Two Ghosts

There are two ghosts that hang out under the Triboro Bridge. Well, one of them is a ghost, and the other is from the future, so it's hard to say exactly what he is. Also, the bridge is now called Robert F. Kennedy.

Some people say the one that's definitely a ghost is RFK himself, but it's not that simple. Contrary to popular opinion, ghosts are very rarely the reincarnation or representation of just one person. Usually they represent whole groups of the former living, and in very special cases an entire generation.

The mistaken-for-RFK ghost definitely shares the young politician's idealism, his desire for equality and justice for all citizens. On several occasions homeless people sleeping on the stretch between Randalls Island and Manhattan have reported inexplicable occurances. Frank Hemer curled up under a tarp on a December night when it was snowing lightly, and when he woke up he found himself covered in a fleece blanket, a clean fleece blanket with no tags or labels to identify it. The next day Frank showed up at a shelter near his old house in Mount Vernon, and after two months of rehab, he found a Section Eight apartment and a job as a street sweeper.

The other ghost (who is not a ghost) spends most of his time playing jokes. On sunny afternoons he floats over to the driving range on the island. He sneaks onto the field and taps on the glass of the cart that collects the balls, making the driver panic and swerve and think about the rumors of ghosts that he and the other employees joke about over drinks after work on the patio under an umbrella where you can see the elevated highway and the track stadium and the same high-rise apartment building repeated over and over on the upper East side.

Other times the ghost (who is not a ghost) throws garbage into the river, or puts tacks on the road and waits for flat tires. And sometimes he just sits by the Cirque du Soleil tent and reads the program, awed by the power and beauty of the performers' feats of contortion and grace.

The RFK ghost makes a point of recognizing this reverence that the ghost (who is not a ghost) has for this one thing and this one thing alone. It's enough of a scrap of decency for the RFK ghost to believe in the ghost (who is not a ghost), to believe that he must have had a bad upbringing or that something unexpected and tragic happened to him, that he isn't really as bad as he likes to make himself seem.

"We can go in if you want."

"In what?"

"There." RFK Ghost pointed a transparent finger at the blue and yellow tent, the light poles near the top glowing like stars against the red and purple sunset to the west.

"I already went."

"What did you think?"

The ghost (who was not a ghost) looked down at the brown sludge of the dirt road and then at the RFK ghost. "I think the dancers are fooling themselves and everyone who watches them. I think they practice so hard to get their routines and their bodies to a state of absolute perfection, and I think that when they perform people think that what they are seeing is perfect, that the laws of physics and human anatomy are being broken and finally we have proof that it's possible to achieve anything you set your mind to. But this flawless spectacle rides on the back of friends and family left behind, innate desires squelched, injuries ignored, until one day the body ages and the dancers are used up and they're cast back to the life they've left behind and there's nothing left to do but wait for the end."

"I think you're taking it all too seriously."

"Probably." He lay down on the grass and listened to the low rumble of the music in the tent. The performers were preparing for another sold-out show.

124th Street

He used to be on my block. He used to sit on a blue milk crate in front of the parking garage, crumbs and lice in his beard, making bird calls. Once on my way back from the airport, from the new terminal in Detroit, he asked me for money. I gave him two quarters and he God blessed me and we never talked again.

Now he has that nail gun and it's like he's a new man. He carries it over his right shoulder and smokes a cigarette with his left hand, smiling through splotchy tooth enamel. I see him in the lot down the street, tromping through the weeds and stopping to rest on a cooler full of soda. He throws the empty cans at rats and picks up his nail gun and gets back to work. What's he building in there?

He's found a new spot and a paint-splattered tarp to cover himself. Sometimes at night I walk by and see eyes among the weeds. I think about raccoons and rats and ghosts.

The thing is, he's a Veteran. He went to Vietnam and watched whole villages torched in minutes. He was here during the crack epidemic, saw whole families go missing and turn up in the vacants, alive but without teeth and wearing vomit like a badge.

We think that history is on our side, that progress progresses. He counts less and less stars in the sky, and waits for us to suffocate.

Jay Leno

Jay Leno called show business a hooker on channel thirteen.
"Go out, have a good time, don't fall in love with the hooker!"
He pointed to Tavis Smiley's backdrop and said "that's not a real city!"
"If I get up and run towards it I'll hit my head!!"

