Paul from New Jersey. (One) Fiction

Maxwell Andersen did not ask me about New Jersey. In an e-mail, he mentioned he was from Brea. Apparently, there is a great mall there, but I know little of California. Maxwell told me he preferred “Maxwell” to “Max” and when we met at Starbucks, his handshake was firm; sure. We both ordered a tall Americano and discussed how the bills would be paid and how the apartment would be kept clean. I told him I had enough savings to cover costs until I found an accounting job. He was relaxed but solid, and within fifteen minutes we agreed to become roommates. He would be the first person not to know, that, up to two weeks ago, I was deaf.

“You’ll like L.A.,” Maxwell said as we walked to our cars, “Man…your room! On a clear day you can see Century City. Sometimes the ocean.” Maxwell’s words were what I had imagined the Southern Californian vernacular to be; a confidently relaxed cadence with tones of independence.

“Any weird neighbors,” I asked?

“Nah, not really. Well, this Bailey dude… he never says hello – like literally, never says hello. That’s not cool.”

“Is he from New Jersey,” I joked.

“Haha…no man…Texas.”

I followed Maxwell to my new home. My velour seats still smelled of Nebraskan dust and discarded Slim-Jim wrappers, and I was ready to park and toss the keys aside for a day or two. The cross-country drive was a long ride to make alone. I took off on the Turnpike at twilight, having said goodbye that afternoon to my mom and, for four days, I spoke only when necessary and never more than needed.

As our cars slowed and we prepped to make a right turn, I noticed the skinny jeaned rockers and moms with inspired twelve year olds jiving across the street from Sam Ash to The Guitar Shop. Once Maxwell and I turned, we pulled immediately over and parked in front of a two story apartment building. The faded stucco front was covered with blooming bougainvillea and two palm trees towered over the front patio.

“This is it,” Maxwell exclaimed!

With a suitcase in one hand and one box in another, I swiftly followed Maxwell through the entrance and onto the bleached brick courtyard, which was bedecked with various plants and flowers. The sun poured into the square like hot tea on a cold Mount Vernon night. We scurried up the iron steps to the second level and, before I had time to pause, I was inside my new home; a twenties Spanish inspired two bedroom.

Maxwell took me right to my room. As he had said, the view from the twenty-foot wide window was breathtaking. West Los Angeles sprawled ahead of me.

“Do you need help with the other boxes,” Maxwell asked?

“Nope, this is it.”

“That’s not much stuff.”

“Nope.”

Maxwell stepped backward and left my bedroom. The unfilled room with white walls had a plain appeal to it. I sat down on the parquet floor with my back leaning against the wall and I tilted my head toward the ceiling. I now rented an empty room; a new start. There would be no questions to answer and no description of life before, or after, sound. I would no longer be isolated. That part of my past had gone the way of Jimmy Hoffa, buried in a cement coffin.

As the late afternoon light crept into the room and an orange glow warmed the walls, I stood up to unpack my suitcase and box. All that traveled with me were the things I needed, clothes hangers, a suit and tie, a sleeping bag, and poems by William Ernest Benley. At some point, I would find the time to shop Ikea and buy new things that were appropriate for Los Angeles living.

As I rolled out my sleeping bag, I heard a double knock on my door. Knowing it was Maxwell, I invited him in.

“Wanna see the rest of the place? You haven’t even been in the kitchen. I got some rad sausage cooking.”

“Sure,” I said, “just let me finish folding this bag.”

“Man! I can’t believe this is all you brought. Not even any music?”

“No music,” I said as I ignored his uninvited pacing.

“How’s a man to survive? Music, it’s like, what defines you. What are your favorite bands?”

I looked at Maxwell’s face as he waited for a response. It was a look I had seen many times before. His dimpled expression and wide-eyed curiosity came with the expectation that I, like him, was somehow committed to music; that I was somehow a hip hop fan or an indie follower. If I could answer, any and all type of music would be “cool”, but I could not answer and, like those lessons from my past, I knew a truthful response would end with my isolation.

“I like all kinds. Rock and stuff.”

“Cool. We should go to Cochella,” he said.

“Sure. That’d be fun,” I said, not knowing what Cochella was.

“Come to the kitchen. Gotta check the meat.”

“In a minute,” I exclaimed as I refolded the sleeping bag cover.

