Back to the Land of the Working Stiff

Well, its been quite a ride. Since 2002 when I left the corporate world I have managed to skate along without a regular job. After living on Unemployment and my severance package for a year and hiking the Colorado trail, I started a Real Estate company with my father which ended up a break even proposition but was a test of my very sanity. Thousands of dollars of my savings were lost but I learned the ropes of the fix and flip. Unfortunately, our timing couldn’t have been worse because the bubble burst on the housing market in Denver that spring we put the house on the market. I will never go into business with another family member again-too much baggage. I learned a lot about the business of remodeling being the lead carpenter; as well as financial planner. Sometimes in failure we learn the most-enough said.

After the Real Estate fiasco, I started an online book business which has supported me minimally , but allowed me the leisure to live the good life for a few years. I have worked a lot of odd, under the table jobs, and basically been a five hand Charlie. I have worked as a moving man, a snow plow driver, painted a few houses, built log homes in the Mountains with an Almish style carpenter, been a sign installer, taught guitar lessons, and done some freelance cad work. Well, the bubble has finally burst and it’s time to get back to the regular job world. I have filed my taxes as a sole proprietor but in a way I have dropped off the radar. This winter things started to snowball on me and I saw a healthy bank balance move towards the goose egg. I watched my business account move into the red and my line of credit is nearly extinguised. It is now time to bow down and go back to work for the man for awhile. This week I broke down and decided to get a regular job and start getting a regular paycheck. I have been hired on with a company called Octopuss Painting and I am now going to be a high rise apartment exterior painter until the snow starts flying. That means until at least October I am going back to the 8 to 5 world. I am sick of being broke and having to hustle for my money.

I am kind of happy to be receiving a regular paycheck and I am learning a new trade. I have done a lot of exterior and interior painting in the past but it has usually been residential or painting apartment interiors. I am now gong to be working up to 20 stories off the ground on a swing stage, prepping, masking and spraying high rise apartments in the Washington Park neighborhood. I’ll be swinging around in mid air on a railed swing stage, the kind used by window cleaners. My background in Rock Climbing gives me the edge because I am fearless when it comes to heights and very comfortable and competent with rope work and wearing a body harness. I am looking forward to my new profession and I am going to get into bird watching and learning how to identify different species of the birds indigenous to Denver. I also hope to see naked women through the windows of apartment buildings, although my new boss has informed me that most of the tenants are elderly-oh well; you never know.

I am not quitting the books and music online business. I am still going to work on that at night. Luckily painting, once you get in the flow, is not very demanding either mentally and physically and I hope to go home and work a few hours a night on the book business. The goal is to pay off my line of credit and get ahead financially for awhile so I can resume the book business full force next winter and plow snow at night. I think this hiatus from being totally self-employed will be good for me. Unfortunately I have fallen victim to a poor work ethic and the old axiom that the Devil has work for idle hands. I decided on painting because it is basically low stress and doesn’t require a lot of physical exercise. Painting is good brain dead work and I can think and use my imagination while working.

Recently I have aggravated an old skiing injury and my rotator cuff on my left shoulder is trashed- that keeps me out of carpentry or any heavy duty skilled labor. I am avoiding returning to the corporate world of engineering-I hate stress. I like painting and am nearly ambidextrous-I can paint and cut in with either hand. I hope to improve my painting skills and improve my trade skills by working with the old masters and maybe start up a small side business painting houses and apartments in the future. It’s good to go and work with the pros for awhile and get a steady paycheck. Things will be different for me now. My new job will keep me out of the Bar at 4:00 pm and I think this is the best step for me to make. In the mean time I hope to continue writing and building up my online business-that is truly my future but I need a breather from the pressures of being self-employed. I need to get ahead and I am looking forward to my economic stimulas check that I will receive hopefully in the next few weeks from Uncle George, (providing I don’t get audited-yikes!!!).

In the meantime, change is good, change is necessary and it’s time to return to the working stiff world for the summer and fall ……..My long term goal is to remain self-employed and this is the only way out for me now. Failures in life can be turned into stepping stones and like a cockroach-I shall survive even though my shell is covered with pesticides and I am living in a Roach Motel (figuratively speaking)………………

the last of today’s stories-for real-The Dogshit Wars

Dog Shit Wars- the last of the stories from the 2006 vault

This is the last story of the day. I have put out 5 short stories today:

(if you want to rip me off I have date stamps and notarized manuscripts for all these stories.)

1. The transmigration of Robert Redman

2. The Death of Ivan Bothco

3. The rancho Coca Loco

4. Too Cool for School and Too stupid for the real word….

5. The dogshit wars

The last two are written more as semi-autobiographic narratives. The first three are traditional short stories with dialog and narration. I am working on recycling and rewriting some more old stuff and have a few new stories in the works. Hopefully things will evolve and progress-right now I am just putting these out into the ether -they definitely need some editing and rewriting but I am just trying to jump start my creative juices so to speak by putting out some old stuff. Here’s one that is a narrative-I am sorry if it offends anybody and unfortunately I lost two friends and a living situation over the events that transpired which were actually very different than what is portrayed here-this is meant to be more of a humor/perspective piece-cheers!

Dog Shit Wars

by Paul Hector

There I was on a typical Saturday morning, nursing a tremendous hangover. I was sitting in the kitchen of my tree house studio apartment, pounding down water, drinking coffee, and smoking a few hits of a J trying to silence the dissonant sixth grade marching band pounding in my head, spawned by the previous evening’s alcohol induced adventures. A typical Denver early spring morning, beautiful post card weather, birds singing, the trees that towered in my back yard still leafless but framed by the green needles of the 30 foot tall lodge pole pines. My neighbors who weren’t quite the crazy Friday night type of people I am were out in the back yard with their dogs obviously in a more functional condition than me. One of them, a 30 something black yuppie was blabbering on the cell-phone like some kind of executive while letting his dog out for a comfort break. The other one, a 30 something (?) female law student was playing fetch with her yellow lab in the yard.

Over the past few weeks, I’d noticed that they were playing a bizarre game with one another. One of them would fill a plastic bag full of dog shit and stick it next to the other one’s porch. It would than be thrown back on the other one’s doorstep. My apartment is in an old Victorian Mansion that has been renovated and turned into 3 apartment units but we all shared the big beautiful back yard and common walkways. For me the grass was a kind of no fly zone because it was heavily mined with piles of dog droppings. When I first noticed the bags full of dog shit lying around it seemed odd and strangely grotesque. They were the type of bags one would put carrots or apples into while shopping at King Soopers. The image of a pile of dog shit inside such a bag kept me out of the vegetable and fruit section for a while and my eating habits suffered as a result. Having better things to do than try to sleuth out what the deal was, I accepted it as an idiosyncrasy of living with such an arrangement. I still sensed tension in the air especially since they were now in the back yard together.

After a few magic cups of java and a little weed, (a hippy speedball,) my head began to start feeling better and I began pondering what my activities for the leisurely Saturday were to be. At just that moment, I heard a real commotion in the back yard and hurried footsteps on the front porch downstairs. This was followed by the angry voice of my female blonde law student neighbor downstairs inside the house screaming racial slurs (the “N” word) at her well dressed black male neighbor, telling him to pick up after his dog.

At this point I wondered if the hippy speedball had somehow magically transported me to some place like Mobile, Alabama. Although, there is some degree of racial tension in Denver, the city is comparatively well integrated and unless you’re working on a redneck construction crew or something, you’re ordinarily not used to hearing racial slurs hurled around, especially outside the door of one’s apartment. This was disturbing and also confusing and I thought maybe it was time to give up the green stuff and coffee because the after effects were becoming too strange and frightening for me. I was also very concerned about both my neighbors because they were both nice people and their little game of bagging up dog shit like fruits and vegetables and depositing it onto their respective doorsteps had obviously snowballed into something much worse. Deciding to retreat into denial, I lit up the rest of the funny cigarette and tried to just ignore things being that my skills as a conflict negotiator were very much degraded by my morning hangover cure.

After about half an hour of watching the TV, I decided to walk outside and take in some morning sunshine, hoping that the bizarre episode had somehow subsided but still walking on pins and needles wondering what was up. Of course stepping in a pile of dog shit is a universally annoying and disgusting event-especially if you are wearing your 80$ black leather shoes. You can’t really take them inside to clean them up because most people use their sinks and bathtubs for preparing food or personal hygiene. The only way to do it is hold them under the garden hose spigot and try not to yak up your last meal. I thought about visiting my neighbors but decided against taking sides. Who do I visit first? Most stoners hate conflict so I decided to just suck it up and try not to rock the boat, especially since my house was racially integrated. Although I abhor racism and feel that it is a festering ignorance that has been passed down through the inglorious history of mankind, I didn’t want get involved,( I knew and sensed one party was definitely too well dressed, and above the demeaning job of cleaning up after one’s own dog….).

