Back Again

      

    Danny Petrowski didn’t cry anymore. He had fallen beyond depression, and into something deeper and darker. He had failed with friendships, failed at work, failed at life. Somehow, he still had a relationship with his girlfriend, Diana, but that was failing too.

 

The one thing he could do was sleep. In his dreams, he escaped. In his dreams, he was all of the things he wasn’t when he was awake. He was smart. He was successful. He was courageous. He was… happy.

 

He never had bad dreams. Well, not bad dreams about his life. He was always somewhere else. He liked history, and had read hundreds of books about the Second World War. Once, he dreamed he was on an island somewhere in the Pacific. A banzai charge had broken through, but he had refused to give ground.  He was fighting alone from a foxhole, and he woke just after he had run out of ammunition… just before a Japanese officer skewered him with a samurai sword.

 

He might have died once in his dreams, but he wasn’t sure. They say that shouldn’t happen. Dying in your dreams. Not if you’re normal. 

 

In his dreams he had bulled his way up the bluffs of Omaha Beach, and manned an anti-tank gun against German armor attacks during the Battle of the Bulge. In his dreams he had stomped ashore with General MacArthur upon his return to the Philippines. He was there when the Marines raised the flag on Iwo Jima.

 

“Danny? Danny… We’re out of milk. Can you run to the store?”

 

Diana was in the kitchen. Every day, after work, she made dinner, and the two of them would sit on the couch, pushing piles of food around their plates, waiting for whatever it was that came on the TV.

 

He knew she didn’t love him anymore.  Well… she wasn’t in love with him anymore. She still cared for him, he was pretty sure. She fed him and let him live with her out of loyalty. Or maybe it was just out of habit. He didn’t make things any easier. When he was awake, Danny wasn’t really interested in anything. Including Diana.

 

“Sure. I’ll go, sweetheart. Where’s the keys?”

 

As he idled at a red light, he looked to his right and saw movement reflected on the front passenger window. Some odd combination of colors and shadows created a series of images. Like a movie projected on a transparent screen.

 

It was an action sequence from the point of view of an Oerlikon gunner. And, somehow, he was in his own hallucination. He was the gunner. He could feel his torso pushing against the shoulder supports, and the waist belt wrapped around him, holding him in place. He sensed his adrenaline surging. He could feel the rhythmic pounding as the rapid-fire cannon recoiled against his body. The noise was unbelievable. Overwhelming. He could barely think. And then there was shouting. Someone was shouting.

 

“Wake up, moron.”

 

A reminder from the driver behind him that the light had turned green.

 

When he got home, he told Diana what had happened.

 

“I’ve seen it before,” he said. “In my dreams. I’ve seen it a bunch of times, actually. But not like that. Not so… real.”

 

She never expressed any doubt that he had seen… something, she just said, “Maybe you should stop reading all those books. Try reading some want ads. You know, for people who want a job?”

 

After dinner, he did some reading about Oerlikons, the 20 millimeter cannons originally produced by a Swiss company of the same name. During World War II, they became a standard part of the anti-aircraft defenses aboard U.S. Navy vessels. Usually, they were on a rotating mount atop a fixed pedestal. And they had a flat armored shield meant to protect the gunner.

 

At first, these weapons seemed ideal. They had a high rate of fire, and could swivel and elevate quickly. Heavier guns had difficulty tracking speedy fighters and torpedo planes. When the decision was made to rely on these guns, nobody anticipated the tactic the Japanese would use with such great effect in the latter stages of the war – the kamikaze.

 

That night, the scene returned in Danny’s dreams. Longer, and more vivid. He felt himself in the gunner position. He could see everything as it happened. He was on a catwalk just below the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. Part of an eight-gun battery of Oerlikons. He slipped when he tried to follow the path of a Japanese plane diving toward the ship, but the waist belt kept him from falling. As he steadied his footing, he squeezed the firing lever and felt the gun kick. He turned to continue tracking the plane and felt something hit his shoulder.

 

“Danny. Danny. Jesus Christ.” Diana was shaking him. “How can I sleep with you rolling around like that?”

 

“Oh… Sorry." It took a few seconds to realize where he was. “I was back there again. The thing I saw earlier tonight. I was there. It was intense.”

