Stud

Septimus S. Schwartz looked all around him as he scurried from his car to the door. He was convinced that someone was watching, that someone was plotting against him, even now. There is no way that anyone could know, but he still felt the piercing of others’ eyes boring into his skull. Even when he couldn’t see anyone at all.

He kept his coat close around him, hands clenched in his pockets in his mad dash for the apartment. Many of his neighbors were out in the hall, as the mail carrier had just delivered their social security checks. There was already wagering going on, and from what he heard, and the vast amount of cat food the cat-less Mr. Murphy brought home in the later half of each month, the high stakes card games were just about to start. He had heard that some folks never even cashed their checks; they just signed them right over at morning’s light.

One might think that 2 weeks of eating Friskies (by the box, not the fancy, expensive canned stuff—would be a lesson in restraint, but it doesn’t appear so. Each month it was the same old crunchy story.

Except this month, he ran right into it just before the evening’s festivities got under way. The last thing he wanted was a boatload of seniors watching his every move tonight. Damn. He should pay more attention to when the checks come out and the corresponding craziness of the seniors. In addition, it was a full moon tonight, which meant double the fun. May as well call the ambulance now, as someone is bound to choke on their teeth at the very least.

Someone was taking odds that Mrs. Simone will snarf down Mr. Pudgele’s nitro pills again—she can’t see for crap and keeps mistaking them for Mikes & Ikes, despite the pill bottle. Mrs. Simone even bet on herself eating the nitro. Once she’s downed a few of those, the muumuu comes off and that usually ends the party. Especially for the ambulance people. There’s no way they get paid nearly enough to carry ancient, 400 pound, naked, hallucinating ladies down 4 flights of stairs.

Septimus realized that the seniors, of whom he wasn’t nearly one, were his best defense. Now that he had finally bit the bullet, and was carrying the priceless package around, he found comfort and safety in their ranks. As long as Mrs. Muller didn’t try to feel him up, no one would know what he had. And they would both be safe for the night. No one would think to look for him amidst a poker-playing, feeding-frenzy of Metamucil popping, horny seniors. They were the best camouflage ever and he would have to keep that in mind for future reference.

He stopped through his apartment to lose his coat, and put the package somewhere that no one but Mrs. Muller would think to look. If she felt for it there, well, she might have a heart attack, and if she didn’t, she would never stop leering or groping him. However, she wouldn’t risk sharing her prize, so she wouldn’t mention it to anyone.

He got his quarters out and a few bills, grabbed a coke and headed out to the poker table. He soon found out that these folks played hardball and that they would not coddle the inexperienced youth. He had been around, had played the tables in Vegas plenty, but that did not prepare him for the viciousness that was the senior’s tour. The first table was $20 a hand. He had to go get more money, and as he didn’t have a social security check to hand over, he had to use cold, hard cash.

When he lost his initial stake of $200, he started auctioning items from his apartment, as he could not afford the risk of going back out, especially at night. His nightlights sold for the most money. They were hot commodities. Ditto the magnifying glass, the fuzzy slippers and robe that was not yet ensconced in old-lady-smell. His books didn’t sell, just a few for paperweights. They kept asking if he wanted to sell his teeth, not grasping, no matter how much he told them, and then showed them, that they were still attached to his body. No one wanted his brush, comb or any other personal hygiene products. He had eyeglasses, those magnifiers you can get in the drugstore; those bought him some extra time at the table.

The card sharks played him like a marlin. They hunted as a group and never missed an opportunity to rip a chunk out of him. You might think that peer pressure would have faded by the time folks are 90, but they knew how to pour it on. Poor Septimus, only forty years their junior, could not believe that he could lose, nor that they could be so bloodthirsty. It became a mob, and progressed to a hungry mob.

In order to score one more hand, one that he was sure he could win, he handed over his keys and they had his freezer cleaned out in no time. Mrs. Shufler could eat ice cream by the gallon without teeth to slow her down. He lost again. There was nothing left, but the clothes on his back and his favorite Jackson Browne CD, Lawyers in Love. He decided to part with the clothes first, forgetting his package. He just could not part with the album, it brought back memories of such happy times. They wanted the clothes more anyway, as they had been washed in the past year and weren’t yet threadbare.