Most of the black people I have known are above or beyond being very effected by the commonly used slur I heard downstairs. At the same time, being a waspy, white bred man who grew up in suburbia, I knew that it was impossible for me to fully understand or even empathize with what it may be like to be on the wrong end of it. Racism is a many tiered phenomena. I remember my grandfather, of Swedish-Lutheran descent, railing on and on about the Catholic Church and how Rome was the epicenter of all evil. I went to high school with a lot of competitive and highly intelligent Jewish people and was well acquainted with anti-Semitism; my best friend growing up was Jewish. It seems that people who share the same or similar ethnicities can’t get along. The British look down on the Irish, the Japanese view the Koreans as inferior, the Germans-just about everybody who isn’t German. The black-white thing has always been a sort of taboo for me. I’ve visited cities like New Orleans and Boston where racial tension still boils-Denver has had its share of problems but, thankfully, it is relatively free of it, (from my white bred perspective that is.) I felt like chastising my female white neighbor but I wondered if there were mitigating circumstances. I had the feeling that there was something more going on between them and decided play deaf and dumb.

There was the kind of eerie calm out in the yard, the kind that military veterans describe that comes in the aftermath of a rocket attack. My neighbors were no where to be seen. I opened up the garden gate and stepped out into the front yard where I was startled by seeing three police cars out front. This caused the stoner paranoia program to initiate itself inside my head. I thought about running upstairs and flushing my stash. I saw my neighbor Chris sitting and talking to the police and they were putting an APB out for the blonde female student and giving her description in the manner that the police do-“a five foot seven female Caucasian with shoulder length blonde hair…” This was strange and startling in a way. All the sudden my seemingly sweet hearted neighbor girl was joining the ranks of America’s most wanted. I decided to retreat after overhearing Chris describing to the police how Evelyn had spread dog shit on his welcome mat which was inscribed ironically with the words, “Wipe Your Paws.”

I went back upstairs in a combined state of paranoia and confusion. Doing the wake and bake thing and than going outside and seeing three cop cars in your front yard is not any pot smoker’s idea of a very good morning. At the same time I was a little spun out by what was transpiring. I was used to seeing images on TV of the police mercilessly beating a black man a la Rodney King. The whole OJ thing had given me the impression that the police were a bunch of clan members or something. I’d even seen, in person, a black police officer using the N word while busting a young black man. Now on this very foggy but sunny morning I was taken aback by the fact that the cops were now going after a redneck girl. Would a policeman arrest his own wife? It dawned on me that those were probably the mental health police. These days the men in white suits usually carry badges and look like police officers. Regardless of who or what this particular police unit was, most black men I’ve met don’t really trust the police. But of course, in what was now weird world with a pretty little blonde throwing dog shit around in the back yard I wondered if the weed had sent me back into the 19^th century. I looked out the window to see if there were any horse and buggies traveling up and down the street. Than again I realized that if it was really the 19^th century the police would be stringing Chris up to the nearest tree and probably taking Evelyn out for a bite to eat. Seeing that I was indeed in the 21^st century, I again decided to think very seriously about giving up the smoke because things were getting a little skewed. At that point the coffee wore off and I went back to sleep hoping that when I woke up I’d be back home, kind of like Dorothy in the Wizard of OZ.

As I sit here now months later, much more clear headed, it dawns on me that you can never truly escape racism, even in its most bizarre manifestations. Both my neighbors have moved out, probably for their own good. Evelyn was given a slap on the wrist and Chris obviously needed a better living situation for him and his dog. In the aftermath of the dog shit war, the little piles of dog shit are a thing of the past and there’s no need to be aware of flying dog shit or avoid stepping on little bags of shit while stumbling home from the bar. For this I am thankful and, since I quit the wake and bake, some semblance of normality has returned, at least I hope. Unfortunately normality and racism are not mutually exclusive sets and on any given day one can be thrust back into the 19^th century, the lynch mob rolling, even in some of the most bizarre and unlikely of manifestations.

Mid Life Rock Star-yet another short story from the archives

All right, I still can’t get to work. I am going to put out a few more stories and than get out of my apartment and away from the glow of my monitor-out into the warm sunshine. This one is about playing in a band in Denver in my late thirties-a semi-autobiographic piece:

Too Cool For School and Too Stupid For the Real World? Maybe I’ll join A Band.

By Paul Hector

When I was growing up the coolest guys on the block were always the guitar players. You’d go by their houses and see all the girls in the neighborhood hiding in the bushes and giggling. I remember my first exposure to the electric guitar from my neighborhood pal Albert Lee Rozinski. We used to hang out and play basketball with the neighborhood kids in his driveway. One day I showed up early and I heard him and his older brother playing a drum and guitar jam in their basement, running through Rush songs as well as some Yes and Led Zeppelin. I threw the basketball down and immediately ran home and cried to my mommy and daddy that I didn’t want anymore piano lessons and there was nothing in life that I wanted more than an electric guitar.

After a few temper tantrums and some jobs I scored in the neighborhood mowing lawns, I got my first guitar and amp from a pawn store. I remember the excitement and than disappointment of going home and plugging the thing in only to find out that the guitar was not anywhere close to being easy to learn how to play. I walked down the street to Albert’s house and asked him for some pointers and I immediately got served up a ration of humble pie as he played me the intro to Roundabout by Yes. I was completely humiliated, despondent, and ready to return to the basketball court when Albert suggested that I try the bass because it had less strings and you didn’t need to use any fancy fingering, you could just pound away on one string. I sold my guitar and rig and bought a bass amp and a flying V cherry red bass guitar which weighed about 50 pounds. After a couple more humiliating experiences trying to jam with Albert and his brother to nerdy classic rock jams, I realized that these were not mere mortals. They must have come from a land of Dragons and Wizards that graced the album covers of their favorite bands. Luckily I knew some other guys in a different neighborhood who were forming a punk band which required much less skill. Not only that, these guys were cool and they had older friends that would buy them beer and a few of them bragged that they had lost their virginity to some of the more deviant teenage girls in the neighborhood. Soon I was cool and in a band although our covers of songs by the Clash and Black Flag would make any neighborhood dog howl like the moon was full. That was my introduction to the world of being a musician. A big gangly nerd trying to make the high school basketball team soon became a B.G.N.W.R.S (big gangly nerd wannabe rock star) walking to and from school with my bass guitar case strung over my shoulder like an assault rifle.

I remember the first time I played my bass guitar to one of my high school girl friends and she flat out told me I sucked and needed lessons. I went down to the local mall (Southglenn mall in suburban Denver) and started taking lessons from some “old guy” (he was probably about 27 at the time.) After a few months of bleeding from the lack of calluses on my fingers, I’d actually learned how to play some songs-Sweet Emotion by Aerosmith was one of my favorites. I’d play it so loud with my bedroom door locked that my Mom would go down into the basement and flip the breakers cutting off my “session,” much to the relief of everybody in the square mile. Luckily for the neighborhood, I soon went off to college where I played in several party bands, pounding down Boulder keg beers while doing crazy covers of party tunes like Low Rider and Brick House. While this led to a few good times it wasn’t conducive to trying to study. By the end of my college career I had to quit being in a band in order to study although this never quenched my desire to be a musician.

I continued playing music and joined several bands throughout my twenties which led to some minor successes. After I’d reached the ten year plateau of plucking the bass, I found that I could actually play the instrument. Unfortunately, I never got my big break and ended up on MTV, so I had to quit playing out and get serious about a job, laboring in the corporate world. I still followed my musical aspirations in private and after about twenty years of practicing music I could actually really play the guitar and the bass as well as being able to hold a beat on a drum set and play some piano. With the millennium and 911 coming to pass, all the sudden my career as an engineer was put in jeopardy. I realized that a Taiwanese engineer making 5 dollars an hour was a threat to my position and I moved into project management to try to save my ass from the waves of layoffs that were terrorizing my company. After a lot of my hair had washed down the shower drain I was finally put out of my misery by being laid off with a very nice severance package. All the sudden I could just sit around my pad and play my guitar and suck unemployment for about a year. I had no desire to move to Minnesota or North Carolina; I’d rather stay in Denver although the job market was pitiful. Hours were spent sitting alone strumming away on my guitar and bass while pretending to look for another job.