He sees NBC as the provider of all things
Like the Hudson plane landing
News in the afternoon
Human interest in the evening
Jokes about it in late-night

And that concludes our broadcast day.

Democracy in America, Part Five

I remember my dad and I driving to New York City from New Jersey. After passing Newark on I-78, we crossed a bridge over the port of Newark, gleaming new cars and oil tanks to the right. As we came over the crest of a hill, the whole of New York City lay before us; gleaming towers (which, of course, included the awe-inspiring World Trade Center at the time) greeted us with their sun-grazed glass. My dad once told me that sometimes he regretted raising me so close to the greatest city on earth. He said, "the first time I really saw New York, in the 70s, it was the most exciting thing I could imagine. I was twenty-three years old and life suddenly seemed full of so many possibilities. But you've grown up with this. It's no longer impressive. You will feel underwhelmed by other cities, jaded by the greatness that you grew up a short car ride away from."

After passing through the Holland Tunnel, where I stared at the path with a railing on the side, wished I could see someone walking on it, wondered if they would need a gas mask to survive the fumes, we came around a bend onto Hudson Street. Tribeca had already started becoming a hot spot - Robert DeNiro had a loft nearby - but to a kid it was empty, restored masonry on stone towers with no stores on street level. It was when we cut east on Clarkson and then on Bleecker that it all came to life, the restaurants with outdoor tables and the records stores and sex shops and people who moved slower than anywhere else in the city because where else could you want to get to? On the east side we found a place to park and went to Little Ricky's.

Little Ricky's had a black-and-white photo booth, a typewriter with dirty words punched on the paper scroll, lunch boxes with nude photos of 60s pinup Betty Page in black lace stockings, PeeWee Herman dolls with a pullstring that repeated five phrases over and over, fuzzy dice in any color, trading cards from monster movies like The Blob and The Creature from the Black Lagoon, hula girl lamp shades, pink flamingo Christmas lights, Mexican jumping beans, cap guns, a hand-crank cash register.

Later the spot became a coffee shop proud to get its beans from New Jersey. Now it's another coffee shop that charges for WiFi.

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The imagination is not extinct; but its chief function is to devise what may be useful, and to represent what is real. -179

Democracy in America, Part Four

School was clocks. Ms. Johnson had a huge clock above the blackboard, the kind where the secondhand didn't tick but smoothly whirled around the dial. Mr. Nevins' clock looked like he stole it from his kitchen; tiny numbers, a ticking sound when the kids copied the "Do Now" off the board. Mr. Grant didn't have a clock at all, and Damon had to lean over his desk to peek at Herman's watch. He caught him one time and called him a fucking queer. Five minutes killed before the class got quiet again.

When the last ball rang, Damon met Raymond and Martel by the metal detector and went for pizza. They didn't eat that cafeteria shit, so they got a whole pie and six garlic knots.
They tore one up for a bird on the sidewalk, but when the old man with the crusted beard and red ski cap came stumbling down the block they closed the bag.

-Check out that skid mark on his pants!
-Yo, you wear pants worse than that on picture day.
-Debted!

Damon was on his own for dinner. His dad worked in Jersey and sometimes didn't get home till midnight, sometimes later. Ray's mom had that boy on lockdown, called his cell and you could hear her screaming through the earpiece if he wasn't in the door by four o'clock. Martel never said anything about his parents, and nobody ever asked.

Dinner was fried fish or chicken slid through a bulletproof window. Damon and Martel took it to the median strip on Lenox Ave. and ate facing south, licked their fingers while staring at the Empire State building. Martel said he heard that somebody dropped a penny off the top and it killed someone on the sidewalk.

-Bullshit.
-For real. They took the guy to Sing Sing. He told the cops it slipped out of his hand.
-I hope he don't have the same problem with soap.

At dark they went looking for the next vacant to mark. The trick was to spread it out enough that the cops weren't waiting for you, but have them close enough together that everyone knew who ran these blocks. Damon felt most proud when he walked around the neighborhood and saw his "Day-Lite" tag on vacants from Morris Park to Morningside.

But new targets were getting harder to find. It seemed like every day another construction truck sat double-parked outside an old mark. One time he actually saw a guy in paint-smeared overalls blasting his tag with a hose, the blue letters running onto the drop cloth. The next week a white family moved in. The week after, they put an Obama sign in the window.

