How the West was Lost

     Is a moral victory a real victory? Don't bother trying that one on my ardent Democrat friend Zelda, a woman of uncompromising standards. She'd say something to the effect of "it ain't no kind of victory, it a defeat." She acknowledges that the midterms could have been much worse, election deniers did lose in important battleground states. But she's still disappointed: the candidate she canvassed for in Merced lost to his Republican opponent by 563 votes; and big picture, the Dems lost the House. 

    Before the election she had red wave nightmares, visions of Republican landslides that would be all her fault for not doing enough when the chips were down. She'd lie guiltily, anxiously awake, and make plans to ramp up her electioneering.

    She'd started up the ramp by volunteering with Vote Forward, which sends letters to first-time and infrequent voters, urging them on to the polls. Their ground rules allow espousing general principles, but not endorsing candidates. Zelda hand wrote 400 letters to voters in Arizona, saying what she she thought would be on the ballot: protecting our democracy; protecting our children from gun violence; protecting our planet. That must have taken her a work week; I learned from my part in the effort that it takes over 8 hours just to handwrite 400 addresses.

    Then Zelda decided to go all in and canvass door-to-door, supposedly several times more persuasive than sending letters. She volunteered for Adam Gray in Merced, 130 miles from her home in the Bay Area, who was in a toss-up race for an open House seat. There was a battleground candidate closer to her, Josh Harder in Modesto, but he was slightly favored to win (and did).

   She wanted to drag me along. She did. She started by asking what else I was doing for the election.

    You couldn't exactly call me a firebrand. After addressing her envelopes, my low-key intentions were only to post interesting stories on Facebook, and to read "The Origins of Totalitarianism" by Hannah Arendt. Worse, my motivations for reading Arendt were largely personal. My old friend Frank had told me he had serious Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD). What to say, how to reach out? He'd always loved political theory, and reading a book together seemed like one way to solve the connection problem. And maybe Zelda would approve?? After all, we were both mixing politics with quests for personal redemption.

    But she was furious. She's contemptuous of ivory tower types, despite being a Harvard grad herself. Instead of navel gazing, she thought Frank and I should be doing our bit to uproot neo-fascism from American soil. We negotiated. Forsaking Frank & Hannah was not an option, but canvassing together was, if she'd throw in stopping on the way back to see my son Sam in Modesto. Deal. 

    And so it was that we rose at dawn on five autumn Saturdays to rendezvous at BART, and carpool to Merced. To appreciate Zelda's dedication, you should know she reached Medicare age in February, just before she had open heart surgery for valve repair. Since then, a small stroke was a detour on her long and winding trek back towards her old self. One day canvassing means ringing ≈ 100 doorbells, and walking ≈ 5 miles. She would say she needed most of the next week to recover.

    Our Merced routine started at 9 am when we straggled into a small meeting room in back of the one-story post office on 18th street. There was always plenty of free caffeine and junk food left for us, which was deeply appreciated given the uncivilized hour. The volunteer coordinators were two twentyish women from the North Valley Labor Federation (NVLF), dressed collegiate-style in jeans and sweatshirts. They'd use a phone app called PDI (Political Data Intelligence) to give us a 100 addresses to visit, give us flyers to distribute and a canvassing script to follow, and send us off into the field.

    PDI shows the names, ages, and party affiliations of household members. We'd record the outcome of each doorbell rung by selecting items from a menu, most often "Not at Home" — we really should have started earlier. If someone did answer, the script called for starting by introducing ourselves as NVLF volunteers, and asking if they'd already voted. If not, we were supposed to ask if they intended to vote, and if so, would they consider Adam Gray, who had a good track record of issues important to the community. Like health and education. And then end by asking if they had any questions about the election.

    Zelda followed the script carefully and had extended conversations with voters. One Saturday a 92-year-old African-American woman answered a doorbell she rang. When they were done talking politics they had a long chat about gardening, and the next Saturday, when we were done with our houses, we dropped off a bag of backyard persimmons.

    I followed the script insofar as introducing myself as an NVLF volunteer, and saying Adam Gray was good for the community. But if someone hadn't voted yet, I liked to make eye contact and say "Please do your bit for democracy, it's especially important this year." Often the result was a smile of acknowledgment. Contrary to what the pundits were predicting, the good citizens of Merced seemed to think that this democracy thing was in jeopardy, and was something important to hold onto.

    One thing that did not happen, once, ever, was anyone being nasty to me. Surprised me too. Committed non-voters gave me kind smiles, and one offered me a bottle of water and said not to work so hard. A MAGA guy, who worked for the National Park Service in Yosemite, said several times that he wished me well – before returned to explaining that God ordained that America run on diesel, NOT wind or solar. People must have a soft spot in their hearts for geezers dragging their aching bones around the neighborhood.

    My aching old self returned the affection; it's easy to fall in love with Merced. Especially if you're from the Bay Area, that bustling, tolerant cosmopolis, where the rich and poor live in different worlds. The neighborhoods we walked had broad, quiet, tree-lined streets, like visions of small town America. Reminded me of my hometown of Alameda, about as close as the Bay Area comes to a place where you could imagine Tom Sawyer growing up. The demographics resemble Alameda's too, about half white, many Asians and Hispanics. And as we found out walking door-to-door, the diversity goes down to the neighborhood level.

