January 31 - Aim for the Head

The third of four creative nonfiction essays written for my Junior year English class.

My mother has always been slightly disturbed by my ability to quote movies that I have never seen.  Of course some of the quotes – like “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” or “I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.” – have entered the common lexicon; but some are a little less ingrained in the national psyche.  Like “You either shoot ‘em or you burn ‘em.  They go up pretty quick.”  I have never seen Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, but many of the lessons therein have been with me since childhood.  In fact, I am a Level Five Zombie Hunter, committed to ridding the world of the undead scourge.

            I cannot talk about a second education without mentioning the sleep-away camp that I attended for six of the best summers of my youth: Camp Wingate*Kirkland.  There I met some of the best people I know, one of whom is Zachary Brenner.  Brenner at W*K, Zach at home, he has taught me some of the most important lessons I have ever learned in the venue of a period called “Zombie Hunting Academy”.  Training proceeds like this:

Level One. Simple Combat:  One can either kill zombies with a ranged weapon (dodgeballs) or in mêlée combat (accomplished by pulling a flag football flag from their waist).  Zombies are killed by headshot or by torso-shot.  Extremity-shots result in the loss of the use of that extremity.

Level Two. Ranged Combat Training: Only ranged weapons are permitted on the training ground (i.e. a simple game of dodgeball).

Level Three. Mêlée Combat Training: Only mêlée tactics are permitted.

Level Four.  The Introduction of Special Zombies: Until this point only classic, Romero zombies were present on the training field.  Now, the trainee must protect him or herself against zombies that can run, take multiple head or torso shots to kill, can fight back, and that can re-reanimate themselves.

Level Five. Mêlée Combat with Special Zombies: The rules of the Level Three and Level Four tests combined apply.

Level Six. Human Protection Training: Combat against special zombies with the added complication of having to protect two defenseless humans at either end of the training pitch.  They can neither move nor participate in combat.  If either dies, you loose.

Upon passing your first test at the Zombie Hunting Academy, you get to take on a code name.  Mine is “Striker”, chosen by Jet Blaze (Zach’s Zombie Hunter Alter Ego) for me because of my archery skills. He says that, on the actual field of combat, my archery training will serve me well and “Striker” is a proper name for an archer.  Striker is currently the highest-ranking member of Helter Skelter, our zombie hunting organization, other than Jet Blaze himself who is a Level Seven Zombie Hunter.  I know that last sentence gave you pause because you are wondering about the name of our organization.  Either it is named after a Beatles song or that phrase the Manson family scrawled on the walls of the houses of the people they killed.  Well, it’s neither.  In the words of Jet himself, it is simply “the most bad ass sounding name of all time.” 

Zombie hunting has taught me a number of things, the most important of which is “Aim for the Head”.  This is not a phrase to be taken lightly.  “Aim for the Head” is more than simply advice regarding how best to kill a zombie.  It is the only way to kill a zombie.  More than that, it is advice on how to focus your life.  On the weekends I give up to acting in Zach’s movies on the subject of Zombie Hunting I have to prioritize my work.  So I aim for the head.  When a lighting fixture goes on the fritz, I aim for the head.  When a problem in physics presents particular difficulty to me, I aim for the head.  It really means start with what is most crucial.  When on the field of combat facing off against hordes of the undead, it is crucial both not to waist ammo and to kill as many as possible.  So you aim for the head, the center of zombification. When trying to prioritize your weekend, it is crucial both to get as much done as possible and to enjoy your weekend. So you aim for the head, bring your chemistry notebook to the set to study while filming.  Aiming for the head can keep you alive, both literally and figuratively, during tough times.

