Friday, July 13, 2012

WWBFD? What Would Ben Franklin Do?

I am currently reading the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, the man that sadly many of today's generation know little more of except as the man on the one hundred dollar bill, made even more popular by the hip-hop phrase "gettin' those Benjamin's." Today, as I was driving to work, caught up in the hurried morning of my own simple life, munching food from a grocery store less than a mile from my house, checking emails on a hand held smartphone, cruising along at 80mph with the AC on, I passed a plumbing company truck emblazoned with Ben's image in cartoonish glee on the side. He was holding a wrench and stating himself as the punctual plumber. Now, Benjamin was an incredibly dedicated worker, leaving after many other shops closed up and arrived before those same shops opened, punctuality was in his ethics but seeing his image this morning and realizing a company which fixes leaky pipes and clogged toilets was using his image, one which hundreds of years after his life is one we Americans are quite familiar with, set me off a bit. In a time where people who were real and had lives of their own, people who did very important things with the short and drastically more difficult time that their lives truly were only to then be used by others to simply get a laugh or prove a point, make a rhyme or create an idiom or symbolic statement seemed demeaning and disrespectful to me. For a man who started the first reputible newspaper in America I felt that an injustice was being done to famous people of our past, people who should be revered rather than used for marketing ploys. How far is too far?

As I began to consider what really bothered me about it, I began to imagine Mr. Franklin riding shotgun with me on my way to work. He was aghast at the speed at which we were moving but inwardly tickled at the ride. He asked me questions about the modern world which all had simple answers to me but were enlightening him with every mile we traveled. Issues of science, politics, taxes, literature, media were conveyed and pondered, some with chuckles while others moved him to thoughtful silence. Electricity was a subject of great interest, moving from AC/DC to batteries, then cordless and hotpads, once the idea was implanted he seemed to follow along fairly well. But when we passed the plumbing truck he was speechless. At first he smiled, then looked at me with a saddened expression, I told him the country was a very different place now indeed, and he agreed with a sigh asking if we could stop off at an alehouse for a pint to calm his nerves. Luckily, I knew what he wanted and didn't ask google maps for the closest  chain restaurant with that title, one  known for their fried food and numerous flat screens. I figured that might be a bit too much.


The people of our past are just that, people who lived, breathed, fought, loved, invented and if we know their names there is a reason for that, they were important, their accomplishments were more than the fellows Ben mentions in his memoirs, men who tried, drank too much, failed in their businesses and died penniless in the Barbados. Men who were negative and told him Philidelphia was going down the tubes and would never support a successful trade. Men who borrowed and never paid back, let alone with interest. It was an honor to know Ben as a young man even and especially in his later life and that was due to who he was, how he lived and what he did for his country and community. He was a real American idol, a title not given due to his skills as a singer or dancer but earned over a lifetime of work and commitment. That day at work did not drag on as long, each moment seemed so much simpler with the tools at my disposal, so relaxed in the climate controlled environment, so much more special knowing what I have known since I was five with a map of the galaxy and known universe on my classroom wall. Living in the 21st century has its' perks but forgetting where we come from and those who passed all this on to us is an injustice to our own existence. The next time I see someone "makin' it rain Benny's" I will consider the eyes of the man's face on those bills, eyes which never saw the country he helped create, a country he will remain a part of in so many ways for generations to come. Generations which will have a chance to respect their elders more than we did.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

An Ending Somewhere Redux

In Memoriam to Ripple-D’z
2/15/96 - 4/4/11

They are telling me I have to kill my dog today.
They are telling me to end my best friend’s life
and I don’t know if I can do it.
There has been no howling in pain or
screams of agony from a slipped disc or broken back.
He just sits beside me, shivering and scared in the icy arena
of life and death at the clinic. His legs were getting weak
so I brought him in for some treatment,
something that I am sure existed
to aid in older dogs with carrying their own weight.
But they say he must die.

They say he has kidney failure and is in terrible pain.
He is being stoic
and not showing me how much it hurts.
He is being strong for me
and so I have to be the one to stop this.
This life and this relationship
that I have probably dragged on too long
through all his hours of surgeries and his hematoma,
the horrid colitis and hospitalizations over the years. Allowing modern medicine to give me
all those extra years with him I felt we both deserved.

They enter with the solution that will stop his heart.
I sign some paper, some damn slick sheet saying yes,
I will allow this.
I will play God out of mercy today,
a sinful and illegal act to provide for anyone who
would actually ask for such a gift.
Legal only for our silent counterparts. So I lay beside him, staring into those eyes, those eyes which have looked on me with admiration for fifteen years
and just hope he doesn’t see the uncertainty in me.

That I wished I wasn’t doing this.
That I wasn’t sure if this was right.
That I would graciously and selfishly except another year.
That I would build him a cart to unhappily drag his ass in.

Was he really even sick? He doesn’t seem so bad to me.
But the time has come. And it is too late.

The plunge of needle
into shaved forearm.
The last willful sigh.
He is gone now.

