Day Dreams (revision)

A little bell jingled as I pushed my way through the glass door, neons blazing above my head. My college Dr. Benson and I had planned to meet Mary Sergei for lunch this afternoon in a wonderful little delicatessen just around the corner of the campus.

“Knock, knock,” old Doc Benson peeked his shaggy grey head around my office door. “Are you ready you old brownnoser?”

“Yeah, just let me finish with this paper. You know it amazes me how every year these kids forget more and more grammar. What are they teaching them in High School? I swear, if I see another kid misuse the word than…”

“What would you do? You wouldn’t do anything but lecture them for about a half hour and they would still misuse the word. They don’t care about grammar. All they want to do is squeeze by with a degree so that they can get a better than minimum wage job. You know that and I know that.”

“Yeah, you’re right Ed. But I hope that I can at least get through to two or three of them with my lecture.”

“Well, the best of luck to you, John.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

Mary was already sitting in the Southern corner of the deli when Ed and I arrived. We pushed through the lunch crowd and past the white, rectangular, particle board tables towards Mary. She looked lovelier than ever. I remember the first time Paul introduced the two of us. It was a Sunday; she was wearing a baby-blue sun dress with these tan strappy sandals buckled to her petite feet. Her golden hair shining in the afternoon sun dangled from her head with an inviting aroma. She was younger then.

“Mary! It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine John.”

Ed stood beside me silently for about two minutes and then excused himself from the table.

“How’s Paul? Is he doing good?”

“You know exactly how he’s doing, John.”

She was wearing a long white coat with a little badge over her heart. There was some writing on it but I wasn’t paying any attention to that.

“Has he been getting worse? Is he still seeing that specialist?”

“You know where he is, John, and you know who he sees. It’s not him I’m here to talk about; it’s you. I’m worried John.”

“You don’t need to be worried about me, Mary. I’m fine.”

“No your not fine, John. You haven’t been fine for quire a while. I’ve heard that you haven’t been taking your medication—”

“I don’t need medication!”

“You do, John. You’re getting worse. Every day you’re getting worse and that scares me. ”

“I’m fine. It’s not me that you should be worried about; it’s Paul. I can handle myself just fine. I’m a big boy.”

“Paul isn’t the one that isn’t taking medication, you are. You really need to take your medication. You need to control—”

“I have everything under control!” At that point I lunged backwards and tossed my chair to the side.  “I’m not the one losing my mind, and you shouldn’t be concerned with what I do and do not put into my system. You’re not my wife!” I hastily waved at Doc Benson and took a good pull off the flask my brother-in-law had given me at the wedding as I shoveled my way through the crowd.

At first Dr. Sergei would misplace his pens or bring the wrong notes to class, but that grew into forgetting what time his classes began or forgetting which day of the week it was. His absent-mindedness culminated in referring to me as his brother Bill whom he lost during the Vietnam War and mistaking Susan, the Dean’s secretary, for his wife. It was sad watching Paul go. I kept wondering how easily this could happen to anyone. I had never really seen, or known anyone with Paul’s condition, so I just chalked it up to a rare disease and shrugged it off. I have heard, from some of the folks around the office, and my colleagues, that this sort of thing happens very slowly. Of course I know about the disease, but the thing about diseases is that they never become real until you have to face them head on.

It was six thirty and I was still sitting at my desk. They moved me to a different office about a year ago and I am still trying to adjust. Of course my books have not been arranged yet because I’ve been busy. For some reason the dean decided that I had to head up three committees this year on top of my twelve credit course load and research projects. It seems like I’ve been in this office later and later every night. They gave me a different desk too which was annoying because I loved my previous desk. This one doesn’t have enough space and the drawers are already overflowing with recommendation letters, proposals, essay submissions, and every other piece of junk that finds its way into my possession. I did have a pleasant day though.

Before my course my niece stopped by to see how I’ve been. I get to see her more often now that she has move to the city; it’s nice to have family near me again. She is a good kid. She graduated from NYU last year with a major in both Psychology and Philosophy. I couldn’t be more proud of her for choosing to study human beings and the complexities of thought. I was quite interested in Philosophy when I was an undergrad, but of course that weaned away when I began graduate school. I still took up the occasional metaphysical pleasure but the true passion had been lost. She is twenty three now.

