Ronnie's Flashback continued

Ronnie began to twirl his keys. They were attached to small bizarre picture some ex-girlfriend had given him. It was ment as a good luck charm, a standard cross embelished with knots and details from a trip she had made on a mission to Eastern Europe. He felt that, with all that went on his life, this was a simple piece of constancy he could hold onto. He switched hands but kept the momentum going, something positive in this awkward dialogue.

He leaned forward on the barren wood of the picnic table. Not the seat. Who knows what haed happened there. Instead they opted to the stereotypical drinking stance of young men, elbows on knees rearends hoisted to, but not fully on, the top part of the table. The creak from his movement could have easily been made from a bad back.

Bertie lay back on the flecked green table, carefully placing his hand behind his head so as to not gain splinters in his scalp. The easement stopped his head from spinning and he squinted at the stars just peering out from the light of town. Lying back had eased the pressure on the front of his jeans and a new pack of smokes slid towards the table. He fumbled to get the hard covering open.

"Since when did you take up smoking?" Ronnie asked, fliping his keys back to his other hand.

"I've smoked forever," and to prove a point, the red tip glowed and he did not vomit. "See?"

"Well, keep it down. My dad smells smoke on me, my ass is toast," he swigged a bit of beer. He guessed he would never understand which tasted worse, the beer, the smoke or saying good bye to his old friend. As he sat there and stared at his friend, he realized how far they had come and how, despite everything, nothing had changed for Bertie. Here they were, the night a bit chill from the edge of spring, and he had no jacket on. He saw two holes on his friend's clothes. One, oddly placed near his left armpit and another between the seam and brim of his underwear. He only knew that because his pants were too big and he did not have a belt on.

He looked at this own slacks, leftover from the day's brunch.

Bertie was always like this.

Always had been.

"I've joined the army."

"What?"

"I said, I've joined the army."

"No," Ronnie pointed out, "I heard you, I mean, I know, but that was an interjection because, I, oh wow, dude." He looked to the grove of trees nearby. It made sense, really. In a world that Bert could never seem to cope with, he might do well where the structure was so profound.

"Don't jump up and congratulate me at once, Mr. College-Bound."

Ronnie did not realize he had paused. And that it had been noted. Bertie sat up and flicked the unfinished smoke to the dark grass.

"Well, then congratulations. You don't seem to excited, I must admit."

"I'm not, really, but what other choice to I have. I can't do anything like you. Never could," the last two words spoken away from Ronnie. Bertie swigged a large chuck of alcohol. "But this might make for something better. Get some money. Get in shape."

"Get some clothes."

"Yeah, that too, asshole."

"Sorry, just noticing."

"Bertie, I don't know what to say. You should have come to my party. We could have said something to everyone. Something big! Mom would have loved it."

"My mom wouldn't have. She's been bitching at me since I told her last week."

"Is that why you've been drinking?"

"Something like that."

"I'm sorry, ah, I really am," he put his arm around his friend land used his elbow bend to bring him closer. He could not remember a time when they both had sat so close together. Perhaps some Saturday night at the local theatre, but nothing beyond that. Bert was not just warm, he radiated heat in waves from between his shoulder blades. The temperature, however, dropped when he patted Bertie's back and he felt his friend's neck relax.

"The fact is, joining the military is a great thing, and, no matter what your mom says, I think it is way cool. It'll give us something to chat about on emails for the next few months. When do you ship out?"

"Two weeks," Bert did not look at Ronnie. He did not believe his sincerity at all. But he did appreciate the attempt.

"I'll drive ya over. You gotta tell me when."

"No, that's okay."

"Seriously, I'll drive," Bertie shrugged hard, using his left arm to push Ronnie's touch away.

"You don't have to. Got it?" He turned to face his friends.

In the dark, Ronnie detected tears with the sudden tension. He stood up. He did not come here for this.

"Okay, well, you let me know."

"No, it's just that..."

"...I didn't realize it was so late," Ronnie mocked looking for his car.

"...I, wait, Ron, Ronnie," he stood up so quickly, his pants almost fell down.

Ronnie walked out to his car, "you want a ride back, at least, to your house?"

"Yeah, Ronnie, wait, I, I..."

The ride was quiet back to Bertie's house. All the tension of the past few years piled high dissolved on that ride back to his friend's home. After uneventful good-byes, he realized he did not want to play this game anymore, the one where he had to guess his friend's reaction prior to every comment and word. So he watched him go back into his house, without saying a word, only smiling. A wave seemed to be adding too much.

He drove away.

And now he had to see him again. It was not so much that he had to, but Bertie had become a symbol for Ronnie's past, a kept secret that was never fully resolved and that only the maturity of time could help it come to pass.

They met at the coffeehouse.

