The older you get the stronger the wind gets – and it’s always in your face.

—-Jack Nicklaus

The Wind In Your Face

Craig took a break from work and, hungry, decided to go to a local run-down crummy counter service seafood emporium.

While he was waiting on his order an old man sidled up to him and asked a question.

….. “Any sugar for this here tea?”
“Umm, that thing there, it’s already sweetened .”
“Where’s the ice, I think I need some ice”
“There on the coke machine”

The old man, very thin, shaking, held his flimsy yellow paper cup, now half-full of the bitter old tea that they serve from big sweating metal cylinders with black plastic taps on the bottom, looked at the coke machine, levers lined up, the little grated tray held a few old ice cubes spilled by the last customer (Craig). The old man poked at these tentatively, like someone who grew up in an age when restaurants had waitresses in aprons and carried notepads, waitresses that actually brought your iced tea to the table.

“They don’t give you any scoop.”
“Umm, see that thing right there in the middle?” Craig pointed.
“This?”
“Hold your cup under it, press this lever, and the ice’ll come out.”

Craig had been standing next to the array of drink machines and collection of condiments, pumping catsup out of a recessed bulk container and mixing it with Tabasco in little white paper cups. The supplied cups were tiny so he had to prepare a handful of them. As Craig stood back with his red plastic tray he watched the old man as the ice came out in an unexpected tumble, that startling fast-food ice bin rumble, Clankity-Clank. The old man jerked, collapsing his drink cup, ice and tea squirting out. With a heavy sigh, the girl came out from behind the counter with her dirty looking towel and helped him get things straightened out.

Craig sat down at a booth. It was late, almost three, the day at work had been awful, full of disasters; he hadn’t been able to sneak out for lunch until the middle of the afternoon. Desperate for a few quiet moments he had gone for fast food fish, hoping the place would be mostly empty this late. As he started to eat, the old man shuffled over and settled in slowly in the next booth. He sat down on the other side, facing straight at Craig.

“McDonalds has fish sandwiches now.” he advised.
“Uh-huh.”
“Mebee I shoulda gone over there, fish sandwiches, ninety nine cents.”
“Really.”

Craig remembered noticing a big sign in the entrance to this joint that promised a hefty senior citizen discount. It made an impression on him ’cause he noticed it would be only thirteen years before he would be eligible.

It was obvious that the old man wasn’t there so much to eat some fried fish as to talk to somebody. Craig knew that in small towns even today, most restaurants have long counters where you can go get coffee, maybe a cinnamon roll, sit and the major activity is to for everyone to simply talk to each other. The old man looked like he belonged in a very small town.

“I can’t eat this hard crust on this fish.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I went down to the VA hospital to get some new glasses and some teeth. They bought me some glasses but I can’t see with ’em, I can see better with these.”
Craig took a good look – he was wearing an enormous pair of those cheap plastic reading glasses they sell at dollar stores.
“But they won’t give me no teeth. I’ve gone down to there over and over, the doctor said I was too thin, filled out this form….. they still won’t give me no teeth.”
“The VA sent me these papers, hundred pages long, my sister…. but still they won’t give me no teeth and that’s what it said, right there.”
“You know, I really like tomatoes. Sliced tomatoes.”
“I really like eaten’ me up a big plate o’ sliced tomatoes ‘n scrambled eggs.”
“That’s what I had this morning, tomatoes ‘n scrambled eggs.”
“It they’d serve that here, it’d be…..”

As he talked he became more and more garrulous. Also, more and more incoherent. He would be jumping around in time, his stories would go on for awhile, then lose themselves in a long pause, only to start up somewhere else, sometime other… related, but different. It was apparent that Craig didn’t actually have to speak to keep this conversation going, only look up from his food every few minutes and nod a little.

“Did you get bread? They don’t give you no bread here. I like some bread with my meal. I really like bread.”
“I went and got coffee… Eight-five cents!”

Craig wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be low… or high.

“At the Waffle House they’ll let you sit there and get coffee and some eggs.”
“Then they’ll keep comin’ over and warmin’ it up and let you sit there all day.”
“….. and they would wash that cup, that spoon, a couple of plates, wash them, pick them up, only charge five cents.”
“I was there in Houston this morning.”

