Sunday, October 22, 2017
Jack
Ceci, did you try to kiss me last Sunday?
When we parted, I was going in for a hug, but you seemed to be angling in for a kiss, then re-routed. I couldn't tell if you wanted to nail me, but chickened out, or I was too fast with the hug and you missed your big chance.
What do you think?
Ceci
I wasn't thinking about anything really just a hug and run. But I like all your ideas.
Tell me more. It's good. It was a really nice lunch. It makes me happy to hang around together. After, I think I was whistling while I was doing my chores!
Jack
I'm doing shots of TheraFlu-Express Max-Nighttime. Settin'em up, and knockin'em down. Starting to crave "Berry Flavor".
Focusing on blowing my nose, and dying.
BUT I definitely have theories about you kissing me:
First, we can quickly discard the possibility of Chaos Theory. Mostly because I do not know what Chaos Theory is.
Second, aerodynamics can be excluded because we were in my car, a sealed compartment. The internal wind speed was zero. I have always admired your face, but never for flaws which might create sufficient turbulence to cause your face to crash into mine.
Last, religion fails to explain what happened. Sure, religion is very good at solving the riddle of mystery babies with an incubus who impregnates women while they sleep. Happens all the time. But what does that have to do with you trying to make-out with me? Nothing.
I think that covers everything. Which leaves only one scientific explanation: You tried to kiss me.
Please don't resist the gravity of the logic. There is no other answer. Well, maybe a few, like the one you offered. But those are un-exciting options.
Case closed.
So, now I am lying in bed with five inches of toilet paper hanging out of my left nostril. After three days of blowing, the vessels popped. A cascade of blood. The perfect segway to another kissing mystery:
Years ago. In Detroit. I went to a banquet hall for a highschool re-union.
I caught up with old friends, but found myself spending the last hour with my 5th-6th grade girlfriend, Lucy. We broke up in Junior High, completely lost track of each other, separate parallel universes. Only in our senior year did I see her again when she was crowned homecoming Queen.
At the re-union, she was still beautiful, independent, and IN-CHARGE. In 5th grade, age 10, she would open doors for me while telling onlookers, "WOMEN'S LIB!" She was now married with a bunch of kids. We got along great. Still entirely in rhythm after maybe 15-20 years apart.
We closed down the re-union. I walked her to her minivan. There was a hug good-bye. Or at least that's what I was doing. But she had other plans. She started kissing my neck. I must have missed every clue because I first thought the wetness and movement on my neck might be tears. No. She was definitely kissing my neck. I was entirely okay with this. Honestly, who could possibly object to being kissed by a girl. That's madness. But I was caught off guard. Instead of just going with it and letting her continue, I pulled back to look at her. It must have been too abrupt, or she lost her courage, because she looked at the ground and seemed embarrassed, maybe even ashamed. Like a complete fool, I figured the best way to not make her feel worse was to just act like nothing happened. We parted. And we have had no contact since. Complete disaster.
I should have told her it was fine. Hell, my marriage has been in decline for so long, if she'd given me a heads-up, I would have kissed her back. Maybe we would have made it to sunrise and breakfast. I have no idea.
Anyway, I'm going to assume you were trying to kiss me. In matters of the heart, it's the only safe course. It's like this, Ceci. If it turns out I'm wrong and you weren't trying to make-out with me, no problem. Nothing lost, nothing gained. On the other hand, if I'm right, and you were trying to make-out with me, or feel me up, then I'll be ready to fully cooperate.
Disaster averted.
All the authorities report that healthy well-balanced adults eventually abandon making-out for sex. Seems like it went extinct a million summers ago when we abandoned bicycles for cars, and vacated tree-houses for the next generation of young love.
It feels like we lost something in that exchange.
Sweet dreams, Ceci.
PS: Tell me why I make you whistle.
Ceci
This^!!
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Jack
Yesterday I went to the scene of a fatal shooting. The victim was Paul, age 20. Paul's father and mother met me, along with his four-year-old sister. We met in an alley, next to a dumpster where Paul died from two gun shot wounds to the chest. The four-year-old wore a winter coat over a puffy red tutu.
Official reports state that Paul robbed a bank. Fled down this alley. Then was confronted by a police officer. Paul threatened the officer with a handgun. The officer shot Paul to death.
Paul's father is broken hearted. He is struggling, but moving forward in a straight line on a mission to know what happened.
Part of the truth joins us at the scene. Cathy Stanley was 10-15 feet away from Paul when he was shot. She told police, then me, then our video crew that the officer got out of his car with his gun drawn, walked directly up to Paul, said nothing, gave no commands, and shot Paul point blank. She says Paul showed no gun and made no threats. She is showing us where he was shot and where he fell dead. She was with a college friend at the moment of the shooting. The friend's name is Alyce. Alyce says she saw the same thing as Cathy.
We are now going to the funeral home. The father has demanded that he view his son's naked body. He wants to see the wounds. He wants the truth. After talking to Cathy and Alyce, he trusts no one. I offered to be there with him.
Lawyer's are rarely involved with this part of the case. We usually are hired long after bodies and killings have been converted into reports and lab results.
As I approach, the funeral home, I have to confess that my first thought is performance anxiety. I'm afraid I won't have the stomach to get through it. The Father wants me to photo everything. So, in minutes, I will be using this phone to photograph bullet wounds.
We're here...
The funeral home is a large urban institution. African-American owned and operated. Beautiful, quiet, and meticulously maintained. We enter and are greeted by the director. I share with him that this is my first time and I want to be strong for the family. He understands and offers to show us Paul before the family arrives. I agree.
He takes me down a cream and wheat painted corridor to a large door. He leads me in. The room is square, small, windowless, with a comfortable couch, end table, and a lamp. Against the left wall is a gurney. Paul is laying on it. He is a young, slight, brown-skinned male. He's on his back. He is covered to his chest in a pink and gray quilt. At his shoulders, I can see he's wearing a cotton hospital gown. His face is at peace, but empty. After the autopsy, nothing has been done to preserve him.
I realize the mortician is talking to me. His question hangs in the air. I didn't hear it and ask him to repeat. He wants to know if I want to see the bullet wounds. I say, I just want to acclimate before the family arrives. Instinctively, I walk and survey the space around Paul. I do the same with a courtroom before a trial. Walk the space to know it, to own it. When I feel I have adjusted, feel sure I won't have a stomach failure, I thank the mortician.
One last detail. Before the mortician leads me out, I'm standing at the end of the gurney, near Paul's head. The mortician gestures toward the door to ask if I'm ready to leave. I look down on Paul's face. My left hand goes to the pillow beside his head. The distance between us collapses. In that moment, a silent call to find the truth rises. I accept. Nod my head. Remove my hand. Leave the room.
[⭐Vote for truth.]
Photos 1-2: Taken and owned by the authors, 2017.