    Also, Merced's politics are closer to Alameda's than I would have imagined. Adam Gray was certainly no lefty, and one NVLF coordinator told us that some said they'd never vote for him because he'd opposed raising the minimum wage. Never asked, but the people we canvassed did seem like the types who would be in favor of boosting the working poor. If Gray was the sort of Democrat most likely to carry CD-13, it was because his politics appealed to the sliver of voters holding the balance between two much larger opposing camps. In Merced, like elsewhere in America, the center has thinned out, becoming more like an estimated average than like ideas people embrace.

    And Merced does have its Bay Area amenities. We found a Thai restaurant that gave free ice tea refills, and once I got indigestion from drinking too many too fast; I lay for an hour in Zelda's car before getting back in the field. And once sleeplessness caught up with her and she needed a cat nap — you already know about the red wave nightmares, plus her IT job entails frantic after-hours requests beseeching for help in navigating scientific repositories. But those two incidents were the closest we came to mishaps. We be done by mid-afternoon, and then head off to Modesto to see Sam.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    My son lived in Modesto with his second wife Brittney, their infant daughter, her pre-teen son, her sister, and her parents. He worked at the Amazon fulfillment center in Tracy 6 am to 5 pm Wednesday through Saturday, plus overtime; visited his teenage son every other Monday in Richmond; and attended two AA meetings weekly. Thus we tried to keep our Saturday evening visits short. The only exception was when we met in Patterson to see Sam get his 7-year clean-and-sober pin.

    Before the AA meeting we celebrated with Sam's household at a restaurant, and told Brittney's parents what we'd been up to that day in Merced. I braced myself for disapproval. Brittney is 3rd generation Central Valley, and her mom and dad seem practical types, likely to view Zelda and me as wasting precious weekend time tilting at windmills — c'mon, let someone else worry about the fate of democracy. We did not actually get into politics, but they did sympathize with the miles we'd walked, and ask for directions to the Thai restaurant.

    The main speaker at the meeting told his addiction saga, which included a detour through relapse. Zelda was riveted. She's drawn to politics because she cares about the fate of ordinary people, like the speaker, with his life teetering between disaster and recovery. Sam walked to the podium to receive his pin holding his infant daughter. He said his plans  were to take good care of his little girl, and of the new one coming in February. The assembled acclaimed his membership in the everyday heroes club.

    Connection to the midterms? Yes, in a world seen through rose-colored glasses. As I dreamt it, participating in this celebration of real-life resilience implied a similar celebration come election day. Canvassing taught me that ordinary people cared about democracy, and were tolerant of idealists who cared about their caring; there are more ordinary people than any other type; thus the pundits would be wrong and the Dems would win.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    It was Zelda who first told me the election results. I teach a 3-hour STEM class Tuesday evenings, and never check the news until the last student leaves. It's a semi-retirement gig that after seven years still felt like a high wire act — the slightest distraction could cause a fall. When I could finally be alone with my phone, Zelda's happy text message appeared saying there was no red wave, Fetterman had bested Oz in Pennsylvania.

    Her mood soured over the next weeks, as it became clear the Republicans would take the House, and we waited to find out who won in CD-13. First Duarte held a slight lead, and then Gray inched ahead as absentee ballots were tabulated. By Thanksgiving most of the uncounted votes were in Fresno, the red pole of CD-13 as Merced is the blue — up close Central Valley colors get complicated. When all the Fresno ballots were counted, Duarte was declared the victor, with 50.24% of the vote.

   "Something's wrong, we won before," Zelda said, when she had to swallow the bitter pill. She'd worked too hard to believe that the problem was something she hadn't done. So maybe it was that Gray refused to call on Vote Forward to help with his district? Or that after all, Gray was not quite centrist enough for the convincible middle sliver? Questions she'd be debating at length with her fellow activists.

    As for me, Zelda did appreciate my climbing down from the ivory tower to help out, and I almost stayed in her good graces through the holidays. But my attitude toward Biden's age infuriated her. To me 80 is significant, and though it might be good politics for a geezer to get sympathy by canvassing a neighborhood, letting a geezer run the show is another thing altogether. Her response was "DO YOU HAVE AN ALTERNATIVE? DO YOU?" Then she told me to be quiet, expressing that imperative in harsh terms.

    That ended the discussion. She did have a point about no alternative. Winning is important, and one could argue that an old guy makes the best pablum for swing voters in swing states. But it's not just that Zelda is resigned to Biden, he's her preferred 2024 candidate. Behind the electoral math lurks something you might call centrist rage. Mostly aimed at Trump for upending the stately Bush/Clinton alternation in the White House. But some reserved for the Berniecrats, the other outliers who dare to contend for power instead of deferring to their betters. Biden's lack of compelling personal qualities emphasizes the transcendent importance of habit and tradition, and nips alternatives in the bud.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    "Probably wouldn't do it again," I said to Frank re the canvassing experience, when we met at an outdoor café post-midterms to discuss democracy, Arendt, and the fascist temptation. It was one of those mild, cool Bay Area autumn days, crisp leaves on the sidewalks, crisp energy in the mild air.

