fiction--"SHIT'S BLURRY, MAAAAAN."

I looked over at Seth. "What?" I said.

"You heard me, braw. Shit's fucking blurry, man. Where'd she get the cabbage?"

"Oh," I said, flicking a cigarette butt into the remnants of the Thai food. "Jezelle got it from Hand." Hand was a son-of-a-pop from the East side of Detroit. He was fond of walking the streets at night, in his leather checkerboard jacket with a Gat shoved into the front of his pants. I was always amazed that he'd never blown his johnson off. The guy was careless, is all I am saying. Oh, one more thing: more times than not, he "spiced up" his "cabbage" with pistol-shots of Weed-B-Gone. Ironic, sure, but he always had return customers.

Jezelle: hmm. Yeah. Jezelle. Jezelle was a substitute teacher for the Eastpointe school system. During the day, she lectured little fucking punks about George Washington and nuclear power and some fucking Greek's hypothesis (okay, theorum) and, at night, she baked herself good, shimmied her tight little ass into black dresses and hit the streets of Detroit for some top-notch fun. And...she also supplied us with the cabbage.

She'd found Hand--I don't know how--but Hand was more prompt, more eager and more prolific than the dealer she'd had before. (It had been some jock with whom she had scraggled in high spool--he never thought Big.) I don't know. The shit the jock had supplied was some good easy grin-wide shit. Hand's poison was like a trip.

Thus, the blurriness.

Seth was talking to me.

"...and the pig, man, the fucking pig."

Seth had always--for as long as I had known him--hated the police. He called them "pigs"--sure--but he'd also had an almost-preternatural gift to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was his gift; it was his curse. Arrested four times before he hit twenty-five. Sucks to be Seth.

"What about the pig, Seth?" I said. My eyelids were feeling heavy. They felt as though Wile E. Coyote had sandbagged a couple of three-ton Acme weights on them. "Wha abou the pizz, Se'h?"

"You're not even listening, you asshole," he said.

I gestured at the TV screen. "Play sah Maddah, mang." My ass rested comfortably in the leather armchair and my smoke was ergonomically-sitcheeated. "Doan brodder me no mo'e with yoah tales, doo."

"Fuck you, Ethan," he said. "How long we been friends?"

My eyes slid shut and I shrugged in slow-motion. "I dunno. Fi'teen thousand years?"

I heard the clatter of beer cans as he gained his feet. "Yeah," he said, "that's right. Fucker. It's been too long for me, too." He paused and I could feel his gaze tearing through my brow. "You know, cock? I feel really shitty about this fucking blur that I'm getting. I could be overdosing--"

"On weed?" I mumbled.

"Prick. Yeah, on weed. Yes, on fucking weed! What the fuck! We both know that Hand splices his cabbage with bullshit!"

"If ya know," I said, "why--why?--keep on smokin it? Y'slow learner, man?" Seth had been a worrywort since second grade. I couldn't keep holding his hand. "Just fuckin...ride it out, man."

"You're a dick, Eet," he said, as he walked out the front door for the last time.

"Yeah," I said to the slam of the door. "So I been tole, doo."

***

Later that morning, when I got the call from Jezelle, I was half--no, three-quarters--asleep.

"Ethan," she said, her voice slippery with incredulousness.

"Jezzie," I said.

"Have you heard about Seth?"

"Seff? Who?"

"Seth. Your best friend since second-fucking-grade?"

"Yah," I said. "Seth. That fucking pussy. What's he up to, now?"

There was silence from the other end of the line.

"Jezz?"

"Ethan," she said. "Seth's dead."

My eyes shot open. "Fuck you," I said.

"Fuck you, too. Seth is dead."

"April Fool's?" I grinned.

"Seth?" said she.

"Yes?" said I.

"Died."

"Um."

"He had some kind of...I don't know...neurologically-induced meltdown of his organs. I really don't know--the fucking doctors aren't letting me in. But, yeah--fucking shit--the Sethster passed away, Ethan."

I sat up in bed and dragged a palm over my head. I rubbed my neck; a knot was forming. "Come on, you kidder. This is an April Fool's joke, right?"

From the other end of the line came, "No. It is August 27th, Eet."

My stomach flipped. "What the fuck happened?!" I asked. "Did he just maybe feel sick and puke and shit and pull a Jimi and suffocate on his own vomit? What? Did he step into the path of a fucking Mack truck? What happened? Bull-fucking-shit. This is really a fucked-up joke, Jezzie. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"No." She paused. "No joke. You saw him last, Eet. Did he seem sick, or something?"

Blood pounding in my ears and a red flush traversing my cheekbones, I said, "Fuck you, you dimwitted bitch," and I hung up the phone. And pulled the cord from the jack.

And then I cried and shuddered and shuddered and cried for the next three days.

