Hospital Hill Half

Last weekend, my brother surprised me by flying up to Kansas City from Dallas to run the Hospital Hill Half-Marathon with me. I had been training for the last three months in preparation, and my older brother still managed to kick my ass in the race. I had to stop at every aid station along the route, because I couldn't handle his pace. I won in the end, though. As we were coming up on the last 50 feet, we heard this through the loud speaker:

"...Aaron Nordyke....and Garret Nord -- AARON AND GARRETT NORDYKE! WHO'S GOING TO WIN?!"

After hearing that, I did what any loving brother does. I took off at a dead sprint, devastating my older brother.

Results (out of 1815)
Aaron -- 1364th place
Garrett -- 1365th place

N...B...D

The worst part of it is that Garrett stopped 100m before the finish, allowing me to catch up, so that we could finish together. I'm an ass.

The Attic

The attic of Jim’s house contained oak doors, which he was in the middle of staining, buckets of stain, stacks of New York Times and The Economist, both dating a back a decade, old copper floor lamps, and a large, black, leather chair, which faced the window overlooking his wife’s garden. Some men had their garage, or their recreation room, or their TV room, but this was Jim’s haven: where he came to sit, read his periodicals, and occasionally stain an oak door.

Jim stood at the window and watched his wife below. Sherry was bent over the cucumber vines, pulling out the oversized ones she had missed yesterday. She put them in a bucket, and carried them over to the compost pile. When Sherry stood up, she looked toward Jim’s window and waved up at him. He waved back, then took a few steps back to sit in his chair.

The floor was mostly unfinished in the attic. Two large pieces of 2” Particle board had been laid across the beams, and a moat of pink insulation surrounded them. Cherry refused to come here, due to her allergies, and that suited Jim nicely when he wanted to be alone to read. Today, however, he didn’t feel like reading. He only wanted to take a nap. He nuzzled his head into the corner of the chair, and closed his eyes.

Jim woke up to the sun shining directly into the window, for it had been installed on the west side of the house. He reached his arms out and leaned forward to stretch out, and he noticed a pile of mouse droppings on his right shoe. This made Jim chuckle. She had bested him again, she being the mouse who was the attic’s other inhabitant. Jim had seen it scurry past him one afternoon, and he had attempted to find the mouse’s hole, but so far, he was without luck.

Jim began trying to catch the mouse, whom he had nicknamed Ralph, after Ralph S. Mouse, the children’s book he had read to his daughter when she was little. Initially, the traps were simple. The first was cheese in a coffee can. He sat the can by his feet and waited for Ralph while he pretended to read the Times. After a while forget he was pretending and actually read the newspaper. When he remembered his business and inspected the can, the cheese was gone.

Diary of an eight-year old

Dear Diary,

I have begun to compile a list of the all the things I can do. Below is what I can remember so far.

1. Juggle (three balls)

2. Ride a bike standing up

3. Catch a toad

4. Balance a softball bat for over thirty seconds

5. Dig a four-foot hole

6. Shift gears when daddy is driving

7. Jump over the sidewalk to the road

8. Braid Ralph’s hair

9. Load the dishwasher

10. Double-dutch

11. Stand up when the waves come in

12. Tie my shoes

13. Write in cursive

14. Multiply, except for the 7s

15. Give Ralph a bath

16. Sign my name

17. Open a clam shell

18. Climb our tree

19. Do the tornado on the swings

20. Fold my shirts

21. Use the camera

22. Make French toast

Perspective

Todd Whuther sat in the principal’s office of his second grade son’s elementary school. He had been called to pick up Zach, because he had tied his own legs together during gym class. When the teacher came over to find out why three jump ropes were wrapped around his legs, Zach explained that it’s good for a person to get perspective. He had stolen the jump ropes from the girls, and they had cried and told on Zach.

Todd stood up when Mr. Harling, the principal, ushered Zach out of the office. Zach was wearing green khaki shorts, which hung to his shins and a grey t-shirt with a picture of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John in Grease. “Hi Zach”, Todd said as he put his arm around the blond-haired boy.

“Hi dad”, Zach said, looking up at his father.

