Comics

Space Wars

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In 1977, my best friend Brian and I saw Star Wars at the movies and our young teenage lives were rocked. That summer, we saw this movie over and over and over again. Started memorizing the lines. Then one night, we took his dad’s cassette tape recorder and created our own audio parody, Space Wars. We cracked our prepubescent-selves up.

SPACE WARS 1977 Audio Parody

In 1980, I transferred that goofy story to comic book form: SPACE WARS. And in 1983, I re-recorded a new audio version, using the comic book as a script and my brother and myself as a cast. I inserted fabulous sound effects and musical sound track. My brother provided the prepubescent vocal talents this time around.

SPACE WARS 1983 version

In retrospect, it wasn’t that great. But it was my loving homage to the summer of ’77 and that hilarious recording Brian and I made late one night.

NOTE: There’s use of language that is insensitive and not reflective of my behavior or attitudes today. No excuse for my poor past behavior and choice of words except to say I was young and inexperienced as to the power of words. I now regret having used these terms so casually and as the butt of jokes. My sincere apologies. I had forgotten their inclusion in these recordings and was taken aback as if slapped in the face to hear my younger voice uttering the words without any thought to how they might offend others. These recordings stand as a true if crude reflection of their time.

Stories

Roger Bridgeman and the Currency of Dignity

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Every day, the haggard, toothless old woman spat out profanities at passersby under the el stop at Madison and Wells. She had a wild, dangerous look, like a wounded, cornered animal. I always took care to avoid eye contact.

I have worked in downtown Chicago for many years. There have always been many homeless people along the route from the train to my office. So many that I began to ignore them. They melded into the urban scenery, like cabs, food trucks, and Starbucks. Some were easier to ignore than others, like those that sat silently, head down, holding a cardboard sign scrawled in black Sharpie with a brief synopsis of their plight, a plea for any help, and God Bless. Some were loud, crying out their same refrain over and over.

“Spare some change? Spare some change?”

“Please! Can you help me buy a sandwich?”

“HAPPY TUESDAY!”

So many. Passive and aggressive. I couldn’t possibly afford to give even a little to them all. How could I afford to do that? I would ask myself, as I stood in the long line waiting for my three dollar cup o’ joe.

So rather than give anything, I found it easier to ignore them all.

Until I met Roger.

Out of the dozens of displaced souls I passed, one guy stood out. It was his kind, gentle smile that got me. Even as I hurried by him, he would look me in the eye and smile. It seemed genuine. And it spoke to my heart.

Eventually, I started throwing spare change into the coffee can at his feet. He would always smile, look me in the eye and say, “Thanks.” 

One day, I had to wait while another commuter was giving him some money. Then I realized that the commuter was talking to the man. Having an actual conversation. How odd, I thought. 

Over time I learned (from eavesdropping on these conversations) that the man’s name was Roger. He always sat on the east end of the Washington Street bridge, outside the backstage door of the Opera House. So, Roger, the man on the bridge, became, in my mind, Roger Bridgeman.

One day, in addition to my monetary offering, I started saying, “Good morning, Roger,” as I deposited the coins. And that changed our relationship. His smile grew even larger, and he started saying more than just thanks. 

“Gonna be a beautiful day!” he might say. Or “You be sure to get the most out of today!”  

His gap-toothed smile was unpretentious and infectious. Somehow, we started talking about movies one day. He gave me his review of not one but three different films that had just opened. And it struck me that he must not just sit out on this cold bridge all day long. That’d be crazy. After the rush hour, he must head someplace warm. Like a multiplex. Sit in the dark and move from movie to movie throughout the day, with a big box of refillable popcorn. 

One day, the big back door to the Opera House was open. The smell of fresh sawdust was thick, bringing with it memories of being on freshly-built sets in the theatre in college. You could see across the empty stage and seats, all the way to the front of the house. Parked out on the sidewalk, was a beautiful, big Harley Davidson motorcycle, all tricked out. Probably belonged to one of the people in the building, I figured. But as I deposited my morning change into Roger’s coffee can, he noticed me looking at the bike. “You like my ride?” Roger said. I looked at him, not sure what he meant, and he flashed that classic grin and slowly pulled back one of the layers of coats he was wearing to reveal a Harley Davidson logo sewn onto the breast of a vest underneath. Then he winked. And I got it. I laughed in reply and told him it was indeed a sweet ride.

Roger was joking around with me. It was clever. He honestly cracked me up.

Months passed. While at lunch one day, I was hustling to meet a friend and I ran into Roger on the sidewalk. He wasn’t sitting. He was nowhere near the bridge. He was completely out of context and I didn’t recognize him immediately. That is to say, I didn’t place him. I knew that I knew him, just couldn’t think of from where. Before I made the connection, he smiled and said “Hi!” and continued on, like one would any friend. He didn’t stop me to ask for change. He was clearly going somewhere, too. Just two friends saying hi on the street. 

I have no idea how much money I put into Roger’s can over the years. It didn’t matter. I never missed it. Money is obviously important to those unfortunate people, like Roger. But perhaps more precious is being recognized as also human. Engaging them in ways we take for granted. As an equal. As a person.

We may not be able to spare some change for all of those on the streets, but each of us can afford to humanize the people around us. Even those who are wounded and spitting profanity. Kindness is its own kind of currency. The currency of dignity.

Video, Voice-overs!

Blitz The League II

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This is the story element part of the popular 2008 video game, Blitz The League II. I play the part of the Commissioner (the bad guy) in this Midway video game (a bad-boy answer to Madden NFL), featuring Lawrence Taylor and Jay Mohr.

I had auditioned for the part of the prison warden, but that went to the very talented Frank Caliendo. I remixed the prison warden scene here to include my audition VO, just for grins.

Here’s a link to the video.

Note, the video is rated MA!

Stories

Convictions

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Author’s note:

This story unintentionally became an interesting writing experiment. As I often do, I wrote about an actual event in my life, with minor edits to names and events to make everything more concise, consistent, and digestible. I posted the story and heard from a few readers that they were unsatisfied with the ending…it built to an unfulfilling climax. So, I took that feedback and wrote an alternate ending. When I posted the new version of the story, those that had been previously disappointed responded their approval…this was what they had wanted, thank you. But I also received several comments from others about how they preferred the original ending, that the new one seemed like “too much.”

So, here below are both versions, the first intact, followed by the alternate ending. I hope that you enjoy one of them, both, or at least the experiment.  -JL  

Kevin stared at his iPhone, confused.

He electronically bookmarked the novel in his Kindle to better focus on the image that had just buzzed into his phone. Chicago’s west side raced past the windows of the commuter train behind the photo in Jessica’s text.