“Dr. Green, do you need anything?” My secretary Mrs. Wilson popped her freckled face through the crack of my door. Her long stringy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail with the end draped over her left shoulder. She was wearing and odd outfit today. It looked like scrub uniform with little pink, blue, and purple bears dancing throughout her uniform.

“No, I’m fine Mrs. Wilson. Thank you though. What are you still doing her so late?” I asked her because she, unlike myself, had a family to attend to.

“Oh, I am about ready to leave. I just have a few more things to do. Good night Dr. Green.”

“Good night Madeline. Give my best to Don and the kids.”

“I will.” Her little brown tail leapt from her shoulder and bounced from side to side as she walked down the hallway.

Day Dreams

At first Dr. Sergei would misplace his pens or bring the wrong notes to class, but that grew into forgetting what time his classes began or forgetting which day of the week it was. His absent-mindedness culminated in referring to me as his brother Bill whom he lost during the Vietnam War and mistaking Susan, the Dean’s secretary, for his wife Mary. It was sad watching Paul go. I kept wondering how easily this could happen to anyone. I had never really seen, or known anyone with Paul’s condition, so I just chalked it up to a rare disease and shrugged it off. I have heard, from some of the folks around the office and my colleagues that this sort of thing happens very slowly. Of course I know about the disease, but the thing about diseases is that they never become real until you have to face them head on.

It was six thirty and I was still sitting at my desk. They moved me to a different office about a year ago and I am still trying to adjust. Of course my books have not been arranged yet because I’ve been busy. For some reason the dean decided that I had to head up three committees this year on top of my twelve credit course load and research projects. It seems like I’ve been in this office later and later every night. They gave me a different desk too which was annoying because I loved my previous desk. This one doesn’t have enough space and the drawers are already overflowing with recommendation letters, proposals, essay submissions, and every other piece of junk that finds its way into my possession. I did have a pleasant day though.

Before my course my niece stopped by to see how I’ve been. I get to see her more often now that she has move to the city; it’s nice to have family near me again. She is a good kid. She graduated from NYU last year with a major in both Psychology and Philosophy. I couldn’t be more proud of her for choosing to study human beings and the complexities of thought. I was quite interested in Philosophy when I was an undergrad, but of course that weaned away when I began graduate school. I still took up the occasional metaphysical pleasure but the true passion had been lost. She is twenty three now.

“Dr. Green, do you need anything?” My secretary Mrs. Wilson popped her freckled face through the crack of my door. Her long stringy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail with the end draped over her left shoulder. She was wearing and odd outfit today. It looked like scrub uniform with little pink, blue, and purple bears dancing throughout her uniform.

“No, I’m fine Mrs. Wilson. Thank you though. What are you still doing her so late?” I asked her because she, unlike myself, had a family to attend to.

“Oh, I am about ready to leave. I just have a few more things to do. Good night Dr. Green.”

“Good night Madeline. Give my best to Don and the kids.”

“I will.” Her little brown tail leapt from her shoulder and bounced from side to side as she walked down the hallway.

Student Teacher (Billy’s eyes)

Mommy was running late today because she burned her head with her hair curler. She was in the bathroom for a long time rubbing make-up over the burn. I didn’t care because that meant that I could watch more cartoons before school. She made me some Cocoa Puffs before she burned her head. I was eating them while I watched Bugs. After mommy got done fixing her head she made me run out the door to the car. She drove really fast to school and told me that she was late so I had to walk to the building by myself. She dropped me off at the curb by the school so that I didn’t have to cross the street; That is what she told me.

My friends were playing in the tractor tires when I got there. They had been there for a long time. Mrs. Winston was yelling at a fifth-grader when I ran past her. I hate Mrs. Winston. She made me sit by the wall because I said a swear once. Daddy always swears so I didn’t think that it was that bad.

Danny told me that I was it but I didn’t think that was fair. I told him that he had to touch me but he said that the rules say new players are automatically it. I think he was making that up but he told me that Willy’s older brother Dave told him that was the rule. I didn’t care after that because I touched him and then he was it. After he was it the bell rang and Mrs. Winston yelled at us.

