An excerpt from Devotion. The book I’ve been working on consistently the past few months.
“I think more people should write privately. Keep journals. Scribble away on scrap paper getting their thoughts straight, pouring out their guts, discussing what eats them up, inspires them, makes them happy or sad. People should do this every day. Once in the morning before they enter their daily life. And once at night before they sleep. The world would be a much better place, especially if these thoughtful people then spent time in the following days reading through what they’ve written. It’s then that they would discover what’s really important. And that isn’t much. This reality would be sobering and it should help them see that they aren’t the center of the world. That instead, they are a simple particle with much promise, useless without the other particles swimming all around. That unlearning what we’ve learned is the key to happiness and freedom and the first step to fulfilling our potential. That our emotions, although necessary and beautiful at times, more often than not lead us into places we should never be. Mired in jealously. Tangled up with resentment. Feeling sorry for ourselves, all helpless and hopeless, because nobody will believe our self-serving opinions that we have mistaken for truth and honesty.”
It isn’t something you do on a whim. The urge must be kept at bay until there’s that perfect moment—and even then, you can never be sure. There’s always a chance somebody’s watching. There’s always a chance something will be left behind. The only way it can be done is quickly. In this case, I knew his pattern. I knew what he had done. And finally, I knew it was time to act. I’d spent long enough studying him and now there were others on my radar. The child molester on Ford Avenue. The murderer just south of town. There was much work to be done. But for now, I had to focus. On Jimmy Watkins.
This moment was going to be special because I knew Jimmy from school. He’d had a rough go being brought up by drunk, abusive parents. But any sympathy I had for him was dashed away as he peppered me with spit wads in shop class, called me a fag in the hallway, and got in trouble over the years for various evil acts. He raped at least two girls. Cracked a little boy’s head with a baseball bat. And was accused of many acts of violence against animals—especially cats. One time, during his daughter’s birthday party, he threw the family cat into the fireplace. When others tried to rescue it, he shook the fire poker at them and promised that if they tried to save it they would be next. The cat screamed and clawed and jumped and died as Jimmy sipped his Busch Light.
There’s more than this, believe me, but a rat like Jimmy would never confess, and the chances he’d ever truly pay for his crimes were slim. So, that’s where I come in.
Not tough enough to hang out at the real dives in town, Jimmy tended to spend most of his nights at JJ’s. Bellied up to the bar, trying to flirt with waitresses half his age, and picking fights with anybody within earshot. On this particular night, I decided it was time to sit next to him. He had just chased his third shot of Beam with a Busch Light short. There was a commercial on the TV above the bar. Some pre-election propaganda. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could see President Obama on the screen.
“Fucking nigger,” Jimmy said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Jimmy said.
I ordered Johnny Walker Black. Sipped it. Watched Jimmy’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Trump came on the screen. Jimmy slapped his hand down on the bar.
“That’s the man!” Jimmy said. “The fucking man!”
“Oh, he’ll look out for you, all right,” I said.
Jimmy’s head swiveled quickly.
“What did you say?”
“Your man there,” I said and nodded at the TV. “He’ll be sure to take care of you.”
“You’re goddamned right he will. No more bullshit political correctness. No more handouts and all the fucking immigrant aliens can go back to Mexico.”
“Aliens take your job, did they?”
Jimmy stood up. It wasn’t hard to rile someone like Jimmy.
“Hey,” he said. “I remember you. I used to kick your ass in school.”
“Yep, I’m the fag from shop class,” I said.
I stood up. I must have been about four inches taller and had him by fifty pounds easy. If this were going to be a bar fight and I was a spectator I’d put my money on the chubby married guy with kids. Me. Nice guys like me have plenty of shit pent up and even the dirtiest, toughest, rat like Jimmy doesn’t stand a chance. I looked around the bar. There were no watchers now, it was nearly closing time and everyone was gone. Even the bartender was out of sight. She had stepped outside for a smoke.
“You better watch yourself, you little bitch,” Jimmy said.
“How bout I watch you?”
Jimmy was pissed, clenching his fists.
“You little bitch!”
I finished my scotch and left twenty bucks on the bar.
“Leave that money there, by the way. Don’t go stealing it to donate to the KKK.”