What the hell? Kev thought as he looked at the screen.

Three little periods below the picture signaled that Jess was busy texting him some sort of explanation. He tried to solve the mystery of what this was before the answer appeared. It was simple, yet bizarre. A red, quart-sized plastic container sat inverted on his kitchen floor with a 28 ounce can of Bush’s Homestyle baked beans resting on top…some child’s tower of kitchen related items.

Beans? The can was upside down. Was that significant?

The three dots gave way to a text message explanation he had not considered.

“A HUGE spider crawled across the kitchen floor while I was feeding the boys this morning,” the text read. “I trapped it for you.”

“For me??” Kev replied.

“To take care of,” came her response. “When you get home.”

It’s not that she didn’t want it dead, she just didn’t want to do it herself. That responsibility had been deemed very early in their marriage to be one of the most sacred of husband-related duties. But he was already on his way to work, so she made arrangements for him to fulfill his obligation later.

Kev never understood this unnatural fear of spiders. They are generally not interested in humans. They eat other pests in the house, keeping that circle of life in balance inside their split-level universe. This need to exterminate the creatures seemed an unprovoked over-reaction to the little critters just doing their thing.

Jess did not see it that way.

All bugs were to be stamped out of existence. Literally. Especially spiders. Preferably by Kev. 

A few minutes later, as Kev’s train made its final turn into the station in the city, his phone buzzed again to announce a photo update of the spider-death-watch.

“So the boys won’t get curious and release the prisoner while I’m at work,” Jess’s follow up text explained. The portable baby gate that they had used to corral Theo when he was a puppy was now used to keep him and his adoptive canine brother Frank away from the spider.

Clever. Resourceful, thought Kev. He placed his phone in his pocket and exited the train. Overly elaborate. An arachnid death row prison.

A lot of expectation had been built in anticipation of Kev’s return home to execute the prisoner. Their dogs had been and continued to be very curious and diligent in their vigil circling the perimeter of the cell, occasionally stopping to scratch at the Pergo floor in an attempt to get to the controversial pest.

Their daughter Katie and her high school friends found the scene Snap-Chatable, marveling, laughing, then moving on to the pantry for snacks en route to Netflix in the family room. Katie had a piano lesson at six o’clock, just about the time Dad the Executioner arrived home from work. He passed Jess and Katie on their way out in the mudroom at the entrance to the garage.

“It’s all ready for you,” Jess said to Kev in lieu of a kiss hello.

The dogs were eager to greet Kev with plenty of affection as he entered the kitchen, excitedly alternating between displaying their pleasure to once again be graced with his presence and running to the prison walls to show him the new household development. Maybe he would move the fencing and allow them to scratch and sniff at this can-laden plastic box invading their turf. The small dogs, Frank, a brown, Yorkie/Pomeranian mix, just under ten pounds, and Theo, a black, Maltese/Poodle, clocking in at just over twelve, wound excitedly between his legs and over to the little prison and back again.

Kev shook his head at the scene. It was exactly as it had been portrayed electronically, yet seemed more bizarre to witness first hand. He decided to change out of his work clothes before taking care of this dirty business, returning a couple of minutes later clad in shorts and a t-shirt and sporting comfy, un-cool dad-Crocs, in case he needed to stomp the life outta something. The dogs had remained on guard and welcomed his return with wide eyes, extended tongues, and wildly wagging back sides.

“Okay. Okay, get back,” Kev said to the dogs, though not in a mean way. They obeyed but hovered close by. He moved the safety cage aside and considered his options. The most obvious was a swift pull on the plastic cage and a well-timed stomp. In the unlikely case of a miss, a second strike seemed assured success. The spider had been trapped near the center of the kitchen. Too much distance to the nearest crack or crevice for even the swiftest spidey-legs to cross before certain dad-Croc doom.

But as Kev envisioned the scamper, pop, and squish, he felt a reluctance creep into his soul. The poor thing had committed no great offense. Trespassing during the daylight seemed to be its greatest crime. And what kind of lifespan do these things have anyway? A few days? A few weeks? Even if it made it a year or two, this day it had already spent imprisoned was equivalent to an incarceration of years by human standards. Hadn’t it suffered enough?

Kev looked out the window at the beautiful, sunny summer evening. He didn’t know if a house spider could survive the outdoors, but knew that such banishment would surely be more lenient than the sole of his shoe.

He looked around the room and spied a piece of paper and a roll of scotch tape at the little desk area near the phone. With them in hand, he shooed the very interested canine duo away again and sat down on the floor in front of the prisoner.

Kev tried to slide the paper under the translucent plastic container, but the beans weighed it down too much. He set the can aside on the floor and the spider moved. He was glad to be able to see through the walls of the red tinted container so he knew exactly where the creature was at all times. This was Kev’s first realization of its size. Its body was larger than the horse flies on his grandpa’s farm. The legs easily stretched to two inches in diameter.

He tried the paper again and only managed a small corner before it stopped. Frank walked up to the can of beans and gave it a sniff. Theo walked up behind Frank and gave him a sniff. Dogs.

Kev needed to lift the container slightly but thought, It won’t take much for this critter to escape. And he’s been sitting there for hours plotting nothing else. And here’s me all comfy and cross-legged on the floor practically begging for retaliation. 

Kev gingerly, slowly, deftly lifted the plastic container with one hand while shoving the paper with the other. The spider became quite agitated or maybe it was just curious. At any rate, there was significant spidey-movement. So much so that Kev felt its body thumping against the inside of the container, mere millimeters from his hand. 

He started thinking that without the can-o-beans’ 28 ounces of downward pressure, this beast may just be able to knock over the lightweight container and escape.

Thump! Again against the side, sensing the perimeter weakness. Seeing with its many beady eyes potential freedom to further terrorize the fine female humans of the home.

Kev continued carefully shoving the paper flooring into place beneath the pesky bug’s clawed, scampering feet until finally it met the far edge of the container. Then he easily maneuvered the plastic cage to the center of the paper, creating an inch or more perimeter around the edge.

Kev unrolled a long piece of scotch tape and found instantly that this would not do at all. Way too thin, way too easily bent to produce a spider-escaping-and-crawling-up-his-arm-or-leg-and-into-his-hair-biting-biting-BITING opening. 

He placed the can temporarily back on top, just in case, and went to the drawer for duct tape. 

Four pulls and sticks and the mobile trap was secure. Kev tested the seal all the way around before lifting the little red prison, marveling at his accomplishment and getting a really close look at the monster. Kev was surprised at how hairy it was. It thumped aggressively against the side of the container that Kev was peering into, as if it were charging at him.

