#clearing out my salty drafts before the new season starts

[lovecolibri]

I saw a beautiful gifset here that parallels the scene at the drive in, and the scene in the finale with Michael talking about walking away. And I now have some feelings.

We didn’t know the full story at the time the episode aired about how exactly Jesse played into Michael and Alex’s trauma but it confuses me that looking back now, people spent this past season (and are still) pointing to this moment to bring up how Alex was “always” walking away and how he needed to let Michael be happy with someone stable like m*ria. ????? 

The drive-in scene is Alex is trying to protect Michael. His dad literally just threatened both of them. Did Alex handle it well? No. He was probably spiraling out in his mind thinking of all the implications of what his dad said. Thinking about the power his dad has to get Michael locked up, and his dad knowing that if Michael goes missing probably no one will care to look too hard for him, and if he turns up dead it can easily be brushed aside as a bar brawl gone wrong. Thinking about the implication that Alex associating with a known criminal while having high-level government security clearance could get him in trouble at work, possibly lose him his security clearance which for a cyber security analyst likely means losing his job, and the implications of that as his health insurance is going to be tied to the military as well. 

Pushing Michael away in a fit of panic may not be a healthy response from Alex, but it's often brought up and treated like Alex is purposefully trying to hurt Michael, instead of Michel being hurt as a byproduct of Alex having a very valid trauma response that he does work to correct by digging into his dad and throwing around his rank to get his dad stationed outside the country to keep Michael safe while he works out a more permanent solution.

In contrast to all of that, Michael's moment in the finale where he says he needs to walk away is portrayed as mature and proof of character growth even though he doesn't actually communicate that (like an adult) to Alex. There is no communication here about what he wants, or what he’s feeling so just like Michael in 1x03, Alex is the one left feeling off-kilter and unwanted by Michael when he sees him walk out. We also see Michael look at Forrest and seeming decide that Forrest is a better choice for Alex than he is, without letting Alex make that decision while knowing Michael could be an option. So Michel is still responding and making decisions driven by his fear of not being enough, so it isn’t really some hugely mature decision, even though c*rina tried to frame it like it was. So Michael gets to be (justifiably) sad and hurt by Alex but (as we saw all season with the m*luca nightmare), Alex isn't allowed to be sad and upset by Michael’s actions. Alex has to be happy and fine when Michael walks away while he’s singing a really emotional love song about Michael and his current feelings about wanting them to start over and try again, reinforcing the idea that it's okay for Michael to do the same thing Alex got vilified for doing. And I think it’s down to how c*rina framed it all, because in both instances, we get to see more of Michael’s side of things and are told more about what he is thinking and feeling. Where in Alex’s case we are mostly left to guess, and extrapolate from the information at hand and the logic of how a character with Alex’s backstory would act, only to be told later that we’re wrong and that Alex is actually just ashamed of Michael because of who Michael is as a person and how he presents himself (because Alex has been shown to give a single flying fuck about that and about what other people think 🙄). 

I don’t know where I was going with this, except that both Alex and Michael have made mistakes and missteps with each other, and and hurt each other unintentionally in trying to save themselves, or in their responses to trauma triggers and immediate threats. Neither one of them is the saint, and neither one is the villain, they are just two flawed people trying to learn how to love each other again. So lets stop pitting them against each other in some kind of game of whose trauma is worse, or who hurt who when, and why. It’s time we stop keeping score, and I really hope season 3 will let Malex actually do that. 

[doverly]

Myrtle’s Cove

Good day, good evening, good night everybody I hope everyone who is reading this is having a very good time. Before we get into the story that I am very excited for I have to apologize. When I began this blog many months ago I originally planned to upload a new short story at least every month if not every two week. But life never exactly goes as planned. School started and debate season and swimming season took up most of my time. The rest of my time was rapidly absorbed by my longer wip which I am very excited to share with you all once the first draft is done. Anyone I hope that winter break will give me the time I need to prepare some more content for you all. And without further ado I present to you 

Myrtle’s Cove

13k words

Historical~ish Fantasy

The sand was rough, that’s true. Clouds blanketed the sky casting everything in a grayish glow. Drops of water sprayed from the waves every few minutes, covering Myrtle's face in their cold salty embrace. Still even though it was a bit gloomy Myrtle wouldn’t give this up for anything. Hidden from the rest of the world by the rocky cliffs that covered the rest of the shore this was her home away from what should have been her home. This was her safe place. This was her cove. The only thing Myrtle wished was that she could stay here forever. Collecting pretty shells and sea glass, away from the world. But her wish could never come true, even though she wished it extra hard today.

For the few hours that Myrtle managed to steal from her day she could be whoever she wanted at the cove. Laughing and shouting loudly, knowing no one could hear her. Every so often stopping to pick something she saw glittering half buried in sand. It seemed like the cove held hundreds of possibilities that Myrtle could enjoy. Myrtle was happy. But only for a moment.

Seeing that the sun was starting to appear on the horizon Myrtle knew that it was time to go. She walked to the back of her cove and retrieved her basket and shoes. Taking some time to deposit the new treasures she had found along the shore in her basket, Myrtle started the trek back up the cliff and into reality. Stopping only once when she was back up the cliff to wipe all incriminating grains of sand from the new black dress that she wore.

The walk back to town was a somber one. With every step she took the weight of her life seemed heavier and heavier upon Myrtle’s shoulders. Until when she was finally in sight main street and her back had returned to it’s usually curved posture, all the energy and life she had on the shore drained away. The spring in her step replaced by a slow methodical shuffle, which got slower and slower the closer she got to her destination.

Footprints stood out in the mud around Myrtle’s house. Though it had rained the day before and it seemed like everyone in town had come, and those who didn’t sent a card. Giving Myrtle and her family their deepest sympathies, even though no one bothered to ask if she had wanted them. Hoping that her absence had been unnoticed Myrtle went around the back. The door was open, it always was. Though a shrill voice immediately called out to her from the kitchen when she stepped into the house. Myrtle didn’t know what she wanted sometimes. Would it be better if they hadn’t noticed she was gone, if her family had gone on with it’s new normal without her. Years of them not really paying her much mind had solidified it in her mind that them noticing her was what she was after. But it seemed like the only reason that they didn’t just let her do whatever is because they needed Myrtle to do something for them. This time was no different.

“Myrtle Mae come here this instant!” her mother called from the kitchen.

Myrtle, resigned to her fate, removed her shoes and left them in the mud room, knowing how much trouble she would be in if she tracking something in and left stains on the rug. Though hearing her mother’s tone it looked like she was already in trouble. Myrtle had to go through the living room to get to the kitchen and who should she find lounging on the sofa like he had no care in the world but her older brother. Who even though had been taking a break from university to come visit was still reading one of his textbooks. Though Myrtle didn’t blame him for that. Books were to him like the cove was to Myrtle, a temporary escape from all that weighed down on him. The only difference was that he could escape with their mother knowing, and no one alive could know about Myrtle’s frequent visits to the cove. 

Trying to push all thoughts of where she had been out of her mind as she entered the kitchen, Myrtle hoped that she had the right expression on her face. Caught doing something that she wasn’t supposed to do, but not too guilty. If she walked in looking too guilty Myrtle’s mother might think to look on her shoes, and seeing the grains of sand mixed with mud she would know exactly where Myrtle had gone. So this encounter with her mother was crucial, Myrtle had to act like she had acted dozens of times before. Although this time may be different, seeing as all the other times Myrtle had had her grandfather standing by her side, and now he was gone. Of Myrtle wished that they didn’t need to have this encounter at all. But for the life of her she couldn’t imagine her life without the cove. She had tried it many times before but never could she make it stick. It seemed that no matter how iron her resolve Myrtle always left a part of herself at the cove, and she was always dispirit to get it back.

“Yes mother?” Myrtle asked as she came into the kitchen to see her mother standing by an open refrigerator, arms crossed, a look of annoyance on her face. Myrtle’s tone was intentionally fake innocent, if she acted too well her mother might get suspicious. But if she came out and told a lie about where she had been her mother would know that she was not telling the truth. The line was thin, but Myrtle had years of reluctant experience walking it.

“We are out of eggs, Myrtle Mae,” her mother said, in a tone that told Myrtle all she needed to know. It was her job to go get new eggs every couple of days and she had neglected it, that was clear. Her job and she had failed. It seemed no matter how hard Myrtle tried to be the perfect daughter she ended up failing her mother in one way or another. The conversation would eventually turn to Myrtle going to the market to buy new eggs, but first they had to address where Myrtle had been.

“I went to your bedroom to tell you Myrtle Mae,” her mother continued, “But you were not there. Nor were you in the dining room, nor the living room, nor the kitchen. In fact you were not in the house at all. Would you be so kind as you tell me where you were, and do not lie to me Myrtle Mae I can tell when you are lying.”

That’s what you think, Myrtle thought to herself, then hated herself for thinking so. It wasn’t her mother’s fault that she thought that,the blame fell squarely on Myrtle’s deceitful shoulders. She had been lying to her mother for years, and still she could count the number of times she got caught in one hand, a talent for lying was just one of the many things Myrtle hated liking about herself, “I was just out for a walk.”

Her mother’s scowl grew deeper, “Your lying Myrtle Mae! I told you I could tell. You were with that boy again weren’t you!”

Myrtle bowed her head in response and her mother took her silence for a confirmation. Her mother always thought that she was with “that boy” and Myrtle let her believe it. She didn’t want to worry her mother with the truth, at least that was what she had always told herself. In truth there was no boy, there had only been and always would be the cove. But Myrtle had learned that the best way for her to lie was to let her mother believe something else. Telling her mother that she was on a walk over and over again would just make her suspicious. But being with a boy, that was scandalous, that was something that she should try to hide. The year before Myrtle had actually tried to get a boy, to make her lie into a truth. That was when an idea that had long flitted in Myrtle’s mind cemented into something concrete and woeful. There would never be a boy, because no boy would want her. All she had was her family, and one of them was gone. So Myrtle let her believe that there was a boy in town that she smitten with, it was easier for both of them than the truth. 

Myrtle’s mother’s anger subsided a little bit, “Oh I know it must be hard for you Myrtle Mae, but you have no idea what it’s been like for me. With both your father and grandfather dead I have had to sacrifice so much for this family. Oh how they look down upon us. When your father went into the ocean and never came back, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

Myrtle had to stifle a cry of frustration. Who was she to try to escape anything when her life was so good. But her poor mother had to support them all. And even with all her sacrifice Myrtle still couldn’t manage to buy eggs when she was supposed to. Myrtle tried and tried to be better, but seemed like it was her fate to fall short.

This was not a commentary about her father however. What followed next was a long talk about how much she had to work to support not only her and Myrtle but her brother and his studies as well. And oh hard it is for her, how she didn’t plan for this to happen, how much she wished for her husband to be here. Myrtle listened to all of this with rapt attention, trying to cement all of her mother’s woes into her head.  Week after week Myrtle had heard this speech, but still it didn’t seem to really matter to her. Even though Myrtle had it memorized it still failed in its intended effect.Especially now after the funeral, every time Myrtle had thought that something was too difficult or had broken a plate her mother had to remind her of the truth of the situation. Myrtle’s woes were nothing compared to what her mother went through, Myrtle had nothing to complain about.  That Myrtle should be more appreciative of all her mother did for her. And in a way she was, Myrtle did know all her mother did for the family, but she couldn’t stop her rebellious mind from thinking that things were hard for her as well.

Once her mother was finished Myrtle was back outside, this time through the front door. With money in her pocket and an empty basket in her hand Myrtle headed to market, happy to be out of the house at least for a little while. The roads were dirt for the first part of Myrtle's walk with only the occasional evergreen to break up the monotony.  And it was only when she reached the paved main street did she allow herself to think of how much mud she would have to wipe off of her shoes. 

The market was what people called the ever changing series of stalls that stood in the town square. If someone’s chicken had an unusual amount of eggs they would get a stall in the square and sell the extras, just bought another cow and now you have too much milk you sell it in square. Even Myrtle had sold something in the square. Every Valentine's Day her and her grandfather would gather all of the best flowers they could find in the woods and make bouquets. And for the next month and half Myrtle would have pocket money enough to buy some pastries from the bakery. Tears came to Myrtle’s eyes as she realized that last year was the last time she would have done that. But she quickly brushed them aside as someone came up to speak to her.

It turns out that they just wanted to offer condolences, the next person was the same, the next person also the same. Every person at the market seemed to want to tell Myrtle how sorry they were for her loss. To tell her that they were available if she ever wanted to talk. One person even told Myrtle that if her mother was struggling with money, that they could give them some money. Myrtle took all these offers in stride. Politely declining, but telling them thanks all the less. These were the same people who ignored me just two weeks ago, Myrtle thought as she finally reached the stall she was there for after some delay, and now they would let me live in their house. Something about that entire situation just screamed irony to Myrtle.

Even though most people sold eggs one day or another, there was just one person Myrtle loved to buy from. Mrs. Tout was a widow about the age her grandfather would be if he was still alive and she came to the market every few months to sell her overabundance of eggs for cheap. With shoulder length white hair and metal framed glasses. No matter when Myrtle was at her stall it seemed like she always had a kind word or a joke for her. It seemed almost fate-like that she would be here when Myrtle needed cheering up the most. 

“Myrtle I’ve been expecting you,” she said with all the cadence and glamour of a roadside fortune teller.

In spite of herself Myrtle laughed, even though she knew this was all a show she decided to play along. If nothing else it would cheer her up, “Have you suddenly become a prophet since the last time I saw you a few months ago?”

This time it was Mrs. Tout’s turn to laugh, a rich warm sound that seemed to resonate from her and into Myrtle making her forget her misery, “Nothing so grand Myrtle I just know how long eggs last. Anyway enough about the future, how many eggs. The usual dozen and a half.”

As she spoke she gestured to the many eggs laid out on the stall. Speckled ones, brown ones, and just plain white ones, Mrs. Tout always had a variety. If some people were cat ladies then Mrs. Tout was a chicken lady. All around her fenced in yard roamed chickens and roosters of every shape and variety. She even let her favorite ones into the house. But she wasn't very practical because even though she sold most of their eggs she couldn’t bear to eat any of them. So she let them live out their lives and held a tearful funeral when one perished. Myrtle couldn’t count the number of tiny gravestones in the woods behind Mrs. Tout’s house.

Myrtle shook her head, and the smile that had formed on her face left it suddenly, “No only a dozen, our biggest egg eater isn’t here anymore.”

Mrs. Tout didn’t offer her condolences, or tell Myrtle that everything was going to be okay. Instead she told her a story.

“Yes I remember when your grandfather and I were younger. Everyone would see him come and go from my house at all hours. Even my own husband thought that we were having an affair. Really he just bought eggs,” Mrs. Tout laughed, “But imagine us trying to explain that to everyone.”

