#A character was eating fries and they were specifically eating a fry in three bites no matter the size

[shiversdownyourspleen]

That moment when a character in a story you’re reading has a behavioural trait that’s so specific and uniquely described that it sticks with you and gets engrained in you’re subconscious to the point you’ve co-opted it as your own

[twilitty]

Moonlit ch.1

This is the first chapter in my new fic Moonlit, it will be posted on Tumblr, ao3, and ffnet. New chapters uploaded every week and a half. Message/comment to be added to my tag list.

3k words

big thank you to my beta reader @effervescentlyirrevocable who has given me the absolute best criticism and helped make this chapter so beautiful :)

Bella moves to Forks Washington, her first week is uneventful. This fic has aged up characters, making them all at entry-college level ages.

Chapter One

My senses are sharper in Forks than they were in Phoenix, I’ve only been here a handful of days yet everything seemed brighter, louder, more alive than my past home. There was something here for me, something that made me feel more alert than I have in years.

The sound of heavy rain slowly pulls me out of my restless sleep, an elbow is thrown across my eyes in an attempt to keep the real world at bay. It’s always raining, the mist layering the ground never abandons its post, and the chilly air seemingly lasts indefinitely. The rainy town of Forks Washington sooner resembles my personal hell than it does a sleepy old town. The forest that borders the town at each cardinal point is layered in green moss, damp dirt, and an endless supply of fresh animal tracks. I’d moved to Forks only a week ago, the sum of which was spent unpacking dreadfully thin clothing and acquainting myself with the few stores and public access areas the town has to offer.

My father, Charlie, has had little to do with this process apart from moral support and the occasional bag of fast food that he’s picked up while on shift. Charlie is the town's police chief, a job that both seems ill-needed and also unbearably boring. How much crime can be committed in a town of fewer than ten thousand citizens? Other than the odd tag on a school building or bush party, what does his shift consist of? I have yet to bring my insulting opinions on his career to his attention, and likely will never do so. He’s a good man with a heart of gold and a passion for the judicial system, which is ever-present in his TV browsing as he cruises through endless episodes of Law & Order.

I’m not a big TV person, even back home in Phoenix, I preferred reading to the television. Perhaps this was related to my mother’s endless stack of yoga DVD’s that seemed to consume our viewing; her in a downward dog position gossiping about her latest advancements at her newest club membership, me sitting on the couch finishing a craft for her so she won’t be late submitting it. My favourite of her crafts was embroidery, one month I embroidered nearly two hundred dandelions on a pair of jeans for her. She gave them to the club administrator as an apology before she quit.

Regardless, at night when the TV is blaring the intro theme to a cop show, I am curled in bed with a book under my nose and headphones in my ears. Blocking out the rain is a full-time chore.

This morning is a particularly eventful morning, not because of any specific events, but rather the events that will be set into motion because of this morning. Today is the first day of my online college courses. I’m currently enrolled in an undeclared major. My hope is that the three courses I’m taking this spring term will help me decide on what I want to do in the future.

Charlie had given me a new laptop upon my arrival in Forks, a current model with modest upgrades to “enhance my academic experience”. Or at least that’s what the box boasted. I am not entirely convinced that a larger memory will miraculously cure me of my educational despise. High school was tortuous, I had few friends and fewer interests outside of my mother’s hobbies. I had no extra-curricular activities that were not synonymous with financial responsibilities. The monthly budget book was mine to care for, as was the constant, intrusive phone calls of the bank when my mother got too engaged in a store. She’s a gullible woman if nothing else. If a store clerk tells her a blouse suits her figure, she’ll purchase ten colours in the article along with two in a size lower just in case she finally loses the ten pounds she’s been trying to shed.

My eyes have barely opened, the down of my forearm just a fraction away from my pupil when Charlie pounds against my door. You’d imagine I was fostering a fugitive in here with the noise he’s making, but this is just the way my father is, loud noises and soft voices. I wonder, idly, if perhaps he has minor hearing loss from spending so much time around guns.