Wolf spider, Kev thought. Common. Harmless. Huge.

The spider was really active now. Scurrying around the cozy closed circuit like a NASCAR driver. Kev stood up and the dogs alternately jumped vertically up and down alongside him. They wanted a closer look, too. Kev transported the prisoner outside, leaving the boys inside the porch, their wet noses pressed against the glass of the door, anxious to join in whatever Kev was about to do next.

Kev moved several feet from back door, to the concrete slab at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. He laid the cage on its side, paper-side exposed. He looked around and found a good sized stick from the silver maple that was always good for providing discarded sticks in the yard. Kev placed one dad-Croc’d foot against the plastic to hold it steady and whacked the stick against the paper, a mini, spider-filled piñata, producing a small tear in the fabric. The spider didn’t immediately burst forth like Alien from a well-fed torso. Kev struck the paper again, tearing open a gaping escape hatch. 

He stood back and waited. After several seconds, the spider finally, slowly emerged. Maybe it did not trust the new environment. Maybe it had grown comfortable in its new one. It retreated back inside the plastic container.

“Seriously?” Kev said aloud.

He lightly kicked the plastic end to coax it back into freedom. That seemed to work. Kev cautiously picked up the container and shook the beast free of it. The spider stood on the concrete, multi-eyeballing Kev to see if he would finally come through with the dad-Croc after all. 

Then it scurried off into the grass. In search of dinner, no doubt. 

Bon voyage, little guy, Kev thought. And stay outta my kitchen.

Kev felt good about his leniency. Dad the Merciful had a nice ring to it. He was sure he would be called to execute some other bug soon and to do so without hesitation, just to stop the associated screaming if nothing else. But in this moment, he savored the endorphins of compassion coursing through him, producing an overwhelming need to smile.

It was then that he noticed Jess glaring at him from inside the back door, the two canine sentinels at her feet. 

###

Alternate Ending…

The spider was really active now. Scurrying around the cozy closed circuit like a NASCAR driver. Kev stood up and the dogs alternately jumped vertically up and down alongside him. They wanted a closer look, too. Kev transported the prisoner outside, leaving the boys inside the porch, their wet noses pressed against the glass of the door, anxious to join in whatever Kev was about to do next.

Kev felt good about his leniency. Dad the Merciful had a nice ring to it. He was sure he would be called to execute some other spider soon and to do so without hesitation, just to stop the associated screaming. But in this moment, he savored the endorphins of compassion coursing through him, producing an irrepressible smile.

Kev moved several feet from the back door to the concrete slab at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. Two porcelain flower pots overflowing with Jess’s prized begonias adorned each side of the landing. He laid the cage on its side against one of the pots, paper-side exposed. He looked around and found a good sized stick from the silver maple that was always good for providing discarded sticks in the yard. Kev placed one dad-Croc’d foot against the plastic to hold it steady and whacked the stick against the paper, a mini, spider-filled piñata, producing a small tear in the fabric. But the spider didn’t immediately burst forth like Alien from a well-fed torso. Kev struck the paper again, tearing open a gaping escape hatch. 

He stood back and waited. After several seconds, the spider finally, slowly emerged. It stood on the jagged edge of the torn paper opening, octo-eyeballing Kev to see if he would finally come through with the dad-Croc after all. Maybe it did not trust the new environment, maybe it had become institutionalized, either way, it retreated back inside the plastic container.

“Seriously?” Kev said aloud.

He lightly kicked the plastic end to coax it back into freedom. The spider remained inside. Kev cautiously picked up the container to shake the beast free of it. He could feel it thumping around on the inside, refusing to drop through the hole Kev had so graciously provided.

It was then that he noticed Jess standing inside the back door, the two canine sentinels at her feet.  She gave him her well-worn WTF are you doing? look. Frank barked once to punctuate her glare.

Before Dad the Merciful could explain himself, time shifted into that slo-mo mode when something horrible and unavoidable is unfolding, allowing the memory to be permanently etched with every detail of the moment. Dandelion seeds float in the air a little more slowly, butterfly wings flutter at half-speed, and the expression on Jess’s face melts from disapproval to terror. His eyes, the only mobile part of his time-frozen body, followed Jess’ gaze down the length of his extended right arm to the now sprung trap he held. The spider changed its mind, left the cage, and was quickly moving along his arm, up his shoulder, and onto his back.

It moved very, very fast.

The scream was so high-pitched, perhaps only the dogs heard it. They were both certainly reacting, barking wildly and digging at the glass bottom of the storm door to get outside. Kev assumed it was Jess screaming. She was the master of screaming at the sight of spiders and random bugs and had even made screaming disciples of their two daughters.

It was long after the “incident” before Kev acknowledged that he had been the source of the scream. In the moment (the very slow, eternally-drawn-out-for-maximum-terrorizing-effect moment), he was dancing up and down, spinning in a circle, the empty red cage flung far into the backyard. He knocked one wildly gyrating dad-Croc’d foot against one of the prized porcelain pots. It scooted back a few inches, suddenly teetering on the edge of the steps to the basement, pausing to provide Jess just enough time to notice it and think Maybe it won’t fall before gravity and fate conspired to dash that wish as easily as they did the pot.

Meanwhile, Kev had no idea where the spider was.

Did it jump or get flung from his spinning torso? Or did it slip under his collar to seek shelter within the confines of his shirt? Highly unlikely, but in the panic, Kev didn’t waste time contemplating the odds. The t-shirt was quickly torn over his head and flung equally distant as the plastic container, though on an altered trajectory.

Jess looked way from her ruined begonias to see if any neighbors, alerted by Kev’s screams, were witness to this scene. Sure enough, Mrs. Kennedy who never had a positive thing to say but was always willing to share ad nauseum nonetheless, was standing at her kitchen window, taking it all in. Kev continued to spin in place, combing wildly through his hair with both hands. He did stop screaming (if it had been him, he still wasn’t sure).

Jess opened the back door and released the hounds. Frank immediately charged to Kev’s aid. Theo made a beeline to the red container, the object that had taunted them all day. He gave it a thorough sniffing before lifting his back leg high over the torn paper side and soaked it with urine.

Frank jumping and biting at the cuffs of his shorts, shirtless Kev stopped writhing, his hands coming to rest atop his head, accurately portraying the image of What have I done?

Jess walked over to him, looked down at the broken pot, then over his shoulder to confirm that Mrs. Kennedy was still riveted. Jess waved at her to acknowledge that she knew that she knows. She turned back to Kev. “You had one job.”