During this period I was also entering my late thirties and the time was ripe for a mid-life crisis. I decided to forgo my career as an Engineer in hopes of becoming a “Rock Star.” This term has taken on a lot of connotations and covers a wide spectrum ranging from the Cult of the Dead (Hendrix, Morrison?, Joplin, Cobain, Elvis?,…etc.) to the tattooed-piercing people of the 90’s, the spandex-lipstick-mousse boys of the altogether forgettable 80’s, the master musicians & punks of the70’s, and the Flower power freaks of the 60’s. There are also the guys like Mick Jagger, Ozzy, and Johnny Rotten who maintain their legacy and probably also have to wear diapers to bed. In today’s cultural melting pot the term Rock Star means a lot of things to different people. It could be bleeding your heart out to save the whales, rainforests, and tree people of New Guinea like Sting or Peter Gabriel, just flat out bleeding all over the place like Iggy Pop, or puking your guts out all over the stage like Axl Rose in front of 100,000 head bangers. In pursuit of this fleeting and grail like quest, I started gutting my 401 K’s to survive, buying musical equipment, and swimming in the delusional state shared by many mid-lifers that my adolescent fantasies could finally be fulfilled. After a few open mic’s and some impromptu acoustic gigs at parties I decided I needed to either join or form a band, the embryonic genesis of any Rock Star’s legacy. Being in complete denial to the fact that my aging persona was less than up to snuff for the commercially accepted “Rock Star” image, I proceeded to audition for a few bands and was met by denial. This wasn’t enough to pierce through my “Rock Star,” wannabe bubble and I kept honing my skills as a musician.

Finally I was able to realize the genesis of my Rock Star fantasy after a random encounter with the lead singer of a local band called the Phantasmagorical Bloodsuckers. I remember vividly my audition for the band, showing up with a tattered baseball cap covering my less than rock star like mane. With no tattoos or nose rings I was expecting to be showed the door but luckily my years of persistence, bloody fingers, and pools of vomit paid off and I was accepted for the position. All the sudden, the Rock Star dream was looming on the horizon and I had visions of playing bass solos in front of delirious audiences……

Wake up call, welcome to the world of the Denver music scene. Although I grew up in South Denver, I was unaccustomed to the fact that this former Cow town wannabe California city is actually not the easiest place in the world for an aspiring musician. Most of my musical experience in my younger days was garnered in Boulder and on the West coast where many a band has encountered a good measure of success. The names of bands that have made it to the big time in this city can easily be counted on the fingers of one hand- groups like Firefall and Golden Earring which occasionally still play on the old-timer’s circuit are the only one’s I can think of. Although the recent years have somewhat transformed things, Denver has never been known as a cultural Mecca for the up and coming band. Usually people that have originated from this city have sought out other markets. The reasons why- maybe the gene pool has been polluted by the fallout from nuclear tests in nearby Utah, maybe there’s more cowboy’s than rockers, most likely it’s the fact that until the LoDo renaissance of the 90’s, this town has been deader than Salt Lake City on a Sunday night. Denver is a very isolated city, surrounded by PBR guzzling hicks and thousands of miles from nowhere, a giant train station and extension of the airport. The audience is often few and far between. Most of the wired yuppies have to be up to start piling through their emails by 5 am so they can feign sickness and hit the slopes at Vail with little time to visit a local music venue. There is also the right wing Christian element which has crept like a sinister vine up from Colorado Springs, strangling any culture that tries to manifest itself in this sun bleached city. Things are getting better, but still Denver is dominated by the neo-Nazi close minded elements. While the clubs and venues in cities like LA, SF, Chicago, and NYC are usually packed at least five days a week, Denver clubs are dead most nights of the week. Although the weekend drunken crowds at LoDo make street travel treacherous, for the aspiring smaller market musicians who want to play original music, there exist only a few good places to gig and the crowds are often sparse. Local music is mostly overlooked by the sun worshipping mountain yuppies and Jesus freaks with their SUV’S jamming the I-70 corridor heading for the mountains on any given weekend.

Regardless, after about 3 months of regular practices with the Bloodsuckers, we were ready for our first gig at the Satirical Tiger’s Lounge on Colfax. The night before, I remember wallowing in a mixture of self-doubt and delusion, feeling that this could be the launch pad for my new found occupation-“Rock Star.” I emailed a couple dozen friends thinking the place would packed by admirers ready to launch my dream and realize my destiny as a “Rock Star.” As we loaded our gear off the mean streets of Colfax, my euphoria was soon replaced by the fact that this was less than a “Rock Star” venue and there were about 13 people in the audience. The three “hotties” with nose rings and tattoos were gone after the first band. When we finally reached the stage at 11:30, my 5 loyal friends sitting front and center were yawning and doing their best to be as polite as possible. As I hit the stage I proceeded to crank my amplifier to overcome the shortcomings of the miniature stage monitors only to have it cut out to protect the speaker’s from blowing. The shots of whiskey we had had to cut the nerves had eroded our ability to perform our energy charged set. Our lead singer, Ben Lizzy, was a zombie, having worked 40 hours at his real job by Thursday, trying to bring in the bread to support his musical habit. After we’d played and butchered our 35 minute set, the thirteen very polite and yawning people scattered and headed for the exits, leaving us to wander shocked like Hiroshima survivors through the aftermath of our “Rock Star” set.

Thus was my introduction to the world of the delusional mid-life Rock Star fantasy in Denver, Colorado. That morning after crying in my beer till 4 in the morning, my dream of being a rock star had turned into a nightmare of sorts. There were no groupies, no all night drug crazed parties, just a soon to be middle aged man wavering between delusional fantasy and self-doubt. Still, the need to follow my adolescent fantasy lingered on like whatever strange smelling monster it was that inhabited the plumbing of the Colfax bar we had just played. No amount of draino, air freshener, or the most powerful roto rooter in the world could ever vanquish it. I pressed on with my grail like quest…….

Yet another short story-Rancho Coca Loco

Well, this is the last of today’s short stories and one I believe is truly original. It was inspired in part by my own trips down to Mexico when I was working in Telecom as a manufacturing engineer and designer. I believe this is a truly original storyline and not a rewrite-enjoy!

Rancho Coca Loco

Life didn’t seem fair to Robert X. Where things seemed to come so easy to most people, his life seemed like an uphill battle through volcanic mud. Random thoughts drifted through his head as he stared out the window of the airplane as it circled Mexico City with its 200 miles of lights illuminating the valley floodplain. Outside the window of the plane he could see Popocatepetl, one of the local volcanoes, erupting and gushing red lava and smoke into the night air. An incredible sight indeed, Robert had heard they’d evacuated the Volkswagon Plant at the foot of the mountain due to fears of mudslides. To imagine all those stupid looking little German candy boxes plasticized a la Pompeii would almost be fitting. The revenge of the gods, how dare the white man build his Hitler mobile at the foot of our volcano! A big jovial looking Texas businessman was sitting next to Robert on the plane.

“That Volcano sure is a humdinger,” said the Texas businessman. “I wonder if that lava could make it down into Mexico City.”

“The mountain’s too far away but it could take out some towns and villages, if the gods are angry,” said Robert.

Robert had been shuttling back and forth to Mexico now for over a year. His impression of Mexico was that the people seemed strangely happy in the face of abject poverty, at the same time; life seemed to lack any intrinsic value. All around Mexico City and its surrounding towns and cities, death seemed to lurk and smile everywhere. Robert had many memories of dead dogs and even dead people lying on the side of the road as he rode from his hotel to the manufacturing plant where he was working on his Mexican “vacations.” The overwhelming sprawl of humanity in Mexico City was overpowering, almost as bad as the pack a day pollution that hovered over the city, irritating both the eyes and respiratory system.

“Are you down here on business,” said the Texan.

“Unfortunately,” said Robert. “I’ve been coming down here to Toluca for the past year, our headquarters in Kansas City decided to fire all their production workers and set up a Maquiladora to take advantage of the cheap teenage labor down here in Mexico. They stuck me in Manufacturing because that’s where all the lowlifes end up. It was either that or the streets.”

Robert hated his job. He hated corporate America, all the cliques and butt kissers-it was the high school cafeteria all over again. The sales and marketing executives were the cool popular people that went around and charged up oodles of dollars to bottomless expense accounts all the while partying with their clients like Fleetwood Mac during their cocaine days. The technical employees like Robert were down in the black hole of Calcutta, trying to fix the problems and make things look good so the sales people could go out and be cool and popular. Occasionally one of salt-mine geeks would transcend the ranks and become an executive so that they could hang out with the cool popular people, only to be secretly made fun of behind their backs. Almost like when some cheerleader dates a dork to make her jock boyfriend jealous, the problem being that the dork doesn’t see her ulterior motives and actually falls in love only to be tossed back down onto the pavement with the added insult to injury of all the cool popular people laughing at his pain while he takes a beating. This is how the corporate world operated. What seemed like a promotion was often a ticket to the circle of laughter and ridicule found in most high school cafeterias.

The thoughts of quitting his job had often occurred to Robert. Usually two or three times a day. On this particular evening he was particularly on edge. He had had repeated show downs with his boss Gary over the past week and it was effecting his sanity. This project had destroyed his life, he thought. Since he had been shuttling back and forth to the Mexican assembly line, his woman had run off and his truck had been stolen out of his drive way. Add a steel guitar line and he could be number one on the Nashville charts for all his whoa. The plane bumped down on the runway and there he was in a foreign country in the most dangerous and largest city on the western hemisphere, it was 11:30 at night and it was time to get as drunk as possible.