They stripped him down in order to give him one last chance and he began to wonder if Meow Mix was better than 9-Lives. He realized that he may find out.

It was his last chance, last hand. They had discovered the package (and had all done way too much groping in the process). He was now playing for his wife. If he lost this hand of five-card-stud, then they would have a runoff to see whom he won. If one could call that winning. They had placed the ring in with the ante and were chanting--a freakish sound that scared him more than anything he had ever heard. He crossed his fingers as his cards were dealt. Everything else was already crossed. He peeked. Jack-high.

He knew it was over, knew he had lost everything. Then a voice in his head, a voice borne of a thousand generations of survivors spoke to him. He lunged for the ring in the middle of the table and did the only logical thing left to do- he swallowed it. He was too quick for them, by the time they realized what he had done, it was on its way down.

He began to gag, softly at first and then with feeling. The seniors watched curiously. They called dibs on who got to dig the ring out of his throat after he was done. As he lay on his back, still not believing this could be his fate, he saw the large mirror over the table. It all made sense. Maybe it wasn’t the voice of a thousand generations of survivors after all.

He clutched the broken CD case tighter.

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Herd

The herd ran in unison. Manes flew behind them as they stampeded in their panic. There was no way to tell where one animal began and another ended, the herd had become one. One large, frightened pack of animals that was unsure which way to turn. Which way to safety. Those in the lead took their best guess, but they had no real idea and they were oft overtaken by those whose terror was greater than their own. It was bedlam. Smaller and slower animals were being left behind. A fine example of the survival of the fittest. Those less fit may not last long enough to pass their genes on.

The invader moved closer. He could feel the ground shake with each crescendo in their symphony of flight. He got braver after seeing the herd’s response to the initial thrust. Now for the parry. He watched as the herd flowed back and forth across the field, unsure how to escape. Aware that they were trapped, like animals. Oh. Realizing they were trapped, their panic abated, mostly because they tired of running across the field, then wheeling and tearing back, only to do it all over again, with no well-defined goals.

The invader studied their pattern. Their anarchy. This should be an easy score. They are far too panicked to even try to defend themselves. Yet they could. If they had the appropriate leadership, they could use their strength of numbers to easily defend against the invader. Maybe an experienced animal, someone to serve as a coach to the rest, especially the flighty younger ones would help. A captain. But the invader wasn’t up for giving teambuilding advice to his prey.

The young ones, those who perceive and then propagate even a hint of a rumor to make it larger than life and thus scare the crap out of themselves and everyone else in the herd. They were the problem. Well, not for the invader. The elders in the herd still spooked, but not as readily and they were more likely to stand their ground. They were after all, veterans of at least a few campaigns and were much better at gathering and weighing evidence, as opposed to running willy-nilly around the enclosure for the next hour after someone got nervous.

One thing the herd members never learned in school about a stampede was that once it started, if you were anywhere near it, you had to run too, as though your life depended on it. It does. If you are staring up looking for a Sasquatch formation in the clouds when it starts, then you’ll be pavement after the concrete wall of the herd hits you. The old timers knew this, and thus tried to leave a safe distance between the spastic youth and themselves so they could avoid the false starts. But there were limits. If the spaces in the herd were too big, the invaders could start picking off individuals. This defeated the herd mentality entirely.

The elders have found, through trial, errors and more than a little attrition, that you had to try to contain the youngsters, keep them occupied, so that they weren’t reacting to every leaf that fell in their paths. They had to try to maintain order in the ranks. Easier said than done, but they had limited options out there on the battlefield.

The herd grew tired of the dance, so they stopped. Almost all at once. Except the littlest member. She had been running with her head down, determined to keep up with the others and she didn’t stop until she slammed full force into one of the biggest members, then bounced off and fell to the ground. She lay there for a moment stunned. No one came to her aid. With quiet cries, she picked herself back up and held her head high, as the rest of the herd averted their eyes. They could not bear to acknowledge weakness. Then they all melded together and she was lost in the sea of anonymity.