There was a new person in the class today. It was a man instead of a woman. He told me that he was going to be a teacher but I’ve never had any men teachers. I thought only women could become teachers. I asked him all the questions because Willy and Danny were too afraid of him. I didn’t think he was scary. He took one of my Pez. I think he liked it because he smiled at me when I told Mrs. Cranston that I knew him. I hope that he is my teacher some day. I think it would be cool to have a man teacher.

Student Teacher (Narrator)

It was kind of strange for the young man being back here again. He hadn’t been in this building for a long time. Everything seemed different to him; it was a lot smaller than it used to be. The maroon and red bricks that housed the young minds of Lincoln Elementary was a time capsule for the young man. He hadn’t been back to this building since he was twelve. The hallways still smelled the same; the musty smell of an aging building mixed with the day’s noon meal and lemon scented floor cleanser. He could still smell the orange sawdust powder that soaked up, and attempted to mask the odor, of vomit. Outside the North wall of the school was the field where he and his elementary friends would construct tunnels and horseshoe fortresses from snow piles. The same field was where they played kickball in the spring. The dusty field, sparse with grass towards the most Northern tip confined many of their recess games. There were jubilant and sorrowful memories buried beneath the dirt and snow.

 

He entered the black trimmed, glass doors on the West side, like he had many times before, and ascended the small flight of stairs to the administration office. Before he opened the fake maple door he checked his book bag to reassure that he had all he needed for the day. The royal blue Mead, five subject notebook enveloped with scuffs and scratches lay sandwiched between his tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye and severely abused forest green folder. In the small front pocket of the book bag pens and mechanical pencils surrounded his noon meal: a packet of Thai noodle soup. All that he needed was there.

 

He had been assigned Mrs. Harris’ room, although it wasn’t Mrs. Harris’ room anymore, and it hadn’t been for some time. That was they only way he remembered that room though. His old fourth grade desk still sat at the North East end of the room. They were assigned seats alphabetically; it’s been so long since he had to sit that way. He was between Margaret Bloom and Andy Caufield. Andy would sit beside him picking his nose, then examining the specimen before he treasured it on the underside of his desk cover. During those days the kids had desks
that would open up so that they could store there supplies in them. Now they had regular desks and kept their stuff in little lockers at the back of the room. He assumed that they were being trained to adapt to middle school and high school at an earlier age.

 

The new teacher, Mrs. Cranston, had the young man sit in the back of the room so that he could observe her and the children. It wasn’t time for the kids to come inside yet so he just sat in a child-sized red chair rereading Catcher in the Rye. Mrs. Cranston parked herself behind her enormous wood desk preparing for the day. Her desk was littered with nick-knacks and photos of her children. Among the small statues and picture frames were few “teacher” items: two wooden rulers, a stapler, a small bin of paper-clips, and a coffee mug that read “Greatest Teacher” with a little green worm poking its head through a red apple and grinning at you.

 

At eight fifteen the children came filing in the room all staring at the young man and whispering to each other as they pulled their boots, coats, hats, and mittens off in their little stations. Each of the children had a small coat locker on the West side of the room with their names stenciled in bright colors of their choice above them. After they had removed their coats, one of the children, a little boy, walked to the back of the room and right up to the young man. The rest of the children seemed almost afraid of the young man but this little boy had no fear.

 

“Hi!” said the little boy. “What’s your name? My name is Billy.”

“Hello Billy. My name is Tom. “

“Hi Tom. Are you are new teacher?”

“I am your teacher’s new helper. Have you ever had a helper in one of your classes?”

“No. We always have just the teacher, but sometimes we have a different teacher if the real teacher is at home puking.”

“Well I’m not going to replace your teacher I’m just here to help her and learn how to do what she does. I am learning how to be a teacher so that I can be one just like her some day.”

“Maybe you will be my teacher some day.”

“Maybe, Billy.”

Billy reached into the front pocket of his Lee blue jeans and pulled out a small black figure. He pulled it up to the young man’s eyes to show him what it was.