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I do not mean that there is any lack of wealthy individuals in the United States; I know of no country, indeed, where the love of money has taken stronger hold on the affections of men, and where a profounder contempt is expressed for the theory of the permanent equality of property.

Democracy in America, Part Three

On the corner there is a drug store, brightly lit with an automatic door and a blast of air conditioning and gleaming white floors and smiling pictures of women and children, even in the incontinence and foot odor aisles.

Next is the pizza place, the two flavors of cherry and mystery blue Icee continuously rotating in a case near the window, crumbs on the tables, the menu written with smudgy magic marker on paper plates taped to the wall. Somewhere between four and six garlic knots for a dollar.

Then there's a bank, a scratched glass counter top and a black pen attached to a metal string. Side compartments stuffed with deposit slips and withdrawal slips and credit card payment forms and new account offers. A security guard watches the door and doesn't smile.

The door to the laundromat is propped open with a mail crate. Sometimes the TV is on and overweight mothers watch soap operas and fold underwear while their kids push carts around the floor or beg for change for the arcade games in the back.

The cell phone store is crowded. They don't let you browse; you have to type your name on a touch screen, figure out that you need to mash the letter to the left of the one you want for it to work right. A young man in a vest and tie and expensive watch tells you about the song downloading and mobile TV and unlimited web browsing and texting you'll need to sign up for.

On the end of the block is a Subway. The bread smell drifts all the way to the crosswalk on the next block. The meats are terrible.

It's quiet and safe, but there's plenty of nightlife.

You'll need a guarantor.

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All the passions which are most fatal to republican institutions increase with an increasing territory, whilst the virtues which favor them do not augment in the same proportion.

Democracy in America, Part Two

Mr. Wilson fired Martin Williams in front of ten guests in his private box. Martin had brought martinis for everyone in the group, and after taking a few sips Ms. Bailey, the childhood friend and secret lover of Mr. Wilson, found a fly on one of her olives. She mentioned it casually, as if it were a joke that they could all remember at next week's party for Mr. Gunderson's retirement, or the cancer benefit the week after, or Ms. Bailey's daughter's confirmation next month. -Hey, remember when I found that fly on my olive out in Jersey? -Jersey? You're lucky that's all you found out there! Mr. Wilson looked in her drink and soundlessly summoned Martin over with his pointer finger.

-What is this? -Oh, I'm sorry sir, wow, I'm sorry. -This is unacceptable. -Yes yes, of course sir, ma'am, let me get you another. -You can do that and then you can leave. -Sir? -You heard me. -Oh please, sir, an honest mistake. Please. -I'm sorry. You had a chance. It didn't work out. It's over.

The rest of the guests sat silently. Ms. Bailey looked at Mr. Wilson, who looked out at the action on the floor.

Martin went out exit B and looked for his car; even after five years, it always took him at least fifteen minutes. Every direction was the same.

He found it alone, up against a fence with tall marsh grasses pushing through the links. He got in and took a joint out of the glove compartment, turned on the radio. It was a Chris Brown song, the singer who'd later beat up his girlfriend and then apologize and remain successful in spite of it.

Mr. Anderson was the boss before Mr. Wilson bought the team. One time he brought in a magazine article he'd read about the number of black men in prison over petty drug or theft or assault charges. He asked Martin what it was like growing up poor, and Martin told him that he and his mom and sister used to play checkers on the sidewalk on hot summer nights after spending the day splashing in the fire hydrants. He praised Martin for his strength and dedication coming from that kind of environment.

Martin drove out of the parking lot and stopped in a traffic jam on I-95. The rows of red brake lights went up the hill and out of view.

******************************************************************************************

Almost all Americans are in easy circumstances, and can, therefore, obtain the first elements of human knowledge.

seedlings of a new story - Democracy in America

My first apartment in Brooklyn was above a bar where none of the regulars looked under fifty. I'd go in to give my rent check to the bartender and heads would barely raise, nod slowly before going back to their Bud Light bottles. When I turned off the lights to go to sleep, I usually heard the moans of the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith drifting through the floorboards.

The rest of the block was quiet, except for on the first of every month another U-Haul would double-park on the hill, young mothers and fathers with babies attached to slings on their chest unloading antique bookshelves, new Ikea beds and lamps, raising their hand in apology to the Car Service guys who'd honk and mouth "Dios Mio" through their blue-tinted windshields. Usually the month would drift by, the mornings and nights marked by the rising and falling of the metal grates on the bodegas, but when I walked up the block and saw mildewed boxes of paperbacks and floral-print dresses hung on the iron railings of a stoop, I knew that another move day was coming, more honking, more apologies, more change.