Craig was sure the old man walked up to the restaurant. Although he said “this morning” he had the feeling the old man hadn’t been in Houston for decades.

Craig finished with his food and had to get back to work. Actually, he would liked to have talked to the old man, get his story, but he was too far gone to be able to have a real conversation. By now he was simply complaining about random things that are too expensive. Also, it would be uncomfortable to talk with a stranger like that, Craig had the uneasy sensation of looking into his own future. The day had been too stressful already to have to deal with that.

He mumbled something incoherent and dumped the remnants of the meal; plastic plate, paper cups, bits of fried something, through the swinging door on the trash bin. He didn’t make eye contact with the old man as he walked past and went out to his van.

On the drive back to work Craig decided to set his alarm for a little earlier the next day. That way he could get up and make some scrambled eggs and tomatoes for breakfast.

“A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn’t it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?”

― Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

Monarchs

After work Craig drove over to the health club and had a good, tough workout. It was a gorgeous day and he felt like staying outside for awhile so he drove across Sunnyvale to Lake Ray Hubbard and a little park at the end of Barnes Bridge road. He had been there before… often, really… this is the place with the two wooden crosses.

The two crosses were still there. He was glad to see that someone had repaired Jason Farmer’s cross. From the look of how it was done, it might be the same people working on the other cross.

Michelle Lemay Self’s cross was still kept up with a little plot of plastic flowers. The white wood was covered with messages written in what looked like black magic marker.

Wife, Mother, Daughter
Granddaughter
Sister Beloved
“Friend”

We Don’t know you
but visit all the time.
STEF

There was a little line drawn about eighteen inches up from the ground. It was labeled, “Austin’s height when She left him.”

At about three feet there is another line. “Austin’s height, 7/9/98, 2 1/2 years old.”

I
Love U
always
Your Husband
Chris Self

Nearby, in crude but legible hand,

I love you
MOMA
Austin 7/19/98

Along one side was a longer, more ominous message.

For those of U that come
and see this 1 and Lonely cross
I hope u all have took the time
and understand are pain & are loss.
This 1 man I’d Love too c out
here 1 sunny summer day.
So I can end his sorry LIFE,
AND then be on my happy
way to go & tell my loving wife that
he has finally paid.
u know who u are
I’m coming soon.
Gregg

The park was as poorly-developed as always. Some run down playground equipment and an arc of shoddy grass, a bit of woods along the shore of the lake. Craig walked on down a path away from the parking lot.

All the lakes in North Texas were threatening to dry up with the summer’s drought. The recent deluge had helped, but the lake was still down. Instead of these little cliffs of mud-rock along the shore, there was a thin ribbon of sand which used to be lake bottom. Craig sat along this poor man’s beach and watched the gold sunset sky, the hazy distant opposite shore with its expensive homes and developments. A lone sailboat fought against the waves, a flock of white seabirds dove for fish.

The wind was blowing stoutly and that was enough to build waves from across the big lake. They came rolling in, miniature breakers. With a bit of imagination Craig felt it was like being at the ocean. It even smelt a little like the sea, mostly because of a mat of drying and rotting seaweed.

He walked on down the curl of the park ’til the stretch of public property ended in a steel barrier and “No Trespassing” signs. Away from the water was a thick grove of trees and a path. Craig walked back into a little grotto, his legs brushing away the night’s spider webs, nobody had been there all day. He looked up into the trees, still illuminated by the afterglow of the set sun and saw motion. The trees were full of Monarch Butterflies.

It was a beautiful sight. The green and yellow trees, orange sky, red and black flapping wings. The branches were lousy with them, many came fluttering down, disturbed by his approach. They flew in a cloud around him, close enough to reach out and touch.

They must have been stopping over on their annual migration. It was an unexpected treat, a special pleasure, to have them decorate this remote speck of shabby forest.

Craig needed to get home so I walked back to my car. The return drive was slow and fun, he was stuck behind a peloton, maybe thirty riders. A local club was finishing up a ride, trying to get back before dark. He especially liked slowing down on the uphills, watching them all come out of the saddle, black shorts and colorful jerseys, pumping legs and bobbing helmets.

It had been a long, tough enough day that Craig was content to sit in the bucket seat and steer, listen to a tape, let them all do all the work for once.