 

“Well, I have to get up early for work. Try dreaming about something peaceful, okay?”

 

The next night, he was back again. Almost as soon as he closed his eyes. Noise... So loud he could feel it. The sound of gunfire and explosions all around him. The sound of screaming motors as enemy planes flashed in front of him or streaked overhead. The sound of men shouting. And smells… The smell of the ocean a hundred feet below. The smell of burnt cordite as dozens of guns fired at targets in the sky, and the targets fired back. The smell of engine exhaust and burning wood from the smashed carrier deck behind him.

 

He looked down to see the name above his shirt pocket.

 

Bickle.

 

 And he saw the name of the ship stenciled on the orange life vest he was wearing.

 

U.S.S. Bunker Hill.

 

He was Bickle. He looked around. No one else was standing. As he turned to track an enemy plane, he slipped. The same scene, repeated. Only this time, he realized why. Blood. He looked down. There was blood everywhere. And bodies. Bloody heaps scattered along the catwalk. Some of them still. Some of them shouting in fear and agony.

 

This time, he woke up on his own. But Diana was laying on her side, looking at him more out of concern than anger.

 

“Again?”

 

“Oh God. Diana… I’ve read about this stuff. All this World War Two stuff. But it’s worse than you can imagine. Muchworse.”

 

“These dreams,” she said. “What’s the deal? Why do they keep coming back?”

 

“I don’t know.” He was confused, still a little bleary-eyed. “I’m sorry. Get some sleep. I’ll go out into the living room.”

 

He sat at the computer and started searching. It didn’t take long to find information. Lots of it. He stayed up all night reading.

 

In the morning, as Diana was leaving for work, she said, “You’re freaking me out with this thing. It’s not normal.”

 

“Diana, I found out about this guy. The guy in my dreams. His name is Bickle. I mean… It was Bickle. Walter Bickle. He was on the Bunker Hill, an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. He was a hero. He won the Medal of Honor.”

 

“You can tell me when I get home,” she said. “Try to do something useful today. Why not go for a walk, get some exercise? Maybe that will help you sleep. And help me sleep.”

 

“I’ll try,” he said as she left, knowing he wouldn’t.

 

He read everything he could find online about the Bunker Hill. And about Bickle. The Bunker Hill had 32 Oerlikons divided among four separate catwalks, one on each side of the bow, one on each side of the stern. Each gun was served by several men: the gunner, spotters, ammunition runners. They went through thousands of rounds of ammo when under attack. He found pictures of the ship, and descriptions of desperate battles. As the war went on, the 40 millimeter Bofors anti-aircraft gun gained favor over the Oerlikon, which, despite its high rate of fire, didn’t have the stopping power to deter a Japanese plane on a suicide mission.

 

When Diana came home, Danny couldn’t stop talking about it.

 

“This guy Bickle was amazing, Diana. The ship was under heavy attack off of Okinawa. May 11, 1945. Bickle stayed at his post and manned his gun pretty much alone as planes buzzed all around.”

 

“Uh huh,” Diana humored him as she heated some leftover meatloaf and macaroni and cheese.

 

“Two kamikazes dropped bombs onto the deck and then crashed into it within 30 seconds. Everyone around Bickle was killed or injured, but he stood and blazed away at another incoming plane. Diana, he just… stood there. Firing. With this plane diving right at him. And it finally exploded. The debris that rained down and hit the ship wasn’t enough to do much damage. But it killed Bickle.”

 

“Mmhmm. You want ketchup?”

 

“He saved the ship from a third direct hit. There were more than 600 casualties, Diana. It was… It’s awful.”

 

“It sounds awful, Danny. Let’s not talk about it while we eat, okay?”

 

Later, as she flicked the buttons on the remote and scanned the channels looking for something worth watching, he tried to tell her what it felt like.

 

“I’m me, but I become him. It’s hard to explain. I’m aware that I’m me, okay. I mean, I know I was me, but I become him. It’s like we trade places. Do you understand?”

 

“No. Not really.”

 

Danny drew a deep breath as he searched for the right words.

 

“I can see from his point of view. We’re… Like we’re soulmates, but on a molecular level. I don’t know… There’s, like, a mail slot in time where I can slip through and become him for a while.”

 

“Does he become you?”

