Pirate Radio

Driving home from Easter at my sister's place outside of Virginia, Minnesota, I stumbled upon something incredible. Since I don't own an iPod or a CD player, I fiddle with my car's radio tuner constantly. On Sunday afternoon, just south of Cloquet on Interstate 35, I discovered a pirate radio station blaring European House Techno. I listened for thirty minutes (20 minutes on the road and 10 minutes stopped at an abandoned gas station) and didn't hear a single commercial, station id, or promotion. I lost it just north of Barnum as the trance beats were consumed by Top 40 country. If you ever find yourself between Barnum and Cloquet on a clear Sunday afternoon, turn your dial to 97.7. You'll hear something that shouldn't exist anymore.

The Sharks Always Come

Thoughtful emails make my day working as a low-level federal bureaucrat. I received the following message from my friend, Chris, a few days ago.

"I was re-reading Old Man and the Sea today and, as he's staring to sail home with his fish lashed to his skiff, I hoped the sharks wouldn't come. I was actually optimistic that the version I was reading would end with the old man returning successfully to port with the fish intact. No sharks. Needless to say, this was not the case."

Habit

Somewhere in the last year I lost the habit of noting small, stupid, and beautiful things. It disappeared like most things of quiet consequence; without any effort on my part. I let one day pass without paying attention and didn't even notice the twelve months it has been since I've tried, at the very least, to let the Almighty know I'm still showing up. I've been truant and have missed much.

The good in this is that the small, stupid, and beautiful things want so desperately to be noticed that they are willing to grant another chance.

List

I keep a list of things I know better than to say out loud. It makes my life easier when people don't know just how quietly crazy I really am. I feel more like a human being than instructive entertainment.

The list isn't particularly long nor exhaustive. I forget large portions of it so, routinely, something inappropriately vulnerable and beautiful slips out and makes an awkward little mess. I apologize, mop it up with a quick joke, dispose of it an off-the-wall conversational shift, and it never comes up again. Life goes on, as it will, so help me God, whether one likes it or not.

There are a few things I've never managed to say to people and I hope, for the ease and comfort of all involved, I never do.

Things like:

I think you're really Jesus Christ dressed up like somebody I would know.

The reason why I'm so uncomfortable around you and most other people is because I am afraid that if I am not careful, I will start babbling on about how beautiful even complete strangers are.

Just say nonsense, Dr. Seuss words, right now. I don't care. I just want a familiar voice to fill up the Big Empty a little while longer.

Jacqueline

Last fall, I tried writing a children's book for my niece, Emma. It was about a gorilla named Jacqueline who lives in a zoo and the zookeeper is teaching Jacqueline sign language. One day, the zookeeper teaches Jacqueline the sign for "I love you." Excited Jacqueline signs "I love you" to all the animals around her but none of them understand. Not discouraged, Jacqueline tries to sign "I love you" to all the people visiting the zoo, but they all think the gorilla is just doing funny things with her hands. Jacqueline tries one last time and signs to a little girl walking with her parents eating ice cream. The little girl gets so excited that she drops her ice cream cone and rushes down the stairs toward Jacqueline's cage, signing back to Jacqueline.

I like that ending even though it doesn't go anywhere. I don't want it to go anywhere. I want Jacqueline and the little girl to live in that ending. It's beautiful and who the hell am I to take that away from them even if they aren't real?

Exotic Blue Ivy

As our team walked back to our van after spending the morning at an AmeriCorps symposium in Annapolis, somebody pointed out a sprig of poison ivy growing along the sidewalk. This reminded our team leader, Sarah, of a story she wanted to share.

"At the summer camp I worked at, the guy in charge of the grounds decided he was going to mark all the poison ivy so the kids wouldn't get in it. So he sprayed all the poison ivy plants he could find with bright blue spray paint. Only, he didn't tell anybody he did this. So one day, while out on a nature hike, a couple of my kids come running up to me, yelling my name, all excited to show me a bouquet of these exotic blue plants they found. Their parents were not happy." Sarah laughed. "Murphy's Law, right?"

Cool Breeze

Saturday, April 19th, was my team’s last day working with our sponsor, the Academy of Success, in southwest Baltimore. In the morning, we worked with a score of community members and picked up trash in the blocks surrounding the current site of the Academy. For lunch, our friends at the Academy hosted a celebratory cookout for us.

After everyone had taken a seat, Mr. Eddie, the Director of Youth Services at the Academy, bellowed, “Alright, everybody. Stand up! Now, go sit next to someone you don’t already know.” Mr. Eddie grinned. “There’s gonna’ be a prize for the person who knows the most about their neighbor.”

I moved and sat down next to a wiry man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Academy’s founder, Ben Barnwell. Right away, he went to work trying to win that prize.

