Bully (Beltane 2015)

Bully (Beltane 2015) - a reading (on YouTube)

In high school, I drove a moped. Not exactly stylish but it was cheap and reliable enough to get me back and forth to work, and to school on the days I missed the bus. What it lacked in panache it more than made up for as a bully-magnet.

As I’ve said before, bullies seem to think I’m an easy target, I think because I’m quiet and generally keep to myself. I tend not to make an issue of things if I don’t feel I have to. But once an issue kicks off, I don’t back down until it’s resolved, one way or another.

My ride topped out somewhere around 35 mph and that’s if I had a tailwind. Because of that I drove the back roads around town as much as I could. But I couldn’t avoid a few stretches of four-lane divided roadway where the speed limit was 40 to 45, which meant 50 in most people’s minds. When I drove those roads, I hugged shoulder so I wouldn’t get clipped, and so people could more easily get around when they saw an opportunity.

I don’t remember exactly when it started, sometime over the spring. One day, I was driving the little beast home from school along one of those stretches, consumed in my own thoughts, when a car crept up just behind me where I couldn’t see it and blew its horn. I about jumped straight out of my seat and barely kept control. That was an adrenaline rush I really didn’t need. I never got a good look at the driver.

Turns out, this became that driver’s favorite pastime, pulling up just into my blind spot and laying on the horn. I began to recognize the car and to look for it in my mirrors but didn’t know who drove it. I’m pretty sure after that first encounter he went out of his way to find me. So like most teenaged males, I instinctively took to flipping off that car every time it blew its horn and then sped by. For a while, that became our shared ritual, BEEEEP, (jump), middle finger.

That changed the day that car tried to run me off the road. Instead of speeding away as normal while I flipped it off, it made a quick swerve up beside me. For a moment, all I saw was a broad, steel quarter panel closing off the asphalt. It might have been faded green but I can’t be sure. Somehow I avoided it by darting onto the grassy shoulder, and still managed not to lose control. Now the driver had my full and undivided attention. I took that personally.

I reported the incident to the police but they were disinterested. Basically, the officer said that unless he witnessed something himself there was nothing he could do (or would) even though I gave him a description of the vehicle and a partial license plate. Thanks for nothing RPD. Protect and serve, my ass.

So I figured I needed to take my protection into my own hands. While I could make an effort to take the bus to school, I still had to get to work. I worked 20-30 hours, 4-6 days a week. I had access to my mother’s second car when I needed it but there was no way she was going to relinquish it to me full-time. So I had to come up with another solution.

My testosterone addled brain focused on a weapon to defend myself. Or at least to leave a mark on this guy’s car if he tried running me off the road again. I settled on a miniature wooden baseball bat, the kind they sell as souvenirs at Major League games. It was about as long as my forearm, spun from oak, and emblazoned with Boston Red Sox down the side. My grandfather had bought it for me the only time we’d seen a game in Fenway Park together.

It fit perfectly along the moped’s stanchion, right behind to the steering column. I designed a mechanism that would hold it in place but would still allow me to retrieve it one-handed on the fly. Satisfied with that, I drilled a hole near the handle and threaded it with a leather strap so I wouldn’t lose it. My inexperienced mind figured that perhaps a simple warning would send the message I was serious and I wouldn’t have to use it. Ah, the naivety of youth.

I think it was a week later before my theory was put to the test. By this point I still wasn’t positive who was driving the car other than it was someone I went to school with. But I did know which neighborhood he lived in. One about midway between mine and my best friend’s, G.

I was driving home from school, watching my side mirrors, and sure enough my shadow pulled up behind me and blared its horn. I completed our ritual by flipping him off. But instead of speeding past, he slowed down to tail me, riding no more than five feet behind me, gunning his engine off and on. Oh, this wasn’t good.

I quickly reassessed my situation. At that moment I was keenly aware that the back roads I normally used would leave me pretty vulnerable. They were not well trafficked so there would be no witnesses to whatever happened. And if he decided to run me off the road, I was probably as good as dead. All he had to do was nudge me since he outweighed me by a couple tons. But I still had two advantages he couldn’t match.

First, I exploited my maneuverability. I set him up by driving past my normal turn, tricking him into believing I was taking the long way home on the most public of roads. He seemed content to settle in for a slow-motion chase. So it caught him completely by surprise when I darted down a side street across several lanes of traffic without so much as leaning to advertise my intent. I was there and then gone before he could react. He overshot the turn and had to wait for a break in traffic to double back.

I knew that move wouldn’t buy me much time. But I also knew my second advantage lay at the end of the road I’d just started down, maybe half a mile away. Now we were in a race, one I could only hope my cleverness would help me win. I opened up the little beast for everything it was worth, using every trick I knew to eek out just a little more speed. I prayed it was enough combined the delaying tactic I’d used. I ran at least one stop sign just so I wouldn’t have to slow down.

When I heard his engine rumbling in the distance, I casually retrieved my makeshift billy club from the stanchion and hung it from my right handlebar as a warning. I wasn’t planning on going quietly that into that good afternoon.

Just as he was racing up behind me, I reached my goal, a pedestrian bridge across a ditch that connected my neighborhood to the one just north of it. I had just slipped through the chainlink posts at full throttle when I heard the squeal of brakes behind me. My second advantage was that I knew the terrain and had picked the most favorable location. Had I not made that bridge, I knew I had a set of dirt trails immediately to my right and left where his car also couldn’t go.

Once I was safely across the bridge, I circled back to look. I found myself confronting an irate underclassman from my high school, BR, and his friend, whose name I didn’t know, both standing beside the still running car. BR was clutching a pair of numchucks and yelling something that I couldn’t understand through my helmet and over my puttering engine. But their postures were easily read. They were itching for a fight and livid they’d been outfoxed. I left them where they stood without a word and headed home. I was confident they didn’t know exactly where I lived but I knew I’d just narrowed it down to a neighborhood for them. I figured they’d start trolling streets to find for me soon.

By the time I got home, I’d realized that my improvised billy club was no match for two guys and a pair of numchucks. But I wasn’t about to back down and hide. I’d been face to face with bullies twice before and understood that, win or lose, only standing up for myself earned anything other than continued confrontations. Thankfully, both BR and his friend were smaller than I was. There had to count for something.