            My daddy taught me a quote from a classic zombie movie when I was a kid.  Zach taught me how to put it into practice.  Nowadays, when Zach calls me up and says there’s a filming date, I drop everything to be there.  Helter Skelter is a close-knit group of people who pretend to protect the world from the walking dead, and it means so much to me to be a reoccurring character in one of the many storylines in the Brenner-verse.  Beefdog was brought to Helter Skelter with the offer of a sandwich.  Dan joined up for the thrill of it. Sleeping Bag Buddy brings the power and mystery of a zombie hunter who works exclusively from inside of a sleeping bag.  Action Man remains a riddle wrapped inside a mystery wrapped inside an enigma.  And Jet? Jet brings us together as both an army and as a bunch of nerds who know, when the time comes, they will be prepared in ways that the average American will most certainly not be.  Aim for the head my friends.  Aim for the Head.

January 30 - Diets

Celery for lunch and grapefruit for dinner…

No, I’ll just skip breakfast and maybe lunch – perhaps dinner -

Fads and pop culture have taught me, as well as the cliques,

These are a few of my favorite tricks.

Bony arms and lack luster hair?

No worries darling, there’s Ipecac there.

A few more pounds and you won’t care a bit.

As long as you’re skinny, you don’t give a shit.

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes,

Ladies with skin the color of ashes,

All run to the bathroom after their meals.

Each to keep up with their devilish deals.

When the skin goes

When the eyes dull

When you’re felling weak

You simply remember the tricks of the sex

And you’ll follow the will of the clique….

January 29 - First Brush

“Jesus, how much farther is it?”

“It’s only a little farther. It’s by The Lake”

The two boys scrambled over another mossy trunk.  They had left the path ten minutes ago, and now found themselves in the unmarked part of Iona Woods Park.   Recent storms had brought a number of the trees down, which had created a lattice of dead and rotting wood for the boys to navigate.  Drew cast his gaze outward on the crest of a trunk, straining to see The Lake in the distance.

“Look, Mike, it’s just there.  See?” said Drew.  

Cradled by the branches of yet another fallen tree was their destination: a crudely built, used-to-be-in-a-tree tree house.  Some of the longer branches just brushed the surface of the water, but for the most part the ex-house was still over land.  A rock jutting out from the embankment now provided the bare minimum of support needed to keep the structure from crashing into The Lake.  Mike looked at the structure and paused on the top of a log.  Running his fingers nervously through his hair, he thought it looked like it was being held up only by the grace of God.  Jumping down, he scrambled after Drew.  

Drew grabbed onto the window frame of the ex-tree house.  Mike, more carefully, hopped in after him. The house had fallen on its side with the tree, so the only way in was through the windows.  Though crude, the ex-tree house had been sturdy.  Drew’s older brother had come in and decked the wall that now faced down so that the boys could walk on it safely; now the the precipitous drop was the only aspect of the house that could be said to be dangerous.  

“Hey watch it!  Don’t shake the frame.”

Jack looked up angrily from the cards he was holding.  He and Rick were already seated in the ex-tree house.  They were playing Texas Hold ‘Em, betting matches instead of pennies.

“What’s up with the matches?” asked Drew. “I was looking forward to winning a little something.”

“You’ll see.  ‘Sides, you never win anything anyway,” replied Rick with a grin.

“Fuck you.  I cleaned Ian out the other day!”

“At Go Fish.  You cleaned out Ian while we were playing Go Fish,” pointed Mike.

“Shut up Mike,” said Jack.

“So you gonna tell us? What’s up with the matches?” asked Drew.

“Wait.  Everyone’s got to be here,” replied Jack

“Well who’re we waiting on?”

“Ian,”

“Why?”

Jack shrugged.  “You’ll want him here.  You’ll see.”

Drew grumbled and sat down next to Rick on one of the support beams his brother had put in.  “Deal me in Rick.”

“We haven’t finished this hand yet.  Next one.”

Mike walked over to the window over The Lake.  This part of the ex-tree house was genuinely hanging over the lake.  The other boys had congregated in the portion of the structure that was still over land, and as long as they stayed there one person could look out the other side.  Ian said it was like flying if you put your upper body out the window, but no one else in group was either daring enough to try it or literary enough to put it that way.  While the rest were reading comic books and stolen porno magazines, Ian read books; and he never let them forget it.  After all, he was the smartest, not only because he read but also because, at 15 he was the oldest.  Mike gulped as he properly stepped off of the part of the house that was over solid ground.  It already felt a little like flying, or what he though flying must feel like.  