“All over the world major museums have bowed to the influence of Disney and become theme parks in their own right. The past, whether Renaissance Italy or Ancient Egypt, is re-assimilated and homogenized into its most digestible form. Desperate for the new, but disappointed with anything but the familiar, we recolonize past and future. The same trend can be seen in personal relationships, in the way people are expected to package themselves, their emotions and sexuality, in attractive and instantly appealing forms.”

― J.G. Ballard, The Atrocity Exhibition

Disneyworld

I was called out of class into the Principal’s office where my mom and my little sister were already waiting for me.

“Your Aunt Cissie is very sick,” the Principal said, “I’m so very sorry to hear this.”

“Aunt Cissie?” I replied. I had no idea who he was talking about.

“You know Aunt Cissie,” my mother said, her voice sounding desperate. I knew that tone – I had heard it many times.. too many times.

“Of course,” I lied. “I hope she’s going to be OK.” I was pretty sure she would not be OK – because she didn’t exist.

“So we will have to take you and your sister out of school for a couple weeks,” my mother said. “I’m going to have to take care of Aunt Cissie and you two will come with me.”

The principal looked suspicious, but what could he say? My mom gathered the two of us up and we walked out to the car as quickly as we could.

“What is this Aunt Cissie stuff?” I asked her. “I never heard of an Aunt Cissie.”

“There isn’t any Aunt Cissie you dummy. That’s just a story to get you both out of school.”

“You lied to the principal?” my sister said. She was too young and always told the truth.

“Just a little white lie,” my mother said. “We’re going to Disneyworld.”

“In California?” I asked.

“No, Disneyworld is in Florida.”

“Why are we going all that way, California is a lot closer.”

“Don’t ask me stupid questions. Your dad has made all the arrangements. We’re going to drive to Florida, so you and your sister have to learn to be quiet in the car.”

I was excited about going to Disneyworld. All our vacations up to that point had involved lakes full of odd-smelling water, bologna sandwiches, and coolers of beer. They always ended bad – both parents way too drunk and pissed of at each other – and a drive home days early. A cross-country trip in our beat-up old car didn’t sound like much fun, but Disneyworld! I wasn’t really sure exactly what Disneyworld was, but it was something that other kids, other families talked about and I wanted to be one of those people.

The drive was even worse than I thought it would be. I tried to stretch out on the floorboards – my legs over the transmission hump. Right when I’d relax and almost go to sleep, my sister would put her feet on me, pushing down, and I’d have a claustrophobic panic attack.

I’d yell, my sister would whine, my mom would scream and my dad would lose his temper. One time somewhere, I think it was in Nebraska, we pulled over and my dad pulled us out and gave us a beating alongside this nowhere road.

The car broke down in Mississippi… I remember my Dad pouring water from an old milk jug into the radiator and having to dodge the boiling water shooting out like a geyser. An old man from the gas station was able to patch something together and we were able to get on the road. Even though it was awful hot outside, my Dad ran the heater as we rolled down the highway with all the windows down. He said it helped keep the engine from overheating.

We had a room in a motel not far from the park. It was small and a little sketchy – still I couldn’t figure out how we could afford even that. But I thought… what the hell… Disneyworld!

And the park was everything I dreamed of and more. Mom took my sister and me – my dad dropped us off and left in the car – he said he had something he needed to take care of. Fine with me, without my dad, my mom was always in a better mood. We stayed all day and mom bought my sister and I anything we wanted – ice cream, hot dogs, stuffed toys of Mickey and Pluto. The lines at the rides were too long, but I enjoyed just walking around. It was like being in another world… a better world than I was used to living in.

We were completely worn out at the end of the day and my mom called a cab to take us back to the motel. I had never ridden in a cab before – it made me feel important. A perfect end to the best day of my life.

Something funny, though, back at the motel. My mom made us walk all through the parking lot looking for the car. When we didn’t find it she said, “Good, your dad’s not here, we can go back to the room.”

My mom was carrying my sister, she was asleep over her shoulder so she handed me the key to open the door. I walked in and saw may dad pulling bricks of plastic-wrapped white stuff from a big trash bag, packing them into a couple of empty suitcases. I had wondered why he had brought those along.

He screamed at my mother, “I told you to stay away until I was finished!”

“Your car wasn’t there, we looked!” she said.

“It broke down again, I had to get a rental! Get the hell out of here!”

