Your company is moving office buildings and you’ve been asked to stay after hours and help pack up the desks. While clearing through one particular coworker’s desk, you find something extremely concerning in his bottom drawer. Call one of your friends and ask for advice on what to do about it.
Admittedly, I was less than thrilled when John announced at our morning staff meeting that I would be the one responsible for cleaning up and packing the last six desks in preparation for our move downtown. I tried to guilt Ellen into helping me, but she had some secret date or something. We had each packed up our own cubicles, and the sterility and plainness of the now-blank walls and cleared desktops betrayed an office in limbo, an office in transition, an office ready to move on and away from the ghosts of its past.
That is, except for the last six desks which, for one reason or another, retained the personality of their occupants and the air of productivity, with computers still humming, inboxes still overflowing, post it notes scattered about and personal effects still on display. Bob and Phil were in Barcelona, entertaining clients on the Davis account. Mary was still on maternity leave. Dan was on vacation. And then there were the two now-vacant desks.
As one who generally tries to respect the privacy of others, I had honestly never spent much time looking at other peoples’ desks. Sure, everyone knew that Jason was a huge Packers’ fan and that Susan had a propensity for collecting Elvis memorabilia. But I never really got into people’s desks. Not even to borrow a stapler or anything.
So as I started packing up the last six desks, my eyes were suddenly opened to a new side of the missing six, and I felt an uneasy, yet exciting increased sense of intimacy with each of them. Who knew, for instance, that Bob was addicted to Butterfinger candy bars? There were at least a hundred old wrappers stashed in his desk. I learned that Mary volunteered as a youth group leader at her church. I found out that Phil’s wife had filed for divorce and fled to Tennessee with her yoga instructor.
As the hours wore on, however, my newfound curiosity had given way to boredom and exhaustion. Where earlier that evening I was carefully wrapping up fragile items and itemizing the contents of each box, I was now haphazardly dumping drawer loads into non-marked boxes. I finished Bob’s, Phil’s and Mary’s, and the desk that used to belong to Heather, the tall blonde Harvard graduate who abruptly and unexpectedly quit six months ago, without even talking to John or giving notice. Most of us suspected that she had run away with her on-again, off-again boyfriend Nick. Her desk was disappointingly barren.
Then there was the desk that belonged to Maggie. I approached it with a sense of reverence. It was her murder, after all, that had prompted John and the other principals to move us to the new downtown location. Though most of us had gotten over the grisly crime scene that Jen, our former receptionist, had had the misfortune of discovering on that fateful Monday morning, some were still shaken, even after the police had arrested Maggie’s ex-boyfriend. I opened her desk and found the normal array of scattered pens, staples, and paper clips. I started dumping them into a box that I had marked “Misc.”
Then I saw it. Tucked away in what looked like a hidden compartment of her desk. It was her diary. My hands shook as I withdrew it from the slot. I took a deep breath and opened it to a random page.
I have to end it. I thought I had made it clear, but yesterday he gave me an emerald ring and insisted that I wear it as a sign of my love for him. I had no idea he could be such a monster…
I flipped a few pages.
I don’t know what to do. I need to get out of this….
Finally, I turned to the end, her last entry, from the Friday before her body was discovered.
I’m so scared. I’ve tried to break free from him but it’s no use.
I dropped the diary into the box, shaken. I no longer wanted to be in the office. I wanted to get out, to breathe fresh air. I wanted to call my wife and tell her how much I loved her.
But I still had to empty Dan’s desk. I grabbed the last empty box, set it in front of his desk and started sweeping all of his belongings into it. I felt sort of guilty, but I just needed to get out of the office. I dumped his drawers into a second box. I pulled open the third drawer and paused. The only thing in the drawer was a small jewelry box. I picked it up and swung open the top to reveal a shiny emerald ring, and a battered Harvard University class ring.
I dropped the box, allowing its’ lone contents to spill onto the floor. My heart raced. I needed to call someone, anyone. I looked at the clock. My wife would already be asleep. Who could I call?
Ellen.
I picked up the phone and speed dialed Ellen. It rang five times before she finally picked up.
“Ellen! It’s Dave. You’ll never guess what I found at the office! It’s Dan! I don’t believe it myself, but it’s Dan!”
Silence.
“Ellen? Ellen, are you there? I know you’re friends with him, but we need to get to the police before it’s too late.”
Silence.
“Maybe…maybe it’s already too late,” Dan replied.