The swatting of hand
and judgement granted
to species smaller.

The release of stored
sunlight, fire within
the wood, chemical
change, forever.

Silence.
“His heart
has stopped,”
they tell me.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

The Thieves of Sherwood

The Thieves of Sherwood
                           
Timmy was an asshole. Really, he was. Mean-spirited and uncouth, a biting, cussing, spitting, hitting, fighting, pulsing asshole and sometimes his antics would really get those around him into some serious trouble. The worst he did to me happened during a Cub Scout meeting near his apartment in 1988. All of the boys were allowed to finally go to Timmy’s because Julienne Mikal, Cory’s mother, was attending. The Autents lived at the time in a low-rent housing complex in a forgotten back corner of Orlando. Due to the green paint peeled paneling on the buildings, the particular name of the complex as well as the company known to reside there, it was known locally as Sherwood Forest.
The five boys of Den 5 were close, having come through Tiger, Cub and now Boy Scouts together as well as being schoolmates and neighborhood friends. Timmy and Davey were the toughest but their records were so bad they got pigeon-holed early and could never get out of anything else. Eddy and Garic were straight-edged like Cory, destined to go somewhere and really do something with their lives. They knew it, their gifted teachers knew it, the parents knew it and these superiors did not like them associating with the other rougher, tougher formats exhibited in Davey and Timmy. 
After an hour or so of Cub Scout knot-tying and pledge banter the boys were restless and wanted to get outside, so the mothers allowed them, enjoying the gossip and stime to have their Hidden Kool and Capri cigarettes while the boys went out front to explore the “forest.” Told to stay right in front of the building, Timmy immediately took off, taunting the others to follow him. It was starting to get dark and four or five sprinting and screaming boys were now dashing in between the long green buildings, jumping soiled mattresses and 40-ounce bottles, moving farther and farther from the caring yet chattering parents. 
Rounding a corner, they came face to face with a middle age couple, looking mean and dangerous. 
“Stop that hollerin’ right now!” the woman screamed back at them. Everything froze for a moment. The fear was immediate. This woman was not like their mothers’, not like the people they knew at school or the doctors’, real dangerous people with little to lose, on the brink of the abyss with those crazy eyes they had heard about. All halted and silent, they all realized they were in a isolated section of the darkening complex. The lady was disheveled, hair unwashed and askew and stared with a radiating fury at the boys. The man looked to be foreign and his dark beady eyes darted nervously from the woman to the silent and shocked kids, as if he didn’t know what she would do next.
“Get inside this house right now!” she demanded like the mother of all of them.
Since the boys were used to obeying and had never been ordered by a stranger to do something, it was an odd request for a Boy Scout to process quickly. So, too young to stand up for themselves, they single file marched to what could have been their eventual doom. Timmy and Dicky, the street smart and more experienced of the bunch were not so gullible.
“Screw you lady!” They flicked her off, turned tail and ran. The man ushered the three inside as the lady continued to threaten Timmy and Dicky (who were slapping their asses at her as they hightailed around the corner) with screams about calls to their unknown parents and the severe punishment they would receive. 
“I’ll have the landlord throw yer family out you rotten little cuss! You come ‘round here again and I’ll wallop you one, I will!” Listening to this, Cory, Garic and Eddy knew they were screwed. Looking at each other quickly with darting glances they could tell they were not in a good situation, they might have to do something they had never been confronted with. To what level was yet to be determined. 
After the woman entered the tiny, hazy apartment the man shut and locked the door. Audible gulps were heard throughout the room. The room was dark with tattered tapestries and blankets over the windows making the shadows deep and dark in the corners. Every kidnapping and torture story they had ever heard flooded their memory banks, images from TV of dungeons and chains found in back rooms. How could they not? Bad neighborhood, night time, behind a locked door in the den of some psychos. This is where nightmares really did come true.
“What do you kids think you’re doin’, runnin’ round shriekin’ like a whore on fire? Y’all ain’t got any respect for what others do to be here? How long people work every day just so they can pay to live here? And why? So that ungrateful hellions like y’all can run amuck screamin’ like they’re little girls ‘stead of boys?”
“No maam” Garic somehow spit out.
“Well that’s what you’re doin’ or else you wouldn’t of ended up here.”
“Maam, we’re with Cub Scout Den 5 and we have an important meeting we need
to get to over at the Autent’s…”
“Seems real important, kid. And what’s this meeting about anyway? Learnin’ how to scream like banshees in the night? I hope you’re not lyin’ to me, boy.”
“No maam, I swear…”
“Ooh, don’t go doing that either!” She quickly approached, spittle flecked through her nicotine-stained teeth, “We don’t go doin’ none o’ that ‘round ‘ere!” During this exchange, Eddy was silently standing with feet together, at attention with eyes staring at his shoes. And all at once at that moment, Eddy seemed to come alive, speaking out in his strongest man voice, possibly to exonerate them once and for all.
“Maam, like he said, we’re Cub Scouts and we are allowed to swear, on our honor. It’s called an honor swear and we just hold our three fingers up like this…”
“Can it, kid. In my house, we don’t allow swearin’, on anything. You understand me?” Cory felt it important to protect the generally meek Eddy and to face this strange and possibly dangerous couple with a taste of their own medicine.
“We’re real sorry maam, but we all have parents who need to know where we are and we really don’t want to worry them.” The lady smirked. She wasn’t falling for any nine year old reverse psychology.
“Do your parents let you run around screamin’ all over public property whenever you want?”
“Well no, but honestly we didn’t know it was illegal.”
“It is. Noise Ordinance. That’s what it’s called. That’s the law you boys were breakin’ when I found you.”
“We’re very sorry maam, really…”
“Do you respect your parents word, boys? Do you follow what they tell you to do?”
“Yes, maam, honestly we’re very good. We’re cub scouts, please…” Their was a long moment of silence. The kids knew what Cory was begging for. All were seeing the worst imagery yet pictured on the TV screen in their still forming brains, the thieves of Sherwood collecting children for mincemeat pie on the black market, the back closets and bedrooms filled with dead children wrapped tightly in blue cellophane.  The man stood, arms crossed, squarely in front of the door. He was unnervingly intimidating, silent and ready for his orders. After what seemed like a veritable eternity, the unstable woman spoke with an eerie authority and a slimy sense of false sweetness, rattling off these words,
“Boys, I’m gonna let you run home now, quietly! Tell your parents that you were misbehavin’ and that you’re sorry. You are also going to tell them that you love ’em. You should never again disobey or disrespect them. Because that just makes ’em mad and you don’t like it when you’re parents are mad, do you?” The boys couldn’t say “no, maam” fast enough. She wouldn’t allow it.
“Because they’re just looking out for you and you just can’t understand that yet. I imagine they are missin’ you right now. Do you miss your parents?” Eddy was pretty shook up by now. Quivering and cowering, yet somehow still at attention, he softly answered her, “Yes, maam”. A single solitary sob broke through. 
But Cory and Garic were still holding out. They weren’t about to show any weakness in front of these possible kidnapping psychos. They were best friends, and imaging the exact same things, the back bedrooms crammed with duck-taped sobbing schoolchildren. Maybe even every missing kid in Florida. 
The possibilities were endless, did they only take the weak, if you shed a tear it sealed your doom? They both were considering this and remained calm. 
“Alright,” she finally sighed, “run along and don’t forget what I said. I mean it. Behave.” 
The silent man slowly stepped aside and opened the door. It could have been the gates of paradise opening. They couldn’t of been happier to see a twilight sky and the sound of the complex.
Once away from the building the three boys huddled and although still quite shaken by the incident they promised to not talk about it or mention it again, ever to anybody. But rather just be glad to be alive. From that day forth, these three lads would have a deeper level of respect for the public during displays of unbridled youth and an even deeper level of understanding of what an asshole Timmy
Autent really was.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