“Mr. Whuther, could I talk to you for a bit in my office?” Mr. Harling motioned toward the open door. Todd told Zach to have a seat and he would be out in a little bit.

Todd Whuther took a seat opposite Mr. Harling. There were two piles of manila folders between the two adults, which made Todd wonder how an elementary student could possibly see the principal’s face when they sat down.

“Mr. Whuther, thank you for coming in.”

Todd got right to the point. “Mr. Harling, I don’t understand what seems to be the problem. Zach tied some ropes around his legs.”

“Jump ropes.”

“Yes, jump ropes around his legs," Mr. Whuther said as he leaned in, irritated at the correction. The principal leaned forward in response, took a large breath, held it for a bit, then exhaled before speaking.

“Mr. Whuther, Zach has been exhibiting some rather bizarre behavior lately. For instance, he takes his shoes off when he enters the school. He dressed as Jesus this Halloween. Yesterday, the only words that came out of his mouth were, “I have to stop the genocide.”

Joyriding

My grandfather was a rumrunner. His job was relatively simple. He would load up the trunk of his car with cases of alcohol, then drive across ice-covered Lake Michigan from Canada into the United States. There had only been one chase across the lake, and he had been careful to make no turns during the pursuit. It was three in the morning, and he turned off his lights and used the moon’s reflection off the snow to guide his way across the ice. When he finally reached the other side, his car slid onto the ground, and the Studebaker made its way to Detroit to cash in.

After prohibition was over, grandpa bought a stock car, and began racing it on the lake each winter. It was blue with the number 9 painted on each side. There were no stripes or logos. The stock cars were pretty non-descript in those days.

Each Christmas, if it was cold enough, grandpa would load up the grandkids and drive us an hour north to the lake to go joyriding for the afternoon. We screamed and laughed as he spun the car in circles. Sometimes it felt like the car wouldn’t stop before it hit the side of the lake, and sometimes it didn’t. We would knock up against the embankment, and when all movement had ceased, we would look around a laugh some more.

Grandpa died last week. Brain cancer. He worked on the assembly line for General Motors, machining pistons. My family lived in Lansing, and we visited four or five times a year. Their house was in the country, next to a lake, of course, but for some reason it never froze over enough for grandpa’s joyrides. He knew this because he had an old sedan at the bottom. That winter, while ice-fishing, he decided the ice was thick enough, but when the ice broke, and the car began sinking like a submarine into the country lake, grandpa climbed out, went into the house to lie in the tub, and after he warmed up, decided to never try that again.

God save the Queen

When a person hasn’t slept for a long enough period of time, they reach a point when reality and fantasy blur. It may come in the form of an imaginary person crossing the road, or perhaps hearing your own name when no one is around. Sometimes reality is subdued. Tunnel vision, loss of hearing, loss of rational thought: the earmarks of a clear lack of sleep.

Roger hadn’t slept in two weeks, and he had crossed this point over a week ago. He attributed the insomnia to stress: stress from his job, his bills, his dog who, as of yet, refused to pee anywhere but the living room throw-rug.

His hallucinations had become severe. Today, Roger carried around a sword and a shield. He believed he did, at any rate. When other people encountered Roger, what they saw was a man reach to his hip, and then thrust his fist toward their belly as they walked by. What Roger experienced however, was the faithful carrying out of his orders to vanquish all spies of the Queen. He knew that she would reward his vigilance. This afternoon alone, Roger had managed to carry out justice on no less than 50 people, including his wife, kids, babysitter, mailman, taxi driver, manager, senior manager, convenience clerk, accountant, therapist, 15 random traitors he saw on the street, and his dog, whom the Queen had warned was one the most dangerous of them all. God save the Queen.

Roger preferred to walk to work, and as he rounded the corner to his street, a large carriage pulled by four brown horses pulled up. The driver hopped down from the bench, tilted his hat to Roger, then drew open the carriage doors. A slim man with small spectacles stepped down, removed his hat, and bowed to Roger. Roger returned the bow. After killing spies all day, it was nice to see some gentlemen, men that were still loyal to her Majesty.