One night I remember watching the snow trickle past the street lights as I sat on my radiator. I had plans to meet some friends at a bar on 14th Street that gives you a free pizza with every beer, and all I wanted to do was sit on the futon in the living room and watch a cop drama or a replay of a Yankees game, but I put on my boots that gave me blisters on my in-step and my puffy jacket with the zipper that stopped halfway up and headed toward the above-ground subway station. I tried to read a free newspaper on the platform, but the cold gnawed at my reddening fingers and I had to shove them in my pockets until the F came chugging out of the tunnel.

It was like any Saturday - we had a few beers and pizzas and then hit up another bar down the street where men watched the baseball game and complained about the weather and traffic. There were more young people than usual, all crammed in the back and throwing their arms over each other, some pumping dollars into the jukebox and looking for songs that they could dance to. We figured the bartender decided to stop checking IDs. Maybe they were short on rent for the month and needed cash fast. One of my friends went to the back to meet some girls and waved to us a couple minutes later, but we ignored him and finished our beers and gave a good tip and braced for the cold.

The subway back was fucked up, it was always fucked up on weekend nights. We waited at Jay Street, I thought about walking to the end of the platform and pissing into the dark tunnel, but then then the train came and we packed in and smelled the booze on everyone and tried to stay out of the way while some kids danced and flipped in the middle of the car. I got off at Fourth Avenue and trudged up the hill, slid my feet to make long tracks in the fresh powder. The plows had not made it down here yet; the quiet was perfect.

Towards the end of the block, I saw a cardboard box in front of a brownstone. It was half-filled with snow, but when I brushed it off with my hand I found a stack of books, some texts on school subjects like biology and geometry and a notebook filled with nothing more than the dates and titles of different novels. Pushed against the side was a copy of Alexis de Tocqueville's "Democracy in America".

The cover was a picture of a rolling pasture with smoke billowing out of the chimney of a small gray house in the background. On a dirt path, a boy rode on a red carriage pulled by a horse and two men carried huge planks of wood down toward a shelter they were building by a pond.

I took it because it was in surprisingly good condition, and I couldn't remember if I'd read it before. Maybe it had been assigned in my government and politics course in high school. The only thing I remembered about that class was a mock campaign video that I made with some friends. I played the candidate. In one scene, I was dressed in a suit and tie and stood in front of a wall covered in grafitti. I pointed at the wall, and the grafitti disappeared.

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When the war of independence was terminated, and the foundations of the new government were to be laid down, the nation was divided between two opinions - two opinions which are as old as the world, and which are perpetually to be met with, under different forms and various names, in all free communities - the one tending to limit, the other to extend indefinitely, the power of the people.

Bygone

Bygone

We talked about
opening an old-timey gym

Strength cables and jump ropes
would sit in milk crates by the door

The weights would be globed
at the end of unlabeled bars

The exercise bikes would
have a giant front wheel

Medicine balls would be
everywhere

For wardrobe, we would require unitards
preferably with stripes
as well as handlebar mustaches and
stiff hair slathered in pomade

What about the ladies?

Well, there's a row of domed hair dryers
in the lobby

But shouldn't you go home
and put the roast in the oven?

I mean, we're going for
authenticity here.

We Like Ike.

To a Twenty-Two-Year Old, New to the City (Part One)

I

Thy first bedroom shall be walk-through
but the fire escape thy sanctuary
Thou shalt crank A Tribe Called Quest
from tinny speakers
and drink High Life from a bottle at sunset
waiting for friends to yell from below
to join thee in summer eve's merriment

From thy roof, thou shalt see all of
Brooklyn laid out before thee
The F train winding up the hill
toward Smith-Ninth Station
Manhattan and Jersey City sparkling
Lady Liberty peeking above the BQE

One too-imbibed midsummer's night
thou shalt sleep on thy roof
Dawn will find thee dirty, groggy, cold
Let thy view warm thy soul

Thou shalt splash thy face, tie thy hair back,
and ride the M train to Queens
Rumble over Bushwick and peer through
acid-etched windows
and remember all that thou hast