Myrtle chuckled, but paid for the eggs and made sure they were secure in her basket before heading home. As much as she wished she could stay there and chat about all the fun things her grandfather had done she needed to be heading home. If her mother thought that she was dautleing even a little bit in the market then she would think that Myrtle’s supposed “boy” was becoming a distraction. She may try to find out who the boy was, and finding nobody she would know where Myrtle was really spending all of her free time. And Myrtle couldn’t for her mother to find out about the cove. So Myrtle hurried home, fast as her black mary janes would carry her. 

Even though Myrtle wanted to be home quickly she didn’t run or even jog , just walked faster than she normally would. Not only because  she didn’t want to jostle the fragile cargo in her basket, but because she didn’t want to give people another reason to stare at her. Unlike the adults in the village kids her own age didn’t readily step forward to offer their sincerest sympathies. Even before the funeral they left her alone. But now they saw her black hair, black mourners clothes, and pale face and something about her entire appearance uneased them. As Myrtle briskly walked home they stopped their street games and chatter as she passed, but Myrtle had learned not to mind. Her grandfather had always said not to dwell on her isolation, the only thing she needed was herself. But she had never really internalized that as much as she thought she had, Myrtle realized after he had passed, the only person that she thought she needed was her grandfather and now that Myrtle only had herself she couldn’t help but feel alone. 

As she walked back home through the familiar path passing all the familiar trees and bushes Myrtle’s mind wandered to the basket worth of new trinkets that she had let in the mudroom. Even though a shred of shame of having collected them in the first place ran through her. After she deposited the eggs in the ice box Myrtle was looking forward to putting all of them away. Thinking they are pretty half buried in sand in the cove was something different than really examining them in the safety of her bedroom. Myrtle always loved discovering something that she hadn’t noticed before. Even though she would never admit it to anyone this activity was what drove Myrtle through her days. Aside from actually going to the cove, this was the only thing that she looked forward to anymore. 

Myrtle got home without incident, but when she was finished putting her muddy shoes away and she didn’t hear anyone calling for her she smiled. Being constantly needed by her mother was both a blessing and a curse. And when she could manage it Myrtle loved the time she could spend alone, even if she always worked extra hard to make up for her pleasure afterwards.  A quick check of the living room and the kitchen confirmed her suspicions. No one was home, Myrtle smiled, this meant that she had free reign of the place and she intended to use this opportunity. First she put the eggs away and got started on lunch. When her mother and brother did get back they would be expecting food, and Myrtle knew she couldn’t afford to slip again today. She didn’t want to see the disappointment and repulsion in her mother’s eyes if she saw that Myrtle messed up something again. Preparing some soup wasn’t hard, in fact thanks to everyone being so generous lately Myrtle had more ingredients than usual to work with. Once a pot of fragrant soup was being kept warm on a low stove Myrtle retrieved her beach basket from the mud room and went upstairs. 

Knowing that being caught wasn’t an option Myrtle first checked her brother’s room. The dust that had collected on the wooden floors when he had been at university had disappeared, and the dresser that was usually left empty was full of clothes. But for the moment the room was empty, and once she checked her mother’s room as well and found it similarly free of its occupant did she finally go into her own bedroom and lock the door behind her. Even though her mother had the key to the lock, it still felt good. Like she was shutting out the rest of the world from her space. And besides Myrtle had a key of her own.

Myrtle had inherited her grandfather’s love of all things ocean and her room reflected that. Wall painted blue and curtains that depicted a nautical setting defined the space as strictly Myrtle’s and she loved being in here. Diving under her wrought iron framed bed (which similarly had a blue bedspread) Myrtle pulled out a chest. In a pirate lair maybe the chest wouldn’t have looked out of place with it’s bronze fastening and water-warped wood but here in a small seaside town it did look a little out of place. Myrtle remembered when her grandfather had given it to her, and he had spun her the story of how he had come to acquire it. 

Being only seven at the time Myrtle had sat on his knee entranced at the story, “This happened during my time on the Wave’s Bounty. My buddy Liam was captain, but I had a more important job,”

“You were first mate!” Myrtle said excitedly, after hearing so many stories from his time as a sailor Myrtle could almost taste the seawater when he told her tales, “You managed everything on ship. All of the other guys respected you and Liam always came to you for advice.”

Her grandfather laughed, “My, my, Mae it’s almost as if I’ve told you this before or something.”

Myrtle joined her grandfather and her high child laughed mixed with his rough elderly one as they shared in the joke. Eventually though her grandfather wiped the tears out of his eyes and continued, “Yes, I was first mate. Now even though we were a humble trading ship pirates roamed the sea from here to the continent, so we were all prepared to be attacked at any moment.”

“Yeah,” Myrtle interjected again, not being able to hide her excitement, “And you all carried swords, and Liam had a pistol, and once when you were a cabin boy, you defeated a pirate captain with nothing but a broom!”

Her grandfather had rubbed his grey beard thoughtfully, “Well I’m not sure that it was a pirate captain. More like a pirate wizard! That dastardly fellow could call up storms that could swallow boats whole, just like a siren.”

“Whoa!” Myrtle said, knowing that the story was a bit embellished, but still being very, very impressed, “What’s a siren?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older. Now back to the tale at hand,” he said, clearing his throat to continue, “Right we all knew that pirates could be anywhere so on a drizzly day, when night was just beginning to fall when the spotter spotted a black ship with a skull flag we all knew what was coming.”

Myrtle gasped, “A skull flag! But doesn’t that mean..”

Her grandfather had nodded gravely, and the story that had seemed so fun to Myrtle a minute ago taking a scarier turn, “Yes, this ship was a part of BloodBeard’s legion.”

Myrtle wrapped her arms around her grandfather, because to a child especially one that was fed with a new pirate story at least once a week BloodBeard was something to be afraid of, “He didn’t really bite people’s ears off did he?”

“No he did. That’s why he was called BloodBeard because the flesh and blood of his victims got caught in his beard staining it a deep red,” said her grandfather, patting her on the back while he told her, “Though you don’t have to be worried about him. One day I’ll tell you the story of how he died, though today is not the day.”

Myrtle relaxed a little, “So was the ship that was coming his ship?”

Her grandfather had laughed abruptly, “No, no if it was his ship we all would have been on the deck praying for mercy. No it was just one of his enforcers. A chap that called himself SoulEater, though his real name was Micheal.”

Myrtle laughed in spite of herself. Seeing her grandfather calm down helped her terror quite a bit, “Why did he call himself SoulEater?”

“Because when you hang out with the likes of BloodBeard and SteelTeeth, you have to distinguish yourself. And no one is going to run in terror from Micheal,” he explained, “Anyway we knew who was coming, so we got ready. The cannons were manned, Liam was on the top deck pistol at the ready, and the rest of us had drawn our swords.”

Myrtle was on the edge of her seat, literally her grandfather had to stop her from falling off his knee. But when the battle started Myrtle was as still and silent as a ghost, “They boarded and it was like a wave of black clad enemies splashed onto our ship. The mist made it hard to see, but that didn’t stop me. I must have dispatched five, no ten within the first few minutes. But then I heard the gunshots that had been raining down from Liam’s hand suddenly stop and I looked up. SoulEater had Liam on the robes, and he had taken his pistol.”

Myrtle gasped, “No, not his pistol!”

“Yes his pistol,” her grandfather continued after a pause, “I knew that if Liam fell that it would all be over, so I raced up there not caring about the danger and confronted the bastard myself. He tried to shoot me, but the ocean herself must have been watching out for me because he was out of bullets. Abandoning the pistol SoulEater leaped upon me with his serrated blade, and I counter with my short sword. We fought. Metal clashed. Rain mixed with the blood that oozed out of our wounds. I was fighting with tooth and nail, while he was leisurely batting away my every attack. If not for the rain he could have killed me with ease, and he almost did.  I would have died, and with no regrets if not for Liam. Quietly as a mouse he had picked up his pistol and reloaded it. One shot to the back and SoulEater was no more.”

“Hurrah,” Myrtle cheered, happy that the story had a happy ending, “But grandpa, how did you get the chest?”

Her grandfather stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Oh yes, yes the chest. We defeated the rest of the pirates and boarded their ship. We found that chest in SoulEater quarters chock full of gold and other treasures.”

“Did you get to keep the gold.”

“No, no Myrtle we gave all of the spoils to the proper authorities once we reached port. But by some magic some of the gold transported itself into our pockets,” Myrtle laughed and her grandfather acted bewildered. As if completely stumped as to how gold had ended up in his pocket, “I used that gold to buy the very house we’re sitting in. And I took the chest home with me and since when they found it, it contained no gold the authorities let me keep, as a spoil of the battle.”

He had told her the story ten years ago, and it was still fresh in Myrtle’s mind. As were all of his tales. When Myrtle looked at the weather beaten chest she could almost hear the clashing of swords, and see the skull flag atop the pirate ship. Her grandfather had been a master storyteller. Even years later each tale was as vivid and fresh in Myrtle’s mind as when she heard it. Unlike many of the other memories of her grandfather this one didn’t bring tears to Myrtle’s eyes. Just a nice warm sense deep in her soul. 

Using a key that she kept tucked into the bodice of her dress Myrtle opened the chest with a creak. Even though it had used to contain gold, Myrtle thought that what she filled the chest with was as much of a treasure as what the pirates had kept in there. Sea shells, smooth sea glass, and any other pretty knickknack she found while combing the shore, they all ended up in her chest. And each once came with a memory. On just the top of the pile of knick knacks was a shell that Myrtle remembered quite vividly. 

It was just after her brother had been accepted into university, and realizing that he would be gone left Myrtle with mixed feelings. On one hand he was her only sibling and even though he was no grandfather, she felt like she could talk to him. On the other hand her mother had a habit of comparing her two children and usually Fredrick came up on top. With him gone maybe Myrtle could stop the deplorable feelings of jealousy from worming their way into her mind. On that day Myrtle had gone to the cove to sort all of those feelings out, and had returned with a few shells and better mindset. 

As she looked upon her treasures Myrtle spotted many memories encased within shells and glass. Like the time her mother had rightfully denied her food for an entire day because she had forgotten to wash the rugs. Or when her grandfather took her brother to the city and left her all alone with no one but her mother and herself for an entire weekend. Her entire life seemed to be captured in this chest, and Myrtle was adding to it every week. 

From her basket Myrtle picked without looking and smiled when she saw what was in her hand. A simple shell piece, full with jagged edges, ribbed a bit but otherwise ordinary. Myrtle hadn’t been sure by she picked it up in the hazy light of the cove it looked like just a regular beige shell, but in her bedroom it came to life. Turning it this way and that Myrtle saw that it was iridescent and showed her beautiful colors when she held it up to the light. And what Myrtle thought were ridges were really deep scores and scratches that crisscrossed the entire shell. Myrtle saw it’s jagged edges and combined with the scratches reasoned that it must have broken off a larger shell. Maybe it was a fight, Myrtle imagined, completely lost in the story this one shell held, a big undersea battle. Her daydream turned vivid and by the time Myrtle but the shell piece away in her chest she had choreographed exactly what had happened. Sharks were involved, obviously, but also the narwhals that roamed the northern waters. Her mind even added some of the most vicious sea monsters her grandfather had told her about. 

Myrtle did this with each and every thing she had collected. Imagining the far off and exciting places they must have come from. Pitying them a bit, because from Myrtle’s perspective fate must have been cruel for them to wash up unknown in Myrtle’s bland slice of the world. Still she didn’t get sad, the stories she envisioned lifted her spirits tenfold. And for a while she could forget her life, her struggles, and just live in the reality these little things had brought to her. 

Eventually though all good things had to end. Half an hour after she had first opened the chest she heard the door open, and the tell tale steps of her mother, and assumed her brother was home as well. So even though there were still items in the basket yet to be put away Myrtle locked up the chest and stowed all of her things beneath her bed. Pausing only to straighten herself up in her mirror before going downstairs to inquire as to where they gone, and if they needed anything. 

Evidently her mother was home, but her brother wasn’t. Fredrick was nowhere to be found, but her mother didn’t sound worried. In her words. 

“Fredrick hasn’t been home since summer break, he has people he needs to catch up with.”

Myrtle wasn’t disappointed that she didn’t get any praise for buying more eggs, but she wasn’t surprised. In her mother’s world there was no praise when things were done, just punishments when things weren’t. The only praise Myrtle told herself that she needed was her mother eating a bowl of the soup she had made. Her walks to the cove and village had left Myrtle hungry, especially because she hadn’t eaten breakfast, though she didn’t dare touch any of the soup. Myrtle knew that as the youngest in the house it would be disrespectful of her to eat before her elders. So even if her brother came back at dusk, Myrtle wouldn’t be able to eat until he had his fill. As Myrtle watched her mother eat she willed her brother to get home quick so she herself could have a bowl.

Luckily Myrtle got to eat before sunset because just a few minutes after her mother started on her soup she her brother returned from wherever he was. Myrtle didn’t even wait for him to come into the kitchen before she dished him up a bowl of soup. Fredrick was very happy when he got home and immediately got handed some food but not as happy as Myrtle was when he finished. Her hunger having grown watching her family eat the food she made Myrtle started devouring the food. Though she must have been eating a bit too loudly because after just half a bowl her mother stopped talking to her brother and instead turned her attention towards Myrtle. 

“Myrtle Mae did I raise you in the woods,” she scolded, and Myrtle tried to work out if she could look apologetic while still eating, “Honestly, why can’t you be more like you brother. Did you see Fredrick slurping like he hasn’t even heard of etiquette. No he ate his food normally. I shouldn’t be able to hear you when you eat. It is an insult to the food that I provide for you.”

Knowing that this was deserved, but still being very hungry Myrtle willed her scolding to be brief. So Myrtle listened to her mother’s impromptu speech about manners and how she should be more like Fredrick, silence. Not really processing her mother’s words, so great was her hunger. Basically tuning it all out until a familiar name snapped her out of her stupor.

“Your grandfather would be rolling around in his grave if he heard you eat like this,” her mother said, trying to make Myrtle feel as guilty as possible, “You disgrace his memory by ignoring you manners Myrtle Mae.”

“Grandfather ate even louder than I did!” Myrtle couldn’t help but say, though she regretted it the moment the words left her mouth. Not only was it disrespectful to contradict her mother, it was exceptionally rude because she was right. Myrtle had just enough to flinch before she got what was coming to her. 

She was out of her chair and on the floor of the dining room. Cheek smarting, and her mother looming over her looking much taller and ominous than she usually did. Fredrick was sitting in his chair a not even looking at Myrtle as if she hadn’t just been slapped out of her chair.

“Never, I mean never, speak back to me Myrtle Mae,” her mother sneered, “I am your mother, you will treat me with respect. Now I want you in your room right now Myrtle Mae. And you will stay there until I think you have learned your lesson.”