Kev lowered his hands to his sides and looked down at his untainted dad-Crocs. He, too, glanced at the begonias. They had a chance of surviving, but that pot was done. He had gone from Dad the Executioner to Dad the Merciful to Dad the Destroyer.

Frank made his way to the now soiled container, gave it a proper sniff, then added his own mark. Kev decided to leave it there.  Maybe the spider would seek it out and make it his permanent residence. He crossed the yard to retrieve his t-shirt.  

Back inside the house, Kev tossed the t-shirt down the laundry shoot, opting for a fresh one…just to be safe. The t-shirt came to rest atop the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry room. Within the folds of the shirt, where it indeed crawled and clung to as it was stripped and flung, and nestled within while being transported back into the house and down into the basement, sat the spider.

It slowly made its way through tunnels of fabric to an opening where it then crawled to the edge of the basket. Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for Jess to do a quick load before dinner.

Stories

Grit

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It was late in the semester, late in the day when Tom walked in ten minutes late to his 45 minute writing assistance appointment. Kev had nearly written him off and upon his initial assessment of Tom, thought it would not have been the first time in Tom’s life.

Kev found he was more forgiving of tardy, part-time students that he coached in writing skills every Monday night in the learning center of his local community college than he was of his corporate co-workers in his 9-to-5 job in the city. Though he did get paid for the few hours that he coached, Kev thought of the experience as more of a service project; giving back a little of the 25 years of corporate marketing and communications experience he had under his belt to students who needed all the help they could get

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. He held out his hand in both salutation and apology.

Kev’s dad always said that a handshake is a good way to size a man up. Tom’s was firm, succinct without seeming abrupt. Professional. It did not match his skinny, rough exterior, though his hands – especially the fingernails – were a little grimy. Not dirty but worn with work, as if clean was a fantasy remembered from a long ago youth.

Tom sat down and ran his grimy right hand through his unkempt hair. “I need some help formatting sources for a paper,” he said. He wasn’t old, but seemed seasoned, nineteen going on forty-five. His scruffy, worn jeans matched his hands. Not designer denim bought pre-torn and faded, the kind that came by the condition honestly.

“No worries,” Kev said, and joined him at the desk. Kev tapped the mouse to wake the computer up, clicking on the college home page. “What class is your paper for?”

“Pre-med bio,” Tom said. “I just came from the library. I got two sources for the paper. Is it okay if I call them up here?” he asked, pointing at the screen.

“Absolutely,” Kev said.

Tom navigated to the college library site, checked a text on his phone, and transferred that into the computer. An article appeared and Tom let out a little laugh, like he couldn’t believe it actually worked. “I, uh, need help citing this article,” he said. “This one and another one.”

“No problem,” Kev said and opened a Word doc so they would have a place to create Tom’s citations, which they did.

Tom marveled at how Kev copied, pasted, and formatted his reference material. “Could, could you show me how to do that?” he asked. 

What exactly he was referring to, Kev didn’t immediately grasp. Kev suffered from the bias of assuming all young people know more about the internet and electronic media than he does, even though he has worked in it since its existence. Control-C. Control-V. Highlighting with the slight move and click of a mouse. It was like magic to Tom. Kev was genuinely confused. Was Tom pulling his leg? 

“Do you have a laptop?” Kev asked, expecting Tom to produce one from his bag. 

“Oh,” Tom laughed, “Noooo. No, not me.”

“A computer at home?”

“No.” He shook his head like Kev had suggested he had a Maserati parked in the lot. “We got one at the shop! But it’s pretty worn out. It doesn’t have those things.” He pointed to the keyboard.

“No…keyboard?” Kev asked.

Tom laughed again, no malice, he wasn’t being clear. “No, of course it has a keyboard.”

Kev laughed a little. Duh. Of course.

“Just not any of those letters and numbers and stuff,” Tom said.

“No letters?” Kev asked. WTF? Was Tom kidding?

He was not.

“Yeah, it’s real old. All that stuff got worn off. You gotta remember which key to press for what.”

“Wow,” Kev said. “That’s gotta be tough.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tom said, then sobered a little, looking at the unmarked keyboard in his mind’s eye. “Yeah, it is.”

“That’s what you type your paper on?” Kev asked.

“Oh, no!” Tom laughed again; Kev was full of ridiculous questions. “I just use this.”

Tom pulled his smart phone back out of his pocket. Not the newest model, slick with the same grime that covered the rest of him. 

“You write your papers,” Kev tried not to betray his utter disbelief and borderline horror as he said, “on your phone?”

Tom shrugged Yeah. Like, of course.

Okay. Well, Kev thought, I guess that’s better than using a character-free keyboard. He imagined thumbing an entire research paper on his phone and got a little sympathetic carpal tunnel cramp. 

Tom noticed the time on his phone. They had accomplished what he had come for with a few minutes to spare.

“Can you help me with my introduction, too?” Tom asked, suddenly realizing there might be more Kev could assist him with here.

“Absolutely,” Kev said. “Do you have the rest of your paper printed out?”

“Oh,” Tom said. “Um, no.”

Kev thought they were about to start swiping through the grimy screen on Tom’s phone. They weren’t.

“I haven’t written anything yet,” Tom confessed. “That’s why I figured the intro would be a good starting point.”

“It can be,” Kev said, thinking that a thesis statement or a prompt from the instructor might be better. Before he went there, Kev thought to go even more basic, “When is your paper due?”

“Tomorrow,” Tom said very matter-of-factly. Almost duh-implied.

“Tomorrow?!” Kev said, a bit more animated, struggling to keep the surprise suppressed.

“10am,” Tom said, like it wasn’t exactly fifteen hours and fifteen minutes from that moment.

“And you’re starting now?” Kev asked.

“I got the sources,” Tom said. Chipper. Optimistic. In his mind, half the battle was won.

You are going to fail, Kev thought. He thought it very loudly. So much so he was sure it came through to Tom, even unsaid, loud and clear. Not just this assignment. This course.

Aloud, Kev asked, “How long does the paper have to be?” Perhaps he was making a lot out of nothing. Maybe the assignment was to find two sources on a topic and write 500 words. Fairly easy. Totally do-able in a couple of hours, even on a cellphone.

“Seven to ten pages,” Tom said.

Fail.

There was no pulling this guy back from that abyss. He was going down. Going down hard. And he seemed utterly unaware of what was so completely obvious to Kev.

“Oh, I got this,” Tom said. Maybe some of Kev’s thoughts did seep through. “I’m gonna stay up all night. Pull an all-nighter. No biggie. Lots of coffee and Redbulls. I’ve done this before.” 

Had he? With success? With a cellphone? Pre-med? Pre-MED?! 

