The young Iranian man turned from the cutting counter and smiled innocently at her.

“May I help you?” he asked in his best broken English.
“A small container of hummus and six falafel please.”
He grabbed a small clear plastic container, scooped out a large serving on tan mush with bright red sprinkles and green curly leaves on it. The container filled, he snapped the lid on, placing it on the counter, counted out the falafel, and placed them in a small brown paper sack. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you,” Helena smiled back at the young man. She took the bag and picked up the container, walked over to the register and pulled out a ten dollar bill. The young man rang the purchase, handed her the change, and waved goodbye with the same goofy grin on his face. Helena blushed at The Organization’s newest employee as she turned to the glass door, pulled it open exiting the market, and disappeared into the night air.

iClanSoft

Vireen Ptcha was on the third floor of the server campus, preparing the Cisco Catalyst 6000 for the IOS, Internetwork Operating System, upgrade so that the Firewall Services Module could be added when it arrived later in the week. Two switches had failed recently and they had ordered the parts from Cisco last week but hadn’t received them yet. Vireen had pulled the two older Catalyst 6000 switches from an unused network closet to replace the failed switches. Network traffic had slowed considerably without the two switches and clients were complaining. They were behind in the rollout of the new hardware to enhance CPS. Corporate headquarters, located in Monterey, California, had delayed the purchase of the new equipment without explanation.

Now corporate wanted IT to “move forward with the original plans, minus the new equipment.” Minus the new equipment? Corporate, as usual, was disconnected from reality. It was what got them into this whole mess in the first place. Vireen told Alan, the Director of Operations, it wasn’t possible to achieve the same results without upgrading the network first. Just get it done, that’s Alan had said. Vireen had put in four older switches to handle more incoming traffic, but it was akin to forcing more cars onto a two lane highway. You might have more cars but they weren’t going anywhere fast. You’d have to build a big freeway to handle more traffic. That’s what the switches would do build a bigger, faster highway for internet data to travel on. Improvements to the network meant more clients and more money for iClanSoft. Now two switches they retired last year had failed. Vireen had managed to replace the one, but the second was DOA.

Vireen had phoned Alan on his Blackberry Tour from the adjacent server room.

“So when will it be fixed?” Alan asked.

“We’re waiting for parts,” replied Vireen.

“Do you have any parts or is it all on order?”

Vireen had searched all six floors looking for any spare parts he could find to repair the switch. “The parts are on order, I think. We had to send the request to Corporate. Corporate said they would handle the ordering.”

Alan paced his two story condo the Montclair district of Oakland. His black lab, Sheba, laid on a large blue dog mattress near the stone fireplace. “Why didn’t you just place the order with Cisco directly?”

“The credit cards aren’t working.”

“I thought they were turned back on?”

“That’s what I thought.”

“So what did Monterey say?” Alan shifted the phone to his left hand while he reached into the clear plastic container to scoop out a cup of food for the dog.

“They said that there was a mix-up, some problem with the credit card company. The bills were paid late so the cards were turned off. Supposedly the payments are caught up and the credit cards are back on. But the last time we attempted to use them, they were declined.” Vireen exited the room and shut the door. The A/C unit had whirred to life to keep the room at a brisk 74 degrees. “I called Corporate last month about the problem. They called back and said it would be two weeks and the cards would be active again. In the meantime, they would handle any purchases we needed to make.”

“Isn’t that what they said last month, two weeks and the cards will be active?”

“Yeah, I’m just going by the information they’ve given.” Vireen’s forehead was wet with sweat. It was a balmy 85 and the sun was just setting. Vireen walked to the kitchen across the hallway and grabbed a paper towel and wiped his face.

“This is ridiculous,” exclaimed Alan. He bent over and poured the food into a bowl that on a tan rubber mat with bones imprinted around the border, sitting on the floor underneath the newly installed wooden shelves. “Who knows what the hell is going on? They’ve been telling us virtually the same thing for the past two months. Supposedly the bills were paid and the cards were turned back on.” He straightened up and slammed into the bottom shelf. “Shit!”

“I called Corporate back day before yesterday and let them know we’re waiting for parts,” Vireen said quickly, catching the sharp tone and remark. Grabbing a clean white mug with the letter CPS and the company logo printed on it from the sink, Vireen filled three quarters of the way with cold water from a cooler. “Corporate is now saying that we’ll be getting new cards.”