Without or word of protest or even a glance at Fredrick for help Myrtle left the dining room and headed up the stairs. Even though a dozen come backs awaited on her lips, like asking her brother for help she had long learned that they were ineffectual. Instead Myrtle laid on her bed, trying to sleep but knowing that she couldn’t. Usually she didn’t talk back to her mother, but when she did she wouldn’t be let out of her bedroom at least for hours. On some occasions she had been trapped in here for a day and a half, though Myrtle prayed that her mom would cool off a bit in a few hours. If her mother did leave her in there for the entire day she was prepared. There were some snacks hidden in her dresser for this very situation so Myrtle wouldn’t starve, though hunger wasn’t what consumed her thoughts right there and then. Even though she told herself that her mother’s opinion of her didn’t matter, Myrtle still could never stop the tears from flowing every time she slapped her. And this time was no different. As she tried to wipe away her pain with a handkerchief Myrtle decided to remember one of her grandfather’s stores. The memory would undoubtedly cheer her up. 

Myrtle had been thirteen years old and even though she had grown out of sitting on her grandfather’s lap she still loved listening to his tales. This one had started when one of the kids at school had called her siren, and then seeing as she had no idea what they meant had called her stupid. But at that point Myrtle hadn’t been listening, she had been remembering that her grandfather had mentioned sirens in several of his tales. Though he had never elaborated, always saying that he would tell her some other time. Myrtle had decided that the time had come for him to finally tell her so as soon as school let out she had raced home. Determined not to go to bed before knowing about sirens. 

When she told him what had happened and demanded to know what sirens were he had gone silent. Myrtle, who had been expecting protest and “I couldn’t possiblys” was rather disappointed. She had been looking forward to protesting and pleading her case. Instead her grandfather had looked a bit scared. His body had frozen and his eyes trembled with some unseen fear. Eventually though he calmed down enough for Myrtle to lead him to the sofa, and try to rescind her demand.

“It’s okay grandpa you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Myrtle had said, feeling very bad about the fact that she had put him through some pain.

“No, no that’s not it,” he had said quickly, patting a spot on the sofa where Myrtle could sit down, “You just surprised me is all Mae, of course I’ll tell you.”

Feelings of remorse temporarily abandoned Myrtle had sat down eagerly and waiting for the tale to begin. 

“Now I’ll get to the specifics in a bit but first let me tell you about the first time I laid eyes on a siren, “He began, his voice taking on the weight and depth it always did when he told Myrtle a story, “It had been a bad journey. The Waves Bounty had been caught in three storms and the rest of the time the wind had been perfectly still. So when we were not fearing for our lives and our cargo being thrashed by fifty foot waves we were bored out of our skulls sitting dead in the water. And not only that but the storms had blown us off course and the lack of wind had left us two weeks behind schedule. Already this was a perfect way to maximize misery, but combine all that with the fact that we were starving.”

“But I thought that you said the ship always had extra rations in case something like that happened,” Myrtle protested, “Shouldn’t you have had enough food.”

“Yes but we had exhausted all of the extra rations the week before when we had all got the sea fever, “ he had explained, “So not only were we living off of nothing but hard tack, barnacles, and barrel scrapings we were also recovering from an illness.”

“Now the only reason I’m telling you this is to illustrate why I doubted myself when I first saw the siren,” he explained, “I was tired, hungry, and bored out of my skull, it was enough to make any man see stories. But when I rubbed my eyes and looked back along the sea it was still there.”

Myrtle couldn’t hold herself back anymore, “But what did you see grandpa! What did it look like!”

“At first I saw it’s hair. Long and dark like my wife’s was, then it got closer and I saw it’s skin, Tanned and shining like it spent it’s days in the sun, then I saw it’s face. Despite some of the myths it had a face like you and me, and despite some of the other myths it wasn’t some beautiful temptress. It scared sadness it's eyes, though joy and freedom were also there in great amounts. The moment I looked it’s it’s eyes, I envied it. I had never seen a creature more content and free. I was almost about to call out to it when Liam pulled me up by the back of my collar.” 

Her grandfather’s laugh was infectious and even though Myrtle didn’t get the joke she found herself laughing along with him.

“Can you believe that Mae,” he told her, “Me a seasoned sailor about to jump ship at the sight of a siren. Anyway once I explained that no I wasn’t suicidal and pointed out the siren the others could see her as well. Lucky for me because that meant that I hadn’t gone mad. The siren stayed by the side of our ship for weeks, only to disappear the moment we got to port. Liam and the others reasoned that she must have been some sort of mass hallucination, but I knew the truth. The creature we had seen was as real as I was. There was no faking the freedom in her eyes, or the way that she swam through the ocean without a care in the world.”

“Wow, grandpa,” Myrtle had gasped, hearing the solemness and conviction in her grandfather’s tone, “Are all sirens as free as the one you saw?”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully as if Myrtle had just given him a particularly hard crossword, “I would think so. You see Mae sirens aren’t born, and they aren’t created, they choose. If someone gives themselves up fully to the ocean they become a siren. The ocean takes their legs and gives them a tail, replaces their sorrow with wonder, and their fears with freedom. I never saw another siren ever again, but I would be my beard that all of them are as free as the one who almost got me to jump into the ocean.”

That was the end of that tale, but Myrtle heard a lot more about sirens after that. One kid at her school said that they ate the brains of people who wandered into their lairs. Another girl said they all had bird beaks and drank blood. But no matter how many legends Myrtle heard about sirens, the one thing that stuck with her was what her grandfather had told her. That they were free.

As Myrtle lay on her bed her mind wandered again and again to sirens. She imagined what she would do if she fell asleep and woke up in the ocean with a tale. One thing is for certain, Myrtle thought feeling the light from her window grow ever dimmer, I wouldn’t come back here. That thought stayed in her mind no matter how much she tried to chase it out. No matter how much she told herself about how wonderful her life was, and that if she simply tried harder her mother would never had warrant to hit her again that thought stayed in her mind. In her heart Myrtle knew though she refused to accept it, that she would give anything to be anyone but herself.

Apparently Myrtle’s mother had thought that it would take her some time to learn about respect and manners because she didn’t come to let Myrtle out of her bedroom until well into the morning the next day. And even then it was only because they needed someone to make breakfast. By that time Myrtle imagined that she had been as bored and hungry as her grandfather was in his siren story. Though she had nibbled on some of the snacks that she had hidden in her dresser. Even so when Myrtle’s mother opened the door and demanded that she make breakfast she didn’t even blink before jumping off of her bed and launching into her prepared apology.

Bowing her head, Myrtle began, “Please forgive me mother. I disrespected you and I disrespect the food that you work for. I know now that grandfather would be disappointed in me. I thought long and hard about his memory and knew that if he were here he would tell me to act better. If not for his sake then for yours.”

After taking a moment to judge the sincerity of her apology her mother nodded her head, the symbol in her family that the apology was accepted. Without another word on respect and manners her mother told Myrtle that she should hurry and make breakfast. Knowing that it would be better not to push the subject Myrtle simply went downstairs and made a mental note to refill her snack stash. Fredrick wasn’t in his customary place reading on the living room couch so Myrtle assumed that he must still be asleep. Though if she was still sleeping at this time of morning her mother would have sure given her an earful. 

By the time Myrtle was done making a simple breakfast of oatmeal and coffee Frederick was awake, though barely. He was nodding off in his elbow as she served his food in the dining room. Despite his weariness he finished his bowl rather quickly and thanked Myrtle when she served him another one. 

“No problem,” Myrtle said to this, making sure to smile extra wide for she knew she should try to get into her older brother’s good graces if she really was going to do what she wanted to do.

The time finally came for Myrtle to execute the plan that she had been wishing about for months when her mother finally finished her oatmeal and left the dining room. Quickly, but not too quickly, Myrtle served herself a bowl and began eating leisurely. Though she could have swallowed the entire pot then and there given that she hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Myrtle tried to look casual as she ate. Staring lazily out the window and upon the scratches on the antique dining table. Knowing that if she didn’t ask then and there then she would never, Myrtle asked the question that had been coloring her daydreams for months.

“Hey, Fred,” she said, using the nickname in the hopes that it would make him feel closer to her, “Could I come visit you down at university some time.”

Immediately he perked up and smiled which lifted Myrtle’s spirits considerably, “Really I would have thought that it would be too boring for you. How long would you visit anyway, don’t you have school?”

“Just for a week or two,” though Myrtle hoped that it could be much longer than that, “And university is not boring, I can learn stuff that I’ll never learn in school there. And besides I thought that it might be good to get out of the house for a change.”

Another laughed raised Myrtle’s hopes, though what her brother actually said dropped her mood considerably, “Myrtle the stuff at university is too advanced for you to really learn anything. And besides a week is way too long, I don’t want to have to look after you for that long. And another thing. Mother said that she is constantly having to send you to your room, and just yesterday you were out with a boy when you should have been here.”

By this time Fredrick had finished his oatmeal and had risen from the table. Though he stopped to lovingly pat Myrtle on the head before leaving.

“Your place is here Myrtle, and I think you should try to improve your behavior before you go looking for somewhere else to go.” 

He said it kindly and with a smile on his face, but the words still cut Myrtle to her core. And in that moment if only for a moment she hated both of them. Her mother who kept her confined that place and her brother who would accept whatever she said without a second thought. If Myrtle had her way that moment she switched places with her brother forced him to only cook, clean, and shop without even a grandfather to tell him stories. While she could learn about whatever her heart desired far away from the place that gave her so much grief. For that moment Myrtle really felt all of this but after a second all of that was gone and Myrtle was left thinking what a fool she had been. Her mother provided her everything and her brother was working hard. Fredrick had been right, she thought, she really needed to try to be better before looking for some other place to escape to. 

Myrtle calmly ate the rest of her oatmeal, even though her appetite was gone. When she finished she cleaned up all of the breakfast dishes, and began to wash them at the kitchen sink. As she stared out the window, letting her hands move independently she sighed. Myrtle didn’t even notice that she was crying until her mother called out to her. And even then Myrtle idea what made the tears fall down her face.

“Just because your grandfather passed doesn’t mean that you can lose focus Myrtle Mae,” she snapped at her, right before she headed out. 

Myrtle brushed the tears out of her eyes and started attacking the dishes with renewed vigor. On the outside she looked as if she was working harder, trying to push all thoughts of her grandfather out of her. But on the inside she was dwelling on them. What her mother said had stuck with her for some reason. And with a slight shock Myrtle realized that she was wrong. She wasn’t crying for her grandfather, she was crying for herself. Though what about herself made her cry, Myrtle didn’t know. Even before her grandfather died when Myrtle found herself alone and doing something without thought sorrow always came to her. Usually her grandfather would be there to tell her a joke, or sing her an old sea song so she never had to deal with these sad moments for very long. But now that he was gone Myrtle was left with nothing but her melancholy and a sink full of dirty dishes.

Once she washed her dishes she peeked into the living room to find Fredrick eyes deep in a book. Myrtle wondered what he was reading about, but she dared not ask. Not only could she not bare to face him after what happened at breakfast, but if he thought that she was bothering him, he would tell their mother. And their mother would do much more to Myrtle than musee up her hair and tell her that she was being silly. So instead of that Myrtle went up to her room, not even one glance at her brother as she crossed the living room. Thankfully she still had some knick knacks to put away, so that would entertain her for a while. If Myrtle couldn’t go to the cove, then at least she still had a part of it with her.

Myrtle spent the morning putting away the objects on her basket. Making up increasingly elaborate and fantastical stories for each of them. She only stopped when she heard the slamming of the back door and the footsteps of her mother up the stairs. Reluctantly Myrtle hid away her basket and her chest and went downstairs, knowing that her mother would want to speak with her after getting back. If not to actually tell her to do something than to just complain about her day. When Myrtle got downstairs and saw her mother laid out on the couch eyes closed she knew it was the latter.

Fredrick stared at her then shot a bewildered glance to Myrtle. It made sense that he would be bewildered. Usually he only came back on holidays and a brief time during the summer. None of these visits lasted longer than a week. A week, coincidentally was the maximum amount of time the their mother could take off of work. And even before Fredrick had gone to university he usually wasn’t there when their mother got off of work. While Myrtle was confined to the house he was free to visit the town library, or meet with one of his friends. No it was Myrtle, always Myrtle who would sit at her mother’s side and dutifully figure out what was vexing her.

And that was what Myrtle did. She knelt down by the couch and took her mother’s pale hand into her matching one, “What was it today Mother. Did Mr. Harrison tax you too much, or was a customer being silly?”

Myrtle’s mother had worked for as long as she can remember at the local grocery store. It was owned by an old bachelor called Herbert Harrison VI. He had inherited it from his father Herbert Harrison V. Since he had no children, nobody was sure who would inherit next, and that was a thing that weighed on the collective mind of the town. Since the passing of Myrtle’s grandfather three weeks before her mother had been on leave. But now that the funeral has long passed, she has gone back to work much to her dismay. Myrtle knew how much her mother loathed working. 

“Never get a job Myrtle Mae,” her mother said, the start of a speech that Myrtle had heard many times, “Get that boy of yours to marry you and be his wife until the day he dies Myrtle Mae. Oh I wish that could have been my path. Your father would roll in his grave if he saw me like this…”

Myrtle’s mother continued in this fashion. How work just wasn’t for her, that she wished her husband were here. She went on to describe to Myrtle every annoying thing that happened in her day. From how a customer just refused to back down about a price to how Mr. Harrison had told her to lift empty crates in the back. 

“Can you imagine Myrtle Mae!” she exclaimed, “Me, lifting crates!”

Never mind that they were empty. Her father in law had just passed and he expected her to lift crates. Myrtle’s mother had never been so insulted.

“Oh if I never had you Myrtle Mae I would still have some of your father’s life insurance money, and I could quit this infernal job” she said, looking at Myrtle with regret in her eyes, “I hope you are grateful with how hard I work for you.”

Myrtle nodded, and her mother seemed satisfied. And it was not until half an hour after she stepped into the house that she retired to her bedroom to rest and Myrtle was finally free. Though free to do what she didn’t know. Since both her mother and brother were in the house she couldn’t risk putting away her shells. And going to the cove was already out of the question. Times like this Myrtle would have usually gone to her grandfather’s room and asked him to tell her a story, but those days were long passed. It was now sitting in her bed that Myrtle really realized how much her grandfather had been to her. He had patiently listened to her when she was upset, covered for her when she was at the cove, entertained her on gloomy rainy days. He hadn’t just been my grandfather, Myrtle thought a pang of longing that seemed to chime through every cell in her body, he was her everything.

Knowing that if she kept on this train of thought for any longer she would have a breakdown Myrtle decided that if she couldn’t have her grandfather there, she could at least have his stories. So she went back to a time, six months ago to be exact, where even though things weren’t perfect she at least had someone to rely one. Myrtle went back and remembered one of the last stories her grandfather had ever told her. Somehow in this moment it just felt right.

Her mother had just gone to work and finishing all of her chores hadn’t taken Myrtle nearly as long as she thought it would have. As usual, she was left with nothing to do so she went into her grandfather’s bedroom. If Myrtle’s bedroom had been a shrine to her cove then her grandfather’s bedroom was a shrine to the sea itself. With walls painted a deep sea blue and bookshelves that still smelled of salt lining one of the walls if Myrtle hadn’t known any better she would have said that she was deep in the hold of a ship. The only thing lacking was the rocking of the waves outside the walls. 