Love Poem From One Monster Truck to Another

I watched you
Perched on the mound
Motor purring
Shaking on your haunches

It reminded me
of the time we were in Nashville
The Meineke Car Care
WRECKFEST

You showed that little Escort
what a Monster can do
His dash smashed into his wheel base
Oil and wiper fluid staining the dirt

And I know it’s just our job
I know we envy their lot
Their highway-to-garage lives
Saturdays wiped and buffed
at the car wash downtown

But the look in your eyes
The passion for destruction
Made me believe that for you
it was about more

Than the applause
than the flashbulbs
than putting on a show

And I wanted you to drive next to me
Put your little door handle in mine
Ram the daylights out of the non-believers
The Tauruses, the Camrys, the Neon’s of the world

And know that when you Rev
You Rev for us all
All of us big-wheeled beauties
Longing for that perfect crush

Meet me in Memphis
at SUPER SLAM 2
I’ll show you the crushing
we were meant to do

George W. Bush's 25 Things

My Fellow Americans,
I hope you're all settling in nicely to the new administration. I miss the times we shared - the laughs, the tears, and most of all, the honor I felt representing such a proud people every single day. To stay in touch with the American people, my daughter Jenna told me I should write a note with 25 things about myself for something called the facebook. I'll try anything once.

1. Girls always told me I was the most handsome Bush boy. Jeb is still jealous.

2. One told me she liked my big bushy eyebrows best - maybe cause my name is Bush? That's funny.

3. Should I get eyebrow implants? They're looking a little thin.

4. What about hair dye, America?

5. Jenna just told me that facebook doesn't mean I'm supposed to talk about my face.

6. I used to love sitting on poppa's lap riding a mower around our yard in Houston.

7. A couple of Mexicans take care of my lawn now. I offer them chips and salsa because it makes them feel at home.

8. I'm starting a speaking tour soon. What should I say?

9. 9/11.

10. Remember when Al Gore kept talking about that lockbox?

11. 9/11.

12. I still wear the flight suit sometimes.

13. I miss waking up so close to my office. Now I have to go downstairs.

14. John Kerry forgot Poland.

15. Obama is 800 billion dollars in debt in three weeks, and I was a bad president?

16. Back to my face - The first time I noticed that I had crow's feet was when I caught my reflection in the window as I flew over the devastation in the Gulf Coast.

17. It was horrible.

18. Dick Cheney doesn't have my new phone number. Shhhhh.

19. Enduring Iraqi freedom is the foundation upon which the potential for Democratic societies in the volatile Middle East must be built.

20. Ditto Afghanistan I hear.

21. I'm gonna need a trip to Camp David before I finish all these.

22. Oh. Right.

23. What about a Dave and Busters (George and Laura's?) instead of a presidential library?

24. Laura cuts up my pretzels for me now.

25. I'm sorry.

Seventh Avenue

When it rains
on the corner of 130th street
The water level rises to meet the curb
Floods over the edge

Men wearing jackets caked in dirt
Trudge through the puddle
Pushing refrigerators onto the sidewalk
New appliances for a new condominium

I try to follow their lead
but my shoe has a leak
and cannot keep all the water
at bay

I can't seem to miss the flood
completely

Taste, Part Two

As his tongue hit the wet pavement, Mr. Lepic felt the sharp prick of a pine needle. The Christmas tree that had shed on that spot belonged to Lamar and Sheila Warren, a married couple who lived in an old brownstone on the block. Mr. Lepic knew Mr. Warren, but was unaware of this fact. Mr. Warren was the owner of a deli/grocery on AC Powell Blvd., and everyday Mr. Lepic walked by and nodded hello through the window. Mr. Warren appreciated the gesture, always thought of Mr. Lepic as "one of the good ones" on a block that was being overrun by entitled pricks from downtown. Mr. Warren had reason to worry - a developer had already come by to take a look at his home, claiming that the lease didn't make clear whether the property could legally be owned by an individual and not the city. He thought about this when he dragged the tree from his living room to the sidewalk, scraping off the twig that stabbed Mr. Lepic's tongue.

Mr. Lepic tasted acid from yesterday's rain, grease dripped from a slice of pizza, rubber from the bottom of new sneakers, hair left by the new Bijon terrier adopted up the block...

Mr. Lepic stood up and brushed off his pants. There is too much here, he thought. Too much to taste. From now on, I'll stick to wine.