I quickly re-evaluated my strategy. A billy club wasn’t my only choice of weapons. I passed over the hand ax and the spiked flail I’d brought home from Spain. They required getting into close quarters. Besides, I needed something felt comfortable with taking on two opponents. I’d practiced with a quarterstaff for more than a year, but a 5-foot weapon is a bit cumbersome to haul around on a moped. That’s when my eyes settled on the sword hanging on my wall, a gift from my father from several years before. I’d practiced with it, too. Many of the defensive moves I’d learned from the quarterstaff overlapped.

So I slipped it through a belt-loop and called G to tell him I was coming over. If this was going to go down as two on one, I needed backup and G was the best I had. He was a year older than me. We’d met at school and ID’d with each other because we were both geeks and gamers. We’d worked in the same restaurant briefly. He’d introduced me to a side of music I’d never heard. We formed the kind of bond you think at that age will last forever. He always had my back. Looking back, I hope he felt I had his. I should probably mention G lived in public housing, one city north of mine.

Of course, getting there meant transiting across the front of BR’s neighborhood. That didn’t bother me. I would be on a very public road. Besides, I’d had just about enough of this and was more than willing let them know. So I remounted my metallic pony and headed off toward G’s, about five miles away. I sped along a four-lane suburban boulevard, head held high, looking like something out of a modern Don Quixote.

Sure enough BR and his buddy were lying in wait at the front of their neighborhood. Or maybe they had retreated to rearm and were just heading out to find me. I guess I’d saved them the trouble. They quickly fell in behind me at a respectable distance. I wouldn’t shake them again. This time they’d given themselves enough time to react. Clever monkeys.

I sensed a moment’s hesitation when I turned into G’s neighborhood. This was the south in the 1980s. In my hometown, public housing had a reputation for being rough. The police only went there in numbers. But it was broad daylight so BR dutifully stuck to my tail.

Once we were in the network of streets that mostly went by alphabetical designations, BR closed in a little tighter as if either thinking none of the witnesses here mattered, or more likely, clinging to me as if he and his friend belonged. That was all the opportunity I needed.

As I approached G’s duplex, once again I didn’t slow or give any inclination of what I was about to do. I just swerved up onto ten feet of lawn at 35 and dropped the moped against the side of the building with a crash. Once again, the overeager BR overshot. That gave me enough time to prepare to face him and his friend when they circled back around.

They quickly did only find all six foot one of me standing on the grass, my feet planted squarely with a longsword at the ready, fully prepared to use it, a sack full of crazy in my eyes. What I didn’t realize at the time was G was leaning on a heavy oaken quarterstaff as he stood outside his back door. He had heard my moped drop against his living room wall and run out to see what was happening.

BR, who was closest, barely cracked the driver’s side window. His friend, who was hanging out the passenger side and shouting across the roof, initially did most of the talking. The conversation followed predictable lines that went something like:

Me: You want a piece of me? Come on!

BR’s friend: You’ve got a sword.

Me: B has numchucks.

BR’s friend: You had a club.

Me: He tried to run me off the road.

BR (finally speaking): You flipped off my mom while I was in the car.

Me: Then tell your mom not to sneak up behind me and blow the horn.

BR (looking at G): I’m not taking on two of you.

G: I’m just here to make sure your friend stays put.

BR: Then put down the sword.

I slung it down point first about three feet away, leaving two and a half feet of feet of Toledo steel quivering in the ground in front of me.

“Come on!” I yelled, curling both hands in a bring-it gesture. “I don’t need a sword.”

His friend just slid down into the passenger’s seat, suddenly realizing this was not his fight. BR said something about watching myself, rolled up his window and drove away.  G and I just watched them go as we leaned on our weapons. Then we went inside where I immediately started shaking from the adrenaline crash. I didn’t think this was over.

The next day, I drove my mother’s second car to school, figuring if there was going to be a repeat performance, I wanted a cocoon of steel around me for protection. As I walked by the band room toward my locker, a sophomore I recognized but whose name I didn’t know rushed up to me, grabbed my hand and started shaking it. I was confused.

“I hear you pulled a knife on BR yesterday. He’s needed someone to do that for a long time.”

“How’d you hear about that?” I asked, not correcting him about the type of blade.

“Half the school knows,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

As I walked past the cafeteria, I noticed a number of people staring at me and whispering behind their hands. Seemed I’d gained some notoriety. That actually scared me more.

The next thing I knew G’s brother, who was several years older than both of us and worked at the school, pulled BR and me aside at the lockers. “Settle this. Right now.”

We traded the same spars as the afternoon before. I tried to keep my voice steady but failed. Only this time when BR tried to end it by telling me to watch myself, I looked down at him with the same crazy in my eyes and said evenly, “If you do it again, you’ll get the same response. Or worse.”

G’s brother stepped in with “That’s it. It’s over. Now get out of here” (looking more at BR than me).

I didn’t have any more trouble with BR, or anyone else for that matter, for the rest of my high school days. My demonstration had worked.

---

Looking back, sometimes I wonder if I should thank BR for teaching me some valuable lessons. While he wasn’t the first or the only, he certainly did reinforce the impression that sometimes confrontation is unavoidable, that sometimes you have to stand your ground. That being able to think through your anger almost always pays dividends. That knowing something about your adversary and the element of surprise should never be underestimated. And neither should crazy eyes.

Or maybe that incident carried no real lesson. Maybe it didn’t matter why we fought, only that we almost came to blows before one side backed down and the other wouldn’t let him save face just to make sure it never happened again. Maybe we fought because we could, or maybe because we needed to. Or maybe, we fought just to prove ourselves because winter had ended, and life now filled the air. Maybe we just needed to test ourselves against it.

I think in that, we may have been no different from a pair of territorial bucks locking horns with a crack in ritual combat as a sacred rite at Beltane. The day the horned god rules over the impulses of all young men. The day that marks the first of Celtic spring.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Art and Anniversary 2015

For our 21st anniversary this year, we made the quinquennial pilgrimage to Washington, DC, one of the few cities we seem to go back to on a regular basis.

We flew out early Thursday afternoon, direct to National Airport. The airline offered us an upgrade to first class (for an additional fee), which we decided to take advantage of as a treat. I could get used not waiting in line and not having to squeeze all six foot plus of me into a space barely meant for someone half a foot shorter. But I'm not quite sure about having the flight attendant call me by name, though I think she was mystified that I didn't partake of any of the offered food or beverages. I spent my time with my nose buried in notebook (the old school kind) organizing four poems from our fall color trip in October. I'm glad I let those lines settle since the fall. I think there is something there. A great way to start the vacation.