“I think it’s something else. Why else would they want to give us new cards?” Alan rubbed his head and walked back over to the kitchen counter and stared out the window, his red BMW sitting in the driveway.

“I agree. I think it’s something else too.” Vireen took a long gulp of water and sat down at a white table with four white chairs around it. “Yeah, so now we have to wait another two weeks. Honestly, I’m not sure the network can handle any more traffic. We can’t add new users.”

“It’s been two weeks every time and that started, what, two months ago? There has to be more to this.”

Vireen finished the water, walked back over to the sink and sat the cup down. “Alan, we can’t handle any new users. Corporate wants this upgrade done, the switches can’t handle the traffic, and now I’ve got an unusable box I have to pull. I don’t have the parts to repair it. What do you suggest I do?”

“Don’t say anything to Corporate. Just keep the box in the network room. We’ll tell them the upgrade is done.”

“What do we do when clients start calling and complaining? Lie?”

“I’ll handle it. Just keep your mouth shut and finish up the Saturday maintenance. Monitor the routers and switches, keep an eye on the traffic hits and keep me in the loop.” The dog had lumbered over to the bowl and was happily slopping up the food. “And Vireen?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell anyone about the second box failing. Not til I talk to Corporate myself.”

“Ok,” replied Vireen. He took a deep breath. “I’ll call you if…,” but Alan had already hung up. Vireen got up and walked back over to the server room. This is one giant mess, he thought. I gotta find a new gig. He walked to back row and picked up the Fluke EtherScope. He placed it in the green and orange tool bag on the floor. He gathered the screwdrivers and other instruments, placing them gently in the tool bag. Thirty minutes later he was driving westbound on the 580 highway in his yellow 2001 Volvo C70 with the hard tops removed.

Nine years Vireen had been with iClanSoft and until the merger last year, his job had been the envy of every 33 year old network engineer. An impressive salary, flexible hours, a gameroom at work, free snacks, a new laptop every other year, bonuses and the list didn’t stop there. The last Christmas party was thrown at the San Francisco Hilton with a complimentary open bar, lobster tails, hors d’oeuvres, duck pate, and suites for anyone who couldn’t drive home. iClanSoft was a blowout success, storming the payroll market with innovative services. The latest was CPS – Cloud Payroll Services. Employees of clients swiped a badge at their location and the time was recorded at iClanSoft. What was different about this setup was that it went directly over the internet and there was little equipment to buy. You simply used a regular computer station and purchased one piece of hardware for under fifty bucks, a badge reader made especially for iClanSoft, which was pre-configured with their URL and an IP address for the client. No more payroll department which meant less overhead, less cost, and more efficiency for the client. Perfect for nearly every company due to its ease and savings, a real attractive package to CEO’s everywhere in today’s financial atmosphere.

Rumors of impending layoffs had run rampant two months after the merger was complete. Eight months later, moral was at the lowest point Vireen had ever seen it. Now there were issues with making necessary purchases to support the business. Even when it started, there had been a plausible explanation: the company had switched all the purchasing power to only the vendors that the parent company Signify had when it took control over iClanSoft. This included the corporate credit cards used to make emergency purchases for any support issues to the clients that arose, such as this latest network problem.

Vireen exited Lakeshore Avenue and headed east towards the Oakland Hills. He reached over and pushed the first preset button, tuning the radio to 740 AM. The announcer was just finishing the traffic report, informing drivers to avoid southbound 880 at Hegenberger due an A’s game letting out at 8:30pm, just ten minutes ago. Weather was up next, Vireen slowed down for a light, then made a right onto Mandana Blvd. He was getting ready to turn onto Carlston Avenue when the broadcaster interrupted with breaking news. Nelson Morgan, CEO of iClanSoft had been found shot to death at the company headquarters.

Journey Home

He paused, the tip of his long narrow nose aiming up at the billowy puffs in the sky, inhaling the damp night air. Scurry…scuttle. He moved quickly, just few steps beyond the thicket of bushes. Looking behind him he could see the trail of pebbles and dirt interrupted only by the shallow impressions of his feet. Crunch! His head spun around again. ‘Must get moving’ he thought as his muscular short legs made rapid locomotive motions towards the yellow door on the wood porch.

