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Joseph E Bird

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Red

Red is real.  I don’t know his name, though I did at one time.

When I first saw him, he was probably 15. Maybe older. It was hard to tell because he was big for his age. He was a least six feet tall then, but I knew he was young because his face was youthful. He rode a bike. One of those BMX-type bikes that kids that age ride. Yeah, and a blazing shock of red hair. He had the kind of unconventional good looks that could have landed him movie or television roles. In another life.

I live in a very small town, population around 10,000. Maybe less. I work downtown, such as it is. Downtown encompasses a few blocks. My office faces an alley that’s on the route from the soup kitchen at St. Mark’s to points elsewhere, like the GoMart a block away. Across the alley is a house that’s been converted into a duplex. Renters come and go. There have been good people living in the house, some just starting out, trying to save money and build a better life. There have been others not so well intentioned. Over the years, the police have been called to the house many times.

It was when the house was occupied by others that I first saw Red. He would cruise in on his bike, have some contact with people in the house, then ride away. I sort of knew what was going on, but I had hoped that this kid was just sowing oats, that maybe he would mature and take a different path. There was life in his eyes and something told me there was pontential for great things.

Then I didn’t seem him for a while. Months. Maybe a year or two.

Then his picture in the paper. Busted for something, I don’t remember what. I know it was drug related, but it was more than just possession. It was obvious to me that he hadn’t taken a different path and that he was doing what he had to do to feed his addictions.

I started seeing him on the street again. No bike, just walking. He seemed ok. I wondered if he had gotten help. Maybe he was turning his life around.

Then last night I made a trip to the store. It was raining hard. I sat in my car listening to Ben Sollee on Mountain Stage before going inside. When I came out, Red was walking along the drive in front of the store. He was oblivious to the rain. Then he stopped. He started circling his left wrist with his right hand. Back and forth. I thought maybe he was trying to get something off his arm. Then I saw there was nothing there. He was muttering to himself. He had that look. Frustration. Anger. Fear. In his world, not ours.

Then he started walking again. The look was gone, and he was just a guy walking in the rain.

We see people like this all the time. Seemingly too far gone to help so we just drive by.  Like I did. I look back and wonder if I should have offered him a ride, but I know that wouldn’t have been very smart. He was obviously unstable and given his past, even talking to him might have been a mistake.

But I can’t help wondering what life is like for him. That’s the point of the story. He’s tragically broken.

But he’s still a person.

Every now and then we all need shelter from the storm.

 

 

2

keep walkin

i’m not dead    i don’t think i’m ded    my head is killing me    if i were dead there be fire    but i’m wet    water everywhere

thirsty hungry

damn sun hurts my eyes    i must have slept all night    got to get up

what the hell is this thing    heavy    can’t push it    dumpster    its a dumpster

its not the sun in my eyes    streetlight    railroad tracks    must be behind the stores

gotta get some    gotta score

legs are stiff    got to go to jimmers    just one hit    then i get my hed together    do a score of my own    steeal some cash    neeed cassh

dumpster smells sweet    like food    yeh haf a donut    burger bag    maybe some fries    dammit

jimmers is a long way

its rainin a little    ok    just walk, red    you be ok    just walk

people ever where    pay no mind red    i must be somethin    they look at me and scared of me    i aint hurtin nobody    i aint taking you money    not now    better be out here than in the jail    i score out heer

somethin on my hand    its covered in wire    cant get it off    im wrappin the wrong way    get off!    other way    no other way    get off!

someone blowin a horn    guy in a truck    he looks mad    waving at me    the horn blows    up yurs i tell him    get outta you truck and i beat you good    yeh    i didnt think so

keep walkin red    just keep walkin

rain comin down real good    so wet    cold    keep walkin red

road is black and wet and shiny    cigarette butts    i hate that people be so inconsiderate

where am i    the bridge    shelters down the road a piece    maybe get som ssoup

Hey, Red. You ain’t lookin so good.

weeble    weefle    weasel    weasel, got any smack

I don’t do that stuff, Red. I give you a drink, though.

whats this    it aint taste like nuthin

Vodka. Take it easy. I said a drink, not the whole bottle.

thanks weasel    they got food down there

They won’t let you in looking like that.

im going to jimmers

No you ain’t. Jimmer done got hisself killed.

jimmers dead

Yeah, man. Got into it with one his dope heads. No offense.

i need a score

You ain’t gettin it from Jimmer. You get outta this rain, Red. Go on down under the bridge. They’ll have a fire going tonight.

i need a score

Damn, Red. You gonna be dead yourself if you don’t slow down.

so

Take my bottle. It’ll get you through the night. I’ll get more.

thanks weasel

Get down there, now.

weasels all right    straight up dude    i hate the bridge    all them weirdos    but i gotta get dry    all this rain    all this rain    all this rain

copyright joseph e bird, 2016

0

Boogie Nights

I want to tell you about the conversation I had once with Davy Jones.