Kev looked at the clock. The session had about five minutes remaining. Why panic the lad. He clearly had a caffeine-laced plan. “Pre-med?” Kev said out loud…’cuz he just could not believe this guy would be going into the medical profession. 

“I know, seems crazy,” Tom said. “Me. Going into some kind of medical field. I work full time at this aluminum extruding plant. Good money, but its long hours, tough on the body. Not so much on the mind, though. I stand there for hours on the line thinking ‘Is this what I want to do for the next 30 years of my life?’ Benefits aren’t that great. Plus automation keeps taking jobs away. That and Mexico.” He looked at Kev suddenly and added, “I’m not racist or nothing!”

Like Kev had accused him. Kev shrugged: Of course not.

“My girlfriend’s from Mexico,” Tom said. “Illegal,” now he shrugged. “But her life there was horrible. She was literally escaping a life of hell. I don’t blame her for having the courage to do whatever it takes to make her life better. She is amazing. I have so much respect for her. Her English, is not exactly…” He laughed again. “Well, she’s getting better!”

“Anyway,” Tom said, “I heard there are lots of jobs in like nursing homes and stuff. Aging America needing more people to take care of the Baby Boomers, and all that. There’s plenty of mopping and bedpan changing jobs, but the better paying ones require some pre-med education and experience. So, that’s what I’m going for.” Then he winked at Kev.

 “Good for you,” Kev said.

“Yeah,” Tom smiled, then looked at his dirty phone again. “I guess we are outta time. Can you email that page to me?”

“Of course,” Kev said, and turned back to the computer to send Tom his references.

“So cool how you did all that,” Tom said again. “Can I take a class in how to do that?”

“Computer skills?” Kev said. “Oh, yes. I’m sure we have those.”

“Cool,” Tom said. “Well, gotta hit Starbucks then the library!” He held his hand out for a handshake of thanks.

“Good luck,” Kev said. He meant it for so much more than just this paper.

Perhaps some of Tom’s grimy enthusiasm rubbed off on Kev, for now he, too, was sure that Tom would be successful. Not with this paper and probably not this bio course, there’s only so much caffeine can do. But for the longer-term course of life, Tom seemed fully primed.  

Such confidence. Certainty. Pride. It’s possible Kev had mistaken the stuff oozing out of Tom for grime, when actually it was grit.

Stories

In Laws

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“Serpentine! Serpentine!” I thought, as Katie screamed and ran.

When under fire, running a serpentine pattern makes you a harder target to hit according to the classic Alan Arkin/Peter Falk comedy “The In Laws” – an appropriate reference. Perhaps even a nice little life lesson, since life often takes pot shots at you when you least expect it.

Peyton had been plotting the event for months. The Plan: propose to Becca at sunset at her favorite vacation spot in Door County Wisconsin. For extra dramatic effect, he secretly invited his family and Becca’s to spring out of hiding once the question was popped for hugs and happiness all around. So the McDermotts and the Lairds made the long trek from Iowa and Minnesota and Chicago to the  peninsula of Wisconsin nestled between Lake Michigan and Green Bay, ready to be part of the surprise on Saturday night.

But then, it rained.

Peyton sent the two families-in-hiding a text: “Postponed until sunset tomorrow.”

“Serpentine! Serpentine!”

The families did not miss a beat, our schedules instantly began to duck and weave. We now had a new mission: To enjoy the holiday weekend in this beautiful, resort community without being seen by Becca!

We bought matching sunglasses to provide the proper incognito disguise.

Knowing the young lovers’ movements via regular updates from Peyton, we stayed either just ahead or just behind them, taking candid selfies at all the places they ate, hiked, and mini-golfed. It was a fun, family bonding experience.

On Sunday, Peyton texted that they would be at the shoreline in Ephraim, across from iconic Wilson’s Ice Cream Parlor, for the sunset event. Once we were in position behind them, with cameras ready, he would begin the knee-bending ceremony.

As we gathered on the lawn next to Wilson’s in front of the Chef’s Hat Café, a mere 15 yards behind an unsuspecting Becca, Marty, Peyton’s dad, set up his camera with a tripod and telephoto lens to capture the moment.

Katie hit Peyton’s twin brother, Connor, “Get a close up!” She pointed to the car parked on the street about five feet behind the bench where Becca and Peyton sat.

“What?! How? They’ll see me for sure!” Connor said.

“Get behind that car and use the selfie stick!” Katie insisted while pantomiming her instructions.

Like the spy he’d become, Connor deftly darted across the highway, crouched down behind the back wheel and extended the selfie stick beyond the trunk, snapping away, hoping for the best.

Behind us, the crowd of outdoor diners enjoying the sunset at the Chef’s Hat Café, noticed that multiple cameras were being trained on the couple sitting on the bench while the rest of our motley crew awkwardly stood there watching…something was going on.

Peyton and Becca stood up. The café crowd murmured in unison. Becca seemingly glanced back in our direction and those of us without cameras scattered like a flock of birds reacting to a shot. Katie screamed as she leapt behind a tree. I spun around in a circle like a dog chasing my own tail. “Serpentine! Serpentine!”

Peyton directed Becca’s gaze forward, away from us. He dropped to one knee, silhouetted by the setting sun, and the café crowd gasped in unison. Becca cried, nodded yes, and embraced Peyton. A loud cheer, applause, and tears broke out from the café patio.

It was all very sweet and romantic. When life doesn’t go as planned, stay focused, bob and weave, and there’s a good chance all will turn out well.

Cheers to the happy couple!

May 27, 2018, Ephraim, Door County, Wisconsin

Stories

Tell and Torment

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Dr. Venji was a small man of friendly demeanor. No outward manifestation of sadist at all.

Torture is a word trivialized by average, mild-mannered suburban types like Kev. Kev considers it torture to endure a commuter train ride home after a long work day with a bunch of loud kids in the car he’s sitting in. Or to wait more than five minutes in line at the Starbucks for his Tall Blonde in a Grande cup while people in front of him wrestle with terms like Venti, Macchiato, and Latte. Or to listen to his mother-in-law describe in gory detail her recent corn removal.

Torture was never, you know, bamboo-under-the-fingernails, hammer-to-the-toes, healthy-teeth-extraction-without-Novocain torture. At worst, it was usually self-inflicted psychological stress.

It was, that is, until he met Dr. Venji.

Kev’s path to the painful yet futile session with Dr. Venji began with a simple yet fruitless business meeting with Roger Hendricks. More accurately, it began with the end of that meeting.

Kev met with Roger, a prospective business partner, at Roger’s office to discuss a potential venture. After an hour or so, the amicable discussion had led them to conclude that they would not be doing business together. Still it had been a pleasure to meet one another. Some good networking if nothing else, Kev thought.