The other boys were engrossed in their game.  Drew had finally been dealt in and was intent on winning, even though the prize was worthless today.  Rick knit his brows together, looking at his cards with concern.  Jack punched him, joking that his winning streak was over.  Rick punched back, and the boys began to fight.

“Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!  Don’t fight!  I am arrived!”

Ian swung in one-handed.  He had a plastic grocery store bag over one shoulder, which was opaque enough that the others could not see inside.  Ian settled himself in the center of the structure and pulled from within the bag another bag tied around a small square-ish something.  Drew stared intently at the box, knowing full well that he was the only one in the ex-tree house that didn’t know what Ian had brought that cared.  Mike was just as in the dark as he was, but his curiosity was not nearly as intense.  

“Come on Ian, what’d ya bring?” asked Mike leaning forward as he tried to see through the plastic.

“Have we left you in the dark?  Fear not, everyone shall be informed.”

“Yeah, but Rick and Jack already know what’s going on.”

“They think so, don’t they…”

“We don’t?” asked Rick, looking up from his cards.

“You don’t,” replied Ian “Mike, get over here. You’re missing the dramatic unveiling.”

Mike looked over at Ian.  Taking one last glance out the window, he moved to join the group.  They crowded around Ian on the landed side of the ex-tree house as if they were worshiping a god. But that was how Ian liked it.  Just as much as the boys looked like worshipers, he looked like a golden idol.

“Gentlemen, I bring you - from my dad’s cabinet - cigarettes!”

The packet dropped from his hand with a nonchalant flourish and fell with a thunk in dead silence.  The boys looked on in shock.  Marlboro.  The golden crest and painted gilding stood out against a white dulled by handling.  This was not a new packet.  Emblazoned in larger letters than the brand was “Smoking is highly addictive, don’t start” in block typeface.  

“What the fuck, Ian?” said Drew, leaning backwards.

“My sister showed them to me,”said Ian, disregarding Drew’s interjection. “She says the way to go is to smoke out a window, that way you don’t keep inhaling after you’re done.”

“Does that make sense?” Jack asked Rick.

“Maybe....” Rick’s voice trailed off into nothing.

“Oh, have some fun!” Ian cried, deftly bending over to grab one from the pack.  He grabbed one of Rick’s matches.  Rick opened his mouth to protest, but he saw the futility before a sound escaped.

Mike looked on with a blank face.  He stood again to go to the window on the floating side.  

“Here, Mike has the idea!” Ian tossed him the box.

Mike contemplated the package and tossed it back. “No, man, that’s not what I meant. I’m not interested.”

“Well fuck you guys,” Ian said standing and walking toward Mike, “I’ll show you how it’s done.” He continued walking toward the window, growing closer and closer to the edge of the land bound ex-tree house.

“Watch it.” Drew said, standing as well and taking a few steps forward.  “Watch the boarder.”

Ian continued toward Mike, tapping out a cigarette as he did so.  Later Jack would say that he had warned Ian against walking any further and Rick would swear that he had felt the ex-tree house tip, but neither had.  In fact, no one really felt anything.  Yes, the ex-tree house did tip a bit; and, yes, Drew had certainly thought about saying something.  But that is of no consequence.  Nothing was said.  Ian simply kept walking toward the window where Mike looked out over The Lake.  

“Fuck you guys.  This how you do it.” Ian muttered again.

Mike remained silent through the whole ordeal.  Perfectly and unshakably silent.  He watched as Ian walked across the newly decked floor, and thought of Drew’s older brother warning the bunch about the house.  He had told them to watch the overhanging side because he hadn’t been able to fully secure the new floor. He said it had tipped when he was hammering.  

“This is how you do it,”  Ian said more loudly.

With that, his toe caught a slightly raised nail and sent him pitching forward.  That sent everything tipping.  The boys, as always, followed Ian as he scrambled up the falling floor.  Mike simply remained where he was.  Matches clattered around his feet as they all fell.  And they watched, all of them, as Mike closed his eyes and prepared for impact.