Several heads taller than him were the green blades, reaching like hands thrusting themselves towards the sun. Drops of dew the size of a fist glistened on the leaves and grass all around Jessup. The dawn had just broken and the first rays of sunshine were stingily reaching its subjects’, the night with its cold holding out for a reprieve from this dance with daybreak. Trees that one could stand in front of and not see around or on either side surrounded this place. Only the rustling breeze and his footfalls made any sounds in this cavernous region. The sun, beginning its venture to the middle of the broad blue expanse, was just a speck bubbling on the horizon.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice dying within a few feet of where he stood. Jessup stood as motionless as a statue waiting for a response. “Is anyone there?”

“Ah-hem, yeeessss?” The reply reverberated through the hall like a deep bass drum.

Jessup hesitantly moved his right foot forward, paused, then cautiously drew the right leg even with the other. “Where are you?” he asked of the voice.

“I? I am here”, came the reply, the sound becoming louder as the voice drew nearer.

“Where is here?” Jessup squeaked, his vocal cords becoming tauter.

“My home. Where are you?” asked the voice that came from behind the counter.

“I…I’m not sure. I’m looking for someone, a friend”, Jessup explained to the voice, his voice sounding clearer.

Jessup was relieved to be back in the thickly green coppice. His heart was pounding like the hooves of horses pounding through the desert. His whole body trembled, shaking with fear, remembering the furious pace the footfalls had advanced as they raced to the door. He had made it, to the big yellow wood door with its giant brass handle, ajar just wide enough for him to slip through but small enough to keep the pursuing at bay. By the time the “hunter” had reached the entryway, Jessup had slipped safely below the porch and was making his way to the opposite side of the house. He would find a place he could sleep for the night, a nook warm and sheltered from the elements and stalkers. He would sleep and start his search anew when he awoke.

‘There….there it was again, that sound. Must I arouse?’ Chester heard the soft scraping on the shiny spotted linoleum that covered the kitchen floor. He heard the squeaky voice of the intruder and had answered calmly. ‘He’s small, I can tell. I must see him first…’ he thought as he crouched lower to the ground. He peered around the large meat container until he could see him, standing there, his eyes wide open, mouth agape slightly, waiting…waiting for the response. Chester had answered, all the while his muscles recoiling…ready to pounce, capture his prey, slaughter his catch. He stilled his breath, pausing just a second longer, then released himself, flying through the air like a great whale breaching the surface of the ocean. There had been a shrill scream, scrambling of limbs, pots and pans crashing to the ground, cotton linen thrown into the air and the slamming of bodies against walls. The intruder had escaped out the back. Chester sat there, his white chest heaving up and down, grey and brown fur falling lightly onto the floor. He crouched down, narrowing his eyes and looked at the door. His tail flicked madly. He licked it.

Jessup was all of six inches long, including his leathery brown tail. His belly was the color of creamed coffee and the rest of him a chocolate brown, with pink ears, a well whiskered nose, and bright red eyes. A house mouse, yes, that’s exactly what he thought of himself, except he was now house-less. He would go and find his friend Sam, and he would have a home again. Ah, the feel of soft sheets of tissue, the warmth a fireplaced house, the smell of freshly baked bread. Jessup couldn’t wait. He would leave in the morning and search out his longtime friend Sam. Sam, from the fields in back of the farm he had grown up in. Sam, his best friend.

Innocence gone

I grew up on Garden View from the time I was four through eleven years old, in an apartment building owned by my grandparents. My mother had remarried so I lived with her and my new stepfather. My uncle who had just graduated high school, lived in the last apartment with my grandparents. There was a total of four apartments, each two stories with a small planter box outside the front door. Bedrooms were upstairs with a restroom, and downstairs was the living room, kitchen, and another half bath.

The neighbors on the right were a Latino family from Mexico living in a baby blue house with white trim. They had a large backyard spotted with fruit trees and a double clothes line. There was the father, mother, and two kids, a boy and a girl, Anaste, who we called Zisi. She was right around my age. The boy was older by about 4 years so he never played with me. A long paved driveway with a beige brick wall separated the two residences.

To the left was another single family dwelling that had two teenage boys. They moved around the time I turned 7. I never forgot this time period, not because they moved, but rather because what happened next door at Zisi’s.

If you grow up in Los Angeles, or the LA area, you don’t really have extreme weather conditions, like say Green Bay, Wisconsin in the winter, or Houston, Texas in the summer. Nevertheless, it still gets hot enough. For a Los Angelican, 95 is pretty hot and if the nighttime is still hovering around 80, its pretty warm. Growing up in South Gate, which is a suburb of LA, there were no air conditioning units I recall in the nearby houses or our own. This meant windows were opened at night. In the mid 70′s, South Gate was still a place you could have a window open at night and count on only the cool air to enter.