    My disengagement puzzled him. His COPD had been too progressed for him to accompany us to Merced, but he worked long, painful hours helping me address Zelda's Vote Forward letters. After the election, he said it was thanks to people like Zelda and me that the red wave turned into a ripple.

    "Because senior," I told him, not wanting to turn down any appreciation. "Because addressing envelopes is easier, plus no commute." Could have added that doing Vote Forward letters allow lefties to engage in crucial battles without needing to feign enthusiasm for insipid candidates. But didn't, not wanting to hit a low note with a friend confronting life threatening illness.

    We go back 50 years, to when we were both recent immigrants to Berkeley and met at a soup kitchen. Since then he became a high school math teacher, married, fathered a kid, divorced, and retired. Just a guy who did good things with his life after a rocky start. Like so many of us.

   And like so many of us, he looks warily at Trump and his adherents and wonders how far they'll go. Pre-2016 there was an aphorism about online political debate: "the first person to use the word 'fascist' loses." Because vapid; because lazy; because just a curse word. Post-2016 there came a caveat: "unless the topic is Trump." Frank likes the fascist label for its descriptive power. The way Republicans believe Trump's lies about the stolen election is like how Hitler got the Germans to believe in Aryan supremacy. His favorite parts of "Origins of Totalitarianism" are when Arendt describes group think in a world of propaganda campaigns. And of course the fascist label has the obvious practical consequence. If the threat is fascism, then no candidate is too conservative as long as they're against Trump.  

   Personally, I doubt Arendt still has much to tell us. Consider that word, "totalitarianism" in her title. MAGA land ain't total nothin', it's a confederation of separate realities, online enclaves united by compatible news filters. "Fragmenttarianism"? Hmmm.

   We debated Arendt's relevance over many a cappuccino before the midterms, reaching no conclusions. We didn't do much better after the election. But I was happy that my friend is still with us, happy fiery Zelda is ready to do battle again, and delighted with the perfect fall day. Hooray, climate change has not yet struck us full force! "There are intentions, and then what you'll really do," I tell Frank, returning to the canvassing question. "Do I want to get into the trenches again for the party of Biden? Not without an airsickness bag. But if it's October 2024, and the alternative is Trump, and …"

    "You get to see your son," Frank said.

    "And I get to see Sam, then …" I shrug and smile. "And Merced is great."

………  ……… ………  ………•                     

© µ 2023

Jean Lewis, ten years gone

 

February 17, 2023

    If you want to visit Jean these days, find your way to Lafayette CA, then take Taylor Blvd to Grayson, turn west toward the hills, and drive through the arched gates of Oakmont Memorial Park. Continue up the steep hill, then take the first right, going east toward Mt. Diablo. Loop around the Tranquility Mausoleum, then park a few headstone rows up in the shade of the big oak tree. There are five Pico family graves in the two rows on either side of that tree, and you'll find Jean's on the left. February 17, 2023, is her tenth yahrzeit. 

    I always say hello before reaching the oak tree. She never fails to make time for me. Yes, I do realize it's all in my imagination. But when I tell her what's been going on, there's that feeling of release you get when finally talking real. After giving my report — today's was about home improvement projects and relationships – I read her a poem — today's was The Buddha's Last Instruction by Mary Oliver. "Make of yourself a light," Buddha says to the frightened crowd, gathered to hear his final words. Like, be a candle in the wind. One can try.

    There's something lurking behind the report and the poem. Kinda like in that movie The Sixth Sense. A boy named Cole can talk to the dead, which include his grandparents. They tell him that the answer to the question his mom asks when she visits their grave is "every day."  When his mom Lynn finds out about his ability, he tells her what her parents say, and wants to know what that question is. Lynn says she always asks them if they're proud of her.

    To be clear, Jean's approval is only an aspirational goal. My ask from our conversations is usually just her forbearance, not her pride. A couple of years after she passed, she told me what she wanted from me going forward: be gentle, be brave. And hey, guess what, many times I'm neither. But I do acknowledge the needs, and want her to know that.

    I never plead for her blessing, but it does seem as if an angel spread protective wings in my vicinity. My younger son Sam has been clean and sober for over seven years. During that same time, my older son Gabe launched a career; my big sister Gale, who had been isolated by schizophrenia, reconnected with her children; and my grandson Nate, who ignored his middle school teachers, discovered the joys of computer programming after starting high school.

   And my own life could be worse, it could easily be over: covid killed millions of geezers like me. But last semester I resumed my evening BART/bike commute to SFSU. Besides teaching, that means carrying a bike up and down six flights of BART stairs, and riding down and up a long, steep hill in San Francisco. Ok for a 72-year-old? And the department chair hasn't yet called me in for a little chat about retirement.

    There are stories where Jean shines through clearly. Like the time in the summer of 2001 that she accompanied me to a job fair, mostly just to bolster my morale while I scrounged for work. But she also brought some of her tech editor consultant cards to distribute, just in case any side gigs came her way — the woman had a family to support. She tried giving her card to one of the exhibitors, who dismissed her coldly by saying that the company did not use technical editors. Jean took the exhibitor's flyer, and returned it a few minutes later with several typos circled and her business card attached. Whether or not you believe in her presence now, in life she was a supernaturally talented editor.