As usual her grandfather sat upon his beaten up leather chair under the far window. No book in hand, just smiling at her not like she was annoying him, but as if Myrtle was welcomed. That was one of the things that Myrtle appreciated about her grandfather’s disposition. In his company Myrtle never felt like she was intruding, she always felt as if she belonged. 

Not wanting to waste anytime, Myrtle launched straight into her request, “Tell me a story grandpa, please?”

Even if he was doing something her grandfather was kind enough to always oblige when she spoke those magic words. He ,more than anyone, knew how much Myrtle needed this.

“Hmm,” he said stroking his beard that was more white than grey, “I fear that I’ve already told you all of my stories, Mae.”

Shoulders dropped, Myrtle didn’t know if she was joking or not but still she played along as if he wasn’t, “Oh no, what will my life be without your stories.”

Her grandfather had clapped his hands as if he just thought of the perfect solution, “I know! I’ll tell you a story, though it isn’t my story it is sure to please you just the same my dear Mae.”

Smiling Myrtle took her seat on the floor next to her grandfather’s chair, knowing that it would be worth a little discomfort.

“A little background,” he began, “I know you’re mind won’t be able to rest if you don’t know the whole story Mae. The day we found the man was an odd day. Not only were we sailing without cargo, but the weather was like nothing we had ever seen. Yellow tinged clouds completely covering everything, and light so dim we couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. The wind was brisk so that was a plus, but we were all a little on edge.”

Myrtle pictured it in her mind’s eye. A yellow sky and chopping black waves. Tension coming from somewhere, and a ship full of men that were wary though they didn’t know what of.

“We were patrolling on the deck, the waters had been chock full of pirates when we say a shape in the water,” he stated, “I was the first one to turn a spyglass on it. Even though I hadn’t seen her for many years on a tension filled day such as this, I thought of her. Though it was not the long dark hair and tail that I had wished it to be. On the waves was a man, his arms flailing his mouth open, shouting for help. I must have shown my disappointment on my face because Liam laughed and do you know what he said to be. “Not what you were expecting Delany?” he had been looking for the siren too, but both he and I were too proud to admit that.”

“Too proud?” Myrtle asked, wondering why it would be shameful to want to see the siren again. She hadn’t even seen the siren and still she dreamed of girls swimming free as fish in the ocean, she would give her treasure chest just to see a siren, “Why were you too proud.”

Her grandfather cleared his throat and spoke slower so that she might understand, “You must understand Mae. We were seasoned sailors with wives at home. Not only would be swear on our mother’s graves that we had seen a fairy tale creature, but she had also been a woman. Why after we got to port the time we had seen the siren we never spoke of her directly again.”

Myrtle nodded, it was exactly what she would have done if she saw a unicorn in the woods. Though she may think about it often, it would be weird to talk about it.

“Anyway we slowed our pace a bit and allowed the current to bring him closer,” he said, getting back to the story, “You should have seen the moment we lowered the rope he was climbing as if the ocean was made of fire. After we gave him some water and made him swallow some soup he seemed eager to share his tale. As if he was proud of getting lost upon the waves.”

“What was his story grandfather.” Myrtle asked, anticipating the tale greatly.

“He had fallen off a boat an hour before,” her grandfather said, and then upon seeing Myrtle’s crestfallen face laughed, “Just kidding Mae, his tale was much better than that.”

Myrtle resisted laughing along with him, “Don’t joke with me grandpa.”

“Alright, alright Mae. I’m just about to tell you,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes, “He said that he had grown up poor, his family had struggled to get by. Seeing how his mother and father toiled on his behalf did not make him grateful however, it made him resentful. Hateful of the life he was sure to inherit that he didn’t want. So he did what all ill content folk do when they want a different life, he signed up to be a cabin boy on a trading ship.”

Closing her eyes Myrtle took another moment to picture the scene. A boy not much older than herself in some distant land, with parents that loved him and a life he hated. Myrtle wondered if he had any siblings, any friends. But apparently the man had chosen not to share that with her grandfather, either that or he didn’t mention if he had.

Her grandfather went on, “I knew the captain of that ship, by reputation though we had been in the same port from time to time. He was brash and reckless, and made ludicrous gambles setting sail during hurricanes and taking shortcuts through pirate territory. Though more often than not these risks paid off and he was rich beyond his wildest dreams. I don’t think that’s why he still operated his ship though,” her grandfather pondered, “Like some men this captain was just in love with the thrill of risk and danger, I knew that before long his luck would run out. Unfortunately for the teller of this tale the captain’s luck ran out just six months after he had been on board.”

“During one of their jolts through pirate seas they were attacked. Though not by the pirate who lay claim to the waters, no it was a fellow interloper. A different pirate by the name of Pig.”

Even though she had been raised to fear pirates Myrtle laughed. Throughout the story her grandfather’s voice had been growing deeper and scarier. All of that tension just for the pirate’s name to be Pig, at the time it seemed like the silliest thing in the world to Myrtle. 

Her grandfather put on a show of annoyance, “Don’t you laugh Mae, I’ll let you know Pig went on to be one of the most feared men in the west sea. He earned a reputation of crushing his victims with his enormous girth. They called him the Crusher Pig, the Fire Pig, the…”

“The Smoked Pig?” Myrtle guessed, barely keeping her amusement out of her voice. 

This time it was her grandfather who couldn’t keep up his facade. He roared with his laughter and Myrtle joined him. When they were together it seemed like even the most dangerous and frustrating things could seem hilarious. 

“Anyway Mae,” her grandfather continued once he had regained his composure, “They were attacked by Pig and the captain ended up being fed to the waves. The crew along with our narrator got taken as hostages and forced to work for the monstrous Pig. As Pig’s wealth and fame grew the man’s life grew harder and harder. Forced to toil day and night aboard Pig’s growing fleet the man found himself longing for his family. They had worked almost as hard as he was, true, but they had worked for themselves. As the man scraped barnacles and cooked meals he realized the difference between where he was and where he had been. His parents had been poor yes, but now he had nothing. They had worked hard, true, but now he slaved away, they had lived in a dingy house, that was putting it mildly, but at least it had been their house.”

Myrtle thought of her own life as her grandfather said this, realizing how lucky she had it. A bedroom of her own, and even if her mother was harsh at least she had a mother. Sometimes her grandfather tried to teach her a lesson with his stories and she thought she knew what the lesson in this one was. No matter how hard life was, it could always be worse. 

But her grandfather went on, “Then one fateful day years after the man had first been captured by Pig fate came for him. A bloody battle erupted between the entire Pig fleet and a smaller fleet led by a lieutenant of BlueBeard. Even though Pig held the most ships and had the most cannons, he was struggling. BlueBeard’s fleet had tactics and skill that Pig could only dream of. They were being boarded and gunshots rained from the sky. Our narrator was in just the right place at the right time because one of those bullets cut right through his chains.”

Myrtle always loved these parts of the story. A battle, clashing sword, ripped flags. One moment that could change everything.

“At first he didn’t know what to do,” her grandfather said, perfectly imitating the indecisiveness of the man, “If he stayed on the ship he would surely be captured by BlueBeard’s fleet and be forced to work even harder for a much harsher man. He gazed down at the waves. If he jumped he might die, he might be eaten by some creature. And even if he was saved he could have been saved by another pirate who would force him to work.”

Her grandfather cleared his throat, clearing trying to impart something in Myrtle though she didn’t know what, “But as soon as he saw the first of BlueBeard’s men step aboard the ship he jumped. Hitting the icy waters his thoughts cleared into one warming thought. He might die yes, he might end up exactly where he started true, but at least he would do all of this knowing for at least a few moments he was free.”

As always when one of the grandfather’s tales ended Myrtle wanted to know more. All through lunch she asked him what he had done once they reached port, if he had stayed on in Liam’s crew, anything about his family. But her grandfather responded not in his usual way of sprinkling in some extra information here and there but by saying one thing.

“You have all of the important parts Mae.”

As Myrtle sat on her bed in the present she still wondered what her grandfather had meant by that. But she didn’t have time to ponder because remembering that story had taken more time than she had thought and it was now time to start cooking. Once she got downstairs she found her brother gone and even though she felt bad about it she was relieved. One less person meant one less meal to cook. 

The rest of the day went as normal. Myrtle cooked, Myrtle served the food, Myrtle washed the dishes. Her mother had some things to take care of in town so for an hour Myrtle was left to her own devices. Reveling in her alone time Myrtle make up stories for the rest of the cove knick knacks that she had not put away. These ones were inspired by the tale her grandfather had told her. Brave sea creatures and people who abandoned comfort for freedom on the high seas. On one partially opalescent piece of sea glass she imagined it had come from a siren. A girl much like Myrtle herself but she was free to collect messages in a bottle and bring them to their proper recipients. These fantasies carried Myrtle until dinner where she sat in silence as her mother and brother chatted about his return to university. A journey that Myrtle couldn’t accompany him on. 

When that meal ended her brother returned to reading on the couch and Myrtle joined him. She had finished putting away every last thing she had gotten from and cove and consequently she had nothing to do. It wouldn’t be all bad since she could ask her brother about his book, but her mother dashed those plans right away.

“Myrtle Mae,” she exclaimed clutched her chest as if she was about to faint, “Look at the state of this house. How can you expect your brother and I to relax in a house this filthy. Clean up at once!”

Fredrick shot her a kind of pitying I told you so glance and Myrtle felt a bit of rage bubbling up. She knew what he was thinking, that she shouldn’t try to visit him when she doesn’t even clean the house. Even though she would have liked to wipe the smirk off her brother’s face, Myrtle had cleaning to do. Myrtle knew that she would hear an earful from her mother if even a sock was out of place. So she zeroed in on every speck of dust, every stray crumb, every spot of dirt. Myrtle wasn’t anything if she wasn’t good at her chores and this was no exception. In the matter of a few hours the house was gleaming from top to bottom. The only exception to this was Myrtle. Whose clothes were wrinkled and hair was out of place. Though she would have liked a nice long soak her mother would be back soon and she would expect dinner to be cooking. 

The rest of the day went at the rest of Myrtle’s days went . More cooking, serving more food, washing more dishes. And it was only when she finally collapsed in her bed did she finally rest. Dreams providing comfort that reality couldn’t.

Myrtle woke up late the next morning and immediately knew why. Today was the day her brother left, the first day she would be alone with her mother. Judging from the silence in the house her family had already left, but Myrtle knew that she couldn’t afford to rest any longer. When she got back her mother would be in state, and since she never cooked it would be up to Myrtle to make breakfast. 

And what a state her mother was in. She entered through the front door tracking in mud that it would surely be Myrtle’s job to scrub away and immediately collapsed in a well of sops on the sofa. Myrtle held her hand while she cried over her departed son.

“Oh Myrtle Mae, what shall I do without Fredrick!” she cried, “You certainly can’t fill his space, given how lazy and flighty you are. But Fredrick is intelligent and polite, no doubt he gets it from me.”

Her mother continued as all of these speeches continued. Part insults at Myrtle, part praising Fredrick, and a lot of self pity. The only thing that got her to stop was the smell of the food that Myrtle had cooked, and she ate two servings before going to take a nap. Insisting that she couldn’t go to work today, and that her boss would just have to understand. So Myrtle was left in a nearly empty house without even her brother to keep her company. It wasn’t the first time since her grandfather’s passing that she had felt truly alone, but it was perhaps the most true instance of it. 

The days with her mother passed like a collage of blandness. Afternoons and evenings blended together in a mess of cooking, cleaning, and wishing for something better. Myrtle’s mother never left her alone and as a result Myrtle wasn’t able to go to the one place her heart yearned for. Though she didn’t make any mistakes Myrtle could feel her soul slipping away. As if the next time she woke up, she would be just another pot in the kitchen or tool on the dining table. Even her treasure chest didn’t provide her any relief. Her mind was so full of what chores she needed to be doing next, or when her mother would be home that she found herself not remembering the stories at all. Not even the memory of her grandfather provided some warmth. All Myrtle could think about was that he was gone, and she was alone. 

Myrtle found herself resenting that sameness. The same paths, the same market, the same town. Nothing even changed and she started to think that nothing would ever get better. It was as if she was the one who had died rather than her grandfather. Sure she ate, she brushed her teeth, she talked when it was necessary, but Myrtle had stopped feeling the day her brother left. After a while even frustration at the sameness of it all became just bored acceptance. 

Until one day months after her brother had left and even more months after her grandfather had died Myrtle was left really and truly alone for the first time. Her mother had to go to a bank in the city and would be gone all weekend. At first Myrtle didn’t know what to do about this revelation. Not until her mother was actually gone did she think of going to the cove. But as soon as that thought blossomed in Myrtle's mind it was all she could think about. Even her past reservations about how she was needed at home couldn’t keep the desire out of Myrtle’s mind. As a result it took her twice as much time as to her usual chores. The cove, the cove, was all she was thinking. Even though the sun had already mostly set Myrtle knew that she couldn’t live another second away from her beloved place. 

She ran.

Not even bothering with the basket, not even bothering to lock the back door. If she was discovered she would be punished but in the moment she didn’t care. It was the cove or nothing. All of the emotion that had been lacking in Myrtle the past few months exploded out of her when she finally reached the sandy shore. She fell to her knees and cried, knowing that she couldn’t go back home. As the sand ran through her hands she finally felt something that had been missing since her brother left. Going back home would mean returning to her emptiness and giving up on everything she didn’t know she wanted. Though she didn’t know why Myrtle knew that if she went back home she would come to her cove again. In her mind she thought that wasn’t what her grandfather would have wanted. Like the man that had drifted to their boat after jumping from a ship, she should just be content with what she had and stop chasing after dreams. But in her heart she realized something at that moment at the cove with the sun setting in front of her.

“You have all the important parts Mae.” that was what he had told her.

As she looked at the waves she pictured the siren that her grandfather had seen. A face beautiful in it’s freedom and powerful in herself. Before she even knew what she was doing Myrtle was walking into the ocean. Cold foamy waves beat against her legs she didn’t stop, she didn’t hesitate. If she did either Myrtle knew that she would go home. This is what her grandfather had been telling her with all those stories. This is what he had been telling his granddaughter Mae who he hoped would someday get the message.

The man was right to jump ship.

Even though the outcome was uncertain he had to try.

The water was up to Myrtle’s neck now, though she felt no fear only hope. That maybe if the water was kind to her she could become like the siren.

Free on the waves, with nothing stopping her but herself.

Not wanting to wait any longer Myrtle dove into the water and didn’t even try to hold her breath. With every second that passed Myrtle felt herself getting fainter and fainter. But she hadn't died, when she opened her eyes night was all around and she was reborn.

Free.