Click.
6.27.2010
Writer's Digest Prompt: New Life
You've left town—ditching your old, miserable life—hoping to start a new life for yourself. You've given yourself a new name, fake background and style. Write about your first encounter in your new town.
I dropped my overstuffed duffel bag on the floor next to the barstool and took a seat at the counter.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” the waitress asked, as she balanced four plates of the evening’s special on her way to a family sitting in the back corner of the diner.
“That’d be just fine Miss,” I replied. I had decided on the bus ride from Potsville to Merced City that in this new life of mine, I would try to be more respectful and courteous, more upstanding than the coward who had spent so long running away from his problems.
The waitress brought me the coffee, pushed a menu in front of me and smiled. It was a warm, inviting smile. An almost familiar smile. But in that instant I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered Mandy.
“Here you go. The special is fabulous tonight but whatever you do, make sure you save some room for dessert. The pecan pie here is the best you’ll ever have.”
“Thank you Miss,” I replied. Her crudely-fashioned nametag read “Pamela.” She reminded me of Mandy, but was a bit heavier and her hair was different.
And anyway, Mandy was dead.
“I’ll have the special,” I said, not even looking at the menu.
“Good choice,” she replied with wink.
I stirred two sugars into my coffee and thought about the last time I saw Mandy. It had been almost ten years. She had rushed to my parent’s house looking for me, frantic, not knowing what to do after her drug-dealing father had found the positive pregnancy test in her bathroom trash can.
“What are we going to do?” she cried. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I had no answers.
I should’ve been there for her. We should’ve been in it together. But instead I backed away and three days later, despite the pleas of her friends and cousins, Mandy took her life by jumping off the Potsville Bridge into the Grayson River feeding the Pacific Ocean, never to be seen again. She left a note, but didn’t mention me.
I was sleeping in my cozy bed at the time.
Her death traumatized our tight-knit community and I could never seem to escape the hushed whispers or judging eyes of those around me. I was the reason she was dead.
Pamela set the meatloaf special in front of me.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No, I think I’m fine. Thank you Miss.”
It didn’t take long for Mandy’s father to put two and two together. And if it weren’t for the police raid of his drug operation prompted by the investigation of Mandy’s suicide, I’m sure he would’ve come after me with a vengeance.
He was sentenced to 12 years in prison on drug trafficking charges but only served a little over nine. I had known for a long time that as the day of his release neared, I would have to make some changes. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing for me in Potsville, where I had grown tired of the being labeled as the boy who forced a young girl to her death.
So I decided to leave. I got a one way bus ticket to wherever it would take me.
And I landed here, in Merced City.
“So,” Pamela asked. “Where are you from?”
“Umm…Swenson,” I replied.
“I love the autumns in Swenson,” she said.
“Yeah….yeah, I’ll miss those autumns,” I lied, having never actually been to Swenson.
“What brings you to Merced City?” she asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how much I should say. After all, I was trying to establish a new identity, but at the same time felt an inexplicable, yet desperate need to confide in someone.
“I’m here for a fresh start,” I said. Pamela smiled, almost knowingly.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “Sometimes, you just have to turn the page and give yourself a new chance. I did the same thing, and now my son and I couldn’t be happier. I’m glad you picked Merced City.”
“I am too,” I replied.
I finished the rest of my meatloaf and ordered a slice of Pamela’s pecan pie, feeling hopeful in this new beginning.
“My name is Paul,” I said, extending my hand.
“Paul,” she repeated, taking my hand in hers. “Paul, from Swenson.”
“That’s right,” I replied.
“It’s funny,” she said. “You remind me of boy I used to know from Potsville.”
I dropped my overstuffed duffel bag on the floor next to the barstool and took a seat at the counter.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” the waitress asked, as she balanced four plates of the evening’s special on her way to a family sitting in the back corner of the diner.
“That’d be just fine Miss,” I replied. I had decided on the bus ride from Potsville to Merced City that in this new life of mine, I would try to be more respectful and courteous, more upstanding than the coward who had spent so long running away from his problems.
The waitress brought me the coffee, pushed a menu in front of me and smiled. It was a warm, inviting smile. An almost familiar smile. But in that instant I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered Mandy.
“Here you go. The special is fabulous tonight but whatever you do, make sure you save some room for dessert. The pecan pie here is the best you’ll ever have.”
