Walk in the Woods
Short: Recruiting Brad, West Virginia
Recruiting Brad, West Virginia. Part 5 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
Then we were back into the bright, warm hallway of the second floor, down the switchback staircase, and out the front doors. I stretched my back and turned away from the school toward the train track and the river. Jonathan and Tom stood talking next to the white Dodge truck while David gave me more details of the roof repair. As we stood there, the gray clouds broke and slivers of sunlight nestled onto the mountain beyond the river. And yellow splotches dotted the ridge and chased each other slowly to the crest. Then Jonathan informed me of our plans for the evening. We’d eat dinner at Tom’s house then head to a high school football game.
Both the dinner and the game were full of heart and by standards of quality, mediocre. Dinner consisted of under cooked frozen pizza, while the evening downpour turned the game into a sloppy mess. Still, like a good guest, I smiled and expressed gratitude to the host when asked if I was “having fun.” Midway through the game and fully soaked, I decided I’d better get back to Charlotte. After saying my goodbyes to Tom and David, Jonathan walked me to my car to discuss next steps.
“When can you come up? The JMU group will be here that Friday night. It would be great if you could be here the Thursday before.”
“I’ll have to get the time off work, but it shouldn’t be an issue. Can I bring an assistant?”
“Who’d you have in mind?”
“Bradley Compton? Do you remember him?”
“Yeah. I remember him. He was in your class, right? What’s he up to?”
“He transferred to Queens,” I stammered before I continued. “Um..he’s not doing too great. I’d like him to get out of Charlotte. Coming up here with me could be good for him. And, I know he’ll work hard.”
“Ok. Yeah. I like him. Bring him up,” answered Jonathan. “He’ll be your responsibility. And he’s pro bono if he comes. I can’t afford to pay him for this trip. But tell him, if it works, I can pay him for December.”
“Solid. I’ll ask him.”
“Alright mate, see you in few weeks?” He asked.
“Yep. I’ll be here.”
And with next steps settled, I started back down Route 52 toward Bluefield and I-77.
***
A few days later, I met Brad for coffee near the Queens University campus. The shop on East Blvd was a renovated colonial revival with a wrap around porch. Fashionable for the mid-2000s, it was full of dark leather couches, hardwood floors, and baristas named Fox and Celeste. I ordered a black Americano and relaxed into a couch with a view of the street. Brad arrived five minutes later, his eyes wide in the dim afternoon light. He was dressed in old worn basketball shoes, khakis pants a size too large, a stained white three button pull over, and a Charlotte Hornets starter jacket from the early 90’s. His unshaved face and knotted blonde locks completed the look of a man unconcerned about his appearance. And he reeked of cannabis smoke, no doubt consumed mere minutes before our meeting.
“Hey man. What’s up?” he asked with a smile before giving me a quick bro hug. “Lemme get you a tea. I’m really into chia right now. So good for you. Do you wanna try one?” I declined and nodded to my still steaming mug. “How about a scone? The blueberry scone here is the best.” Again, I declined.
A moment later, Brad came back with his arms full of tea and water and various snacks. He sat down on the couch across from me and and settled into a bag of salt and vinegar kettle chips.
“How’s the semester going?” I asked.
“Oh, you know,” was all he said.
His intoxicated state annoyed and kept me silent. And the silence grew between us. Bradley stared down, suddenly aware of the offense. I drew a deep breath.
“Do you remember {Mr Jonathan}?” I finally asked.
Relieved at the question, he quickly answered, “Yep. Loved his class. Why?”
“He called me the other day to see if I wanted to join his new project.”
Brad sat at attention, his eyes now on me.
“What is it?”
“The project? Something between Habit For Humanity and the Red Cross.”
“How so?”
“They provide disaster relief and remodel homes.”
“Oh. That makes sense. Where?”
“West Virginia.”
At this, the THC took over, and Bradley began to giggle and snicker. And he was doubled over on the couch. His laughter diffused my anger and I laughed too.
“Why?” was all he could squeeze out between breaths.
“Because they need love too,” I replied, still laughing at my high friend who was laughing at me.
My soft yet stern reply sobered Bradley and he sat up on his right elbow, looking me in the eye.
Pressing my advantage, I quickly moved toward my ultimate goal, “Do you want to be my assistant? In the kitchen?”