Now that they had stopped, and were tired, they took the time to reassess the threat. The invader was still there, and nowhere near as tired as they were. Apparently, the invader was better at planning. And waiting. They had taken the bait and fell for the feint, exhausting themselves before the game was even underway. The invader preferred a bit more sport than this, as he hardly had to do anything. Nevertheless, he had thoroughly enjoyed the show and pondered letting them rest up in order to do it again, but the clock was ticking and he was getting hungry. It was time to strike.

The invader started to run. Hard. The herd, too tired to stampede, scattered instead. Then, borne of a thousand generations, an ancient voice deep in their minds, told them to be proactive. To attack their attacker. To make his game plan their own. The plan was communicated telepathically between them and suddenly, the invader found himself surrounded by the herd. They were kicking at him. All of them at once. Ouch, that hurts.

He saw some daylight through the circle and he dashed for it. But as they were all still kicking him with their rubber tipped feet, they tripped him. As he fell, his life flashed before his eyes, certain that the end was as near as the feet whistling by his head.

He was surprised when the herd evaporated. The kicking stopped. He raised his head, sure that he couldn’t be dead, as there had been little pain.

And then he saw it, the ball had come loose when he fell, and the other team, both teams,
actually, had converged on the ball twenty feet away and it was another scrum of five year old future David Beckhams. Or not.


Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

A Nasty Business

The rain fell so hard that each drop left its imprint in the sand. After a few minutes, the drops in the sand turned to rivers flowing down the hill. The rivers carried the sand and the carnage left from a life poorly lived.

As today intersected with tomorrow, Filbert, or what was left of Filbert, dribbled away bit by bit. All that remained, when tomorrow dawned, was the imprint Filbert’s soles left on his coworkers. There wasn’t enough rain in the universe to wash that stain away.

It had started innocently enough--Filbert filching quarters for the pop machine from the admin’s desk. He grew bold branching out to other desks; he grew comfortable with the rest of the department funding his caffeine habit. Then, like an addict in need of a higher dose, he escalated to chocolate. You would be surprised at how many folks have chocolate and other great snacks in their drawers. Filbert was.

From there it morphed to open season. Once Filbert realized that he was the first one in the office by at least an hour, he became empowered. He realized that he could do whatever he wanted in that hour and that the cleaning staff would always get the blame.

He developed a system. He would start on the far side of the department and work his way through all of the cubicles over a period of a few weeks. Each morning was a different cubicle. He became intimately familiar with everyone’s personal life. He would scout out all of their drawers, fondle their family photos and then he would spin around in their chair until he barfed. He usually selected a file at the back in the bottom drawer for that act. That way they had all of the benefits without the mess. Initially, it took at least a week for them to figure out the source of the stench. Except during heat waves, they figured it out much faster then.

Just to allay suspicion, he was forced to occasionally ‘sit and spin’ in his own cubicle as well. However, he didn’t wait for the telltale signs as the others did. After a month or so, people were catching on. They would check their drawers as soon as they arrived. The winner, or rather the loser, would be the person whose folder had been barfed in. Everyone else would clap and cheer—thrilled that it wasn’t their useless documents that had been victimized by the barfer. It was team building, in a new and interesting way.

Filbert grew tired of that game, and of gorging himself to the point of retching every morning. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, his constant and whiny calls to the cleaning agency were endlessly entertaining. He had their number on speed dial and he would call them every hour with an update on who was barfed on and any other detail he could make up.

In order to keep people on their toes, he frequently strayed into other departments to do his work. This was riskier, but if only the engineering department suffered from the puker, someone, somewhere, may eventually see a pattern. You know how engineers are.

Eventually, folks tired of his games and started their own. One person set up a camera. Filbert never saw it coming. Late one afternoon, he got an anonymous e-mail with a link to a ‘hysterical YouTube clip.’ He was horrified to see himself sitting naked in Margaret’s cube, snarfing down her pretzels with both hands and then spinning and spinning and spinning, followed by barfing in her drawer. That was Filbert’s second last ‘sit and spin’- the last having taken place that very morning. It was the highest viewed clip on YouTube that week. It even made it on CNN and the Today Show.