“Thank you Miss,” I replied. Her crudely-fashioned nametag read “Pamela.” She reminded me of Mandy, but was a bit heavier and her hair was different.
And anyway, Mandy was dead.
“I’ll have the special,” I said, not even looking at the menu.
“Good choice,” she replied with wink.
I stirred two sugars into my coffee and thought about the last time I saw Mandy. It had been almost ten years. She had rushed to my parent’s house looking for me, frantic, not knowing what to do after her drug-dealing father had found the positive pregnancy test in her bathroom trash can.
“What are we going to do?” she cried. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I had no answers.
I should’ve been there for her. We should’ve been in it together. But instead I backed away and three days later, despite the pleas of her friends and cousins, Mandy took her life by jumping off the Potsville Bridge into the Grayson River feeding the Pacific Ocean, never to be seen again. She left a note, but didn’t mention me.
I was sleeping in my cozy bed at the time.
Her death traumatized our tight-knit community and I could never seem to escape the hushed whispers or judging eyes of those around me. I was the reason she was dead.
Pamela set the meatloaf special in front of me.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No, I think I’m fine. Thank you Miss.”
It didn’t take long for Mandy’s father to put two and two together. And if it weren’t for the police raid of his drug operation prompted by the investigation of Mandy’s suicide, I’m sure he would’ve come after me with a vengeance.
He was sentenced to 12 years in prison on drug trafficking charges but only served a little over nine. I had known for a long time that as the day of his release neared, I would have to make some changes. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing for me in Potsville, where I had grown tired of the being labeled as the boy who forced a young girl to her death.
So I decided to leave. I got a one way bus ticket to wherever it would take me.
And I landed here, in Merced City.
“So,” Pamela asked. “Where are you from?”
“Umm…Swenson,” I replied.
“I love the autumns in Swenson,” she said.
“Yeah….yeah, I’ll miss those autumns,” I lied, having never actually been to Swenson.
“What brings you to Merced City?” she asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how much I should say. After all, I was trying to establish a new identity, but at the same time felt an inexplicable, yet desperate need to confide in someone.
“I’m here for a fresh start,” I said. Pamela smiled, almost knowingly.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “Sometimes, you just have to turn the page and give yourself a new chance. I did the same thing, and now my son and I couldn’t be happier. I’m glad you picked Merced City.”
“I am too,” I replied.
I finished the rest of my meatloaf and ordered a slice of Pamela’s pecan pie, feeling hopeful in this new beginning.
“My name is Paul,” I said, extending my hand.
“Paul,” she repeated, taking my hand in hers. “Paul, from Swenson.”
“That’s right,” I replied.
“It’s funny,” she said. “You remind me of boy I used to know from Potsville.”
6.01.2010
Las Golondrinas
Prompt: Write 1,000 words about a local festival. I chose the Swallow's Day Parade in San Juan Capistrano. I have fond memories of Swallow's Day, having once served on the royal court (no joke!) Anyway, here it is...
Los Golondrinas
Dalton ducked around the passing throng of tourists on the bustling sidewalk that ran along the Camino Capistrano parade route. He stopped in front of the Ortega Trading Post and as he paused to enter, saw the smiling face of a toothless toddler held captive in her stroller, a young couple from Canada laughing about the aroma of fresh horse droppings, and a stone-faced traffic cop, trying desperately, yet unsuccessfully with the shrill of his whistle to direct pedestrians away from the incoming procession of horses, middle school marching bands, dancers, and Rotarians.
But Dalton was not looking for any of them. On this day, amidst the carnival of the Fiesta of the Swallows, he was only looking for one person and her name was Melissa Anne.
***
It had been a year since Dalton last entered the Ortega Trading Post. The Post, located directly across the street from the Mission San Juan Capistrano, was a well-known tourist trap that beckoned visitors with a weathered banner above its entrance, promising them a “Free Swallows Story.” Dalton entered the shop cautiously, hoping to remain inconspicuous, for his goal was not to watch the Swallows Day Parade, or to purchase a bumper sticker or postcard or miniature spoon, but to purloin a certain leather Indian Chief wallet – the same wallet that Andrew LaMothe had shown off to the envious eyes of their sixth grade class earlier that week. The wallet that everyone knew someone like Dalton could never afford. He made his move towards the wallets, but his thoughts shifted as his eyes fell upon the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had long auburn red hair, and wore beige capris, a pink tank top and sandals. And she was walking straight towards him.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you know where I can get the ‘Free Swallow’s Story?” Dalton had seen the story before – a few lines typed crudely on a bookmark, a couple of random facts about the journey of the legendary cliff swallows.