Roger concluded with the ceremonial handshake, but then dropped the tone of his voice from business-friendly to sotto voce and said, “Would you mind if I ask a personal question?”

“Not at all,” Kev replied, though he wasn’t sure where this was leading.

“I couldn’t help but notice that your right eye droops a bit,” Roger said, as tactfully as possible. “Were you aware of that?”

“I guess I didn’t realize it was that noticeable,” Kev replied with an embarrassed laugh.

“Oh, it isn’t conspicuous,” Roger said apologetically. “I may be more prone to notice it because of a close friend of mine. You see, he also has a drooping eye. He didn’t think anything of it, but upon his next doctor’s visit, discovered that it could be a tell.”

Kev gave him a questioning, not sure what you mean look.

“A sign,” Roger explained. “An outward manifestation of a serious problem.”

“Really?” Kev said. This was not where he thought this was going at all.

Roger took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to scare you,” he said, smiling nervously, “but it could be the sign of a brain or lung tumor.”

Kev didn’t really believe in destiny, though he respected the possibility, just in case. As proof of the wisdom in that precaution, he recalled how that very morning, as he drank his coffee on the train ride into the city, he had been thinking about how lucky he felt, how good his life had been so far. He had a great wife, a beautiful daughter, a nice home, a good job, good health. This was an unusual, though pleasant momentary appreciation of his life. He wasn’t sure what sparked the reflective little moment either. One second he’s sipping his Tall Blonde in a Grande cup, staring out the window at the passing urban scenery; the next, he’s feeling like hey, life’s pretty good!

As if he were tempting Fate. And apparently, Fate took the bait. So you think you appreciate how good you have it, do you? replies Fate. Let’s just see about that…

Of course he’d noticed the drooping eye. But Kev had quickly dismissed it, probably no big deal, buried any concern deep in the recesses of his psyche to dwell and fester until someone like Roger here comes along. Those words, brain or lung tumor skewered through his subconscious like a sucker punch to the gut, releasing the pent up fear.

Kev’s jaw went slack, his mouth hung agape, and the blood drained from his face like a punctured water balloon. Roger’s expression turned quickly to one of concern. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, reaching his hand out to steady Kev.

Kev muttered something, “No,” perhaps, and clumsily reached out for the table in the conference room where the two had met so pleasantly just moments ago. He planted his palm on the table top in the manner he would anchor his foot to the floor on those nights when he had consumed too much alcohol and that seemed the only way to keep the bed from spinning wildly out of control. The room seemed to warp and the table stretched out before him.

Kev slowly panned to look out the window, a marvelous view of a sunny spring Chicago day from the twenty-third floor of the Loop office building. It faced south, and Kev thought he could see Comiskey, or whatever brand had its name slapped on the White Sox stadium this season. The Sox would be playing now. Cleveland, Kev thought. Maybe KC.

“Would you like a drink?” Roger asked, very concerned by Kev’s reaction.

Kev felt his head slowly shaking a negative response, but heard his detached voice supersede with, “Yes, thanks.” Cold beer sounded good right then. Scotch sounded outstanding. “Some water, maybe?” Kev said. His voice seemed to have re-connected with his body, but the room still undulated in waves unnatural to the universe.

Kev had first noticed that his right eyelid seemed heavy about a year earlier. He chalked it up to a combination of fatigue and work-related stress. It didn’t bother him on a day-to-day basis, but he noticed it in photos. Slight droop in the right eye—more pronounced in recent months. No pain or any other symptoms. But he didn’t like the look of the pictures. No one had mentioned it. Until Roger.

Lung tumor danced through his racing mind. He had an adorable five year old daughter. He and Jess were trying to make her an older sister. Brain tumor. Didn’t things like that show up one day and six weeks later you’re headlining the obits? Kev decided that sitting down might be the best way to enjoy his drink.

“I’m really sorry,” Roger said as he dashed back into the conference room with a plastic cup of water. He set it before Kev, spilling a little on the table. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

No worries, man. Kev tried to say with a slight shake of his head at Roger. I get turned down on business deals with lines like YOU ARE MOST LIKELY DYING all the time, Kev thought.

The prospect of not getting Roger’s business suddenly could not have mattered less. Kev was ashen. Little gray spots exploded like tiny reversed fireworks all around the surging room. He saw the cup of water but did not dare move his hand from its anchor position on the table. He had fainted before. It had been years ago, but that pre-fainting feeling came back to him all at once. Cold sweat covered his brow, his hands tingled, and someone was slowly turning down the giant volume knob on the universe. The blood in his temples kept time with his heart. Gray fireworks continued to burst before his eyes, blacking out the expensive artwork on the wall to his left and the magnificent view to his right. He knew he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

Then a burst of adrenaline surged to his rescue. He realized that, despite his anxiety, he did not want to faint in front of Roger. Lost deal, tumor, death—all would have to take a backseat to avoid the humiliation of fainting in this conference room. Kev closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Uhh, are you okay?” Roger asked, now quite concerned. He had no idea Kev would take his observation so poorly. He thought he’d just pass along a little fair warning, probably nothing, but maybe just check it out advice. But this guy looked like he may be having a heart attack. It might be prudent to call an ambulance.

Kev kept his eyes closed and inhaled deeply a second time. He raised one finger from the table, hoping to signal to Roger his request for a moment to re-compose. After a third breath, he opened his eyes. The world had stopped shifting like a fun house. The air was free of the gray bursts of impending unconsciousness. Kev looked up at Roger, smiled and drained the cup of water in one gulp.

Danger averted. All was back to normal. Yet Kev’s life, it seemed, was irrevocably changed.

After failing to convince Roger that he was fine and glad that he had shared the droopy eye analysis with him, Roger apologized repeatedly and tried to assure Kev that it was quite possibly nothing until the elevator doors in the reception area of his office blessedly shut him out of Kev’s life.

Kev realized that Roger wasn’t the problem, merely the messenger and all. Still, he found himself relieved to be out of Roger’s presence.

Now I know what torture feels like, thought Kev as the elevator descended. But actually, he didn’t.

Not yet.

# # #

Ptosis flashed at Kev from his phone’s screen. “Toe-sis.” 1,832 possible links claimed the results of the Google search. Kev clicked on a few of the links. Many offered benign prognosis. Others confirmed Roger’s assertions; brain tumor. Lung tumor. Not good.

Kev didn’t want to worry his wife, Jess. She managed to worry about things like the wall collapsing on them because of the weight of a picture frame he’d hung over their couch. “Are you sure that will hold?” Jess asked while they sat beneath it watching TV.