 

It was an absent-minded question. She was only half listening. But it took Danny by surprise.

 

“I… I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

 

“What would happen if you stayed in the dream until he died?”

 

Danny thought for a minute.

 

“I don’t know that either.”

 

It was a smart question. That was one of the things he liked about Diana. She was sharp. She understood things. Even when she was barely paying attention.

 

That night, and every night for the next few weeks, Danny went back again. Each time, he stayed longer. He re-lived it over and over. He learned to control the points at which he entered the dream and left. He always stopped as the last plane turned toward him.

 

He, or Walter, was the only uninjured man on the catwalk after the first kamikaze succeeded in dropping its bomb and then crashing on the deck. After the initial shock, he shuffled along the catwalk, dragging heavy ammunition canisters to his gun, stumbling over the dead and injured, slipping in puddles of blood. Then the second kamikaze hit. He felt noise and heat. Concussion from the explosion knocked him down. The chaos was so overwhelming he couldn’t even process it.  Surrounded by piles of ammunition, he strapped himself back into his gun and started firing.

 

Diana was touching him. “I have to get up for work, Danny. Want to take a shower?”

 

She hadn’t asked him that in months. A shower usually meant­­­­ she had gotten up a little early and they would end up fooling around. He had noticed that Diana’s behavior had changed. She touched him more. The tone of her voice was softer. She smiled at him.

 

Danny wasn’t sure how to answer. “Not today, sweetheart. I’m still a little tired.”

 

“Suit yourself,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll set the alarm a little earlier.”

 

She was teasing him. Having fun. She stepped into the bathroom, and then stuck her head out the door to speak.

 

“I don’t know what’s happened, but this dream thing seems to be waking up the old you. I missed you. The real you. Just touching me when you roll over in your sleep. Kissing my ear sometimes.”

 

She smiled and disappeared. He heard her turn on the water and step into the shower. Danny was confused. He had no idea what she was talking about. That night, after dinner, she snuggled next to him on the couch in front of the TV, and put her head on his shoulder.

 

Soon after Danny went in the bedroom to lay down, he was floating in the central Pacific off the coast of Okinawa. Japanese Zeroes were zooming across the sky like giant killer bees. He stayed in the dream through the two kamikaze strikes, and right up until the moment when the third plane was heading straight toward him. Then he woke himself up.

 

Diana was lying next to him. Looking at him.  “Danny, you haven’t made love to me like that in a while. It was so nice.”

 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “I don’t remember anything.”

 

“Oh, Danny. Don’t be silly.”

 

She laughed as she went to the bathroom to wash. But the look on his face had surprised her. She was pretty sure he didn’tremember anything. All day at work she thought about that conversation and about the one they had when the dream first started taking over.

 

That next night, in bed, after Danny had kissed and caressed her, and rolled on top of her, she put her hands on his shoulders, and asked, “Walter, is that you?”

 

He froze for a moment, then said, “Yes.”

 

He pulled back and began to move away.

 

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to stop. I just want to know.”

 

When she went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, she asked him about that day… his last day.

 

“That third Zero,” he said. “The pilot must have seen there was nobody left on those guns. He thought it was a weak spot. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. But I knew as soon as he turned toward me I was a dead man. All I could do was keep firing and hope I could save some of my shipmates. I just aimed at the propeller, pulled the firing lever and closed my eyes.”

 

As he spoke, he looked out the bedroom door at Diana, standing naked at the sink, listening.

 

“And I’m thinking ‘Why me? Why me? I don’t wanna die.’ I screamed and I cried so hard I thought my head would explode.  And then there were these pictures in my head, like a movie. I just kept my eyes closed. I could see my father and mother standing on the porch back home, holding hands and smiling. And then I saw something I had seen so many times…  A woman standing in front of the kitchen sink with her head turned to look at me. There was such love in her eyes. She was beautiful.”

 

He tilted his head back on the pillow, took a deep breath and exhaled before he continued.

 

“It was you. It is you. It must have been something Danny saw at some point. I had seen it often when I was below deck at night, trying to sleep in that hot, noisy ship. It just came to me. A few times, at first. Then… every night.”

 

He looked at her again. Standing at the kitchen sink. Her face. Her eyes.

 

“This is it,” he said. “You. Here. This is what kept me alive. Even when I died.”