I walked out quickly and headed for the 2nd Avenue bridge. It wasn’t long and I heard him coming. I walked faster. The air was cool and fresh with the smell of Lake Huron. The sky was sprinkled with stars. I thought of my wife and kids all tucked in a few blocks away, warm and cozy in dreams. It was another night of Daddy being restless, unable to sleep, pacing, they’d think. I would wake tired, as usual, but do my best to be upbeat, positive, and make sure that whatever I was doing was intended to make their lives as comfortable and safe as possible. That’s what made this moment so necessary. It was for their safety. For the betterment of the world. For everything that is truly right and good and just. I put on my gloves. Took the wire out from my coat pocket. And I stood there waiting. Watching. Listening, as the dark water of the Thunder Bay River readied itself to receive the sins of Jimmy Watkins.
As a writer, my intent is to provide the reader with as little information (but very good information) as possible so they can create the big picture on their own. The danger in this is that the reader brings their own experiences to the work and if they are not willing to unlearn at least some of what they know, the meaning becomes misconstrued.
Writing is very much like life. Some of it is shit. Some of it is moving and memorable. What I like about it is that after all the work I have done, I simply hand it over. Trusting that the reader will see that most of the story and meaning–most of life–is beneath the surface. That knee-jerk reactions based on what they have learned are useless and that to truly enter the story the reader has to let go, give up, and consent to the possibility of being freed again.
She says death follows me, but I’m not so sure. I think death is just another state of being and if you’re lucky enough to be tuned in you learn to reach out to it as it reaches for you. There is a connection, of course. Sometimes clear. Sometimes not. And it is the most difficult experience in the world to convey to others, especially when so many are so rooted in the concrete. The tangible. The daily distractions and disbelief. But what I’ve learned is that the disbelief of others matters very little when you connect the living to the dead. There are very few experiences that are as gratifying.
It wasn’t always like this. It started three years ago and it started out small. With strange, perspective-shifting moments—like walking in the woods with my wife and finding a bag of dogs.
It was morel season and the kids were at the in-laws, so we decided to get a fifth of Jacob’s Ghost and a couple bottles of Coke from Male’s Corner and drive the backroads. We were only about ten minutes into the trip when I got the overwhelming sensation to stop on the side of Graham Road. I parked the 4Runner on the clearest spot I could find, we took a few hits off the bottle, then moved into the woods to hunt morels. It wasn’t long though and I felt like I was being pulled by giant magnets to an area of high ground where the jack pines got big and my ears were ringing and my guts all roiling with warmth.
“You’re walking pretty fast for finding mushrooms,” she said.
But she knew by now, with the way I was moving so quickly through the trees, that this was the plan all along. That somehow, on our first weekend alone in months, I would find a dark place in the peaceful woods that needed me. And that I would stand there, eyes closed, hearing muffled yelps as a slim bearded man pounded their small heads with a hammer then dropped their bodies into a black plastic bag—some of them still moving and making sounds, struggling between here and there—as the man buried them.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Shit,” I said. “I’m sorry. This was supposed to be just fun.”
I looked up through the trees at the big blue sky one last time then dropped to my knees and began to dig with my hands.
I remember being six and standing in the cheese line at the fairgrounds with my Mom and brothers. It was a beautiful, bright day. There was so much light around. I remember the light so well.
All of us were wearing hand-me-downs or Salvation Army specials. There was more than cheese, of course—“provisions” is what they called it, and I remember powdered milk, cereal, and other necessities and my belly grumbling with hunger and excitement as we received the plainly labeled packages that would be rationed for weeks—but it was the cheese line, no doubt, because that’s what kids called it at school. Their Moms and Dads apparently hadn’t ever hit a bad patch for long enough to make them swallow their pride and stand in line to feed their kids. Nearly every day, I heard all about the lazy, good-for-nuthins that stood in line for food they did not earn or deserve. Kids learn a lot from their parents, I guess, so I got to hear firsthand from my classmates how lazy, stupid, and selfish we were—especially my old man. It ate me up to hear how awful we were for taking handouts and no matter what I said nobody gave a good shit that my Dad worked his ass off. When he got laid off, he did everything he could to provide. He worked odd jobs for those in our rural town that could afford to hire a helper. He fixed things for family and friends. He picked bottles and cans to cash in on the deposit money. And when things got tight in the fall and winter, he shot deer so we had meat on the table and waiting in the freezer. Dad applied for jobs, spent lots of time at the unemployment office, and was always busy never giving up. Eventually, he got hired back at the factory and made a very good living. One that gave us everything we would ever need. We weren’t rich by any means, but he worked for decades not because he liked ruining his lungs with shop air, and not because he wanted to lose his hearing to shop machines, but because he wanted to give his wife and kids a good life. And because he got a little lift in the form of a social welfare program. Hell, that little boost coupled with his tenacity and devotion carries on into today.