    And there are others that need more backstory than most readers have patience for. But can't resist. A few weeks after the job fair, we walked along the Alameda beach at sunset, listening to Garrison Keillor do one of his reports from Lake Woebegone. This one was about a married couple's venture into the pig farm business. The twosome slaved and saved, bought a farm, and then an epidemic wiped out the passel. Nothing to do but bury the pigs. After the show ended and it got dark we walked back to our place on Park Avenue. End of story.

    The backstory actually isn't long.

    In April, Jean's embryo implant pregnancy ended with a miscarriage. We had started an escalating series of fertility treatments soon after our wedding in 1998, and this was the last straw. An especially sharp disappointment for Jean, who did not have children of her own, and felt she had wasted her prime childbearing years in a long-term relationship that never made it to the altar.

    Shortly before the miscarriage, I'd been fired from my software developer job. I had taken it the year before, in hopes of doing more coding than was possible at BofA. Working evenings and weekends for free had not been enough to keep management happy. I packed my cubicle into a cardboard box, and Jean picked me up outside the building.

    Unlike Jean I did have children, both then at Berkeley High. I volunteered in the school's computer lab in hopes of getting to see them, but never did. My unemployment payments came to less than my child support, and we lived paycheck-to-paycheck. So instead of having her own child, Jean found herself supporting me, and two children she never saw. Looking back now, she must have had friends telling her "girlfriend, walk away quickly and don't look back!" But she never complained about money. In June I asked the teacher who ran the computer lab about getting tickets to my older son's graduation, and she told me to talk to her friend in the principal's office. Said friend must have been schooled on divorced dad handling, because she glared at me hatefully and snarled "Just pay your child support!"  Should have come back with "I can't, but my wife does." But if my brain worked that fast I wouldn't have been unemployed in the first place.

    There's also a little front story.

    The most important thing about the Lake Woebegone report was the ending 'tude. When the couple buried the pigs, neither blamed the other for the stupid pig farm idea. And "burying the pigs" became our code phrase for acknowledging failure with stoic elan.

    Shortly after our beach walk, my old BofA manager phoned me. "It's the same old shit," she said, "but you can have your old job back if you want it." Definitely. The 9/11 attacks did not prevent me from restarting at BofA in October, and then buying a house replaced conceiving a child as our big project. In April we bought our cozy little Victorian cottage on Wood St, and settled in for the great years of deep marriage.

Babak "Shadie" Rowshan, May 22 1956, October 8, 2022— in memoriam

Shadie, at Jean Lewis memorial gathering, Ann Arbor 2013

Shadie was a generous soul, with a special knack for finding sensitive gifts. On one particular Christmas Shadie made Jean's mom Sylvia very happy, and you would understand much about him just from that story. But telling it requires a picture of the world of the Lewis family in Ann Arbor. That was the world I knew him in, and one he loved as much as I did.

He first rented rooms in Sylvia's house on Burgundy Road after Jean's dad John died in 1991. That was four years after he broke up with Jean when she moved to California. The split-level house is built on a hill that slopes downward from the street, and Shadie shared the bottom level with Jean's brother Ray. For Sylvia, the arrangement had the obvious benefit of turning extra rooms into extra cash. But the real attraction was having someone she could depend on to perform crucial household tasks when she traveled on vacation, such as caring for her beloved cats. As the years went by Shadie became part of the family, and Jean would say that his most important role in the household was facilitating communication between the Lewises.

The Midwest enchantment thing could be projection on my part. Back in the late 90's when Jean and I met, "flyover country" wasn't a term anyone used for inland America, those vast swaths between our coasts. But I had the provincial Bay Area disdain that term expresses, and a comprehensive ignorance of the upper Midwest to go with it. And then there they were, a world of the educated elite, like you might find in Silicon Valley.

John Lewis had been a chemical engineer, who worked on nuclear fusion and other research projects. Sylvia earned an advanced degree too, at a time when few women went to college; photographs from her student days show a determined young woman in severe wire frame glasses, whose visage is softened by kindness. Every December 24th the Lewises had Christmas dinner with Will and Millie Thomas, a custom that started in the early 50s when both couples were newlyweds. Will was an inventor and entrepreneur who made many innovations in industrial processes; Millie, with a Master's degree in social work, was ahead of her time like Sylvia.

But it wasn't their accomplishments that made the deepest impression on we Midwest imports, it was their style.

You could say that style was quiet, decorous, friendly. A night and day difference from the angry theatrics that had been the staple of my previous family lives, and from the tumult in Shadie's native land. I felt kinship in what we had fled, in what we had found. When Jean and I visited Ann Arbor, a leisurely evening with Shadie at a bookstore coffeshop, talking about ideas, was part of the routine. Behind the words, it seemed we were upholding the principle that life could be interesting at a conversational tone.