Mom took us to the diner attached to the motel. My sister slept on one half of the booth while I picked at my fries and ignored my cheeseburger.

The damage had been done. I was young, but I knew what I had seen. Now it made sense – why we made such a long trip, how we could afford it, what made my dad so jumpy.

He showed up at the diner a couple hours later and I was surprised at how quiet he was. We packed up right away and left the motel in the middle of the night in the rental car. I never found out what happened to our old car and assume it was abandoned somewhere.

You would think this adventure would change our life – I certainly hoped it would. But other than some new furniture and my parents buying better brands of booze – the kind that came in glass bottles, not plastic – everything was pretty much back to normal in a couple months. I guess my dad was just a drug mule and they don’t actually make that much money. The principal looked sad whenever I walked by. He said he was sorry about my aunt Cissie.

I had to act along, of course. I was so good at faking the illness and eventual death of a non-existent relative that I began to believe it myself. To this day, sometimes I find myself thinking about my aunt and feeling sad – until I remember.

I went home with the waitress, the way I always do
How was I to know, she was with the Russians, too?

I was gambling in Havana, I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns and money, dad, get me out of this.

—-Warren Zevon, Lawyers, Guns, and Money

Between

By the time he reached the restaurant Paul had actually forgotten that it was Halloween. The girl at the hotel checkout had green hair – but on the drive this faded from his mind. He waited at the bar and a waitress walked up and leaned into the station right next to him. She was wearing a tight black sweatsuit or something. A white sweatsock was pinned to one shoulder, hanging down over one small breast. A sheet of some translucent paper was tacked to the other side – and a few small cloth items Paul didn’t recognize were stuck here and there. At first Paul was taken aback at the outfit-but then he remembered that it was Halloween.

“What are you?”

“I’m Static Cling,” she said.

“That’s pretty good.”

“Uh huh.”

The place was almost empty, only one elderly couple sitting at a low table in front of a fireplace, the low hubbub of group in a private room. Static Cling was the barmaid and she stood next to Paul shifting from one foot to another, waiting for the bartender. After a minute a stocky man in a Hawaiian shirt appeared wearing an awful long black wig and started in on her order. She took the two white wines over to the elderly couple. Then the waitress showed up and Paul gasped when she bent over the table to lower the food. She was wearing a German dress and her cleavage was practically in his face when she set down the plates.

She stood up and looked at Paul.

“Let me guess,” he said, and noticed the glasses of white wine, “You’re the St. Pauli Girl.”

“Yes!” She said, and then sidled up next to Paul, in the spot where Static Cling had vacated – she seemed to have disappeared.

“You won’t believe what that old geezer just said to me.”

“What?”

“I left his food and he said, ‘The way you’re dressed, that’s not the only thing you’re peddling tonight.’”

“That’s terrible, you’re the St. Paulie Girl, what could be better than that.”

“Yeah, well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

That’s how Paul met St. Paulie Girl and Static Cling.

St. Paulie Girl was so tall, open and outgoing, plus her costume was breathtaking. Those long legs shooting out from that bouffant skirt – the Teutonic cleavage, that bouncing hair. But Static Cling… petite, short hair, had an air of sullen rebellion. Paul found that aggressive attitude of unattainable aloofness sexy and irresistible. Static Cling was so focused – watching her carry drinks – something so simple – was like watching Dimaggio at the plate.

St. Paulie Girl’s most alluring aspect, was, to Paul, the fact that she didn’t light the brightest light – a transparent simple bumbling innocence.

“This blind date,” she told Paul as he ate his salad, “he excused himself, stood up and walked outside. When he didn’t come back I checked and he was passed out – flat on his face.”

Paul couldn’t figure out why she picked this story out of what must have been many breathless and lurid tales out of St. Paulie Girl’s unknown and undoubtedly colorful past. He felt sorry for the blind date – to have to live a life knowing you had a shot at St. Paulie Girl and blew it – couldn’t even maintain sobriety or consciousness in the face of such potential passion. How could the loser look at himself in the mirror every morning? If the guy used a straight razor he’d have to cut his throat… No, a shadow of a man like that would never own steel and a strop. He’d settle for cheap plastic disposables – or maybe one with five blades and a battery – one that quivers piteously when you drag it across your face.

Paul allowed himself a little smile.