On a particularly warm night, windows were unlatched, a slight breeze managed to stir but the night remained heavy with warmth. I finally managed to get to sleep after tossing and turning, trying to become comfortable in my bed. I’d throw the covers off only to retrieve them because I had sweated and was now cold. Sleep came only to be interrupted.

Screams. Blood curdling. Dreaming? Waking? Not sure. I had watched a scary movie the night before with my uncle who absolutely loved horror movies. It was eerily silent, then I heard soft scraping, a door creaking. I was awake now. Should I check the door. I could pad over in my bare feet on the carpet, no one would hear me. If someone came in, I could jump behind the dresser really fast. I was quick, I thought to myself. I heard some whispering and waited by the door, still unsure whether to open it. The whispers faded, I heard creaking from the stairs and the front door being opened. I couldn’t wait any longer, I had to know what was happening. It was still pitch dark out and there were no lights, except from the street to see what hour it was and I had no clock in my room.

I cracked open the door and peeked out. My eyes were pretty adjusted by now, but it was darker in the hallway. I could make out a shadow against the door.

“Why are you up?”, came the voice of my mother.

It startled me as my imagination had dreamed up some huge monster at the door.

“I thought I heard a noise”, I replied.

“Go back to bed”, she said.

I said nothing, and started to close the door. I could see another figure come through the doorway. I knew it was my stepfather because I could hear him and my mother speaking in hushed voices. I ran softly to their bedroom and looked out the window. Nothing, couldn’t see anything. Wait, there was a light on next door, at Zisi’s. There were more voices. I could hear someone coming up our stairs so I tiptoed quickly out the door and made my way to the bathroom.

“You’re still up?” , she asked.

“I have to go potty.”

Just a look, a stare, quite weird actually. Something wasn’t right about the look on my mother’s face but I didn’t know why or what it meant. She passed me and went on to her bedroom.

I don’t know how much time passed, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes, I heard the sound of sirens. Both of my parents went outside and I followed, in my Spiderman pajamas and green fabric slippers. An ambulance had pulled up, two men hurried towards the front door. Another rescue truck pulled up and out jumped another set of emergency workers. Voices led them around to the back. Suddenly a rolling tray with a curtain draped over a hump was bouncing and clacking from the driveway to the sidewalk. The four men made some motions and the tray went up, down, the wheels disappeared and the whole gurney was swallowed up by the ambulance. Lights and sirens going, it tore off down the street.

It was such a bizarre scene to me. Life had been relatively quiet, minus the car accident I experienced with my mom a couple of years before. Nothing really happened on our street. My mother would warn me not to go far or I could be kidnapped. My grandmother watched Eyewitness News on Channel 7 every night. I saw the crazy things that could happen but I didn’t know they could happen right on our block.

Daybreak finally came and it was fearfully quiet around the house. I went over to see if Zisi could come out and play, but no one was home. Where was my friend? Where was her family? I asked my mom, but she wouldn’t say anything, just mumbled distractedly. Morning wore on to afternoon. Afternoon turned into night and still no Zisi.

The next day I went over to my grandparents to see my uncle. He played in a band as a drummer and I wanted to be just like him. He taught me how to tie my shoes, gave me all my Hot Wheels cars, and was just plain cool. Richard, uncle Richard, he would tell me what happened.

“Uncle, do you know where my friend Zisi is?” I asked him after he managed to give me a big noogee.

“Well kid, I’m not sure you want to know”, he answered very seriously.

“What do you mean? Is it because I’m just a kid?”, I asked as inquisitively as ever. “What were all those noises? Did you hear that scream?”

He looked at me as if a cow had just sprouted wings and started flying, his face blank as if he didn’t know what to say or do. After several moments of silence and a couple of false starts, his jaw and voice box started working properly.

“Jr”, he started, “something terrible happened last night. Your mom told me not to say anything, so you have to swear not say I told you.”

“Ok, I swear to keep it our secret”, I said.

“Last night, a burglar broke into Zisi’s house. The burglar hurt Zisi’s mom and they’re at the hospital. We think she’s going to be ok.”