“Do you want a candy?”

“Sure, Billy.” Billy tilted back the head of the figure and a red rectangular candy poked out of the figures neck. “Thank you, Billy.”

“You’re welcome. It’s Daffy the Duck. I like Daffy. He’s my favorite.”

The little boy turned around and took his seat in the front row of the class as Tom sat in the back rolling the Pez around in his mouth with his tongue. Mrs. Cranston slowly waddled to the front of the room and introduced Tom to the rest of the class. Tom smiled as Billy raised his hand and to interject that he already knew Tom.

Student Teacher (Tom’s eyes)

It’s kind of strange being back here again. I haven’t been in this building for a long time. Everything seems different; it’s all a lot smaller than it used to be. The maroon and red bricks that housed the young minds of Lincoln Elementary is a time capsule for me. I haven’t been back to this building since I was twelve. The hallways still smell the same; that musty smell of an aging building mixed with the day’s noon meal and lemon scented floor cleanser. I can still smell the orange sawdust powder that soaked up, and attempted to mask the odor, of vomit. Outside the North wall of the school is the field where me and my elementary friends would construct tunnels and horseshoe fortresses from snow piles. The same field was where we played kickball in the Spring. The dusty field, sparse with grass towards the most Northern tip confined many of our recess games. There are jubilant and sorrowful memories buried beneath the dirt and snow.

I entered the black trimmed, glass doors on the West side, like I have many times before, and ascended the small flight of stairs to the administration office. Before I opened the fake maple door I checked my book bag to reassure that I had all I needed for the day. The royal blue Mead, five subject notebook enveloped with scuffs and scratches lay sandwiched between my tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye and severely abused forest green folder. In the small front pocket of the book bag, pens and mechanical pencils surrounded my noon meal: a packet of Thai noodle soup. All that I needed was there.

I had been assigned Mrs. Harris’ room, although it wasn’t Mrs. Harris’ room anymore, and it hadn’t been for some time. That is they only way I remembered that room though. My old fourth grade desk still sat at the North East end of the room. We were assigned seats alphabetically; it’s been so long since I’ve had to sit that way. I was between Margaret Bloom and Andy Caufield. Andy would sit beside me picking his nose, then examining the specimen before he treasured it on the underside of his desk cover. During those days we had desks that would open up so that we could store our supplies in them. Now the kids have regular desks and kept their stuff in little lockers at the back of the room. I suppose they are being trained to adapt to middle school and high school at an earlier age.

The new teacher, Mrs. Cranston, had me sit in the back of the room so that I could observe her and the children. It wasn’t time for the kids to come inside yet so I just sat in a child-sized red chair rereading Catcher in the Rye. Mrs. Cranston parked herself behind her enormous wood desk preparing for the day. Her desk was littered with nick-knacks and photos of her children. Among the small statues and picture frames were few “teacher” items: two wooden rulers, a stapler, a small bin of paper-clips, and a coffee mug that read “Greatest Teacher” with a little green worm poking its head through a red apple grinning at me.

At eight fifteen the children came filing in the room, all of them staring at me, and whispering to each other as they pulled their boots, coats, hats, and mittens off in their little stations. Each of the children had a small coat locker on the West side of the room with their names stenciled in bright colors of their choice above them. After they had removed their coats, one of the children, a little boy, walked to the back of the room and right up to me. The rest of the children seemed almost afraid of me but this little boy had no fear.

“Hi!” said the little boy. “What’s your name? My name is Billy.”

“Hello Billy. My name is Tom. “

“Hi Tom. Are you are new teacher?”

“I am your teacher’s new helper. Have you ever had a helper in one of your classes?”

“No. We always have just the teacher, but sometimes we have a different teacher if the real teacher is at home puking.”

“Well I’m not going to replace your teacher I’m just here to help her and learn how to do what she does. I am learning how to be a teacher so that I can be one just like her some day.”

“Maybe you will be my teacher some day.”

“Maybe, Billy.”

Billy reached into the front pocket of his Lee blue jeans and pulled out a small black figure. He pulled it up to my eyes to show me what it was.

“Do you want a candy?”