“How tall are you, man?” he asked me.

“Five-nine,” I replied.

He tsked. “You’re taller than me. I’m only five-eight.”

What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Sanford Barnwell,” he replied. “And yours?”

“Eric. So you’re Ben’s brother that I haven’t met yet.”

Sanford smiled. “I kept meaning to head out to the site when you all were there, but it never worked out—I do a lot of substance abuse recovery work. I did get up on the roof—I used to do some roof-work myself—and saw what you all did and I ant to let you know that I’m impressed. It looks good.”

“Thank you.”

Sanford forgot me for a moment as he tried to get the attention of one of the young attractive team leaders visiting our site. “Sophie over there is going to be my wife someday.”

Sophie turned her head and started to say something, but I leapt in with, “Congratulations, Sophie. Sanford here is quite a catch.”

Sanford laughed. “Thanks, uh, what was your name again?”

“Eric.”

Sanford smiled. “I don’t mean anything by it. I have short-term memory loss, you see. So, usually, I just give everybody a nickname. Like yours, yours would be ‘Cool Breeze’.”

I laughed. “Why’s that?”

“Because you sit back and observe everything, real cool, calm. It’s refreshing, man, like a cool breeze.”

“Eric,” Sophie yelled from the end of the table. “What’s he telling you?”

“I was just telling Cool Breeze here,” Sanford interjected, “how perfect you and I would be together.”

“I think he’s right,” I said.

Sanford laughed and slapped me on the back. “Yeah, Cool Breeze. Yeah!”

Running Through Baltimore

Three AmeriCorps members and I made the trip into Baltimore on Saturday to help Moveable Feast, a not-for-profit that delivers meals to people with HIV/AIDS and breast cancer, pack up and move to their new permanent location across town. We worked through the morning at the old site and, after a two hour delay caused by a malfunctioning hydraulic lift on the back of the rental truck, we were ready to head to their new facility to unload.

Ted, a forty-something employed by Moveable Feast, rode shotgun in our van to make sure we arrived at their new facility without getting lost. Along the way, Ted pointed out a lean older man jogging down the sidewalk.

"You see that guy running over there?" Ted asked me.

"Yeah," I responded from the driver's seat.

"That guy runs everywhere. I've never seen him walk in all the years I've lived in Baltimore. He's run to D.C., to Annapolis, all over Maryland. The papers here have done stories on him."

"What's his back story?" I asked.

Ted thought while I continued to weave through the unpredictable melee of Baltimore City traffic. "I can't recall exactly," Ted said. "If I remember right, he just decided one day to start running. A Forrest Gump kind of thing." Ted laughed and added, "He's almost entirely lean muscle mass."

"I bet."

Filthy Mess

A few days ago, a guest speaker from the Delaware State Parks' Service came to our NCCC all-Corps community meeting. He said something I found to be very moving.

"There are going to be times guys, when you're going to want to go out to eat after a hard day's work and you're going to walk into a restaurant and all eyes are going to turn on you. And then, you're going to look down at your clothes, your uniform, and you'll realize why people are staring; you are a filthy mess."

"You'll be embarrassed. You'll be tempted to just turn around and walk out. I'm here to tell you, don't. Don't walk out. Hold your head high."

"You've earned each one of those stains. The caulk on your shirt from that house you rebuilt in Louisiana. That dirt on your pants from that trail you built in a State Park. That paint from the community center you remodeled. That sauce-stain from those early mornings working in the kitchen at Camp Hope making meals for hundreds of volunteers. That stain, I don't know what you call it, that dingy stain that shows up on your stomach that comes from the months of carrying things--children, lumber, sheet rock."

"You're going to notice all these stains and you're going to want to walk out of that restaurant, that clean and comfortable place. Don't. They aren't stains. They're your badges of service. Hold your head high and walk in and sit down and enjoy yourself. And if they keep staring, smile back."

You Are Beautiful

For the last four weeks, I have been living in a dilapidated two-story hovel. The house, along with the others up and down the block with the identical floor-plan, was built near the end of WWI and has been crumbling ever since. The lead paint flakes off in scales the size of armor plates. Nylon cord has replaced knobs on two of the doors. A large grate in the living room, four-foot square, serves as the house's central heating system.

Adding insult to injury, this shoddy residence shelters seven young males, aged 18-24. It's a good week when Monday's dishes are done by Sunday.

Thankfully, there is a glimmer of the sagacious attached to the mirror above the bathroom sink. Someone affixed a metallic sticker to the mirror that reads "You Are Beautiful". I shouldn't say someone. I know full well who put it there and she told me she picked up hundreds of these stickers from an art cooperative in Chicago.

In the morning, as I brush my teeth, I catch myself staring at the sticker as often as at my own reflection, contemplating just how the two of us ended up together.

