Within These Walls

Dust fell from Manny’s January hair, as Jennifer scolded him, “You’re too old for this Pop. You’ve only been out what, a week?” Armed with a sewing needle, Jennifer attacked the small piece of house buried deep in Manny’s plump pruned index. “Don’t you go forgettin’ who’s the parent and who’s the child.”

“Well maybe if you acted like one.” With pride, Jennifer grinned and raised the splinter to his eye. William misjudged the top step and stumbled through the cellar door. Regaining his balance, he said. “Nothing down there Pop, I looked everywhere.”

“You just stay outta there! Nothin’ good’s down ‘ere anyway.”

“But Pop, you said…”

“I said, I’ll tend to the damn rat! You just stay outta there!” Coughing, Manny lifted a trembling hand to his dry lips. He glanced as his hand and lowered it to his hip, wiping a small amount of blood on his trousers.

“There’s no rat Pop,” Jennifer said, “never has been.”

Manny’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the cellar door. Jennifer got up from the table and pushed her chair in. She walked to the sink and filled it with warm water and dish soap. William stood next to her with a towel drying each dish she washed. Manny sat at the table and listened as they reminisced about their years as children in that house, about dish duty, about their mother. To Jennifer, he said, “Take some of those vegetables home for the kids,”

“Sure Pop.”

Four trips to the hospital in six months had Manny’s children suggesting that he move to a nursing home, but Manny refused. He had lived in this house all of his life and was prepared to die within its walls. Manny and Mable, his wife of 53 years, had turned it into a boarding house after Manny’s father passed away in 1957. For 11 years, this hole in the wall boarding house thrived. Manny often boasted that Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll himself, had even slept under this roof.

Throughout the sixties, many soldiers had called this place home for a night or two while passing through. Including Leroy Paxton, an Army sergeant returning home from Vietnam in the summer of 1968. Sgt. Paxton was on his way back home to California, and had paid in advance for two nights. When the third day came, still unable to make arrangements to take the train home, he announced that he would be staying another week. During his stay, he had grown fond of Mable and while Manny was tending the garden on the eighth day, he asked her to leave with him. When Mable refused, Paxton became furious, he spat in her face and shoved her to the ground. After forcing himself on her, he gathered his belongings and left the house.

Manny found Mable sobbing amid her torn clothing and asked her what had happened. Mable didn’t say a word. Manny closed the doors to the boarding house for good and got a job at a local automobile factory. For two and a half years he came home and found Mable in the same rocking chair in front of the same window, just as mute as the day before.

One cold and snowy November evening, Manny was shaking the snow off of his hair and kicking his boots off on the porch when he smelled soup. Sure enough, Mable was in her rocking chair, but on the stove was a hot kettle of chicken soup. That night while climbing into bed, Mable said, “Let’s have a baby.” Manny stared at her, his mouth hung open. Pondering this question, he cocked his head to the side slightly like a dog. Is this really what she had been thinking about all this time? “I mean we are getting a little old,” she continued. “If we are going to start a family we better start one now.” At 33, Manny hadn’t even thought about it, and they hadn’t discussed this subject since they were children themselves. “I would like at least one boy and one girl,” Mable carried on. Manny’s once mute wife seemed now to be a font of conversation, but still Manny had nothing. “Could we just keep trying until we have at least one of each?” Mable babbled on like a school girl. Manny couldn’t believe the light that now passed through her eyes. His wife, stolen from him by an act of lust and hatred, was now returned seemingly unscathed. It was as if nothing had ever happened, like she went out to the garden and then came back in. Nine months later, In August of 1971 they welcomed William Trevor Mason into the world, followed by Jennifer a mere 14 months later. Mable passed away just before Jennifer’s 37^th birthday, she and Manny never spoke about what happened in the summer of 1968.

