A Second Look at "Second Wind"

 

Looking back at Bill Russell's 1979 memoir.

Growing Up

Memorial Day has become the holiday that I most associate with America. It’s not for any military or patriotic reasons, but more for that fact of what it represents—what little traditions we enact year after year that give it a meaning and definition in our lives as the official start of summer.

The Memorial Day weekend truly starts on the Monday before the weekend, when you exchange plans with your coworkers and your friends. The week drags on until you come to that sleepy first “Summer Friday” (at least in New York). Then you get a ride with your friends or hop a train, bus or plane to go home or to go meet with old friends by the beach somewhere. Perhaps you have some new friends from college or the adult life you are beginning to form for yourself and their parents have a country house somewhere, so that is where you go to find quiet and a barbeque. Or maybe there is some timeshare that has been in your family for years and you can enjoy that luxury. Or, one of your childhood friends bought a house in Providence with his fiancée and you can go there for your weekend sanctuary. No matter where you go, its usually a hot, sunny Friday and you will undoubtedly be sitting in traffic for more than two hours. Yes, even if you are flying.

This year, I went to my friend Jeff’s house in Providence. My friends and I had done the same thing last year because Jeff had just bought the house with his fiancée and we had to have a housewarming weekend since the rest of us couldn’t even fathom having a house or being engaged, but that’s what Jeff had always wanted in some way.  We all want to own a house in one way or another, but having a home was just something that had always been integral to who Jeff was. So last year we went up and had fun: went to beaches, took videos, ate lobster, got drunk, got sunburnt. In the end, we had a memorable time. So much so that I still remember driving home late on Memorial Day itself through the mist of the Connecticut night and feeling so terribly hopeless. I was going back to a new job that was promising, but I felt restless looking out at the houses and unknown streets in the stubborn night. There were countless corners with lawns and sprinklers and low-hanging trees.  There were countless youthful romances and heartbreaks next to every hedgerow.  There were streetlamps that stood beside the street in a purely American fashion and I already missed my friends. However, I consoled myself, as I have since, by remembering that we had plenty of years left to continue having good times.

This year, some friends couldn’t make it because of work and also because of a lack of money, which was mainly due to the bad economy but partly due to laziness. Jeff was a little frustrated when we spoke the Friday morning before I left.

“No one picks up their phone.”

“That’s just the way it is, man. They probably feel bad they couldn’t come.”

“Just weird is all. I’m only getting a pony keg though.”

“Too bad the Finals don’t start until next week.”

“I know. Just call me when you get to New Haven, Domino.”

I left work at 1:30, already running late to meet my friend and her pretty friend from college who were parked by Grand Central Station with a trunk full of fresh bagels and some smoked fish I’d bought from Russ and Daughters the night before with the girl I was somewhat seeing. The plan was to ride up the FDR and hopefully catch minimal traffic until we got to the Hutchinson where, in a perfect world, there would be no traffic. I was listening to a live bootleg of “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You” from Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue tour in 1975. The live version of the song had taken on such a different complexion than the straight country, but none the less revealing and joyous, album version. I was sweating and felt the need to shout some of the new lyrics Dylan had added into the overwhelming humidity in the air:

Well I’m feeling a little bit scattered,

And your love is all that matters

‘Cause tonight I’ll be staying here with you.

People were rushing in every direction trying to make trains and buses. Girls’ dresses were suddenly appearing in my vision for the first time all season, in their yellows, greens, purples, oranges and slim blacks, as something utterly real, important and present. I could make out the light perspiration on the backs of women. I saw little kids hopping along with their instinctual energy and love of summer. I felt like Stephen Dedalus at the Sandymount Strand watching the birdgirl in the waters.

—Heavenly God! cried Stephen's soul, in an outburst of profane joy.

I felt my soul doing the same and I thought of my work, and of the girl I’d been seeing, and felt that perhaps I was just a bit scattered as well and hoping it was perhaps that love that would be all that mattered.

I heard a shout. I turned around and saw my friend sticking her head out the window and waving. I pulled my headphones out from my ears and hopped in the car.

“What ya didn’t see us?” my friend asked.

“I was listening to this Dylan.”

“We got the bagels.”

“Beautiful. You guys are beautiful.”

My friend’s pretty friend turned around from the passenger seat.

“Hey, Matt, how the hell have you been?”

“Good, Maria. I’ve been good.”

My friend wove through traffic like a professional and we were suddenly on the FDR, then slowly moving on the Bruckner. I figured out a shortcut through Pelham Park that got us to the Hutchinson and soon we were moving, not at any great speed, but we were moving along as well as you can hope to move on a highway on the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend.

A few hours later, Maria was driving the car while my friend slept in the passenger seat. We were passing New Haven and she explained that she’d grown up outside of that downtrodden city and closer to the Long Island Sound.  The traffic had all but dissipated and we were starting to cut across the state on I-95. I sat in the back seat as Maria told me about the different exits along the highway. I asked her about the Connecticut shore and she explained its merits to me. She told me about a childhood best friend of hers who lived off one of the exits we passed and how that friend later went to the same college she did but that they never spoke. I asked Maria about her job in the government and she told me her beliefs, which were practical but articulated with passion, which made them more interesting to me since I am easily swayed by anyone who talks about something with passion. Especially a girl like her who knew about politics and world affairs, while I know nothing about anything civic or political.  I tried to weigh in where I could and she was more than polite towards my points while illuminating me on think tanks and the different countries who are involved with the Human Rights League and why Cuba should be re-incorporated into our foreign policies. Finally, she told me how her dad commuted all the way to New Jersey each day.

“I did it with him for two months one summer and it was terrible,” she said. “I told him he was crazy for doing it.”

“Why does he do it?” I asked.

“Well, he told me. He said, ‘I like where I live and I like my job and I’m not willing to give either of those things up.’”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“No, you can’t.”

We were both quiet as she continued to drive and I think at one point I dozed off amid the humming of the highway and the sunset.

At about seven o’clock we pulled up to Jeff’s house. It was a humid, but pleasant twilight on his quiet suburban street. The birds were chirping in the trees and I heard a child’s laugh and squeal from an open window somewhere. Jeff and his fiancée greeted us in aprons at the screened front door. A thought passed through my head, that Jeff’s fiancée looked as pretty as she ever had at that moment.

“I’m cooking lobsters and some fish,” Jeff said. “Lots of beer in the fridge.”

I checked the refrigerator—he was right. I grabbed two beers for us while the girls drank wine. We all paced about the kitchen, as people will do when they first arrive at the home of a friend or a loved one after a long drive. Jeff stood at the center of it all, leaning his thin frame over the burners. He seasoned the blackfish with Cajun spices and began to sear them, while steam came from the lobster pot. Maria, my friend and I set the table and Jeff’s fiancée brought out a bottle of champagne. I uncorked the bottled and poured champagne in glasses. Jeff came in from the kitchen with the lobsters and set them down.

