Vol IV: #51 Kids With Cancer

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On the topic of suffering, I think I’ve lived my entire life thinking I could avoid it. And I tried to, yep. I did. At first, I through myself into pleasurable pursuits. Who doesn’t love a good numbing out? Then I thought other people had the answers. And most recently, I thought I could hack life in such away to avoid suffering and grief. But, and write this will all mirth and and seriousness, that’s bullshit too. Not even God keeps us from suffering and He never promises too. Matter fact, our Lord and savior gives us instruction on how to handle pain and persecution when it comes. And, I believe the early church embraced it.

Yet, somewhere between then and now, we started to believe we could avoid the worst of the worst. Perhaps it’s living in the West, owning cars and video phones and being able to press a small screen to find the right fix for any of our endless needs. And aren’t we entitled? Don’t we deserve better than slow internet and idiots on the road? I mean come on. How dare my dad get cancer or my best friend’s brother die young? What kind of a world is this? Eh? Don’t ruin my of utopia with your reality.

It’s so bad that people stop believing in God when they encounter real adversity. As CS Lewis put it, their “faith [is] revealed to be nothing more than a house of cards.” Of course, some people choose to become resentful of God as if he promised them nothing but sugar fairy farts and days of endless spring sun. How dare we suffer? I mean really. That whole book of Job, enslavement in Egypt, the Exodus, David’s time in the caves, the second enslavement in Babylon, the Cross, the stoning of Stephen, the death of the Apostles, the persecution the of the early church, all that crap, that’s not for me. Right? I’m better than all that.

And yet we know better. I know better. And it’s time I accept it. I’ve suffered in my life. Some of it because of me and some because of others. And the choice we all have to be a bitter, joyless coward- shivering the corner hoping not to been seen, or… we can shine. Through the mist and the darkness, in the face of whatever may come. Burn and shine and fight until the candle is melted and all over the floor. And then when it’s our time, I hope our smoke lingers longer than most.

Regardless, don’t ask me about kids with cancer. What can I say about it that will make it better? Answer: not a damn thing. It sucks. Shitty shit is real and the only legit question is how are we gonna respond?

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Vol IV: #50 FOUR MONTHS!!

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I can’t believe I went exactly four months between installments of West Virginia. HOLY CRAP. That’s insanely too long between installments. And all I can do now is laugh. Seriously. No point in beating myself up, but also…wtf, Nik. LOLOLOL.

In fairness to myself, I needed time to decided the direction of West Virginia. While I’m using my very real experience to shape and move the story, I needed to add fictional plot lines and people. And some details will be a blend of moments or people. For example, instead of having two roommates, I’ll only have the one, named Malik. And Malik will be two parts roommate, one part fiction. And for me, this is the hard part of realistic fiction, deciding which people and details to preserve, what to cut, and what to make up. (Gary and Mary was almost complete fiction, which was fun. My memory didn’t box me in.)

Anyway. Hope you had a good Monday.

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Short: Prepared, West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

After coffee with Brad, I felt better about West Virginia. And, with a little more than a month before the event, I began to plan a menu for the volunteers. It’s at this point in the story where I need to admit, I’d never been given such a responsibility before, though I was strangely confident I could pull it off. For starters, my roommate Malik, had managed several restaurant kitchens and I picked his brain on the subject of feeding large groups of hungry college kids.

Breakfast was simple- scrambled eggs, bacon cooked on sheet trays in the oven, same for the breakfast sausage and biscuits. And to provide a few more options, we’d also set out apples and bananas, a selection instant oatmeals, and bagels with cream cheese and jams. For lunch, each student would make a sandwich from the provided stacks of ham, turkey, and cheese, then select a snack or two- chocolate chip cookies, potato chips, and more apples and bananas.

The only real challenge was dinner each night. The group would arrive late (after dinner) on Friday evening, then head home after breakfast the nextthe Wednesday. The schedule meant I had to come up with four meals. And on Malik’s advice, I opted to meals with big carbs and plenty of protein. In world of professional cooking, that means potatoes smashed, pasta, ground beef, and chicken thighs. Happy with my menu of spaghetti with meat sauce, chicken noodle soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, lasagna, and roasted chicken with smashed potatoes and peas, I picked Malik’s brain again.

“Hey man, uh, how much chicken do I need for the soup? And the roast?” I asked a week before.

From his seat on the coach he turned to me and took a moment to let the question settle in his mind. Then he chuckled to himself. “Boy, you don’t know shit, do you?”