The next morning, Filbert arrived as usual, but he was worried that the axe would fall. Figuratively, anyway. He had reason to worry, as he pulled into the lot, his co-workers surrounded him. They all wore gloves and were wearing haz-mat suits. He thought that was odd. And may not be a good sign. Then he realized that they were all armed with desk supplies. Realization that he wouldn’t be laughing this off with his co-workers set in.

They advanced. He saw staplers, tape dispensers, a wall mounted pencil sharpener (without the wall), heavy-duty file folders, and then some sharp implements- scissors, letter openers and paper cutters with rotary blades. Ouch.

Luckily, after the paper cuts across his chest and the stapling of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet, he lost consciousness. He didn’t even get to see the grand finale with the paper shredder.

He would have been impressed with their creativity.

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Rain

I admit that we had our moments of excess. We had an extravagant house and more than a few wild parties. Really, if you can’t have both Barnum and Bailey and all of their animals at your kid’s birthday party, then what exactly is the point? I squirreled money away--lots of money--for a rainy day, as I knew one day I would be damn grateful for an impenetrable umbrella. I’ve been watching the weather channel and it’s calling for rain. In fact, it just might be a monsoon.

I just had to act normally through one last dinner party. Just one more evening of expressing interest on the lives of the rich, vapid and empty “friends” with whom we surrounded ourselves in this hick town in the Rockies. Luckily it was a hick town that only the wealthiest could afford to play in, so they were wealthy hicks. All the better.

Acting perfectly normal when such a momentous event is at hand is quite difficult, especially when the goal is to arouse no suspicions. Not even my wife’s. They say money can’t buy happiness, but I’m guessing that ‘they’ don’t have any money or they would never say such a thing. Not only can it buy happiness, even by the hour when necessary, but it can also buy creative solutions to problems. Even life’s biggest problems. Talk about thinking outside the box.

Everything and everyone has their price and the reason most folks get nowhere all their lives is that they cannot pay the price. Can’t or won’t, I’m not sure which. That and they don’t have the drive to succeed at all costs, like me. I wasn’t born filthy rich. I worked extremely hard all my life to get where I am. That money wasn’t going to steal itself and migrate to my bank account, you know. Someone had to be out there, actively stealing nest eggs from those little old ladies and socking it away in Swiss bank accounts. And Cayman Island accounts. And anywhere else I could think of. Call them insurance policies. Call them whatever you like, just as long as there’s no paper trail, not that anyone will be looking for one.

So tonight is the big score. I am to be on the plane at 2:05 at the private airstrip and the plane will fly me to the aforementioned Cayman Islands. But, I have to walk through the woods, as I can’t be seen. And I can’t take more than a briefcase of passports, identities and bank account numbers and passwords. Of course, I won’t need anything else, and if I do, there’s American Express. In the name of my new identity.

From the Caymans, I will pick up my new boat and start a new life. It does sound appealing, doesn’t it? Everyone should get the chance to start over with a clean slate (and lots of dough in the bank). After all, think of all the mistakes you’ve made in your first 64 years. Tons of them, right? So, if you have half a brain, then you’ve learned from them and wouldn’t make those same mistakes again. And having all that cash to begin again….it boggles the mind to think of it.

Anyway, I digress. At about midnight, with a little help from his friends, my newest friend will ingest a fatal dose of nitroglycerine in his nightly shot of whiskey. It will be enough to throw his heart into a fatal arrhythmia and though help will be called, in this podunk town, that means an ambulance that mostly serves to scrape up road kill. There will be no chance of revival. They will try, but two electrodes attached to a car battery probably won’t help anyone, not even the road kill, unless you’re ready to cook it. But it will look quite convincing. Hell, a 64 year old man, tons of stress over the last few years, horrible diet, no exercise. Men like that drop dead every day. And today will be no different. Except that, I will be an extremely wealthy man because of this one man’s date with my destiny.

I am already insanely wealthy, but the gods are fickle and my fortune is at risk. So is my freedom. This is my way out. This is the only way to be sure that the money I have so carefully stolen and hidden all of these years remains with its rightful owner- me.