“You don’t really want that story,” Dalton told her.
“I don’t?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface, of the swallows’ journey across 7,000 miles from Goya, Argentina to here, of….” He stopped himself, suddenly embarrassed. His comprehensive knowledge of the flight patterns of these famed birds had rightfully earned him nicknames such as “birdboy,” “geekhead,” and “lamebrain” among his peers.
“Go on,” she said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, I want to know,” she said, cracking a smile.
So Dalton went on. He told her about the swallows’ winter migration to Argentina and their annual return on St. Joseph’s Day. He told her about how the Swallows Day Parade started in the 1930s as a small school carnival and how it had grown to become the largest non-motorized parade in the country. He told her about Leon Rene’s famous song and about the Hat Contest, Hoos’gow Day, the Hairiest Man Contest, and the President’s Ball.
But he wanted to do more than just tell her. So he took her hand and guided her out to the parade, where folkoric dancers were performing alongside their decorated horses. They crossed street and ran onto the Mercado, the Fiesta’s street fare, where they rode rackety carnival rides and shared a hot, sweet funnel cake while a local western band played their cover of an old country favorite.
He took her hand once more, and lead her down the street to the Mission entrance, where they snuck in, pretending to be part of a large tour group from Prescott, Arizona.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see,” he said. She followed him to the massive ruins of rock and adobe.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It’s the Great Stone Church,” he said. “At one time it was the most beautiful church of all the missions. But in 1812 it was destroyed by an earthquake. Forty people lost their lives. Now, it serves one purpose.”
“What’s that?” she asked. And a smile flashed across his face.
“Look,” he said. “Look,” as he pointed towards the towering arch above them. And together, while the rest of the town was consumed with the parade and the music, horses and dancing, the two twelve year olds cast their eyes on the mud nests above them and watched the first of the swallows return to their home.
And for a moment, time stood still. Until…
“Melissa Ann, where have you been! We’ve been looking all over town for you!” A large woman grabbed the girl by the hand and pulled her away.
And just like that, she was gone.
Dalton thought of Melissa often. He thought of the perfect day that they had shared together. He thought about her smile and her laugh. And as the months passed, he found himself thinking more and more about the next Swallows Day Parade, and his admittedly silly thought that he might see her once again.
***
As the day wore on, however, and as the afternoon turned to dusk, he slowly came to accept to the fact, that she would not be there. He thought he saw her at by the Ferris wheel that they had ridden together, or heard her laugh by the old Trading Post. But she was not there. So he walked back towards the Great Stone Church.
He looked up at the arch, and stared at the hundreds of swallows resting in their homes after their long journey. He took a deep breath and smiled.
And a familiar voice called him from behind.
“Hey, Do you know where I can get the Free Swallows Story?”
Los Golondrinas
Dalton ducked around the passing throng of tourists on the bustling sidewalk that ran along the Camino Capistrano parade route. He stopped in front of the Ortega Trading Post and as he paused to enter, saw the smiling face of a toothless toddler held captive in her stroller, a young couple from Canada laughing about the aroma of fresh horse droppings, and a stone-faced traffic cop, trying desperately, yet unsuccessfully with the shrill of his whistle to direct pedestrians away from the incoming procession of horses, middle school marching bands, dancers, and Rotarians.
But Dalton was not looking for any of them. On this day, amidst the carnival of the Fiesta of the Swallows, he was only looking for one person and her name was Melissa Anne.
***
It had been a year since Dalton last entered the Ortega Trading Post. The Post, located directly across the street from the Mission San Juan Capistrano, was a well-known tourist trap that beckoned visitors with a weathered banner above its entrance, promising them a “Free Swallows Story.” Dalton entered the shop cautiously, hoping to remain inconspicuous, for his goal was not to watch the Swallows Day Parade, or to purchase a bumper sticker or postcard or miniature spoon, but to purloin a certain leather Indian Chief wallet – the same wallet that Andrew LaMothe had shown off to the envious eyes of their sixth grade class earlier that week. The wallet that everyone knew someone like Dalton could never afford. He made his move towards the wallets, but his thoughts shifted as his eyes fell upon the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had long auburn red hair, and wore beige capris, a pink tank top and sandals. And she was walking straight towards him.
