Hello August 2020

It is I looking at the universe and wondering were July has gone and who gave you permission to introduce yourself, August. Four months to the new year, I heard. Hello, glad you are here. Hope you brought some good news.

As if I could touch the ending, the invisible lane hoping all the burdens wiped away by the artist brush stroke, would be left at the curbside. As if all, one heavy, embroidered year that has been 2020 tidily arranged on a bucket of rocks and left by a construction site, would be done on earth as it is in heaven at the click of fingers. But as scripted on the book of life, stories will be told and carried over at turn of the page and dropped like one hot BBQ chicken coming off the grill. It is a given. It won’t just be discarded like an empty suit or used paper napkin at the dinner table. It will still be there sitting in a corner, dejected like a maggot waiting for another soul to devour and moons to touch.

We are all anxiously awaiting the death of the doom, the apple falling in the bright night bringing joy to pupils who wished the year was here today so, they could bless the freshly minted with a smile, cuddle it as their best toy and won’t let go. They hope to ring in the old glory that once stood. I hear hearts pumping, loud, louder, kicking and gesturing like a Radio City Rockettes but time is the essence, it will tell. It won’t be stingy but I suggest we invite faith to trail right along to easy up our burdens.

Pretending we have not, fake it isn’t but real it will be with scores of uncelebrated milestones, places to visit, family reunions to settle. Unless we are Him and we are not, handicapped by our own shortcomings we wait patiently with ease, unable to remove the entangled rope but sitting quietly at the beach, we hear the sounds of the boombox, the new wave majestically washing ashore, the page turner that will give us a new tune.

Miss Katherine

Don’t call it a movie. A fib. A lie. Call it alive. Alive we are. Alive we will be, tomorrow is always here, a tale for the historians it is going to be. So, how you will tell the story to your grandchild, the script will dictate. Tomorrow!

Flicking through the three hundred sixty five pages New York Times bestseller, the title reads, when the world stopped, like a Broadway musical. An hand embroidered stitched letters on the back of a tablecloth.

It wasn’t me or you or they, it was us, all of us. It wasn’t black, white, brown, yellow, gray or pink, it was us. It wasn’t I speak Portuguese, you speak English, yo hablo Espanol, je parlais Francais, Io parlo Italiano, oh sorry no I don’t speak German; it was us. Yeah, who cares really?! It quivered. Who? What?! Us. The world. Stopped into complete oblivious, paralyzed from the waist down, naked like a prostitute on the corner street, baked like sweet potato left despondent on a dark alley by an unknown martian masquerading as Hercules.

The plot wasn’t without a hole but it was real. The town’s people were up and arms, mystified, ready to eat crow but came to their senses long enough to demand answers. Who in the name of the Holy Ghost could have committed such atrocity but it was too late. Hitting the break they couldn’t, the beast was already out driving like a drunken squirrel and stopping it, would have been as clever as trying to call a lifeline on who wants to be a millionaire. Huh?! Yup. A task. An episode. A job. Last I heard, whatever it was, took off line zippping down like Elon Musk spaceship leaving folks stranded on the banks of the river Jordan drum beating themselves to death. Who in the moon years would have the answer? But just like a flashlight, folks heard a cracked voice peeking through the bushes, turned around to see the town obnoxious chatty charley blabbing that miss Katherine might. She might, he said but why? “I don’t know, she might; cause she was the only one left boozenapping”, he replied.

Your Not So Perfect Hero

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I left in the middle of the day to run an errand, finding myself cornered by a vulture, aka Tony the dog boss, when I got back in the office, ready to stick his powerful bills in whatever part of my unchartered soul he could penetrate.

He stormed in my cubicle, wanting to know how long it would take me to perform a task. No reason was given, no contract signed but he just wanted to know now and now.

Startled, I asked if he was looking for me to time myself. “Do you want me to stop and go the clock, just like the sprinter in the collegian invitational or the recipe in the oven, the hour, the minute, the second, record every time I stopped to take a minute to breathe or go to the loo, how I went from point A to point B? Do you want it now just like that, obey the light at your street corner traffic light at the moment you walked in, just like the motor vehicle at assembly line or a jeopardy contestant? Do you want me to be my own babysitter?” “Basically”, he replied.

I was in agony to even attempt to answer back. The short stretch bandage over my left arm sucking up blood off me was not an indication to him that all was not well but he looked like he had just come out of the Mardi Gras parade and wasn’t ready to remove his costume just yet.

I was not int the mood to deal with him or anyone else for that matter and he like a dog in heat but crisply replied that I didn’t know, actually I didn’t care; it depends, I remarked. He walked away to I receiving that perfectly crafted meeting invite minutes later, right before quitting time, at four thirty I may add.

I took one look at the email, felt my head spinning, exploding, the fume spewing off my nostrils, my stomach growling, cracking out of my soul, the motor engine creeping up on me with such a force I was ready to puke and make french fries out of him. If swear was a symbol, it would have been my middle name.

I stalled long enough to see the daylight. I heard the saliva floating down my esophagus, the sweat walking slowly across my spine as I calmly step back. I took a deep breath. I needed a few minutes of misery free decongested trafficless moment to ingest it all in and let it be; reflect on it, how I was to control myself long enough not to present him with a platter filled of beautiful colored words and force of pound cake on his forehead.

There I was, engulfed in flames, pacing myself like one enraged roaster in the bathroom, doing the hula dance, jumping off the cliff of beating down notebook to realizing, I had a doctors note, what the heck was I thinking; I had the doctors note. I should have gone home but went to work to clean up a few things but was sent to prison instead. I clicked the declined button faster then I could read the teleprompter, walked by his office and waved at him with a smile to his bewildered face, “good night sir”.