***

On the fourth day, I was combing the streets for Hand. I was jonesing for some cabbage. And? Truth be told, some Smack.

Smack me, Mama, I be bad.

BACK TO WORK AFTER THE EASTERN JAUNT

Back to work.

After nine days off--trip to Pennsylvania with my sisters and my Poppy--today was that dreaded day in which one must, mentally, cast off all illusions of cocoon-ism and rejoin the rest of the world as they--we--slog through, primarily, eight-hour shifts so that we can have money/clams/greenbacks at the end of the week. (Or bi-weekly...but that's just confusing.)

Two words: it sucks.

I was really digging spending the time with my dad and my sisters, Alexis and Melmac th' Great (Melissa). It was great to hit the road in the Cherokee and drive through the hills of Pennsylvania and to meet family members of whom I have just the barest recollection. It didn't hurt that all of the kin that I met were kind and overly-hospitable. They just were.

I felt like an honored guest. And--shit!--the food was delish! Good ole home-cooking: can you beat it? The best home-cooked meal that I chewed and swallowed was served at my second cousin Kevin's house. He and his wife, Sue, are both successful real estate agents and so their house is a fucking beauty. Located in the historic district of...oh, shit, I forgot the name of the town. But, anyway, it's a hop skip and a jump from the Deleware River and, I have to admit, I felt the sting of Jealousy as Kevin gave us the tour of the house. Yeah. They're rich. And I'm very happy for them. Seriously.

But, anyway, the food. Sue cooked some pork loin and made a salad and they grilled about 1300 ears of sweet corn on the LP behemoth in the backyard, located right next to the immaculate in-ground swimming pool, said pool spruced up, redid, for the low low price of 30 grand. Yikes!

But, anyway, the food. It was fantastic. Throughout the whole trip it was fantastic. I gained eight pounds. :-O That's fine, though. It was for a good cause. Hell, they were offering and I was eating.

Speaking from a colon's point of view, the food was a bit--how to say?--heavy on the system. Just meat, meat and more good meat. (And also, sometimes, potatoes.) Texas-sized shits. But! Speaking from a tastebud's point of view, it was alllllll good. The marinades, the garlic...yum.

I have to say something about the B****** Farm. Established in 1913 and located in Waymart, Pennsylvania, the B****** Farm has been the meeting place for scores of family reunions, starting in 1915. My dad has gone to the farm since he was a boy, some sixty-plus years, now. There are a hell of a lot of memories bouncing around those hundred acres. But, the main thing, for me, is that when I go back to the farm, I am imbued with the feeling of coming home. Surprising, actually, as I am not coming home. I was born and raised in Royal Oak, Michigan. But the farm is so cool. They have cows and geese and pigs and barncats and, seeing as how I am a die-hard fan of all things Animal, I have a good time. Sure, the pigs stink. So what? I think that if I were around said sows and piglets for a couple of weeks, I would not even begin to register the permeating manure-smell. But, basically, the farm is nice place to visit, seeing as how 100 years of B******s have traversed the landscape, eaten in the kitchen, dropped loads in the bathrooms (and the outhouse). Family melts off of the walls. Generations of B******s. Tres cool.

While we were visiting, my dad's Uncle Tom said to me, "We've a quad. You want to take it for a spin?"

Now, seeing as how I have ridden a four-wheeler once in my lifetime--two weeks ago in Luther, Michigan--I felt more than qualified to take the 2008 Polaris automatic for a spin. I think--know--that I scared the shit out of Aunt Jean when I, somewhat unfamiliar with the Power o' the Polaris, gunned the thumb throttle and kicked up some gravel. I adjusted nicely, though. In no time, I was flying down B****** Road at about 40 miles per hour, enjoying the wind in my face, the sun on my bald pate. Quads are fun! But. I asked my cousin Tommy--42 years old if he's a day--how much he shelled out for the '08 Polaris. "Um, something like 9800," he said. "But it's got all the bells and whistles." I nodded sagely. I'll not be getting one. (Besides, I live in the Concrete Jungle of metro-Detroit. Where the hell would I ride it?)

Anyway, the trip was fricking great. It was great to see my dad hobnobbing (not a dirty word) with his cousins and his aunts and uncles and it was great to spend time with my sisters, whom I see far-too rarely, and it was just fucking great to get away from work for a week. Now, though, I am out of vacation time and personal days and I have no sick occasions, either. That's all right. I'd take a week off with no pay to experience Family.

Money comes and goes and bills are omnipresent, but quality family time is priceless. It really is.

SOUL RIDE

And so...

what do you say when you

look into green-blue-gray eyes

and your gut feels all flippy?

you make a joke.

but...

what do you say when you

gaze upon long auburn locks and

full red lips?

you flip a phrase.

and...

what do you say when you suck in

a luscious body, full, sexy

in all the right places?