“Nope. I do not.” I laughed back.

Then Malik explained to me the concepts of yield. I soaked up as much as possible. After lecture on meat which sheds water and fat while cooking, Malik went on about pasta, which gains weight. After the conversation and some quick calculations, I was set.

* * *

The day before Brad and I were set to ride up to West Virginia, I was hit by a waves of doubt and anxiety. Why did Jonathan call me? Who else did he call? And why did they say no? Am I a sucker? And I was most worried I’d munk up dinner every night. That evening, I spent on the back porch with Malik. We sipped beers and talked football. Then he asked for more details about the adventure to come, but I had little to offer. And then I asked him about his girlfriend, which required the rest of the evening to unpack. It was fine conversation, which when combined with a few beers, eased my mind about the days ahead. And while I was thankful for the calm moment, I completely forgot to check the weather forecast for Welch.

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Vol IV: #49 What We Allow

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In what I’ll label an intense conversation, someone recently told me his girlfriend would rather accept the creepy advances of a jerk on Instagram than rebuke the bastard or block him. Apparently, she’s afraid of “what he might do if she hurts his feelings.” My heart broke for the stupid girl. At a young age she’s already learned to lay down and take the misery.

And look, I get it. Most women learn to be weak and accept the bullshit lobbed their way by society- mostly by men. The physical difference is real. But for all the rah-rah women empowerment of the last fifty years, the lay down and take it mentality is completely unacceptable. By God and Heaven above, I will never teach that fearful way to live to any little girl proceeding from my loins. (Nor any son.) I teach them to use guns and fight and whatever is necessary to be strong and powerful.

And to clearly state my position, I’m not talking about picking a fight with every jackass. Wisdom is a our best friend and will steer us away from fights better left unfought. But, in general, I’m talking about refusing to take shit- abuse, unwanted advances, and tyrannical treatment- from other people. The acceptance of abuse leads to all sorts of brokenness in our lives: poor physical health, internalized resentment, and mental problems. (And yes, we can and do abuse ourselves.) In the end, when we accept abuse, we are saying we don’t deserve better. We agree with the abuser’s judgement and wickedness directed at our being. This can’t be.

That poor girl is making a dangerous choice by accepting the creepy messages from an idiot. And that’s what I told her partner.

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Vol IV: #48 Writing and Writing, Update

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Hi everyone. Just a quick note. I’ve begun to focus more on my novel, which means less blog. But, rather than make excuses, I want to get back to blogging and crafting short stories. It’s a good outlet and I enjoy having short term goals. Accordingly, I will finish each of the three short stories I have in progress by the mid-March. Those being West Virginia, The Mountain, and O Charlie. Trying to write three at a time was not smart, so I’ll focus on finishing West Virginia, then O Charlie, and finish with The Mountain.

That’s it. Short and sweet today. (As for the novel, I’ve backed up a bit and focused on outline- completed- and have now begun character sketches. I needed to determine the order of events and build out my character to determine how they’d interact as the story unfolds. All good stuff.)

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Vol IV: #48 Vices Aren’t Good For Us

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As I watched the run up to the Super Bowl, I sat amazed at the attention given to online betting. And then a thought walked through my mind last week, didn’t we use to believe all this stuff was bad for us? And by stuff I include drugs and porn with gambling. Not to mention fast food, chips and candy, what we called junk food. Literally. And then junk food became ubiquitous at every highway exit and shopping mall. Of course now, Taco Bell and McDonald’s are on demand via your favorite delivery app.

At the risk of sounding like an old man, WTF? Why is the worst of what we are the easiest to access? And it’s more than that. The ability to gossip, slander, or creepily watch other people live their lives is also greater than ever. And as I wrote above, didn’t we believe all this was sin? Was bad for us? Isn’t it still?

Admittedly, I get it. We’re all avoiding pain- of loss, but also of failure. It’s easier to watch someone live their life or drink away grief than it is to chase a dream. I know this because I’m no better than anyone at having my vices. Only when I actively try to stop entertaining them do I become keenly aware of their draw and hold over me. And yet, I know every time I watch a YouTube video about zit popping or life in Korea, I’m avoiding my life, my calling, and my destiny. Apparently, most of us are. Lord, help us.