My question drew him to a full sit, shoulders now square to me, his head up.
“Dude. I’d be honored,” he answered as soberly as possible.
Abstract: Bastard
A poem, about shame.
Victim,
Powerless,
Broken,
Foolish,
Incapable,
Con artist.
Shame is a whip,
cracking at my back,
snapping in each ear,
stay back.
Vol IV: #27 My October Morning
I’d walked into the prayer chapel in a certain way-everything felt pointless and empty. And I know from experience, that’s a bad way to be. The annoying intercessor was not my problem, but I focused my anger on him and turned him into a demonic super villain whose sole purpose was to destroy my sense of peace. And when the man kept at it, I stormed out of the room in a passive aggressive rage, cursing the poor bastard. And then I felt like an asshole again. Cursing people under my breath was something I did as a child, to my family and teachers. And it’s made an unwelcome return in 2023.
A short-haired man in acid washed jeans and blue running shoes splayed himself in the middle of the prayer chapel. He’d balled up a red hoodie into a makeshift pillow and rested his face on it, turned toward his left shoulder. The beat up gray suitcase along the wall across from where he lay said “I just got off a plane and came straight here.” And as he prayed, he prayed as though he were talking to someone. And had he not somehow managed to be louder than the music and the bubbling fountain, I’d never noticed. But, I did notice. To the point of anger and distraction.
Rules are rules, are they not? And who was this random intruder? Whatever state he’s in, he doesn’t have the right to ruin my morning with his loud, obnoxious prayer. We get it dude. You’re desperate or self-important. Yes. You’re special. The rules do not apply to you.
After stewing a bit, I moved across the room to be downwind of his voice. My previous seat was in direct line of fire as his mouth was pointed my direction. When I settled a few seats to his right, this stranger had the sack to look in my direction, as if I did something wrong. Sorry loud guy. Yes. You were too fucking loud for me so I moved, rather than cuss you out in the middle of a prayer chapel. And then I felt like an asshole, a modern pharisee. And worse.
I’d walked into the prayer chapel in a certain way-everything felt pointless and empty. And I know from experience, that’s a bad way to be. The annoying intercessor was not my problem, but I focused my anger on him and turned him into a demonic super villain whose sole purpose was to destroy my sense of peace. And when the man kept at it, I stormed out of the room in a passive aggressive rage, cursing the poor bastard. And then I felt like an asshole again. Cursing people under my breath was something I did as a child, to my family and teachers. And it’s made an unwelcome return in 2023.
* * *
In my car, I stared at the pink clouds over Mt Lassen as the sky began to lighten. And out of sheer habit, began my daily Bible reading. Today included Proverbs 12 and Matthew 11:
25Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs it down, But a good word makes it glad.
28 “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. 29 Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.”
I wanted to reject these words. I’m not a victim. My anxieties are my fault and thusly I have to fix them. But, that’s not what the words say. The scripture doesn’t say Come to me, all who are weary- BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE WEARINESS IS EXTERNAL, OTHERWISE FIX THYSELF!!” And so, I will not try to be perfect or torpedo the day. Instead, I’ll work on one task as a time, stacking little wins.
Vol IV: #26 I Just Like It
After a few minutes, I selected two and sent them to my nephew. He has yet to respond to the video links. I get it. Jazz is an old soul’s music. No twenty year-old is gonna listen to jazz without a girl to impress. There was a time when I listened to jazz to impress people, mainly a few ladies. But now, I just like it.
I feel a need to produce a blog post, though I’m tired of myself at the moment. Lots of life going right and lots of life going wrong. (Isn’t that what it is?) Accordingly, the rest of this post will a Jazz appreciation post.
My nephew asked me who my top five drummers are. He likes to do that type of thing, ask for lists of favorites and bests. The answers usually lead to more questions and fun debate as the entire exercise is his way of creating conversation. I like it. And in regards to his drummer question, I gave him a preface before answering.