(You know how some people are "completists" for certain bands or artists or writers? That's who this is for. If you're just dying to read everything ever written by Oscar McPhee, first of all, seek help, second of all, sorry this piece was not...dare I say...OSCAR WORTHY! Next one will be better. I hope.)

Taste, Part One

On January 2nd, 2009, Bernard Lepic stopped on 123rd Street between Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and Frederick Douglass Boulevards. His knees cracked as he knelt on the sidewalk and placed his bare palms on the cement. He felt the surface, paused thoughtfully at the old gum and shoe prints that had worn their way in. He admired the grass that peeked out from the crack between slabs, scraggly brown blades that had no idea they wouldn't survive the winter. An old woman shook her head as she waddled past, and two teenagers laughed and shouted about the crazy ass cracker who needs his medication. Mr. Lepic looked only at the pavement, and then he stuck his tongue out and leaned in.

Mr. Lepic is widely known in the foodie community as an expert taster. He can identify the age and vintage of any wine or cheese. These talents are not unusual, but his gift ventures further, into areas that most food critics would consider beneath their wealth of expertise. Mr. Lepic won a potato chip tasting contest in Des Moines, Iowa in February 2006, not only correctly naming every brand, but even the date that the chips were manufactured. It is in hand-made foods that Mr. Lepic's brillance shines brightest; he can identify the bakery and, in special cases, the worker that made any croissant, muffin, bagel, bear claw, or danish on the island of Manhattan.

Tune in for part two whenever I get around to writing it!!! (within the next week)

The Dildo, Part Three

On the night before graduation, there was a large bonfire where seniors burned all the possessions they do not plan to carry into adult life. School notebooks, chairs, tables and lockets from ex-boyfriends all went up in ten foot flames, former owners slugging champagne from the bottle and dreading the ceremony they'd have to sit through after passing out for a few hours.

Don't worry. We didn't burn the dildo.

With all this attention focused on the engulfed soccer field, we snuck unnoticed onto the academic quad, the dildo and a roll of duct tape in hand. An austere statue of Ben Franklin stood erect in front of the Physics building, sternly unaware of the new appendage we'd planned for him. We taped the dildo into place, head peeking just beyond his coattails in profile view, and took a picture for posterity. We headed back to the fire, confident that someone would surely discover what we had done before the entire class' parents and grandparents walked past on their way to the graduation hill.

The next morning, after the ceremony, we headed off to celebrate all over campus. I stopped by Emily's apartment to say hello to her family. She pulled me aside.
"Do you know how many people took their picture in front of Ben Franklin today?"
"Security didn't notice?"
"I guess not. The first thing my grandparents asked me about after graduation was who had played the dildo prank on Benjamin Franklin. You're famous!"

When I walked by later, I saw the dildo lying in the tulips next to Ben. I was tempted to pick it up, but I realized that my time was done. Our grey friend had fulfilled its destiny with us, and it was time to pass the torch. I left it there, confident that the next generation would know wht to do when they saw a lonely grey dildo longing for a home.

The Dildo, Part Two

The rules were simple. One person hid the dildo in a spot that another housemate would surely discover during their daily routine. Upon finding the dildo, the housemate must shout "OH NO! THE DILDO!" loud enough for anyone who was home to hear them. The housemate then had a responsibility of the utmost important; find a new hiding place for the dildo. In this manner, the game recycled, only one person knowing for sure where the dildo was at any given time.

This was the last semester of college. As the uncertainty of the real world loomed, we learned to appreciate the certainty of the dildo. In the morning shower, we'd reach for the shampoo and find a grey friend instead. Cooking dinner, we'd open the stove and find its little head peeking out from the rack. It was especially nice when a visitor would happen upon the dildo, wonder if they should just keep quiet to save us the embarrassment, only to be regaled with the storied history of our sick little game. The dildo was a cultural icon in our house, surpassing any of our dreams for it when we first saw it submerged in the creek.

But we all had the feeling that this was not the end point for our friend. The dildo was destined for greater things, and it was our responsibility as adoptive parents to get it there.

Tune in tomorrow for the exicting conclusion of The Dildo!!!!

The Dildo, Part One

We spotted it in the muddy creek by our house. A grey dildo, half submerged in muck, water flowing over the shaft. For weeks we eyed it on our way home. Did it fall out of a bag? Had someone been using it in that spot? Was it evidence left by some sort of perpetrator?