“I tried a new way of boiling them. Boiled them for twenty minutes. It’s a little long. Not sure if this will be good or not.”

We toasted to Jeff and Sara, to new friends (Maria had never met them), to Memorial Day Weekend and to summer in general.  The lobster was good, as was everything else. The wood of the dining room table shone under the light and the door to their sunroom was open, letting in a slow breeze that had picked up with the onset of night. My friend went up to change since she and Maria were going to an alumni dance at their college, so Jeff, Maria and I talked about famous political dictators while Jeff’s fiancée talked on the phone in the sunroom.

“Did you know that Time has only given out four red X’s?” I said.

“What’s a red X?” Jeff asked.

“It’s for when a dictator is killed.”

“That’s right.” Maria said.

“There’s one for Hitler, Sadaam, and that other Al Qaida guy they killed five years ago.”

“Al-Zarqawi,” Maria said.

“Who’s the fourth?”

“Japan,” I said.

“No Stalin? He was the worst.”

“Completely,” Maria said.

They continued to talk about Stalin’s legacy in Russia, a country that Jeff had always loved due to some vague family lineage, while I got up to wash dishes in the kitchen.

Later, Jeff and I were drinking a few more beers when my friend and Maria came down in their dresses to go to the alumni dance. They both looked very clean and pretty and for whatever reason reminded me of a new bar of soap pulled right out of the box. Their dresses had pockets on the side. I wasn’t sure if it was an old-fashioned style, but I loved it—maybe it was just a country style that made sense. There was something absolutely right about seeing two pretty girls in dresses going to an alumni dance at their college in a New England city. I wanted something very badly at that moment, I wasn’t sure if it was love, a woman or to sit in a cool breeze with a beer, but it was palpable and I felt very much like a teenage boy on summer vacation. Then, they were gone to their dance.

Jeff, his fiancée and I sat in the sunroom drinking and talking. Some of his fiancée’s friends came over and I tried to keep up with the conversation, but I was tired. Jeff and I talked about how our friend Chris was going to be coming with his girlfriend the next morning. We were trying to decide on the best beach to go to since I was adamant on swimming over Memorial Day Weekend. I found myself looking at my phone and waiting for the time to reach 1:00 AM so that I could allow myself to go to sleep. However, I managed to stay up so that Jeff and I found ourselves awake at 2:00. I was drinking one last unnecessary beer and we were talking about the NBA. In that moment, standing there with my old friend, talking about basketball, I thought about the NBA as a thing and how it had already been in my life for about twenty years and been a shared passion for Jeff and I for about fifteen years. How we’d seen the end of Michael Jordan, the full career of Shaq, the flash of brilliance that was Penny Hardaway, the saga of Kobe Bryant, the quiet efficiency and intelligence of the San Antonio Spurs, the rebirth of the Celtics and now the era of the Miami Heat. And it amazed me that Jeff and I would get older and grayer and the games would still be on. We’d be wearing different clothes and he’d have his wife and there’d be kids, we’d talk about the players of that time, the great teams, how certain players could play better, and then we’d quietly murmur about how much we loved the NBA. In that moment, with that vision of some future so present in my mind, I wasn’t sure what my life would be filled with or how full I’d let it become, but Jeff would be there and there would be things like basketball to talk about, so perhaps it could be good.

I finished my beer and we both took full glasses of water to bed. He went in with his fiancee and I went into the guest room. In the quiet of the room, I folded my clothes neatly and placed them on the top of the dresser. For some reason, I felt the need to pull back the curtains in the room and look out onto the back lawn, probably because I never got to do a simple action like that in my apartment. In the garden, I made out the shape of the large lemur statue that Jeff’s cousin had sculpted for him. I smiled thinking of Jeff’s cousin and his thick Brooklyn accent and then let the curtain close. I put two of the decorative pillows from the bed on the floor, pulled back the soft duvet and lay down. I slept immediately under my friend’s roof.

*                        *                        *                       *                        *                              *

The next morning I woke up and listened for footsteps.  I heard someone walk down the stairs to the first floor. I listened for voices and wished secretly that I could be alone, which is something I wish for even on weekends with close friends.  I saw the sun peeking behind the curtains and I quickly got over that desire.  When I walked downstairs, I saw Jeff, his fiancée, my friend and Maria all sitting in the sunroom. My friend and Maria were sitting side-by-side on the couch wearing gym t-shirts and plaid shorts. They both had their legs propped up on the wicker coffee table. We talked about plans for the day. Maria had to meet some of her friends she hadn’t seen in awhile. She borrowed Janelle’s car to go out. I had a vague sensation of wanting her to stay and sit with us all day, but I wasn’t sure what emotion it was tied to, so I figured it wasn’t that important to me.

Inevitably, we started talking about Jeff’s wedding. A wedding is something that you have to talk about, no matter how far away it is.  Jeff and his fiancée explained the setup of the farm where they were getting married. They told us about the arrival party, the cocktail hour at the wedding, the dinner, the ten-piece band, the after party and the farewell brunch the day after the wedding. It was going to be a weekend of celebration. I pictured the ceremony on a grassy lawn in front of the big lake. The leaves on the trees were changing even though it was only early September. Jeff was wearing a tuxedo, but he looked like we had when we went to our prom in high school. All of my other friends were there too, looking exactly as we had in high school. We posed for pictures and pretended to punch each other in the stomach. I pictured my parents at the ceremony too. I already imagined my drunk and the speech I would give; the speech that would make someone love me, or make some old relative say, “Now, that’s a smart young man.”

“I want a wedding,” my friend said.

We laughed, but I understood what she meant.

“So, we’re going to Colt State Park?” Jeff asked.

“Yeah, lets just do that.”

“We should get ready now then before Chris gets here.”

“Nah,” I said. “Let’s just wait until they get here.”

And before we knew it, they were there. Chris brought in a bag of groceries that included a few six-packs of tall, Narragansett Summer Ales. Narragansett is not a great beer, but I have a soft spot for it whenever I go to Rhode Island. It may be because it is some symbol of that water-filled state, but it has a very clean label with nice writing on it and drinking the beer out of the bottle tastes very good. The Summer Ales that Chris brought were even better than the regular Narragansetts, so we set to drinking them in the early afternoon.

Jeff showed off the new wood finish he did on the roof of his sunroom because Chris was good at building things and intuitive when it came to tools and crafts. We laughed a lot and made fun of Jeff’s neighbor who Jeff described as “an asshole.”  It got sunny and then cloudy; wind blew through the sunroom. I put on Before the Flood, the Bob Dylan and the Band live album from 1974 and tried to make Chris’ girlfriend laugh because she has a good sense of humor and can give confidence to someone who just wants to make a small room of people and friends laugh. I changed shirts and when I came down, Jeff was sawing pieces of wood and starting a fire in his little clay oven out on the patio. He stopped to go get groceries with my friend since it was close to dinnertime. Chris and I were outside alone for a second.