I have made the necessary arrangements, made the elaborate plans that allowed for contingencies. I had a back up plan- another “victim” the following night if for some reason this didn’t go according to the plan. And I am on my way to the Caymans.

Me, and that guy, what’s-his-name, are both on our final journeys. Mine is a nicer place, however. His ashes will conveniently be scattered in my stead where no DNA can ever be recovered -in the ocean- from my favorite yacht by my favorite wife. But he won’t get an obituary, only I will. Mine will be on the front page of every newspaper in the world, as it is not every day that one of America’s most creative, most reviled thieves dies. Especially after being convicted but before being sentenced. It’s almost like dying in a state of grace.

Actually it turns out that it IS dying in a state of grace. Just ask my extraordinarily well-paid lawyers. They will soon argue that Ken Lay, since he died before he could exhaust the appeals process, deserved to have his name cleared posthumously, and thus the government does not have a right to his estate as restitution for his crimes. And, they will win.

And, if someday, I were to appear on US soil again, I am merely a dead man, and I'm not even a felon. And even if my picture were on the front page of every paper, how many of you would recognize me when you pass me on the street? I’m just another white haired old coot in plaid pants sporting a great tan.

My old friend Jeffrey Skilling will spend the next two and a half decades in prison. I bet he was ticked when he read the news--I always was one step ahead of the game and at least three steps ahead of that pinhead. That would be why I was CEO and he wasn’t. Maybe I’ll pay him a visit in a few years- THAT would be fun.

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Dream

The long awaited day had finally arrived. I could not wait to get home to check the mailbox. The results would be there, just waiting for me. For all us. It’s really cruel that they send the results out via snail mail. What’s wrong with e-mail? A phone call?

Months of waiting followed months and months of jumping through hoops. All of the testing. It was unreal what we had to go through. There were appointments with medical doctors, psychiatrists, financial planners, sociologists (I still don’t know what they had to do with anything, but there they were, collecting their $500/hour fee).

It started as a wisp of an idea. We want the best for our family- who doesn’t? And, because our best is so much better than anyone else’s, that should qualify us right there. We overheard some super-achievers at the park talking about the school and we thought we should check it out. So we did. Of course, we had absolutely no idea how competitive it is to get into the “BEST” school. Not schools. There’s only one.

We got caught up in the dream, sure that the school was perfect for us. How could we not be perfect candidates for the school? We’re rich. We give money away like candy, and we fill the pool with crystal champagne-- a little unorthodox, but hey, why not? We’re snooty and elitist- we have a staff. I can’t see how they wouldn’t pick us. There is no way. We funded the new wing- the entire sensory deprivation wing came from us at the very beginning of the process.

The testing was extreme. And thorough. Talk about leaving no stone unturned… think about leaving no body part unturned. We had to undergo more testing than Jack did. That seemed a little weird. It was a feat of endurance to make it though all of their hoops. Literally. We trained as if to run a marathon, as that was part of the application process. The very first step was for the adults to run in the next marathon. We had to qualify for the Boston Marathon in order for our prodigy to even be considered. That means we had to do it in under 3:25. I now saw why people started their training long before they even had their candidate. You can’t apply prior to the arrival of the candidate, but immediately upon their arrival, the calls, e-mails and appointments begin. The application process itself takes over a year.

With a little (okay, a lot) of help from the local subway, we barely managed to qualify for the Boston marathon. We didn’t actually have to run Boston, but we had to qualify for it. We thought about running it after all, being as we qualified, but I’m not as familiar with the rapid transit system in relation to the marathon course in Boston, so it seemed risky. But, they had many other things in store for us anyway.

There was hypno-regression for those of us who could speak. It wasn’t enough to prove that we were ridiculously rich in this lifetime, but we had to be regressed to make sure we came from elite stock going back generations. I had heard, but did not have confirmed, that if you weren’t a 500-head slave holder with a plantation in a previous life, you may as well quit right then. Because your little bundle of joy doesn’t stand a chance. Which could be a relief, but what would the neighbors say? Not to mention the genteel folks at the club. Can you imagine the snubbing? It would probably make the Queen’s response to Diana look like a friggin tea party.