And you know that the love you feel

is reciprocated,
intensified?

And you know that everything is golden

and love is fucking tangible

and that love is as natural as

morning dew?

You blink.

You...blink.

And then you thank the God in the Sky

that you could be so lucky.

--Peace--

[I love you, Meagan.]

THE SURREALISM OF SUDDEN DEATH--AND SADNESS

Life: four simple letters. El-aye-eff-ee.

Death: five letters--two vowels and three otherwise--that have terrified most human beings since written--spoken--language was applicable.

I went Up North this weekend, with my girl, Meegie, to around the great Manistee National Forest in the upper knuckles of the Mitten, and, meanwhile, on Saturday, I received a voice mail on my overpriced cell phone. I couldn't understand the message, seeing as how she and me was in the Boon-Docks. All that I gleaned from the message--the phone kept cutting out--was "Lake Huron" and "metal-detecting" and "today."

I couldn't understand, so I let it go from my mind; I'd hear the message in full once I was back in civilization.

Well, yesterday, Lisa, a friend from work, called and I answered.

Hi and hello completed, she said something like, "Have you heard?"

"Heard what?" I asked.

"Tom Weaver passed away yesterday."

I think I said something like, "Uh, what?!"

"He died. He drown."

Now, listen: Tom was 39 years young. He was an ex-Marine. He was a big dude--247, maybe?--and he was as strong as an ox. Tom...died? He drown?

"Oh, fuck," I said. "What the fuck happened?"

She said, "He was out on Lake Huron, metal-detecting, and--I guess--he got caught in the undertow...he called for help, and people came, but they didn't find him until 20 minutes later. He was taken to a hospital, but he was dead."

I still don't believe it. I do, I do, but--shit. 39-year-olds, with two precious children and a fiancee--to whom he was to be married on Valentine's Day--39-year-old ex-Marines shouldn't die like that.

Metal-detecting: is there a more seemingly-innocuous pastime? How the fuck does someone die metal-detecting?!

I worked with Tom a few times. He was a lineman and I rode with him during my training. He was a good guy. He could talk a fucking mean streak--talk your ear into putty--but he was a damned good guy. I could tell.

Fuck.

How does this kind of shit happen?

In the title, I mentioned surrealism. Maybe that's not the best word. Shock might be. Incredulousness might be. Shit. Fucking sorrow might be the right word.

Apparently--and the story is still sketchy--Tom was out on Lake Huron on Saturday, bubbling happiness to show his kids how to metal-detect in lakes (Tom was a member of Michigan Treasure Hunters and he had found two or three keepsakes that he got back to the rightful owners)--and...just wait a second.

Life--that four-lettered word--ain't fair sometimes. Death is even more of a bastard.

Anyway, apparently, Tom realized he was in trouble and he called out for help from the people on the beach. Around a hundred people formed a human chain, hands linked, but they found him when it was too fucking late. The guy drown in four fucking feet of water. How the hell does that happen when the guy in question was about six feet tall? Was he wearing waders which could have filled up with water and dragged him under? (People say that he was in a wet-suit.) Did he suffer an brain hemorrhage? Or a heart attack? (Then how would he have been able to call for help?) Did he caught in an undertow? In four feet of water?! The guy was as strong as a bear, he was an ex-Marine...don't you think he'd have been able to bull his way out of the maelstrom?

I don't know what happened. And it's making me very very sad. My heart hurts for his soon-to-be-wife and his children. Things aren't fair, sometimes.

And I've heard this, today, about a thousand times: "When it's your time to go, it's your time to go." Shit. I've said it myself.

Bullshit. It wasn't Tom's time to go.

I just have a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that the guy that I just saw four days ago is now dead, drown. He ain't on vacation and he ain't taking a sick day or two. The guy is dead. He passed on.

Passed on, my ass. "Passing on" seems so damned peaceful. I'm sure Tom's death wasn't. I'm sure that there was bafflement and then determination and then, finally, mortal panic.

And then Peace, hopefully. I hope that he--or his mortal brain, or his soul--accepted the inevitability of the situation and that he thought of the love of his life and his kids...though I see myself as empathetic and able to think as others do--or would--I think that that is a pipe-dream. I think that, when one is in a life-or-death situation, no thoughts pervail. I think that basically, it is an animal instinct, it is a fight for life and no thoughts are bouncing except for the crocodile brain of Survive.

And that fucking sucks, man.

That really fucking sucks.

I have never had a co-worker--at least one with whom I worked--die unexpectedly.

Winking, blue-eyed. Big-dude golfer, captain of his Marine team. Possessed the gift of gab. Had a big heart. Eccentric. Metal-treasure-hunter. Had a big heart. Tom.

Weaver.