(If it needs to be said: Eating Taco Bell isn’t a sin, in itself, but over-eating, binge eating, and generally neglecting your body is. Using social media isn’t a sin, but voyeurism- the social act of watching other people as a form of pleasure- is. Drugs are bad. Porn is worse. And gambling is how people become poor.)

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Vol IV: #47 A Death and a Baby

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On Saturday, mere moments apart, I existed at each end of the life cycle. Both in the extreme. In the first, I learned of a dream made reality, when I happened upon posted pictures of a newborn baby girl and her smiling adoptive parents. What a joyful surprise. My friends tried for nearly a decade to produce a child, managed several failed adoptions, and now they have their blessing. I thanked the Lord and messaged several friends to spread the good news. And then as life does, a few minutes later I received a call, the kind you know isn’t good and you brace for the worst. In this case, a step-cousin only a few years younger than me gave into to his hopelessness. His father found his body that morning.

Ever since, I’ve felt ripped open, my thoughts and emotions spilling out randomly. I didn’t know my step-cousin very well, but I know his father, my uncle, and his step-mom, my aunt. And I hate what they’re going through. But, more than that, I hate that my step-cousin gave up. To be clear, I’m not mad at him. And if you- my reader- can hear this, suicide is last act of a once compassionate person. Someone who listened to the sirens for far too long. They falsely assume they are worthless and empty and unloveable, and that their death will no bare effect on the world. The hole labeled suicide is a nasty dark pit of lies and pain. Once inside it, the logic of suicide becomes clear: there is no way out, if I die, I will not feel any more pain. Psychopaths take their pain out on the world. My step-cousin took his pain out on himself. And even though I can rationalize all of this shit, I’m still angry. Feels like the enemy got one.

To counter my grief, I’ve tried to kept the miracle baby near the front of my mind. It helps soothe my spirit, to remember the goodness of God, and to anticipate more updates from my friends. I can’t wait to hear their stories and anecdotes related to parenting, a future joy in waiting. What a wonderfully shitty place to be in life.

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Vol IV: #46 Morbid Thoughts and Gratitude

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I thought about my oldest nephew today and for the first time considered his death. What a truly sad thought it was, leading to tears and a new fear. I can’t imagine my life without T. We’ve grown close since his ascent into adult life and in many respects he’s the little brother I never had. I hated thinking about his death, inevitable as it is. And I truly hope it’s after my own. But, we never know.

Death has been a frequent visitor in my life, careless in his raids, taking young and old alike. And I probably think about him too much, though I’m not afraid of him as I was. We will all pass under death’s hand before going to meet the King. And cliche as it is, I truly believe when it’s your time, it’s your time. Only the grieving and the foolish consider otherwise, playing the fruitless game of “what if.” (Ironically, few play the same game when life is good. No one sits around crying about almost failing or nearly dying. More often than not we smile and laugh and move on. As we should.)

In regards to my nephew, I turned my fear into a prayer for his safety, as I do in all such moments. Then I thanked the Lord for his life and the blessing he is to me.

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Vol IV: #45 Honestly, Honesty

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There’s a maxim circling my universe that says “Tell the truth, or at least, don’t lie.” And it challenges me to my core despite being churched as a youngster and dedicated adult Christian. Because, like most people, I tend to curve my thoughts and words to please the hearer. One salient example relates to this blog and my roommate. I’m four years deep and never mentioned it to him.

And now I assume you’ve leaned your head to one side like a dog and asked “why…haven’t you told your roommate about your blog?” I understand. Your question is the best and most natural reaction to my words. And the short answer is, I don’t want him to read it. I like having a secret. And I feel justified in my stance. Can’t I have a place away from his judging eyes? The answer is, of course, yes. But, there’s more to it than that.

In truth, I’ve kept all my goals and plans from him- the novel, the short stories and poems, my plans to grow plants and move into my own place and everything else. And were I to have one secret, something innocent I wanted to keep to myself, that’s normal. But I keep most of my life from his prying eyes. And I’m starting to grow tired of managing all the non-lies and excuses (which are lies, let’s me be real.)

And I lie for the same reasons we all lie, to keep the peace, to get what I want, etc. And the honesty thing, to always tell the truth, that’s a gut punch. It will require me to admit I’ve lied in the past. And it will possibly, most likely, damage relationships and my reputation. I’m terrified at what I may destroy. My roommate can be a petty man, prone to hold grudges and respect. He could brush it off or take offense, depends on his mood. And though I’m scared of what he might do, I know I need to be honest with him, about me. And I also know, on the other side of fear, is freedom and grace. No matter what the result is, I won’t have to carry my dishonest burdens another step.