“Hey,” she said. “Do you know where I can get the ‘Free Swallow’s Story?” Dalton had seen the story before – a few lines typed crudely on a bookmark, a couple of random facts about the journey of the legendary cliff swallows.
“You don’t really want that story,” Dalton told her.
“I don’t?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface, of the swallows’ journey across 7,000 miles from Goya, Argentina to here, of….” He stopped himself, suddenly embarrassed. His comprehensive knowledge of the flight patterns of these famed birds had rightfully earned him nicknames such as “birdboy,” “geekhead,” and “lamebrain” among his peers.
“Go on,” she said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, I want to know,” she said, cracking a smile.
So Dalton went on. He told her about the swallows’ winter migration to Argentina and their annual return on St. Joseph’s Day. He told her about how the Swallows Day Parade started in the 1930s as a small school carnival and how it had grown to become the largest non-motorized parade in the country. He told her about Leon Rene’s famous song and about the Hat Contest, Hoos’gow Day, the Hairiest Man Contest, and the President’s Ball.
But he wanted to do more than just tell her. So he took her hand and guided her out to the parade, where folkoric dancers were performing alongside their decorated horses. They crossed street and ran onto the Mercado, the Fiesta’s street fare, where they rode rackety carnival rides and shared a hot, sweet funnel cake while a local western band played their cover of an old country favorite.
He took her hand once more, and lead her down the street to the Mission entrance, where they snuck in, pretending to be part of a large tour group from Prescott, Arizona.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see,” he said. She followed him to the massive ruins of rock and adobe.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It’s the Great Stone Church,” he said. “At one time it was the most beautiful church of all the missions. But in 1812 it was destroyed by an earthquake. Forty people lost their lives. Now, it serves one purpose.”
“What’s that?” she asked. And a smile flashed across his face.
“Look,” he said. “Look,” as he pointed towards the towering arch above them. And together, while the rest of the town was consumed with the parade and the music, horses and dancing, the two twelve year olds cast their eyes on the mud nests above them and watched the first of the swallows return to their home.
And for a moment, time stood still. Until…
“Melissa Ann, where have you been! We’ve been looking all over town for you!” A large woman grabbed the girl by the hand and pulled her away.
And just like that, she was gone.
Dalton thought of Melissa often. He thought of the perfect day that they had shared together. He thought about her smile and her laugh. And as the months passed, he found himself thinking more and more about the next Swallows Day Parade, and his admittedly silly thought that he might see her once again.
***
As the day wore on, however, and as the afternoon turned to dusk, he slowly came to accept to the fact, that she would not be there. He thought he saw her at by the Ferris wheel that they had ridden together, or heard her laugh by the old Trading Post. But she was not there. So he walked back towards the Great Stone Church.
He looked up at the arch, and stared at the hundreds of swallows resting in their homes after their long journey. He took a deep breath and smiled.
And a familiar voice called him from behind.
“Hey, Do you know where I can get the Free Swallows Story?”
5.20.2010
A Time for Action
So Writer's Digest's current prompt is called "Birthday Blast," and it goes a little somethin' like this...Hit it!
You're out to eat a nice birthday dinner with your family when the waiting staff marches out from the back room with a cake. With everyone around singing happy birthday, you decide this is the moment to make that life-changing announcement you've been considering.
I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with this, but I thought I'd give it a try. Here it is...
A Time for Action
Geez, it’s cold. Way colder than I thought it would be. But then again I guess the freezing November air is better that the stale smell of all these damn books. So I keep the window open, overlooking the street below. It’s almost time. It’s like Wilkes said “Stay in position until the time is right.” I guess he and Johnson are where they should be. And though I can’t see or talk to Mikhail, I assume he’s in position as well. Now all I can do is wait.
I can’t believe how all of this has come together over the past few weeks. It’s only been a month since my birthday dinner, the night I told everyone that something big was going to happen.
***
We ate at Fredo’s , this small mom-and-pop joint just outside of Dallas. It wasn’t a big deal or anything, just me, my mom, my wife Marina, little June, Ralph and Carla. We talked and laughed and drank - but not too much, what with Marina being eight months pregnant and all. It was sorta weird, because this wasn’t really the kinda thing we did, going out to eat with other people and such. Maybe it was the cheap beer we were drinking. Maybe it was spaghetti and meatballs that made me feel like bursting. Who knows? But when the three of them waiters came out of the kitchen with that great big chocolate cake with candles and all, singing that happy birthday song to me, I just felt like I had to tell them all.