[familyvisionis2020]

Day 6 - The Drive Home

Today was the last day of tour. I wake up in the morning feeling guilty because I have a groggy memory of waking up around 8 to go to the bathroom, Paul was waiting to go, but when the person came out I just fronted him (a word I just now remember from elementary school, cut in line, but southern), used the bathroom and went back to bed. Rude. I am wiping the cold from my eye, taking in the undecorated walls of the apartment, and Jeremy comes from down the hall and says ‘Did you get the memo? Louisville cancelled. Tour’s over.” I said ‘fuck’ and processed it. I feel sad for Jeremy and John and Kabir because I know they wanted to play this last show in Kentucky. It’s not that I didn’t, but also for the last three months and for especially the last month I have been feeling a tremendous amount of anxiety about this tour, about feeling out-of-control, about being away from loved ones at home, about being available to show up for people in my life, about completing regular routines of hygiene and spirituality and task completion that make me feel boring and comfortable, both. Touring stirs up dredges of the tea leaves that I had let settle into a fine filmy sediment at the bottom of me. I manufactured a jello mold two years ago and poured myself into it: regular 9-5 in the legal field as a means and precursor to law school, then diligent study for 3 years, then a professional career, abandoning the party life, abandoning trespassing in abandoned buildings, abondoning the luxury of resentment and unproductive time, trying to cool and firm into something reliable, serviceable, dependable, available, a resource people could draw from for once, rather than a leech or slug. And when I go on tour I take that jello mold out of the fridge and it holds its shape but also it warms and the longer I’m out the more liquidy it gets and sloshes over the sides and so forth. So I’m ambivalent because I like what I have to offer to this band, I like the physical process of drumming and expressing myself in the context of music and being a member of a band, but also I feel like I’ve kind of chilled enough and it’s time to settle down. And I’m at a way different point in my life than the other guys in the band it seems like, for the most part. So anyways all this to contextualize the fact that the news of tour ending even earlier than early honestly makes me feel relieved, if not happy, and so then I work to temper that boosted mood for the sake of grim decorum befitting a tour taken before its time. 

All our stuff is locked in the venue from last night and we learn we won’t be able to pick it up until 1pm and so we have about 4 hours to kill in the apartment. Phillip puts on a pot of coffee that will turn out to be some of the wateriest on record, but still, a super kind gesture, and then he also puts on The Wire on HBO Go and we just settle in on the couch and watch for awhile. Some of the scenes are familiar, there’s something seductive about this show, and it brings me back to the precise moment of Summer of 2013 right before I moved to Philadelphia right after I got evicted from the squat/music venue I had been living in that winter and spring, I watched all episodes of The Wire on DVD on Matt Martin’s couch at 3 Pomroy and felt deeply depressed. It ranks up there with when I watched all released episodes of The Office in bed in the winter of 2009 after my girlfriend broke up with me, in terms of memorably devestating life phases offset by the amniotic fluid of full-series of TV. So we watch The Wire and I find myself not too inclined to sit and watch and I want to write so I sit at my laptop on the table nearby and write an email to a female (sorry) but I actually do and its purpose is to make her smile and bring some levity and play and purple prose to a moment in her life that, from how she tells it to me, is just so heavy, nightmares and waking horror and a future that feels like it hangs by a thread. so I’m glad to spend time showing up for her in this small way rather than watching The Wire, and also I write yesterday’s blog post, another activity that feels sort of like a pittance but also like: doing-writing is something I have been putting off, in phases and seasons, for my entire adult life, because to me nothing ever matters enough to write about, or if it does my perspective is deficient, or my research inadequate, or my skill incommensurate with the subject matter, or it won’t properly reflect my feelings, or any number of self-sabotaging excuses to not do this thing I so love doing, and love sharing. So for me, writing this blog is a very meaningful and special act of reclamation of a personal mode of expression that constitutes a break in my winter’s depression and what feels like a new phase of happiness, of believing-i-have-a-future, of feeling more authoratative and qualified to know and describe my own experience in a lifetime marred and dampened by dissociation, oblivion, amnesia, and fugue. So it feels like nourishment to get some paragraphs done and to move slow through my days, get them onto the page.

The Wire grows tiresome at some point and Jeremy fires up the PS4 and then the PS3 looking for games but none are multiplayer and so eventually he settles on Skyrim and starts from a new file. Me personally I love watching let’s plays and this is as good as TV. There was a moment last tour when we were in this strange small town in Connecticut called Torrington (the town all touring bands are required to go to, we also joked), in this town Jeremy was describing the sort of surrealness he experienced there and he said he felt like the townspeople in Torrington were like NPCs in a FPS RPG like Skyrim wherein you would go up to people and press A to talk, say ‘What news?” and that I thought was really funny then, I like his sense of humor. Really Kabir and Jeremy and Royal represent this sort of humor that is to me equal parts razor wit, cleverness, timing, accents, absurdity, and broad conceptual placticity, all for the most part very clean too, never or at least rarely blue (you’re gonna inevitably make a D’s nuts joke and that’s just that). And during happy times I am so grateful to be nearby this humor and during less happy times I get self conscious about how great their humor is and how I sometimes feel like I don’t measure up. But that feeling doesn’t weigh for long. Skyrim is fun to watch, it kills some time, we all take turns trying to kill wolves with swords before Jeremy finally does it, there’s a dragon, we loot corpses, discuss Bloodborne and Dark Souls and comparable games. A lot of the main media activity in this group is discussing how a given media relates to another media, Kabir and Jeremy and John know it seems like everything between the three of them when it comes to record labels, band narratives, artist’s hometowns, etc. So we play Skyrim for awhile, and then eventually it’s time to go to the venue and we drive back to The Salty Nut, load in all our gear, do a final sweep, and say our goodbyes and thankyous to Phillip. We return to the Bandido place one last time for one last round of free local Taco Bell which we absolutely scarf and are very vocally grateful to the people for giving it to us for free again, it’s clear they really put effort into being hospitable to touring bands here, at least through Phillip. His band, Thomas Function, was signed on Fat Possum Records, which also had bigger indie acts like Jay Reatard (who Phillip tells a story about him demanding $50,000 in cash for a show fee to feed his coke and heroin habit, Reatard died at age 29 from cocaine toxicity with alcohol also), The Black Keys, Andrew Bird, Wavves and Soccer Mommy, but which Kabir postulates has most of its success due to having signed octogenarian southern blues legends like R.L. Burnside and King Ernest and raking in royalties from what Kabir speculates is due to poor management of the estates of these dead leagends who each had more than a dozen children. It’s truly fascinating for me to hear how deep and complex the analysis of music these guys have is. When I feel insecure, which is often, I tend to veneer these sorts of expertises and shibboleths among music-heads as snobby, elitist, exclusionary, petty and asinine. But I think most of that comes from a fear that I lack the insight, cognitive absorbency, and passionate research skills to collate and catalog data about artists in the way these people do, the way my bandmates do. I feel inspired to take time to dig deeper into the musicans I love, to make them real to me, to get a sense of their story, their lived experience, for the sake of corroding the mediation between us somewhat, or at least polishing the media membrane. 

I volunteer to drive for the first half of what will end up being about a 10-hour drive back from Huntsville to Chapel Hill. We go to a Whole Foods in Huntsville upon Kabir’s insistence where I purchase a nootropic snakeoil energy affair in beverage form, Kabir gets hot coffee and a La Colombe Draft can of latte, Jeremy gets a kombucha made from yerba mate (“best of both worlds” he says), John black coffee as per, and Kabir also buys a slice of Tres Leches cake in a clear plastic to-go clamshell: “they can take away my tour, but they can’t take away my tres leches.” Later he’s eating it in the van and he accidentally spills some on himself and he says “shit…spilled some on myself. oh good, it was only one leche” which to me is so funny and perfect humor and just like kind of a paragon of the kind of joke I so treasure from this friend group. Another is when Jeremy and Kabir are recalling a favorite running joke from two tours ago, wherein they were in Philly, home to the famous Schuykill River (pronounced skoo-kill, at least when i lived there, at least around the non-indigenous people i knew), and while there they would affect this blaring Brooklyn accent, deployed heavily on this trip as well for basically any purpose, but back then they would say “UGH MY SKOYKL IS KILLING ME” like Schuykill was lombago or sciatica and also would say “YEAH LET ME GET A KWATA POUND OF SKOYKL ON RYE” like it was a deli meat, and they laughed and laughed. Also they liked doing rhyming jokes like last night there was a chair nearby the combo amp Tired Frontier was going to use for their set and Kabir goes ‘amp on the chair, tone everywhere’ and then I say ‘amp on the ground, makes a bad sound’ and then I tell Jeremy later how Kabir would put me in good spirits whenever I was describing to someone how my LSAT score is very competitive but my checkered past makes the acceptance process a little less than straightforward, and Kabir would see I was getting kinda down and anxious, and he would say ‘You gotta break the law before you make the law,’ and we all laugh and I love that, the function of humor as balm, salve. I want to wield my humor like that.

The drive back is fine, some sprinkles, nothing major, clear traffic for the most part, I feel like I have a good command of the van, keep it around 75 for most of the trip, feel smoth and confident switching lanes, passing, etc. We do another two NYT Wednesday classic crosswords together, Kabir is getting probably 40% of the clues, me maybe 30% Jeremy and John the other 30%, Kabir will just to YEAHHHHHHHH after getting a clue and I start doing that too after Jeremy says “X down, ‘on the table’ 15 letters,” and I say UPFORDISCUSSION after only a couple seconds and it fits and is correct and I feel like a damn genius and we’re all laughing and kind of praising each other half-jokingly for being strong beautiful geniuses who also we know songs. This is a great passtime and the drive flies by and before I know it we’re in Western NC just outside of Asheville and we make a stop to refuel the tank and get dinner. We decide on a Waffle House across the street, not wanting to venture too deep into Asheville for something healthier and better because of the time and money it would likely eat up, Kabir says that FEMA uses the closing of Waffle Houses as a bellweather to indicate the severity of a given natural disaster. We go inside, the waitress says ‘ya’ll aren’t from around here are you?’ in a way that I take to be hostile and I suggest that to the guys and they seem like maybe slightly offput but not very much and we decide not to abort and I later feel foolish because I think I am doing this thing where I become excessively vigilant or sensitive to a perceived slight to a friend who is brown for the putative purpose of interceding on their behalf against racism but what’s actually happening is if someone was racist to them they could just stand up for themselves and make their own call regarding their own comfort or lack thereof and I would do better to act less motivated by white guilt when avoidable. That passes, it’s fine, we eat hash browns and waffles and eggs and grits and toast and cover everything in tobasco and tip well and get back on the road, John takes over for the final stretch. 

I return a call from Marty and catch him up about tour being cancelled and we discuss our fears and hysteria and cancellations and reaction and so forth. Marty remarks that he is a gravedigger during the plague, which is the best possible job to have. It’s not a joke because he actually drives a backhoe working for a cemetary and digs actual graves, super weird and eminently punk/goth and kind of a curiosity but really perfect for the lead singer of one of the South’s premiere punk bands, especially after his being fired from the swish cafe he worked at in Richmond before that. I love Marty and catching up and it feels good to hear his voice. After I get off the phone it sort of becomes campfire spooky story time in the van with everyone proffering their take on the panic, market failure, the likelihood of Capitalism as a superstructure to require perpetual growth even at the peril or death of its working class, the superior response to covid that South Korea and Norway seem to have mounted, a lot of fear of financial insecurity. Eventually this digresses to talk of touring, and the guys discuss all manner of various routes throught the South, Midwest, Northeast, plains states, PNW, Mexico City, Jeremy says ‘I can get us a show in Colombia’ which he can, Argentina or Venezuela through a mutual friend, then Europe so long as the label foots the bill for the plane ticket, then Japan, setting up camp on Honshu would make it easy to hit TOkyo, Kyoto, Osaka and Nagoya no problem, except where exactly are people playing shows? there’s gotta be somewhere all these Japanese Noise and Hardcore bands are getting gigs, and then from there of course it’s not hard to get to Australia, John knows a band there, and they go all around the world and this is stressing me out a little bit, only because I wonder about how much they think I would be involved or want to go on such a theoretical tour, and the answer is I don’t 100% know. Part of me wants to say this is my last tour, lean all the way in to law school and leave behind this chapter. Part of me feels like it’s better not to make a hard and fast statement like that because what if the economy collapses and for some reason school is a no-go but being in the band becomes the most plausible source of income or something. I get anxious and psych myself out and quiet down and feel foolish and wish to be home. I fantasize about my future life of stability, but I second guess myself because I just don’t know for sure how my life will be, and want to be careful to work toward the goals I think will be the most fulfilling, self-actualizing, spiritually nourishing, healthy for me; I also want to not forsake the friendships and bonds I’ve forged in these weird intimate moments in the van with the guys. I have the wherewithal to know that nobody is requiring me to make a decision right this second, and that as time passes it’s likely that the best course of action will be revealed one way or another if I can keep from panicking. So I watch videos of the 2019 Classic Tetris World Championships on my phone, eat two candy bars, watch videos of a streamer named Wumbotize play the latest Tetris game, Tetris Effect (2018, PS4, PC), and am pleasantly awed by how crazily far the skill curve of that game has shot up. I have some time ahead of me that is completely free, which is so nice. Before I know it I’m back home in my clean apartment which is tidy like a tetris field at the beginning of a new game and I get into my bed and lay down flat and if my bed is the well than the line of me clears and the well is clean, smooth, primed, for whatever falls tomorrow. 

[pongpalace]

oooh how about “Is it too early to have a breakdown this week?”“It’s Monday.”��That doesn’t answer my question.” Maybe erm...Zimbits orrrrr NurseyRans, or Camilla/George? Any ship you want, really

 ooooh, im always in a Camilla/George mood also on ao3)

George isn’t ashamed to admit it, but she’s cried over her job before.

The first time was when she got the Assistant GM position and became one of the first woman with such a high level management position in the NHL. Those were happy tears and came after years of fighting tooth and nail to get recognized for her hard work. Those tears happened in a bathroom stall of the rink she’d been at when she got the news, and also got her kleenex handed under the stall when the woman next to her heard and worried. Those tears make her smile now when she looks back on them, not least because she still has coffee with Tai when they’re in the same city.

She’s cried over trades, over wins, over loses, over shitty interns and shittier men who think they can do her job better (they can’t). She’s cried in the bathroom nearest her office, the ones down by the ice and locker rooms, and she’s cried in the car on her way home. George is an emotional person and managing a hockey team takes a lot out of her and her way of dealing with the emotions is crying.

Today’s tears are angry; borne from frustration with the job, on top of a day where everything that could’ve gone wrong has; a textbook case of the Mondays.

First, George came into work without coffee because she got distracted last night before she set the coffee maker and then Camilla distracted her again this morning, so George had to rush through her morning routine which left no time to wait for the coffee to percolate. Her regular Starbucks’ parking lot was under construction so she drove around it twice looking for the entrance to the before giving up and giving into the arena coffee that’s never very good, no matter who makes it.