Wish me luck.

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Short: The Mountain, Verse 3

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The first visit only intensified the boy’s hunger to climb the Mountain,

and he day dreamed of reaching the snowy summit,

of planting his flag at the top.

Mere months later, near the end of summer and the beginning of another school year, his thirst was relieved.

A field trip.

To the mountain, or better told, to same state park at the foot of the beast he visited with his dad.

The boy was elated upon hearing the good news.

And he couldn’t keep his legs from running all the way home.

Bursting through the door, he yelled, DAD! MOM! WE’RE GOING TO THE MOUNTAIN! without caution or care.

When the day arrived, the boys parents found him sitting at the breakfast table, packed and ready for adventure.

Both mom and dad welcomed the initiative and his widened eyes and the excitement of the morning’s conversation,

his feet swinging from his seat.

The rest of the morning lagged from house to school to the slow journey north on a cranky yellow bus.

The boy didn’t mind.

He’d chosen his seat with care, close to the front, able to ignore the chatter and hum of the other children.

Unfortunately, his second trip to the Grey Lord was nothing like the first.

After a head count, potty break, and lecture from the park ranger,

the class marched down one trail before stopping for lunch.

The boy ate his lunch with his face to his Friend,

and recoiled at a stack of papers thrust into his hand.

Worksheets?

He thumbed through the papers, answering what he could, and stuffed the stack in backpack.

The next hike lasted little more than an hour, included many stops, and yet another bathroom break.

And his heart sank as he heard the words, head back toward the bus.

But all was not lost, for amid the standing and boredom, the boy took home a trophy.

Stuffed in his bag with the stack of papers, pencils, and an empty water bottle was a trifold map he took from ranger’s station.

Detailed and colorful, he now possessed the ability to go higher and further than before.

And the whole ride home he studied his prize and planned his next trip.

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Vol IV: #44 Cut Them Some Slack

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The other day, while working my delivery job, I needed the help of a Walmart associate. The closet one was a sweet older lady who looked to be in her early to mid 70s. To help me, she needed to look up an item and proceeded to fumble with the technology in her hands. I could sense her shame and embarrassment rise with each failed attempt and I did my best to remain calm. After her tenth attempt to perform the task, I wanted to snatch the device and complete the query myself or, at the least, ask for help from another employee. But, I didn’t. Finally, another woman made her way over to help. And just as I was about to receive the needed information, an old asshole with pale skin and a navy blue baseball cap walked up to the sweet old lady and began to pester her with rude questions about “the inventory control management system you got here.”

I was in a rush and thus kept my observations to myself, figuring the two ladies could handle him. But my Lord knows, I had a few words for him. Words like The f*ck is wrong with you? What’s the point of being a dick? Does she look like someone in charge of the “inventory management system bro? You look old as dirt, so you ought to know customer service reps don’t make high level decisions? And that they certainly don’t make complicated decisions related to the placement of items in a store as large as a Walmart? Why don’t you go home and yell at the TV?

I was angry. And I know he was frustrated. We’ve all been there, aimlessly wondering the aisles looking for the one thing we need. But that pale faced jagoff took it to an extreme. And in the end, all that jerk did was vomit his frustration onto the weakest looking employee he could find. What a dick.

The thing is, most of us look down on Walmart employees. Don’t deny it. We do. In truth, Walmart employees and fast food workers are some of the least respected workers in the country. The question I ask is why? They work just like everyone else, except they come face to face with some of the biggest dickbags you’ll ever see, not to mention being at the bottom of a large corporate entity that would just as much replace them than give them a raise. Or in a different light, when was the last time you had to deal with rowdy teenagers, tweeked out losers, smelly old farts, demanding Karens, and self-righteous “you can’t check my bag” morons, all day, every single day? (For min wage.) Huh?

Welcome to Walmart. Cut the people in the light blue vest some friggin slack.

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Short: O Charlie, First Friday

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Bishop’s first week at Charlie’s was a training week conducted by a slender busybody named Derek and a squat gossip who everybody called Ray Ray. Each afternoon, Bishop changed into his new white oxford and dark blue Levis and then walked the quarter mile to the restaurant. Derek and Ray Ray alternated training sessions each day beginning with company policies on Monday, steps of service on Tuesday, menu review Wednesday, and side work and clean up on Thursday. After each training session, Bishop shadowed a competent server for a more practical education. Friday was reserved for running food as a means of learning where each table was in the restaurant.