Manny woke to the sounds of Jeopardy, and further away, the rat. He crouched by the basement door and listened to the shuffling. A loud crash that could only be Manny’s large tool chest being tipped over, almost knocked him to the floor. Manny descended the stairs as fast as he could. He screamed, “God damned Rat, I’ll kill ya, you sonofabitch!” When he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw Jennifer helping William stand up, while William brushed some bits of wall from his shirt. His tool chest was on its side and had loosed some bricks and mortar from the wall as it fell. “I thought I told youse to stay outta here.”

“Pop, we gotta go through all this junk at some point.” William began.

“You ain’t gotta do shit, this is still my house and I said stay outta here.”

William grabbed the wall to steady himself, but grabbed more of the loose bricks knocking more out of the wall. “Holy shit, Willie what is that?” Jennifer asked. Manny slumped against the wall, sat on the stairs, and began to cry. His two adult children stared into the hole in the wall at what remained of Sgt. Leroy Paxton, his identity betrayed by his dog tags that lay in front of his fleshless sternum as the chain hung from his spinal cord.

“I knew what he did to your mother, so I found him, and I killed him.” Manny confessed. His children still stunned at what lay before their eyes said nothing. “Before you were born he stayed here, he stayed here, and he raped your mother. He fled to the bus station, but I found him first. I watched the life leave his eyes as I choked it out of him and I buried him behind that wall. Your mother never knew, these walls are good at holding secrets.”

“Oh my God Pop,” Jennifer started. She and William exchanged a look. They were both thinking the same thing.

“Pop, why did you kill the baby?” William asked.

“What’re you talking about boy, what baby?”

Cradled in the arms of Sgt. Leroy Paxton was another skeleton, just as complete only smaller. Manny sobbed at the sight of the small skull nestled against the larger humerus. These walls are good at holding secrets.