“That was a hell of a rough ride,” said the Texan.

“It sure was,” said Robert,” let’s go have a drink.”

“Much obliged,” said the Texas businessman.

The Mexico City Marriot hotel is attached to the airport via an enclosed modern carpet bridge that overpasses the street. This is very fortunate because an American’s chances alone and on the streets of Mexico City are not encouraging. Life is dangerous enough for the Mexicans. Robert and the Texan headed to the bar at the ground floor of the Marriot, right after checking in. Robert always traveled light and the Texas businessman seemed to want a beer. Bill Mularky was a trucking executive from Corpus Christie, Texas who drank heavily both on and off the road.

“Since last year I reckon we’ve had three trucks just flat out disappear out in the middle of nowhere on the road between here and El Paso. It’s just business as usual down here in Mexico,” said Bill hoisting a Pacifico with a tequila chaser.

“A lot of things just disappear,” said Robert X as he stared out into the restaurant swimming in tequila. A few tired looking travelers were strewn about, an older couple was sitting drinking at the bar, and the ubiquitous mariachi band was present, though not physically, only blaring out of the speakers far in the background. Even in the hotel he could smell the heavily polluted air of Mexico City. The air that always stung one’s eyes, every breath like taking a drag off an exhaust pipe.

If only his Spanish were better he wouldn’t feel so alone and vulnerable in Mexico City. He could forget about going to the factory and venture out into the surrounding country side to places like Cuernavaca or Pueblo, ancient culture rich Spanish colonial towns, away from the pollution of industrial Mexico City and hang out like an expatriate by some hotel swimming pool, drinking Mexican beer, eating fresh fruit, and dining on corn tortillas filled with Barbacoa. Instead he was going to a factory to work on implementing a production line for corporate America which was in a way glorified slave labor. The Mexican peasant Indian girls who worked in the factory were usually 16 years old, made 5 dollars a week, most of which in many cases, was turned over to an alcoholic brother or father to squander. Yet in Mexico, these were good jobs for which people would line up around the block. For the majority in Mexico, the alternative to slavery is death.

Bill continued to talk as they hoisted drinks and a few other travelers joined them. Robert eventually excused himself and slipped off to his hotel room to drunkenly sleep amongst sounds of the Mexican night. He watched Mexican television as he drifted off and in his semi-conscious state he developed a sudden cognition for the language and every thing made perfect sense. The television programming was just like in America, they were always selling you something, whether it was an image, an attitude, or a new pair of shoes. At the other ends of the sale lived the hollow faces of slavery, whether mental physical, or both. As always, he slept poorly. It was late summer, the monsoon season in Mexico City, and wind driven rain pounded the window panes of his hotel room.

The next morning the sun was bright as Robert rode in a private cab hired for him by his company. It is a well known fact that you don’t take just any cab in Mexico City. Many cab drivers appear to run a regular taxi cab but they are actually banditos who take unsuspecting customers for the ride of their lives usually robbing them and dumping them someplace, either living or dead. This particular cab driver was safe in person but his driving seemed anything but. The cab, which might have had 5 lug nuts on each wheel, sped along mountain highways and vibrated and shuddered as the cab reached terminal velocity. Robert nearly kissed the ground after they arrived at La Fiesta hotel in Toluca, Mexico.

Toluca is about one hour west of Mexico City across a mountain pass. It has its own volcano and is a physically beautiful spot. The old city has lakes and Spanish styled cathedrals. Unfortunately, the sprawling area is very heavily industrialized with countless American and European companies enjoying the combination of a cheap labor force and lack of environmental regulatory agencies. Robert’s company had joined the ranks of BMW, GM, Chrysler, Bayer Chemical, Gates Rubber, and other corporate megaliths that inhabit the third world, living off the land like some evil bacteria.

That morning Robert checked into his hotel and ate breakfast at the hotel buffet. He always enjoyed the continental cuisine at Mexican hotels. He was sitting and drinking Mexican coffee when he was met that morning by a representative from the factory whom he had never seen before.

“Good Morning Mister X,” I am Enrique Julio Jesus Juan Garcia, but you can call me Ricky.

“Morning “, said Robert. “I don’t think I recognize you from any of my other trips down here.”

“I am the new manager of the backwards press punch down line, I used to work for GM at their foundry, I am an expert in worker productivity.”

“Very interesting,” said Robert yawning and feeling his morning Tequila breath coming on, a familiar feeling in Mexico for Robert. As they were driving along Robert noticed that they were taking a very circuitous and unfamiliar route to the factory and they had left the city and were traveling through the Mexican countryside.

“I don’t recognize this route,” said Robert.

“Ah, this morning I am taking the Senor to a special meeting.”

“I wasn’t made aware of any special meeting in Kansas City before I left head quarters. We usually have a very tight itinerary at the plant while down here.”

“Soon the Senor will know everything he needs to know.”

“I think I need to call Gary back in KC to talk about this.”

“There will be a phone at the meeting.” Said Ricky and smiled.

Robert felt nervous but at the same time he was too hung over to want to argue with this Mexican engineer in broken English. The car pulled into a compound that looked anything but corporate. The entry way to the ranch read Rancho Coca Loco. Robert shuddered as he saw Ricky take a hand gun out of the glove compartment and spin the barrel with one hand as he parked the car. There were two other Mexicans outside the car coming to greet them. They were carrying automatic weapons.

Ricky stepped out of the car and conversed with the other banditos in Spanish and there was laughter. Robert X sat in the car trembling almost in disbelief as he began to assimilate the situation. He was now being held at gunpoint in the middle of nowhere outside of Toluca, Mexico. He was motioned out of the car by the gun men. One of the gun men strapped his piece and very rudely shoved Robert from behind and they led him towards a large earthen building with exposed wooden timbers and black latticed windowpanes. Robert was led through a large heavy door into a central room where he was shocked to see Bill Mularky seated in the middle of the room.

“Robert, I’m glad to see you met my amigo Ricky. Enrique is a great man, a father to over 13 children, 13 that he knows about that is.” With that Bill and all the Banditos broke into riotous laughter. “You see Robert, Mexico is a strange place and people can disappear right off the face of the earth down here, just like the trucks and airplanes I use to run marijuana and cocaine up into Texas with do. The thing is though, if you’re in the know, everything can be bought and sold down here. The truck can reappear in El Paso with a million dollars worth of commercial grade weed just as fast as it can disappear. You see, everything has its price, whether it’s a stupid Senor Frogs T-shirt, 5000 lbs of marijuana, or a peon corporate guy like you.”

“Now Robert X, after I met you I calculated how much I thought you’d be worth and it wasn’t much. Now, if we’d grabbed say Chelsea Clinton or Jenna Bush, then we could get quite a bit but we might get attacked by the CIA, the US Airforce or Navy. But with you, we don’t think anybody cares enough and we were hoping to get maybe 50,000$, about your yearly salary adjusted to taxes, etc. We did some looking and found out you don’t have a wife or kids, only some older parents and a couple of siblings. We figure if they can’t dig up the money, they can cry to your company and they’ll probably pay up. And just as sure as you thought my name was Bill Mularky, they’d probably want to keep things under wraps.”

“In the meantime we can keep you busy here at our cocaine processing facility, we need guys like you that have good heads on their shoulders.”

After his unintended arrival at the rancho Robert had had a couple conversations on the phone with his boss Gary, his parents and his sister. Everyday he expected to hear the news that the ransom had been paid and he was going to be released. Than each day passed and he was still at the ranch. Living here was mundane but it wasn’t too unbearable, he was well fed and life was uncomplicated. Things began to slowly assimilate into a norm at Rancho Coca Loco for Robert. His previous life seemed to wither away and became like the memory of a dream. Soon his work ethic and technical skills earned him trustee like privileges at the processing facility where he worked amongst a mix of natives and other peon executive prisoners surrounded by armed guards. Everyday, hundreds of pounds of Coca Leaves were trucked, dropped by air, or smuggled onto the ranch through the local airport. There they were sent to huge kerosene filled holding tanks to soak and eventually be processed into powder.

Robert soon impressed his captors by presenting them with a list of recommendations to improve production efficiency. Soon the plant was processing 20% more powder everyday and at the same time waste byproducts were reduced by over 50% and Robert was able to streamline the process line in order to reallocate manpower more efficiently, reducing worker fatigue and improving over-all productivity. This earned him even more privileges which included eating dinner with Bill Mularky and his own private cache of Tequila. He was eventually allowed to take a wife from among the female production workers.