My breath felt heavy and the back of my throat was sore. For fresh air, I went to the window and twisted the glass slats open. As I turned the knob, I looked down into the courtyard and noticed the young man, who I assumed was Bailey, sitting in a wrought iron chair dozing away. He wore a black cowboy hat that covered his eyes and nose, but left his lips and stubble chin exposed. He wore a brown corduroy blazer and light denim jeans that hugged his thighs, and his shoes were white All-Stars splattered with paint. Next to him was a guitar case, which was clutched in his left hand. I watched him, and as I heard Maxwell call my name, Bailey tilted his head up.

To be continued...

Del Taco Detour

There is a place South of Los Angeles that is the crest of a bluff named Inspiration Point. This vista reveals a view of the Pacific Ocean, a distant Catalina Island, and pools of aqua ocean that swirl around weathered boulders. The sight is stunning and it is easy to affix this place as one of California’s golden treasures. It certainly is one of my favorite places, perhaps my most; that is, it was, up to now.

No, I did not fall, nor were there clouds covering the coast, nor were there reasons for deflective drama.

Twice a year, I descend to Inspiration Point as part of a routine trip to the Otolaryngologist. Predictably, from Hollywood, I take La Brea Avenue South, to the 110 South, to the 405 South, to the 55 South and then South onto the Pacific Coast Highway. My schedule first takes me to the doctor, and then it is direct to the top of the point. Once there, I always want more than its present beauty; I want its namesake. “I will have this,” I tell myself.

For a moment, I would feel the beauty of the bluff, but as I retraced my route home, that feeling would fade.

As I practice present thinking, and my thought’s stride improves, I not only feel happier, but sparkling surprises have begun to sprout.

On my trip today, my bladder, about to burst, screamed for a bathroom break and I dreamed only for the familiar Golden Arches; that palace of ten piece McNuggets and double cheeseburgers and an available bathroom. That dream stopped when I saw an immediate, present, solution to my situation. Del Taco. Once inside, and once relieved, I realized, I had never eaten at Del Taco.

Let me say, the crispy fish taco with medium spicy sauce is just so succulent; far better than a McMeal.

The needs of the present moment gave me something new and something good. After lunch, I visited the doctor as normal, then drove straight to that place that purports inspiration. As always, the view was beautiful. Except, this time, I was bored.

Because I now practice present thinking, I knew that I did not have to stay on the bluff as I would have done in the past, nor did I have to repeat “I want this.”

So I left.

I put my car into drive and headed North on the Pacific Coast Highway. On this return home, I decided to try something new, like I had done for lunch. I took the PCH all the way home and I discovered new towns and different views, but it was not what I saw that defined the present moment, it was what I did in that moment. Perhaps that’s the point of inspiration.

See you tomorrow!

"Old Faithful" Works

Before the eruption, I could hear the deep whirl of traveling water. I knew the destination would, again, be my bathroom and, like Old Faithful, a geyser of two inch high water burst out of my bathtub drain and filled the basin with foreign waters. On this day, at this discharge, I had just arrived from work and with me, in my gut, I carried a tight knot of romantic rejection. Simultaneously, I watched over the water and wished for approval, but instead of a prolonged thought on the way things should be, I came to a delightful conclusion. “This doesn’t work.”

This is when I stopped. This was the moment I asked myself “what do I need to do, to make this moment work?” I did not like being in that time, but I knew well enough to know that getting away from the bathtub and away from the rejection was not the answer. In fact, I did not have any answers. All I felt I had, was that moment; the present.

I stepped further into bathroom, where I sat on the countertop. This was the transition from stopping one state of thought to starting a new state of thought. I chose to do nothing but sit and feel that tight knot of romantic rejection while I watched the water play its predictable part.

After being in some difficult time, the water in the bathtub drained away and the knot loosened, and I found myself happier than when I first walked through my apartment door. This better feeling had a sense of accomplishment to it, which made me want more of it, and while I had no answers, I now knew I could begin with the question; does this work?

If one applies this question to the things one currently does, one is automatically focused on the present and if one does it right, finds honesty too. After all, if one answers the question with “no,” then the future or past can’t change that very moment of existence.

That evening, I phoned my apartment manager about the bathtub for the tenth or twelfth time, but in this instance, I told him the only acceptable outcome was a working bathroom. I said I would not tolerate a patchwork plan or entertain excuses, and within twenty-four hours, I had a fully functioning bathroom.

I am about to enter my third week of practicing present thinking, and the more I do this, the more I understand that is the moment that is the true “Old Faithful”.

See you tomorrow!

Stop & Go

It has been 12 days of thinking in the present. My natural state of thought is to zero in on, and stay with, what the future will, would, or could be? This philosophy has failed.

Yes, I know. I know. I should have been less dumb.

The great news about understanding your own misguided, sometimes motion-less, but emotional, direction, is learning one has the choice to stop.