“The picture I hung on the wall three years ago?” Kev replied.

“It won’t just work its way loose, right?” Jess asked. She was serious. Kev did not know how to respond to a question that crazy without using heaping helpings of sarcasm and sounding mean. So he just kept quiet and continued watching TV.

Lord knows what she would do with something real to worry about.

So Kev made an appointment with his primary care physician, Doc McBride, just for a check-up. “It’s been a couple of years,” he said to Jess.  She nodded. She had regularly seen her doctor since Becca had been born.  “I might have him check my droopy eye while I’m there,” Kev added as a throw-away afterthought.

“Yeah, I noticed that,” she said, touching the eye in question. This was the first time she had ever mentioned it. So she had noticed, too. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Kev said. “It’s probably just ‘cause I’m tired.”

“You stay up too late,” Jess said. “You’re not in your twenties anymore.”

“Are you saying I need my beauty rest?” Kev asked.

“Check the mirror, Mr. Droopy-Eye,” she said, then kissed him playfully. “You don’t think it’s anything serious?”

“No,” Kev said, trying to assure himself as much as Jess.

“Doc McBride,” she huffed. “Sounds like some wild west character. Combination barber, dentist, doctor and bar-keep.”

“You make him sound like a well-rounded drunk.”

# # #

“It’s probably nothing,” Doc McBride told Kev after the exam a few days later. He said it a little too unconvincingly for Kev. The doc rocked back on the little stool with coasters and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand as he thumbed through the medical charts with his left.

Kev sat on the exam table opposite him, clad in shorts and a paper gown open in the back. His sweaty thighs stuck uncomfortably to the crinkly, waxy paper stretched over the table. Kev clenched the table’s padding and alternately curled and stretched his exposed toes as they dangled eight inches above the cold, tile floor. Physically, he felt fine. As fine as a slightly overweight, out of shape, late thirties desk jockey could feel. The results from his check-up seemed to confirm that he was fine. But there was hesitancy in the doc’s voice.

“I’m sure it’s just fatigue,” he offered, but not whole-heartedly. Watching him wrestle with the thought of dismissing this outright versus sending Kev off for a battery of specialists and testing reminded Kev of why he liked him: his transparent honesty.

Doc McBride clucked his tongue against the top of his mouth as he read and re-read Kev’s file. “You wear contacts, right?” he asked. He had the old country doctor demeanor, gruff yet charming. Conservative, not alarmist.

“Soft contacts,” Kev replied, “Monthly disposables.” Kev enjoyed his down-to-earth approach to family medicine. He found McBride’s open disdain of the healthcare system and distrust of mega pharmaceutical firms refreshingly honest.

Doc stopped flipping through the file and just looked at Kev. He seemed to look through Kev, with the kind of X-ray eyes we all secretly wish our physicians magically possess. Kev didn’t go to the doctor looking for conjecture or theory. He wants him to know instantly exactly what is wrong with him and prescribe exactly what needs to be done to fix him. Doc McBride wished it were that easy, too.

Doc squinted in a pained way and took a deep breath. Kev held his. “Ahhh, it’s most likely nothing,” Doc finally conceded. “But to be certain, you should see a specialist for a second opinion.” He wrote up the paper work and sent Kev on his way.

# # #

After his initial analysis, Dr. Venji, the neurologist, concurred that there was most likely nothing to worry about. But to rule out the worst-case scenario and perhaps make this month’s boat payment, he recommended that Kev take a few blood tests and an EMG.

“Electromyography Nerve Conduction,” seemed to roll naturally off his Indian tongue.

“What’s that, like a shock thing?” Kev asked.

“Yes, nothing to worry about,” he said dismissively. “A few minor electric surges to test your nerves. I conduct the procedure myself.”

No veins. No blood. Sounded fine to Kev. He had a thing about veins and blood. Shock me all you want, Dr. Venji, Kev thought.

Oh, he would.

Kev had assumed that the area of his body to be tested would be the muscles and nerves around the drooping eye.

“No. No. No,” Dr. Venji explained. “I need to test your extremities, to see if any nerve damage is manifested in your arms or your legs. If this proves positive, it would mean a much more severe case, and require different treatment.”

So far, everyone seemed to agree that it was probably nothing. So Kev was fairly relaxed. Sure, while I’m here, let’s just eliminate the remote possibility of something horrible. No harm in that.

Well, maybe a little.

Dr. Venji had Kev lie on his back and hooked three sensors to his right hand.  Then he took a small, handheld cattle prod and jammed it against Kev’s arm. It felt the way Kev imagined it would if he were to lick his finger and run it real fast across an electric outlet. It hurt a little, but then it was gone.  Sure woke him up, though.  He felt his hair standing on end.

Dr. Venji repeated this little shock treatment four more times along various spots on Kev’s arm.  He always stopped just before the experience escalated from irritating to painful.

This isn’t so bad. Kev thought. Annoying, sure, but no veins. No IVs. No problem!

Then Dr. Venji taped together the fingers on Kev’s hand. “I want you to try to stretch them apart,” he said. “I am testing to see how long it takes to fatigue the muscles in your arm.”

Was it Kev’s imagination, or was Dr. Venji enjoying himself?

Kev flexed the bound fingers for a few seconds. “Very good,” said Dr. Venji. “I will now apply the same shock, but for a more prolonged period of time.” He paused. “This will become quite uncomfortable.”  He was right. But before Kev had a chance to think about what that meant, Dr. Venji began.

‘Unbearable’ would have been a better word to describe the experience.  Kev was beginning to get a more clear appreciation for the word torture.

Each shock lasted ten seconds. Ten shocks on the same spot on Kev’s wrist.  Each shock wave cascaded through his entire body, reverberating off his nerves and running into the onslaught of a new wave on the flipside.  Kev thought of the classic image of someone feigning being shocked, writhing spasmodically back and forth.  That was him. For real. By the end, he nearly screamed.

“Stretch your fingers apart as much as you can and hold it for as long as possible,” Dr. Venji said without apology.  Kev did so gladly and quickly. Anything to keep him from turning on the juice again. “Very goood,” Dr. Venji purred, as he studied the readout on the monitor, “Now, I’m going to do that again.”

Before Kev had time to argue, the bastard was zapping his wrist again.

Kev counted along three…four…five…six…  the time it took to get from six to ten was an eternity of pain. You know what keeps you from fainting spells? Dr. Venji and the electric wand of evil.

At the end, Kev again dutifully flexed his fingers and again Dr. Venji seemed pleased with the results. Kev started to relax a bit.