Having our luggage first off the plane, another perk, meant we could get out of the airport before rush hour on the George Washington Parkway. One of the advantages of having driven from Rockville to Crystal City for work when we lived there is knowing a pleasant back way to the hotel that didn't involve the Beltway.

We found the Residence Inn tucked away on a dead-end road in Tysons Corner. Because it was nestled among mid-rise office building, it was amazingly quiet despite being a quarter mile from a major artery. It had a number of restaurants within walking distance, from a Subway to sushi to Thai to Mediterranean to Indian. As well as a fireplace in the room, a hot breakfast, and a Metro station on the new Silver line within walking distance. Pretty much ideal for us.

That night we hopped over to Tysons Corner Center. Even though it's not the Galleria, it makes Tampa’s International Plaza look a bit low-rent. We poked through a few of stores we don't have nearby, including LL Bean and Levengers, but nothing really caught our eye. We ended in a two story Barnes and Noble. Karen found a couple crochet books but for me it was pretty much a bust. When we were last there, I picked up a few science fiction titles not available locally. The intervening years have not been kind, at least to the sections I'm interested in. But that's been true of every B&N I've been in recently. Finding anything decent to read there has become a challenge. So I left empty-handed and feeling like I no longer belonged there. Thankfully, that wouldn't last.

We awoke to find snow accumulating on the grass and cars. Both of us would have been happy if that kept up all day. But after breakfast, snow gave way to sleet then freezing rain then just rain. At 30-something with a steady wind, it wasn't exactly a pleasant day for walking around the National Mall. But one of our destinations wasn't open on the weekend so off we went.

Our first stop was the World Bank InfoShop. What I wouldn't give to have one of these nearby. They focus on economics, social and cultural issues, development and infrastructure along with international fiction, all in mid-sized suite. Plus they offer a 10% discount to government employees. I could have spent a fortune there. It would have taken me a year to read everything that caught my eye. I restrained myself to three books, Smart Cities, Townsend; Poor Economics, Banerjee and Duflol and Americanah (a novel), Adichie. Karen picked up Behind the Beautiful Forevers, Boo.

Next we popped across the street to Reiter's Professional Books. I first ran across them in 1989/90 on travel for work. I think this is their third location since then. It is amazing how small their new location is after the expanse of the previous two. I hope they continue to survive. There I picked up Business of Civil War (DR Congo), Kabamba. I almost picked up a book on neuroanthropology, another on probability in finance and a third on innovations in financial vehicles but all were a bit more technical than I wanted. How often do I get to say that? Karen bought Extinction, Erwin; and Human Nature and the Evolution of Society, Sanderson. She wasn't afraid of going deep.

From there we made the hike past the White House to the National Gallery of Art. Our only agenda was to revisit some old favorites, a couple Vermeers, some 17th century Dutch still lives, Thomas Cole's Voyage of Life series and Dali's Last Supper. Once again, the Dali had moved to a new location, its third. They had rearranged the 17th century gallery as well so we caught a number of Spanish, German and Italian works we hadn't seen before, some of which we came back to. We also checked out a number of Renaissance books and bronze sculptures. We bailed out by mid-afternoon, both to avoid rush hour on the Metro and because we had an early dinner reservation for our anniversary.

To celebrate, we’d opted for Fleming's Steakhouse which was less than a mile away. We'd eaten there once before in Orlando, about ten years ago for our anniversary. It was good enough that we wanted to go back. This time didn't disappoint either. Butternut squash ravioli, tender filet mignons, grilled asparagus, signature potatoes, then coffee and berries and fresh whipped cream for dessert. And of course wine. Perfect food and service, just like the last time. Yet still odd being called by name by a waiter (because of the reservation). I think we spent more on tip than on many sit-down meals we eat out anymore. Strange living this highlife even for a day. But Karen's worth it.

And what better way to end the evening than at a Wal-Mart. But a Tysons Corner Wal-Mart. With paid parking. You know, to keep the riff-raff out. But we still didn't find what we were looking for, which was wood for the fireplace. So we settled for what the hotel had to offer in their mini-shop. Which was enough for ambiance. Plus some green tea and chocolate. A perfect end to the evening.

The next day we opted to do our driving. Driving the Maryland back roads and the Virginia hills along the Georgetown Pike outside the Beltway was quite scenic. I could see living out there. Maybe if we hit the lottery. A warm, sunny day with a high of 62. Quite a change from the day before.

First up was Politics and Prose, a well-curated independent bookstore in DC proper, not far from where Karen used to work (I could tell you, but then, well, you know). As their name implies they focus on politics, history and general fiction, but had a full selection in all the other sections as well. One of the best organized bookstores we've visited in quite some time, replete with staff recommendations. Only one book for me, Wired for Story, Cron (the neuroscience of storytelling). Karen picked up two by Maraget Atwood, The Penelopiad and the Blind Assassin. That put her two ahead!? Usually, I'm the one who loads up.

Then we headed for Great Falls National Park along the Potomac where we hiked two to three miles along the river. We've been there several times before but never walked that far up the river. Our timing was perfect as there weren't too many people when we arrived. By the time we left, all the parking lots were nearly full and there was a line of cars at the entrance. The river was high but not as high as we've seen it. The falls were dynamic, as were the jumble rocks we climbed over to see them. Karen got her geology moment.

Next up was the Udvar-Hazy annex of the Air and Space museum out by Dulles Airport. This is the hanger where they display a huge number of planes, along with a few satellites and other space artifacts. Highlights were the space shuttle Discovery (mammoth), the Enola Gay (bittersweet to see), and an F14 Tomcat (an inspiration for Aluria's Tale). Interesting to see all of them up close.

Our final stop for the day was the Game Parlor, a well-stocked gaming shop we'd run across a couple visits ago which is still thriving unlike many of its brethren. They had a full house of tables running various games, from what looked like Napoleonics to fantasy miniatures to several collectible card games. And, no, we weren’t' the oldest people in there. For the first time, we didn't pick anything up other than two ideas for board game expansions we wanted to look up before we committed to. By then we were pretty fried so crawled back to the hotel, navigating by memory and feel when the phone (with our GPS) like us ran down.