The man introduced himself as Mr. Blythe, and informed Roger that he was dispatched on behalf of the prime minister to inform Roger that the Queen was dead. She had been killed by Roger’s mother-in-law. “That damned woman. I never trusted her.” Roger unsheathed his sword and ran down the street to his car, screaming and wailing the entire way.

Queens

“I guess the Lord must be in New York City.”

Harry Nilsson

I moved into a run-down apartment in Queens almost a year ago. The toilet leaked. After the tenant below me came upstairs to complain about her bathroom being dripped on, I put a towel around the base. There’s been one there ever since.

A month ago, Philip Philips moved across the hall from me. Stupid name, I know. He knows too. He doesn’t care, though. I told him it was like being a boy named Sue, and when he gave me a confused look, I explained that it was an old Johny Cash song about a father naming his son Sue so that the boy would have to grow up tough. Why is that, he asked. Because it’s a girl name, and the father wouldn’t be there to raise the boy. After that, when someone made fun of his name, he told them it was like being boy named Sue, and they would invariably laugh.

Philips was of the famous Philips electronics family, but he didn’t like being under the shadow of his father, so he moved to Queens to be out on his own. I told him it was like when Emilio Estevez changed his last name, because he didn’t want to be under the shadow of his father and brother, Martin and Charlie Sheen. Philip didn’t know that either. He said he didn’t watch television. I told him that was ridiculous. His father made TVs. He said he read books instead.

Philip had no electronics in his apartment, save an alarm clock. He got a job working at the subway terminal a block from our building. Most days, when I got off the train after work, he was sitting in the glass cage, watching to make sure kids didn’t jump the turnstile. Sometimes, after I walked out of the terminal, I would run back with my hood over my head and pretend to make a break for the train. Just before he caught up to me, I would turn around and laugh. That actually only worked twice, because I didn’t have money to own more than two hooded sweatshirts.

Antique store

Julie walked into the antique store not to buy something, but to jump start her brain. She found that when she had trouble writing, she would go to her uncle’s shop and look around. Then Julie would write a story about something that caught her eye. She had stories about a lot items that her uncle sold, and she was a little sad whenever one of them was sold. It was as if a part of her life was gone.

There was an old stained-glass lamp that sat on the countertop, and it was the first item she wrote about, so her uncle promised never to sell it. Instead he placed it up on the counter, and took the price tag off. It was a beautiful lamp, with red, yellow, and brown stained glass arranged into various leaf designs. This lamp’s story was about a woman who fell in love, and when her lover became sick and passed away, she stole the lamp from his apartment. Then she burned the whole thing to the ground.

An old, orange, leather chair sat in a corner at the front of the store. Kevin, her uncle said that it was originally dark brown, but it had faded so much it looked orange. No one made orange leather 150 years ago, he said. Julie sat in the chair, which is where she usually sat while she breathed in the smells of dust and oxidation before writing. She had also written about the chair. There was an old farmer named Edgar, and he had moved the chair to his field after he was too old to farm. He would sit in the chair all afternoon, and his wife would bring him glasses of iced tea. She was a wonderful wife.

Julie looked around at the lamps hanging from the ceilings, the hutches and desks lining the walls, and the chairs and audamins which filled the middle of the room. She gazed at the room as whole, not at any particular piece. There were streaks of dust where the light came in through the blinds. One line of dust guided her eye toward an upright piano that hadn’t been tuned in years. There it was: her muse.

Julie pulled a yellow pad out her messenger bag, and placed her pen between her teeth to chew on while she stared at the black piano and daydreamed.

Alzheimer's

Alzheimer’s is hard to watch. I was raised by my grandparents after my parents died. They did a great job. My grandpa was my baseball coach. My grandma picked me up from school. When the doctors determined that both had Alzheimer’s, I didn’t quite know what to expect. Now, the two people who were the parents in my life don’t even remember who I am.

Yesterday, I visited their elderly home, where they live in separate rooms. They don’t recognize each other. It hurts, because they taught me what love looks like. They taught me about sacrifice, humility, and loyalty. More than that, they showed it to me. I can still see it in them, but not toward each other.