“Sure, Billy.” Billy tilted back the head of the figure and a red rectangular candy poked out of the figures neck. “Thank you, Billy.”

“You’re welcome. It’s Daffy the Duck. I like Daffy. He’s my favorite.”

The little boy turned around and took his seat in the front row of the class as I sat in the back rolling the Pez around in my mouth with my tongue. Mrs. Cranston slowly waddled to the front of the room and introduced me to the rest of the class. I smiled as Billy raised his hand and to interject that he already knew me.

 

A Simple Matter of Hunger (characters)

I found the characters in the story to be very life like, but the one that sticks out in my mind the most is the baby’s grandmother. Even though she has a very small role in the story, her role is the one that makes the story life like. It is her reaction to the child crying in the background and her response to Eleanor that makes the story real. It is hard to have to deal with disease and I could only imagine what it would be like to have to watch your daughter suffer as well as your granddaughter. Her response to the crying child is heartfelt and her response to Eleanor is reasonable which is what makes the grandmother a believable character. Her duality over the interest of the child makes her three dimensional.

Student Teacher

It’s kind of strange being back here again. I haven’t been in this building for a long time. Everything seems different; it’s all a lot smaller than it used to be. The maroon and red bricks that housed the young minds of Lincoln Elementary was a time capsule for the young man. He hadn’t been back to this building since he was twelve. The hallways still smelled the same; the musty smell of an aging building mixed with the day’s noon meal and lemon scented floor cleanser. He could still smell the orange sawdust powder that soaked up, and attempted to mask the oder, of vomit. Outside the North wall of the school was the field where he and his elementary friends would construct tunnels and horseshoe fortresses from snow piles. The same field was where they played kickball in the Spring. The dusty field, sparse with grass towards the most Northern tip confined many of their recess games. There were jubilant and sorrowful memories buried beneath the dirt and snow.

He entered the black trimmed, glass doors on the West side, like he had many times before, and ascended the small flight of stairs to the administration office. Before he opened the fake maple door he checked his book bag to reassure that he had all he needed for the day. The royal blue Mead, five subject notebook enveloped with scuffs and scratches lay sandwiched between his tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye and severely abused forest green folder. In the small front pocket of the book bag pens and mechanical pencils surrounded his noon meal: a packet of Thai noodle soup. All that he needed was there.

He had been assigned Mrs. Harris’ room, although it wasn’t Mrs. Harris’ room anymore, and it hadn’t been for some time. That was they only way he remembered that room though. His old  fourth grade desk still sat at the North East end of the room. They were assigned seats alphabetically; it’s been so long since he had to sit that way. He was between Margaret Bloom and Andy Caufield. Andy would sit beside him picking his nose, then examining the specimen before he treasured it on the underside of his desk cover. During those days the kids had desks that would open up so that they could store there supplies in them. Now they had regular desks and kept their stuff in little lockers at the back of the room. I suppose they are being trained to adapt to middle school and high school at an earlier age.

The new teacher, Mrs. Cranston, had the young man sit in the back of the room so that he could observe her and the children. It wasn’t time for the kids to come inside yet so he just sat in a child-sized red chair rereading Catcher in the Rye. Mrs. Cranston parked herself behind her enormous wood desk preparing for the day. Her desk was littered with nick-knacks and photos of her children. Among the small statues and picture frames were few “teacher” items: two wooden rulers, a stapler, a small bin of paper-clips, and a coffee mug that read “Greatest Teacher” with a little green worm poking its head through a red apple and grinning at you.

At eight fifteen the children came filing in the room all staring at the young man and whispering to eachother as they pulled their boots, coats, hats, and mittens off in their little stations. Each of the children had a small coat locker on the West side of the room with their names stenciled in bright colors of their choice above them. After they had removed their coats, one of the children, a little boy, walked to the back of the room and right up to the young man. The rest of the children seemed almost afraid of the young man but this little boy had no fear.

“Hi!” said the little boy.  “What’s your name? My name is Billy.”

“Hello Billy. My name is Tom. ”

“Hi Tom. Are you are new teacher?”

“I am your teacher’s new helper. Have you ever had a helper in one of your classes?”