My knowledge of drummers and percussionists is limited, mostly to rock drummers. And while true, Keith Moon and Stewart Copeland are considered rock icons, they are still merely rockers. Jazz drummers (and session drummers) by contrast are both more disciplined and more creative. The jazz drummer must be tight to the beat yet loose and confident when given the lead, unafraid to experiment, tear down, and reshape a groove. The rock drummer does not rearrange the beat or update a popular fill. Unlike his jazz sibling, he’s paid to sit in the pocket and play it like he did the night before. All the creativity he’ll use is in the studio, written and rewritten by a team of musicians and producers. Mr Jazz does all that writing and rewriting in the moment, as the song unfolds. No second take. No bathroom breaks.
I said all this is fewer words and began to search YouTube for examples of great jazz drummers. And while I listened to find the right songs, my head bobbed and shoulders swayed, especially to Latin jazz greats like Tito Puente. After a few minutes, I selected two and sent them to my nephew. He has yet to respond to the video links. I get it. Jazz is an old soul’s music. No twenty year-old is gonna listen to jazz without a girl to impress. There was a time when I listened to jazz to impress people, mainly a few ladies. But now, I just like it.
Abstract: Jazz Reborn
A poem, about the evolution of Jazz.
As if Jazz made love to parrot from Havana and gave us Machito,
Who gave us Tito.
Oye Como Va
Flutes whistle up and away,
Backed by rhythmic horns, bright and clean.
All following the percussionists, all of them,
The bongo and timbales players, steady while on parade.
Bamp, bump, bamp, bump-bamp. Baaam—bamp, bomp.
And this is how Jazz lives on, despite her fading name,
In the lush mountains, white beaches, and rain forests of Latin American, from Cuba to Brazil.
May she find her way back to the land of her birth, in whatever form she please.
Abstract: Home In Nature
A poem, about feeling the Grace of Nature.
Written June 15th, 2023.
Deep in the woods,
Away from the black top lots and cell towers,
And war, and the possibility of offense,
I find true rest.
What begins as an uneasy silence,
The manmade world finally boxed out by brothers Oak, Spruce, and Redwood,
Transforms into a slow jazz.
My ears and soul adjust,
To the hum of chirping finches,
Grey squirrels in chase, leaping from branch to branch,
Sandy beige horned lizards dart frantically in the brush,
And finally, in the depth of my ear,
Laughing and alive, a cold stream.
Here is the place where only good exists,
The birds and lizards are after there kind,
The ferns and chanterelles and maples after their kind,
Where the sun is separated from the sky,
And home to the dust of our creation.
Abstract: Instead Of
A poem, about self-condemnation.
Written June, 11th, 2023
Instead of the wrong words, or boring words,
I make no words.
Instead of poor perspective or terrible lines,
not quite right lines,
I make no mark.
And instead of risking more embarrassment,
of playing a fool,
I shift my glance away from her face and keep my nights free.
Fear and failure are my masters.
Abstract: I Am A Hero
A poem. I am a hero.
Am I a hero?
I am a hero.
A hero I am.
I am a hero.
I’m a hero.
Imma hero.
I exist in the ate of supreme courage and determination, to the encouragement and inspiration of those around me.
I do (good)shit.
But, I am flawed.
I am a hero.
Did you hear what I said?
I am a hero.
No one knows your name.
You can’t even shot a gun.
I. Am. A. Hero.
Fatass.
I.
Broken mofo.
Am.
Single like a bit—
A.
Wannabe writer.
HERO!
Short: The Tour, West Virginia #4
The Tour, West Virginia. Part 4 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
David hurried to the red outer doors of the former school, both dented and scarred. Then he scraped open the left door and stood aside, like a 5th Avenue doorman. And as I would for anyone holding a door for me, I thanked him as I passed over the threshold into a dark foyer.
Later, I’d figure Jonathan wanted to ask for more than a few weeks of my time. This trip was the first of four he’d use to recruit me to the cause. Jokes on him because he didn’t need to recruit me. Given my low self-esteem, I was ready to jump at any opportunity, including one of little pay, deep in the heart of coal country. Years of waiting tables and slinging beer kneaded me into an insecure mess and I didn’t know how to break free. Like most men, I took my self-worth from my checking account. And in each attempt to venture outside my trade- to inflate my wealth and self esteem- I failed.
Good friends put me up interviews and floated my scant resume with banks, schools, and lawyers’ offices. In hope, I’d iron my best dress shirt and trim my hair. And, per my father’s advice, I’d try to make sure they heard the smile in my voice. Then, like clockwork, the rejection emails and calls came, leaving me to wonder how I might improve my chances.