The headlines in their town ran the next day in big black letters: BOYS LAST TO SUFFER EFFECTS OF STORM.  But Drew knew better.  Mike was alright.  Kind of.  He was still in the hospital.  Jack and Rick were both a little bruised but otherwise fine.  They had grown quiet after the accident.  They didn’t chide each other as much, and they were never too excited to play cards.  Ian simply disappeared.  Rumors ran that he had moved with his family to the next state over, but no one really knew for sure.  All Drew remembered was watching him scramble out the window they had used for a door.  People came by his house to ask about what had happened, but he always said the same thing:

“My brother said it was dangerous, and so did Mike.  But they didn’t say it out loud.”

January 28 - Untitled Poem Borne of Anger

i want you,
Angry and brutal,
The way you treat me when we work together
(or rather when I work for you
for there is no together in what we do).

Yes, i want you.
i want you to hurt me
The way you do when you lay down your orders.
The way you told me to look into the lights.
The way you call me to your side with nothing more than my title.

Make me feel worthless that i might appreciate your attentions better.
Hurt me that i might know the simplest touch to be ecstasy.
And tell me how wrong i am that i might learn to be right

January 27 - With a Smile

            “Good morning, I’ll be right with you.”

            Melinda looked up from her ancient Blackberry.  She refused to upgrade because she liked the keyboard, even though the phone was at least seven years old (her daughter couldn’t remember a time her mother hadn’t had the phone glued to her hand, so it must have been that old.) and sometimes switched to Arabic without notice.  The alarm still went off within five minutes of the set time, but her daughter was pretty sure that would go next.

            “I’m sorry, how about a hello first?” asked Melinda, bearing her teeth in a smile that was meant to be friendly, but never quite worked for her too thin mouth. 

            “I said ‘good morning’,” responded the waitress, bewildered.

            “Oh,” responded Melinda, pulling on her blazer, “I didn’t hear you.”

            The waitress nodded slightly. “Right, well if you could follow me…”

            The waitress turned sharply as she led the family to their table.  Melinda, returned to her Blackberry, led as her daughter and husband fell into step behind her.  Crisp sunlight streamed through the open windows of the hotel restaurant as the waitress led them through the tables of businessmen.

            “Will this be alright ma’am?” asked the waitress, pulling out a chair at a corner table.

            “How about you ask that with a smile?” asked Melinda.  A saccharine tone crept between her teeth bared in the same stretched, creepy, insincere smile.

            Her daughter, Liz, tugged slightly on her sleeves as she slid into a chair at the table, eyes in her lap.  Her mother wouldn’t say no to the table, but it was best not to make eye contact with the objects of her mother’s moods. 

            “I’m … I’m sorry ma’am? Could I get you tea or coffee?” The waitress stood still, hand still gripping the chair she had pulled out for Melinda. 

            “Could you smile?”  Melinda’s face was still frozen in the same smile, the lines on her face deepening every second it spread. 

            “I’d like some coffee,” Liz said softly.

            “Same,” said her dad.

            “Two coffees, then, and…” the waitress trailed off as she averted her eyes from Melinda.

            “Earl Grey Tea.”

            Melinda slid into the chair, pulling her napkin across her lap like she had been drilled on the motion in finishing school. 

            “I thought there was a reason they called it the hospitality business,” said Melinda, the smile finally fading from her face leaving in its place a dark, haughty look. She glanced across the table as though judging the grain of the wood. “Shall we get something from the buffet?”

            Crisp sunlight streamed through the long windows.  Melinda looked down her nose through her pink reading glasses as she surveyed the pickings.  She disapproved, but – as her daughter would attest – she disapproved of everything.  She stretched out her hand for a plate.  Her hands were bony and long.  Her veins stood out blue against her papery skin.  Her head turned sharply upon finding her hands empty.  Her fingers seemed to keep reaching as she glared at the empty space. 

            “There, you, bring some plates,” Melinda called out, waiving her hand at the empty space.