“Now, just one more time,” Dr. Venji said quickly, and again he attacked Kev’s wrist for another ten sessions. Holy shit, did that hurt. Not just the wrist, now his entire body ached from the inside out.

“Okay, all done with that,” Dr. Venji announced as he detached the big prod from the electric plug and set it aside. He attached a smaller prod and began zapping Kev’s fingers individually, though using lesser wattage.

He jotted some notes on the printout, a bunch of squiggly lines detailing the recent displeasure. “We are finished with that part of the test,” Dr. Venji said. Kev didn’t feel any more at ease. Less so as Dr. Venji rolled his chair back and pulled some rubber gloves out of a drawer.

To Kev, rubber gloves meant one of two things: internal exam or blood.  He didn’t much care for either option.  Dr. Venji unwrapped a fresh, sterile needle. The wide end of the needle plugged neatly into his fancy electric shock machine.

“This will hurt a bit,” Dr. Venji said as he jammed the needle into Kev’s shoulder. Then he flipped a switch applying a mild shock.  The poking into the skin actually hurt more than the shock, but neither were as bad as the previous test. Kev started to calm down a bit and actually didn’t mind too much as the good doctor repeated this procedure in different parts of his arm, closer and closer to his hand.

It was interesting, Kev thought, what level of discomfort seems suddenly to be tolerable now that electro-shock treatment has been introduced as the new benchmark for comparison.

Dr. Venji removed the instrument from Kev’s arm and quickly stabbed it into the flesh in the back of Kev’s hand, between the thumb and forefinger. That really hurt, even by the new standard.  It hurt a lot more when Dr. Venji cranked the juice. “Ow!” Kev said, and actually pulled away from the seemingly more and more evil doctor for the first time in the exam. He seriously considered punching the little man.

“Yes, I know, that does hurt a bit,” Dr. Venji admitted.  Kev wondered if he did know. If Dr. Venji actually had first-back-of-the-hand experience. Kev was quite ready and willing to turn the tables and provide it to him. No charge. Well, no fee. Plenty of charge.

Dr. Venji turned Kev’s hand over, palm up, “Okay, the good news is that this next one is the last one. Unfortunately, it is also the most painful.”  And before Kev could react, he thrust the needle into the fatty part of Kev’s palm and flipped the switch.

Well, he wasn’t kidding.  It hurt like hell.  Worst pain, by far. Kev’s palm throbbed long after Dr. Venji was done, had stripped off his gloves and congratulated him on being so tolerant of such a painful procedure. Kev redressed quickly, buttoning up his shirt before Dr. Venji decided to provide an encore performance.

“So, how long until you get the results?” Kev asked, rubbing his abused arm starting with the palm, and working up toward the shoulder.

“Oh, your nerves are fine,” Dr. Venji said. “I still need to see the results of your blood tests. We should have final results for you next week.” The little man shook Kev’s hand with such civility, it was as if he hadn’t just tortured him for the past half hour.

The following week, Dr. Venji looked at the results and asked, “Do you wear contacts?”

“Yes,” Kev said.

“You should see an ophthalmologist,” Dr. Venji said. “You probably just need a different kind of contact lens.”

He was right. Kev went from monthly disposables to bi-weekly disposables and the ptosis went away.

His contacts.

Doc McBride had hinted that that might be the root of the problem. Kev could have avoided a lot of physical and emotional pain had he just tested that theory first. But that path would not have satisfied Fate.

True appreciation only comes through true suffering, through some sacrifice, Kev imagined the voice of Fate lecturing him while he sipped his Tall Blonde in a Grande cup on another sunny morning commute into the city.

I thought I had appreciated my happy, mild-mannered life, Kev admitted to Fate, in his mind’s eye. You saw to it that my appreciation be confirmed through suffering the torture of humiliation in Roger’s office, the weeks of mental anguish dreading the specter of my mortality, and the physical sacrifice of torture from the electric wand of the merciless Dr. Venji.

Thanks, Fate, Kev thought, toasting the great unseen force with a raise of his cup.

In reply, a spasm shot from his shoulder to the palm of his hand and back, as quick as lightning.

Stories

The Troubled Princess

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Once upon a time, there was a young princess. She was adorable, though mostly bald, and loved all creatures, especially her trusted dog, Bucket, who faithfully returned her love.

She spent the first six years of her life as the center of the known universe. On one side of her family, she was the sole grandchild and great-grandchild, so she received an extra helping of doting from Nana, grandpa, great-nanas, and great aunts and uncles. Though some children may have felt such pressure too much to endure, the princess somehow managed to thrive as the one, true ruler of all she surveyed.

She loved all things Disney, and quickly memorized and often performed her favorite songs and scenes from movies (in full costume) for all her loyal subjects to enjoy. If she so decreed, you might be lucky enough to sing along with her. However, if you sang the words wrong or off key (Nana), you were told in no uncertain terms from the princess to cease and desist. “You are OUT OF THE CLUB!” she would declare, indicating, with no subtly, the end of your vocal participation, rescinding your expected duties to mere rapt attention and adoration.

Just after her 6th birthday, the princess’ world was rocked with the arrival of a sister. While this new play-thing was at first a fun diversion, it soon became apparent that the princess would be required to share her limelight with this intruder. Worse, she was expected to “help out” and “be a role model” of good behavior to said sibling. Again, while initially interesting, these new assignments grew to become onerous. When she was seven, the princess pulled her father aside and confessed, “I’m not sure I want to be a big sister. I have to be nice to her and set a good example ALL THE TIME. It’s a lot to think about and it’s not fair.”

Her father, kind and wise, said to the princess, “You’re right, it is not fair. But fair or not, you will always be the big sister. And your sister will always look to you as a model for behavior. Whether that is a model of good behavior that she will look up to and respect (loving you and wanting to be just like you), or bad behavior that she will despise and reject (hating you and wanting to be nothing like you), is entirely up to you.”

The princess cried. Of all the burdens of ruling the known universe, this surely was the one with the greatest weight, yet, also the greatest potential; her character would play out as hero or villain all based upon her own decisions and actions from here on in.

The princess rose to the challenge and became the best big sister the world has ever known. She taught her sister everything she knew about singing, acting, and dancing (for a modest, family-friendly fee), included her in games and shows, served as the best role model in academics, friendships, and fun, and was her sister’s greatest fan as her sibling grew in her own fields of performance and art.

Those character traits associated with being a positive role model, leading others by good example, crept into all aspects of the princess’ life. She would inspire and support others that she met and worked and lived with, always with a positive, helpful attitude. And, when appropriate, for a modest, family-friendly fee.

And she lived happily, lovingly, ever-after.

Random stories picked from my life