After a few years of this gut wrenching routine, I stopped asking for help. Interviews had begun to feel like a well rehearsed show and I grew tired of the glazed eyes and insincere questions. In truth, I was never a serious candidate for white collar work. And the setbacks took a toll on my soul, sending me into into the open arms of self-pity and various lusts. I’m too fat. My hair sucks. You don’t have any skills.
I briefly considered taking a promotion to restaurant manager, but decided against when I did the math. (It’s a sad but true reality, most restaurant managers, at least in North Carolina, take home less money per hour than their best servers and bartenders.) Then one summer, I decided to re-enroll at Clemson University only to come up short of the needed funds. Subsequently, as my mid twenties languished into my late 20’s, every avenue of economic advancement felt closed. And I was content to play board games and watch football with my mates rather than meet new people or expand my connections. And, I’d grown tired of the blank disapproving looks of my peers and family.
Paradoxically, if one were looking to move up the economic ladder, I do not advise they to move to West Virginia. And I highly advise against work with any non-profit organization. Unless the person is desperate. Of course, I was desperate. To leave Charlotte. To prove myself. To show the world I’m a good man, one you should admire and honor. If I couldn't make money, at least my work would be important and people would see me as important, I naively assumed. In the years after, I learned. The world hates good men and women. They hate being reminded of their greed and inertia. Men will dismiss you as a “do gooder.” And women will see your goodness and dismiss it. Noble as the work was and maybe, goodwill doesn’t buy European vacations and a new car every five years. It doesn’t buy esteem or opportunity.
“Through this door is where we’ll be bunking,” said Jonathan as we walked through the first door to the left of the foyer. In its original purpose, the room was the old front office, small by modern standards. The plaster walls were yellowed and cracked, the floors covered in grey vinyl tile, worn but clean. And across from the door we entered was a navy blue, chest-high counter with a half door to the left of the counter. Low sunlight brightened the room through what was left the large window to our left. Using the half door beside the counter, we walked through the waiting area to a larger back room containing two newly built bunk beds and two gently used sitting chairs. The welcomed scent of fresh lumber filled the cool room. Opposite the beds was another metal door, and this one led to the toilet and shower. Both meager and plain. The shower nothing more than a PVC pipe poking out of the wall and the toilet was exposed in the opposite corner.
“This is the leadership living space, when the student arrive. We’ll need a place to get away.” Jonathan quipped with a smile in a way to communicate I was part of the leadership group. I was flattered and primed. The thought of being seen as worthy of leadership lifted me from the cold floor and I fought off a smirk.
“So this is what you’ve been working on?” I joked.
“Oh yeah. We’ve had to invest a lot of time and energy into getting ready for Thanksgiving. We’ll be hosting about 60 people upstairs,” replied Jonathan as he leaned against a plaster wall and pointed up.
“What all have you done?” I inquired.
At this, Jonathan and David looked to each other and smiled. David let out a half-laugh and shook his head. Tom, who’d been quiet since we entered the building, was now more attentive. Then, the pair began to rattle off their list of accomplishments.
They’d bought and installed twenty new water heaters to accommodate 30 newly built showers, fixed several holes in the roof- including learning to tar and patch, repaired all the necessary windows on the first two floors, ran gas lines, replaced two ovens in the Home Ecc room, and built and outfitted over 60 bunk beds.
“Let’s take him to the Home Ecc room,” suggested David.
And turning to me, Jonathan asked, “Want to go see where you’ll be working?”
“Sure,” I nodded.
And then we were back out of the bunk room, through the tiny waiting area, and into the main hallway. The long, dark corridor was lined with dusty green locker, as dented and abused as the front doors, covered by the calling cards of vandals. Jake wuz here. Mike loves Tina. And various cusswords. Every ten feet, a fluorescent light fluttered in and out, and Jonathan led us to a stair case across the foyer. Like the mountain roads, the staircase had more switchbacks than needed, before we reached the warm second floor.