For the most part, I don’t fuck around. My wife and kids come first. And I do everything I can to make sure that ends meet and overlap so that there’s at least a little left over to give. But still, on a night like this—kids just put to bed in their cozy rooms, my wife sipping wine watching high def TV, and me at these keys sipping vodka and Sprite as nine bells call out from the church down the street—I know I’m not doing enough. None of us are.
Less than a mile away, there’s a third grade boy dreading going to school tomorrow because he’ll be teased for wearing hand-me-downs.
Down 2nd Avenue, just north of the bridge, there’s a little girl that just wants a warm bath.
Somewhere in this sleepy lakeshore town coined as a “warm and friendly port,” there’s a man that’s made some bad decisions, but doesn’t deserve to be sleeping on a concrete slab.
Everywhere at every moment there’s a spirit that needs a lift and yet we choose to walk away. We judge quickly and embrace cynicism because it’s easy. We don’t want to think. We don’t want to feel. We just want to live our own little lives and don’t want to be bothered. And when we do this, we die a little. Oh, it’s imperceptible. It can be ignored. Shrugged off. After all, it’s our money and our own life we’re looking out for. We do a fine job of distracting ourselves from what’s really important quite easily. We buy shit we don’t need. We’re afraid to believe. And we follow like sheep. Donating to political campaigns and scrolling through Facebook all along the way. Little do we know, those little deaths all add up and eventually the light is pulled away.
I heard a voice tonight. The kids were in pajamas. We had just said our family prayer and were playing tic, tac, toe, hit me high, hit me low, hit me three times in a row, buddy got hit by a UFO and what I heard was ROCK and so I played rock and I crushed all of their scissors and we walked up the stairs of this big old house and shared hugs and kisses and good solid intentions of seeing one another in the morning.
As I walked downstairs to the box of wine that helps me unwind most nights, I thought about my boy so nervous this morning before his big fourth-grade, year-end race. He was pacing, sticking close to me and SB while his buddies wrestled and threw around a ball and he told us that bubbles were popping in his guts and he wanted to know why it felt like he had to go to the bathroom even though he knew in his heart that he didn’t have to go.
“It’s nerves,” I said.
And he ran away to the bathroom in the school to empty whatever he could that was building inside.
Three minutes later, he was at the starting line, jockeying for position and I heard a voice say, “He’s got it wrapped up. Just watch and enjoy.”
He ran a mile in seven minutes and four seconds and beat out every other kid in his grade. The volunteer parents were impressed. They had been keeping track of the races all day. Our boy was the fourth fastest in school, just seconds behind the studs of fifth grade.
He took the victory in stride. He was humble. He knows that it is only a race and that running doesn’t last forever. That there is much more to come. And none of it can be known until we know it.
“He’s gonna be a star,” a voice said. And there was nothing I could do but believe it.
Monday morning. Drinking coffee while sunlight breaks through the tall leaded windows of this old house and I’m happy to say I’m writing. This is where I am meant to be.
In a great marriage that surprises me more each day—I never knew it was possible to develop such a deep friendship. S.B. is my rock, my artist, my motivator, my guide. She has brought color and depth and fun to the world. Life is better when we are together.
Parenting a son and a daughter. Watching each of them develop unique personalities—a process that is educational, entertaining, and makes me believe in important things, like Yetis, forest fairies, ghosts, and God.
And writing two books. One of poetry/non-fiction that is rooted in feelings and thoughts that emerged from journaling and blogging. And a novel that is literary, but unlike anything I’ve written before. It is time to stop thinking so much about what to write and to simply share what I know. Not lessons or advice. But everything—even those dark, nasty moments—that we are afraid to show.
Until then, when I’ve finally put the pages to rest between covers, I shamelessly encourage you to purchase and read my other works. My writing has not yet been tainted by the corporate need for sales dollars and meeting a bottom line. It is still just a man at the keys, pounding away, day after day in hopes of reaching you. Your support is appreciated.
The Crooked Steeple 