Stating the Obvious

Monroe looked hard to his right, as if the hockey game on the slim television had sudden gained interest. But there was merely a commercial, and his rapid head turn seemed out of place. He had hoped no one would noticed.

"It helps if you actually have your computer on, dude," he heard from behind himself. His heart felt like it had gone over the first ledge of a rollercoaster. He smiled without thinking.

"Excuse me, huh?" He mentioend as his head turned back, "and thanks for getting that for me." He moved his chin towards the half eaten scone and the cold mocha. He did not have to lock eyes with the barista working solo this lone Monday afternoon. He knew exactly what the young man was wearing. A wool cap, even in summer, kept back a blond and red mohawk, that just made him look thinner. He knew that the barista, named Nick, was also wearing an extra small beater underneath his blue work polo and apron. It pulled the edges of his shape aside and made his chest and neck more defined because of it. The beard was meant to look shapeless, but Nick's manicuring of his personal fur was evident.

He saw him after the shower once at the Y and knew the man took care of himself. He even knew the tattoos on the young man's back.

The plates clacked and sighed as they were removed from Monroe's booth.

"Is that one of those new micro laptops?" The young man asked.

"Oh this?" Monroe rested the palm of his hand next to the rainbow sticker and tried to be as cool as possible. "Yeah, Ma gave it to me for graduation."

"College bound?"

"I am, I am," Monroe stated, again looking to the floor. "You?" He already knew the answer. The proximity to teh college and the barrage of hockey tshirts gave away the coffeemaker's secrets.

"Yeah, second year. Working here to make ends meet," Nick pointed out, greeting Monroe with another nod. The nod moved his lieft arm a bit and shifted the weight forward. After a brief swear, Monroe was out of his seat and holding the other side.

"That was close, here," Monroe removed the plate so that the others underneath could shift back into Nick's palm, "lemme help you."

They both saunterd over to the counter and clacked the plates down. "And, for the college fund," Monroe pulled out a dollar. He had wanted to finish his work and enjoy the view of the young man at work--but also call it early. This side track was not in the plans. He placed the money into the tip jar with a bit of flair, so Nick, now behind the counter, would know he put it there.

"Hey, hold up," Nick stated and walked into the back room. Monroe surveyed the room. It was clearing out for the evening. He doubted there was any free coffee left.

Nick held out his hand and a small piece of paper--just as his mobile vibrated audibly.

He answered, "WHAT?"

Monroe unfolded the paper.

In it was the phone's number.

"It's my cell," Nick stage whispered.

Monroe was a very, very bad liar.

Bert's Best Friend

"A bone fide coffeehouse," Bert looked around and upwards, as if the place was bigger then he expected.

Ronald did not take his eyes off his friend. Friend? He had no better word for their relationship. They had been apart for a few years, and bumming into each other was more chance then force. A moment in the dairy aisle, Bert buying more milk because his mother was too sick to do so, and Ronald getting a quick snack. He had, at first wanted to walk away. His last time with Bert did not go well.

They were in their senior year at Dornie High School and Bert had insisted on the two of them spending the night alone and getting drunk. Ronald really did not mind. But he had his family together; his sister was in town; his grandparents had just arrived. The late hour helped, but the feeling that he needed to be elsewhere was pervasive. Ronnie figured if he drank enough, the stresses of having of having so many family members together in honor of him might be reduced. Alas, since Bert still did not have a car, and they were both underage, he knew he'd have to drive and, therefore, stay sober.

But Bertie insisted. He couldn't resist. So that was their last night together.

It was a disaster. The only place they could find to drink was Memorial Park. It being Friday, the police would be located downtown, and this was the only place that Ronnie figured might work. He picked a darker picnic table, tagged from similar meetings from many teens. Apparently, this Friday, they must also be downtown.

The wind was dead. They could hear people coming from a mile away.

And the drinking began. For Bert.

Ronnie stayed on one beer, placing it behind him to keep it from Bert's notice.

"So? Shit, man, oh man...graduation on Monday. Who ever heard of that?"

"I don't know, Bertie, does seem kinda stupid."

"Stupid? Stupid?!" Bertie forced a laugh for some reason and slapped Ronnie's back hard enough to make him slide forward. He then moved the hand to Ronnie's shoulder, as if to apologize for.

"Dude, you got drunk before, didn't you?" Ronnie smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, my room's in the basement. Wasn't sure you'd show."

"Not sure, I'd show?"

"Yeah, you're the star, here, man, you're the one everyone's looking to. I mean, you don't think your principal is smiling you got a full ride?"

"I doubt he knows."

"He knows, he knows...."

"Yeah, maybe," Ronnie tried to relax.

to be continued.