After the marathon came the intelligence tests. Because it was too early to test Jack’s IQ accurately, they tested ours. We both had to score in the top 5 percentile of the Mensa crowd. Lucky for us, we worked day and night for weeks to find the answers on-line and thus were well prepared. I figured if you’re smart enough to cheat your way in, the IQ question is moot.

Then came the financial inspection. If it was anyone other than Ken Lay researching us, I would be confident that we could snow our way out of that one. Luckily, if there’s one thing Ken Lay understands, it is secret bank accounts in remote locations. I guess that was lucky for all of us—mostly for him, as I believe Ken has had the opportunity to draw on that account now that he’s been re-born. Or un-dead, if you prefer.

Next up, the mental stress tests. Well, frankly, if we could find a way to maneuver though the rest of the minefield, this part was a cakewalk. All we had to do was some exhaustive research on the Psychiatrists. Just a boatload of cash and some plane tickets to an investigator and our psych tests were the shortest in history. We walked in, threw some pictures taken from his most recent Thailand vaca on his desk and walked out with stellar psych references.

That was everything. Well, aside from some plastic surgery--as the candidate had to look his very best for the interviews and tests. Just a little cosmetic work and some implants and he was ready to go. We actually got the family plan- Tony and I had the works- pretty ,much everything was lifted, separated, and suctioned and Jack had whatever was needed to make him more appealing.

We all lived at the clinic for 3 months. We told everyone we were all in rehab- that’s so much more respectable than showing up with stitches and bruises all over. Of course, no one recognized us when we came out, but that’s okay. We didn’t like most of those people anyway, so we’ll just befriend the younger ultra-rich set.

After almost a solid year of jumping though these hoops and being scrutinized within an inch of our lives, we were finished. Now we waited to see what the executive committee had to say. I wonder how they felt sitting in judgment of us. And all of the loser families that were also trying to get a leg up for their prodigies by getting them into the country’s most exclusive academy.

We had discovered that the right school, even at one year old, can make all the difference. The right connections for later in life. The right past for future schools. There is no way anyone would not be impressed- he would travel with the elitist of the elite and never look back. The very basis of his career would rest on the school that he attends, and if we were to chose poorly (or if the selection committee chose poorly), his entire career and thus his entire life would be ruined long before it even starts.

The only problem that we couldn’t solve was bribing the selection committee. Turns out those amoral bastards will take everyone’s bribe and lie through their teeth about their allegiance. If you don’t bribe them, you get the thin letter that says “We regret to inform you…” immediately, instead of waiting 3 months with everyone else. The only way we could deal with the jury was to put a contract out on all of them, in the event that we weren’t deemed good enough of their school. We did do that, however, it didn’t help us to get Jack in.

The day arrived. They told us when to look for the letters. I whipped the maid so she would hurry to get the mail. She waited at the mailbox for three hours; I think she didn’t want to spend any more time with me and the whip than she had to. I was breathless. I had to steel myself with a few bottles of Jack Daniels in order to stay conscious. Then it was even harder. Jack and I snuggled up to await the news of his future. He did not seem to realize the importance of this event, despite my repeated and slurred explanations. I think he was tuning me out.

Finally, the maid drove up the driveway. I was all-atwitter. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t sit. I ran out to meet her and ripped the mail from her arms. I tried to focus on return addresses, throwing letters, catalogs and other detritus in the rosebushes in my desperation. There it was. I had it. It seemed thin, but I was actually seeing three of them so that may not have been a reliable observation. Jack wasn’t even out there with me. I think this meant far more to me than to him.

I had the maid open it and read it to me. “We regret to inform you that YuppyPuppy Elitist Academy has determined that you and your pet do not meet the standards for the incoming class….”


Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Love Lost

I still cannot believe that you’re gone. You flew in and out of my life in a mere moment, but you left your mark on me and you will always be in my heart. You will always be a part of me. It is with much sadness that I must say my final goodbye. Though we had only recently met, it was love at first sight. It felt like we had known one another forever, maybe in another lifetime? I can’t be sure, but you put me immediately at ease and it seemed like you knew my deepest secrets, but you didn’t hold them against me.