Sylvia might have described her family's style as Protestant, and she would have a point. She was the only child of practicing Methodists, and accepted the teaching and customs of that faith until she was finishing high school. Then she decided that she no longer believed in the Apostle's Creed. When she went to college at Northwestern she took an anthropology class from Lewis Browne. Browne's book, "This Believing World," is a guided tour of the major absurdities embraced by credulous humanity. Sylvia read it; realized that the world was filled with pious souls convinced of incompatible notions, none of which were necessarily so; and said goodbye to what remained of her Methodist faith.

But she held on to the Methodist customs tenaciously. She wanted her Christmas carols, her Christmas trees, she cultivated an unassuming personal presentation. If you're Jewish and have encountered the concept of "cultural Jew," you get the idea. She met John at a Methodist youth group.

Sylvia never told me that John objected to her skepticism, but in deference to her mom, their three children, Jean, Anne and Ray, started out in Methodist Sunday school. Then when her mom died Sylvia felt free to switch the family to the Unitarians, where customs without faith was more the rule than the exception.

Sylvia became a fixture in the Ann Arbor Unitarian community. She seldom missed a Sunday service, but as adults, her three children were nor regular churchgoers.  being brought up within the confines of religious faith, they did not have a strong need for cultural Protestantism as a bridge to the secular world.

Sylvia danced every dance at our wedding. She was already in her 70s. In our pillow talk we called her a force of nature, and were only half joking. Younger Unitarians sought her guidance on how to solve problems with aging parents, and Sylvia bestowed advice with the authority of someone who seemed to straddle generations. As in her youth, she was a force to be reckoned with.

And so she remained after dementia started in, although a force that remembered the importance of doing things her way even after she had lost her grip on what that way actually was. Dementia started slowly, the occasional absent look, and thinking it was morning when she woke up from an afternoon nap. Shadie had been thinking of moving out, but decided he needed to stay on in her hour of need.

Sylvia's Unitarianism became even more important to her as she entered deep old age. Once she fell on her way to the early Sunday service, was treated in emergency for light injuries, and went to the late service promptly after her released. She was that devoted, and sharing a pew with her was always part of our Ann Arbor visits. She would often tell us tales from her spiritual journey, including the pivotal role of Browne's book. Shadie understood that she wanted to pass the torch.

It came to pass that one December, after Sylvia had just started the big decline, we went back to Ann Arbor for the holidays. The Lewis family had a leisurely Christmas morning routine. We'd sleep in, and then have bagels and lox around the Christmas tree before opening gifts. That year we'd noticed an oddity in the presents arrayed around the tree.  Amidst the various sized packages there were some small flat cubes, one for each of us, all from Shadie. When we opened these gifts, we saw that they were all the same book: "This Believing World" by Lewis Browne. He had even bought one for himself.

The book had fallen out of print, these were not easy gifts. But there we were thanks to Shadie, all on the same page and honoring Sylvia's quest for truth. And honoring Shadie too, living in exile from a clerical regime. He was a brave, gentle, and generous person, and on that Christmas morning he created a glowing moment showing one of the best things about what it means to be part of our family.

 

Flash Fiction: The Life and Times of Little Ms. Perfect

© µ 2022,  1,499 words

    Dr. Jo Collins drives past pine trees, and the occasional house with gravel driveway and ragged lawn. It's late afternoon, late winter, in the Sierra foothills. She's making a house call. Her phone goes bright and says "My Husband." 

    She's relieved; if Majid is feeling sociable then he's not pacing the house like a caged animal, despairing of finishing the thesis from hell.

    "You will tell her diagnosis?" he asks, no preliminaries.

    "Which diagnosis, 'rotting boomer'?" Their private joke.

    "Malignant year eighteen months."

    Jo does dread that conversation. Not because sad, not for Suzanne. "Because fear," she blurts.

    "Loud thinking," Majid observes, knowing her well. 

    She crosses the Frontiera city limits. Some of the homes are trailers, the lawns fade to grease puddles on dead weeds. Suzanne and Curtis's place looms, motorcycles outside being repaired or scavenged for parts. "Arrived, tell you all after your class. Kiss you soon dearest."

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    Curtis waves a wrench hello. Their pit bull Dolly lunges at Jo, then recoils at the end of her leash; the steel pole tethering the dog quivers. Curtis holds Dolly by the collar so Jo can get by, then follows her through the front door.

    She slides a folder onto the Formica tabletop. Curtis yells "Suze, Dr. Collins!"

    She knows Suzanne dislikes her, but why? After all, the couples are matched sets: Curtis and Majid are two reasons why Frontiera is only 95% white. 

    And there the similarity ends. Majid is a despised physics teacher at the community college; half his students drop before the final. Curtis is a hero to the Bay Area transplants, a Black conservative validating their move to the sticks as a quest for family values, for property values. It wasn't white flight, perish the thought.

    Bed springs creak, but no Suzanne.

    There's a shelf above the table covered with small tools, lubricants, adhesives, and the complete works of Larry Elder. One book lies open on its spine, a helmet serving as bookmark. A TV, which Jo has never observed in its off state, shows Ukraine news.

    A man standing inside a doorway has a lopsided, welcoming grin. Close up, his "smile" is a second degree burn stretching from below an ear to mid-upper lip. He'll need reconstructive surgery. The camera pans back to show the scorched, crumpled facade of his apartment building.