Which Davy Jones, you might ask. Why, the lead singer for The Monkees, I would reply. You remember The Monkees, the group that was assembled back in the 60s by music executives as an answer to the original Fab Four, The Beatles. The Monkees were the Prefab Four. And despite their kitschy persona, they’re credited with some pretty good tunes. Last Train to Clarksville. I’m a Believer. Pleasant Valley Sunday. Their fame peaked in the late 60s, early 70s. I met Davy Jones many years later.

One of the advantages of being old is that I can claim a first-row seat to significant historical events. I saw JFK’s motorcade in Houston the day before he was assassinated in Dallas. I watched on live television as Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the moon. And I was smack-dab in the middle of the original disco craze.

I was a student in Morgantown when a still skinny, still cool John Travolta danced his way through Saturday Night Fever. Then we would go to the local disco, Fat Daddy’s, and try to dance the Hustle to music by Yvonne Elliman and the Bee Gees.

Disco was like a spectacular shooting star and by the late 70s the fad was already on its way out. Then in 1980, a still skinny, still cool John Travolta danced his way through Urban Cowboy. So we all went to the faux-cowboy clubs and tried to dance the two-step to music by Mickey Gilley and, well, it was pretty much Mickey Gilley.

Which brings me to The Galaxy 2000.

In the late 70s, a Kroger store in Spring Hill (WV) had closed and sat vacant until someone decided to cash in on the disco craze and converted the building into a giant disco, The Galaxy 2000. It was actually well done, by disco standards. It had a big dance floor, lots of colored, flashing lights, and the requisite mirrored disco ball.  And then came the aforementioned fading of the flashing disco craze. No problem. The club was converted to West Virginia’s version of Mickey’s (as in Mickey Gilley’s club where Urban Cowboy was set).  But country line dancing died out faster than disco and The Galaxy scrambled to stay relevant.

Their answer?  Live music.

In 1980, The Police released Zenyatta Mondatta and began their climb to world-wide fame. And we’re talking Beatles level of fame. Some time before that, they played at The Galaxy 2000. Really. No, I didn’t see the show. I’d never heard of The Police.

But I had heard of The Monkees. By then, they had broken up and Davy Jones was touring as a solo act and one of his stops was The Galaxy. At that point he was more of a b-list act, maybe even c-list, if there is such a thing. Still, The Galaxy was packed. It was an intimate setting and the show was surprisingly good. Davy could really sing. Between sets, he actually mingled with the audience a little. Then he went into one of the side rooms to relax and shoot some pool. A bunch of fans followed and stood around and watched. I was one of them.

He walked around the table, looking for his best shot. Then he stopped in front of me and studied the balls on the table. He lined up the shot. It was a tricky kiss off the bumper to the corner pocket. The place went quiet. He pulled a couple of practice strokes and then softly struck the cue ball. It traveled slowly over the felt and hit the bumper and ball at the same time, nudging  it toward the pocket. And then it dropped.

“Nice shot,” I said.

He turned and looked at me with that famous Davy Jones smile and said, “Thanks.”

True story. All of it.

Yeah, that’s it. Not a deep conversation. Pretty much the typical brush with fame story people like to tell.  Really, it means nothing.

I once met Stephen Dubner, co-author of Freakonomics.  I had a similarly brief conversation. It meant nothing.

Real conversations and real connections take time.  They take people who are willing to put themselves out there and exchange thoughts and ideas. That’s what I love about talking to you guys who read what I write. We have real conversations. We make great connections.

Thank you for that.  It means more than you know.

 

8

Words matter.

One of my writing mentors, Sol Stein, once told me to avoid melodrama in my fiction, melodrama being characterized by exaggerated scenes or characters that are intended to appeal to the emotions.  The damsel in distress tied to the railroad tracks. The villain twirling his mustache.

I’ve been editing A Prayer for Rain, and even after great input from several readers, my manuscript is covered with red marks of my own doing.  Much of what I’m finding are sentences and phrases that make me cringe. Phrases that I thought were good when I wrote them, but now jump out at me as melodramatic. Even a simple word choice can make a sentence melodramatic.

In one scene, Trevor has an exchange with Jess, a young woman who works at a convenience store. Since his accident five years before, he has had very little physical contact with anyone, and when they shake hands for the first time, he has this reaction:

He took her hand in his and though it was only for a moment, he relished the soft touch of her skin on his.