That night we walked up the street to Bombay Tandoor for chicken Tikka Masala and Butter chicken with rice and nan. Definitely acceptable, though not quite Gateway to India at home which has become our gold standard. And because we had a fridge, we brought leftovers back to the hotel.

For our final full day, we opted to head back to the National Mall. That day was cooler with a high of fifty-something and breezy but sunny. Still scarf weather early. Not bad for street hiking four plus miles on the Mall. We saw the MLK Memorial (which was beautifully done), the Korean War Memorial (much more powerful than the WWII Memorial which left me underwhelmed), the Vietnam Women's Memorial and the Wall, the Einstein Memorial (which has some very cool Easter eggs), Constitution Gardens, and then back to the National Gallery. Along the way, we found the only four cherry trees in bloom, tucked away in a sheltered area near the DC WWI Memorial. So pretty and subtly fragrant. We keep getting lucky in finding them off peak.

We spent the afternoon crawling through nearly every section of the National Gallery. The day's highlights included. Green Wheat Fields, Van Gogh; the portrait of Ginevra de' Benci, da Vinci; Departure and Return, new Thomas Cole's from the Corcoran that the National Gallery inherited; Still Life with Ham and others, Garrit Heda; Interior of St. Peters, Rome, Panini; Interior of Oude Kerk, Amsterdam, Emanuel de Witte.

The last two paintings are two cathedrals, one Italian (18th century), one Dutch (17th century). One Catholic, one Protestant. Both captured various elements of their societies. But you can see from the de Witte why the Protestants were considered so irreverent. And from the Panini why the Catholics were considered so hypocritical. I almost want prints of each to hang in the office.

And the two new Cole's... wow. He works really well in series. We kept shifting back and forth between the two to figure out the landscape, the time of day, and the common elements. Another pair I'd love to hang somewhere. Just the framing would set us back.

No swag unless you count the guard at the National Gallery offering to hook us up with some paintings if we picked them out and built a climate controlled place to store them, say in Hawaii. Our shade tree mechanic of art dealers. Oh, yeah, I think I could find some room for a couple in the back hall.

Dinner that night was leftover Indian and the last of the miscellaneous munchies we'd brought along.

The next morning, we opted to hang out in the hotel room until checkout rather than rushing to the airport and trying to take in Arlington Cemetery. That will have to wait for another trip. So after five memorials, three bookstores, two museums, one game store and one national park later, we headed home with fifteen books (only three of which came up with us. How does this happen? When a mommy book really loves a daddy book...). We'd upgraded our tickets to first class on the way home, too, which made for a more relaxing end to the trip. We even snuck in a visit to Legal Seafood for lunch at the airport, including their incredible New England clam chowder.

A good, if quick, trip to reacquaint ourselves. Honestly, I could see us living up that way again at some point. The change of seasons, the topography, and the balance of wood, water and stone are all appealing. As is the proximity to so many museums and so much culture.

In contrast by the time we returned, all trees here were fully leafed out. After the sparse landscape with only buds up there, the park looked so close and very green. But Nyala and Mara were very glad to have us home. As always Nyala took some convincing by her dad-cat to come out of hiding. She’s been staying close the past two days to make sure I don’t leave again.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Sinking (Spring Equinox 2015)

Sinking (Spring Equinox 2015) - a reading (on YouTube)


My junior year of college, most of my annually shifting set of dorm-mates were certified divers. Spring break that year, they planned a trip down to the Florida Keys to do some reef diving. I wasn’t a diver and wasn’t much for boating but I love being in the water. So I tagged along with fins and a mask to snorkel.

As soon as we were all free, eleven of us packed into four cars, drove down to Key Largo and camped out by the beach. The next morning, we rented a boat, a fiberglass, center console fisherman just over twenty feet long. We paid for a set number of hours in advance. One guy’s parents were vacationing from England and graciously put up the deposit even though they weren’t coming with us.

All of us piled in the boat, loading fifteen to twenty dive tanks in the back. A lot of people and a lot of gear but it was cleared by the rental company. My roommate Dick was the boat-master. He’d done this type of thing before.

It was a beautiful Florida spring day, warm and sunny without much wind. We motored to John Pennekamp State Park about four miles offshore. Once we were over the reef with fifteen to thirty feet of water below our keel, we ran up a dive flag. My other roommate, Tracey, set our anchor in a large sandy patch between banks of coral so we wouldn’t drift.

We spent most of our time in the water, keeping an eye on the clock for when the boat was due back. None of us was in a hurry. Being poor college students, we all wanted to get the most time for our money. Mid-afternoon, a tourist dive ship pulled up and held station half a mile or more away, playing hide and seek on the edge of our vision for the rest of the day. Seemed like we’d picked a decent spot.

The water was crystal clear and teeming with fish and other sea life. The coral was colorful, densely layered and healthy, at least as far as I could tell. I spent most of my time chasing schools of fish, struggling off and on to get my ears to clear. For me, the freedom and solitude of the water was a subtropical paradise. I tried to stick close to the boat, but now and then found myself swept up by a current and farther away than I would have liked. The seas were mostly calm so swimming back to it wasn’t too much of a problem. The sun was warm but not hot, a pleasant contrast to the cool but not cold water.

By late afternoon, a couple of us noticed the boat had begun riding lower in the water. Initially, Dick wouldn't listen to our concerns. We pestered him until he finally saw for himself that the boat was losing ground, or rather gaining water. He tried the bilge pump but couldn’t get it to fire. He thought maybe the boat was self-draining. So even though we still had divers in the water, he decided to try and get it up on plane to see if it would empty.

When it wouldn't, his expression hardened to concern. But Dick figured if he could keep the boat moving, we’d probably be ok. That meant heading back to shore.

Back on station, he cut the engine and we scrambled to get everyone out of the water. Most of our divers had surfaced, wondering why their ride had fired up for a high speed spin in a long, lazy circle. We frantically called to the divers on the surface and told them to relay the signals to anyone underwater. We were met with much reluctance and confusion. Even though the sun was drifting toward the horizon, we still had plenty of time left on our rental.