Living the Dream

As you make the right onto Ontario Street, you wonder how long you’ve been on auto pilot. It’s that feeling of becoming aware of your consciousness. Where were you? What were you thinking? How is it that you are almost home, but cannot even remember starting the car? There is just so much going through your head. Too much. Work has been hell, but you are so close to getting out of there. You just have to find a way to hang on a little longer. Graduation is in May, then life will begin.
As you pull into the drive, your cell phone rings. It’s your advisor. She tells you that there is nothing more she can do. The registrar says that your web design class does not count toward the required “degree applicable credits”, therefore, you will not be receiving a TAP award this semester. No TAP award means no refund. No refund means you can’t catch up on your past due child support. If you can’t catch up on your past due child support by the end of October, then they will put a hold on your tax return. You need that tax return, things are already bad enough. Defeated, you thank your advisor for calling you back. “You can try to speak to the department chair,” She says before being dismissed, “I can’t promise it will do any good, but you never know.” She has always been very helpful.
As you walk up the stairs, you begin to smell the wonderful aroma that is tonight’s dinner. Beef stew, your favorite. She really does love you. You want so badly to provide for her the life she deserves. She will tell you that you do, but she deserves so much more than you can ever give her. “Honey I’m home,” You say, as you always do when you enter the house. A cliché indeed, but not said as such. The cliché is a welcomed ingredient in the humor the two of you share. She finds you very funny. She greets you with a kiss. A sweet and simple, yet succulent kiss. You wrap your arms around her and squeeze. Trying desperately to convey your love for her through the strength of your embrace. “Wowzas,” she exclaims, “what brought that on?”
“Just love you.”
“Lucky me.”
She is everything. Everything you have ever wanted. It took a divorce and several other failed relationships to realize what true love really was, to realize what you deserved from a partner, and she has it all. You are the lucky one, but she is constantly reminding you how lucky you make her feel. “Got some bad news today,” you begin.
“Try this.”
She lifts a spoonful of stew to your lips. The smell of beef stock and vegetables intoxicates, but is nothing when compared to the taste. The beef is tender and the vegetables are cooked to perfection. She is an incredible cook. “Mmmm,” you manage, as you struggle to make some audible acknowledgement of her masterpiece. This is stew. Stew as it was always intended. “It needs salt,” she says as she trots off to the pantry. She always thinks what she has made to perfection can be improved and regardless of how hard you try to convince her of its perfection, she will not be swayed. You love this about her. She never stops trying. Her motto is that fifty-fifty is a ridiculous recipe for a relationship. Both parties should always be giving a hundred percent.
Over dinner, you explain what happened with school and what that means, you explain the financial position that not getting this refund is going to put you in. She insists that you will make it through together, the way you always do. She is right. Everything always turns out fine. What if fine just isn’t good enough anymore? What is worse, having nothing at all or having hope, dangling in front of you like a carrot on a stick? You are a good man, a hard worker, you always strive to do the best you can at everything you do. So why then is life always such a struggle? Why can’t you have the life you want? You don’t want much. You just want to be able to pay the bills and enjoy the blessings God has given you.
You realize how thankful you are for those blessings, as you watch her sleeping beside you. You spent so long dreaming of a girl like her. Just as you were beginning to think she didn’t exist, there she was. Now instead of dreaming of her, you dream with her. You want to write, and she wants a bed & breakfast. Together you dream of a life that you spend together making your own living doing the things that you love, while being together. Always together. Some people may feel like that is too much time together, but not you. The moments you are not together are the only moments that need improving. Sleep finds you at last.
Darkness surrounds you. Everywhere is black. Everywhere except there. A light. It appears to be miles away, but it’s there. A sparkle in a void. One star on the darkest night. As you stare at it, it begins to grow larger. You hadn’t noticed until now because of the darkness, but you are moving toward it. Don’t go into the light. Everybody always says that, but this is just another dream. The same dream. Always the same dream. The darkness is gone, replaced by the most brilliant white light. Blinding. You try to shield your eyes and suddenly wonder if you are squinting in your sleep. A face blocks the light. It’s him. The doctor. You can tell by the mask over his mouth and nose. He lifts a blood covered latex glove to his face and raises his surgical magnifying glasses and stares into your eyes. He is yelling, but you can’t hear him over the pain. Incredible pain shoots through your entire body. The pain splits you in two. You scream.
You shoot up in bed, gasping for air. Startled, she sits up too. “You’re okay baby,” she says, she is no stranger to the nightmares. She holds you tight until your breathing becomes regular. “Same Dream?”
“Yes.”
“Well it’s over now.” She strokes your hair. You nod, though you know the relief is only temporary. This same dream has been plaguing you for weeks and nothing seems to shake it. She rubs your back as you try to find sleep again. She is so comforting, so good to you. Sleep comes. As you drift, you hope that peace, this time, accompanies.
Darkness. A sparkle in a void. Light. Magnificent blinding light. Him. He is yelling. “Mr. Helin, can you hear me?” There is no pain. There has always been pain. “Mr. Helin, if you can hear me, you are ok, you’ve been in an accident, but everything is going to be fine.”

Malibu on the Rocks

I am the proud owner of a 2001 Chevrolet Malibu. I purchased the car for $2500 from a used car dealer in January of 2012 and I believe I was swindled. Since purchasing the vehicle I have since put more than twice its purchase price into it for repairs and maintenance.

What was once a stunning white paint job is now mottled with tiny spots of rust that seem to be slowly eating away the paint like a cancer. The largest of these rust tumors trace the bottom of all four door frames and surround the fuel tank door. The interior, once gray, has become faded and yellowed over time to the point where its color if given a name now might be called putrefaction. The carpets and floor mats are forever stained a deep brown-black, the scent of which is enough to turn even a coroner’s stomach. The carpets, however, are the least pungent among a variety of odors that the Malibu has to assault one’s sense of smell. Between the smell of burning oil and gasoline fumes, you may also catch a whiff of what may be stale vomit, feces, or possibly rotten McDonald’s beef patties from 2007, that are wedged somewhere between the back seats unable to be found and disposed of. These smells, hidden behind a clever pine tree that resided below the rear-view mirror when I bought the car, attacked me as a lion might leaping from the weeds to devour its prey. The car yet held many surprises in store for me.