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, coughed and shook as if a sudden chill had come over him. When he opened his eyes again, he was annoyed.

 

“Diana, what the hell are you doing up in the middle of the night? Turn off that light, will ya?”

 

“Danny?”

 

“Of course it’s me, who else….?”

 

He saw that she was crying.

 

“Walter’s been here...” It wasn’t really a question, but it seemed like one.

 

“Yes,” said Diana. “I mean, it’s your body. It’s you. But… It’s Walter.”

 

She put her hands on the sides of her head and squeezed, trying to contain everything she was thinking.

 

Through her sobs, she said, “This is so confusing.”

 

“Really?” he said. “I don’t think so. Now it all makes sense.”

 

For two days, Danny didn’t eat or sleep. Walter couldn’t visit if he stayed awake. He spent lots of time thinking, pacing in the living room or outside on the sidewalk. Then, on Saturday, he walked into the kitchen as Diana was figuring out what to make for dinner.

 

“Let’s get some steaks, Diana. Some nice filets. And asparagus. And red wine.”

 

Diana was surprised. “Are we celebrating something?”

 

“Not really, “he said. “I just thought it would be a nice treat. How about baked potatoes? Can we do baked potatoes?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He made a quick trip to the grocery store to buy everything they needed. He even bought two candles for the dinner table. A nice touch, he thought.

 

When Diana had put the potatoes in the oven, Danny said, “I’ve been thinking. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But am I the best thing that ever happened to you?”

 

“What are you talking about, Danny? How can I answer that?”

 

“I think you just did. And now Walter is everything I used to be, right?”

 

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “You… You’ve changed.”

 

“I know,” he said. “I just… I always wanted to dosomething. Something that made a difference. And I could never figure out what that was.”

 

“You will,” she said.

 

“Yes. I will.”

 

He smiled, but it was a strange smile.

 

Danny unscrewed the cork on the wine, poured a bit into a glass and took a sip.

 

“Mmm. This is good.”

 

He poured two fresh glasses and put them on the dinner table.

 

“You don’t get too many chances to be a hero, you know? I mean… How often does that opportunity come along?”

 

Diana was puzzled, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

 

Danny grabbed a lighter and went out to the patio to light the grill. When he came back in, he lit the candles on the dinner table.

 

“Would you mind doing the steaks, sweetheart? I like the way you cook them. I’m gonna lay down for a few minutes before we eat.”

 

“Okay, Danny.”

 

Diana grabbed the plate and the big cooking fork and walked out the sliding glass door to put the steaks on the grill Then she came back in to start the asparagus.

 

She stood in front of the kitchen sink.

 

Danny went into the bedroom to lay down. He was exhausted. He closed his eyes and was asleep in no time. In his dreams, Danny was back again. At the gun. The last Zero banked and turned toward him. Danny aimed at the propeller, pulled the firing lever and closed his eyes.  He was screaming and crying. Even through all the noise, he could hear the plane get closer and closer. And then there were pictures in his head, like a movie. He could see his father and mother standing on the porch back home, holding hands and smiling. He saw a woman standing in the kitchen looking at him.

 

There was a loud noise and light and heat.

 

And then the movie stopped.

 

The man in the bed woke up screaming. He was crying and breathing so hard his chest hurt, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. He sat up and looked out the bedroom door at Diana standing frozen in the kitchen.

 

“Danny?” Diana whispered. “Is that you?”

 

“No, sweetheart. It’s Walter.”

 

 

A battery of Oerlikon 20 mm cannons on the USS Hornet
(Photo via Wikipedia)

I Remember

 

I saw an old photo the other day. I stumbled on it somewhere. 

 

It was her. 

 

There was no escaping it. The image was sharp, focused. 

 

And I remembered.

 

These were not hazy memories obscured by a brain trying to save me from myself. Not fleeting thoughts flashing like fireflies in the darkness. 

 

No.

I remembered.

Clear memories that slashed me like a saber.

It was her.

And me. I’m in the picture, too.

Smiling. Both of us smiling. My arm draped around her shoulders. Her body, leaning in, tucked into mine.

It was so long ago.

The old me, the now me… wonders… how did that love die? How does any love die? What becomes of those moments after you arrive at the point you can no longer speak comfortably? Can barely look each other in the eye?