“I don’t worry about you,” he said.

“Thank you, man.”

“It’s an intuitive thing and I know you know that.”

“I do. And you know I feel the same way.”

“I miss you sometimes you son of a bitch.”

“Yeah right.”

We laughed and drank more beer.

“This is a good session beer,” Chris said.

Jeff and my friend came back with steaks and a lot more beer. Maria appeared from the back gate with a friend of hers from Brown. They sat down as Jeff started cooking steaks and sausages that Chris had brought. Jeff’s fiancée set a long table with salad and leftover rice from the night before. She brought out a homemade pizza that Jeff had whipped together.

“Steaks are done,” Jeff said.

“Thanks for all this, Jeff,” I said.

“Uh, Matt, what about me?” Jeff’s fiancée said.

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I know I’ll never be forgiven.”

“Domino,” she said.

We toasted to the meal and to the pleasant night and the fact that all of these different people were sitting around the table together.  Maria’s friend explained his start-up energy company. It had something to do with harnessing energy from the water. It sounded like a good idea and, even in that very moment, I wished that I had paid attention better.  The guy was nice and he was from a family of architects in San Francisco, so I trusted him.

Dinner ended and my friend, Maria and Maria’s friend from college all had to leave. We said our goodbyes.

“You should come down to D.C. sometime,” Maria said.

“Sure.”

“She’ll never come,” she motioned to my friend and laughed.

“Sure she will. I’ll come whenever.”

I hugged her and kissed her on the cheek.

*                        *                        *                       *                        *                              *

Later that night we were all drinking beer in the sunroom. Jeff’s fiancée brought out wine that she and Chris’ girlfriend shared.

“What?” Chris said. “Is that a lemur statue out there?”

“Oh,” Jeff’s fiancée said. “Yeah, Albert made it for Jeff.”

“Al!” Chris said and laughed. “How is he?”

“He’s got a cute little kid now.”

“I didn’t know he made art.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t so much anymore. But he can still make sculptures and things when he has free time,” Jeff said.

“That’s better,” I said.

“What do you mean, Domino?”

“I mean, its better to just make something that somebody likes.  Sometimes that’s better than anything else. Any art.”

I thought of the Bob Dylan bootleg I loved and I wasn’t sure I even believed what I had just said. Or, at least I wondered if it were even true or not.

Well I’m feeling a little bit scattered,

And your love is all that matters

‘Cause tonight I’ll be staying here with you.

“Here’s a beer, Dom,” Chris said, handing me a very cold, perspiring regular Narragansett.

“I love ‘Gansetts!” I said.

“Domino,” Jeff’s fiancée said. “You’re the only person I know who loves Narragansetts.”

I hugged the bottle.

Under each regular Narragansett cap was a riddle using pictures. We spent the next few hours figuring out the riddles and drinking more beer.  First Jeff’s fiancée went to bed, then Chris’ girlfriend. Then just Jeff, Chris and I sat out in the sunroom. We were all tired and a light rain was beginning to fall outside. I motioned to say something to both of them, but finished off an unnecessary beer first.

“Should we go to bed?”

Chris gave a large muscular nod from the chair he was slumped in.  We went into the kitchen to get glasses of water.  Jeff made a quick little sandwich for he and Chris using a half of a bagel. He put some of the smoked fish I brought on each quarter and spread a little plain cream cheese on.

“You want any, Domino?”

“No. You disgust me.”

We all walked upstairs slowly and went to bed. I folded my clothes and lay down alone under the soft duvet. I thought about the lemur statue out in the garden and was soon asleep. I wasn’t sure how late it was.

*                        *                        *                       *                        *                              *

We ate eggs and bacon the next morning. The bacon, when cooked, smelled of thick maple syrup and it was delicious. After we ate eggs and bacon, Jeff, Chris, Chris’ girlfriend and I went out to grab some supplies while Jeff’s fiancée showered and prepared for their big barbeque. Chris and I went into a crowded local bakery with a foolish list of supplies I had scribbled out to make everyone laugh.  We bought baguettes, five large chocolate chip cookies and one raspberry Danish that I promised Chris I would get him.  We laughed while waiting on line.

Back at the house, Jeff and his fiancée playfully yelled at each other while they made orzo salad. I helped them clean up the counter space and told Jeff’s fiancée that she had planned and made plenty of side dishes for the guests. Everything seemed eerily familiar to me, but I was enjoying myself helping her clean and prepare. Chris and his girlfriend had to leave to go to a party for her family. Jeff and I saw them out to the car. Jeff’s neighbor was outside with her baby and her brown standard poodle. The sun emerged strongly from behind the clouds and the baby chirped from its mother’s arms. Jeff and I said goodbye to Chris as they pulled out of the driveway. I felt a little sad, but went inside and took a shower.

Guests arrived for the barbeque, including one of Jeff’s friends from college who had the same first name as me and whom I liked a lot. He came with his girlfriend too. The sun was hot and all of a sudden there were a lot of people on the back patio that I didn’t know, but they looked nice and were friendly and young and sat around tables. Jeff’s fiancée had prepared enough side dishes and there was plenty of beer. I talked with a guy I’d met the year before about working in print. He was a nice guy and we joked about a lot of things and tried to be comfortable talking with each other for an extended period of time, which isn’t always an easy thing to do with someone.

I sat with Jeff’s friend from college, Matt, and his girlfriend.

“Jeff said you needed a ride to White Plains to catch a train,” Matt asked.

“Can you help me out? If its not too much trouble?”

“You got it.”

So, we talked. They had both just graduated law school, so we talked about that. We talked about the wedding. Soon it got darker and Jeff started another fire. One of the guests was drunk and tried to explain to me why he wasn’t a homophobe. I knew he was drunk and I was feeling flush with drink and the sense of upcoming summer and celebration that I was in the mood to be patient and listen. Besides, it was a nice night and Jeff had a fire burning.

The night got late and I started a movement to begin cleaning. However, all the girls took over and formed a line near the sink in the kitchen. The water over the sink ran hot and steam rose up and fogged the window. I had to go to the bathroom, so I hesitantly moved through the long row of girls talking loudly. I walked with my shoulders shrugging as if I knew nothing of washing dishes or anything domestic. I reached the bathroom and took a piss. And as fast as the line had started, as fast as the ritual had appeared, the girls and everyone else started filing out.  The drunk guy and his girlfriend stayed awhile but they soon walked home.

Everyone was getting ready for bed, when I reminded Jeff and his fiancée that I had stashed the cookies from earlier in the day. I pulled them out of their hiding spot by the dryer and put them in the microwave.

“They don’t need it, Domino!” Jeff stood in front of the microwave.

“Trust me.”

“Domino.”

“Trust me.”