“I’m up!” I call out, my voice is thin and calloused with morning sleep. I clear my throat as the knocking cuts off, “Good morning, Dad.” Charlie doesn’t like me calling him Charlie.

“Morning, Bells,” he calls back through the door, quiet enough to not be taken as aggressive yet loud enough to sound authoritative. He is a father, my father, at heart. He pauses, and it’s as if I can hear the mental gears shifting in his mind. He hasn’t had to be a father since I was a baby, after that Renee was the parent. Charlie was the summer distraction. “Don’t be late for school.” I grunt a response, reaching for the alarm clock on my nightstand and groaning at the early hour of the morning. Barely eight, class doesn’t officially start until noon. I guess there’s nothing wrong with logging in early, although I’d much rather catch up on the sleep I’ve lost to the thunderous storms we’ve been experiencing recently.

As if he could sense my intentions, Charlie knocks against my door again. “Bella, I mean it. You didn’t come here to slack off, now.” No, I think nastily, I came here for peace and quiet.

Between unpacking my belongings and touring the town, I’ve developed a routine in my new living situation. Charlie is fond of my company, enjoying having a woman in the house outside of his ex-wife, my mother and ex-roommate. Although, his fondness of my presence does not directly translate to time spent together. He makes me breakfast, occasionally placing it in the oven to keep warm, and then immediately heads off to his family that is the Forks police station. We meet again for lunch, depending on our individual plans for the day, and then reunite again just in time for dinner. Food really is the great American pastime.

I dress in jeans and a light blue sweater that smells mysteriously of mildew although it’s a recent purchase and has yet to be worn outdoors. I suppose the rain permeates every available space, closed windows be damned. My socks are tall and I have to roll my jeans up at the bottoms to accommodate for the thick, high fabric of them. It’s a trick Charlie taught me for wearing rain boots, the higher the socks the less likely they are to run down to your toes as you walk. Immediately after that trick was taught I went to the nearest hiking store and purchased a pair of rain boots. My first pair of rain boots at nineteen years of age. Unfathomable yet ironic considering my lineage marks back to the wettest town in the continental US. My ancestors roll in their graves every time I step outdoors and forget a jacket or umbrella, I’m sure of it.

Charlie is waiting for me downstairs, both a surprise and unwelcome presence. I had a battered copy of Dorian Gray under my arm, I was expecting philosophy and moral ambiguity, not idle conversation. Before the chief notices my book, I slide it over the back of the couch and enter the kitchen with a polite smile. There’s bacon frying on the stovetop, the police chief is dressed in uniform already, but has a stained white apron tied around his neck. “Dad?”

“Oh,” he turns around and gives me a tight smile, “Excited for your big day?” You’d imagine it’s my first day of preschool with the amount of enthusiasm he’s trying to keep hidden from me, not my first day of online school. I don’t say anything to dampen his mood, I’m glad he’s excited about something. His life is repetitive, if my existence here proves to be no more useful than just disrupting his schedule, it will still be a success.

“Yeah, I guess.” He turns back to the bacon and shifts it around quickly, the grease snapping up at him. If it burns him he doesn’t show it, just maintains the stiff-backed posture of a respectable police officer cooking his daughter breakfast. “I’ve gotta ask, what’s up with the apron?” I stifle a giggle behind a bite of the toast that’s sitting in the middle of the small table. He shakes his head in faux annoyance.

Charlie takes the pan off the hot element, sliding the bacon onto two plates and pouring the grease into an open can. The second trick he taught me since arriving here: never pour grease down the drain.

“I’m in uniform, it would be disrespectful to the badge to stain it.” He slides a plate of bacon in front of me, sitting down in his designated seat across the table. “Besides,” he takes a sip of coffee from his to-go mug. “Can you imagine walking into a police station smelling of fried pig?”

Breakfast ends quickly. We each eat a piece of toast, Charlie stuffing a second piece into a plastic bag “for later” and heading out the door. I still have half a plate of bacon in front of me after he leaves, the maple glaze filling the small kitchen with its smell.