Robert X soon forgot about his miserable life in corporate America. Life was good here at Rancho Coca Loco. Within five years Roberto X spoke fluent Spanish and forgot about his life in evil corporate America. At that time he was freed by his captors but never went home. Instead he went wandering off into the Mexican countryside, sampling Mole in Pueblo and lounging poolside in Cuernivaca-Quixotic and quest less, having finally found peace in the third world.

Another short story-the Death of Ivan Bothco-pt.1

This morning I should be working on my online business but instead I am digging through the archives of my short stories. Here is something I started working on a few years ago that is heavily inspired by both modern world events and the writing of Edgar Alan Poe. It is an unfinished story and I am working on ideas for part two. The last story was more in the 70’s horror genre-not very original. This particular storyline is much more original but the premise is based on a reworking of Poe’s short story-the Fall of the House of Usher.

The Death of Ivan Bothco

As he drove through the countryside, Fred Larkington lit up a cigarette and tried to remember the last time he had seen Ivan Bothco. It had been three years since he left school, a lot had transpired-the army corps of engineers trip to that ravaged and war torn nation, back home a failed relationship, a fling or two, and than the move to the city to run his sputtering consulting business. He hadn’t seen his friend Ivan for many years but the news of his grave illness was disconcerting. At an age where most young men feel immortal, here was mortality staring him in the face and as he drove through non-descript farmlands, with the smell of fertilizer and manure permeating the air, he pondered the death and destruction he had seen around him and thought about the violence of the times. He felt in many ways numb to suffering having seen so much. Still, he and Ivan had grown up together and the illness of a close friend was a valid excuse to leave the city and return to Youngsfield, Pa. the small town where he grew up. He had been driving for a couple hours and he could feel the calm and peace of the countryside, far removed from the stressed out masses of the city and modern life.

The lights of town grew close and he decided to stop for a drink at the roadhouse on the edge of town. As he entered the bar he looked around into the half smoky emptiness. The roadhouse was a standard bar room, with a pool table, round elevated tables and stools, a large wooden oak bar with the obligatory Budweiser, Rolling Rock, and Pabst Blue Ribbon logos adorning the windows, sending their neon light out into the night. Fred noticed only a few rough looking patrons. He vaguely recognized the bartender and as he slid up to the bar the bar tender greeted him.

“I haven’t seen you around in quite a while, Fred wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, I’ve been out seeing the sights and trying to rebuild the world,” Fred said and quickly shifted the topic away from his personal life. Fred mentioned the reason for his visit.

“Ivan! That’s a shame about him. He always came through here with a glimmer in his eye. After he returned home from military service he was never the same. A lot of folks said he left his mind over there somewhere, but in my opinion he was a true hero. The fight can take a lot out of a man, I’m a veteran myself of the Korean War ……..” the old bartender trailed on with his war stories but Fred wasn’t listening anymore. Visions of bombed out desert landscapes and the chaos of war flashed through Fred’s mind, families lining up on the roadside begging for fresh water and food. The pounding of the ground from concussion bombs reverberated. He recalled the constant atmosphere of fear and death that was ever present as he worked to repair bridges and public works destroyed by American bombs. These thoughts were last thing Fred wanted to entertain as he sat at the bar world’s away in the agrarian peace of Youngsfield. As the bartender rambled on about patriotic values, Fred sat half listening sipping down a Mexican beer. He finished his drink and tipped the bartender and headed to a nearby hotel to spend the night.

Ivan Bothco was the richest kid in the entire county and lived in an almost baronial estate on the outskirts of town. His family had made a fortune in the last century and it was often rumored that the money might be tainted by criminal activity. Ivan himself was far removed from any type wrongdoing, a very loyal and patriotic country boy, living an idyllic life in the midst of the relatively simple folks and the poor community that surrounded his Citizen Kane like family estate. The grounds of the estate always seemed eerie to Fred. The landscaping included many stagnant manmade pools which always seemed lifeless and dead, overgrown with algae and lily pads. On this morning Fred noticed how overgrown the place was. Ivan had been the man of the house since the passing of his parents at a young age. In essence he had been raised by the servants but he quickly developed a strong autonomy and maturity which was to become a great asset to his military career. Ivan had entered the service after college, an officer, filled with a deep sense of patriotism but many people felt that it was a family he was looking for. It seemed very odd to Fred that Ivan would allow the grounds to become overgrown. Maybe the gardener was also ill? Ivan was always a man who paid close attention to detail.

A servant that Fred recognized but couldn’t remember the name of answered the door. The interior of the mansion, as always, unnerved him. The halls were immense with high ceilings and chandeliers. Light streaked into the halls through oak trimmed windows and dimly lit the corridors leaving dark shadowy corners. Antique furniture, trophies from big game hunts, a collection of antique firearms, and other military artifacts decorated the main corridor. Landscapes painted in oil adorned the upstairs hallways as the house servant led Fred to the guest room.

“Lunch will be served in one hour, the master encourages you to rest up from your trip.” Said the houseman and retreated into the labyrinthine immensity of the Bothco Mansion.

Since early childhood Fred had never felt comfortable in this place and had always politely declined Ivan’s offers to let him use the guest room, no matter how tired or intoxicated he was. There were rumors around Youngsfield about the catacombs that were built underneath the mansion. Originally they might have been part of a booze smuggling operation during prohibition but stories existed that there were dungeon like rooms down there where enemies of the family were dispensed of utilizing medieval torture devices. Fred never believed the stories and always knew Ivan to be very upstanding and responsible. A lot of the local farm boys saw Ivan as a type of role model. He was always very humble about his family wealth and often went far out of way to help others exhibiting and adhering to a strong sense of community. Many of his peers were deeply jealous of Ivan as he always commanded a lot of attention from the local farm girls. At the same time his generous and stoical persona made him a natural leader and Fred could never equate him with any wrongdoing.

After about a half hour a knock came at the door and there stood Ivan’s youngest sister Ismerelda. Fred remembered her as a child but now she stood there, 19 years old and a picture of beauty. Their reunion brought smiles and hugs to both of them.

“Ivan wanted to meet you for lunch but he is feeling very poorly. His doctor has recommended that he rest up for the remainder of the day and night. I thought we could spend the day together and go into town for dinner. There are definitely a lot of people who would like to see you.”

To Fred this seemed god sent. Here was this angelic beauty who he remembered as an annoying little sister, suddenly in the pride of early adulthood. The visit to his sick friend could definitely wait. The next hours passed with great ease as the two strolled about the grounds reminiscing of days past.

“Ever since Ivan got back from the war I haven’t been able to live in the house with him,” said Ismerelda suddenly becoming very serious and deadpan. “I’ve had to rent an apartment in town.” “It’s hard to describe the change that has come over him. He isn’t at all a threat in any way and he is harmless. It is his sudden turn that frightens me. It’s as if all the patriotic values and morals that we grew up with are completely forgotten and he is filled with an immense darkness and a very frightening obsession with his own death. He won’t talk about his war experiences much. We hoped he would open up to you.”

“My own experience over there is also very private,” remarked Fred. “I was never in the front ranks and didn’t see the kind of action Ivan did. My job was to repair the devastation, yet my small taste of modern warfare was enough to instill a deep distaste for it.”

Fred was suddenly both weary of the conversation and filled with apprehension. He only wanted to be lost in the dark haired beauty and green eyes of Ivan’s little sister, yet he couldn’t escape the memories that haunted him. Ismerelda had given him the impression that there was a deeper reason why Ivan requested him to visit the Bothco Mansion. He almost now dreaded his reunion with his childhood friend.

After an enjoyable afternoon driving around town and nostalgic visits to childhood haunts, Fred and Ismerelda met a few old friends and acquaintances and ate dinner at the local tavern. After a few drinks Fred was suddenly feeling very loose and often found his hands and arms wandering toward Ismerelda, clasping her small hands and playfully hugging her. She didn’t seem to mind for awhile, but she suddenly became very serious and almost cold and announced that she had to go. Fred felt a little woozy from the night’s drinks and was almost filled with a schoolboy crush on Ivan’s kid sister. That annoying brat who used to follow them about and often times whine incessantly. ‘My how she grew up,’ thought Fred as he drove through the summer night back to the Bothco Mansion. His light buzz made him forget his childhood fear of the Bothco Mansion and he drifted off to sleep effortlessly in the guest bedroom.

Late that night he awoke to an incredibly loud and annoying metallic grinding noise coming from the depths of the mansion. There than followed three very loud reports that sounded like a hammer being struck against a metal plate. This was followed by a very disconcerting silence which brought Fred back to the unsettling place he had avoided as a child and young adult. He felt like getting up to investigate the source of the noise but than reasoned that he was probably dreaming and the thought of trying to navigate the corridors of the mansion in the dead of night was vastly unappealing.