We had some great times and I don’t regret a moment that we spent together. You liked to stay at home and hang out, never really wanted to socialize, and I was okay with that. You were content to hang out with me and watch a movie every night. I loved that about you. Spending those quiet evenings at home, starting with the day we met was so special. I have trouble believing that it could ever be the same.

We’ve all heard the clichés…”time heals all wounds,” “it’s for the best,” “you’re young, you’ll find love again,” and, “in a better place now.” Yikes. Spare me the crap.

And all I can think is yes, they are clichés. The people who spew those crusty platitudes are thoughtless, clueless people who have no idea what real loss feels like. Clearly they have not lost the love of their lives or they wouldn’t say anything so stupid and inane. I could write a book to explain it to them, but l don’t think they’d get it, even then. Maybe I could even read it to them and keep telling them “this means you,” but again, I don’t think it would stop the clichés that flow like waterfalls at times such as this.

To think that, after all of these years, I finally found the love of my life. And then, in little more than a heartbeat, I lost the love of my life. Thirty-five years of searching at every AA meeting, every church social and under every single rock, and just when I had finally given up on finding love, I ran into you in the grocery store. And you were perfect. It was fate. I guess that maybe love at first sight is a cliché too, but I’m telling you it was just that.

You were so sweet, so understanding. If I had a tough day, you were there to comfort me. You never judged me, never criticized me. It was a perfect relationship, albeit far too short. You were always there for me and I really appreciated that. I know that many relationships don’t have that depth, that people start being absent, even when they’re physically present, because they get bored. You never got bored, your existence revolved around mine and that was so refreshing. I had never encountered that before and now that I’ve had it, I don’t know how I’ll get through a day without it.

I guess I will get to be the judge of whether time heals all wounds or not. I suppose that it probably will, but I doubt that it announces itself during the process. “Attention: you are now 50% healed.” So I probably won’t realize it until long after the fact, and only then will I begin to feel complete again. I will find out eventually, I guess.

Mostly, I will miss the taste of you on my lips. I will miss your sweetness, and the perfection of US when we were together. I have been around the block enough times to know when there is a one-in-a-million connection. And we had it, there is no doubt. And then you were cruelly taken from me. I will forever treasure what we had and you will be with me forever. Probably on my hips.

Tomorrow, a stop at Wegman’s on the way home. I’m thinking chocolate chip this time.

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

The Quest

Nestor Livingston’s senses were heightened; every nerve was on high alert. This would be the fight or flight reflex that we’ve all heard about all of our lives. He was ready. And he was sure that this time, he’d fight. He was tired of turning tail and running away. Again and again. And again.

After his embarrassing retreat the last time, Nestor had been steeling his mind. Working on the iron control required to overcome his body’s natural reflexes. He had spent a lot of time in the self-help section of the library and in Half Price Books. He had bought, or stolen, just about every book out there that might be of value. However, for every book of value, there must be 2,500 other books that are just crap. It’s time consuming to sort through them all for the cream of the crop.

He started with The Self-esteem Companion: Simple Exercises to Help You Challenge Your Inner Critic & Celebrate Your Personal Strengths and if that didn’t work, there were 137,615 other books—one of them was bound to help him. He opened it up. The book said that he was supposed to take a personal inventory and analyze himself—the before picture, if you will. He wasn’t interested in that kind of research. He needed a book that would tell him what to do, without making him think. The last person he wanted to get to know better was Nestor. He found himself to be a creepy dude.

He re-shelved that one with the diet books. He figured someone would latch onto it in blind relief that it wasn’t a diet book and maybe the sad sacks searching for diet help would be happy to grab onto something that celebrates their personal strengths and lets them forget their weakness, which I presume is anything in, on, or even within three blocks of a grocery store. Or a mini-mart.

Next up: You Don't Have to Learn Everything the Hard Way: What I Wish Someone Had Told Me. Well, that sounded promising. He flipped through it. Great pictures, mostly of car accidents—that must be the “don’t do this” section. Apparently, the author had spent their lifetime personifying the word “loser” and has only now decided that there was a way to capitalize on it. Or, more likely, the most recent in a long, long, long series of therapists couldn’t possibly take another session, and suggested that the epitome of losers should start writing things down, in order to avoid being forced to jump out the window during the loser’s final session.