After my Mom and Charlie got married, Renee redecorated much of the house. Her lace curtains still hang in the master bedroom window, constantly drawn closed. The rest of the house has been minorly updated with age, the TV got bigger, the couch more comfortable, new bed linens and even newer rocking chairs on the porch. I had asked Charlie if they were Moms when I first came up to the house a week ago.

They were rocking gently in the wind, the wood seemed to be polished as it shined in what little light filtered through the depressive clouds. They were sitting side by side, matching pillows on them both, a coffee table in the middle with a stack of coasters. It was an old person's porch, where husband and wife would sit all grey and wrinkled, waving at the neighbourhood kids as the bus dropped them off from school. I could almost picture Charlie and Renee sitting there, her knitting a scarf and him content to just watch her and the scenery.

He informed me that they were relatively new, a purchase from a shop down on the Reservation. We haven’t spoken about them since, but I wonder if perhaps he wishes he had someone to sit out there with him.

I spend the morning before class doing odd chores around the house. It’s nice living at Charlie’s, nicer than I had expected it to be. I’m not a fan of the weather or the fact that I currently have no social life, but it’s nice to just sit. I throw my laundry in the wash and manage to get the kitchen cleaned up with just enough time left over to sit on the couch and read a chapter of my book before class.

School has never been my strong suit. That’s not to say I get poor marks or intentionally skip classes, I just never found it as fulfilling as my peers seemed to. I never woke up and looked forward to the social or academic aspect of high school. Perhaps this contributed to me postponing my college experience and only starting it now when I should already be a year into my program.

When I log into my schools online database and click on my first class, Social Psychology 1001, I’m immediately transported to a screen filled with windows and the faces of my classmates. “Hello, class!” The professor's voice calls out over my computer. Perhaps online school won’t be my strong suit either.

Class ends and the next one starts, and I get through all three classes and an hour's worth of homework by the time Charlie pops in for dinner.

“Hey, Bells,” He calls as he opens the front door. I can hear him from where I sit in the kitchen, hanging his gun belt up by the front door and kicking his boots off into a heap on the floor. I imagine Mom back in Phoenix, walking into the house with arms full of bags and tossing her flip flops onto her pile of shoes beside the coatrack she used for purses. Some things won’t ever change.

“How was work?” I ask. He pauses to poke his head into the kitchen, moustache moving as he chews on his lip. I can’t remember when Charlie initially grew out his moustache, just that one summer I arrived and thought could he look more like a cop?

“Good, good, just some meetings. New family moving into town, all foster kids around your age.” He takes pause, staring off into some middle ground in the hallway as if deep in thought. His eyebrows furrow, “Don’t want any trouble makers coming in, but the father seems nice. Respectable.”

“That’s nice,” I contribute conversationally. Charlie and I rarely have material conversations, always just idle talk of the weather or what's for dinner. I’m not entirely sure how to approach this topic, which clearly seems to be occupying his mind.

“Yeah, he’s a doctor.” He grins at this, toothy and a little crooked to the right side. A pang of embarrassment settles in my chest before he speaks, as if knowing where this will turn. “Perfect for you, considering how often your clumsiness-” I wave a hand over my face, grimacing at his words. “Don’t speak it into existence,” I mutter with a half-hearted plea underlying my words. He chuckles, disappearing up the stairs.

I hear the shower turn on after a few minutes of him fumbling around, presumably trying to get undressed. I’m sure once he’s showered and in sweatpants it’ll be twenty questions about my day of school. I’m not sure I have the heart to break the truth to him: it absolutely sucked.

The material was interesting enough, psychology has always been close to my heart. I loved the idea of people being more than their actions and thoughts, that there was something making them say that or something making them act that way. Perhaps this was yet another symptom of having Renee for a mother.

I sit at the kitchen table for a moment longer, my computer is closed in front of me and my pencil case- dreadfully unnecessary with school being online-sits closed and untouched. I haven’t made any friends in my classes, not that I had expected to. Twelve years of public school and no friend group to show for it, just a few texts every couple of weeks. Why would I have believed college, and an online college at that, would be any better?

