Untitled Collage

I used to have an intense fear of the dentist. I did an entire sketch book of collages alluding to that fear. It could have probably been classified as a phobia. A dentist by the name of Albert Southwick has been credited as the inventor of the electric chair. He witnessed a drunken man touch a live electric generator. And then his mind thought about a new form of execution. Can you blame me for being a little nervous in that chair?

But it's okay now. After at least a dozen fillings and two root canals, I'm not scared anymore.

Screwed

After 5 hours in the car, it was nice to have a drink in the beach breeze. You can see more stars and the moon shines brighter by the water. And alcohol seems to be more potent.

There was only one bag left in the car. She headed down the dimly lit front steps. The pain was sudden and sharp, but not sickening. She took another step and froze. She looked at the bottom of her foot and fell on her ass. A thorn. A large round thorn.

She tugged on it. Then she called for him.

"Mack? Can you come here please? I have a big thorn stuck in my foot."

There was a chilling calm in her voice. 

"I'll be right there."

She sat staring at the object embedded in the ball of her foot. Her stomach sank.

"Mack! Please hurry."

The calm began to fade into urgency.

"I'm on my way."

She breathed slowly, cradling her foot and clinging to her composure. The foot throbbed and her composure wavered.

"Mack! Now, please, foot, pain!"

The porch light glared. The door swung open.

"I'm here."

"I think I stepped on a thorn. It really hurts and I can't get it out."

"Well, let me see it."

He knelt on a step a few down from her and carefully examined her sole.

"It's a screw."

"What?"

"You have a screw stuck in your foot."

"A screw? Get it out."

Her stomach turned and her pulse rose.

"Just do it quickly."

His mother came out to see what the commotion was. 

"What happened? Is everything okay?"

"She stepped on a screw."

She was alarmed. Every one at the house had been up and down those stairs multiple times that day. Barefoot.

"A screw?"

"Yes. A screw."

"I'll get you some orange juice. And some ice and a rag. You'll need to soak it in salt water too."

She was the model of the maternal instinct. About that time Mack had readied himself to remove the screw. He asked her if she was ready.

"Yes. Just do it quickly."

"Okay. Here we go."

With a twist and a tug, she was unscrewed. And like the blood from her foot, she poured concerns.

"Do I need to go to the doctor? Should we go to the hospital? Do I need a tetanus shot? It's bleeding a lot."

"Are you squeezing it?"

"Yes. It hurts."

"Stop that! Why in hell are you squeezing it?"

She just stammered. The words coagulated in her throat. She thought she might prevent tetanus that way. His mother returned with juice and ice. She gulped the juice and Mack stroked her hair. She felt her composure returning despite the throbbing wound. She looked to him with water in her eyes.

"Can I have a shot? Please."

"Sure. Of course you can."

He left and returned just a moment later. Shot in one hand, lime in the other.  The alcohol seemed more potent at the beach. With his help she limped back up the steps with out the last bag from the car. She soaked her foot in the salt water his mother had prepared. It was nice to be at the beach. The stars were brighter.

Untitled

Memories of a Dog

When I lived in the east part of town, I liked to sit at the coffee shop on the corner with my dog. Chauncy was a little rat, but she was a good dog. She never complained and she was more approachable than I. In the evening, when the sun was going down, we'd go get a coffee and sit on the bench out front. 

We'd watch the people walk past. 

Some would smile.

Some nodded.

Some would pet Chancy and some would ask first.

And some would just walk past.

Like many times a young girl came out of the shop, coffee in hand. This one was one of the ones that asked first. She pet Chauncy and talked to me. She was kind. Unintimidated. She wasn't put off by my appearance. Even Chauncy with her tiny, trembling body, bugged eyes, graying fur was more charming than my scraggly, sagging face, gnarled hands, and slouchy posture. 

The girl sat next to us on the bench. She was waiting for her boyfriend. She was a sweet girl. Tall and almost disproportionately long legs. She was young. She still had some of that awkward teen posture. Girls like that grow into beautiful women.

She was kind and for as young as she was, she seemed old. Her voice was deep and she could listen. When most people stopped to pet Chauncy, they rarely asked me questions other than whether or not she was indeed a chihuahua and even more rarely did they sit. She sat with us. And listened.

I told her about growing up in the north. I told her about the cold. She asked what I did for a living. I told her about having been a brewer. I told her about making beer and drinking beer and that though it was work, it was fun. I told her about the importance of working hard to make your way in this world. I told her she should always remember to have fun. Life isn't as short as people think. If you spend the whole time working and fighting, you'll grow old and never really enjoy it.

About then her boyfriend showed up. She stood up and shook my hand. 

"It was nice to meet you, Billy. I hope to see you again."

As she walked away, I smiled.

"Have fun, little girl."

She turned and smiled back.

"Yes sir."

I'm fairly certain she'll get it right. While I sit here on a bench in front of a coffee shop, remembering Chauncy, she's out there. Still working. Still listening. 

No Parking

This is from my 2007 trip to San Francisco. This may have been the best thing I saw in Haight Ashbury. I also had a home made orange cream soda. It was neck and neck with the legs.

Onion

I did not eat this onion. Nor it's friends. They, despite being recently purchased from the grocery store, were all in various stages of decay. I enjoy onions. They are flavorful. But not these. They were merely interesting to see.

The Elevator Well

"I've been married to my wife for 56 years."

The old man declared to young man sitting next to him. 

"She's a real bitch sometimes. But that's okay, because I've got 4 girl friends."

The man sat with his cane by the hospital elevators, waiting and talking. The young man sitting next to him was repeatedly laughing an uneasy laugh of courtesy. 

A young mother passed by them with her young child snug in his stroller.

"Sure is a pretty young 'un you got there. 

The old man croaked at the passing mother. She smiled politely and glanced with pride as she continued on her way. The man leaned over to his uncomfortable audience.

"If I were twenty years younger, I wouldn't mind having a piece of that."

The man laughed and coughed. He griped his cane with his right hand. He patted his chest with the left. His hands were hardly bones draped with spotted, tissue paper thin skin.

"I put one of my girls through college. That's right. I plucked her out of the back woods, she was a real mess. She was a sexy thing, but she was nothing. And brought her up to the city. You know what she's doing know? She's about to be a doctor."

Another woman stood, waiting on the elevator.

"Boy or girl?" his sweetly egotistical voice probed.

"Don't know yet," she replied.

The elevator opened. The woman stepped in.

He asked again. As if he hadn't heard her. "Boy or girl?"

"I'm not pregnant."

The man paused indignantly. 

"She sure did look pregnant."

While making excuses and placing the blame elsewhere, the young man spoke up.

"My father's a preacher, you know?"

"Is that right? Now could he really preach?"

"Oh yeah. He knew the word." 

"I like a good preacher. A man that knows the word. But some of them fuckers can bore the hell out of ya.

Another woman passed. A gorgeous woman. Tall, slender, ebony. 

Under his breath, "Look at her. I'd like to fuck that. She knows what she's got too. That's why she's wearing those clothes."

The young man agreed. The old man prattled.

"You know those women just love that sixty-nine. They just eat that shit up. They just love it when you lick pussy. They really just love that sixty-nine."

A man across the room got up to answer his cell phone. He was subtle and polite but his discomfort was apparent and his look of relief was unmistakable.

The young man just sat and listened like a doll with a bobble head. And the man continued...