That first Monday, he followed Jerry, a stocky clean-shaven man with a loud voice and sarcastic wit. Whether customer or coworker, he had a joke at the reqdy, which set everyone in his path at ease, so much so Bishop hardly payed attention to the little aspects of job that would cause him problems the following week. Jerry made every part of serving look effortless from greeting a new table, to refilling drinks and running food, and all with a smile plastered to his face.

Tuesday and Wednesday, Bishop shadowed his trainer Derek, who also made the job look effortless. Fortunately for Bishop, Derek took time to explain what he was doing and why he did it. Between table visits, Derek stopped to review aspects of serving, like timing- when to fire an order to the kitchen and when to hold it- how to avoid the line for yeast rolls, and the best way to upsell a guest from a cheap sirloin into a pricey ribeye. And when he wasn’t talking to customers or talking shop, Derek dropped barbs about his coworkers. Don’t talk back to Rob, he’s a dick. Bree hates me because she wants my section. Have you seen Marissa’s teeth…you know why they’re dark like that, right? Of course, Bishop did not know why, but nodded along as if he did.

Thursday was perhaps the worst day for Bishop because he shadowed Ryan, a tongue-pierced prick of a man, with spiked hair and a goatee. Ryan questioned Bishop at length about his life and then pestered him with questions related to the menu and steps of service. And he began nearly every sentence with You know why or You know you should in tone so condescending, Bishop wanted to smack him in the nads. Worst of all, Ryan advised Bishop to carry fifty dollars in loose change- quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies- at all times during his shift, which Bishop did until he realized how stupid it was. No server needs fifty dollar in coins tucked in their apron unless they want to sound like they’re part of a chain gang or look like they have chunk balls.

On that Friday, Bishop sensed a shift in the atmosphere as he stepped through the door. Though still early, only 4 PM, the mood was serious. The leisurely pace and smiles of the previous days were gone, replaced by rushed exchanges and furrowed faces. The restaurant had few tables of old people out to beat the rush and drinkers who began the weekend early. Slightly more than normal, but not busy. Courtney, petite assistant manager with a Kentucky draw, greeted Bishop as we walked into the kitchen. “You ready for tonight?” she asked with half smile. “I think so. What do I need to do?” he responded. Courtney’s face brightened at the question before she rattled off his duties for the evening, then she introduced him to the cooks on the line. There was Lamar the fry cook, Chris on the grill, Marcus for sauté and salads, and Woody was the kitchen manager. In the back of the restaurant, Jose- a former bank manager from Peru- washed dishes, and when needed, made salads.

Over the next hour, more servers appeared until all twelve were clocked-in and ready, anxiously checking their tables and restocking supplies. Bishop reviewed the tables and sections. Servers are given sections containing a number of tables. And some sections are better than others. The bar area is full of drinkers who tipped better than most. While sections closers to the kitchen reduced distance and time needed to complete tasks. Derek and Ray Ray’s sections were in the bar area, while Ryan and Jerry held larger sections closer to the kitchen.

As Bishop studied the floor map, Jerry took a moment to check in on the new guy. “How ya’ doing? Need anything?”

“No. I’m ready.”

“Great,” Jerry said with a smile. “We’re gonna have fun tonight. Fridays are busy and that’s good. That’s when I make my money. So, don’t mess up.”

The last bit, a typical Jerry joke, caught Bishop off guard and both men laughed away the nerves. And as if on cue, Jerry walked out of the kitchen without a word. And then there was a brief moment of quiet in kitchen. All the servers were out at their tables, greeting hungry faces and taking orders. Bishop stood on his side of line and sipped his cola, watching the swell.

“It’s the calm before the storm,” quipped a deep voice from behind the line. Bishop turned to see the kitchen manager Woody, a tall, dark skinned man with a wide face, perfectly round afro, and a gleaming white smile. He too seemed at ease with rush to come as he leaned on the counter between them. And then he stood straight up and turned to his crew. “It’s all gonna come at once. Go get your drinks now. Hurry. And take a leak if you need to too. We won’t have a break for a while,” he barked, scattering his cooks like ducks off a pond, in every direction all at once, then returning as quick as they’d left.

Finally, the calm broke by the screech of the printer. The first tickets began to roll in, and Bishop’s first Friday night was underway.

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