    Suzanne emerges, adjusting her MAGA cap. "Oh, I loooove a good war! Don't you hon?" she says.

    Curtis, who has a 101 Airborne tattoo, says quietly "there's a downside."

   "I know! Just funning her." She appraises Jo. "Trump-Russia, Trump-Russia, now you'll get him!"

    "Suze," Curtis says.

    "Isn't Doc Jo so nice, house calls and all! Came up here with her husband to help a 'medically underserved community.' To educate us!"

    "Majid's just trying teaching while he finishes his thesis," Jo says, setting the record straight.

    "His thesis! You gonna be an MD married to a PhD. Little Miss Perfect." She distills her venom. "Little Ms. Perfect."

    "Suze!" Curtis says. 

    Suzanne is a slender, sultry sixty-two. She lights a cigarette and exhales smoke languorously. Fuck cancer. Fuck you. She nods at the folder, and Jo hands her the top sheet. "Thanks, getting chilly," Suzanne says, flicking her lighter and torching the fateful paper.

    Mental health break time. "Got paged," Jo says, bolting out toward her car.

    Curtis races after her, too late or just in time, depending on your perspective. Dolly bites Jo on the hand and wrist, but a kick from Curtis stops the mauling there.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    There's a good reason for taking opiates. Pain. The label on the codeine Curtis has been hoarding prescribes "1 every 4 hours", but Jo gladly accepts three, screw professional decorum. Curtis, doubtless aware of his legal jeopardy, leans against a sink in the tiny bathroom and assures Jo that Dolly had her shots. Jo sits on the toilet lid, and as the agony subsides, explains how to clean and dress her wounds. By the time her right forearm is encased in bandages, she's high.

    Curtis offers a lift to Emergency. Jo says Majid will take her, just bring her to the college. Suzanne crowds into the bathroom. "You scared her," she says reproachfully. Jo laughs at her.

    "Hon, did I ever tell you, Dr. Jo and I got something in common," Suzanne says. Curtis is silent. "Did …"

    "Many times," Curtis says.

   "Walnut Creek!" Suzanne says to him triumphantly. That city symbolizing suburbia to Northern Californians. "Course I grew up before the change. The only one who looked like you shined shoes on Broadway Plaza. And now, DIversiTY! Not enough for Black Lives Matter, you know they broke Nordstrom's windows? Weren't you embarrassed?"

    Curtis looks miserable; Jo's job is to rescue people. She holds out her left hand and Curtis helps her up. The pill bottle that had been on her lap falls to the floor, and Suzanne pockets it. 

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    Curtis starts his car and turns on his music.  "Your wife won't need your codeine," Jo says, "since …", she  clears her throat, "… she'll have stronger drugs soon. Look after her, like you do her home."

    Curtis turns the sound down. "At first she was just another prisoner I wrote to. Then came visits, then I said let's try it, live with me when you get out. She said 'Ok, but no weed, no booze, nothing.' Gonna catch hell tonight."

    Oh. Curtis asks where she met Majid.

    "Physics class. I was a chem major. There's weird stuff science still doesn't understand, like why tiny particles are nowhere in particular until you look at them. According to 'many worlds,' there are infinite realities, with more created every moment something could be somewhere or somewhere else. One day after class Majid told me he didn't like many worlds, he believed there were hidden variables connecting things that seem different. But why? Einstein believed in hidden variables too, and they laughed at him. Doesn't that tell you something?"

    "So it's our first date and we're walking along, not quite holding hands, and this car misfires. Majid dives to the pavement. Then he flashes this sheepish smile and says 'In my country, many sides every question. All sides have guns.' Then I understood."

    "PTSD," Curtis says. He turns his music back up.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    The note on the door says class is canceled. Majid suddenly sick, without even texting? Very sick indeed. "Perfect" — in a moment of brutal clarity, Jo realizes her day is careening downward toward big loss. Which room will she find him in?

    They drive to Newbie, a Frontiera neighborhood transitioning from backwoods to suburbia. The split-level houses on Jo's cul-de-sac would look respectable in Walnut Creek. She lives at the end, with a stream burbling through a huge backyard.

    "Let me out here," she says when they reach her street, "here!" Startled Curtis obeys. He drives off, then she walks home.

    The house is dark except for a feeble light coming from the study.  In all possible worlds, you don't get long to confront a dead body. She fumbles unlocking the door one-handed, but gets inside.

………   ………   ………   ………   ………

    Majid notices Jo is standing in the shadows watching him. "Crying?" he asks, squinting. She dabs her eyes, and shakes her head no.

    There's a single notebook page on his desk, and an overflowing wastebasket beside it. Majid points to the desk. "Genius pile." Then to the wastebasket. "Idiot pile." He tosses the page. "One pile."

    He notices the time. "Forgot. Angry?" Again, no. 

    "Couldn't class, imposter too." Jo recognizes that term. It refers to students who invent sad excuses for missing exams. Or to himself, meaning how dare he dream of completing a thesis. Evidently there's a quantum limit to the size of an imposter cluster.