By now the boat was riding really low, lower than it had been before. Suddenly, a sense of urgency crept into getting everyone on board. Two guys stood by the back ladder physically pulling each diver and his gear from the water. Tanks and equipment were quickly stowed. With each extra pound of weight added, the boat sank a little deeper. Water climbed a little higher up the side.

I hovered by a gunwale trying to keep out of the way. Everyone was shouting instructions and advice, including me. I focused on getting people into lifejackets, but no one was inclined to listen. They all thought that once we got underway, we’d be fine. Remember those airline lectures about securing your own oxygen mask before helping others? There’s a good reason for that instruction. Once the chaos starts, you just might not have time.

As the last diver heaved his tank onto the dive platform, Dick frantically tried to restart the engine. It just made that rurr-rurr-rurr sound like a car with a battery that was nearly dead. Someone shifted from port to starboard to make room for the new arrival. The deck tilted beneath our feet. Suddenly, water started pouring over the gunwale. And the deck didn’t stop turning.

I dove clear before the sea completely eclipsed the sky. Like a wounded U-boat evading depth charges, our little boat shot straight for the bottom. Tanks and dive gear fluttered away from it on the way down like false markers for an enemy destroyer, or the trail of jetsam that would eventually lead to the rediscovery of our miniature Titanic.

The first thing I remember doing as I broke the surface was cursing, and then swimming. I still hadn’t donned my own lifejacket before the boat had transitioned to a mortally wounded submarine. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what was Plan B?

In front of me, I spotted a string of lifejackets quickly drifting away. So I power stroked after them, throwing one then another then another toward the confused and angry voices behind me. I recovered maybe five before the current dragged the remainder out of reach. I was afraid if I continued after them, this time I wouldn’t make it back. Though I did remember to save the last one for myself. I wouldn’t need to learn that lesson twice.

When I finally looked back to evaluate our situation, I found our group was strung out in a long, ragged line. A quick headcount showed we hadn’t lost anyone. But we were four miles off shore with thirty feet of water between us and the boat that had settled on the sandy bottom. I don’t think there was a radio onboard not that it mattered now. But I didn’t remember anyone calling mayday. We had no flares or strobe lights. Maybe half of us had on lifejackets. At least we knew all of us could swim. Some of the guys still had on their fins.

Some days, it’s better to be lucky than good. Before we had bobbed there very long trying formulate what exactly to do next, that tourist dive ship we’d been playing hide and seek with on the horizon came charging toward us. Someone must have seen us flounder. We found out later they’d just been bringing up the last of their divers when they’d seen us heel over. In another fifteen minutes, they would have been headed back to port. And we would have had to hone our meager survival skills at sea.

The dive ship started pulling our people from the water. I don’t remember where I fell in order; I wasn’t the first but not the last. Only a couple strangers offered us towels, snacks or even condolences. Most just gave us dirty looks or disgusted glares. The crew completely avoided us once they’d fished us out.

A second boat materialized and began rescuing the remainder of our people. They’d heard the dive ship’s mayday and come running. A few minutes later, a third, smaller boat appeared with a trio of divers about our age. My roommates began coordinating with them on salvaging our gear, shouting back and forth across the water.

Once we were all safe and dry, the dive ship’s captain became anxious to get back to port, his maritime duty done. The trio on the smaller boat said they’d finish hauling up our scattered equipment. Contact information was exchanged so we could connect with them on shore. I’m not sure in that moment whether the trio’s intentions were entirely honorable. Or perhaps they were and it was only later that opportunity called them like a siren’s song. Regardless, they seemed friendly as they said they’d return our equipment, no problem. And we had bigger issues anyway, like explaining to the rental company why we were coming back without their boat.

On the journey back, we huddled together like refugees in stunned and embarrassed silence. Thankfully, the dive ship was half empty that day. Everyone left us to our thoughts. That was when the enormity of the situation began to settle in. What the hell had just happened?

On shore, our odyssey was not quite over. The rental company insisted whatever had happened was completely our fault. First they said we’d overloaded the boat, even though they’d approve the number of passengers and equipment. Then they changed tack, saying it must have been something else we’d done. They threatened to confiscate our deposit and make us pay damages. We shot back that their boat had sank out from under us, and their bilge pump had never worked. We were the aggrieved party.

As both sides argued back and forth, their salvage company motored in at twilight with our boat in tow. They’d managed to float it off the bottom without incident, which didn’t exactly help our case. A quick inspection revealed no cracks. In the end we all agreed that assignation of blame would have to wait until they ran a test on the hull. We’d meet again in the morning.

Our next stop was to pick up our gear from the trio of divers. When we finally caught up with them at their condo, they’d decided they deserved a finder’s fee. They returned our fins, masks and snorkels as promised, but wanted hundreds of dollars for the tanks and regulators they could pawn. Money we certainly didn’t have and couldn’t get. Technically, it was all maritime salvage so they had the right to it. Legally, anyway.

Around ten at night, after heated negotiations back and forth, my roommate Tracey tried to play the peacemaker. He identified the most reluctant member of the triumvirate and drew him aside. They talked quietly in the darkness away from the rest of us for a little while. They might have gotten down on a knee to pray. I learned later that Tracey invoked their common Christianity.

Whatever argument Tracey used, the third guy eventually agreed to spring our gear. He’d wait for the other two to leave and then let our people into the condo so we could pick it up. Ironically, he planned to tell his partners they’d been robbed. About one in the morning we got the call, and our guys picked up their equipment. With that we were halfway home. Hopefully no one came looking for us.

The next morning, we all held our breath as the rental company hoisted the boat and began filling it with water. Our hearts began to sink when no cracks miraculously appeared. Then, drips and runnels began forming beneath the fiberglass surface, first sporadic then steady. A spider web of hairline cracks slowly revealed themselves as if written in invisible ink and exposed to a secret element. We all smiled, feeling vindicated. While the company argued they shouldn’t have been enough to sink the boat, they eventually returned our deposit and cut us loose from all liability. They were probably lucky none of us decided to sue.

Before they could change their mind, we quickly piled back into our cars and crawled home, licking our wounds and thanking all the gods of the sea that events hadn't unfolded much differently. At least some of us anyway.

Back at school, bravado took over as we talked about the incident. A handful of our divers insisted we’d never been in any real danger. They were confident that they could have swum back to shore and gotten help even though land was out of sight. I disagreed. I’d swum a mile in controlled conditions on an open lake and knew exactly how tiring it was. Four miles is the type of distance that gets people killed if they've never done it. None of them had. Never mind currents, darkness and disorientation. Or dehydration, exposure and the risk of separation. Had it come to that, the odds were maybe fifty-fifty that not all of us would have made it back.