I put the cookies flat on a paper towel and put them in the microwave for thirty-five seconds.

“Get out that milk we bought,” I said.

The microwave stopped and I pulled out the cookies.  Jeff, his fiancée, Matt, his girlfriend and I started pulling at the cookies. The chocolate chips were warm, gooey and delicious and soon it was a feeding frenzy until the last bit was gone. I quickly crumpled up the paper towel and threw it away.

“Damn you, Domino,” Jeff’s fiancée said.

“You know that was good.”

“You’re right.”

We all went up to bed in our respective spots. Our stomachs filled with milk and rapidly eaten chocolate chip cookies.

*                        *                        *                       *                        *                              *

On Memorial Day morning, the five of us sat around leisurely drinking coffee with the sense of impending departure that hangs over any Memorial Day.  We ate the remainder of my smoked fishes and the last of the bagels. We had coffee and I showered. When I got downstairs, I saw Matt drinking a beer, so I decided to have one too. More coffee was poured. We said we would leave, but then we stayed. Finally, it was about 1:00 PM and it was time to go. I collected all my things and grabbed my sneakers from the sunroom. I had the feeling I was forgetting something, but I went through my mental checklist and found that I had everything. We said our goodbyes and I didn’t feel that initial sadness rise up because I knew that I’d be seeing Jeff and his fiancée soon enough anyway. Or maybe it was because things were a little bit more scattered in general and there was no way to be truly sad.

I got into the back seat of Matt’s car.

“We’re going to stop in New Haven,” he said. “I’ve got to move some stuff out of my apartment and take it to White Plains.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

Matt turned on some Spoon and I listened to he and his girlfriend playfully bicker back and forth. We were stuck in traffic for a few hours and I thought about watching the NBA Finals the next night. By the time we got to New Haven the sun had started completely shining, giving the area around the college a completely refreshing and collegiate feel.

“I can’t believe this is such a terrible place,” I said.

“That’s what you think at first,” Matt said. “And then you see someone get stabbed across the street.”

We stopped at his apartment, which was in the top floor of an old Victorian home. We walked up creaking back steps. The apartment had a distinctly "end of the school year" feel to it. There were boxes everywhere and unwashed dishes in the sink and around the kitchen. Windows were open and fans were buzzing. Everything was very quiet and you could hear the birds chirping outside.

“This place is disgusting,” Matt’s girlfriend said.

“Well, then grab some stuff and we can get out of here quickly.”

We made several trips up and down in the heat, taking out dress shirts, ties, half full bottles of liquor, pots, pans and a fishing pole, which Matt forced his girlfriend to take in her car. Then, Matt and I got in his car, while his girlfriend got in hers and we set off for White Plains. There was no traffic on the Merritt so Matt and I flew. We made small talk. We talked about the summer. He explained the intricacies of living in New Haven and told me some stories of danger. We talked about Jeff and other mutual friends we shared. We also talked about fishing. It was a nice conversation that had no awkward stops to it, only natural ones, which was a reassuring thing to happen in a conversation between two guys who had been brought together by a shared friend. Before I knew it, it was 5 o’clock and I was at the White Plains train station.

“I’ll see you soon, my man,” I said waving Matt off.

He gave a nod in his baseball cap and sunglasses and took off.

I waited for the train in the golden light of the late afternoon. The sun was filtering through the trees and I thought about all the times I had taken the Metro North. How at different times it had signaled ultimate heartbreak, an escape, a chore, and a drunken late spring afternoon reverie. I put on my headphones and began listening to the Bob Dylan bootleg from 1975. I listened to Bob wail and change the lyrics to his songs. I listened to him change the tempo.

Well I’m feeling a little bit scattered,

And your love is all that matters

‘Cause tonight I’ll be staying here with you.

I kept listening on the train and watching the trees pass by. I remembered the lemur statue in Jeff’s yard and what I had said about it. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe it isn't just enough to simply make something that someone enjoys. Here was Bob Dylan, taking songs that people knew and loved, and then completely changing them. He rearranged the tempo so that the song took on a new meaning. He sang the lyrics with different emphasis, so that the songs took on a deeper meaning, maybe even a truer meaning than their original form. From the sound of the crowd, it seemed like audience enjoyed the new versions (how could you not with that backing band and especially those drums). Whether they liked it or not, it didn’t seem to matter to Dylan, all that mattered was that it sounded like he was having the best time of his life.  As if he were saying to the world and to himself, “now this is what ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ was supposed to sound like. I just couldn’t do it like this before.” There is a truth to the enjoyment of creating something and giving it to someone for their enjoyment—it is an act of care, of love. But perhaps that isn’t better than art, even if it is just something completely different than art.

When I got back to the city, I walked around the streets of my neighborhood in the last red light of the day; I wasn’t ready to go home yet. The smell of charcoal was in the air. I saw little girls taking large steps on the front stoops of their apartment buildings. It was Memorial Day without a doubt. I had just had a great weekend with old friends, their new loved ones, and other people who were nice and just trying to make their own way through this world and have their own Memorial Day weekends. I thought of the girl I was somewhat seeing and how I thought I might be able to love her, if that was even possible.

In front of me, a guy was walking his old, trodding, yellow dog. They walked slowly side by side toward the setting sun and I felt as scattered as I’d ever felt. I was wondering what mattered. I was pretty sure that I understood, but I couldn’t be quite sure. In any case, it was another Memorial Day.

The Return of The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Every few months or so, I like to take stock of what has occurred in music, sports, cultural and in my general mindset and create a list that is broken up into three distinct categories: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.  So, on this night of an NBA Draft with two Good players, a lot of Bad players and a TON of Ugly players, I feel that it is only my duty to weigh in on what has been Good, Bad and Ugly in the past four to five months.

The Good:

-The Boston Celtics memorable and gutsy run to the NBA Finals.  Sometimes glorious, sometimes excruciating, but always exciting and (if you're an NBA fan) thought-provoking. I'll definitely remember the 2010 NBA Celtics for Good and Bad.

- The 30-Day Countdown to Season 4 of Mad Men has begun.

- The NCAA Tournament.  Perhaps the most exciting NCAA Tournament in the history of college basketball.  There were too many buzzer beaters, under achieving and mediocre teams to count.  Who knew that mediocrity would ever lead to excitement?

- The neverending efforts of Janelle Sing, which can also be seen here  and here.  I'm telling you all: never stop working at those creative endeavors. If you don't stop, you'll never lose.

- Tinkers by Paul Harding.  I can not say enough about this book.  Just read it please.

- The Wall Street Ferry to Yankee Stadium.  Who knew?

- Ms. Farrell being added to the Mad Men website.  Meaning, hopefully, that America's new hearthrob (at least in my mind) will be a big part of Season 4.

- Brinsley Schwartz's version of "What's So Funny ('Bout Peace, Love and Understanding)?"

- Landon Donovan's goal.  C'mon.