They all joined in singing. When they were done, I blew out the candles and made a wish. They clapped and laughed. I gotta say something, I thought. I didn’t care what Wilkes told me. So I stood up, tossed my napkin on the table, and cleared my throat.
“Hey, it’s real nice all the things you’ve done for me tonight, with the food and cake and presents and all,” I said. “You guys are like the only family I’ve got, so thanks."
They smiled and nodded.
“And I know that I’ve been a screw-up most my life. I know I’ve made a mess of things. But you guys should also know about all the stuff that’s screwed-up in this country.”
I could see Ralph look away and roll his eyes. He and I, we didn’t always agree on things. We had our arguments about lots of things.
“But I want you to know that pretty soon, something really big is going to happen. I can’t say exactly what it is, but I’ve been contacted by some pretty important people and I think that now I’ll finally have my chance to make a difference.”
“What is this all about?” mom asked. Marina looked confused.
“I can’t really say mom,” I said. “But it’s gonna big. It’s gonna be huge.”
“Who are these people?” Ralph asked. He was suspicious, like he didn’t believe me or something.
“People in some high places. Some groups I’ve been trying to work with as well.”
They didn’t know what to think. They were confused and I guess they should’ve been, seeing that I didn’t really tell them much. But then again, I couldn’t. It had to be a secret, at least for now.
“Well,” mom said. “It sounds exciting…and I’m sure you’ll make me proud Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“Thanks mom.”
***
And so now I sit here, in this cold building overlooking the street below. Waiting.
You're out to eat a nice birthday dinner with your family when the waiting staff marches out from the back room with a cake. With everyone around singing happy birthday, you decide this is the moment to make that life-changing announcement you've been considering.
I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with this, but I thought I'd give it a try. Here it is...
A Time for Action
Geez, it’s cold. Way colder than I thought it would be. But then again I guess the freezing November air is better that the stale smell of all these damn books. So I keep the window open, overlooking the street below. It’s almost time. It’s like Wilkes said “Stay in position until the time is right.” I guess he and Johnson are where they should be. And though I can’t see or talk to Mikhail, I assume he’s in position as well. Now all I can do is wait.
I can’t believe how all of this has come together over the past few weeks. It’s only been a month since my birthday dinner, the night I told everyone that something big was going to happen.
***
We ate at Fredo’s , this small mom-and-pop joint just outside of Dallas. It wasn’t a big deal or anything, just me, my mom, my wife Marina, little June, Ralph and Carla. We talked and laughed and drank - but not too much, what with Marina being eight months pregnant and all. It was sorta weird, because this wasn’t really the kinda thing we did, going out to eat with other people and such. Maybe it was the cheap beer we were drinking. Maybe it was spaghetti and meatballs that made me feel like bursting. Who knows? But when the three of them waiters came out of the kitchen with that great big chocolate cake with candles and all, singing that happy birthday song to me, I just felt like I had to tell them all.
They all joined in singing. When they were done, I blew out the candles and made a wish. They clapped and laughed. I gotta say something, I thought. I didn’t care what Wilkes told me. So I stood up, tossed my napkin on the table, and cleared my throat.
“Hey, it’s real nice all the things you’ve done for me tonight, with the food and cake and presents and all,” I said. “You guys are like the only family I’ve got, so thanks."
They smiled and nodded.
“And I know that I’ve been a screw-up most my life. I know I’ve made a mess of things. But you guys should also know about all the stuff that’s screwed-up in this country.”
I could see Ralph look away and roll his eyes. He and I, we didn’t always agree on things. We had our arguments about lots of things.
“But I want you to know that pretty soon, something really big is going to happen. I can’t say exactly what it is, but I’ve been contacted by some pretty important people and I think that now I’ll finally have my chance to make a difference.”
“What is this all about?” mom asked. Marina looked confused.
“I can’t really say mom,” I said. “But it’s gonna big. It’s gonna be huge.”
“Who are these people?” Ralph asked. He was suspicious, like he didn’t believe me or something.
“People in some high places. Some groups I’ve been trying to work with as well.”
They didn’t know what to think. They were confused and I guess they should’ve been, seeing that I didn’t really tell them much. But then again, I couldn’t. It had to be a secret, at least for now.
“Well,” mom said. “It sounds exciting…and I’m sure you’ll make me proud Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“Thanks mom.”
***
And so now I sit here, in this cold building overlooking the street below. Waiting.
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