She got to her office to find that something happened to her computer over the weekend, causing most of the files saved to her hard drive to corrupt. This wouldn’t normally have been such a big deal—she backs everything up onto an external hard drive daily—except last Friday’s hadn’t saved properly, so she lost all the progress she made on the quarterly players reports that are needed for tomorrow’s front office meeting. She had to work through her lunch to redo everything she did on Friday, forgoing the player development analysis that she was actually looking forward to working on. It was such a stupid, ridiculous, busy morning that she had to eat a cold, premade sandwich from the canteen during a business call with the league’s other assistant GM’s about new concussion protocols, a call that was basically a giant waste of time that could’ve been spent on one of the other many things on her to-do list because the league still doesn’t take concussions seriously enough.

The biggest catalyst for the tears happened after the business call though, at an afternoon scouting meeting. It took twice as long as it should’ve because one of the newer scouts hadn’t listened when George said she was looking for a two-way, fast blueliner to balance out Tater’s hard shot and his tendency to pinch up as a fourth forward, and instead brought in yet another big D-man who’d need to spend at least a season in the AHL developing his game before he’d be quick enough for the show, but “at least he used his body and had a good shot.” The scout argued with George about the poor kid’s chances in the NHL in front of the entire scouting team, management, and half of the coaching staff until other George, the Falcs’s GM, snapped at him and the meeting finished as quickly as possible. George has spent most of her NHL career sweating and bleeding to make the men in this stupid league take her seriously, and she’s been mostly successfully what with ten years as an Assistant GM under her belt. It’d been a while since someone had questioned her scouting decisions though, so the meeting knocked her back on her heels, and off balance in a way she hasn’t been in a long time.

George feels justified in kicking off her shoes the moment the door to her office closes behind her and she’s alone. They might scuff the wall a little bit, but it’s nothing that a purposefully placed plant can’t hide. George locks the door and leans back against it just as the tears spill over; a culmination of an absolutely shitty day, coming out in quiet tears and an unfortunate runny nose.

The Falconers have been a great organization to work with, and other George and the owners have made it clear that they have George’s back since she started with the organization, even before the team started playing into the postseason more often than not. It’s when new people are hired on into roles that technically make George their boss that she’s reminded what a boy’s club the NHL can be. It’s exhausting when her every move is questioned by people who don’t know half as much as they think they do, especially because George has the degree and the experience that makes her really good at her job, but no one seems to count her playing on while managing a Div-I hockey team through college, and winning an Olympic gold because it’s women’s hockey.

There’s kleenex on George’s desk, the extra soft ones for moments like this, so when she’s done crying, she crosses the room to pull one from the box. She dabs it under her eyes, making a face when it ends up black from the mascara that was advertised as waterproof. She grabs a clean kleenex to scrub all over her face, hoping to rub away the salty tear tracks that have dried on her cheeks.

The clock on the wall only reads 2 o’clock, and George still isn’t done with the player reports so she settles into her chair to finish them after unlocking the door in case someone needs her. She hopes the glare that she left the scouting meeting wearing will discourage that though.

George is left alone until 4, but then is called into an emergency managers meeting when news breaks that one of the players they’d been ready to trade draft picks for broke his ankle. It’s a long debate about whether or not it’s worth going through with the trade and rehabbing him in Providence or trying to find someone else to play on Jack’s wing without putting them over the salary cap so it’s after 8 o’clock by the time George leaves the office and then there’s traffic from an earlier pile up accident on the way home so George doesn’t actually get home until 9 o’clock.

The house smells like pizza and the candles that Camilla insist smell like the beach, but actually smell like clean laundry. It’s a weird mix, but comforting and a reminder that George has more outside of taking care of the hockey team, though she still feels like she could sleep for days and still not be ready to face to face the rest of the week.

She finds Camilla in the master bathroom, her laptop balanced precariously on the toilet seat and blasting some spotify playlist while she showers. George lowers the volume, her way of telling Camilla that she’s home, and shucks her dress pants and underwear in one go, kicking them off while she fights with the buttons on her blouse. She’s already got the shower door open when she unhooks her bra and throws it over her shoulder. She doesn’t see where it lands.

“You’re home late,” Camilla says, turning to rinse out her hair. George nods and waits until she’s finished to trade spots with her, getting her own hair wet, but mostly just trying to see if the hot water relieves some of the tension of the day. She rolls out her neck and tries to get the water on the knot that seems to have been steadily growing since this morning. Camilla finishes running the conditioner through her own hair before she steps into George’s space for a kiss, hooking her arms around George’s neck and pressing in exactly where the knot is.

“Is it too early to have a breakdown this week?” George asks when they break apart. Camilla raises an eyebrow, reaching to squirt shampoo into her hands. George lets her turn her so she can massage the shampoo into George’s hair, scritching along her hairline. Her eyes fall shut.

“It’s Monday,” Camilla replies. She taps George’s side so George leans back and rinses out her hair. Camilla gets more conditioner into her hands and runs that through George’s hair.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” George says.

“Aw babe.” Camilla’s eyes are big and concerned. “It’s a little early to have a breakdown, but I’ll support whatever you want to do.”

She drags George in for a hug and George tucks her nose into her neck, willing herself not to cry again. She won’t have to explain her day Camilla; she’s been in sports for as much as her life as George has so she gets it, gets having to fight to have her voice heard over the shouts of men who think their voices are the only ones worth listening to. She’s been so loud as a sports journalist, covering women’s sports and bringing attention to how amazing these women athletes are, with little to no reference to their male counterparts because women’s sports can, and should, stand alone. George loves her so much.

They stand pressed together, swaying slightly to the beat of whatever song is playing, until the water starts to go cold, and Camilla reaches around George to adjust the knobs.

“There’s leftover pizza,” Camilla says. She slides past George so she can rinse out the conditioner in her hair before George does the same. “You wanna eat that before your scheduled breakdown, G?”

“Don’t make fun, we were having a moment.”

“Can we finish the moment in bed? My fingers are starting to get pruney.”

George huffs out a laugh; shutting off the water and letting Camilla bully her out of the shower and into a warm towel. She pulls on the team USA sweatpants she’s been using as pjs recently and a soft t-shirt that mysterious made its way from Camilla’s side of the closet into hers. Camilla’s fingers are gentle as they comb through her hair, and George tries to be just as gentle while she braids Camilla’s hair.

They climb into bed, under separate blankets because they both learned a long time ago that they’re no good at sharing when they sleep, but they find their way to the center of the bed to cuddle.

“D’you want pizza though? You must be hungry,” Camilla says, tucking herself under George’s arm. Her shampoo smells like home and her the weight of her body on George is comforting in a way that little else is.

“I just want you,” George replies, though she really hasn’t eaten more than a couple power bars and one of Jack’s gross protein shakes since her late lunch. She’s comfortable right now and unwilling to move if it means having to stop touching Camilla.

Camilla twists and stretches so she’s right in George’s face, propping herself up on her elbows. “You have me, you giant cheeseball.” She’s slow to lean down for a kiss so George surges up and mashes their lips together, swallowing down the amused sound that Camilla makes. The kiss manages to be light and teasing until Camilla nips at George’s bottom lip so she licks past the seam of Camilla’s lips, hands coming up to frame Camilla’s face. George runs her thumb a long Camilla’s jaw and wants to flip them to deepen the kiss even further but then her stomach growls and Camilla pulls back with a wry grin.

“Okay, pizza would be nice then too,” George admits. Camilla presses another kiss to her lips and then to her cheek as she kicks off her covers.

“I love you and I’m sorry you had a shitty day,” Camilla says seriously once she’s standing. George’s heart swells with a fondness that’ll never get old.

“Love you too,” she says, and follows Camilla back down to the kitchen.

They eat the leftover pizza at the sink, trading tomato-y kisses between bites, and this time George sets the coffee machine before Camilla distracts her more so tomorrow is probably going to be better than today.

(It is.)

[junker-town]

Mekhi Becton isn’t a finished product, but his NFL potential is massive

Mekhi Becton will be one of the first tackles taken in the 2020 NFL Draft.

Retired defensive end Stephen White is excited about what kind of OL Mekhi Becton can be in the NFL.

There are some memories that just pop up into my head for no apparent reason. In particular, when I watch tape to do these draft breakdowns, I often look at these young prospects and see older players who came before them. The problem is I can’t always place who exactly is their on-the-field doppelgänger.

But sometimes I can.

Such was the case when I was watching Louisville left tackle Mekhi Becton’s tape. I am not sure what the correct word to use when discussing a man who is 6’7 and over 360 pounds, but I’m going to go with “massive” for the moment, although that doesn’t quite do his stature justice. But believe me, if his size was Becton’s only redeeming quality, I probably wouldn’t be writing this breakdown about him.

It is almost impossible to describe some of the things Becton did on the field. I could try to stuff this column full of plays instead, and it still wouldn’t be enough to give you an accurate feel for how he dominated other young men as if he were that kid in little league everybody was sure had a fake birth certificate.

As I sat there watching with my mouth open in amazement, I kept thinking I don’t remember ever seeing an offensive lineman completely obliterate his opposition on such a regular basis since I have been doing these breakdowns. Mind you, these were four games against top-notch competition — including the Clemson Tigers, who were the defending national champions at the time and made it back to the title game later in the season.

Notice I am not talking about him being the ”best” offensive lineman I have ever seen. Becton still has some work to do technique-wise, which I will get to later. But for now, I’m talking about physically driving DI football players off the ball and down the field in every single one of those games.

This guy was consistently knocking edge players off the ball with just his initial punch — with arms over 35.5 inches long. And then it finally came to me who Becton reminded me of, at least based on gossip: Hall of Fame left tackle Willie Roaf.

As far as I can recall, I never actually watched Roaf’s Louisiana Tech tape. However, the game he had against a stacked Alabama team that ended up winning the national championship in 1992 became a thing of legend. That Crimson Tide team had two standout defensive linemen in John Copeland and Eric Curry (whom I eventually played with in Tampa). I actually googled to make sure I wasn’t remembering this wrong, and sure enough there are a bunch of articles about how Roaf kicked both of their asses that day on the way to vaulting himself up draft boards.

To put into context, just ask yourself when has any other offensive lineman ever had a game so memorable that people could recall it almost 30 years later?

Becton didn’t quite have a game quite that outstanding of the four I watched. But what I saw him do, the way cats went flying backward on contact, was also the stuff people will be remembering for years down the road.

What Becton does well: Drive defenders back

I had to come up with a new stat for Becton in the middle of watching his tape. He was so good at getting up on the second level, I started counting how many times he was able to drive linebackers far enough downfield that they ended up off the screen.

Five times.

That number doesn’t even include the plays where he didn’t quite get them off the screen. Believe me, there were plenty of those as well!

What was funny to me about Becton’s tape is half the time he looked like Baby Huey out there, just dumping guys on the ground as if he didn’t know his own strength. He was mashing dudes out simply because he could, but he rarely even looked like he was playing with an edge. And I say that because I did see him appear to get visibly pissed off a couple of times, and the blocks that followed ... let’s just say there was a marked difference in those pancakes versus the rest of them.

To be clear, I’m not saying that as a knock on Becton. He is plenty dominant enough without having to go overboard with it, which is impressive in its own right. I just want to note that if he ever did start playing with a little more of a salty demeanor regularly, they might have to end up scraping his opponent up off the field.

Where Becton can improve: Pass protection

Having said all that, I also have to acknowledge that if a team plans on playing Becton at tackle, he has some real issues as a pass protector right now. He wasn’t “bad” at it, mostly because he’s so big it looked like he intimidated some of the guys he was going against into not really making moves.

However, when the edge rushers didn’t fear him and tried to beat him with some kind of rush around the edge, for instance, Becton would bail out of his back pedal in a way that allowed him to keep them from getting to the edge. That would also leave him vulnerable to an inside counter move.

Losing on an inside counter after trying to catch up to a speed rusher happened a few too many times for me to believe it won’t be an issue for him in the NFL. And the truth is trying to carry his weight on a frame that tall might fundamentally make it hard for him to react to those counter moves no matter how much better he gets technique-wise. If he can’t fix it, then it’s very likely Becton will either have to lose some weight or have to move inside.

If he can keep most, if not all, of his strength and power at a little lower weight, I don’t see a downside to him dropping a few pounds anyway. At the same time, losing weight isn’t a guarantee his lateral change of direction will improve enough for him to be trusted at left tackle, either.

On another note, for as big and as strong as Becton is, he got pushed back on a few power rushes more than I expected to see. That, too, is probably a technique issue, but it’s something worth keeping in mind. He definitely looks a lot more comfortable coming forward to run block than he does going back to pass set. He also doesn’t switch up his punch, which makes it easy to time. That is another reason why I would have concerns about throwing him out there at left tackle right off the bat.

Personally, I’d put Becton on that Larry Allen program right off the bat anyway and stick him inside at guard, at least initially. That would help to hide some of his pass protection issues and also allow him to be more aggressive at the line of scrimmage. I’m having visions of Becton jump-setting a three-technique on play action and pancaking him.

You would be too if you had already seen his tape.

I would have more confidence in Becton playing right away inside as well because you can always have the center slide his way a little more than usual if he needs help in pass protection. Teams don’t seem to send chip blocks to help offensive tackles nearly as much as they used to (or need to), though. Becton is also as wide as a damn tractor trailer, so just trying to get around him on the interior would be one hell of a chore for most interior pass rushers, whether his technique improved dramatically or not.

I didn’t get to see Becton pull at all in four games, but considering the athleticism, quickness, and speed he showed blocking downfield on screens, I have every confidence pulling wouldn’t be a problem for him at all. In fact, I could see him crushing fools on all manner of counter plays like it’s nothing.

I did see Becton whiff a few times when he had to run a little too far down the field before he made contact, but I’m not sure some smaller offensive linemen could’ve made those blocks either. His incredible day at the combine and his tape says he is more than athletic enough to do anything you could want a guard to do. It’s just a matter of sticking him in there and letting him take his lumps for a while until he gets it. I don’t think it will take too long.

Once Becton gets used to the speed of the game, and if his technique improves enough, then maybe I stick him out at left or right tackle and see what he can do. Or maybe you find out he is such an asset inside that you just keep him there and let him tee off and destroy people at guard for the next decade. Think a bigger, stronger, not quite as technically sound Quenton Nelson. I don’t know if Becton will ever be the pass protector Nelson is, but I’d love to see him try.

Becton’s NFL future: Pro Bowler, at least

He is far from a finished product, but the talent Becton showed on tape is enough to see he can be a special player with a little bit of work. If you have a coaching staff that can’t get him to play up to a Pro Bowl level at least, you probably just need a new coaching staff, or at minimum a new offensive line coach.

I mean, even when his technique isn’t great, Becton can still rock bottom his guy to the ground. If you aren’t willing to take a chance on a guy like that, then you and I are not the same.

I’m not usually one to get goofy over potential, but Becton is such a singular prospect that it’s hard not to become enamored with who he could become. I don’t know that he will end up wearing a gold jacket like Roaf ultimately did, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened.

All things being equal, he looks like a top-10 pick in the draft would look to me, and I’m not even sure he would last that long. We will see if NFL teams agree whenever the draft rolls around.

Be sure to check out my other scouting reports on Chase Young, Jerry Jeudy, Derrick Brown, Jedrick Wills Jr., A.J. Epenesa, CeeDee Lamb, and Javon Kinlaw.