Bert had a love for meatloaf, especially his mother's This night was no different. He could practically smell the wafting BBQ as he pulled up into the alleyway behind the house. His mother had told him that it was for dinner. Like himself, she was a glutton for schedules and menus did not escape her. She knew what she wanted to make before the days of the week began.

Bert's job at the factory also granted him straight lines in his schedule. His mother could always predict when he would arrive. This was a comfort for both of them.

Bert had a bad day, but that cleared out quickly when he got into the house. Mother had cleaned and readied everything, a visitor would half expect to see birthday baloons and brightly wrapped gifts heaved onto the counter when they entered.

Bert also paused. A clean house was to be expected. Since her retirement, his mother had kept herself busy by entering sweepstakes, cooking and, most of all cleaning. But this work was exceptional. Recent spots from tooth brushing in his basement apartment's bathroom mirror were even wiped.

He smiled larger and put on a decent shirt--the one he had lain out was subjected to cat fur. The little beast had pressed the door open and entered. He would have to remember that the next time around.

His mother was cutting the meat upon arrival into the kitchen. She wore an apron, but he remembered it was at the top of the laundry pile, when he had left for work.

Dinner was silent. Bert smiled through a large part of it, having two helpings of the fresh meal.

"Thank you, mother, it was delicious."

"Now you head out to the gym. It closes in two hours," she said, looking down at the plate.

"Mom, you know I am not going to the gym."

"You're not?" She was terrible at lying. Bert recalled once, in his childhood, how she tried to hide a surprise visit to a local mini-golf. An addiction, something kept at a distance with his inabilty to drive, that she would occasionally pacify.

"You know where I'm going, Mother."

"Sweety, it is just that, well, do you really know this girl?"

"Mom, we have been talking for several days, you'll be fine. Why don't you call one of your friends?"

She frowned. He knew she would, but would act like she would not.

"You are ungrateful. All this work I made for dinner. You should stay here and keep me company."

"Mother, I am not staying, okay?" He picked up his plate and made for the kitchen to avoid her expression. "I am going out on a date."

"But it is a school night," she pleaded.

"Mother, she teaches school, she doesn't go to one."

She pushed her plate away from herself and made a face. She misjudged her own strength and the plate toppled onto the floorboards. The clang was loud; but it did not break.

"MOTHER," he emphasized, "stop it."

She turned to face him.

"I didn't mean to do that, ya know."

"Well you did, and you almost break a plate."

"But I didn't."

He moved with striking distance to his mother. He bent over and picked up the food pieces with an old napkin. He walked out of the room careful to make no noise.

"You'll be fine, mother," he said to her, " you are starting to sound like Norman Bates own mother."

"Who's Norman Bates?"

He went back down to the basement to brush his teeth one last time.

Another visit

Bert realized that the act that he had envisioned in his head was nothing when played out in reality.

He stared at the corpse in broad daylight. He could not see it breathe. Instead of stepping around it, large swatches of green grass at the boy's head and feet, he stepped over the body--lifting his feet high so they did not distrub the tableau.

Now standing in the gutter, he squatted and placed the handgun over his rump. The weapon was a burning hot now, much warmer than the original firing. It pressed harder as he leaned in over the youth's mouth. He held a palm over the young boy's lips, as if saying a healing prayer.

He felt no air.

And Bert knew he should have shuddered. But he felt no cold for his actions. He only felt the warmth of the gun just under his belt.

The chest wound was well placed into the boy's heart. It must have kept working, for he heard the gurgle. In fact, he reasoned, his hearing had increased tenfold. The birds did not herald his moment of conquest. No sirens filled the air.

The thought of the sirens caused him to stand and rest his hand on the gun. North and south no one approached. Bert realized that beyond this moment school was in session and even though the occasion toy housed itself on the sidewalk, not a child in sight.

Only the young man. Bert always wondered how he got away with his annoyances. He skateboarded so frequently, one would begin to hope for rain to make the boy slip and stop his incessant noise. And even though he never smoked in public, many parents in the neighborhood had to explain to their elementary students that the pungent odor was merely dog excrement.

Bert had removed the area nuicince.

And he loooked again to thenorth and south. No applause occured either. He had made this small corner of earth a better place and not one person hooted or hollered.

He squated back down.

The young man was wearing three tshirts, all too small. The knockback and caused them to gather and expose the youth's lower abdomen. The blood had seeped towards the line of his belt and was pooling in the youth's belly button. The small trickle looked as if painted on.

He released the gun. His face had no expression, at least for anyone watching. Inside Bert's head, a group of his own voices were singing his praises. A sorry attempt to validate his behavior that he knew was incorrect, but somehow, necessary. He briefly enjoyed a thought, like someone who cheats on a diet with a small cookie, but caught himself.

He looked to the body again. He looked north and south. And saw not a single person. His house was only a brief trip back around the corner. In it? More guns, more comfort and more purpose.