I came home after class one day to find something boiling in the kitchen. I opened our largest pot and peered through the steam to find a most unwelcome visitor. The dildo was in there, water flowing over its shaft.

"What the Hell??" I knew whoever was responsible couldn't be far.
Joe came into the kitchen laughing. "I'm disinfecting it."
"WHY?"
"You'll see."

And over the next three months, a new game took Townhouse D5 by storm.

Hide the dildo.

Tune in tomorrow for more exciting dildo action!!!!

Salted Cardboard

Mark and Ricky bought five-cent lemonade from a kid behind the backstop. Ricky tipped him a penny, told him to stay in the juice business if he wanted to make it in this economy. The kid rolled his eyes, slipped the penny into his tube sock.

They were at the park to see Angela play softball. Angela was a ten-year-old blue-eyed girl who lived down the block, in one of the new condos by the water. Her parents put in seventy-hour weeks at their respective law firms, so it was a relief when they saw Mark and Ricky's smiling faces under an "Experienced Babysitters for Hire" heading in the Village Voice seven months earlier. One more page and Angela could've been watched by a 300-pound escort girl named Sasquatch Sally.

"Do you suppose anyone sent scouts to this game?" Mark asked.
"With the U-13 League Draft coming up, they'd be crazy not to."
"Why can't it just be about having fun?"
"Competition is fun. Remember how much fun we had in the bracket challenge last year?"
"I still feel bad for that Hasidic boy."
"That boy stood between us and the bracket challenge trophy. Where would we be without that trophy? Where would we keep leftover soy sauce packets?"
"Do you think he remembers us?"
"Mark, you're too delicate. Why I bet that boy becomes president some day. I bet at his inauguration he'll thank those two guys in Brooklyn who showed him that there's more to success than being a nice person."
"You told him you were going to dump bacon grease over his head if he got on base."
"You just don't understand competition."

Angela stepped up to bat. She was thin, with a long brown ponytail and a small gap between her front teeth. She had bandages on both of her knees from sliding in last week's game.

"Yea Angela!" Mark stood from the bleachers. "Isn't she great?"
"To think she's made it this far when we've been feeding her cardboard for dinner."
"What?"
"Cardboard."

Angela lifted her back foot as she swung at the first pitch, twirled her body around in a circle. She looked at her coach, who mimed a swing and then pointed at his stationary foot.

"Scouts aren't gonna like that," Ricky said.
"Did you say that we feed her cardboard?"
"Since I stopped getting free poster board from work, yea."
"That's...How can you..."
"Look Marky, times are tough. I'd love to serve Angela potted meat and string cheese but there's rent, cable, electricity. How about those New Yorkers in the bathroom with your name on them?"
"That was a gift from my grandmother."
"Regardless."

Angela watched the second pitch sail past her at eye level. Grunts of "good eye" bellowed out of the dugout.

"Why does she eat the cardboard?," Mark asked.
"Because we're cool guys and that's what we give her. All her parents do is lecture her about pesticides and trans fats. It's a relief to sit down and enjoy a nice plate of salted cardboard."
"We salt it?"
"Have you ever tried unsalted cardboard?"
"I don't know. Have I?"
"Yes. You asked if I had bought the generic cereal by mistake."

Angela popped the third pitch high over her head. She squatted low and grasped the sides of her helmet. The ball bounced near her shoe.

"Ooh, be careful!," Mark said.
"Relax. She's got a helmet."
"Good thing it's not made of cardboard."
"Yea. She probably would've eaten it then."
"Ricky." Mark breathed in and out slowly. "I want us to stop feeding cardboard to Angela."
"I've been thinking of switching to packing peanuts. We've got so many at work, and it'd be a shame to just throw them away."

Angela smacked the fourth pitch, a slow hopper that bounced past the short stop into left field. She stopped at first and smoothed her hair behind her ears.

"Ricky! We need to buy food. Human food. I can cut back on things if that's what it takes."
"And what would she learn from that? I'm looking out for her future. There won't always be two nice guys down the block willing to feed her."
"We feed her cardboard!"
"Salted cardboard."

Mark trudged down the bleachers and bought two blue ices from a woman near the right field line. He held one out to Angela as he walked past, but the umpire told him to back up. Angela shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
She looked up at Ricky in the stands and blew him a kiss. He snatched it out of the air, held it as high as his arm could reach, then slid it gently into his shirt pocket.