    Majid turns up a radio. A learned pundit discourses on refugee attitudes: seems the Mid-Easterners have a special sympathy for the Ukrainians, and a new appreciation for America. "Now, empathy for Muslims!" he says, happily confusing subjects with objects.

    She thinks "fat chance" quietly, puts on an encouraging smile, and steps into the light.

    He notes her bandages. He's appalled. "Make sense, doctor come help, attack doctor!" 

    Her pandemic story exactly. "Got a ride back," she says, breaking her silence. Majid rolls his eyes. "She burned it." 

    "Loud thinking?"

    "Her diagnosis." Weird thought, maybe Suzanne was modeling warmth mattering more than truth?

    "Want to walk by the stream?" she says. They'll do that sometimes when he's dead-ended. He'll tell her of equations, and she'll ask smart, outsider questions, and he'll calm down, and they'll feel close.

    "Not." He dons his coat and pats for his keys. "Hospital. Please." He strokes her face softly, ordinarily his invitation to engage in one of their favorite activities. Now it means 'lean on me and let's go where you need to go.'  And she does, and they do, awkward at first but they persist. And his newly reliable, deeply married touch is the perfect … really hits the spot, under the circumstances.

Sam and Brittney Wedding Album

 

On Saturday October 3, 2020, at a house in in Merced CA, my son Sam married Brittney Palmer, now Brittney Kurtz-Pico.  There were railroad tracks nearby, which made a great backdrop for photos.

Clockwise from bottom right
Sam's son Nate; Nate's cousins
Jamal & A'Nirah; Nate's sister 
Sarah and brother Moises

My assignment was to bring extended family from Richmond. Mission accomplished.

We gathered at long tables in the backyard to witness the ceremony.

Facing the altar

One of the seasonal crimson bouquets 
on the tables.

On left Jerry, Sam's AA sponsor.  
On right, Danny, from Solidarity House.

Facing the altar

Brittney's son and father, 
Michaels Jr. & Sr, accompanying
the bride to the altar

"The ring signifies the commitment you have made to one another. The circle itself has no beginning and no end, and is therefore a symbol of infinity.  It is endless, eternal, just the way love should be."

"I promise to accept your love,
and to love and accept you
just the way you are. With this 
ring I thee wed."

First moments as husband and wife

We feasted on burritos and drank horchata.  The cake & cupcakes were a big hit.

After eating some us went out to the tracks for a photoshoot. Even in the age of the automobile, railroads still have their aura of distance and adventure, of life unfolding and changing before our eyes.

Sam with kids and dad

Brittney with Sam and her sisters Brenna and Amber

Best of luck 
on the big adventure!

Covid-19 Flash Fiction: Untouchable

    My car's gone when I come out of the laundromat.  The police dispatcher says they towed it.  Parked illegally, unpaid tickets dating back years.  I've been sleeping in the back seat, now what? Maybe Fran will like me better now?   After we broke up she wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole; with social distancing, maybe that's down to six.  This pandemic's a joke to me, like everything else.

    But Fran doesn't laugh at my pole routine.  Her front door's cracked open, and I see a pale strip of her, cute face to slender hip.  I'm breathing hard from carrying my duffel bag upstairs. It's stashed to the side of her landing where she can't see.

    She waits for me to subside, then flicks a tendril of hair away from her eyes. "Phil,' she says softly, "I did touch you."  And with that I'm on fire, stupid me.  Getting back in bed with her would be great, but all I need's a place to sleep. I gaze into her living room, a question of a couch in my eyes.  "Still taking classes?" she asks. Her nose quivers. "Um, you need a shower.  Where are you staying?"     

    "Who is it Fran?" a male voice calls out from inside. 

    I turn and start down. "Staying with my brother," I yell, and she yells something back like "The one you hate?" I shrug and descend quickly, and only remember my bag when I reach the bottom.

    The thought occurs, don't bother, like go catatonic, and at least avoid the pain of more stairs. Keep moving around, and the prospects are limited.  Yet I do have alternatives. Two. I wasn't exactly lying to Fran about bro' Alfie, just improving on the truth.  Then there's always Susan. Up I go.

………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………     

    Fran thinks I hate Alfred the Great because we never have anything to talk about besides his car, his house, his whatever.  But nothing interests me more now than the story of possessions, the glory of having.  I board an empty evening bus to Piedmont, determined to learn more.   

    The driver, a substantial black gentleman, peers at me over his mask with sad, disapproving eyes. I sit up front, but he won't talk to me.  As if he thinks I'm making him drive me to the ends of the earth on a doomed, illicit mission.

    I get off within trudging distance of my brother's house. A vision of his fridge opening pops into my mind, and my step quickens. Breakfast at the laundromat was a candy bar, lunch nothing.  Screw dignity.

     His gate's locked, and an array of hidden LEDs strobe me when I shake it. A topiary hedge in the shapes of birds follows a stone slab path to the house. There's a grove of potted bonsai trees on the front porch.  Lights pulse above the door, as if the house were signaling a turn.

    Alfie's voice comes out of a small cage hanging on the gate, which I'd mistaken for a bird feeder. "What's that Phil?" he asks, and a little red laser dot scurries across the bag by my feet.