I didn’t know what to make of his reply. I couldn’t imagine what kind of hurt he meant. It would be a couple of weeks before I learned that the intruder had tried to slit her throat and had narrowly missed her jugular vein. Apparently the master bedroom was splattered in blood, the sheets soaked in it, the family distraught, and everyone’s life changed instantly, including mine.

I remember going over and wanting to look at the bedroom. There was a big stain on the wall where someone had cleaned up a dark liquid that had splashed on the wall. Brown spots were smudged in the carpet. My friend really didn’t want to talk much about it. I, on the other hand, was grotesquely intrigued. But I had to force myself to ignore what had happened because Zisi was my friend and she was not intrigued.

Shortly thereafter, about two months later, the family moved. Zisi’s mother survived the attack. There were rumors that the father had assaulted the mother, that it was friend of the father’s, that the father really wanted to kill her, he was a drunk, and so on. I never learned if any of this was true. My friend and her family moved from Los Angeles to Imperial Valley and I never heard from her again.

My life changed after that night. I knew now that even though my uncle and I liked to watch monster movies, monsters were real. Maybe they didn’t look like Dracula or The Werewolf, maybe they looked like you and me, but they were real. They went bump in the night, and they could slice you open like a package of bacon.

I still leave my window open some nights, but not many. Nowadays an air conditioner works way better than mother nature.

Notes

So daily writing is a difficult thing as I’m finding out. I’m writing for me and have no idea if anyone is following this blog, which kind of makes it nice. I can say anything I want and so far no one seems to notice, so this makes a great personal journal.

I’ve noticed a lot of memories coming back from my early years in life. Things I haven’t remembered from childhood I remember with a clarity I haven’t experienced.

I had to explain to a friend about being raised in the JW religion. Amazing what kind of brainwashing I went through as a child.

I also have a new awakening as to “spiritual”. I always knew that had nothing to do with religion but with an internal voice and feeling. I’ll have to write more about this later, just wanted to jot some notes.

(prayer for guidance)

Creator,
I don’t know how to live, so I ask for your guidance. Please give me direction and show me in a way I can understand.
Ah-ho

What is thine?

If thou art a rose, one cannot becometh a tree trunk or a vine.
One must be thy rose or cease to exist.
To cease to exist, one art not.
Thou be’st, therefore thou art.
Therefore, thou be’st a rose.

Accept thine life as such art given, thou becometh what thou art destined to be.
Deny such, and thou hast no life.
To be or not to be ist not thy question.
To be is to accept thou self.
To not be is to not exist but to parade in costume.
Thy question is to accept or not.

Whilst thou accept or deny thine true self?

Rolling

Its been a couple of rather busy weeks. Already I’ve fallen behind in my “daily” writing. It seems that everyone is busy, ALL the time, no one is spared a moment to relax. There is always something that needs doing or fixing or attention.

I recently made the time to put back into my life something I used to love doing — bowling. I started league bowling again just a few weeks back. My scores verify, ever so poignantly that I haven’t bowled in over 10 years, minus a handful of games in the past 6 months, which is what prompted me to try again in the first place. If you are familiar with bowling, there are “hard houses” and “easy houses”, which for me simply means some houses I can throw just about anything down the middle of the lane and it will find a decent score, and in the hard houses I really have to work hard to get a good score. In fact those few games I bowled, overall were about a 158, 160 average, in an “easy house”. Man, was I humbled. The house I’m bowling at now, IS A HARD HOUSE!

I learned to bowl from an x-pro bowler, a fellow who was good enough to have made a decent living from it and, at that time, had a 200+ average, bowled 2 leagues a week and threw an additional 15 or so practice games a week. He retired from professional bowling due to age. Being a pro meant bowling upwards of 50 practice games per week plus tournaments, working out to about 100 or so games per week. But he was a great a teacher and knew the game, physical, mental and strategic. He taught me to make use of the dots and arrows, for feet placement and where I wanted my ball to roll to make strikes or pick up spares.

And now, having had a decade lapse between bowling regularly, I just suck! But that’s ok. I’m remembering and getting better every day. The reason this house is considered hard is because you have to be very consistent–release, timing, marks, etc. In other words, do the same thing EVERY time, or you wind up in the gutter or leaving splits. And I’m not talking about the splits you need to be limber for!

I’m having fun and enjoying myself. I have a whopping 124 average, woo hoo! My other great love is scuba diving and I haven’t found the time or money to get back into that.

But I’m having fun and I guess that’s what life is about…………….finding the time to enjoy it.