- Newport, RI.

- John Williams' Stoner. An excerpt: "In his extreme youth Stoner had thought of love as an absolute state of being to which, if one were lucky, one might find access; in his maturity he had decided it was the heaven of a false religion, toward which one ought to gaze with an amused disbelief, a gently familiar contempt and an embarassed nostalgia.  Now in his middle age he began to know that it was neither a state of grace nor an illusion; he saw it as a human act of becoming, a condition that was invented and modified moment by moment and day by day, by the will and the intelligenct and the heart."

- Treme.  One of the best stories about a city since Ulysses.  Including a very "Wandering Rocksesque" Episode.

- Blitzen Trapper's fifth album Destroyer of the Void.

- The cover art for the new Walkmen album, Lisbon.

- The beach.

- Rondo's diving steal/layup against the Orlando Magic in the Eastern Conference Finals.

- Air.

- The Garnett to Pierce to Rondo play in the 2010 NBA Finals.

- The smell of a tree.

- Mad Men Season 4 coming on July 25, 2010.


The Bad:

- Kobe Bryant's performance in Game 7 of the 2010 NBA Finals.

- Backlash to the Lost series finale.  C'mon it was just a show.  It had Sayeed and Sawyer and Hurley and Jack and Kate and Mr. Eko and Locke and Desmond and Ben Linus and the Smoke Monster and Boone and Shannon and Libby and Vincent the Dog and Michael and Walt and...

- Time.  It's always just passing isn't it?  So depressing.

- The Lebron James sweepstakes.

- The oil spill. C'mon.

- The phantom penalty/offsides called against the U.S. in the Slovenia Game.  Awful.  We all thought basketball was bad.

- My exclusion from the Top 20 Writers Under 40 List published by the New Yorker.

- Mad Men being overshadowed by the attention given to Breaking Bad.  Just you wait until Season 4.

- The commercials for ABC's summer programming.

- The fact that I am not a TV writer when ABC is pumping out shows like The Gates and Rookie Blue.  I'm not bitter but, c'mon that stuff is terrible.

- The New York State Government.  Makes you long for the corrupt politics of Willie Stark, "Kingfish" Huey Long, or Boss Tweed.  At least times were simpler.

- Apple Stores.  That just has to be hell on earth, no?

- Michael Jordan's anti-semitic moustache.

- Hitting peak garbage smell season in New York City.

- The Haiti Earthquake. 


And now, of course, it is THE UGLY:

 

Alright, my Puddlers.  I should be back with another Puddles of My Podcast tomorrow.  If not, have a great weekend. Enjoy the heat and enjoy the thunderstorms if they come.  Watch the U.S. try to beat Ghana and make sure to vote on the newest Puddles of Poll on the sidebar of the blog.  I do pay attention to what you have to say about the blog.

Until the next time.

The NBA on June 17, 2010

As much as it pains me to put this picture up as the heading for the blog post today, I have to do it because I can't deny reality.  Last Thursday night, the Los Angeles Lakers defeated the Boston Celtics in Game 7 of the  2010 NBA Finals.  It was one of the ugliest, strangest, tensest and hardest played games of all time.  You had Kobe shooting terribly from the field.  You had Ron Artest coming alive to lead the Lakers.  You had Pau Gasol showing the world why he is perhaps the best low post player in the game today.  You had Rondo playing erratically.  Pierce playing well but not well enough.  Ray Allen playing well but not well enough. Big Baby defying his own weight and the principles of gravity on several lay-ups.  Rasheed Wallace shooting terribly but making a three in the fourth quarter that made you say that you always loved him as a player. Basically, Game 7 fell in line with how the rest of the series played out.  It was hard to decide who the better team was.  Kobe pressed too much.  The defenses were spectacular.  The offenses had trouble running.  There was ugliness, turnovers and it bascially came down to the last quarter and who wanted to seize the moment more.  On this night, it was the Lakers as the Celtics came up cold in the final quarter and could not figure out a way to run their offense and get points.

Now, you may also say that terrible officiating came into it and you can throw out free throw stats.  And that is always valid.  Sometimes (well, very often in the NBA) the referees can take away the game from a team.  However, despite my own proclivity to seek out referee conspiracy theories, in the end, a team will put itself in a position to win a game and if part of winning the game means putting yourself and your team in a position to sway the referees, then that is a part of the game of basketball.

So, what do we learn from the 2010 NBA Finals if we take the Lakers victory over the Celtics in 7 Games on face value.  Well, there isn't much to take.  Kobe may have helped to cement his legacy as the greatest Laker ever by tying Magic Johnson for championships.  However, it looked as though Kobe would wilt when the pressure was highest as he has done in the past.  Kobe idolizes Michael Jordan and Michael Jordan would have never allowed himself to play that poorly in the most important game of the season.  Rondo did not seize the moment as I hoped he would and we have to see how he will rebound next year knowing full well that he is and should be the leader of the Boston Celtics but will need to become a better shooter to fully wrap his mind around the psyche that is needed for that position.  The only thing that we can safely say about the 2010 NBA Finals was that it featured some of the best defense from two teams in recent years and that it featured a presence of effort and urgency that is often lacking from the NBA.

One of the reasons why people have grown away from the NBA is because of its high level of showmanship, the ease with which the players play the game, the perceived laziness of the players at times.  Obviously the proclivity of officials to call fouls and slow down the game is unattractive to an average fan, but I think the ease and the perceived laziness of the game is also a main factor.  To compound this trait, we also have an era where we have a bevy of larger than life SuperStars who tend to underachieve.  Lebron James obviously has immense talent, but he underachieves.  Carmelo Anthony can't get players around him who understand that he is the best player and that in order to win, they have to defer to him.  Dwyane Wade has won one championship but has recently been mired with terrible teams who have no desire to win.  Chris Bosh has been on terribly put-together teams and has played in obscurity in Toronto.  These players have all (with the exception of Wade in 2006) lacked the opportunity to seize the moment, to show that the game of basketball is all about effort.  That is not to say that each of these players and that most of the current SuperStars that are in the NBA do not play hard.  These are some of the hardest working stars the NBA has had since the late 80's and early 90's.  However, with the Lebron Sweepstakes and the Summer of 2010 monopolizing the headlines it is not hard to infer that sometimes these SuperStars do not fully grasp the effort that is needed to win an NBA Championship - the dedication and reliance on the team that is necessary.

Now, you may say that these players do care about the effort, because they are trying to position themselves, in a rather groundbreaking and organized way for professional athletes, in the best situation for them to win and to add to the level of competition in the league.  I absolutely understand that.  Yet, there is that lingering desire of Lebron James to be the next billionaire athlete that disturbs me whenever I hear it.  That same feeling is tied to watching Lebron laugh and joke in the middle of a playoff series where the Boston Celtics are stealing destiny right in front of him.  That feeling is tied to watching Dwight Howard get outworked by the Boston Celtics in the Eastern Conference Finals and still be smiling in the fourth quarter of a game.