The Grit

Working with one hand as a worker, online student and actor has been an interesting experience. Attempting to work in a scene shop with table saws and ladders, painting and carpentry, it was finally decided that I just go home until the finger was healed. Last week, a 200 mph piece of balsa wood kicking back out of a table saw had tried to take off my left index finger, creating several hairlines fractures and a lot of lifted skin. 

Entering the theatre that night for a dress rehearsal, a few days before opening a very physical comedy, my costumer rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air screaming in a very squeaky Pennsylvania Dutch accent, “Oh shit! I was expecting a little splint, but that’s ridiculous!” “It’s coming off for the show,” was my only reply and I began to slowly undress. Being onstage does not give you much time to really focus on one finger, not if you plan on holding a convincing character and performance. The moments are fast and the mind must be completely focused to keep with the scene. Knowing that there is a finger on the outside of your hand, swinging out there in the breeze, broken and jangled on the inside, swollen and puffy on the outside, just waiting to be mangled in a slammed door or caught in a passing actors’ dress or coat, or maybe jammed by the slightly miscalculated thrust during a scuffle, there it hangs, slightly taped to your middle finger, hoping for the best, that was my abhorrent state of mind just before going onstage for opening night. 

But strangely, the other thought was of my father. Remembering how he had played half of a college football season with a broken hand, performed tremendously at that and won awards for his amazing will and “true grit.” Awaiting my entrance in the dark wings, listening to the laughter roaring on the other side of the door, I thought of him and his mangled hand, healed now years later and doing its’ daily work  now with no problems, and distinctly thought I felt the throbbing go down just a little bit. I thought about his tenacity in life, present today as he reinvents himself as the world turns, the crowds which had cheered for him in years before and it seemed to hurt even less. 

Before I even knew it, I was on stage, performing in front of an ever  critical audience, shifting myself ever so slightly to protect the wounded paw, creating new physical bits due to these wounds wherever they presented themselves. Listening to the laughter and applause upon my exits assured me of my own tenacity and will, proving that even actors and all their misconceptions, for all that might not be understood by that laughing audience , we can have “true grit” as well.