Having enough with my thoughts, I get up from the table and pack my things into my bag. I’ve completed enough work for today, the rest of the evening I’ll spend either with Charlie or in my room. I’d rather not be nose deep in pdf textbooks and youtube videos constituting as follow-up lectures, I’ve had enough of that today. As if sensing the immediacy of my departure from the kitchen, the shower cuts off and I hear the bathroom door squeak open. For a man who, until recently, lived alone with too much free time, you’d imagine he’d have taken better care of the house. Nearly every door, except my own, creaks open and closed. I made sure to oil my hinges nearly immediately after moving in, I didn’t want Charlie to wake up every time I sneak downstairs for a comfort snack or warm glass of milk to help me sleep. He’s lived alone for nearly twenty years, he doesn’t need his sleep schedule disrupted now.

“The game is on in-” Charlie pauses as if double-checking the times mentally, “- an hour and a half. Are you interested?” He’s calling from up the stairs. I wonder if he truly wants me to watch the game with him, whatever sport it may be, or if he’s only being polite.

“Uh, I was just going to organize my room right now and then maybe make something for dinner,” I say in response. The floors don’t make a noise and I know he’s heard me, but he doesn’t respond. A lump forms in my throat, perhaps he really did want to watch with me.

“That’s fine, but if you want we can order in?” The lump passes and I convince myself that there is no reason to avoid the TV. It’s not like I’ll be a disruption, if I get bored I can read on the couch. I’ve only watched TV with Charlie on a few occasions since my move here, and each time I strategically saved my questions for the commercial breaks.

“Sure! That works.” The floorboards creak and I hear him retreat into his room, the door closing with a pitiful squeak.

We eat pizza on the couch, a large meat-lover for the carnivorous father and a small vegetarian with extra mushrooms for the daughter who cares about her cardiovascular health. We eat slowly, occasionally Charlie will make a face at the television or mumble something under his breath, but other than that we’re quiet. The sport turns out to be baseball and I recall a few of the basic rules from the tragic gym classes of my past. It’s not disastrous in any way, and surprisingly I don’t get bored. There is something relaxing about the repetitive nature of the game.

After the game ends we box up the remaining slices and put them in the fridge to be eaten tomorrow, say good night, and go our separate ways at the top of the stairs.

taglist:

@musingsofvenus @maybesandohnos

[la-appel-du-vide]

THAILAND 2019 - Day Seven {Chiang Mai}

Our final day in Chiang Mai came way too quickly, but we made the most of it for sure!

Our day started early, with a visit to the Tiger Kingdom! It was a recommendation from Jaycee Brown, and we obviously wanted to see the tigers anyway. We originally planned to do it in Phuket, but ended up choosing Chiang Mai because of the chance to see the baby tigers!

We walked over to the mall, and got a cab ride down to the Tiger Kingdom. We showed them our tickets, and they had us start with the newborn tigers! There were a total of six or seven of them, but we got to be in the room with three of them at a time. As soon as I saw them I wanted to cry. They were so perfect and tiny. They are just like little cats! So playful, and happy, and I could have watched them all day long. They had us put on white coats and slippers, and then they let us in.

We took pictures with them, videos of them, and got to pet them. I really wanted to hold one, but we weren’t allowed to pick them up unfortunately. They have such pretty blue eyes, and they were so funny to watch. One of them kept trying out his baby roar, and it was the most pathetically cute thing ever. They would pounce at each other, play with feathers on sticks that the employees would hang for them, and trip over their own giant paws. AH, they were PERFECT.

They gave us about 15 minutes in the cage with them, and then said we had to leave so that they could let the next people in. We got a printed photo and a stuffed baby tiger as a souvenir, haha. Unexpected, but cute.