It’s times like this I start to remember every stupid thing I ever said. Jeezus. The list is endless.

I missed her for so long. I still miss her.

When I remember.

When I stumble on old photos. When I hear a certain song. Or when the scent of a certain flower finds me.

Lovers in love, eyeing eternity with each other, without asking... how long is forever?

As I return to the present and feel my fingers gripping the old photo, it’s not as bad as it first seemed. The ending was sad, and the aftermath was… difficult. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be alive. 

But that moment, in the photo…

I remember.

Both of us smiling. My arm draped around her shoulders. Her body, leaning in, tucked into mine.

When I think about it, really think about it, I treasure it.

It was a moment to die for. 

Or, maybe, a moment to live for.

Port Salerno

My drug dealer lived in Port Salerno. Larry. I don’t remember his last name. I don’t think I ever knew his last name. He was just… Larry.

It was fortunate I was introduced to Larry when I was – fortunate for both of us. He had a lot of marijuana to sell, and I was beginning a phase of my life where I would smoke whole forests of it. I think it was the summer before my junior year in high school.

Port Salerno was a quiet little coastal oasis, and the natural beauty of the whole Martin County area was stunning, with rivers and islands and a mighty ocean inlet. But that’s not much of a selling point to a teenage boy in possession of a newly-awarded driver’s license. In my view, the only things to do in this quaint little town were… go surfing and get high. And I did both of them with all the inspired energy a sixteen-year-old can muster.

I mention this because I’ve been visiting the area frequently in recent years – much more so than I did for thirty years after I first left. I revel in the breezy, sub-tropical beauty now. It’s fabulous. But I’m surprised when it doesn’t conjure up the warm fuzzy feelings I expect.

I only lived there during my high school years. My parents moved away after I left for the University of Florida in Gainesville. So going “home” for the holidays or summer breaks didn’t mean going back to the place I’d gone to high school.

As much as I consider those years to be important to my development, I have very little attachment to them. Each memory is like a random short film with its own little story, but there’s no continuity, no unifying theme. And, of course, many memories are obscured by clouds of marijuana smoke.

As I drive around Stuart and Jensen Beach, I recognize places, and make simple connections in my mind, just like I do with Port Salerno… Here is the 7-11 where we got gas for 70 cents a gallon, the liquor store where I bought my first six-pack, this is where my friend Mike lived, that’s the high school, there’s the church parking lot where I first groped whats-her-name. Yes, even at the time, I found extra pleasure in the fact that she was a good Catholic girl and we were in the church parking lot.

But it’s cold and clinical. There’s no emotion attached. And it got me thinking about memories and how differently we experience them as we get older because some of them are now so long ago. I think of each memory as an imprint on my mind, but I realize it’s an imprint of the way things were at the time, made on the person I was at the time. And both of those things… have changed.

To use a totally appropriate geographic metaphor, that period of time is like an island in my life, surrounded by the waters of everything that happened before or since.

So there’s no way to connect with my old self. He’s long gone. I won’t claim that the new me is better, just different. Very different. But I still try to appreciate what was… and what is.

I’ve promised myself, next time I pass through Port Salerno… I’ll think… My drug dealer lived here… And it sure is beautiful.

A Few Lines Back

Gave up on the laptop. Eyes angry from staring at the screen.

Writing in my notebook now. Trying to be productive.

Fooling myself.

Mostly.

Fits of creative inspiration fueled by bourbon and self-loathing. Fits of creative paralysis fueled… the same way.

But I scribble on. What if that next idea, that next sentence, turns out to be great?

I wrote a good line there, didn’t I? A few lines back?

Who knows where the ideas come from?

Thoughts that torment me. Never leave entirely. Come back with reinforcements.

Are there dark thoughts?

Define “dark.”

Have I held a .45 in my hand? Thought about that one flick of the trigger that would bring it all to a sudden stop? The power that gun in my hand gives me? The power I don’t otherwise have?

Nah. (chuckle) Never thought about it.

There’s always that chance, right? That line.

That was a pretty good line there, right? A few lines back?

Need a good game on television. Or some other distraction. A visit to the local pub. Cradling my notebook.

That woman at the bar looks lonely. Bored. We chat.

Not fooling myself.