I am not a Boston homer by any means.  I have become invested in this Boston Celtics team over the past few years because I have always been a fan of Kevin Garnett and the effort that he has always dedicated to the game of basketball since he was only 17 years old.  I have become a fan of the Art of Ray Allen, the likes of which I may not see for a very long time.  I have also become a student of the nuanced range of skill that Paul Pierce possesses. And obviously, I am very much invested in the rise of Rajon Rondo as one of the premier players in the NBA and a genuine freak of nature.  But what this Boston Celtics team has showed us over the past three years and this past year especially is the vast difference between successful and enjoyable basketball and basketball that turns people away.  When the Celtics are at their peak, as they were in 2008 and through much of this 2010 Playoffs (and to a degree in the 2009 Playoffs with the grit they showed), they exhibit a brand of basketball that is completely team oriented without being bland.  They have an exciting shooter; a point guard that can control the game and have an impact by not putting up huge numbers but by making big plays at the right time and filling up the stat sheet; they have a pure scorer; they have a determined defender in the low post who refuses to give in to age and reality, which can be neccessary in life (although in not such large doses); and they have a bench with whacky personalities who chomp at the bit (sometimes too much so) to play basketball.  When these Celtics have been great, there has been a palpabale sense of effort, of energy, of excitement - which are the fundamental elements of good basketball.  When they have been bad, like when egos and age got in the way of the majority of the 2010 season, they show all the problems of basketball: complaining, laziness, coasting on talent to try to win games and not being successful.  We have seen much of the latter from the majority of the NBA in the past 15 years, but as of late we have been emerging from that medieval era.

In the end of this 2010 NBA season, we had a Lakers team that woke up as well and was game for the challenge of trying hard, of playing great defense and wanting to win an NBA title.  So, we had a Finals that was baffling, that was  ugly and that many times did not feature one stand out player.  It was a definite change from the NBA we have all seen recently, where many times the dominant player stands out and is very often not successful. And as simple as having two teams that are trying hard, that are leaving everything on the court in order to win the championship of their sport might sound, we don't often see it in a world where becoming a sports billionaire is a priorty; where being seen with Worldwide Wes and Jay-Z is what helps determine who your next head coach will be.

I'm not an old fashioned guy. I understand the world and I understand Lebron James.  I just really like basketball.


P.S.: If you want to know about the NBA Draft.  Just go to Bill Simmons.  He'll help you out here.

Bachman Turner Overdrive

My friend Andrew Freimuth once drew a fantastic Dilbert cartoon at a party we had at our apartment.  I believe that it beats out many actual Dilbert originals.

There is not much new to post tonight.  However, there is a new Puddles of Myself Poll up on the sidebar of the page.  This poll is brought to you by The Gates, airing Sundays at 10:00 PM on ABC.

I have been working hard at a variety of projects as well as killing time in the lunch room at my regular work job. I'm polishing up my manuscript of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt, as well as drafting sketches to submit to Saturday Night Live (don't ask me how). See, those stupid screen shots we put up on the blog weren't just a threat.  We can actually do  it.

However, later this week we will have a full-time NBA podcast with Paul Sicilian where we break down the NBA Draft and what went wrong in the NBA Finals for the Boston Celtics as well as ramifications for the NBA and NBA legacies going forward.  That should be a good one.

Also, I will be doing a podcast with Ted Robinson of Forest City. Ted plays guitar and writes some of  the shortest and most poignant songs you'll ever hear.  Ted and I will hopefully discuss the project that Puddles of Myself and Forest City will be working on together, which is tentatively called "Forest For Yourself: A Tale of Two Bottles".  This project will be the presentation of free tracks from the upcoming Forest City album that will be available on this blog.  You can follow track by track and then download the whole album.  You will also be able to provide a donation.  More details will follow in the podcast itself. That is a podcast I am looking forward to very much.

I'll also try to get you a column on my thoughts on the NBA (as if you didn't get enough in the most vain Puddles of My Podcast episode to ever be recorded.). And next week I want to explain to you all the glories of Blitzen Trapper, who are one of the most underrated bands playing today.

But now, another excerpt of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.  We have reached Part III of the novel and we now return to the first person perspectives of the O'Donnell family.  The funeral and burial are over and now the family members return to their home in order to empty out the house for sale and to return to the problems of their individual lives.  No wonder I am trying to write sketches for SNL.

As always, my Puddlers, enjoy:




James

“I can’t believe you did all of this, Aunt Erin.  We could’ve handled some of it.”

    “Please, James,” Aunt Erin says to me.

    I want to say something about responsibility and about mom being my mother and that I should do better, but instead I don’t say anything.  I smile and I put my arm around her little body and pull her close.
    “I love you, Aunt Erin.”

    “Thank you, James.”

    I let her go and look around the kitchen.  There are about a half dozen aluminum catering trays filled with food.  There are plenty of plastic cups and plates and untensils all wrapped and stacked on the counters.  She has two liters of soda and also plenty of beer.

    “That was a nice service.  They have a good cemetary out there in Calverton.”  Uncle Connor is sitting at the kitchen table.  The fading grey light comes in from the skylight.  Behind him against the back windows there is a little red and purple from where the clouds are breaking and letting the sun through.  He drums his fingers on the kitchen table. “And Douglas and his family have always had a fine business at that home.”

    “I don’t know how with that crook of a father of his and the faulty hearses they used to send around.” Dad walks in with the bottle of Sark the girls found him with last night.

    “He wasn’t a crook, Ben.” Uncle Connor says.  I can see him want to smile.

    Dad grabs two tumbler glasses.  He turns to Uncle Connor and points a finger. “Revisionist.”  He puts the glasses down on the table and unscrews  the Sark cap. “Scotch?”

    Uncle Connor shakes his head and looks at Dad. “I don’t think so, Ben.”

    I watch Dad meet Uncle Connor’s gaze.  Dad turns away and pours himself a glass.

    “Well, I think so.” Dad says. “James?”

    I shake my head.  “I think I’ll just stick with beer.”

    Dad sits down at the table and pulls his glass in.  He takes a long drink off it and exhales.
    “James,” Aunt Erin says, grabbing a tray. “Why don’t you get Tom and help me carry this stuff into the dining room to set up.”

    “You got it.”

    I walk out of the kitchen, through the living room where Eve is sitting with Liza and looking over a book.  Eve looks at me and smiles.  I feel the hollow dread in the bottom of my stomach.

    “Why did you hide my grandson from me?”

    “I didn’t, mom.  I didn’t mean to.”

    She shuts the oven and my mouth tastes like an onion.