Next up? The full-grown tigers. We were a little nervous about doing it. Who willingly walks into a cage with three massive, free-roaming tigers? Apparently we do. We followed the trainers in, and went to visit the first one. They had us stand behind him, pet him (specifically “firmly, and from the mid-section down”), pose for photos, and even pick up his tail (spooooooky). To quote Beach, “Are you sure he won’t be mad??” Hahah, but really though. Every time he would turn his head, move his paws, or YAWN (which is easily mistaken for trying to bite your head off), I would jump like five feet backwards.

From there, we moved on to a sleeping one. That one scared me more, because I didn’t want to spook him awake and have him react by eating me. But nope! We got to pet him too, and even worse, the trainers had us LAY ON HIM. I was sooooo nervously uncomfortable. These tigers may have been raised by humans, but they are still WILD ANIMALS with the potential to KILL YOU at any second hahaha omg. If he had decided to turn and eat me, no one could have stopped him. It was a bit of an adrenaline rush, but we both did it! And we survived.

We ended with one final tiger on the other side of the cage, who was also asleep. The trainer ended up waking him up by teasing him with a piece of chicken. I didn’t like that at all. He would hold the chicken up to his mouth, and then take it away. I was like, dudeeeee just give it to him. He’s going to get angry and take it out on us! But luckily, he didn’t and everything turned out fine.

After we petted him for a bit, I got to go in front of him to take some photos. I’ve never been face-to-face with a tiger before, obviously, but what a cool (terrifying) experience. These really are absolutely beautiful animals, and it was an honor to interact with them like that.

After we left the cage, thankfully in one piece, we wandered around the rest of the Tiger Kingdom, looking at the various tigers (including a super rare Snow White tiger, which is literally all white because their stripes are so pale), and learning some interesting facts about tigers. Mostly I’m sad that they are so limited. There are only about 4,000 left in the wild. People poach them left and right because they are like walking gold mines. And they only live up to 15 years in the wild. I didn’t realize they had such limited life spans.

It was a great experience. Later on, we did some research and found out there have been some tiger attacks on tourists there. Just last year in Phuket Tiger Kingdom, an Australian tourist got mauled and had to be dragged out by the trainers with severe injuries to his legs and stomach. Other people have suffered bites and clawing as well. Yikessss. I’m glad we didn’t look those up before we went. It really freaked us out. We really gambled with our lives, and this time it paid off. Loved it, but don’t think we’ll be doing that again haha.

Our taxi driver waited for us while we were in there, and then took us back to the mall. We had planned a Thai cooking class with Mel and Ryan for late afternoon, but we had some time to kill in between. We had lunch, and then got some treats. We still had some extra time, so we went back to our hotel next door (seriously the most convenient location) and hung out an hour, before walking back to catch a taxi.

He drove us to the Basil Cooking School. It was on our list to do a Thai cooking class (again, on recommendation from Jaycee), and it worked out super great that Mel wanted to do one too, and had found this one for us at a time that worked! We really like them, and were so happy to get to spend a little more time with them!

When we got there, they had us select one of three dishes from seven different categories. I chose the following: Pa-Nang Curry Paste, Pa-Nang Curry, Hot and Sour Soup with Roasted Chicken, Stir-Fried Chicken and Cashews, Fried Rice Noodles with Soy Sauce, Fried Spring Rolls, and Deep Fried Bananas served with Coconut Ice Cream!

After we made our choices, we jumped in a large van with the rest of our group and headed to the local market to gather our ingredients. At this point, we were concerned because Mel and Ryan weren’t there, and we had requested to be in their class. There wasn’t much we could do, obviously, with no way to contact them. We wondered if maybe there were two Basil cooking schools, or if they had changed their minds about coming, but either way there was nothing we could do.

Once we got to the market, our chef gave us a run-down of the different Thai fruits/vegetables/spices we would be using in our class today. It was pretty informative. Then she gave us 10 minutes to walk around the market while she picked everything up that we needed. We were once again kicking ourselves for leaving our money back at the cooking school lockers, because we found many things we wanted to buy (i.e. scrunchies, churros, smoothies). But, nopeeee. We could look, but we couldn’t touch.