She doesn’t like me.

I’m a recipe missing a few ingredients. Palatable but not desirable. Mildly entertaining but not marriage material.

Oh god, I wrote the "M" word.

It’s okay if you go. You’d be better off without me. I understand.

I’d be better off without me. How can I complain?

The mind of a writer, like a tilt-a-whirl at a shopping mall carnival. Emotional landmines with every revolution.

Oh, this is fun.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, this is fun.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, this is fun...

What can they do to me when it's over? I mean... when it's all over. What can anybody do?

Pry those dreams from my cold, dead hands.

"Let go," they’ll say. "Let go."

But I’ve seen it. When I'm sleeping. Thick blades of grass smothering my disregarded headstone. Do you really think the grandkids will visit? Or their kids?

Not fooling myself.

Not fooling anyone.

Making the case for irresponsible behavior. None of it matters. That’s what I’m saying. None of it matters. Nothing but now. And what I can get down on paper.

I scribble on. What if that next idea, that next sentence, turns out to be great?

That was a pretty good line there, right? A few lines back?

Having a hard time seeing. Having a hard time.

Maybe it’s not from staring at the screen. Maybe my eyes are just angry.

Unresolved (Just Once)

It’s a new year, which is a big deal to some people, but, to me, it just means I’m getting older. Like I need another reminder…

I don’t want to sound bitter. There are things I can control, and things I can’t control. Time, most certainly, falls into the latter category. So I try to embrace its passage, happy to still be on the planet, as tenuous as that existence sometimes seems.

I don’t engage in the frivolous but fashionable exercise of making resolutions. Let’s be honest. We’ve all tried it. And failed miserably. I’ve broken every one my new year’s resolutions, many within minutes of making them. I realized long ago I’m not fooling anyone. I’d like to tell you I plan to change certain behaviors. But we both know I’ll end up being the same old asshole I’ve been for a while now.

What I’ve decided to do this year is change my approach. As much as I feel like I’m spontaneous, sometimes to the point of recklessness, I’m also a creature of habit. I’m not too obsessive, but I do find comfort in routines. The problem with that is, eventually, every day starts to seem like the same old shit, because… it is. I’ve finally realized that the only way to keep from ending up with the same old shit is to start with different shit. I’m excited about this new path. And, despite the state of domestic politics, climate change and the millennial ADD epidemic, I feel strangely hopeful for the near future.

But I always try to be optimistic. To this day, I feel a glimmer of hope when I check my e-mail and find out there are still Russian women who are dying to meet me. And it’s reassuring to know there’s apparently some financial institution out there that will lend me almost anything short of the Crown Jewels.

And I’m pre-approved!

So this isn’t about resolutions for me. I’ve just realized that achieving different outcomes requires different actions. I guess you could say I’m… unresolved. But I do have some ideas on how to change my approach to some things.

I would like to see a different outcome in my personal relationships. In some ways, I would like to allow myself to be more vulnerable. I would also like to be less vulnerable.

I’ll let you know how that works out.

Just once, I’d like to pick my nose while sitting at a red light, and not randomly turn my head and see some supermodel-type in the car next to me staring at me in horror. Why couldn’t it be… George Zimmerman? Although I guess you don’t want to start a booger-flicking shootout with him. Ok, ok. No more nose-picking in traffic.

Just once, I would like to place a glass under the ice dispenser on the refrigerator door and not have a rogue cube go shooting off into some far corner of the kitchen floor. Screw the ice dispenser, I’ll open the door and stick my hand in.

I tell myself I’m going to eat better. You know. Healthier. More plants. Less dead animal flesh. But just once, I would like to eat spaghetti without getting that small-but-incredibly-noticeable sauce stain on the front of my shirt. So, I’m going to try eating spaghetti without a shirt on. No, no. Not really. Maybe I’ll just eat more slowly, and make an effort to enjoy my food… carefully.

Just once, I would like to be able to quietly pass gas in an elevator without giving away my guilt by giggling. I’m willing to listen to suggestions on how to change that one. Seriously, if you have any ideas, we should grab some chow and talk about it.

Anyone up for topless spaghetti?

The Tour de Stairs (Silver Lake, Los Angeles)

I used to love old slapstick comedy when I was a kid. It was always good for a hearty laugh.