“No. We always have just the teacher, but sometimes we have a different teacher if the real teacher is at home puking.”

“Well I’m not going to replace your teacher I’m just here to help her and learn how to do what she does. I am learning how to be a teacher so that I can be one just like her some day.”

“Maybe you will be my teacher some day.”

“Maybe, Billy.”

Billy reached into the front pocket of his Lee blue jeans and pulled out a small black figure. He pulled it up to the young man’s eyes to show him what it was.

“Do you want a candy?”

“Sure, Billy.” Billy tilted back the head of the figure and a red rectangular candy poked out of the figures neck. “Thank you, Billy.”

“You’re welcome. It’s Daffy the Duck. I like Daffy. He’s my favorite.”

The little boy turned around and took his seat in the front row of the class as Tom sat in the back rolling the Pez around in his mouth with his tongue. Mrs. Cranston slowly waddled to the front of the room and introduced Tom to the rest of the class. Tom smiled as Billy raised his hand and to interject that he already knew Tom.

Pez Dispencer

He saw it in the check-out lane at the supermarket. It was hanging on one of those hooks just below the TV Guides and Redbooks. Billy was amazed by it. he had been in love with Daffy the Duck ever since he first saw him in a Loony Tunes cartoon at the age of six. when he saw the black, plastic candy dispenser hanging on the hook in front of him he couldn’t help but think that it had been created, and placed there just for him.
“Mommy?”
“Yes Billy.”
“Can I get this?” he asked as he held up the black plastic figure wrapped in clear plastic with green on either end. It was a Pez dispenser; little, multi-colored, rectangular candies would fit into the “body” of the figure and when you tilted Daffy’s head back his neck would offer you a candy.
“It’s only a dollar,” Billy reassured his mother in hopes that money would not be of concern.
“Ok Billy,” his mother replied with a sigh.
Billy cradled the small, black candy dispenser in his hands until the clerk had to swipe the code across her machine.
“Do you want to hang on to this or would you like your own bag?” the clerk asked.
“Could I have a little bag?” Billy replied with an adult tone.

Thai Kitchen

Oh, I hate shopping. the young man thought to himself. It’s too much of a chore to walk through these stupid aisle and have to pick out what I am going to want for the next month. the young man wavered through the aisle at the grocery store glancing at every box and can that lined the eggshell-white shelves trying to think about recipes and food that he liked. he passed by the canned vegetables and couldn’t stand the sight of them. why would anyone want to eat vegetables that have been sitting in preservation for such a long time. He wasn’t a health nut by any means but the thought of food sitting for a long time bothered him; he wasn’t even able to eat leftovers if they had been sitting in the fridge for more than a day. he made it past the canned veggies and through the juice aisle, which was always a hit with him, and was perusing the ethnic food section when something caught his eye. He is a big fan of pasta and would often ask for this for his birthday meal, so when he saw anything with noodles it intrigued him. It seemed odd to him though that they could package anything that was oriental. he often looked and things like Ramen noodles and thought “what is Oriental blend?” but he figure why not give Thai food a chance. he picked up the little package of Thai Kitchen Garlic & Vegetable soup and threw it in his basket.

Final Draft (Maybe)

(I am still not as satisfied as I would like to be with this story but here it is in it’s final form. I think that I will try to edit it some more though.)

Man’s Best Friend

I had to work until ten o’clock; it was a Tuesday. When I walked into the house I knew that something was missing. My mother was sitting on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her legs and Kate curled up next to her. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except for the missing fixture in the corner of the kitchen. A purple, plaid, hair covered pillow lay in the South West corner of the kitchen empty with only the U shaped indentation left.

I remember the day that we got him. My dad came into the house and told me and my sisters to come outside because he had a surprise for us. His grey, Chevy pickup was about a foot away from the garage door when the four of us, my mother including me and my sisters, filled out of the house. Before the grey truck, he had this old 80’s, red and white truck that would honk the horn when he turned right. I would holler at him, “Stop it dad!” but he would just say, “I can’t. It honks when I turn!” with a coy smile on his face as he turned the steering wheel. I’m still uncertain if he was messing with me and honking the horn when he turned or that the truck had some type of mechanical flaw that made it honk. I am inclined to think the former given that my dad has worked on cars most of his adult life, but I wasn’t always paying attention to him when I rode in the truck so I never caught him doing it.