    "Cool security system!"

    "What are you on Phil? What do you want? It couldn't be to make something out of your life."

    "The world needs nobodies," I say, "doctors can't just treat each other."

    Silence from the cage.  The street is quiet too, the lawns of the neighboring houses empty. I was wrong, I do have a shred of dignity left. Enough to prefer a private spat to a public one. But Alfie declines the gauntlet.

    "People do appreciate us," the cage says, "there's a pandemic on.  You may have heard talk."  The front door opens and my brother walks toward me, wearing a surgical mask and gloves.  He stops more than 6 feet from his side of the gate. He ain't gonna offer no fridge, no couch.

    "What's going on with the dentist?" he says.

   "Fran. She's a dental assistant. We were just talking about you."

   "That's still a big improvement."

    Over Susan he means, who he dubbed "the loser English major."  He looks down at my bag, and at me, working toward a question he can't quite reach. "Hang on," he says, and goes back inside.

    Discreet street lamps have come on by the time he emerges, holding a small cooler.  "I'll buzz you in," he says, "and then …."

    "I'll open the gate, get the goodies, and take my leave expeditiously," I volunteer.

    "Good luck Phil," he says.

    I open the cooler at the bus stop. Baguettes! Cheese! The thought occurs, say thank you first, to someone or something.  My prayer comes out as "I am SO effing hungry!" I call that grace.

………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………   ………  ………

    Susan answers the door with her nose and mouth covered by a blue bandanna.  She looks astonished by my luggage, maybe because the face covering exaggerates the raised eyebrows effect.  "Do you realize what time it is?" she asks, bidding me enter, but keeping her distance.  She nods toward an antiseptic wipes container, and I use them on myself and the cooler.  Then she tosses me a surgical mask, and watches me put it on.

    "How's it fit?" she asks, gesturing toward the back of her head like she was twanging a strap.  I shrug, and she grabs the cooler and leads me into her living room.  

    We plop down on opposite ends of a couch, facing a TV.  A talking head looks serious.  "Thought you never watched," I say.

    "Do for national disasters, the World Cup, that sort of thing."

    The head's replaced by paired country names and numbers: Italy 7,000; China 3,000.  "Couldn't be the World Cup," I say, "too big for soccer scores."  

    She grimaces, acknowledging my comedian vocation.  "Strength in numbers," she says, "the guy thing.  Numbers, numbness, real life hurts, better off keeping meaningless scores."

    I grimace back, acknowledging her Susanness. Always the smartest one in whatever class we took together, she does micro-performances, like the numbers riff. She writes poems too, and I never know what to say when she recites one to me.

    She turns off the TV as if slamming down the phone. "Here's a number for you," she says, "0.  That's how much you still matter to me. Let me guess. Fran turned you away, and the cooler's because she felt sorry for you."

    "Untrue."  

    "Which part?"                       

    I don't say 'the 0,' although in times of various kinds of deprivation, I rely on her wanting me back. Instead I play lawyer: "Not coming from her place."

    Susan rolls her eyes, then struggles up from the couch and exits.  She returns with a hefty plastic basin.  She takes items out of the cooler, examines them, and puts some in the basin, others on a coffee table.  When the cooler's empty she sits back on the couch.

    "Phil, what do you think," she says, with accelerating tempo, "is there's a subtle yet crucial distinction between a woman on the one hand, and her natal cleft on the other?"

     She's a comedian too?  I mug thinking hard. "No way."

    "That part's yours," she says grimly, indicating the coffee table clutter.   So she wasn't joking; evidently, she's just completed our final accounting. 

    I do understand. One time I spent the night and "borrowed" cash from her purse in the morning.  She never said anything, but now I see it in her eyes.  "OK, I'll go find me a park bench," I say, playing the guilt card,  "keep all the food."

    "Thanks, and you can keep the mask" she says. Guess she's beyond guilt, she's not getting rich as a free lancer. "There's a pandemic on, you may have heard," she adds, sounding like my asshole brother. Then she tops off the basin with some of the coffee table delicacies, and lugs it into the kitchen.  I hear a fridge opening, the sounds of foodstuff placement.

    But she never actually said "get out." My remaining minutes of warmth could morph into hours. I picture her returning from the kitchen and retreating wordlessly into her bedroom, granting me the couch by sufferance; then we'd talk things out over breakfast.  

     Right.  "The real truth," I actually say out loud, "is that I'm welcome nowhere."

    Susan's still in the kitchen, but a voice answers: "Then lean into it."  Explain, I think.  "Don't wait," it says, "welcome nowhere, nowhere welcomes you. I'm the black hole that tried before to pull you away from the rejection tribunal.  The nothing that wants you to sleep on its couch.  Come."

    I take off my shoes, bolt for the front door and step outside.  Cold pavement slaps the soles of my feet. Susan appears behind me, looking quizzical.  I smile, wave, say "you're a talented poet," and start running.  Pain escalates with every footfall.  I'm thinking I'll dive behind a big bush and curl up; I'm thinking I'll dart in front of an oncoming car. Whichever comes along first. Whatever converges quickest on the vanishing point.

© µ 2020