We headed back to the van, and that’s when we saw another Basil cooking group, and Mel and Ryan were there! We went over to talk to them, and when our instructors realized that we knew them, they let us switch into their group! We were real happy about that. But then we had to do the whole market tour all over again haha. Mel did have her money though, so she had bought some Thai fruits and had us try them. (She’s very adventurous with trying foods). We tried Rambutan, which I liked but Beach didn’t (other than the seed in the middle, super gross), and dragon fruit. The dragon fruit was terribly tasteless, and we didn’t like that much. So mangosteen is my favorite Thai fruit.

After the market, we went back to the cooking school to begin. The girls that hosted and taught our class were extremely organized and professional. They would set up the ingredients for us beforehand, and then teach three separate dishes at once (because we could each pick out of three for each category). It was easy to follow, and extremely hands-on. We started by making our noodles. Throughout the entire class, our teacher kept shouting, “Faster! Faster! Smileeee!” Hahaha, so eventually Ryan would shout it at us too. We got to chop up the vegetables, mix the sauces, fry cook them, and literally every part of the cooking was up to us! We plated the noodles, and ate them in the little dining area while they prepared the kitchen for our next course. Beach made Pad Thai, and we both liked our dishes. I couldn’t believe we were out here cooking Thai food like professional chefs haha. Not that hard though, when everything is measured out and placed in front of you, and then you’re told what to do step by step!

Next, we did both the soup and the appetizers. It was nice, because we had the chance to customize our own dishes, like add more or less spices, salt, sugar, vegetables, etc. to make it how we like it. Beach, in a very true to character way, made the most... unique... spring roll. (; The soup was actually not as bad as I expected, and the spring rolls were ok too. I love the crunchy outside, it is just all the cabbage on the inside that I hate.

Then we got to go in and eat those and take a 15-minute break before doing our final three courses. We had to make them all at once, so it was an endurance to the end type of thing haha.

We started with the dessert. Me and one of the Italian guys in our group made deep fried bananas, which was pretty easy, other than the splashes of hot oil burning us. Then we made the curry paste for our curries, by smashing some ingredients in a clay pot with a big round stick. We had to pound them for ten straight minutes, so it was both a workout, and a cooking class. (; Then we used the paste to make our curries. Finally, we ended with our stir-fries. It was fun to use the big wok pans, and I felt like a real Asian chef.

Then we took all our hard work into the dining room and got to eat our masterpieces! The Pa-Nang curry I made was wayyyy better than the coconut curry we tried at the restaurant in Bangkok. I only wish we had rice to eat it with, because I feel like that always helps curry. The stir-fries were really good as well. And then the dessert! My fried bananas were very good with a unique texture, and the fresh coconut ice cream they were served with was delicious.

Really, such a fun, hands-on Thai experience! Plus we got to try so much Thai food, that we made ourselves! I would definitely recommend that to anyone visiting Thailand. So great!

And then, in case we weren’t stuffed enough, Mel and Ryan invited us to go back to their hotel with them and walk over to the famous Chiang Mai Night Bazaar to get some authentic Thai rolled ice cream! I couldn’t turn that chance down, because ever since I saw the videos of it on Facebook forever ago, I’ve been fascinated. I found some back home, and I’m obsessed with it, so I couldn’t wait to try the real deal.

When we got there, the Bazaar was hopping. They have lots of crazy tourist food, loud music, and plenty to see. We found the rolled ice cream place, and Ryan ordered a chocolate/Oreo/banana combination. I tried it, and it was so good that I ordered the same thing. Watching him make it was fun, and eating it was even more fun! After we were done, we parted ways with Mel and Ryan, since we likely won’t be seeing them again since we go to Phuket first and they go to Krabi first. But we loved our time with them, and we will keep following their adventures on social media (thank goodness for that).

We got a taxi back to our hotel, where we had to pack, repack, and pack again for Phuket! Late night, but the best day.

We’re gonna miss Chiang Mai so much. Our perfect lil paradise.