It had been nearly five years since he had seen his friend but it was as if he had aged fifteen. Ivan Bothco appeared in the dining room the next morning, confined to a wheel chair and looking very pale and gaunt. He reached out an almost delicate hand to greet Fred. Fred was deeply struck by Ivan’s sudden decline. Ivan had been a champion athlete in school and had always been physically robust, once bench pressing 225 lbs over 20 times in the school weight room. Here in front of him stood a ghost of a man, looking more like 50 than 30.

“I haven’t got long to live, of that I am convinced,” said Ivan. “It was on my last combat tour when I knew I would become ill when I got back stateside and had the premonition that I would not live long. The strange thing is that I always felt invincible in the heat of battle. I remember in the early days of Operation Desert Disaster when the general ordered the armored column I commanded to make a show of force in the capital to help destabilize the regime. We mounted what we call a thunder run through the capital and the action was hot and heavy. The turret gunner in my vehicle took a piece of shrapnel in the eye and the rest of the men were too yellow to take over the guns. I went up there myself and could see and hear tracer rounds and AK47 rounds flying everywhere. Rocket propelled grenades were exploding against the armor plating of the tank and roadside bombs were detonating left and right leaving carcasses of vehicles strewn in every intersection. Yet with all that death around me, I knew that I was safe and took off my helmet and goggles so I could see better and feel more comfortable operating the turret machine gun. When we got done with our thunder run the outside of the tank was completely on fire as we rolled into base, but I still stood up there with my bare head naked in the sunshine and in the face of metallic death, manning the machine guns. I knew than and there that I could not be killed in military conflict, even though death and destruction stalked me at every corner. It was then I also realized I would have to pay the price.”

To listen to this suddenly decrepit old man of 30 sit and ramble on like this was very disconcerting to Fred. He didn’t doubt the validity of his stories. Ivan was always a man who seemed to defy the odds, a man who could tempt fate and take command under heavy fire. And here was a man who had survived the madness of modern war, at least physically, dying at a young age in a rural Pennsylvania mansion from a malady that no doctor could diagnose. His sister had told Fred that Ivan had gone to the best hospitals on the East coast and undergone a litany of different tests yet no one could diagnose his illness. Every month Ivan seemed to age several years and Ivan was now completely obsessed with his own death.

Fred spent the rest of the day trying to avoid the subject of war and tried to reminisce with Ivan about old friends and exploits of the past. Such conversation was very tedious as Ivan was very dark and almost devoid of any emotion. Anecdotes that once were side splittingly funny now seemed very hollow and steeped in the immaturity of youth. Fred was almost relieved when Ivan announced that he was too tired to attend dinner with Fred and Ismerelda that evening. He spent the evening at the movies with her and though he didn’t make any advances toward her, he felt a warm feeling inside from being with her and almost wished that her depressing brother wasn’t around even though he was staying as his honored guest at his landed estate, attending to his death bed.

The evening Fred slept very fitfully. Ivan’s war story had upset him on a deep level. There were many nights after his return from the war early on where Fred couldn’t escape the war zone. Every time he’d fall asleep he’d instantly be back there, the roar of jets, the far off sounds of bombs, the hostile and friendly locals, so interchangeable that there was an intense atmosphere of chaos and disorder. Now here he was, far away from the madness of war in the rural countryside where he grew up loving America, deeply patriotic and feeling like it was the duty of every generation to make sacrifices for his country. He remembered this patriotism was always greatly inspired by his friend Ivan and in a way Ivan’s example influenced him, along with his family’s lack of financial means to pay for his college, to enter the armed forces. Now here he was a few years later and he was left only with a tremendous numbness towards life and death as well as an inability to inwardly face his heavy emotions. And he was ten times better off than Ivan, wheelchair bound in his baronial living room, recalling battle scenes where every bit of sanity had seemingly abandoned him, leaving him a hollow and cynical man, far advanced in years and seemingly withering away on the vine. The greatest irony was that here was a man among men, physically powerful and intelligent who had immerged from the conflict unscathed. It was what was going on inside Ivan’s head that was killing him.

Later that night Fred again awoke to heavy metallic grinding noises and hammering coming from deep beneath the mansion, in almost muffled tones. At that point Fred was far too exhausted from his fitful nights sleep to bother investigating but resolved to question Ivan about it in the morning. The sounds suddenly subsided as they had before and Fred returned to his troubled dreams.

To Be Continued.

Well, maybe I’ll put up one more story this morning and than its back to the salt mines so to speak.

Blessings!

The transmigration of Robert Redman-a short story

Today I thought I would pull out a short story I started working on a few summers ago. This is obviously heavily inspired by Ira Levin’s breakthrough novel-Rosemary’s Baby. It also pays homage to a book called the Mephisto Waltz. It’s kind of an exercise for me in working in the psychological/horror genre. There is also a bit of a homage to Phillip K. Dick in the title. The idea being that a person can take on an entirely new identity, almost like another entity or soul inhabits its body. I plan to rework this story, develop it, and build a more original story line. The name of this story is:

The Transmigration of Robert Redman by Paul Hector

It seemed to Louise Redman that her husband had suddenly become a different person. It all began one afternoon. Louise was tired from working and she lay down in her bed to take an afternoon nap. Her husband was upstairs in his office working when she slipped out of consciousness and the nightmare began.

In the dream, she woke up in her bedroom and the walls were suddenly covered by masks. These were the type of plaster masks that were actually physically cast on a person’s face. She heard her husband upstairs arguing with some one in their split level urban apartment house. She could hear a TV show coming from her child’s room, the sounds of Captain Howdy and the Masked Avenger. Somewhere else in the building a piano could be heard playing a strange waltz-like tune.

“That’s not part of the agreement, I won’t allow it,” she heard her husband saying.

“There is no way out now, she must go,” said the strange voice, “we have proceeded too far.”

She was now walking up the stairs toward the argument. The apartment building, a relatively modernized old building, was suddenly transformed into a dilapidated structure with sunlight gleaming through the cracks in the ceiling and cobwebs hanging from the banisters of the staircase. The piano playing built towards a crescendo and repeated its haunting figure.

She was now upstairs in the room with her husband. In the room were the Masked Avenger and Captain Howdy as well as her husband and a strange, well dressed gentleman. Her husband and the stranger were both wearing plaster masks strung with elastic.

“I told you not to come up here when I’m working,” said Robert to his wife Louise.

In the middle of the room lay a figure, completely prostrate, on a medical table. The stranger took out a doctor’s kit and withdrew some blood from the man lying in state. The prone man’s face appeared frighteningly familiar to Louise, almost as if it were the face of her husband at a very advanced age. The stranger deposited the blood in a test tube like apparatus and handed it to her husband, hiding behind the plaster mask, which he proceeded to drink through the mouth hole.

Louise Redman woke up with a scream. “Mommy, mommy what’s wrong?” cried her daughter Isabel running into the room.

With the dream suddenly dissipating, she returned to consciousness in her bi-level downtown apartment. She wandered upstairs still bewildered to look in on her husband who glanced at her with almost mock concern. Across from him in a chair sat a well dressed gentleman she had never seen before but was frighteningly familiar.

“We’ll be down in a few minutes, honey, we’re just closing a business deal,” said Robert dismissing his wife.

Louise and Robert Redman were in many ways your typical young couple. Both in their early thirties, they were moderately successful and lived comfortably, able to afford the big city life. In many other ways they were struggling. Robert had recently left his firm to start a private practice. In Louise’s mind, he lacked the drive to be successful, and though they skated by on their combined income from her work at a clothing store, there were days when she wondered whether he was working up there or just dreaming his life away.

It was strangely coincidental that that was the day the old man Silas in unit 1b passed away. He was a pianist and quite a strange character. The neighbors who knew him said he lived an adventurous and prosperous life, only to pass his old age in obscurity, possibly due to heartbreak and wretchedness after the early passing of his wife. As his life passed out of the building so did the strange and wonderful piano music which could be often heard coming from his large 1^st floor apartment.

In the following weeks Louise noticed a rather bizarre change in Robert. Suddenly it seemed like many of his insecurities were gone and he seemed like a much more active, confident, and driven man. Before he smoked cigarettes nervously all day, suddenly he quit smoking and now took long afternoon walks through the city. He’d even abruptly developed different eating habits, before a meat and potatoes man, now dining eagerly on stuffed fillet of sole with raspberry cream sauce and a medley of steamed vegetables.

Louise was bewildered and yet intrigued with this sudden change. Some of her fears were suddenly dulled by the fact that money had started flowing in and Robert had talked about possibly moving to the suburbs where their daughter could attend public schools. It troubled her that his personality had suddenly grown cold and distant where before, even though he was lazy and prone to daydreaming, he was warm, open, and very communicative. The strangest aspect was that his face seemed to take on a different persona sometimes. Maybe it was just a momentary play of lighting here, or maybe a strange and foreign glance he would shoot across the dinner table, suddenly losing his patience and becoming stone faced while admonishing his daughter.