I’ve always known exactly how lucky we all were that we never had to place that bet. Even thirty years later, I can’t forget the sensation of having a once stable world twist and slip from beneath me. Or that detached feeling of being kid swimming in water way over my head, knowing that whatever happened or however tired I got that I wouldn’t be able to touch. Or seeing the sun sinking toward the horizon as we floated without direction, resigned to spending a night or longer on the open sea.

Looking back, it strikes me that boats are like the equinox, a finely-tuned balance of air and water, one of man’s early engineering marvels. But no matter how idyllic your surroundings, it always pays to be prepared in case wind or weather turn against you. Because should a spider web of cracks upset that equilibrium, water and gravity always win.


© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Wrestling with the Devil (Imbolc 2015)

Wrestling with the Devil (Imbolc 2015) - a reading (on YouTube)

At college, I lived in the same dorm room for nearly three years. My university had a requirement that all freshmen live in the dorms at least a year before moving off campus or into a subsidized apartment. That first year, our floor of ten rooms was a random collection of stoners, rednecks, frat boys, athletes, hippies and suburban misfits, not all mutually exclusive, packed three to a room. Pretty much like every college across the country.

By winter quarter, maybe a sixth of the guys had cleared out, claiming spots in frat houses down by the river or sneaking into apartments with upperclassmen while their parents still paid for a bed. With a bit more breathing room, the rest of the floor began reordering itself into groups based less on some arcane stochastic process and more on shared interests and compatibility. That’s how Rick came to live in the room next to mine.

Rick was a hippie, a libertarian and one of the sharpest software engineers I’ve known. He was a year older than the rest of us, serving out a yearlong exile from Carnegie Mellon after a mysterious run-in with his department head the year before. Because he never planned on staying longer than his sentence, he remained somewhat derisive of the school, its teachers and his classmates. He was also more than a bit willful and impetuous, proclaiming at the beginning of fall quarter that he would wear nothing but shorts and tee-shirts with no shoes all winter because it never got cold in Florida. I can still see him hobbling barefoot to class early one November morning with the temperature hovering at 39. When he went home for the holidays, he came back with a coat.

Despite all that, I liked him. He was generally easy-going and usually fun to be around. We had similar taste in music. He didn’t borrow my stuff without asking then treat it as his own like a number of other degenerates on our floor. He had the cool air of confidence that came with being a red-shirt freshman. I sensed somewhere beneath his mask lurked a decent human being. As time and forced contact bred familiarity, we confided in each other and connected in some meaningful way.

The university had turned a blind eye to our floor being mostly down to two in a room after what I assumed was an annual stealth evacuation. That’s where Rick’s compassionate hippie nature got the best of him. Somewhere in his travels he’d run across a couple local construction workers who started hanging out. One went by the name of Donald Bradley.

Neither Don nor his friend were college types but both them were interested in partying which was one of Rick’s favorite pastimes. Don soon became a fixture on our floor, though his friend just as quickly disappeared. Come to find out Don had spun Rick some woe-is-me sob story of being homeless, something about a girlfriend or roommates kicking him out. So Rick, according to his nature, gave him a place to live. No one was using that extra bed anyway.

Don was four years older than the rest of us, sun-baked and well-muscled from his work outdoor. He spent most of his energy trying to convince us that we were wasting our time learning a bunch of useless knowledge, that we could haul down serious cash in construction right now. The irony of his squatting on charity in a college dorm wasn’t lost on us. Most of us were uncomfortable having him around. He had a look and demeanor that spoke of unpredictability and thinly veiled potential violence. We all knew Don was using Rick, but in some foolish bond of youthful solidarity and shared misery none of us blew him in to the university.

By February, Don had become well entrenched on our floor, showering in the communal bathroom, hanging out in people’s rooms, entering and leaving unobserved through the back door beneath the staircase. So I wasn’t really surprised when I returned from class one afternoon to find Rick, Don, and another couple guys from our floor waiting in my room. I knew by their postures and the look in their eyes that something was up, something I probably wasn’t going to like.

Turns out they’d heard it was my birthday. I’m not sure who’d told them. I tend to keep details like that close with casual contacts. I’d never fit on the floor in because I’d never felt I had much in common with the other guys and it probably showed. I think some of them thought I needed a lesson. Or maybe this was some testosterone-addled form of acceptance. Either way, Don had convinced the other three that they should give me upgraded ritual spanking.

The plan was to tie me to a chair and leave me in the shower. You know, good, clean, guys being guys sort of fun. The type of stuff I’d never cottoned to in my life, either on the giving or receiving end, and wasn’t about to start to now. But what I thought really didn’t enter the equation as the others were convinced that this was the perfect birthday gift. Don said he would hold me still while the others did the work. With four of them, it would take a few minutes tops before they could taunt me with some well-earned beers then they settled in to get me drunk.

Sorry fellas, I think I have other plans.

The four of them jumped me anyway and wrestled me onto a bed without much problem. I’m not certain what they expected; I guess that I would eventually just give in to the spirit of the moment. That was never going to happen, not without a fight.

All my life, people have underestimated me. More than once I’ve been the target of bullies, probably because I don’t look all that intimidating and tend to avoid conflict where I can. But when trouble jumps off, I don’t back down, often to my detriment. Growing up in a house with a couple abusive people either beats you down or sparks a fire within your soul. With me, it laid the tinder.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m not a big guy. Back then I was tall and lanky, not yet filled out like most men now. But I’m still wiry and my lever-arms are long. Plus I’m willful and evil cunning when backed into a corner. It probably doesn’t hurt that living in fear for most of my life left me with crazy eyes.

So I unleashed my inner demons and allowed them to erupt. While I could never quite break free, every time the four of them thought they had me immobilized, I slipped sideways somehow. Though we weren’t really trying to hurt each other, I didn’t mind using my knees and elbows to make a point.

When the other two guys understood I wasn’t taking this as a prank, they suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be. Don and Rick kept at it, thinking they’d eventually wear me down. They were both stronger than I was, and there were still two of them after all. But fear and adrenaline make powerful allies.