The word in question is relish. By definition, it’s accurate enough. It simply means to take pleasure in something. But in reading it afresh, it strikes me as a little bit of an over-reaction.  I picture Trevor going “ahhhhh” and quivering like a bowl of jelly. Come on, man. Get a grip. It seems melodramatic to me now.

Here’s the current version:

He took her hand in his and though it was only for a moment, he appreciated the soft touch of her skin on his.

I’m not sure appreciated will be the final word choice, but it definitely takes away the melodrama. Trevor notices her in a unique way, but he’s not about to melt into a pile of butter.

I said to the guys at the Shelton College Review the other day that sometimes I’ll open my manuscript to a random page and read a couple of sentences and get embarrassed by the poor quality of the writing. I think what I’m seeing when I do that is the amateurish, melodramatic passages. Recognizing the problem is the first step to recovery, right?

That’s why there’s red ink all over my pages.

Words matter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

Walkers.

Our house is a little backwards from most houses, where living rooms face the street and kitchens face the backyard. Ours is just the opposite. We have a pleasant view from the kitchen as neighbors go by on their daily walk. Some I know, some I don’t.

Larry, a writer, walks in the early evenings. He’s an athletic guy, so his gait is purposeful and steady. He walks, eyes ahead, and you get the feeling that he’s working something out in his mind. My guess would be that he’s nurturing an idea for a story, or finding the rhythm for a verse.

But I don’t really know.

Jim walks slowly, head hung down. Like his dog died. But I don’t think he has a dog. And I know it doesn’t die every day. That’s just how he walks. When he stops to talk, he’s very pleasant and friendly, as if life for him is good.

But I don’t really know.

My father is eighty-six. He walks like he’s fifty-six. His fast pace keeps him healthy. He’s suffered loss in the family, but doesn’t talk much about it. Like most men, he’s good at compartmentalization. He’s strong and self-sufficient and seems to be getting along well. He looks forward when he walks. I think that says a lot.

But I don’t really know.

A young man walks wearing a ball cap and an extra shirt over his shoulder. He’s walking to work. I don’t know where his walk begins or where it ends, but it has to be measured in miles. He seems so responsible.

But I don’t really know.

A neighbor walks in the evenings. He does laps up and down the sidewalk, obviously exercising. He’s very quiet and makes no attempt at conversation. I wonder why he is so reserved. I could speculate.

But I don’t really know.

A woman walks in the morning, long strides, arms swinging vigorously. A power walker. Other times I see her simply walking. I imagine that she lives her life like everyone else. Maybe she works. Takes care of flowers in the yard. Television in the evening. And then I see her with a special needs child. She holds his hand as he measures his steps carefully. There’s more to her world than I thought.

But I don’t really know.

It’s hard to know people. It’s hard to know beyond the fleeting picture we get as they pass by, or take our order at the restaurant, or sit in front of us in church. It’s hard to know what people are dealing with when they don’t return our phone calls, or snap at us at work, or say inexplicable things in line at the market.

When our own thoughts are muddled, when our hearts are sick with worry, when we wish we had someone to talk to about our problems, a little understanding goes a long way. We would do well to treat others with that same understanding.

Because we don’t really know.

copyright 2016, joseph e bird

12

A Prayer for Rain – Logline

Logline:  The pitch you give to Spielberg when you see him at Hillbilly Hotdogs.  30-35 words, one sentence.

Logline for A Prayer for Rain:

A rising musician’s dreams of stardom are shattered in a debilitating accident, and as he rebuilds his life he discovers new ways to express himself musically, but struggles against the seductions of fame.

 

 

2

The Long Shadow of Hope

Founding member of the Shelton College Review, Andrew Spradling, has just published a new novel, The Long Shadow of Hope.  Here’s my review:

Football, I think it’s fair to say, is primal. Speed and strength and aggressive ferocity matter. Coaches like to talk about game plans and strategy, but nine times out of ten, the faster, stronger players win. And make no mistake, winning is everything. There may be talk of building character and lessons learned in losing, but such subtleties are just that – talk. It’s a man’s game, in every sense of the archaic phrase.

So it is with Andrew Spradling’s novel, The Long Shadow of Hope.

His prologue paints the scene. If you’ve ever watched a college football pre-game show, you’ve seen it. The fans, the cheerleaders, the tailgating – and the players who still display a naive enthusiasm for a multi-billion dollar business that masquerades as a game.