The hallway was properly bright and well lit from end to end. The lockers were gone and the space held the gentle heat of kerosene heaters. Then I was shown the bunk rooms, one for guys and one for the ladies. Both former classrooms, institutional and drab. And then we made a stop in the “public room” before heading down to the Home Ecc room. The public room was the size of two class rooms and it contained four large dining tables, five used cloth couches, and stacks of boardgames. Without being asked, I offered, “I’m going to need serving tables and drink stations.” Jonathan nodded his affirmation. From the public room, David led us past the stairs to the far end of the hallway to Home Ecc room. And as before, he held the door open with a smile.
The Home Ecc room looked a bit like a science lab. It was filled with cooking stations and wash sinks, except all the appliances were long stripped away. In the far right back corner were two brown fridges and two new-ish black stoves. Electric stoves. The kind you use to feed families of five. And my task was to feed over sixty hungry college students after a day the most physically demanding work they’d ever do?
“Whadda think?” inquired Jonathan with a lowered chin, the chummy tone gone from his voice.
“Yeah, this could work,” I answered, trying to remain light-hearted.
“It’ll have to,” he deadpanned as he turned for the door.
“Alright, then,” I shrugged and smiled. I knew better than to ask about the old cafeteria on the first floor. The equipment was moved or sold when the school closed. And the project budget didn’t include thousands for convection ovens, a flat top griddle, and six-eye gas stove. It doesn’t do to want for more from the situation. As most do in similar moments, I’d learn to make do with what I had. And rather than bitch about what the setup lacked, I gave my approval instead. As we existed the room, I noted the generous amount of prep and storage space.
Abstract: A Morning in June
A poem, about a serene morning in June.
The sun cleared the peak of Lassen and stretched her arms across the valley until she touched my squinty face.
And I closed my eyes and let her bathe me in her warmth.
Then I heard the robins and quail chirping and singing as though praising the sun for her arrival.
And for a moment, my lonely soul found peace.
Thank you Lord, for the sun and the birds, and the magic of the morning,
before work and phone calls, and the business of life.
Abstract: Eyes On Me
A irreverent poem, written to be funny.
I write because I’m happy.
I write because I’m free.
And if His eye is on the asshole,
then I know He’s watching me.
Vol IV: #25 Next Step In Organization
In August, I was content to dedicate time each day to “writing.” Then, when the hour approached, I settle into my chair and stare at the wall for ten minutes, wondering what I should do. Fortunately, this beginner’s approach worked, that is, until I had several half-finished projects on my shelf. And I hate a half-finished projects. Hate it.
In my mind, I’m failing at this writing thing. Not a full failure. I see the progress in my descriptions of people and places. And, I’m learning to build a story and cast a scene. But, my stories are not being written, or edited or refined. The novel continues to gather dust. And, I find I’d rather blog about the process or a life event than work on my stories.
Part of the problem is in my brain. For some reason, I make up rules for myself…that aren’t real. For example, I set timelines and “office hours,” as if I can’t write later in the day or at night. Another part of the problem is the general tread of failure- no need to expound on that for the 100th time. And the last problem I’m facing is organization, which I’ve bucked against like a true idiot.
It’s this last weakness I want to attack next. In August, I was content to dedicate time each day to “writing.” Then, when the hour approached, I settle into my chair and stare at the wall for ten minutes, wondering what I should do. Fortunately, this beginner’s approach worked, that is, until I had several half-finished projects on my shelf. And I hate a half-finished projects. Hate it.
Last week, while feeling overwhelmed and sad, I remembered an interview of a professional skater boarder/producer named Rob Dyrdek. In the interview he explained how he tracked all aspects of his day, and by doing so, improved his performance in the important areas of his life. Seconds later I turned off the interview. That’s stupid. Who needs to track their day to that level? Turns out, me. I do. Nik needs to track his day, to see the progress, and know his little boat is further upstream today than it was last week. The truth is I’m not going to finish my first novel until I set aside time to do so, likewise with editing and revisions. More intention and detail is better than less.
So, now, I will subdivide the hours into chunks: two hours for novel work, an hour for blogging, and an hour for review and edits. And I downloaded a free time clock to track my hours. I don’t expect to hit those numbers today, or even any day this week. The point is to continue to work and build my endurance. The goal is to hit those numbers by the end of the month, and if I do, November will be highly productive. And I don’t expect more organization to hold all the keys to success, but it’s part of the equation.