So, I stopped. I ended my extended thoughts; when will I be in a relationship, when will my bank account grow and when will I get published? I paused the plotting of plans to change current circumstances when these very stories are simply out of my control; “in six months I’ll have this, then that.”

I have not given up on my goals; I have just changed the approach to them. I am not sure what I am supposed to do, except to think in the present; “I am writing, I am paying a bill, I am signing up for an on-line dating service.” My 12 days of education have taught me that on day 13, I will wake up happier than when I did two weeks ago. Now, that is a worthy future.

What was it that prompted me to stop? I will tell you, but the truth and trick is, there is no stopping.

See you tomorrow!

Beyond My Words, 'I Love You." -non-fiction

Like many, Loukas lives among the common notion of love. He see’s people express it to one other; a peck on the cheek, a kiss goodbye. He hears the corporate exploitation of it; Valentine’s Day cards, diamonds bought at DeBeers. But, Loukas and love etch out any of its common notions. His love experience is more than a feeling; it’s an act of achievement.

One sun filled day, Loukas came to understand love. In his black BMW, Loukas drove him and Alkandros through the streets of Los Angeles. The city, coupled with carefully chosen music, had become the script and score to how, when, and why, Loukas chose to say the words “I love you,” for the first time.

Though, like any achievement, its beginning starts somewhere else. East of Los Angeles on the 10 Freeway, Loukas grew up in the suburb of Claremont in a house that he says, “smells beige and clean.” Born to Greek parents, his life was steeped in the Greek traditions, customs, and language. His youth was marked by Greek festivals, dances, and church and his closest friends were fellow Greeks, the Marinos’. His relationship to his family and heritage was, and is, strong and passionate. His father, an immigrant to the United States, believed that being an American was to actively participate in opportunity; to build a business or raise a family or seek an education. He passed this lesson onto Loukas.

From his bedroom window, Loukas had a direct view of downtown Los Angeles. He recalls gazing toward it and dreaming of working in one of the skyscrapers; buttoned up in a suit and tie. He did not yet understand that despite the fairly short distance between Claremont and Downtown Los Angeles, he was far from the life he wanted to live.

Things began to change in high school. “It was a whole new thing for me to hang out with non-Greeks by choice,” he said, “and Gabe was really cool.”

Gabe spoke confidently and walked with a fearless swagger. One particular afternoon, Gabe and some other kids came to Loukas’s house for a school project. This was the first time that his “American friends” had come over and when Gabe asked Loukas if he had a phone, the bubble burst.

“Who doesn’t have a phone in their house?” Loukas wondered. “I don’t live in the Parthenon, I live in Claremont,” he said to Gabe with a laugh.

Gabe opened the door for Loukas to see the “life beyond the cocoon of Hellenism that I grew up in.” From here, Loukas involved himself in cross country, Christian leadership, and he even began to listen to mainstream radio.

Gabe was Loukas’s first role model outside of the Greek community. He took Gabe’s lessons to heart and helped begin organizations that took communities from their comfort zones to new places, such as weekly fieldtrips to unique parts of Los Angeles County. He continued his interest in communities, which became more specifically political or cultural, at the University of Southern California.

For Loukas, his university education was a uniquely American opportunity. Like his father, Loukas understood that the responsibility of being American was the act of applying oneself to available opportunities. Reminded by the teachings of his father and Gabe, Loukas actively protested the second term of President George W. Bush, the war in Serbia, and later the passing of Proposition 8.

Then, Alkandros came.

He was as tall as Loukas, about 5”10. Dark hair and tanned skin. The two began as friends and shared the bond of being Greek. In their early twenties, the two were inseparable and two years thereafter, things began to change for Loukas. The gnawing, gut pounding feeling, of more than just friends had set in.

“I can’t have love the way my parents had,” Loukas said as he reflected on how he processed this difficult feeling, “I denied that to myself because there were no role models.”

But, the gnaw persisted, and somewhere in the back of his unconscious mind the lessons of his father and Gabe pushed him yet again. “I thought, you know, you can’t live in secret. You’ll limit yourself in every way.”

Loukas weighed the opportunity to tell Alkandros. He knew that the friendship could be on the line, but he also knew there was a chance for love.

When the best available moment came, Loukas said, “I love you.’”

At Twenty-Five, Loukas was at his most vulnerable. His utterance came with consequence. The love was unrequited and the friendship took a beating. Though, Loukas reflected on that moment and he understood its importance for him, which was to “find the courage to tell someone,” because, “I thought I would never have that opportunity as a high school student.”