Under the hood, she boasts a powerful and magnificent 3.1 liter V6 engine that purrs like a kitten, if a kitten had tried swallowing thirteen marbles and a Christmas ornament. I have replaced the power steering pump and reservoir twice. Most recently, the power steering pump began to leak all over the serpentine belt causing it to slip and become shredded by the engine, all while producing a thick choking smoke that invaded every vent while filling the car like a gas chamber. Due to the rubber belt whipping around in the engine at incredible speed, it now gives off a lovely burnt rubber aroma and the hood is forever marred with beautiful black rubber slash marks and torn insulation on the underside.

The trunk leaks to the point that the carpet lining it, is always wet, creating a breeding ground for unknown bacteria, mold, and other forms of life. The particle board, once used to hide the spare donut tire, has all but disintegrated from the moisture and has now become debris scattered throughout the trunk space. The carpet has begun to take on the color of the rust that it hides beneath and I imagine that one day in the near future it will finally fade away as the bottom of the trunk rusts out, as a black hole, taking the spare tire with it.

Finally, the ding and clicking. I’m sure you have heard a car ding. Sometimes a car might ding to indicate that the door is ajar, the headlights have been left on, or that the keys have been left in the ignition. The Malibu dings randomly, suddenly, and incessantly. Married to this ding is the constant clicking that would be normal if accompanying a directional. This clicking however does not end when the directional is not in use. It continues. Without ceasing. Ever. It has become almost unnoticeable to me, and in fact, I find that I even miss it when in another vehicle. As a jest for new passengers, sometimes I enjoy putting on a few songs that I have found to match the beat of the clicking.

Like a bad penny or a monster in a horror movie that just won’t die, she lingers making life miserable. I attempted to sell her once, but my guilt over passing this curse on to somebody else was too great. When an interested party asked if it needed anything, I replied, “Yes, a nice home at the bottom of a lake.” Needless to say, he did not purchase my demon with 6 cylinders. So for now, I guess I’m stuck with her, My Chevrolet symbiote.

Jiffy Lube

HKM3459. He arrives at the same time he always does, 9:57 am, as if programmed. Every sixth Saturday, for the last one hundred and forty three days, he has been exactly 3 minutes early for his 10 o’clock oil change. The moment his Volvo comes into view, my pulse quickens. He is as clueless to my presence now, as he was when he cut in front of me not quite five months ago. His actions caused me to miss the light, but they gave me a new purpose. The time is drawing near to our next encounter, the crimson conclusion to this cat and mouse.

In the beginning, HKM3459 was all I had. This random combination of letters and numbers burned in my mind’s eye, haunting me for days, until finally I struck gold. My thirty fourth phone call was to the Jiffy Lube on South Ferrier. My story remained the same, I had backed into a blue Volvo with the license plate number HKM3459 while at the grocery store. I wanted to be able to pay for the damage, but was unable to leave a note. I did, however, notice the car had a Jiffy Lube sticker on the windshield. The trusting half-wit on the other end of the line believed my ridiculous story and provided me with the name and address of his customer without the slightest hesitation.

Kyle Pratt, and his beautiful wife Rachel, live in an exquisite colonial on two acres. During my first visit to their home, I decided that their home is where it had to happen. After all, it was the perfect blank canvas for my next work. I spent most of the morning in Kyle’s “man cave”, as the sign over the doorway had titled it. In reality it was just a den with a large flat screen television, leather furniture, a small bar, and a more masculine décor than the rest of the house. Kyle Pratt should not have a man cave. The title alone dictates that the occupant be a man. Father said, “You can’t be a man without manners,” and he was right. Kyle’s blatant disregard for other motorists only proves that he doesn’t have manners. Furthermore, he has only enjoyed his wife three times in the last one hundred and forty three days. What kind of man would allow a woman like Rachel to be ignored for seventy-six consecutive nights? At noon, I made myself a sandwich from the left over roast beef in the fridge. Rachel is an amazing cook and she keeps a very clean kitchen. I decided that this is where I would take her, on top of the center island. As I traced the counter top tiles with my finger, I told myself, this is where I would teach Kyle how to enjoy his wife.