[theliterateape]

Finding What Really Matters When It All Shifts for the Worse

By Don Hall

The Vegas mid-day sky is strangely dark and slightly orange. The sun, ordinarily a blazing hot laser that has this amazing hostility in the desert, is muted. I can stare right at it and see it’s perfect circle. It is the stuff of a Ridley Scott dystopia.

At this moment, my mind goes to the end of the world place. I know the haze comes from California currently on fire in so many places that the smoke has drifted as far as Kansas but is still thick here. It smells like a Webber charcoal grill just before the steaks go on. I wonder if the clothes I’m wearing are my apocalyptic outfit, the costume of my End of Days character. I’m not sure if the shoes will hold up to Cormac’s Road but the jeans have some staying power, I think. The vest, at least, will look cool as the planet descends into galactic irrelevance.

If this is it, that minute when it all goes to shit, did I remember to tell my mom I love her? Was my last kiss on my wife’s lips worthy of being our, you know, last kiss? Will I remember, months from now as I scavenge cold canned food out of abandoned grocery stores to survive, the feast of a club sandwich, fries, and a Dr. Pepper as bounty?

Did I write about things and ideas worth reading and soon, long after the digital footprint is erased by the absence of electricity, will anyone remember them?

I grew up reading about the demise of civilization. King’s The Stand was among my favorite books. Movies about the nuclear holocaust destined to come, pandemics devastating humanity, zombies hoarding through empty cities. The inhumanity of humans balanced with the kindness of survivors. Hard choices following devastating loss.

Yeah. I think what makes my specific brand of optimism potent is the always present knowledge of impermanence. Mortality is never far from my thoughts although it is not the fear of death or pain that permeates the brainstew. It’s the billions of distractions spent eating up the life being lived just before the end that fascinate and horrify me.

This too shall pass is both a salve for those in troubled times and a warning for those whose heads are stuck so far up their cakeholes that they miss the importance of significant but easily discarded life.

I’d like to believe that if we all were a bit more in tune with the fact that the party eventually ends we might be the slightest bit more grateful for that last Solo cup of beer and that final bite of cheese. We’ll feel pretty fucking stupid taking for granted a hug when there is suddenly no one left to embrace.

I stare at the sun for that beat and the moment passes. I head back into the casino for more of the bizarre, the mundane, and the simple weird day-to-day of managing the swing shift in a casino at the end of the world. Boulevard of Broken Dreams, my ass. The fractured lives of gamblers on the ass end of broke-dick is more like it.

On a corner slot machine sits Ted. That isn’t his name as far as I know but Random Addict Homeless White Guy Mumbling to Himself is too burdensome for an essay so Ted will do. Ted has been here before. Ted could be thirty-five years old or somewhere north of sixty. Who knows? The desert sun has a way of fossilizing age.

My general manager has tossed him from the place for refusing to wear a mask. I physically threw him out in the parking lot when he decided he was going to get a free drink and scream his ass off in order to get it. When I tried to get him out the door, he started screaming “Don’t you put your hands on me!” My response was “Or what?” His reaction was to try to break the glass on one of the exit doors. I grabbed him by the back of the shirt and shoved him onto the pavement.

As the Nice Manager or the Manager of Multiple Chances I figure as long as he’s not bothering people or acting up, he’s fine to play his found two dollars for a beer and a chance to get out of the heat. He has a tall boy beer in his pocket. “Yo. Don’t open that beer on the casino floor or I’ll have to chuck it in the can.” He nods in a frenetic way and continues to slowly push the penny bet button.

I remind him to wear the fucking mask (really a red bandana but who quibbles in a pandemic?) and he haphazardly pulls it up. I register a sour smell from him. A combination of weeks of sweat dried, booze, and something else unpleasant.

A few minutes later, he’s up at the cage trying to cash in cash vouchers for $0.03 and $0.11 that he has found in machines abandoned by players who couldn’t be bothered with the small change after losing. This practice, known as ticket surfing is forbidden so it’s time for Ted to head out for the day.

He takes the news better this time as me booting him from the property is now semi-routine. He points to the machine he was playing. “Someone left those cigarettes. Are those yours?” he asks.