For the purposes of this breakdown, I watched Becton play against Notre Dame, Boston College, Clemson, and Kentucky.

[ffrotoexpert]

2017 Fantasy Football Preseason Top 100

Here we go fellas, the 2017 season is almost here! I normally wait until the 3rd preseason weekend to publish my Draft Day Rankings.  I realize that many of you will start drafting over the next week, so here is my current Top 100 (non-PPR):

David Johnson, RB, ARI: Very well could lead ARI in rushing/receiving

Le’Veon Bell, RB, PIT: Gets 16 full games, no surprise if #1 overall in ‘17

Antonio Brown, WR, PIT: Volume monster, easily #1 WR on the board

Julio Jones, WR, ATL: Targets will be there, should see even more in RZ

AJ Green, WR, CIN: He was leading all WR’s in ‘16 before injury

Odell Beckham, WR, NYG: Slight down tick due to current injury

Mike Evans, WR, TB: Big time TD upside, need receptions to increase

Melvin Gordon, RB, SD: My ranking on him is a bit high, love ceiling

LeSean McCoy, RB, BUF: BUF offense is limited, will be targeted heavily

Devonta Freeman, RB, ATL: Production beast, no worries about role in O

Jordy Nelson, WR, GB: With questions at RB, primed as Top 5 WR

Jay Ajayi, RB, MIA: Will be 3 down bell cow behind underrated OL

Dez Bryant, WR, DAL: I like him better than most, pass volume will be up

Rob Gronkowski, TE, NE: Big time security blanket, needs to stay healthy

DeMarco Murray, RB, TEN: Still #1 RB in TEN, however Henry is at heels

Jordan Howard, RB, CHI: Surprise of ‘16, don’t think he will regress in’17

Doug Baldwin, WR, SEA: Consistent as they come, Top 10 WR in ‘15/’16

Ezekiel Elliott, RB, DAL: Tuesday will be key, Top 3-5 pick with no issues

Michael Thomas, WR, NO: #1 WR for Brees and high volume pass game

Amari Cooper, WR, OAK: Yardage beast, needs RZ tkts to pick up

TY Hilton, WR, IND: Needs a healthy Luck to justify ranking

Isaiah Crowell, RB, CLE: Improved OL in CLE, just needs volume now

Brandin Cooks, WR, NE: Brady has not had a toy like BC since Moss

Demaryius Thomas, WR, DEN: Siemian will be better,needs to limit drops 

Leonard Fournette, RB, JAC: Will be the lead rook at RB, 3 down freak

Todd Gurley, RB, LAR: Will be improved in ‘17 but still worry about him

Keenan Allen, WR, SD: If he could just stay on the field, Top 10 WR ability

Terrelle Pryor, WR, WAS: Finally in a pass happy offense, will surprise

Lamar Miller, RB, HOU: Overdrafted in ‘16, needs better QB play

Carlos Hyde, RB, SF: Shanny will get him going, like him as ‘17 sleeper

Dalvin Cook, RB, MIN: Will challenge LF as best rook RB, nice preseason

Alshon Jeffery, WR, PHI: Like the combo with Wentz, has been RZ stud

DeAndre Hopkins, WR, HOU: Savage/Watson give him much better ‘17

Travis Kelce, TE, KC: Baby Gronk always among the top of the TE group

Tyreek Hill, WR, KC: Boom guy in ‘16, hoping for more “Boom than Bust”

Jamison Crowder, WR, WAS: Surprise guy in WAS offense, will get tkts

Martavis Bryant, WR, PIT: TD monster when he is on the field

Jordan Reed, TE, WAS: This WAS offense will be fun to watch in ‘17

Aaron Rodgers, QB, GB: Slightly ahead of Brady, ton of attempts coming

Tom Brady, QB, NE: Even with JE out, he has so many targets/toys

Christian McCaffrey, RB, CAR: Heavily involved as RB/WR, big role

Kareem Hunt, RB, KC: RB1 in KC, vaulting up draft boards

Kelvin Benjamin, WR, CAR: Mid round “value” pick, will rebound in ‘17

Michael Crabtree, WR, OAK: Took TD’s from Coop, better in STD vs PPR

Mark Ingram, RB, NO: Was primed for Top 7-8 RB year before AP signed

Marshawn Lynch, RB, OAK: Lost a step, but still behind Top 3 NFL OL

Joe Mixon, RB, CIN: Easily best RB on roster, salty 3 down back

Golden Tate, WR, DET: Will have over 90 catches for Stafford

Greg Olsen, TE, CAR: TD volume dropped but still Top 5 TE

Stefon Diggs, WR, MIN: Expect more of a breakout this year

Davante Adams, WR, GB: Even with Cobb back, he is the #2 WR for AR

Larry Fitzgerald, WR, ARI: Retirement tour coming to a city near you....

Allen Robinson, WR, JAC: Bad QB play, but Marrone will feed him

Drew Brees, QB, NO: Could push AR/TB for the top spot, 5K yds again

Emmanuel Sanders, WR, DEN: One of the best #2′s in the league

Jimmy Graham, TE, SEA: Top 5 TE when healthy, primed for nice year

Willie Snead, WR, NO: Really like Fast Willie, should be #2 to start year

Ty Montgomery, RB, GB: If he gets the touches, will easily be a RB1

Mike Gillislee, RB, NE: Great preseason, setting up for RB1 in NE

Sammy Watkins, WR, LAR: How do you trust him with nagging foot/Goff?

Bilal Powell, RB, NYJ: Ranking justified on volume alone, Forte is done

Tyler Eifert, TE, CIN: IMO, highest upside of any TE, needs to be on field

DeVante Parker, WR, MIA: Cutler will hit him deep, upside is there

Jarvis Landry, WR, MIA: Higher in PPR than Standard, volume will drop

CJ Anderson, RB, DEN: Solid RB2 when healthy, Charles will get touches

Jeremy Maclin, WR, BAL: Much needed for Flacco, TD upside in BAL

Darren McFadden, RB, DAL: Ranking based on Zeke missing 6 games

Doug Martin, RB, TB: Could be a surprise in TB after suspension 

Kyle Rudolph, TE, MIN: Strong ‘16 upside, may fall with WR’s emerging

Eric Decker, WR, TEN: Modern day Cris Carter, possession guy for MM

Rob Kelley, RB, WAS: Fat Rob is the clear #1 in WAS

Terrance West, RB, BAL: Should be BAL RB1, will he produce?

Ameer Abdullah, RB, DET: 2 down back, but young and will get touches

Randall Cobb, WR, GB: Slipping down the depth chart in GB

Paul Perkins, RB, NYG: Not flashy/exciting guy, ok fantasy RB2

Danny Woodhead, RB, BAL: Injuries have gotten him last 2/3 seasons

Duke Johnson, RB, CLE: Should catch 60+ balls in ‘17

Pierre Garcon, WR, SF: Solid #1 WR in “improving” SF offense

Donte Moncrief, WR, IND: Would like to see more tkts, skill is there

Zack Ertz, TE, PHI: Think he finishes as Top 5 TE in ‘17

Tyrell Williams, WR, SD: MWilliams injury helps his case in SD pass game

Adrian Peterson, RB, NO: Some TD upside, but limited yardage

Tevin Coleman, RB, ATL: Think his usage drops with Shanny in SF

Martellus Bennett, TE, GB: Really good situation, AR likes his TE’s

Delanie Walker, TE, TEN: Decker/Davis could cut into his TD production

Matt Ryan, QB, ATL: New OC, but he still be get volume, Top 5 QB for me

Derrick Henry, RB, TEN: Please draft him, #1 handcuff at RB position

Jonathan Stewart, RB, CAR: Will lose touches/volume to Mac

Thomas Rawls, RB, SEA: Could be a late steal, but worried about OL

LeGarrette Blount, RB, PHI: Will get TD touches, but how much is left?

Brandon Marshall, WR, NYG: Productive #2 at this point in career

Kenny Britt, WR, LAR: Had 1K yards with bad QB play, CLE better?

Marcus Mariota, QB, TEN: Way too many weapons to not be Top 6-7 guy

Frank Gore, RB, IND: Feels like the spot for him, like Turbin in Indy better

Adam Thielen, WR, MIN: Surprise in ‘16, will be Top 25 WR in ‘17

John Brown, WR, ARI: I think he rebounds in ‘17 with Top 30 season

Rex Burkhead, RB, NE: Really like him, but where does he fit?

Kirk Cousins, QB, WAS: Primed for big ‘17, could sneak into QB Top 5

Russell Wilson, QB, SEA: With banged up OL, will be on the run

Corey Davis, WR, TEN: Love his upside late, big time deep threat

[evenstevensranked]

#52: Season 2, Episode 6 - “Broadcast Blues”

Ren enters a contest to become Cynthia Mills’ Junior Reporter. Louis and Twitty devise a plan that includes feeding Beans answers to any question you could think of through an earpiece — Making him seem like a boy genius. Ren falls for it and decides to use Beans for her audition tape story. Yeah, that doesn’t work out too well. Meanwhile, Donnie is tired of seeming dumb and rents a videotape called “Look Smart, Be Smart” - An instructional video on how to appear intelligent.  

This episode opens with two contrasting scenes. We see Ren neatly preparing to watch TV, which is interspersed with sped-up shots of Louis and Twitty putting on raincoats and pants like they’re preparing for a flood in Louis’ filthy room. They run downstairs and noisily join Ren on the couch. We find out that Cynthia Mills has become Ren’s new idol and she’s excited to watch her on the 6 o’clock news. That’s a little weird to me. I feel like Cynthia has always been their local news anchor. Out of nowhere, Ren is like “she’s amazing!!” But, eh. Let’s just go with it for the sake of the episode.

Louis and Twitty have a local news idol of their own that they’re excited to watch: Weatherman/“comedian” (I use that word very lightly) Zippy Winds. I'm gonna go ahead and be a wet blanket here, much like Ren in this scene, and say that Zippy is annoying as helllll. Louis and Twitty are acting like toddlers, and I can't help but cringe a bit. Like, Zippy literally seems like a character you'd find on a Playhouse Disney show. If I didn't know any better, I would swear he walked off the set of The Wiggles and right onto the Sacramento news. I know Louis and Twitty can be immature and it's great sometimes... but this always felt a little overkill to me.

Ren is me. Like........ what the heck. 

Ren tells Louis and Twitty that she’s going to submit an audition tape to become Cynthia’s Junior Reporter. They realize there’s a chance they could meet Zippy if she won. So, Louis makes her “promise on all that is holy” that she’ll introduce them. The only problem here is that Ren's audition tape is pretty weak. She films a sample news report on whether or not students at Lawrence find the wombat mascot offensive to wombats and other living creatures. She interviews Tawny and Tawny is like “Yes, I’d have to agree with that! If a wombat dressed up like a human and jumped around like a doofus, I’d be pretty insulted.” - Something tells me both Ren and Tawny would be Tumblr Social Justice Warriors if Even Stevens took place in 2017. Back then, they used to call Tawny an “Activist” lol, so probably.  

Tawny is also me. 

The subplot is introduced with Donnie sneakily watching a VHS tape called "Look Smart, Be Smart." He's apparently tired of being an airhead and wants to be respected for his brain. Good luck with that! This is definitely both my favorite, and objectively the best, Donnie subplot. Which is basically why I've ranked this episode a little higher than I originally thought I would. It's a hysterical side story! The tape comes with a little box of materials. One of the first steps to appearing intelligent is to put on a pair of glasses from the box. Naturally. Donnie's adorable here, though. You can tell that he really feels like the guy on the tape believes in him, lol.

Louis sees the draft of Ren’s audition video and thinks it’s super lame. They’ll never get to meet Zippy if she submits something like that. There’s a bit where Twitty says she should do it on bacon because it’s “crispy, salty and nature’s candy.” Again, they were ahead of the game with the bacon fixation.

Beans comes over and Donnie decides to start trying out some of the new smart tips he’s learned from the tape. Beans asks if he smells bacon, and if I were Beans I’d probably think Donnie spiraled into an existential crisis over the simple question. He thinks back to what the tape taught him: 

“When asked a question, don’t blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Take a moment to ponder, and stroke your chin. Remember! For all anyone knows, you might be a bonafide genius!”

Beans is standing there all confused and just says “What part of bacon don’t you understand?” That’s pretty great, I must say. Donnie responds “Hey! For all you know I might be a bonafide genius!” Bless his soul.

This episode is actually only Beans’ second appearance ever and the first time he shows interest in bacon, btw! He goes into the kitchen and tries to steal some from Louis and Twitty, who are still brainstorming a better sample news story for Ren. Louis tells Beans to get out because he and Twitty are big-boy thinking. So, Beans repeats what Donnie said (The “bonafide genius" line) and Louis immediately gets an idea.  

He and Twitty end up feeding information to Beans through an earpiece hidden in a hat. They send him into Ren’s room and have him start spouting information. They quickly trick Ren into thinking he’s a genius, and she right away decides to use Beans for her audition. She records a tape of her asking him super obscure questions, which he miraculously knows the answers to. Much to Louis and Twitty’s excitement, she ends up getting the gig! The only issue is that the station wants her to do the Beans story live on air… and Beans ain’t no real-life genius. Problem.

Louis and Twitty are freaking out trying to find a way around this. Twitty thinks they should just get it over with and tell Ren, he says that she’d understand. Then Louis envisions Ren yanking his ear like an elastic out of anger after hearing the truth. Just another weird gag. (You know I’m not a fan of those.) In the end, they just decide to continue feeding Beans answers and hope for the best. Side note: Louis is extra shouty in this episode for some reason. I have no idea why, but it’s just a little much.

I really just... can’t get on board with this stuff, man. 

Donnie starts taking the advice from the “Look Smart, Be Smart” tape very seriously in everyday life. But, it unfortunately only makes him seem even dumber than before. It’s WONDERFUL! And results in what is definitely my favorite scene of the episode. Me explaining or quoting it won’t do it justice, so I’m just gonna embed it here for you to watch:

Once they get to the news station, Louis and Twitty start freaking out a bit. They have to keep coming up with excuses for Beans and his un-genius-like weirdness. (“He needs his hat to keep his brain warm!” “Bacon is his brain food!”) But their biggest worry is finding a phone jack to connect their laptop to the internet so they can feed Beans information. I know I’ve already said a few times now that technology is really the only thing that’s dated on this show, but... It’s true, lol. Pretty crazy that this was the situation 14 years ago. Today, we all have the internet at our fingertips with data/wifi. They could just throw a Bluetooth earpiece on Beans and feed him everything from their smartphones/a phone call, lol. Dang. Maybe we really are ~futuristic~ today after all.

Donnie decides to try out his smart skills again on Cynthia Mills this time! This is great. It’s clear as day that Cynthia has watched the tape, too. She’s wearing the same glasses, using “cornucopia” in a sentence, and repeating questions back at Donnie. They’re both so confused by each other. It’s a fun bit and another reason why this Donnie plot is so strong. This scene also serves as the first step to #exposing Cynthia as a phony. Ren walks over to Donnie saying “Isn’t Cynthia brilliant?!” and Donnie warns her that she might not be all that Ren thinks she is.