Nestor filed that one in the children’s section. Where else to put a book that is supposed to save people from making dumb-ass mistakes in life? If it’s not kids reading it, then it’s probably already too late, cause the odds are that if someone’s shopping in that section for the store, that they’ve already made at least a few of the biggies and are desperately seeking for the rewind button.

The next book that he grabbed was Self-Help Approaches for Obesity and Eating Disorders: Research and Practice. He wasn’t remotely interested in that one, but was sure it should be relocated to the cookbook section. Just for kicks. Nestor was certain that someone would find that funny. He did, anyway.

This one was funny, Button Therapy: The Button Therapy Book: How to Work on Your Buttons and the Button-Pushers in Your Life -- A Practical Psychological Self-Help Book & ... Manual for Mental Health Professionals. Well, clearly that had to go in the sewing section. Who doesn’t need a little button therapy? It had buttons sewn on the cover. Just a little creepy. And, if anyone knows creepy, it’s Nestor.

The next one may have been the best one: How an Idiot Writes a Self-help Book. He wasn’t making that up—go to Amazon.com and see for yourself. It was a picture book. Apparently, the idiot that the author had in mind was illiterate. I don’t know how the author thought they would find the book if they couldn’t read, but maybe they thought that the idiot’s companion monkey would select it for the idiot. And they might. That got filed in the ‘How to write a best selling novel’ section. It seemed appropriate.

Ohh, he found a fun one. Stay Sober and Straight: How to Prevent Addiction Relapse with the Rational Self-Help Treatment Method. That one is definitely going in the cocktail recipe book section. And they do have such a section. He thought that the alcoholics would really appreciate that little reminder when they’re looking for new tributaries for their rivers of denial.

Next up, The Incredible Marketing, Success Principles and Inner Game for Self-help Books Businesses 3 CD Power Pack. That clearly was headed to the Bankruptcy section. DOUGH! Hey, if you can’t find something to laugh about as your world crashes around your ears, you need an attitude adjustment. He was sure the destitute would appreciate a laugh before they go home and put the hose in the tailpipe.

Last, but not least, Help Yourself Slow Down the Pace: A Self-Help Program for Workaholics (The Help Yourself Audio Series). This should definitely be in with the how to find a job/resume section. He thought it would be a nice taunting for the unemployed.

Of course, he was a regular in most of the self-help sections, so he would probably be the only one to notice the paradoxes. But that’s okay, as long as he was amused.

Back to the purpose of the visit to the bookstore. In addition to speed-reading the perfect book (Evelyn Wood style, of course), he was really going to talk to her this time.

Candy Samples was working the register. He had loved her from afar for so long. This time, with the newly found confidence from Dating for Losers, for Men Only: An Uncensored Politically Incorrect Self-Help Guide to Meeting and Dating Women he could do it. Not that he considered himself a loser, he knew he was a winner, mostly because he told himself that every day while looking in the mirror and smiling at himself. Even he found that a little freaky, but the book said that women find it irresistible. He was sure that he could talk to her this time.

He was getting closer to the front of the line. He was starting to sweat. Profusely. Probably no one would notice. The book that he was actually buying, The DaVinci Code, was a best seller, so he thought he’d open with discussion about that. Of course, he had bought the DaVinci Code from her every week for the last 3 months. From what he gathered, everyone had read that book, so he should be able to ask her about it. One of these days.

He was next. He had his money out and was beginning to feel that sick feeling in his stomach… hurry up. Oh oh…despite the superior mind control of a monkey in crack rehab, it wasn’t working. One of the signs of the flight reflex was the very full bladder that would not be contained. Nestor was left with the usual option—throw down a twenty-dollar bill and run, hoping to get to the car before anyone noticed the wet spot in his pants.


Author's note- all book titles are real- culled from Amazon.com. I cannot take credit for the titles, not even the button one, or 'how an idiot writes a self-help book', (though I just assumed that it was a picture book, I did not confirm).

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.