“Not mine. I smoke but not cigarettes. No one seems to want them so if you do, they’re yours.”

“You don’t want them?”

“Nah. Menthol. You couldn’t pay me to smoke menthol.”

“I can have them?”

“Yup.” I hand him what looks like three-quarters of a pack of Newports.

Another moment. A microcosm expanded.

The look on his face—surprise, gratitude, sadness, desperation—freezes time.

How did Ted go from being an eight-year-old boy just like I once was and end up, in this moment, here? What was his journey in this descent?

The feeling in my core isn’t pity or empathy. It isn’t some virtuous need to demonstrate kindness or a need to save him. It’s almost a clinical interest in his story. A desire to understand his path and how it diverged from my own. Looking at a disaster and wondering how I avoided the same. Genes? Upbringing? Dumb luck?

At once I am struck by the things I fail to appreciate in my life. In the midst of the frustration with so much of society, with the struggles with the needs and complaints of so many, I recognize the absolute necessity in reflection. Staring for a moment in the mirror, not at myself in the narcissism of the social media age, but at the people and things around me that keep me from walking those footsteps of the apocalypse, from dancing the sad death spiral Ted seems to be on.

This too shall pass.

A Las Vegas friend with ties to Chicago made an odd comment recently. He was commenting on his enjoyment of Johnny Depp films and said “I’m truly fascinated by the work of those who have been cancelled. Depp, you...”

Wait. I was cancelled?

I suppose, in some ways, I was. My frame is that Chicago was as done with me as I was Chicago but no one can present themselves from within their own lens. Everyone sees everyone else the way they choose to and if some see my trajectory in that way, I suppose it doesn’t change things for me.

It’s that lens thing that gets to the point, right? The world is as you choose to see it. Not so much as a frame for truth (because that whole “I’m living my truth” is some ego-driven prattle) but as a guide for how one behaves. 

There are always going to be people who will take advantage you. Always. You can choose to then see everyone as a potential grifter or choose to avoid assigning guilt before specificity. The choice will determine how you approach every relationship you enter into. It will dictate how you treat strangers. It will stipulate the terms of your own social contract.

We are living out big history right now. The events we are enduring are going to be taught in history classes for hundreds of years. For those folks living in 2120, the COVID pandemic of 2020, the reign of Donald Trump, the results of decades of climate change, will all be chapters in the book.

In Brian DePalma’s Vietnam film Casualties of War there is a moment that sticks in my mind. This is certainly a paraphrase so don’t get your little girl panties up in a wad about accuracy but at one point a character looks at Michael J. Fox and states that nothing matters in the conflict. That with the horrors surrounding them, no one is looking at the brutal behavior of single individuals so who cares.

Fox’s character’s response is simply that maybe, when no one is looking, when the world is on fire, maybe it is even more vital to do the right thing. When everyone is angry and misunderstanding everyone else, when war envelopes us all, maybe that is the exact time to be kinder and less angry.

This too shall pass and we will still be here. The world feels like it’s ending a lot more than it did when I was reading The Stand and listening obsessively to Maynard Ferguson. Perhaps the immediacy of knowing at every second what everyone is doing and feeling has something to do with that. I don’t know.

I suspect that the world will never end, at least not in the way our active dreaming envisions it. The world, whether it includes us or not, will continue to turn. Each day will follow the next. Maybe it takes the form of a Mad Max world or a dystopia where Kevin Costner is the postman hero. I can almost guarantee that the momentary vitriol and infighting over identity, over politics, over whether to wear a mask or how we fund college will not be on the radar.

At this particular end of the world it’s that kiss and on my wife’s lips, that FaceTime call to Mom, that fucking dry-ass club sandwich that matter. It’s the fact that I had the privilege to take a hot shower, that I’m remarkably COVID-free, and I own more than one pair of shoes (despite wearing the less durable pair today) that count.

We have bigger fish to fry and even those, too, will pass.

When it comes, at least I’ll be wearing this cool ass vest.