Songs, private to Loukas and Alkandros, of friendship, love, and journey played as the two sped by Mel’s Dinner, Paramount Studios, Capitol Records, Pink’s, and the Mormon Temple. The sun was setting when they headed West on the 405 toward the coast. “That day, he got to understand how I felt and we cried a lot.”

“I don’t feel like I have any bubbles right now,” Loukas said, “I want marriage and love as an opportunity,” and “I’m worthy.” Loukas, who is at the cusp of his Thirties is now best friends with Alkandros and, as he dreamed as a child, works in downtown; buttoned up in a suit and tie.

“I think Gabe would be very proud of me.”




*Names have been changed

Invictus: After Africa

It was an average morning commute on La Brea Avenue. Predictably and repeatedly, I accelerated the car, and then brought it to a halt. On my right, the sidewalk at Pink’s was being water blasted clean; then I drove across Melrose Avenue. On my left, clusters of young Hasidic men walked casually to their Synagogue; then I drove across Beverly Boulevard. On my right, a Trader Joes truck delivered the day’s produce; then I drove across 3rd Street. But, beyond Wilshire Boulevard, the expected became unexpected.

Above a building built in the Twenties, I noticed a billboard bearing an unsubtle symbol of South Africa. A beatific Matt Damon was wearing the Springbok rugby jersey. It’s green and gold team colors wrestled away my roaming thoughts. I blurted to myself, ‘that’s where I want to be.’

The billboard was advertising Clint Eastwood’s latest movie Invictus starring Morgan Freeman as President Nelson Mandela and Matt Damon as Francois Pienaar, captain of the Springboks. Still driving, I stared at the billboard longer than was safe. I could not immediately understand what the movie’s storyline, but it was easy to see that Nelson Mandela was the central character. Though, Morgan Freeman’s oversized and saintly pose of the legend emboldens Matt Damon’s image of the rugby champion. At that moment, I was only interested in the green and gold.

I never expected to see the South African rugby jersey plastered on a billboard above the streets of Los Angeles. I could not imagine Americans interested in a movie about a sport we care nothing about. Few Americans know the teams, let alone the rules of the game. It is not in the American DNA. Though, for me, on that day, I was confronted by a brilliant past and an incomplete present.

I had the privilege to live in Grahamstown, South Africa in 1999. For nine months, I was trained in journalism and philosophy at Rhodes University and I practiced my shy social skills exclusively with South Africans. Along with the country’s physical beauty and its social and economic inequalities, I discovered unexpected friendships that defended my character more than I had ever experienced before. At the age of 21, I had found my game. In South Africa, I felt more myself and more at home than anywhere else I had ever been in the world

The three seasons that I lived in Grahamstown were not perfect. My family was unstable and my sexuality was still deeply locked in the closet. Despite these gaps, I felt whole. To feel fulfilled is the most brilliant gift life could offer someone. I wanted to hold onto this gift forever, but I knew once I returned to my true home in New Jersey, I would feel shallow again.

As expected, I was right.

South Africa inspired my game. Upon my return, I repeatedly thought of Grahamstown, Rhodes University, and my friends, and I would tell myself ‘that’s where I want to be.’ But, I knew I could not go back. It was too far from my family and my life in America, plus the Rand was too low for me to make decent money to live.

After Africa, I knew what it meant to feel whole. I understood that it was possible to feel complete and that I had the choice to re-discover it or not. I could take the offensive or the defensive. I chose the offensive; to find fulfillment again. I made the decision to leave New Jersey and move to California.

Ten years after I left Africa, ‘Invictus’ is released. The movie tells the story of President Nelson Mandela’s initiative to unite an apartheid-torn country through a win at the 1995 Rugby World Cup. Mandela enlists Pienaar, the Springbok captain. Mandela inspires the political support, while Pienaar leads his team, and subsequently, his nation to a united victory.

The moment the movie began, I felt as though I was once again part of what I had left behind. It was not the politics or characters that conjured the feeling, but rather Eastwood’s amazing attention to detail; it was the vernacular, the wardrobe, the mannerisms, and tone. I could see my friends and myself as part of the backdrop. After Damon claimed victory, and Freeman drove back to the Parliament, and the theater lights came up, I was reminded how precious the gift of feeling whole is.

Prior to seeing the movie, I Googled the meaning of ‘invictus’ and learned that it is Latin for ‘unconquerable’. I never did find the fulfillment that I wanted to in Los Angeles and my present now feels incomplete. As I did after Africa, I have recently chosen the offensive; to find wholeness. Perhaps, it is this choice in and of itself that makes one a champion.