            It was the same waitress.  She looked at the middle-aged woman with deer-in-the-headlights eyes and scurried off.  Melinda shook her head, muttering something about hospitality as her daughter loaded two slices of white bread into the toaster. 

            Slowly, the three wandered back to the table.  Beside them an elderly man was reading the business section of The Sunday Telegraph.  Every once in a while he would glance up at Melinda as she sat, with perfect posture, cutting into a grilled tomato. 

            “I mean, all I ask for is a smile with service.  Isn’t that how hospitality works?” Melinda laughed a cold, metallic laugh. 

            The waitress walked over to the man at the neighboring table.

            “Can I get you anything?” she asked with a smile

            “Ah, yes. If you’re not too busy dealing with your more demanding guests, I would love another pot of tea,” he replied.

            As the waitress walked away Martin looked up: “Mind your own business, would you?”

            “I’m sorry, did you have something to say to me?” the elderly man looked up from his newspaper.

            “Yes, I said mind your own business.”

            “You know this is why they say Americans are loud and rude.  I’ve lived in New York twelve years and I’m a regular here and these women work very hard.  Pay them the same respect you think they ought to pay you.”

            “Well, thank you for your opinion.”

            The man returned to his newspaper.  Liz sat, staring at her white toast and tomato juice, nervously folding and unfolding her napkin.  She tore off a corner of the bread and nibbled, trying not to make eye contact with the man at the next table.

            “Oh Elizabeth, I know we embarrass you; but we really are right here.  As I said, all I want is a smile,” said Melinda.

            Martin watched the elderly gentleman leave the restaurant as he bit into a raspberry Danish.  “I should have said we were Canadian.”

            “Oh now that would have been good!” replied Melinda.

            That same smile spread across her face, stretching her too small mouth across her too wide teeth.  Liz’s gaze returned to her toast. 

            “Are you alright Martin?”

            “Just fine, why?”

            “You have a grumpy face.  Smile.  You’re ruining my breakfast.”

January 26 - How to Change A Lamp

Watch that you don’t get the tippy Genie,

            Or if you do that you’re prepared for it,

And position it under the right Circut

            (Watch the cyc!  Don’t tip your head back too far!)

Check the bucket:

            Hot Hands, replacement lamp.

Check the feet:

            Is the bubble level right? No? Damn.

Re check everything.

Listen to the sophomore remind you not to have a party with a giraffe in the Genie

Ascend.

Fell the heat on your face as you rise

            (Heat doesn’t rise, scrub, hot things rise)

Stop, go up a little more, stop again,

            “Hey can you get the E-Stop?”

Get into place.

Find the little gold pin.

            Unplug the instrument!

            (You don’t want to electrocute yourself)

Find the little gold pin.

            Lefty loosey, righty tighty

Free the housing.

Don’t look too long at the bruised and swollen glass

            The art department will want it for something, God knows what.

Safety pins in and up. Free the lamp.

            Maybe.  Sometimes they get really jammed in there.

            Damn, that one got fucked up.

Now careful!  Open a new lamp

It’s cold. You’ve taken off your Hot Hands to improve your dexterity. The dimmer room was cold.

Don’t touch it. The lamp that is.

            It’ll blow when it heats up if you do

            And send glass falling down on some unsuspecting actor

            (Well not really, but it’ll be a pain to get out of the instrument)

Good, you’ve done that well.

            Pins in and down, housing back in the instrument, plug back into the dimmer

Does it work?

Did it blow?

Return to Earth.

January 25 - Dear Ms. Dickinson,

There's a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons – 

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes – 

Well I have seen your slant of light,

On a winter afternoon

But I found freedom – not oppression –

In your cathedral tune

The shadows on the field

Wrote their hymnal on the Green

As the landscape listened

Death looked upon the scene

And I saw His face –

The shadows silent fell –

As I looked into his eyes

Your cathedral’s bell did knell.

My heart - it may be damaged,

Your heavenly hurt did scar;

But I see this scar in others

And in us, your freedoms are.

So go and tell the people,

Sing it loud and clear:

There’s a certain slant of light-

That you all should hear.