    I move through the main hallway and to the front door.  I look out and Maggie is sitting on the front step with Jake.  The sun is shining red.  He still looks good and it surprises me how happy I am to see him.  Surprise isn’t the word – I always admired him and thought that we saw eye to eye in some way.  Even though I always felt that Maggie would break his heart somehow.  But he’s back and it would be like him to show up to the funeral without telling anyone.

    “Tom?”

    I jog quickly up the stairs, my feet making that soft warm thudding sound on the carpet.

    “Tom?” I ask again.  I turn down the hallway and look into his room.  Tom is sitting on the ledge of his window, legs draped out the window. “What’s going on, Tom?”

    He turns around and smiles. “I’m not going to jump.”

    “I didn’t say that.” I cross my arms.

    “You looked that,” he laughs.

    I shake my head.

    “What’s up?”

    “Aunt Erin wants us to help set the food up for the guests.”

    Tom turns his feet back into the room.  Red light enters onto his tan carpet.  It reminds me of too many summer afternoons.

    “Who’s coming?”

    “I don’t really know. Friends?”

    He nods and steps into the room.  He slides the screen back over the window.  I suddenly feel hot around the collar of my shirt.  Tom stretches up.  He looks lean and sharp.  He looks healthy and slightly sad.

    “I’m sorry,” I say. “About the look.”

    He walks over and pats my shoulder.

    “Thanks for coming up to get me.”

    He passes me and walks out into the shadow of the hall.  I follow him.

    “Who was that girl from last night anyway.”

    Tom doesn’t answer and disappears down the stairs.  I begin to descend but I can feel mom behind me.  I turn.

    “Be patient with your brother.  He needs your help just like everyone else.”

    “I know, mom. I know.  I love him.”

    “Good,” she holds her arm against my cheek. “Now where is that grandson of mine?”

    Of course she’s not there.

Un Ano Ayer

Well forgive the translation, that was the title of a brooding poem I wrote in twelfth grade in order to memorialize 9/11.  What I forgot to mention on Monday was that this past Saturday marked the one year anniversary of the Brooklyn Invitational, an event I put on with my friend, Rich Lee in DUMBO.  It was our first real foray into putting on an event that we completely funded and lets just say that it was a learning experience.  Some feelings were hurt, some bouncers cost us money with graffiti, plenty of beer was drunken, roads were driven down the wrong way at dawn and friends peed and the floor and fought - all in all, it was a terrific and memorable experience that I would not trade for anything in the world.

Some memorable shots from the Brooklyn Invitational:

The only other thing I would like to mention in  this post, is this link, which was sent to me by this man today. Ah, sometimes you just have to marvel at the world.

That's it for today - oh, if you are that beautiful girl on the subway, just give a shout the next time we run into each other.  I know leave you with the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.  Kindly read this  while you are taking breaths of hyperventilation during Game 6 of the Celtics vs. Lakers NBA Finals.




No one broke from the crowd of mourners to move beside the casket.  The priest lifted one hand in the direction of Jack Simmons and Ed Verlaine. Ed pulled his spade from the turf and they began walking slowly to the mound of dirt.  The priest straightened his posture and led the mourners away from the gravesite back to the winding cemetary path where hearses, limos and other luxury sedans idled.
As they approached the hole, Jack followed the girl with the crimson hair as she walked across the grounds, the spring of turf underfoot.  The crimson bobbed along with the black and white of the rest of the crowd.  He watched her stop and hug the older man who had spoken.  Behind them, the boy stood, his hands in his pockets.  His hair fell across his forehead, giving his head a round look, though his face and chin were sharp.  He was a dash of grey next to the crimson and black and white.
One of the heads groundskeepers, Louis, came from the crowd.  He approached Jack Simmons and Ed Verlaine.

“Ok, boys.  We’re going to lower it down now.” He nodded. “Good service.  I like that Father Charles.”

Jack Simmons raised his mouth slightly, keeping his brows lowered.  Louis walked over to the platform the casket was seated on.  He reached below one of the edges and hit the switch.  Jack had never seen the switch before – he just knew where it was.  The casket slowly sunk into the ground.

“You’ve done burials with him before?”

Louis looked at Ed Verlaine.  Ed shrugged.

“He looked familiar.”

Louis nodded as the casket moved halfway into the hole.  The top of it still brown-red, sheen, with panes of white running along its edges from the  sun and clouds.

“He did John Lennon’s funeral,” Louis said, tucking his chin and watching the casket.  He rubbed his red cheek skin. “He did it in New York.”

Jack Simmons listened to the hum of the machine and the rattle of the casket as it burrowed further and further into the hole.  The shadow cutting away its shine more and more.  He looked at Louis’ well kept brown moustache.

“Strawberry Fields Forever.  He was there for all of that.”

The coffin nestled itself within the walls of the grave.  Stray pieces of dirt crumbled down the neatly packed sides of the hole.  Jack saw the coffin snugly fit in the grave, a shadow cast upon its entire face.  The sun beat on his neck and it felt good to him as did the familiarity of the humidity.  However, the coffin fit, it was dark with shadow and it was cool.  The coffin was as familiar as the harbor in winter, or following Emma by the shade of the docks.  Jack felt that the mother inside of the indian orange wood panels and on that soft silk pillow was cozy in her bed.  There were pieces of root sticking out of the grave wall.

The machine stopped.

Louis bent down and checked the button.  He stood up and clapped his hands, they gave off a soft echo.

“OK, boys.  It’s your time now.” He tipped his head first to Ed and then to Jack and moved across the grass towards where the mourners were in the distance. 

Ed Verlaine dug his shovel into the mound and held it there.  He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lifted one with his mouth.  He held the pack out to Jack Simmons.  Jack took a cigarette.  Ed threw him the lighter. Jack caught it, lit the stick and passed it back to Ed who did the same.  Ed dropped the lighter into the pocket on the front of his uniform.  He pulled the spade out, weighed with dirt and turned it down into the grave.  It hit the casket with a scratch and a thud.

“Thank you,” Jack said.

“Strawberry Fields Forever,” Ed puffed.

Jack looked over his shoulder and saw the girl with the crimson hair up the hill on the gravesite grounds.  He turned back to the mound.  He struck his spade in and pulled it out swiftly, turning dirt earthward.  His back flexed with his hamstrings and he moved the dirt once more.
The scratching continued below Ed Verlaine and Jack Simmons as they worked.

“It’s a shame isn’t it, Jack?” Ed thrust his shoulders forward with the shovel, weighted, then lightened his load.

“What is a shame?”

“That after all the nice craftsmanship they do on these caskets that we go and scratch them all up with dirt and pieces of clay and little rocks when we cover them up.”

Jack Simmons’ biceps strained as he lifted a spadeful of dirt. Sweat moved up and under his jaw.

“That’s just the way it is.”

“Why do they spend so much time on them?  I always wondered that.  We should’ve just left them like the old west coffins like in A Fistful of Dollars. Planks of wood.  At least when the Egyptians used gold they gave them pyramids and plenty of room.”