And than there were the dreams, many of which she didn’t remember but would wake up feeling very disturbed, heading in the dead of night to the liquor cabinet to pour a drink. One night she dreamed that both she and her daughter Isabel were in apartment 1b talking to old man Silas after he had given Isabel a piano lesson. Though neither she nor Robert possessed any musical talent and Isabel had never before taken a lesson, she said “Mommy, mommy look,” and proceeded to sit down and play a very complicated piece on the piano. At this time, the now suddenly alive old man Silas received a knock on the door, at which appeared the stranger from her husband’s office wearing the plaster mask.

“It’s time to go now” said the stranger. She looked at the stranger and than old man Silas and suddenly realized she was looking at her husband’s face.

“Louise, what is it.” Robert sleepily groaned as she woke up screaming from her nightmare. Louise’s nightmares were now beginning to take a toll on her personal life. Her friends and co-workers privately wondered if there was trouble at home. The change that had come over Robert often brought whispers that maybe there was an extra-marital affair. Louise’s soot stained, sleep deprived eyes were bagged heavily as she trembled to light a cigarette between shifts.

“I don’t know what has come over him,” she told a co-worker Carol one day. “Every thing about him is different. His sudden energy frightens me, he eats, sleeps, even fucks like he’s somebody else. I’ve been having these horrible nightmares and it seems while he is suddenly thriving, I am being completely drained of all energy and sanity.”

Louise dragged in from work one day to find Isabel and Robert playing with a dog in the living room of the apartment. “Mommy, Mommy don’t you love him?” she exclaimed excitedly.

This seemed strange because Robert had always hated dogs and once had remarked, “I don’t need to spend my time walking some stupid mutt around the block just for the amusement of our daughter.” It seemed that finally Isabel had won out and Robert didn’t seem annoyed but was positively beaming.

“I can’t have an animal in this small apartment,” Louise scolded him privately.

Robert would not be budged and in turn scolded her for wanting to hurt her daughter, his prior loathing of animals suddenly forgotten.

That night, Louise’s dream began with a knock on her bedroom door. She awoke again, suddenly inside the dilapidated old apartment building, her bed suddenly a cobwebbed antique four poster. She awoke and rose mechanically to find her coworker standing at the bedroom door, cigarette in hand.

“Louise, there’s something you definitely need to see,” said Carol.

Once again climbing the stairs with light streaming through the cracks and the stair well creaking, the two women entered her husband’s upstairs office.

Beams of light streaked through the ceiling, illuminating dust particles. Isabel sat in the corner playing an upright piano. Captain Howdy and the Masked Avenger were alternately grappling and laughing in the other corner. The staircase was now damp and slightly slick with blood oozing from underneath the carpet and trickling down the creaking staircase. In the room sat Old Man Silas, Robert and the strange man. All three were wearing plaster masks and passing around a goblet that was filled with blood. Isabel suddenly began playing a very showy classical piece by Chopin. The dog appeared at the bottom of the stairs growling and guarding against any retreat.

“You can’t go back Louise, its part of the agreement,” said the stranger behind the plaster mask. With that everybody in the room laughed including Captain Howdy, the Masked Avenger, Carol, and Isabel. Isabel’s piano playing grew louder and showier, coming to a crescendo as all three men seated in the center of the room suddenly took of their masks and revealed that they were all identical to Robert in facial appearance except that they were separated by different states of age, from Old man Silas to the younger lazy dreamy Robert that Louise had known and loved. There was more laughter in the room and than confusion.

Louise again woke up screaming on the last day of her life. The nightmares and the lack of sleep had taken a severe toll on her, physically and mentally. As she drove her daughter to school she looked over at the car next to her and saw a women wearing a plaster mask and laughing at her. Classical piano music began playing from the radio and Louise tried to change the station but it seemed that wherever she turned the dial, the same waltz played. Isabel sat in the back seat playing with the dog. The dog growled at Louise menacingly as she reprimanded her daughter.

“How’d that animal get into the car?” Louise scolded her daughter.

At that moment the car went swerving off the road and crashed over an embankment landing 30 feet below. Louise had fallen asleep at the wheel. As she lay there mortally wounded and dying she saw the well dressed man from her husband’s office and her co-worker Carol, both wearing plaster masks leading her daughter away from the wreck. Visions of the paramedics and rescue workers trying to free her from the wreck flashed through her waning consciousness, montage like. The dog remained inside the car growling and displaying its teeth. Her last visions of life were out of body, herself being removed from the wreckage and as she lay dying on the gurney one of the paramedics attached a plaster mask to her face and pulled the blanket over her -the nightmare fading into empty nothingness and pitch black.

Isabel emerged unscathed from the wreck. As she grew older, memories of her biological mother slowly faded and as her father’s career flourished and he began his ascent through local, state, and than national politics, the trappings of material wealth deadened and eradicated the painful memories of her early childhood. For Robert the memory resided in the darkest corner of his soul, like the memory of another life, lost in empty potential.

My creative muses are now stirring. I have a lot of excess energy that needs to be enveloped by trying to get my writing going again. Writing is therapeutic for me and I am trying to get together a collection of short stories I have written over the years to publish a small volume. I am looking for an editor and any kind of constructive criticism would be helpful.

Blessings!

Insanity and beyond-the Tao of Change continued.

My father always says that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. In a way that’s my life in a nutshell. It is time for me to effect change throughout all areas of my life. I have been almost successful in my fight to quit my beer drinking habit. I rarely drink more than three or four but I am finding even at that amount the habit has become debilitating. I have come apart at the seems emotionally lately when I am only just a little buzzed. When sober I have complete control but I am still scared of myself, afraid of success and frightened by my incredible potential in life. Some people are born to function better on alcohol than others. I have seen functional alk’ies at the highest levels of corporate America. When I look at the haggled guy standing and begging on the street corner I can see that the difference is only in levels of control. Everybody has their own limitations and those are physiological. I realize I have bad genetics when it comes to alcohol. My great Uncle on my father’s side died of alcoholism in his forties. It is that knowledge that keeps me off the hard stuff. At the same time, it is also that knowledge that makes me want to teetotal for awhile. I want the people at the bar to hate me and treat me like dirt so I don’t even want to darken the door anymore. Yesterday I think I made strides in that direction by stiffing my favorite bartender. A younger woman for whom I have had unrealistic designs. It is her job to be nice to me at the bar, I have over indulged in the privilege of having a nice women always on hand to poor me some liquid death. The time has come to be a man and seek out a woman I don’t need to tip to talk to me. I use my female bartender’s almost like talk sex prostitutes-it’s time to get out of the bar. I know I am better than that-the drug’s and alcohol are like a Kryptonite holding back the sleeping giant. It’s time to rise above and out of the ashes of my former life. I don’t want to give up drinking beer, I just have to use it properly, for celebrations. I see my self at a cross roads in life right now and I don’t want to head down the road towards self-destruction. I have to get back to my roots, I was raised in a sober household by teetotalers. I am trying to go back to sobriety and get myself out of the bar.

Although she lived the first half of her life completely sober, my Mom is now dependant on wine on a daily basis. Wine and prozac used to be her buzz but now she’s off the Prozac and just on the cheap white wine. My mother had a hard early life growing up in a single parent family in working class Detroit, Michigan. She now lives in a 700K $ house in the most affluent suburb of Denver and still faces depression and medicates. The reason being is that my grandmother was a narcisstic person who never cared for my mother’s needs as a child. In a way my mom became the mother to her own mother, a role reversal. When my mother hit 40 she started coming apart at the seems, realizing she was psychologically abused by her mother. That’s when she began drinking wine-she started with the box stuff that is more suited for cleaning out a carb’ than drinking. Now she’s moved up the ladder to the cheap bottled stuff. My grandmother had an IQ of over 160 but in a way, she was like a neurotic, narcissistic child. It’s the fear that was conditioned into her by her mother, a very scared and feeble women who was immersed in world’s of paranoia and fear. The MO is always that the world is going to end tomorrow and she won’t be able to make it-talking to my grandmother was a one way conversation-she was completely self-absorbed. My grandfather went off to fight WWII and abandoned my mom’s family. He went back to Georgia after the war and never visited his little family that he left back in Royal Oak, Michigan. I never saw my maternal grandfather, he died in 1973. The only thing he ever did for my mother and uncle was leave them with a quarter of a million dollars when he died. My grandparents are all gone now but the pain of a strained relationship still lives inside my Mother. She may never completely let the ashes of my grandmother dissipate and return to the universe. The absent father can’t help-she never had a dad. Being unable to let go of the past is reason for which many drink.