Two-Face

Last night, I ran into a Corps member from Minnesota I hadn't seen in a few days. He flew out West over the long weekend to visit his mother who is dying of liver disease.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to finish my year of service," he said. "The doctors say her liver could fail any day and I want to stay in the program, but I also don't want to get a call in the middle of the night, you know?"

I nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You have to do what you feel is right. This program will always be here waiting for you."


"I know." He broke into a sudden grin as we looked at one another. "You notice what I did to my face?"

I studied him carefully and then laughed. "You shaved only half of your face. Why?"

He shrugged. "Just thought I'd do it, you know, and see if anyone says anything."

I grinned. "You look like a comic book character. Like Two-Face or something."

He laughed and we went our separate ways.

The Snails of Irvine

When I drove through America last fall, I stopped in Irvine, California, to visit my friend, Louise. On the night I arrived, we decided to walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

As we walked, Louise said, "Watch where you step!"

"Why's that?" I asked.

"When it gets dark and damp like this, the snails cover the sidewalk. My heart breaks a little when I hear one crunch beneath my foot when I'm not paying attention."

I stared down at the sidewalk and walked lightly, but didn't spot any of Irvine's snails until Louise and I reached the restaurant. I stopped short and pointed it out to her. Louise knelt down, picked the snail up off the concrete, and gently placed it on a leaf of a decorative shrub going along the sidewalk.

"That's one no one will step on tonight," she said.

Mr. Bill's Aurora

When I worked as a banquet bartender for a resort in Two Harbors, Minnesota, I knew a man who called himself Mr. Bill. He was my boss, in a way, and an affable former burnout who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made with top tobacco.

One night, as I walked into the banquet staging area to grab more bottled beer from the cooler, Mr. Bill waved at me from where he stood, the door leading outside propped open with a rok, smoking a cigarette.

"Come out here, man," Mr. Bill said.

I hesitated. "I've got to get this beer to Josh. We're almost out."

"Don't worry about it. Just come out here."

I sighed impatiently, set the beer down on the table, and joined him out back. "What's going on, Mr. Bill?"

Mr. Bill grinned at me. "Look up, man."

I did and saw the Northern Lights for the first time in my life as they danced dimly above. "It's beautiful," I half-whispered.

Mr. Bill nodded as best he could with his neck craned upwards, puffing on a stub of a cigarette.

Reluctantly, I broke our reverent silence and said, "I should probably get that beer to the bar."

Mr. Bill squinted at me through his bifocals. "That can wait man. You and I might not ever see this together again."

I returned to my place beside Mr. Bill and went back to looking up.

Since 1981

I took a trip to Washington, D.C., with some other Corps members last Saturday. We saw the usual sights, the monuments and the museums. We also stopped by the White House.

Across the street from the back entrance to the White House, I met an old man in a black-leather biker jacket camped on the sidewalk. He was manning a protest, against nuclear armaments and wars consisting of him, his beagle, a tryptic of hand-painted wooden signs, a camp-stool, a day old copy of the Washington Post open atop a milk crate in front of him, and a large plastic tarp behind him in case of rain.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked.

"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, since 1981," the man replied.

I whistled in amazement and went back to reading the slogan painted on the tryptic and shaking my head at the graphic photos of survivors of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

A family of three passed on the sidewalk behind me. I heard the little boy ask, "Daddy, what's he doing?"

"Protesting," the father said, smiling at me.

How Free Being Naked Can Be

On our ride to the University of Delaware on Thursday morning, some members of my AmeriCorps team got to talking about the things you can do for free if you're naked.

"There's a place in Washington where, if you bungee jump naked, you can do it for free," Seth said.

Tracy, a quiet and tall blone chimed in from the back seat of the van. "A friend of mine, she went skydiving in the southwest, somewhere, and they told her if she jumped naked, they'd only charge her half-price. So she did."

Delaware City

On Tuesday, my AmericCorps team piled into our twelve passenger government van and headed to Delaware City. Our assignment was to explore this small town on the Delaware River and talk to its residents.

I met an older man as he closed up his antique shop on Main Street. He ducked back inside after I said hello to grab a pamphlet on the history of Delaware City.

"These were printed a few years ago," the old man said, "but they're still good."

I smiled and glanced through the brochure. "History doesn't change much, right?"

The old man smiled back. "No. I guess not."

"How's business?" I asked.

The old man sighed. "Bad. I might close down and try again someplace else. Things around here are getting better, though, but when you get to be my age, you can't wait around forever."

A stray cat jumped from a nearby fence onto the sidewalk and cozied up to the old man's leg. He reached down to pet it.

"Friend of yours?" I asked.

"Sure. This one's Nessa."

I squatted down to try and pet the cat and she shied away.