I'm so fucking sorry, man.

Please rest in peace.

God, this sucks.

"In an unrelated accident, a 39-year old Wixom man identified as Thomas E. Weaver drowned in Saginaw Bay Saturday at the Caseville County Park Beach.
According to the Huron County Sheriff’s Office, Weaver was wading in about 4 feet of water while using a metal detector to search for valuables, when he suddenly called for help several times before going under the water.
Weaver was discovered about 20 minutes after he went under and was taken to an area hospital, where he was pronounced dead." --Freep.com

Izzy tagged me to do the book meme.

The rules are: Grab the book nearest to you and open to page 123. Find the fifth sentence and write down the next three sentences and then tage 5 other people.

Okay. My book is Marathon Man, by William Goldman:

"I do, I know, goddammit, believe me--"

"Why should I?--ever--pawing the hell out of her and then putting her on a goddamn rack--"

"That's a business tactic, you soften somebody up first, get them off guard, it means nothing--"

Yeah. That little exchange was between two brothers. The younger one--Babe--had wanted the older one--Doc--to meet his new Scandinavian sweetie--Elsa--and so they had met in a swanky restaurant, whereupon Doc had too often put his hands upon her, perhaps regaling in his Dos Passos-like bronco-busting world-wringing Stock Brokerism. Ostensibly a stock broker--I should make that clear.

It's a good book. I recommend it. Right now, in the book, I'm at the point at which Babe is being tortured for information by the blue-eyed "dentist" after his (Babe's) brother's [redacted]. It makes me cringe every damned time I read about the good dentist jamming a needle into Babe's cavity, into the live nerve.

Yikes.

But, again, I recommend the book.

And I tag: Meagan, Jay, Bunny Bleu, Nighthawk Nan (if she would ever begin blogging again) and JenBun. (Oh! And Frank.)

[Sorry, kids--my hyper-link seems not to be working.]

NO ASS-BUSTING

Today was not a tough day at work.

There is a project going on at Eleven Mile and Woodward in which crews are widening the road, or making it less bumpy, and they ran into a problem in which the six-inch gas main is higher than it ought to be and, by digging down to level the road, they exposed it in all its yellow plastic glory.

I was out on that job earlier in the week and we were supposed to dig underneath the gas main so that we could lower it for them. Well, we started to do just that and then we ran into a problem: the gas main is lying about two inches above an MCI fiber optic conduit. **gasp** So, yeah, we wouldn't be able to lower it, seeing as how crashing through a fiber optic conduit, severing cables, would probably cost about five million dollars (give or take a million or two) to repair. So, we stopped a few days ago and left it in the engineers' hands.

Today, instead of relocating it, which would have been nigh impossible--engineering-decision made--we headed back out there to lay some rock shield over the main. Listen: that consists of unrolling about twenty feet of rock shield, a hard plastic membrane that is used to cover the main to protect it from the rocks that the road crews use to level the road, and laying said rock shield over the main. (And hoping that nothing bad happens, like big-assed tractors scraping the main, blowing natural gas sky-high.) The rest of the day, we sat there and watched the road crew get load after load (double-semi-trailer-sized) of rock. Our primary purpose was to be on-site should anything untoward happen.

Nothing did.

In fact, the road crew didn't even get to the area of the exposed main before it was time to head back into the shop.

So...total time worked: twenty minutes.

The rest of the day was spent sitting, watching the rock truck traverse back and forth about seven times with loads (the last time, I saw the driver look over at us and shake his head) and eating lunch (I had a foot-long Tuna on Wheat--with all the fixin's--from Subway) and shooting the shit, laughing our asses off at some of the characters we have here in this company.

So, no. Today was not a tough day at work. Some days I--we--bust my--our--ass(es) and some days are relatively easy. Today was a friggin' joke. But! We get paid either way. And handsomely, at that.

I'll chalk this one up as a freebie. =o)

I BOUGHT MY DOGGIES A BONE

It's right (---->) there.

It's wonderful how they (don't) kinda share.

Lou had it, first, laying Frog Dog, nibbling at the round of it. Ollie whined. I let him. 'Twas Louie's turn on the Bone Monster. King Lou growled when His Olliness approached.

Eventually, Louie either lost interest or he (as I like to hope) saw fit for his smallah brothah to pondah the bone-ah.

Ollie chewed. (Not quite as earth-shattering as "Jesus wept," but! It'll have to do.)

Ollie chewed.

Louie made a few more perfucntory growls and then--I assume--said "Fuggit." He ambled onto the cushy couch cushions. Down for the count.

Ollie chewed a little longer and said--I, again, assume--"Fuggit. I be done-done."

And so now the bone lies, on the carpet, no canines canining into it.

Please to call up Cesar Milan? Make his ass tell me the fruther from the druther?

Cool.