Unfortunately, the math had turned against me. Two was greater than four because they no longer got in each other’s way. My dorm-mates were mostly undisciplined stoners so had never evolved from a simple pack mentality to coordinated attacks. And Don relied exclusively on might makes right to win the day.

My struggle turned into an existential crisis. I fought and fought and fought until my muscles ached and my skin was raw and red. I knew I had to keep them off balance or risk being drawn into a war of attrition. If these two tied me to anything and left me anywhere, I’d probably stay all night to justify their grief.

Finally, Rick, too, got the message that mine wasn’t a token resistance. Besides, after so much exertion, he desperately needed a cigarette. He collapsed onto another bed and started cajoling me to submit to the inevitable as he satisfied his addiction. When he recognized that surrender wasn’t in the offing, he reluctantly switched to Don.

But Don wouldn’t have any part of it. He’d be damned before some skinny college boy got the best of him. At this point he had me in a full body lock, contained but uncontrollable unless I let him. Encouraged by even odds, I honed my tactics and started pitting his strength against him. He had to keep his body taut in every possible direction to prevent me from slipping free. I could mostly rest as I picked the direction of my next attack. Which I did relentlessly each time his concentration lapsed.

My long-term strategy paid a dividend when I threw another change-up. I lulled Don into loosening his grip by playing possum, a trick I’d learned when someone tried to drown me when I was ten. Sensing victory, he relaxed just half a second too long. I seized my opportunity like Caesar at the Rubicon. Before Don could react, I burst up and out the door. Behind me I heard Rick say, it’s not worth it. Just let him go.

Even then, I stayed away a good, long time. I re-entered the dorm only cautiously then locked myself in my room. I watched my back for at least a week and disappeared all the next weekend. Don struck me as the unforgiving kind. The kind with a very long memory of defeat.

Soon after, campus security caught wind of Don’s covert living arrangements. He had to leave the dorm or risk arrest. The following quarter, Rick left, too, returning to his predestined path in Pennsylvania. We exchanged a letter or two but soon fell into characteristic college silence. Despite the one encounter and losing touch, I still considered him a friend, one of the few I counted my freshman year.

Fast forward to the Facebook era. Like a number of people I’d somehow made an impression on without realizing it, Rick reached out with a friend request. We did the usual, exchanging some posts and comments and a few messages to catch up. He even led me to a number of my current online friends.

One day a couple years ago, I spotted a message from him in my inbox. “Remember him?” was the only preamble to the enclosed website. And there in the preview pane was Don’s mug shot. I recognized him immediately and followed the link to what turned out to be a Florida Department of Corrections webpage. Not just any DoC webpage, their list of current death row inmates. My blood went colder than Lake Baikal.

Turns out our quasi-dorm-mate had been sentenced in a murder-for-hire scheme he’d successfully carried out. As an added perk, by the time we’d met him, he’d already done one year of a three year stint for failure to appear. Rick’s only other comment when I got back to him was “No real surprise.” I wasn’t sure exactly what to make of that.

Now I wrestle with this memory. Rick’s message serves as a reminder of just how lucky I’ve been throughout my life, often without realizing it. The situations we find ourselves in can quickly turn unpredictable. You never know exactly who you’re dealing with. And sometimes a random encounter kicks off with a dorm-mate who can’t turn away a stray.

So how does all this relate to Imbolc? I’m not sure it does except through proximity to the date. It is just one of many life events that shaped my outlook, though one that has obviously lingered more than most. Memories like this sometimes haunt me now, kicking like lambs in their mothers’ wombs on the eve of Celtic spring. Perhaps a sign that they are preparing to emerge in warmer, safer, more contented days.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Writing (Winter Solstice 2014)

"Writing (Winter Solstice 2014) - reading (on YouTube)

I often get asked the question, what does it mean to be a writer? Ok, maybe I don’t get asked so much as the question is implied every time I introduce myself at a party. What do you do? I’m a writer. What exactly does that mean?

It means translating the pictures that randomly flash through my mind’s eye into words so I can share them with unsuspecting readers. It means transfiguring real-life situations into stylized scenes and scenarios that don’t exist. It means transcribing the imaginary conversations I have in my head at 2 a.m. with real people over things that can’t be changed though I often wish they could.

Writing is carving a picture one word at a time. It’s creating a mood, evoking an emotion, inspiring readers to feel or think. It’s abstracting an experience from everyday existence into something readers are willing to examine, something safer even if it’s more hostile than daily life. It’s crafting the one detail that resonates with them and sets them firmly in a place or time where their mind fills in the rest. It’s allowing them to see.

Each word is a line or pencil stroke in a sketch. Each word is a color brushed on canvas until, stroke by stroke, an image emerges. Each word is the gouge of a chisel until a sculpture or woodcut takes form.

More concretely, each word is a brick laid one atop another until sentences and paragraphs form the foundation for an imaginary landscape. With each new word, every town, every building, every room becomes more real until my clockwork characters can move through them and interact in some meaningful way. As with all art and architecture, the key is finding just the right balance between creating a piece that is sleek and esthetic, and one that is over-designed and cluttered.

Writers are more like painters and photographers than most people realize. Each studies the world to truly see it, looking for just the right light and color and angle to capture a specific scene. But unlike other artists, writers have no cool apps or toys. We don’t debate the merits of sable versus synthetic brushes. We don’t stretch our own canvas or mix our own paints. We don’t discuss which camera, lens and filter best captures what we see.

No writer brags about which word processor she uses, or which pencils, pens or paper captures his words best. We no longer scrape our own parchment or craft our own linen paper. We no longer trade secret family recipes for ink. Even in this digital age, we rely on almost no post-processing, only a spell-checker and maybe one for grammar. Though both of those are more malleable and mutagenic than most readers think.

Compared to other arts and artistries, a writer’s necessities are deceptively simple. Most days, I start with a mechanical pencil, a notebook and a computer. The other tools that adorn my real or virtual desktop are a dictionary with a word etymology, a thesaurus, a basic grammar handbook, a list of baby names with meanings, and the world of Wikipedia. Other writers might include a set of index cards, or a magnetic poetry kit. A few technophiles might rely on a piece of organizing software, a poetry generator, or a program that prints out random inspirational lines. From those bare bones and our imaginations, a deep, clear well of stories spring.