Don't take it personally," the old man chuckled. "She's a little skittish around strangers. I hardly ever see her in the summertime."

Another cat crept out of the alley and circled the old man.

"Another acquaintance of yours?" I asked.

The old man nodded. "That's Inky."

I smailed. "You seem to know every cat in town."

The old man laughed. "Everyone around here does. The postmaster in town, keeps her cat, Lucky, in the post office. Lucky will just lay up there on the counter all day, everyday, except Federal holidays, then she gets to stay home."

I laughed. "Thanks for the brochure. It was nice talking to you."

"You're welcome," the old man said, shaking my hand. "Come back in the summertime, if you can. That's when they start running the ferry to the Civil War prison. There's more to see then."

"Will you still be here?"

The old man stroked the cat, Nessa, again. "Oh. I imagine so."

A Million Acres

While stuck in O'Hare International Airport for nine hours last Tuesday, I struck up a conversation with a man from Wyoming. Ten minutes in, he made the following proposition.

"I tell you what, if you're interested, I'm looking to sell off a million acres."

I laughed. "That's a hell of a lot of land."

The man shrugged. "It's not so much. Folks in Wyoming call that a farmette."

"How much for a million acres?" I asked.

The man from Wyoming reclined in his chair across from mine. "A dollar an acre," he announced. "A million dollars."

"I'm going to have to pass," I said.

The man cracked a rueful grin. "Fair enough. It's not good land, anyhow."

This Modern Age

The poet Derek J. Rhodes called me from a pay-phone in Roswell, New Mexico, last night.

"You're leaving soon, aren't you?"

"I fly out to Maryland bright and early Tuesday morning," I replied.

"Good. It's about time you get to work. You remember our agreement?" Rhodes referred to a pact to do what we could to make people feel less lonely, made at a strip club in Duluth.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll try my best."

Rhodes cursed. "Do or do not. There is no try."

I paused while I tried to figure out where I had heard that adage before. "Yoda from Star Wars said that, didn't he?"

Rhodes laughed. "I guess he did. If there's one thing I've learned from my time here in Roswell, it's that this modern age is desperate for wisdom. We've got to take our sages where ever we can find them."

"Think you'll be heading to the East Coast anytime soon?"

Rhodes hemmed and hawed. "Maybe. I'll let you know if I do."

"Fair enough," I said. "Until then."

"'Till then," Rhodes said and hung up.

Selections from "On Writing"

Below are selections from a piece I wrote a few months ago called "On Writing."

[...] I am not subtle in my motives. I come to this page with all the finesse of a tractor-trailer barreling through a red light and you, Dear Reader, are the unfortunate soul in the midst of a left-hand turn. I cannot promise to leave you un-dented.

[...]I write because I am a depraved and lonely human being. I crack jokes on paper because I want to smile. I say disconcerting things because I fear my own apathy. I write insufferable characters because I want to better love my fellow human beings. I do this for your entertainment. I am an exhausted vaudevillian looking for companionship in our small conspiracy.

[...]But I do need you, Dear Reader, though you may think I doth protest too much. I need you here, perched on my shoulder, like any self-respecting god or demon, to give shape to my days. I need you to remind me to write people as they are, not as how I wish them to be complete with romantic endings and snappy one-liners. I need you to scold me when I dare to think of dressing up Ideas, Themes, or Motifs in three-piece suites or hip-hugging jeans so they can strut around your imagination, pretending to be People You Know. I would be lost without you.

[...]Let me say something brilliant and I feel like I kissed the Homecoming Queen. Let me write something mediocre and I feel like I went home from the dance all alone, knowing I didn't have it in me to say anything worth saying. I'm at home on pieces of paper. Everywhere else just feels like a stage-set from a made-for-T.V. movie.

[...]I warned you before, Dear Reader, I am a liar of the worst sort. I am willing to say anything to set my soul right.

[...]I tried quitting, once. I tore up a half-dozen notebooks, tossed my pens in the garbage, and bought pencils so I wouldn't have to live with my mistakes. It was miserable. I would make it a week and then find myself hammering out lines on cocktail napkins, linen tablecloths, or bathroom stalls. It was a holy mess. They don't make a writer's patch. I've checked with my local pharmacist.

Silly Poem

I received another postcard from the poet Derek J. Rhodes recently. The postmark indicates he sent it from a town in Nevada, just twenty miles from California. I've been there and the town doesn't have much going for it except a hole-in-the-wall, called The Horny Toad Saloon, with a grandmother for a bartender who drinks shooters of Tabasco to keep herself regular.

On the reverse side of the photo of a sunset over the Sierra-Nevada Mountain, Rhodes scribbled the following poem:

Oh, witch's broom, take me higher
and burn brightest of all tinder
in the heretic's fire