Spradling’s book is a behind-the-scenes look into that world. There’s no Rudy who sticks with the game against all odds. There’s no underdog team battling for a championship. It’s a story of how selfishness and greed can ruin lives and it’s told with the same direct, unflinching fierceness that is on full display on Saturday afternoons every fall.

In Long Shadow, story is everything. It’s pretty clear who the good guys and bad guys are. In fact, Chap Roberts is one of the more despicable characters I’ve met in a long time and he has little time for inner reflection. And the men in Long Shadow, being the primal sorts that they are, are susceptible to the lure of illicit relationships and their encounters are described with direct clarity. Things are happening, surprises are brewing, and there are more twists in the story than the road up Lookout Mountain.

Like a good football game, you don’t know who is going to win until the end. It will leave you shaking your head, and hoping that college football isn’t really that bad.

The Long Shadow of Hope.  Find it now on Amazon.

1

Almost

desk b&w grain for web

One brick.
Another.
Carefully.
Thoughtfully.
Almost.
Just a few more.
Stop.

Forty years ago.
Graphite lines
on vellum
give shape.
Buildings begin
with a stroke
of my pencil.

Turn off.
Unplug.
Gather.
Solemnly.
Almost.
Just a few more.
Stop.

Forty years now.
Wisdom guides
the architect
and builders
so kids
can play
in school.

Resume’.
Send.
Wait.
Anxiously.
Almost.
Just a few more.
Stop.

copyright joseph e bird, 2016

 

 

0

Rocket Science

I grew up in the space age, when we (the collective we of our country) were racing the Russians to be first in everything space-related. Who would be the first in space, the first to orbit the earth, and the big one, the first to land on the moon. The space program dominated the imagination of kids my age.

That’s why, in the spirit of Robert Goddard, we wanted to build our own rockets. Not the hobby store, pre-made rocket kits, but completely-from-scratch missiles, including our own home-made rocket fuel.

Now keep in mind, this was the before the world turned so sinister. Experimenting with explosive materials in the backyard wasn’t anything the FBI would have been concerned with. And there was no Department of Homeland Security. So with a little research, we learned how to make a gunpowder-like mixture that would serve as the solid fuel for our rockets. Then we stuffed the mix into paper-towel tubes wrapped in aluminum foil that would serve as the booster. Most of our rockets barely moved, but the failures were spectacular.

One of my rocket-building buddies was James. Without him, none of this would have happened. I mentioned in a previous post that I was no Sheldon Cooper. James was.

In those days, every kid had a chemistry set, but most of us had no idea what we were doing. James did. And he supplemented his set with real scientific equipment like flasks and beakers and test tubes from Preiser Scientific, the local supplier of such goods. You can’t walk in and buy stuff like that now. They would assume the worst and notify local law enforcement. James even had a gas-fired Bunsen burner. He was so serious about his science, his parents trusted that he wouldn’t burn down the house.  I was in awe of his mind.

At some point James moved away. I always wondered about him. Recently, my sister found his sister, and she told us that James works in the computer industry and sends satellites into space.

That’s just perfect.

Then there was Pat. I became friends with him a few years after James had moved. Pat was nothing like James. He was spontaneous, loud, and uninhibited. Physically, he was big and strong. I was skinny, shy, and timid. Ours was a friendship based on geography. He lived up the street and we would walk to and from school together, then hang out until dinner time.

We were leaving school one day and for some reason, an older student decided he didn’t like me and made some kind of derogatory comment. My normal reaction would have been to keep quiet and try to walk away. But Pat was with me. I was emboldened. Pat would have my back. So I shot my mouth off to the bully. As it turns out, Pat wanted no part of this particular confrontation. The bully took me by the shirt collar, just like in the movies, and pulled back his fist to let me have it. Just before he was going to pummel me, my Latin teacher looked out from the second story window and asked the bully what was going on. “Just playing around,” he said as he put his arm around my shoulder like we were the best of buds. Saved by my Latin teacher. That says a lot.

Pat got into trouble now and then. He once rode his bicycle down Elm Street (ridiculously steep) without any brakes. Barefoot. Turns out he couldn’t stop himself like he thought he could and he ran into the concrete wall at the bottom of the hill. He was lucky he wasn’t killed. He managed to hobble home with bloody, broken toes. He didn’t always make the best decisions.

Eventually, Pat and his family moved away.

A year or so ago I ran into someone who knows him. Apparently, Pat has also enjoyed a career in the space industry working for NASA.

So, like, wow.

It would be really good to talk to James and Pat some day, though I probably never will. That’s kind of how life works.  But there’s this to take home and ponder:

Sometimes things turn out exactly how you think they should.
Sometimes they don’t.
Sometimes people change.
Pretty interesting concept, don’t you think?

4

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