Beans ends up accidentally telling Ren what’s up. She confronts Louis and Twitty and is pretty furious. She comes waltzing into the control room where they’re hiding and they FREAK OUT. It’s actually pretty funny. There is a fabulous Louis Scream here and Shia does that thing where he puts the neck of his shirt over his head. I freaking love it when he does that. I die every time. 

The scene moved pretty fast. This is the best screen cap I could get. You get the idea, lol. 

Ren says that the point of being a reporter is to tell the truth, so she has an obligation to tell Cynthia what’s really going on. She tries to tell her, but Cynthia cuts her off before she gets a chance to tell the truth. Turns out, Cynthia breaks the news to Ren that she has decided to take over the Beans story to further her career. She’s pretty rude about it. It’s super slimy. Ugh. Sooo, even though Ren was initially po’d at Louis and Twitty for their elaborate scam, she decides to kick back, relax and let the story go to air so that Cynthia looks like a darn fool.

This part is pretty great. Cynthia is so arrogant and excited to have Beans on the show. She introduces him by saying “Socrates, Galileo, Einstein... Bernard Aranguren. Possibly the four greatest minds to have graced this planet.” Incredible. Bean’s immediately follows it up with:

Beans: “Is this my water cup?” Cynthia: “Uh… Yes, it is.” Beans: “Mmmmm! I like water.”  

Basically, the story goes down in flames. Beans knows literally nothing and starts climbing all over the desk. Cynthia is distraught. It’s satisfying.

The gang watching Cynthia fail miserably. Same. 

The episode ends with Louis and Twitty “meeting” Zippy. He just opens his dressing room door and sprays them with water. They’re fine with that, though. So.

Yeaaaah. Idk, man. I just don’t particularly care for this one too much. Like, I said though.. I LOVEEEE the Donnie plot -- specifically the scene I included here -- and wanted to show him some love. But, as you can see.. that takes up about 1 minute out of 22. So, not exactly enough to save the whole thing for me. At first, I thought it might just be my dislike for Beans that’s clouding my judgment here, but I don’t think so. As I mentioned, Louis and Twitty are next level goofy and it’s yet another episode where Louis is a little selfish. I have to keep reminding myself what I’m basing my rankings on. And of course, one of them is laughs. I, unfortunately, found myself... not laughing... all that much here. :( Well, except for the parts I highlighted. 

Chime in via disqus below as usual! :D

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[lovecolibri]

Everyone keeps trying to talk about how Michael saying "I love you" isn't the same as saying "I'm IN love with you" (which I made a whole post about ages ago that the semantics don't matter because they were already dating so the "IN love" is implied) but like, it's just BAD WRITING. There isn't a deeper meaning like he was saying he loved her as a friend but wasn't IN love, it wasn't proof that she was more important to him than Alex (what show are these people WATCHING?!), it was just bad writing. It was c*rina trying to contrive a "love triangle" with characters that didn't fit the framework for a love triangle to work. Alex and Michael are utterly in love and Tyler and Vlamis show that in every scene together and every micro-expression. No amount of stuffing words into Michael or Alex's mouths was gonna change that but damn did c*rina sure try! I’m kinda hoping we just get a blanket “I was really messed up last year and said a lot of stuff I didn’t mean” from Michael in season 3 which would help close the book on season 2 without having to fully delve in, or specifically call out his relationship with m*ria as a mistake because I don’t think the show will want to do that since she’s a secondary main and isn’t leaving like a guest star would.

[junker-town]

2021 NBA player rankings, Nos. 90-81: Will players like DeAndre Jordan be valuable in 4 years?

We argue about the Clippers’ center’s place in the game in four years, plus gamble on some young players for not the first time.

This was the point in our countdown of the 101 best players in the NBA in four years where strategies began to diverge. Some of us chose established players today that we think will age decently. Others swung for the fences with rookies and other younger players.

The end result was a lively section of the countdown, concluding with a fascinating discussion at No. 81.

90. Dario Saric

We don’t really know what will happen in four minutes, let alone four years. But we can make educated guesses — and totally outlandish ones.

I’d like to think that it’s a safe bet to forecast a 23-year-old, 6’10 forward who averaged 13 points, six rebounds, and two assists per game en route to All-Rookie first-team honors as one of the league’s top 100 players in four years.

— Chris Greenberg

Our reactions

TIM CATO: I bet in 2021, Saric is better than at least one of the Sixers we picked ahead of him. There’s too much of a boom-or-bust with Simmons and Embiid for that not to be true.

I don’t even know if I actually believe that, but making grandiose predictions like that is what this exercise is designed for, so let’s do it.

TOM ZILLER: If I start calling Saric the Croatian Gallinari, will Sixersland get mad again? Or is that a compliment?

89. Dennis Schroder

If Dennis Schroder isn’t the safest pick at No. 89 in this draft, he did something wrong.

— Kristian Winfield

Our reactions

JEFF SIEGEL, PEACHTREE HOOPS: Already one of the top 101 players in the game, has Schroder topped out as a low-tier starting point guard, or will he make another leap? Better shooting and creating for others would go a long way to pushing him up the list.

TIM CATO: He’s fine. This pick is fine. I like his hair.

MATT ELLENTUCK: Aggressively fine, still probably picked too late in this draft. Anyway, yeah, great hair.

TOM ZILLER: Barring a trade, he’s going to spend at least the next few years on an atrocious team that no one outside of Atlanta watches in the best of times. Are we going to remember Dennis Schroder’s name in four years?

CHRIS GREENBERG: Provided he gets heated with a more famous opponent during the Hawks’ unremarkable playoff appearances, we will certainly remember his name. For about three weeks every April.

88. Hassan Whiteside

Whiteside will be 32 in 2021 but the Miami sunshine is going to preserve him a little longer. Plus, he didn’t really start the NBA grind until 2015, so he’ll have some legs left. I have more confidence that Whiteside, king of NBA Snapchat, will be more relevant in the NBA in 2021 than Snapchat will be.

— Whitney Medworth

Our reactions

MIKE PRADA: Four years is plenty of time to discover that parrot’s true killer.

I suspect Heat fans will be mad about this ranking, but it seems about right to me. Tough to know how much longevity he’ll have.

MATT PINEDA, HOT HOT HOOPS: Whiteside risks getting left behind by centers that can shoot and even guard the perimeter. Luckily for him, he already got his payday.

TOM ZILLER: I am disappointed in myself that I didn’t pick Whiteside in the top 25.

TIM CATO: Remember when he was reportedly favoring the Mavericks in free agency last summer? El em ay oh.

MIKE PRADA: Did you really just spell that out?

87. Donovan Mitchell

As frequently and liberally as we picked from these 2017 rookies (FORESHADOWING!), I’m surprised Mitchell didn’t get snapped up earlier than this. He was a steals machine in Louisville who thrived shooting tons of threes and has a bit of an inside game, too. He’s a more athletic Damian Lillard if he hits his peak, albeit maybe without quite the same scoring knack. He showed all those skills off in summer league, and it really looks like Utah has their point guard of the future here.

-Tim Cato

Our reactions

TOM ZILLER: Yeah, why wouldn’t you be surprised that a fringe lottery pick who will be coming off his rookie deal in four years and hasn’t played a single minute in the NBA went behind a few dozen All-NBA and All-Star performers in their primes in an every-player draft? A real shocker.

(Yes, I’m salty about how many 2017 draft picks went in this exercise. As Cato says: FORESHADOWING.)

TIM CATO: FINE, BE A HATER. Riding or dying with Mitchell myself.

MYCHAL LOWMAN, SLC DUNK: This ranking is too low. Mitchell will have turned into one of the league's top 30 players by 2021, jumping the depth chart and taking over Rodney Hood's starting spot in his rookie year.

MATT ELLENTUCK: Will he be a point guard, though? Or will he stay on the wing? Finding his position will take some time, though there’s a lot to like about a long-wingspanny defender.

86. Julius Randle

Julius Randle has the physical tools to be a nightmare on both sides of the court. It will come down to how much he can improve his game over these crucial years.

The good news is that he’s only 22. I’ve been going off optimism this whole draft and I’m not stopping here. I think the ceiling is the roof and that we haven’t seen the best of Randle just yet.

-Kofie Yeboah

Our reactions

DREW GARRISON, SILVER SCREEN AND ROLL: Randle being this low is disappointing. It reflects a clear lack of confidence in his ability to progress to much beyond what he is today.

ZITO MADU: I just really hope he stops running head-first into defenders as a way to create separation. I understand playing bully basketball, but he needs to add some finesse.

TIM CATO: But I thought Randle was already the 17th-best player in the NBA? (Sorry, Prada, you get to make fun of my picks in 2021.)

MIKE PRADA: Ahem, 14th. Get it right.

I remain skeptical of power forwards that lack shooting range and can’t protect the rim. It’s just too hard to create the right kind of lineup to mask both of those flaws, and Randle isn’t nearly good enough to earn the privilege of a team reconstructing itself around him. I want him to be good because he’s fun to watch, but I don’t see it.

TOM ZILLER: Oh now Prada is skeptical of Young Carl Landry!

MATT ELLENTUCK: I want Randle to grow like two inches and suddenly protect the rim. I just don’t see it happening. Maybe he’ll be a top-100 2K player, though.

85. Harrison Barnes

Barnes was actually quite solid in Dallas last year and should play even more at power forward (his best position) with Dirk Nowitzki retiring someday. A No. 85 ranking puts you at essentially 17th-team All-NBA level, which seems about right for him for the next few years.

-Mike Prada

Our reactions

TOM ZILLER: Readers will not believe some of the names that went higher than Harrison Barnes.

TIM CATO: I should have drafted him a while ago. This is way too low for someone who’s a gym rat’s gym rat, enough that Dirk has said how impressed he is by it. He’ll maybe never shoot enough free throws or threes to be a top-50 player, but he’s only 25 and he certainly still has room to grow.

MATT ELLENTUCK: I feel guilty that Barnes slipped this low. But I just love my next pick too much.

MIKE PRADA: OK let’s settle down a second. Barnes, even at his best last year, was decidedly “fine.” We kinda know that’s who he is at this point. That puts you around this range and maybe a little higher, but not like 30 spots higher.

ZITO MADU: But is he Kevin Durant? No? That’s all that matters.

CHRIS GREENBERG: The real Harrison Barnes will never live up to the possibility of Harrison Barnes.

84. Robert Covington

THIS IS MY FAVORITE PICK IN THIS ENTIRE DRAFT.

How can you not love the Robert Covington story? The man played college ball at Tennessee State, went undrafted, and is a better-than-league-average player in 2017. The Process gave him a chance and he took it and ran.

It’s not that wild to think that in four years, at 30 years old, Covington will have it all figured out. He was seventh in RPM among small forwards last season, and he’ll be playing beside Ben Simmons and Markelle Fultz next year.

I believe in RoCo.

-Matt Ellentuck

Our reactions

TIM CATO: This is a good sleeper pick for a really underrated player.

MIKE PRADA: Settle down, Matt. It’s Robert Covington. He’s fine and this is fine.

TOM ZILLER: Odds are he’ll be a starter because of his skills and the Sixers’ need for shooting around Ben Simmons. The downside is that we’ve seen plus two-guards fade away after an injury or a down season before. I will remember you, Kelenna Azubuike and Brandon Rush. It’s the most easily replaceable position. There’s a risk here.

83. Jonathan Isaac

Isaac might never a big scorer, but he’s the type of player who just helps you win games. He can defend anyone, hit a spot-up jump shot, and has the athleticism to get out in transition. The world demands an Aaron Gordon-Isaac front court in Orlando.

-Ricky O’Donnell

Our reactions

MATT ELLENTUCK: I love Isaac as a prospect, and think he should have been in top-three consideration in this year’s draft. He’s a real project, though, and I don’t think four years from now he’ll be this good.

CORY HUTSON, ORLANDO PINSTRIPED POST: This feels about right for an offensively limited, defensively outstanding forward, if that turns out to be his destiny.

TOM ZILLER: This is the second 2017 draftee picked in our draft. Don’t worry, there will be plenty more.

82. Avery Bradley

Avery Bradley will only improve now that he plays for a Detroit team giving him an even bigger role. He’s a solid role player who will be able to give a lot of teams what they need, even several years down the line.

-John Ketchum

Our reactions

LAZARUS JACKSON, DETROIT BAD BOYS: Pistons fans are happy with Avery Bradley, but when 2021 rolls around, they'll wish he'd been showing Donovan Mitchell the ropes for the last four years.

CHRIS GREENBERG: Bradley’s perimeter defense may be less notable on a lesser team (sorry Pistons) than the Celtics, but he also developed into Boston’s low-key best spot-up shooter before being traded. Watch for his offense to get more attention in Detroit.

TOM ZILLER: I’m on board with Avery Bradley for the long term.

81. DeAndre Jordan

Jordan is a 29-year-old All-NBA center. He’s missed eight games in the past seven years. He does certain things very well, and he knows what they are. Some team is going to have to decide to pay him next summer, and I think it’ll be a good investment.

-Tom Ziller

Our reactions

LUCAS HANN, CLIPS NATION: This is a fair (or even high) spot for Jordan, who will be 33 in 2021 and will likely follow a similar athletic decline to Tyson Chandler's.

MIKE PRADA: A safe pick, but will the NBA be a friendly place in 2021 for centers with no range and abhorrent free-throw percentages? If yes, this is too low. If not, it’s possible players like DAJ will go extinct like traditional low-post scorers are today.

TIM CATO: I don’t think rim protection is going anywhere, though.

MIKE PRADA: Is DeAndre even that amazing at that, though? He allowed 50.1 percent shooting at the rim last year, which is good, but well behind the elite players. He was higher two years ago, but closer to his 2016-17 levels the two years before that. I’m not saying he’s a bad rim protector, but that’s where Jordan derives most of his current value. That’s why I am curious to see how he evolves as the league continues to change.

TIM CATO: In regards to his shot blocking, that’s fair. But even the most modern offenses don’t require constant five-out lineups. More centers will shoot threes, but I don’t believe all the best centers will need to as a requirement. Four-out with a big-man roller is still a perfectly acceptable offense that I really don’t think is headed towards extinction.

To steal an Erik Spoelstra term, the vertical spacing that bouncy, lob-finishing big men provide can still be just as important as a dead-eye shooter in the corner.

MIKE PRADA: Yeah, there’s a good chance it still will. Seventy-thirty in his favor, I’d say. Just remember how much the game changed stylistically from 2013 to 2017. We could see another revolution.

INTRO | FULL LIST | TOP 100 OF 2017 | HOW WE DID IN 2013 | SNUBS | 101-91 | 80-71 | 70-61 | 60-51 | 50-41 | 40-31 | 30-21 | 20-11 | 10-1 | THE CASES FOR NO. 1