A modern writer’s basic tools vary only slightly from the ones our ancient counterparts first used impress their ideas into clay tablets with cuneiform. Because of the relative ease of entry, and now of distribution, the field is as crowded as a Marrakech bazaar. Each aspiring author is expected to hawk his own wares with the skill and creative inspiration of a Mad Man maven. In the electronic marketplace of social media, it’s become nearly impossible to be heard above the noise. And as with almost all of our current Kickstarter culture, the very best crowd out the competent and merely good.

So why exactly do I do it? I ask myself that question every year. I don’t make any money. I haven’t attracted a following or fame.

Perhaps I’m just trying to re-fashion the past into something that makes sense, or forge the future by practicing what to say or do. Perhaps I am just killing time around the house until my wife gets home. Or perhaps I’m merely distracting myself until the next crisis arises so that for a few moments I feel worthwhile, able to cope and survive, if not well then better than some around me. Or perhaps, I just want to be listened to for a change.

The question isn’t so much why I do it as how could I not? For me, writing is a hardwired addiction. I haven’t yet found my methadone no matter how hard I’ve tried. When my mind settles, my imagination instinctively takes over, poking, prodding and tweaking everything it sees. It picks apart novels, movies and television episodes to examine their innermost details. It gets inspired by articles and situations that scream they could serve as the foundation for another story. It latches onto lines and dialog that whisper in my sleep.

I guess I do it because I can. Because I have the means, the motivation and the creative energy. Because I enjoy that brief sense of accomplishment and serenity that comes once any given piece is posted. Because when I sit still long enough, the itch to write something new overwhelms me, whether a story, an essay or a poem.

The ancient Greeks believed creation was a sacred act, that moment when some random animistic spirit possessed the artist, imbuing him with divine inspiration, consuming her with passion. Like sex, or madness, that flash of inspiration is that moment when all of us lose control. It’s no coincidence that to inspire means to breathe. Scribo ergo sum. I write therefore I am.

So as you settle in on this solstice night, I wish you all the best in your artistic endeavors. Whatever creative addiction calls you, may your muse burn warm and bright.


© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Seminole's Identity (an open letter)

Dear Seminole City Council,

I recently read a proposal for creating an identity for our city using American flags and a red, white and blue theme. While I do not question your or any of your supporters’ patriotism, I think that plan creates not so much a unique identity as it enters our city into a fraternity of hundreds, if not thousands, of towns and small cities throughout the state and nation seeking the exact same identity.

If you drive US 19 from Pinellas to the panhandle, you will see perhaps half a dozen water towers painted with American flags, and a number of towns decorated in red, white and blue. I grew up next to Cocoa, Florida, a city that in the early 80’s had one of the largest American flags in the country painted on its water tower. This is not a new or original idea.

But you know what I've never seen anywhere else in my travels, at home or abroad? A water tower painted with local birds designed to look like a bird cage. Wood storks and roseate spoonbills winter literally in our backyards. That iconic artwork and our beautiful city (and county) parks seem like a much better starting point for creating an identity that will attract visitors and commerce.

Mind you, I say this as someone who was entrusted with a clearance while working for the defense of this country, someone whose father and uncle served during the Korean War and WWII, someone whose grandfather held an equivalent commission for his work on the Manhattan Project, someone married to a (civilian) Cold War Veteran. I don’t object to the flag, or patriotism in general. I just don’t find it a compelling kernel around which to craft a meaningful identity for our city.

Cocoa did not forge an identity or re-energize its economy by painting a flag on its water tower. It changed its fortunes by focusing on the city’s assets and revitalizing its historic downtown and waterfront, where they host a superb annual art show along with other events (and advertise on I-75). I also can’t help but notice the explosive growth in once-moribund downtown St. Petersburg over the past decade. A lively arts scene, varied events, exciting restaurants, beautiful parks and public amenities (many of which we already have) are the makings of a vibrant and growing American community.

Our city name alone seems a rich source of inspiration, along with the annual Pow Wow we sponsor. Or the variety of Music in the Park concerts we host. Or even the Welsh language taught at one of our local churches (Dunedin has met with great success supporting its Scottish heritage). In a different direction, we could tap into the unique pioneer history of the area on display at Heritage Park (just beyond our borders). We could sponsor a niche book collection in our local library (Montgomery County, Maryland, has had good success with that). More radically, endowing an annual scholarship open to Seminole residents attending either SPC or USF would create an indelible identity as well as serve the needs of our residents for less than half the cost of a proposed consultant. A local friend of mine recently created Florida Bookstore Day (held this weekend) with nothing more than determination and a handful of donations. Even focusing on something as simple as lining our streets with flowering crepe myrtles would create a colorful and memorable impression on anyone passing through.

For the past thirteen years, nearly every township and municipality in this country has sought to outdo one another in demonstrations of patriotism with displays of the American flag or red, white and blue. It is not fresh. It is not new. It will not set us apart. It is not an identity. But we can craft a unique, memorable identity from our many assets which will both attract visitors and enrich the lives of our residents. All it takes is a little imagination.

Sincerely,

Edward P. Morgan III

Seminole

Chasm (Samhain 2014)

Chasm - a reading (on YouTube)

I stand before a chasm, the gateway to the underworld I just escaped, a pit I clawed my way out of minutes or hours before.

A moment ago I was lying on solid ground, catching my ragged breath. Now, I peer into the portal like a looking glass, a mirror into madness where white grays to black, sanity to insane. If I stare too long, I’ll lose my balance. But how do I back away knowing one misstep will send me crashing through, the shards bleeding me like a sacrifice, my blood strengthening the demons who howl for my return?

Shades tear my clothes, nick my skin, alternately cajoling and threatening, their arguments finely honed knives slashing through my mind. Each demon is driven to the same purpose, my return to the world into which I was born, by force or by deceit. Like cats, they lick my wounds, feeding instead of cleansing with the agony of their tongues.

My ears are enraptured by the sirens' song calling me, promising this time I can play Odysseus, revealing glimpses of my glorious return, neglecting the decadal nature of the journey. My feet are rooted, paralyzed, unswaying, my body wiser than my heart or head, intent on its own survival.

So, I stare back down knowing if I slip beneath the brimstone shroud, its madness will consume me. Returning to that world would be like re-entering an inferno with no Eurydice to rescue, and no Virgil to guide me home.