It still is.

While preparing for my recent trip to Los Angeles, I was reading about Silver Lake - a cool neighborhood northwest of downtown - and I was pleased to discover that legendary scenes with two of my favorite comedy teams were filmed in the area. And they both involve... stairs.

 At one point, the city had the world's largest inter-urban public transportation system, employing trains, trolleys, and streetcars to get people where they needed to go. Beginning in 1901, the Los Angeles transportation system eventually grew to the point it included 20 streetcar lines and more than 1200 trolleys.

Access to that extensive system often involved people walking to a station or pick-up point in a nearby neighborhood. If you didn't know, the outer fringes of Los Angeles are hilly. So, occasionally, the easiest way to connect one neighborhood to another above or below it on a steep hill was to build concrete stairs. This saved the pedestrian from having to follow the road the entire way around - which, in some cases, was a considerable distance. With the stairs, you could just cut through from one neighborhood to the next, catch a train or trolley and be on your way.

During the 1920s the city built a number of steep connecting stairways. And at least two sets of slapstick stars made them the subject of their antics.

Laurel and Hardy made a film called "The Music Box." The plot involves a woman who has purchased a player piano as a surprise birthday gift for her husband. Laurel and Hardy have been hired to deliver it. But the woman lives near the top of a set of steps.

Very long steps, as it turns out.

And, of course, slapstick hilarity ensues...



"The Music Box" won the Academy Award for Best Live Action Short Film (Comedy) in 1932.

The film location was a set of steps running from Descanso Drive at the top to N. Vendome Street at the bottom.

By the '50s and '60s, Los Angeles had fully embraced the automobile (which resulted in dire atmospheric consequences in the '70s) and given up on its rail system.  But a number of the stairways survived - many in use currently as an alternative to a strenuous gym workout.

The Music Box Steps are among the survivors. So I paid a visit...



As you can see in this shot below taken from the original movie when compared with a screenshot from my video - below that - the house on the right existed at the time of the filming, although it's had a number of alterations since then, including the addition of an entry stairway next to the original steps.

The additional structure to the left - and the railings - were added some time later, and the growth of surrounding vegetation has closed in the steps a bit, but, they're still there... in all their glory.

Nine years later - in 1941 - the Three Stooges used a similar opening plot in their comedy short called "An Ache in Every Stake."

The boys are delivering ice - the electric icebox was only just beginning to come into fashion - and a woman in need of ice calls down to them... from the top of a very long set of steps - 147 steps, to be exact.

I love the Stooges...



This film location was a set of steps running from Edendale Place down to Fair Oak View Terrace.

Although a little more off the beaten path, these steps also still exist. I drove over to take a look...

And it was awesome!


In the still shots below (from the colorized version of the film released in 2004) you can clearly see the roof of the garage on the right and the arched doorway of the dwelling behind it.

Here's a better shot, as "Mr. Lawrence" (Vernon Dent) pursues the boys after having the second of his birthday cakes destroyed...

The Stooges' ice wagon is just about where my car was idling when I visited.

The picture below is a screenshot from my video - with the garage roof (now with a wrought iron railing) and the doorway visible beyond that.

I climbed a couple of landings to soak in the view - and the moment.  I love places like this. When you're standing in the exact location where classic comedy was created, it's not quite like going back in time, but almost.

It's a little disturbing, too, when you realize it's been almost ninety years since Laurel and Hardy struggled up the first set of steps. Ninety years.

If Oliver Hardy had lived to witness the changes in the world since 1932 and to contemplate the current state of affairs, there's no doubt in my mind what he'd say.

"Here's another nice mess you've gotten me into."

Much Ado About... Nothing

I wrote this to read on stage at the Short Attention Span Storytelling Hour, presented by Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts.


I’ve written fiction. 

Once. 

Well, not counting tax returns. 

But, frequently, when people ask me what I write, and I say, “Mostly non-fiction,” I get the most puzzled looks. “What does that mean? What do you actually write about?” 

“Well, anything I want.” 

That doesn’t seem to help. To most people, “anything” apparently means “nothing.” 

It reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry and George Costanza are discussing how to pitch their show idea to NBC. 

George says: Everybody's doing something. We'll do nothing. 

Jerry: So we go into NBC, and we tell them we have an idea for a show about nothing. 