He walked slowly, just in case someone wanted to question him.

Random story idea

After she broke up with him, he headed to his room. His mother was good about cleaning up for him, the quilt from Grandmother was pulled so neatly across the mattress, it caused a grid of X's and O's that one could read from the door way. It was always amazing to him that the cut up magazine posters and images he chose for decor never bothered her.

Even the gun cabinet, which he just liked to leave unlocked in case of emergency was well dusted and the glass was clear as spring water. He counted his guns and took metal notes to their placements. Not nary one was moved. His mother could dust with shifting their weight. He knew this. He stared more at the gun rack then the small tube television two feet away. Besides, the televison was in black and white. The guns were a series of browns and blacks, shades that gave as much comfort as a decent sized pillow.

He closed the door softly. He felt the need to weep, he knew his eyes had filled up with tears but here, in the realm he called his own at his mother's home, he knew he was in control. The lines drawn, emphasized by mother's cleanliness, gave him the structure he needed.

He made himself happy with remembering that moment he saw Jasmine. He hated the mall, but his mother had insisted he get new shoes. His anger was born by his fear that she would force him to wear something modern, like sandals and socks that he saw on some men on sidewalk. But the shoe store's music was mostly quiet so that did not bother him. Her name tag blared her name, with the J slightly off center. She encouraged him to wiggle his toes to see if the tall workboot did actually fit and she even commented on the color being more his style. He bristled.

She did not make fun of him. She even thanked both him and his mother for coming into the place, though his mother had paid for the boots.

He opened his Jasmine drawer and found the images of her that he'll recall should time afford him a chcane to remember her. There was his first picture he took of her, with a camera phone and printed. It was an expensive photo, he would also put aside, since he had to buy the phone, the call program to use it, the computer and printer to get the picture into his own hands. He kept it in his back pocket long enough that it had to fade, causing him to make several copies and retire this-the first one-back to the drawer. He had other odds and ends, including a sales copy for the shoe store she worked at and the reciept.

The tears flowed easier now.

He hated to say, "I love you" to her, it carried with it a weight his emotional level could not handle. In his 25 years, he knew he was not ready for anything beyond his link to her at this current level. He believed that this was the reason she left. After five years, nothing had changed. He loved that about her. She got tired of waiting.

He slammed the drawer back. The small items rattled and came to a rest.

He looked back to the gun rack. So many to choose from. He looked back to the computer, loosely linked to the internet by way of his neighbor's wifi--and decided that locking the door was not what he was in the mood for. He pulled forth a gun.

And put it back.

Not what he needed yet. Instead, he went and got a small rag and placed it across the corner of the bed, lining it up with quilt. He pulled out the cleaner and then returned to the carbine.

He started to clean the gun.

Journal Challenge

If you could find out that something that is true was actually false....what would it be and why?

Recently, I learned the very definition of what the term bittersweet is. A man was elected to office that was so different from anything that went before him. He was kinda and human, he was eloquant but yet common; he had a heart and knew the pain of the people he'd be working with. As he ran for the presidency, many people were shocked by him---how on Earth did we elect someone like Bush when someone like this could have been leading us?

At the same time, California courts decided it was time to see everyone as equal by granting gays and lesbians the right to marry. They were still margialized even afterwards, but it was a step in the right direction.

The churches saw a way to defeat this man running for the presidency by mobilizing the troops. They played up the lies in their congregations and sanctuaries and repurposed their ignorant audiences. If they could go out and vote against this marriage bit...they might get their ace-in-the hole from Arizona even elected.

The plan worked..in part. By playing up their fictional evils, they got their puppets to shove gays and lesbians back from full equality.

But Obama was elected.

And, so, I learned what the term 'bittersweet' meant.

I'm not a Californian, but I sure feel like I am. To see all my myraid of friends turning on each other, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration--I hurt. My heart twisted into knots a boy scout couldn't even figure out. It was horrid. The pain lingers. We cancelled our trip to the OC.

So? if I don't live there, how can it effect me?

The fact is the symbolism here. I had low esteem over my sexuality for eons. And I grew to love myself and believe in who I was. And there is the proof that ignorance truly is bliss. I wanted to believe that there are people who are good out there. I wanted to believe that if an African American could be elected president, finally, just finally, everyone would have a place at the table.

To ask, "What is true that you wish you could find out was false?" I turn to this situation as a fraction of my answer.

I wish that the hatred I see daily was just some sad, small, misunderstanding. Something the press mis-printed; something we just didn't get. That, in the end, I can stand tall with everyone else in the world and smile at the same things.

I try to smile like constantly. But it just rings false. I know I'm lying to myself.

And people who vote this way and wonder why there is still shootings and there are still hatred against them.

I wish the hatred was false. 'Cause that's all this is.