My father is not a drinking man. I have seen him on the verge of bankruptcy and he doesn’t turn to drinking. At the same time I believe he lives his life in a lot of denial and internalizes his problems. Because of this he has faced serious health problems. At this point in his life, he is still healthier than most men his age and very well preserved and vital. Clean living goes a long way. In looking at my parents, I realize I don’t want to emulate their lives, rather I want to take the good and leave the bad. My parents have done well in life and live better than most people their age, they travel the world and have lots of friends. They gave me a foundation for sobriety to which I can return.

I started drinking in high school but I was never really a daily drinker until my late thirties. I was always more the binge drinker. I still have the inner feeling that alcohol is like poison to the body and after a drinking binge I always work hard to cleanse my body. In my late thirties I developed a habit of drinking a few beers on a daily basis. A kind of psychic painkiller, my late thirties were a troubled time for me. I started out in may early thirties making tremendous strides in the working world. In someways I am both blessed and cursed with genius level intelligence. People like geniuses for solving problems but at the same time they envy the intelligence and the potential. Geniuses are most often ostracized, that has played out throughout history. I have faced ostracism by groups of friends or coworkers who gang up on me. On the inside they are jealous of my free spirit and my incredibly sharp intellect. I can run circles around most people and out think and outsmart almost anybody. I can do a lot of different things and can learn new things rapidly. Most people are in awe of my intellectual gifts but many people are also very frightened and turned off by it. On the same level, I am also physically a cut above most people and can play almost any sport and be a dominating force. Being gifted is both a curse and a gift. It is the realization that I am different and the inability to cope with the loneliness of ostracism well that has caused me to medicate with beer. In accepting the fact that I am a different person, the next test for sobriety is going out and making the changes to improve my life.

That gets back to the definition of insanity. Spending my days smoking weed and hanging out in a dive bar isn’t the path to improvement. Most of the people at the bar are younger and a lot of them have serious drinking problems and won’t be living like I am when they’re 40. They’ll be cruising down the super highway towards death and debt. I have kept my body and my spirit young and I feel as is my life is just beginning. I am nearly debt free which is unusual in this society. I feel that it is my dynamic nature that can make my life special. I am capable of change and transforming myself. My journey through life has taken’ me to the gutter the last few years but I will rise like the Phoenix out of the Ashes. Deep inside I have a strong feeling that my life has a higher purpose. Finding that purpose and getting rid of my sensitivity towards other people’s negative actions, envy, and feelings is a tough road. Finding like minded people has been tough for me. Most people I know don’t read 5 books per month, play three musical instruments, run, bike, ski, and play sports. They never got a 100 percent on the College Differential equations test-the highest score my professor hd ever seen. They haven’t written two unpublished books or created their own albums on which they sang and played all the instruments. They are just getting through the day, scraping along in poverty with the rest of the world. I know now that I need to strive towards higher purposes, higher goals. My trip to the gutter is over-it is my main goal, my prime directive, to get myself out of this neighborhood and on to better things by the end of the summer. That means leaving the alcohol and weed behind. That means leaving the rejection of others behind. That means burying the past. right now I am working on pulling myself out of a financial hole-a relatively easy task if I set my mind to it and focus. FOCUS FOCUS FOCUS

Doing the same things over and over and expecting change is truly insanity. Today’s work for me includes making a list of all the things I am doing and making the change. The struggle continues onward and upward.

Ash Wednesday and the Apiril Fool

Here I am sitting at my computer mid-morning, mid-April.  It’s a pleasant day outside and I am going to get outside soon, go get some exercise. My health is surprisingly good considering my indulgences. These days I am tying to stay on the welcome wagon and mornings definitely feel better without the hangover. My rotator cuff injury is slowly healing up. Swimming definitely helps and I am staying off the heavy weights. Working out more for endurance and tone rather than getting big. I have lost a lot of weight and it feels good. Sometimes my moods have been turbulent but that can be a part of detox. You need to process painful stuff and realize the reasons for which you are self-medicating. Exercise helps on a physiological level.

In the past few weeks I have had a few relapses into nights of crying in my beer. When I self-observe myself in almost clinical terms, (being the layman psychologist I am) I feel it’s a part of an overall exegesis-a spiritual cleansing. There is nothing wrong with a few beers, it’s just not a coping mechanism. When seen as such, than the liquor store appears to be an evil place. Paul Hector is better than that.

My Walk on the Wild Side was fun. I had a few drunk lays but i wasn’t exactly the Playa’. That takes too much energy, its better for the 25-30 year old guys who can mature and master the art of talking up the ladies. There are  plenty of Sperm Banks out there cruising the clubs and bars but they are seldom the best conquests. I am looking for the Princess in the Tower. The hard to get type-before I head down the  twisted, knotted, and dangerous path to the Tower, I need to make a little bit of money and get back on my feet.

My new Modus Operandi-zero inventory. I am going to try to liuquidate my business and start all over-armed with the wisdom and knowledge of a weathered warrior. I have been self-employed now since 2004 and it has been a challenge. Maybe I can run a seminar titled-”How I started Out with Nothing, ended up with Nothing, but lived like a Rock Star in the Process.” Actually there is great hope for my business and I am going to perservere with the workaholic tenacity. Hopefully I can get the 5000 grand I sunk into the business out of my liquidation but even a good percentage of it would come in handy. I need to get off the Tiger’s neck and back onto stable, safe ground.

Music these days, well, I have just been playing weird covers on my acoustic. A song I have been playing lately is Ashes to Ashes by David Bowie. This song is hard to sing because Bowie has a very clean falsetto. I don’t think he can sing this song any more. The bass line is a white boy parliament inspired masterpiece. I also like the layers of guitar synthesizers playing various inversions of Am G Dm F etc. This video was actually pretty well done and artful for its time-1980. Back in 1980 I was 13 and just getting my first zit and my first face mashing, come in the pants make out session with the neighbor girl. Here’s the ageless one in 1980-This was Bowie’s getting clean song and it is one of his best. It seems like just yesterday, my how time flies.

The Other Side & Take 5

Yes, ladies and Gentlemen, after a struggle I have made it to the other side. Once again my life is clean and I am on the path to health and recovery.  I have completely lost the desire to get high or get drunk and I am off cigarettes/ My mind is beginning to function like a well oiled machine. I have lost tons of weight and I am down below 180 lbs for the first time in over 5 years.  My sales are starting to pick up and my on-line businesses are thriving. My debauch has left me on the poor side but I now know that I can make all the money back and more. I started with a simple affirmation that my bank account can and will reach 4 figures by the end of the week. I am going to addend that with an affirmation that my bank account can and will reach 5 figures by summer. Life is clicking for me.

Change has been painful, I have tossed and turned at might, paced the room at night;  wrecked by emotional pain. Setting things aside and waking up to the world that exists outside of the gutter is a buzz in itself. My confidence is back and I am honed and rugged-ready to get back into the mountain lifestyle this summer. Hitting the trails and rebuilding my cardios. I am blessed with good genetics when it comes to that. Even after my year’s relapse into smoking cigarettes I can still go jog a couple of miles, no problem. The main issue is my burning lungs and throat. That’s why I am quitting everything for a while. About a week ago I resolved that the cigarette I was smoking will be the last one I smoke on this planet-so far so good.

Arrogance kicks in when I am clean-I need to be able to temper it. I get a superiority complex when I look at the rest of the people out there barely able to get through the day. My potential in life scares me into debauchery-at the other side of things I know that I am capable of greatness. Why be in the gutter? Experience, experience, experience; with a healthy dose of open mindedness. A mind that can see life from all different angles, forget pigeonholes, forget conditioning or built in attitudes-my life is heading somewhere and I must trust its process. I have more potential than almost anyone from my generation. A combination of high IQ and the elite physique of an endurance athlete. I have proven to myself that I can beat myself to hell and still be standing.

Right now my Raison d’etre is all about getting on with my life. By the end of August I will be leaving Capitol Hill for good and moving on. The gutter is fun butI need to realize that there is life on the other side. My little foray into the dark side of life has given me the point of view that only a man who lives on both sides of the tracks can have. Right now I am cleaning up my head-my brain is a powerful machine and nobody can stop me when I’m clean. I realize that envy and jealousy are two speed bumps for me but I have developed the ability to quickly see through and dismiss other’s actions when I believe they are motivated by there own lack of ability and envy towards mine. The good news-I could care less anymore. That is what finding one’s self is all about-you could care less what your detractors think. Onward and upwards-hail Caesar (the salad dressing fool!) and remember to supplement you diet with Omega 3-it builds a powerful constitution. I have smoked and drank like a fish and haven’t been sick in three years-I can only imagine what it will feel like now that I have reached the other side. All hail……

On another note I would like to remember the great Jazz Musician Paul Desmond today. I feel he was the greatest Saxophone player of his time-unfortunately his indulgences got the best of him. This is the Jazz standard Take 5 that was composed by Desmond and pianist Dave Brubeck. Right now I am in the process of a Take 5 so to speak so this is appropo-One of the all time great jazz sessions-enjoy!