George: Exactly. 

Jerry: They say, "What's your show about?" And I say "nothing." 

George: There ya go. 

After a long pause, Jerry says: …I think you may have something there. 

When they say nothing, though, what they really mean is… everything. Everyday life. 

And it’s a little frightening that most people think it’s perfectly acceptable, and probably accurate, to describe their daily existence as… nothing. If you don’t think something interesting happens to you almost every day, you might need to make some serious changes. 

But it’s more likely that you’re just not paying enough attention. 

Aren’t there moments that touch you? Moments that make you think? Moments that cause you to react in unexpected ways? Moments that make you laugh, or make you teary for reasons you can’t explain? 

There’s a story in each of those moments. 

I have written about watching a family with two young children become homeless, and then, months later, seeing them regain their footing – with help from the community they lived in. 

I have written about a young woman at a bar who briefly left her own drunken birthday celebration to sidle up to me, a complete stranger, and tell me her mom had died years before… on her birthday. 

That was nine years ago, and I still think about it. 

I have written about karaoke and cover bands. About music, in general. And my involvement in the business. Which meant… writing about drugs. I have written about sporting events. About irrational fears. And rational ones. About happiness and heartbreak. About the incessant urge that creators have… to create. 

I have written about the time I was sitting in a coffee shop next to two women in their sixties when a news story came on the TV saying researchers, using stem cells… had made artificial sperm. One of the women was absolutely puzzled, and a bit incredulous. 

"What?" she said, as she looked around. "There's no shortage..." 

You can’t make this stuff up. Or, should I say, there’s no need to make this stuff up. It’s there. Everywhere. Every day. If you look for it. 

I did tell a story once about a fantastic acid trip I had in Disney World. And I guess you could argue it’s not true non-fiction if it deals with a dramatically altered reality. Boy, I’ll say… 

I’m willing to admit that the present reality is rather fucked up. So, it might be tempting to invent an entirely new one. But many fiction writers go on to create make-believe worlds that are even more fucked up than our own. 

To me, there’s no sense in escaping your own hell to visit one that’s even worse. 

 I don’t mean to throw all fiction writers under the bus. I’ve met some, and they seem to be able to converse in complete sentences. I just find myself wanting to live in this world. And, even though there’s no doubt, in the brief time I have here, I’ll never figure out what it’s all about, I feel like I can at least figure out bits and pieces… by writing about it. 

So, what’s my inspiration for today? I’m glad you asked. It’s Edna. 

I was in a store the other day, and the woman in line in front of me was named Edna. And I thought… there are not enough women in the world named Edna. Not anymore. And that’s kind of a shame, isn’t it? 

I Googled the word “Edna” and got 57.4 million results. Part of that was because, as I discovered, there was a Hurricane Edna in 1954. She skirted our entire Atlantic coastline, causing twenty-one deaths in New England before petering out over New Brunswick. Somewhat ironically, I also found out that Edna means “pleasure” in Hebrew. Who knew? 

We’ve lost some of those good old names… Myrtle. Gladys. Alice. My personal favorite… Blanche. And Edna. 

Do you know what the most popular female names were in the 1930’s? Betty and Shirley. Edna must have come along later. 

Damn good names. 

With all due respect to the Haleys, Ambers and Kelseys out there, you should probably come to grips with the fact that, when they named you, your parents weren’t thinking about how it would sound when you’re ninety-five, and the assistant at the nursing home reads your name out loud off your chart every morning. 

“Amber, how are you feeling today? It’s time for your pureed goo and then a nice game of bingo in the activity room...” 

Ahh… crotchety old Amber… 

I’m sure there are male name equivalents, but… who gives a shit about that? What are they? Thad? Blair? Ayden? I don’t know… By the way, if there’s someone out there who happens to have one of these names… I just want you to know… it’s not too late to change it. 

I guess it’s a generational thing… But it’s sad. 

When something goes out of fashion, for whatever reason, and we move on to the newest, latest, greatest, hottest whatever it is, I guess it feels like progress, but, it still means we’re leaving something behind. 

What if that something is worth holding on to?? 

 I mean... Jeezus. We’re running out of Ednas. 

So what am I going on about? 

Nothing. 

Anything. 

Everything.