We all went out to the driveway, the topper on the truck bed prevented us from really seeing what was back there, the side windows tinted almost to black to prevent the sun from bleaching his ever important parts or junk or whatever he kept back there, or maybe he just bought it off of someone he knew and that was their intention. Anyway, we were all swelling with anticipation, my sisters clenching their fists, holding them to their mouth, and when my dad opened the tailgate of the truck and pulled an off-white dog caddy out of the back an explosion of joy erupted from all of us. We had been asking my dad for a dog for quite some time but he would always say that we didn’t need one or that it would be too much work or something along those lines. We named him Max.

I knew that it was happening today but that didn’t make it any easier or make the house seem right in any way when I got home. He used to sleep on the rug in front of the door leading from the garage to the kitchen but this time I didn’t bump into anything when I opened the door. My mom later said to me, “Could you just sit by the door when I come home so that I hit something.” This is the only door that we really use. My dad usually comes in the back door because his shop is in the backyard. About ten feet from our deck sits my dad’s fully functioning auto shop. He used to race sprint cars when I, and he, were much younger. I would watch them, my dad and his friends, assemble the red, white and blue car every spring. The smell of molten steel still perspiring from the freshly welded skeleton frame that arrived promptly at spring time would filter through my little nose. I would sit in my sandbox weaving intricate Vietcong tunnels as the guys wrenched and ratcheted the steering system in place. The fresh spring afternoons I spent in the wooded area next to our house were greeted with grumbles and growls. I can still hear the roar and anteceding grumble of a sprint car engine echoing throughout the house and in my young ears. No wonder he has to turn the TV up full blast to hear anything.

He was the one that took Max, my father I mean. I said my goodbye to Max the night before. It was like March 2007 all over again. She died of cancer in March of 2007. When I went to see her she was hooked up to machines and covered in about seven blankets; hisses and the mechanic whirs of motors filled the silence in the sterile room. She had stopped eating and the last time that I saw her she was nothing more than the fading image of my grandmother. I hugged her and she started crying and told me that she was sorry. I didn’t understand why she had to be sorry but she said she was and I told her that it was alright. The funeral was strange. It was like I was removed from the situation but I wasn’t. It was like this wasn’t my life but I was there watching it happen. My mother told my sister that it was sad watching me carry my grandmother to her grave. I was proud that I was one of the chosen. I just hope that I am making Yoshi proud. It was sad to see her go and now it was sad to see Max go. He had to be about seventeen years old. A Shih Tzu has an average life span of eleven to fourteen years which means that Max, a half breed, lived well beyond the average life span of a pure bread Shih Tzu. I rubbed his furry head and stroked his curved, protruding spine and told him that he was a good dog. He picked up his head and looked around a little and then went back to sleep; it was like saying goodbye to Yoshi all over again.

I’m not sure when my dad took Max to the Vet. He went to the Vet that is located behind Jerseys on South Highland Ave. Jerseys used to be The Sunshine Café which was my grandparents restaurant. I know the building very well and remember the way that it used to be. It’s still strange going into the place to drink beer when I used to go there to eat hamburgers the size of my seven-year-old face and french-fries the size of my little fingers, if not bigger. Everything was bigger when it was The Sunshine Café. I remember going there often when I was a child. My mother would take us there most Sunday mornings to eat breakfast, which was always too big for my little belly.

It’s emptier in the house now and even my cat, Kate, seems to think so. The day after Max left she went to the kitchen door where he used to sleep looking for him. Kate even woke my mother up one morning to make sure that she let Max outside, but of course he was nowhere to be found. Kate hates every other dog or cat that come close to her but she didn’t mind Max. In some karmic earthly balance the two of them were compatible. Even though the little guy pissed all over the house and frequently pissed me off he was still there to greet you when you got home. He was still there when you were feeling bad. He almost seemed to know when you were down or when you were ill. He wouldn’t sleep in my room unless I was sad or ill he would.