When Kyle enters the waiting room, I do not shift in my seat or raise my magazine in fear that I will be noticed. Kyle has not noticed me once since our paths first crossed last October. You would think that if you saw the same face every day for one hundred and forty three days that even a stranger would start to look familiar, but Kyle and I have never even made eye contact. Kyle is way too self-involved, he sits down and starts to read his e-mail on his phone. I wait for him to get to the e-mail from Jerry, he will chuckle, I did. We share the same waiting room, in the same Jiffy Lube, we have shared the same house and the same e-mails, and we have shared meals, many meals. What we have not shared, however, is a moment, but that moment is approaching. Kyle will notice me that day and what a glorious day it will be, all of this work will bear fruit, warm, sticky, crimson fruit. Beware the Ides of March Mr. Pratt.

I am deep in the bloody details of that futures day’s events, when the sun’s glare off of the window from the opening door breaks my concentration. As she walks in, her legs proceed her. Long, and smooth with delicious muscle tone, they lead from her strappy shoes to her shorts, her very short shorts. So short, that they could be mistaken for denim panties. She glides through the room and over to the window. As she talks to the cashier, she leans over the counter as if to invite any man that would dare, to enter her. Who the hell does she think she is? She, no doubt, is the one whom arrived in the red Chevy Cruze with eyelashes adorning the headlights.

Kyle Pratt doesn’t notice her either, though I don’t know how he could not. Her scent filled the room the moment she strode through, and it now lingers as a stray cat might after cunningly earning its first morsel. She sits in the chair beside mine and begins to run her fingers through her blonde hair. A strand of which breaks away from the rest of the pack and I watch as it floats down to rest upon my shoe. Disgusting. She continues this public grooming of herself for what seems like an hour, completely disregarding those around her, completely obsessed with her own beauty. I hear myself scream out in rage. As I look around, I notice that my scream must have been vocal rather than mental, because everyone is staring at me. Everyone, including Kyle Pratt. I follow his gaze to my own hand which is wrapped around the girl’s forehead, concealed only by blood soaked blonde hair. Her body hangs limp from my grasp. Silence is broken by a roar as I am tackled to the ground by two customers and a three hundred pound greasy mechanic. Kyle Pratt sits in his chair stunned, not moving. Coward.

The police arrive and escort me to the back seat of the cruiser. Once I am in custody, they begin to question the witnesses. Once that is complete, they will drive me down town and book me, take a mug shot, get finger prints, and a DNA sample. The latter two will help to solve twenty-seven additional unsolved homicides, thirteen couples and an older woman who could not stop sucking on her own false teeth. As I sit and wait, I gaze out the window. HKM3459, sitting in bay four, the blue Volvo waits for Kyle Pratt to drive home and recount the day’s events to Rachel, who will no doubt console her poor excuse for a man. I will never enjoy Rachel Pratt. March fifteenth will pass without event. I will never have the chance to teach Kyle any of the lessons he so desperately needs to learn. As I look down at my blood stained hands, I realize, it’s all because of her. Who the hell does she think she is?

Life Changing Words

“In the face of such hopelessness as our eventual, unavoidable death, there is little sense in not at least trying to accomplish all of your wildest dreams in life.”

-Kevin Smith (Tough Sh*t, Pg. 7)

Generally Funny – A Sketch Comedy Produced by HCCC Students

Generally Funny on YouTube

So True…

“If I waited till I felt like writing, I’d never write at all.”

-Anne Tyler

My First Video Editing Venture

This music video was my first real video project and was a blast to shoot. Produced by myself and Alliance front man Joey Polidori. Edited with AVID Media Composer 6. This video won me two Poobie Awards at Herkimer, including Best Short Form/PSA and Best Editing. Enjoy

About This Blog

This Blog was created for an assignment for my web design & content management class. However, I plan to use the site to share ideas, writing, and videos while getting feedback. So feel free to poke around, comment on anything you see,or offer suggestions.  Thanks for visiting.

This Book Changed My Life