Jack Simmons stopped shoveling.  He took a long pull off his cigarette and exhaled it.  His short hair was soaked with perspiration.  He rubbed it and felt it spike.

“It’s just the way it is.”

Ed looked at Jack standing and smoking. “I suppose you’re right.  I suppose that’s the way it has to be.  Especially for someone you love.  You’ve loved someone right, Jack?”

Jack nodded his head and picked up the shovel, setting to the mound of the dirt again.

Ed Verlaine smiled.  “They loved her.  That family that is.  They must have.  That’s why they all spoke so strange.  She must have been a good mother.”

    Ed let his eyes move up the hill of the grounds to the mourners who still remained.  The crowd had grown smaller.  He listened as Jack scraped and dumped dirt, quietly grunting and breathing.  He used to watch the girls outside his window in class as the water from the icicles fell.  He’d sat in his backyard underneath the porchlight and drank cool beer and  let the fireworks play in the sky above him.  Jack shovelled more dirt onto the coffin.  He’d let the dark of the night, the navy of the night sneak in and wrap around him as his canvas shoes rested on the sedimentary walkway in the middle of the grass.  Ed sighed and flicked his cigarette.  It hit the edge of the dirt pile, slightly red and still smoking.

    “What was the next hole?” Ed asked, holding a shovelful of soil.

    “Olivero.”

    “Olivero, that’s right.” Ed dropped the dirt. “That red head is still up there.”

    Jack Simmons nodded and dug deeper into  the mound.  They were making good progress.  He stopped and turned his neck to see the girl with the crimson hair.  He  could see her up the grounds.  The crowd had thinned considerably. She was standing with a man.  Her posture was slightly slouched and he seemed to stand above her; stand into her.  Jack resumed digging. He dug slowly and without effort.  He turned again to watch her.  She and the man had walked away from the remaining mourners.  Cars continued to idle by the roadway.  The girl with the crimson hair and the man she walked with stood by one of the neatly contained thickets that were littered throughout the cemetary.  There were small yellow and purple flowers in the thicket.  Jack tilted dirt into the hole – it made thumping sounds now, hollow, warm repeating thuds.

    The girl with the crimson hair sagged her shoulders and threw her arms around the man.  Her hair fanned and swished.  The man held her and turned to the side.  The girl moved her face from his shoulder and kissed him directly.  Jack felt his stomach rise and fall deep inside, he felt his kneecaps grow warm and then cool with sweat.  They stood by the thicket, the clouds covered the sun again leaving few slants of grey light to fall solemnly by the yellow and the purple eminence of the flowers.  The wood of the shovel chafed Jack Simmons’ palm calluses.  The faces of man and the girl with the crimson hair separated.  Jack thrust his shovel back into the mound of dirt, he strained his forearm muscles lifting the next shovelful out.  He didn’t look as he floated the shovel above the grass and into the grave; he only watched the two of them.  Their faces moved together again in a kiss. Jack thrust the shovel once more, feeling a pain down through his abdomen and groin as he did so.  The man and the girl with the crimson hair kissed once more.  Jack Simmons’ chest was on fire and he felt a persistant and primordial urge within his chest and attached to his brain that told him to run away.  To explode and disappear into the grey, the light and the heat of the day. He drove his spade into the brown, brown dirt.  He  saw the purple sash of  his youth that was life and that was death.  The purple sash across Emma’s soft round underchin and the way her hair still looked alive.  His chest burned but he continued to dig – it was all he could do to remember.

    Ed glanced up from his digging and saw Jack rapidly moving the dirt into the grave.  Both of Jack’s eyebrows were raised and his face was red.

    “Are you alright, Jack?” Ed asked.

    Jack nodded.

    “Sure?” Ed put his shovel into the ground and pushed his hand through his hair.

    “Yeah, just have to finish this hole and move to the next one.” He continued to dig fervently.

    “You got it, Jack.”

    Ed looked over and saw the red head walking with a guy over to the idling cars.  Another funeral was finished and Jack was right – they would move on to the next hole until the sun went down and it got cool and then they could leave.  He’d get a beer once he left.  He could taste it.  Actually, what he felt was the bottle’s cool perspiration against his finger tips. Ed laughed, the feeling of the wetness made him think of the taste of beer and of refreshment.

    Ed Verlaine pulled his shovel up and pushed it into the pile.  He pulled out an even shovelful and tossed it into the grave.  The coffin had long disappeared.  He shook his head.  All of those words, those strange speeches from this family, gone into that hole as well.  He collected another clump of dirt in his shovel.  But that wasn’t necessarily true.  Those words didn’t get stuck underground with the body, they weren’t trapped.  Maybe they lived on and escaped through the cracks and floated away: disappearing: reappearing and moving away in the trees and the light, just like the worlds that moved and disappeared from him – the girls, the friends, the look of the stone walkway under his porchlight.

    He kept his eyes on his shovel and the pile and listened to Jack’s persistent breath and motion.  Ed Verlaine was looking forward to the night, though.  Maybe there would be a breeze that would blow against his legs, the cool breeze of a school year starting and he could remember that feeling near his heart from when he was younger and the summer was ending.  That feeling he had thought was love. Ed’s shovel struck a big rock. He lifted it and flung it over the near sycamore tree.  He and Jack could finish the next hole and the one after that and then leave in their cars, driving out in the highway away from this green field of bodies.  Ed Verlaine knew  that if it didn’t rain, he’d roll the window down and hold his elbow out the window.  The cars in the other lanes would swish by and the neon signs from  the strip malls would too: Stop N’ Shop, McDonald’s, Sporting World IV, GameStop.  He’d lick his lips and think of a beer.  He wouldn’t reach for one like he used to – he’d wait and think of the cool.

    Ed took a look at Jack and then looked up the hill.  The last cars were pulling away and he heard a strange bird’s call that might have been an owl.  He turned back to Jack.  The family had all gone and he and Jack would be gone too soon.  At night, the breeze would hit him and it would be like the cool of the swimming pool in the bright light and heat of the summer.  He floated above the black T’s at the pool’s bottom and they stayed until the sun turned red and it was time to go for dinner.  He would help his mother pack the suntan lotion into her canvas bag, gently placing his mother’s sunglasses on top of the towels last.  Then, Ed would hold his sister’s hand and they would walk past the concession stand with the smell of chicken fingers and into the dark, dank cool of the entrance tunnel.  His bare feet slapping on the chipped maroon paint.

    “Maybe we can go down to the water and see fireworks tonight, Eddie.”

    “Fireworks?”

    “Of course, it’s July.”

    Ed took another shovelful of dirt and lifted it high up, feeling the strength of his biceps.  He brought it down slowly and tipped it evenly into the grave.  Pieces of dirt stuck to the spade.  The dark of the maroon tunnel gave way to the square entrance and the way out to the scorched brown grass.  One square of light against the black.