My grandpa was diagnosed first. He forgot first. Soon we moved him into a home. Grandma and I visited him every day. Some days he remembered us, some days he forgot. When he forgot, it was apparent. You could see this look in his eyes, like a person who’s just been woken from sleep and is trying to find his bearings. Grandpa, unfortunately, could never find them on those days. So we would introduce ourselves and sit down with grandpa. The doctors told us to bring things that were important to grandpa, so that we could show him and rehearse his memories.

“Hi Charles”, grandma said as she sat beside his bed. She pulled a foam brick with the blue Royals logo printed on the side. He used to watch Kansas City Royals games, and throw the brick at the television when his boys upset. Then he would curse at the screen, and that was grandma’s cue to usher me out of the house to go play in the yard. She just didn’t want me hearing his language.

Grandma pulled out other things from the bag, handing them to grandpa and explaining their significance. On the bad days, there was no spark of recognition in his eyes, but on the good days, the days that he knew who were, he was excited to see them.

chocolate milk, please

Louise was quickly becoming irritated. It was the usual mid-day rush in the deli, and here stood a man of indecision, holding up a line of impatient customers.

"Sir," she inquired, "what can I get for you?"

"Uh . . . ," he replied.

Charles was a stocky man in his late thirties, though his features would fool anyone to believe him a man amidst a mid-life crisis.

"I will have . . . um . . . a chocolate milk?" His inflection was of doubt.

"A chocolate milk?"

"Uh, yeah . . . just a chocolate milk." Charles become more confident of his decision the more he said it. "Chocolate milk would be lovely."

With no attempt to hide the look of confusion on her face, Louise turned from the counter to grab a pint of browned milk from the mini-fridge behind her. With unspoken frustration, she placed the milk on the counter, looking past Charles at the aggitated customer next in line.

Charles quickly whisked the milk from the counter and scurried to a small table in the corner, head hung in shame. This wasn't the first moment of indecision in his life, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Bouncing Bush

Today, I've decided to post a swf file I created. Hope it inspires.

Vince and the Crack Addict

Vince, a middle-aged Italian man who wore nothing but jogging outfits and owned a dry-cleaning place downtown, sat in Central Park jabbering to a crack addict about the time he met Warren Buffet. It was the middle of May, and Vince and the crack addict, Simon, sat across from each other at a stone table playing Chess.

“So, Buffet lays his suit jacket on the counter, and says, ‘How long till this is ready?’ There was a big mustard stain across the left lapel, but I knew that I could get it out. I could have gotten it done that afternoon, but I told him it ‘Not till tomorrow, sir’. Not till tomorrow, sir! I lied to Warren Buffet! Anyway, real nice guy that Warren Buffet. Real nice guy.” Vince looked pretty pleased with himself.

Simon the crack addict pointed to the chess clock, which sat next to the board and let the players know how much time was left. They were playing a 25 dollar, 10-minute speed-game of chess, and Simon the crack addict needed the money for his afternoon fix. He would win, of course, because Vince was a lousy player, especially when the game was timed. He spent too much time yakking. During a speed game, players have seconds to make their moves, creating 10 minutes of pure instinct and routine, leaving little time for carefule, methodical playing. Some of the players at other tables were standing up, both from the pace of the speed-games and in the attempt to somehow intimidate the other players. Vince’s slow, half-hearted playing was expensive in this group of sharks. He would’ve been better suited in the one of the chess clubs downtown.

The two guys at the table beside Vince and Simon the crack addict started raising their voices, but most of the other players didn’t turn their heads. It was the O’Rourke brothers, two loud-mouthed Irish who spent most afternoons arguing about chess and getting drunk. They were a regular fixture in the park.

Calvin, the older, but short brother, had his finger in his brother’s face. “No, you drunk, Kasparov is dumbass, and I don’t give a damn what he thinks about gambits!”

Thomas, the younger, shoved Calvin’s finger away, the two started shoving each other, and both ended up falling onto Vince and Simon the crack addict’s board, knocking the pieces, the Italian, and the crack addict onto the stone pavement.