Between Search & Boredom

Jeremiah Harenza facebooked me the other night. Jeremiah is the youth minister’s (Matt’s) son from my Church back in Missouri. He’s cool.

He said late one night, “Eric, I’m bored. Let’s have a deep convo.” I said really. He said yeah. I got excited and I asked exactly what he wanted to talk about. I could almost see him smile and shake his head through facebook as he typed “I don’t know. I’m just bored.” I said okay and said I would start off by quoting something I had just read. And he said okay. Here is what I wrote.

“The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks that looked like scaffolding and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars that all seemed to be moving very slowly as if they were about some vast construction work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete. No one was paying any attention to the sky. The stores in Taulkinham stayed open on Thursday nights so that people could have an extra opportunity to see what was for sale.” (Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood).

He said, “Wow, that’s really descriptive and good.”

I said that I agreed and I told him a little about Flannery O’Connor and then asked him about why he thought the people weren’t paying any attention to the sky. Why didn’t they look up? Why was Wal-Mart more important?

He smiled through the screen again and said, “Oh, this is the deep conversation, isn’t it?”

I smiled and said, “Sure.”

He said something like, most of us are leading far too busy lives to stop and smell the roses. I told him he was exactly right.

We talked a little longer and then went to bed.

--

Jeremiah, let me shift gears here and tell you about an adventure I had the other night. For a while now I have had the urge to spend the night outside in the Great North Woods. My time in Portland is quickly coming to an end so I hopped the train and made my way up into Washington Park…the wilderness…the iconic northwest. I wanted to spend the evening on an adventure…on a search. I was looking for something but I did not know exactly what. I guess I was bored like you were the other night and I wanted something deeper . . . something real.

I passed the zoo and came to a wide open area. A sign read; The Garden of Solace (It was a Vietnam memorial). I paused in the serenity of it all and whispered something like, “O Oregon I love you.”

I am going to miss this place. It is gorgeous. As I was walking in the open space these two shadows on the hill began yelping expletives at me about homosexual activities that I can’t repeat here. I ignored them and kept marching. I was on a search. And those morons hadn’t found what I was looking for. I was looking for something else.

Up a hill…through the woods… to grandmother’s house I went.

Pine needles scratched my arms and broke ‘neath my feet. I finally came to a park bench that was tucked into a hill overlooking the Garden of Solace. The soft moon paled down a comfortable glow. Towering pines ridged and walled around this grand picture before me. Sitting there I imagined a Bob Ross painting (Google search Bob Ross if you don’t know who I’m talking about – happy trees).

The moon was ducking in and behind the clouds. The stars were trying not to be shy. But this is Oregon and the clouds are like Michael Jordan up here…they never lose. They are clutch. I watched as an airplane disappeared into the swollen bosom of one of those clouds. Watching this plane made me think of another Flannery O’Connor quote, she says, “I wouldn’t give you nothing for no airplane. A buzzard can fly.” I like Flannery O’Connor a lot. I muse that she’s my southern sweat-heart. Jeremiah, always read Flannery O’Connor, but remember . . . she’s mine . . .before she’s yours.

I had two jackets with me. One for warmth and one for a pillow. All alone, gazing into the night sky, my eyes drooped, my body sagged and sank into the hard bench. Under the stars, well clouds, I fell asleep.

It was nice while it lasted. I was awakened by a young couple arguing. While I was sleeping the clouds must have rolled away. I rubbed my eyes in the moonshine and calculated that the young man arguing had been wronged by his girlfriend, or former girlfriend. He was broken, and he was pissed. He said things like, ”I love you…I was so nice to you…You f’ed with me . . . I hate these stupid f’ing human emotions…I hate them…I wish we never met . . . I was so good to you. . .I told you that you were pretty . . . I told you that I loved you . . . I hate human emotions.” The girl was crying a bit but not really sorry for what she had done. I gleaned that she was set on whatever decision she had made. He went on for a while. Not violent or anything (I would have tried to intervene if that were the case), he was just confused and hurt. And they had no idea that I was there. They were ten feet away from my head. There was a tree between us. She walked away. She went up the hill behind me. He stayed pondering with heavy breathing, ripping grass, throwing sticks and rocks mindlessly down the hill. I was invisible. I felt like a hobo in the dark listening to it all. I wonder if this is what God feels like sometimes when we forget that he’s around. I felt bad for the guy. I’ve been in his shoes. And it hurts. Wishing you never met someone so you wouldn’t be tangled to them when they decided to leave. It pulls and tugs at your insides. Dazed and delirious he eventually left. Lying in the best of environments I was looking at this majestic backdrop pondering a Walker Percy question, “Why do people often feel bad in good environments and good in bad environments?” I thought about a young couple finding love in the slums of New Delhi, India, the worst of all possible environments. I gathered my things and figured it was time to keep searching.

I went on the bridge in the middle of the Garden of Solace to give it one last look. Enamored by it’s sheer beauty I stared into the abyss as I heard the low rumble of a man’s voice slowly declare, “Who’s. On. My. Bridge?”

Panicking a bit. A bulge clenched at the back of my throat. I didn’t answer. I convinced myself that he would go away. But he didn’t. He persisted, “Who’s. On. My. Bridge?” Hearing footsteps I puffed air in my lungs which lifted my neck and raised my shoulders to make me more intimidating. I think I’m superman sometimes, I really do. I stopped and turned with the gait of a soldier and that’s when I saw the black shadow shifting closer and closer. My mind flashed horror movies. I clutched the ballpoint pen in my pocket. I was prepared to stab to owner of this bridge. Shadows, footsteps, brain pounding, wind howling. In my manliest voice I mustered, “What? What do you want?” Nothing happened. The shadow froze. Was I imagining this?

“Oh, your not Reggie or Candy? I thought you were…” His voice turned into a midgets voice all of a sudden. He didn’t scare me.

“No man. I’m not.” I said relieved.

“Sorry, I thought you were … Sorry I freaked you out.”

I didn’t say anything. He was just a punk kid after all. He shifted back to where he came from. Imagine it, two people afraid of each other in the dark. We are both stupid. I put the pen back in my pocket. I sighed, I didn’t have to kill anybody after all.

I walked out of the park and went back to where the trains station was. The security guard pulled up in his freshly washed shiny and brand new sparkling Jeep Liberty and said, “The trains aren’t in service. It’s too late.” I acted like I was shocked. Of course the trains weren’t running it was 2 in the morning. I asked how to get back to the city. He told me that I had two options: you can either go that way to the highway, or, you can go that way wind down through the park. I said thanks out loud and under my breath I thanked him for not giving me a ride. He drove off and left me all alone in the looming darkness. But I had a journey ahead of me.

I chose the long way down through the park. I say park, but it’s not a city park, don’t think that. It’s all wilderness and pine out here. I made my way around a few bends and came to a decision. A huge white barricade stretched across the dark, cold pavement. It was latched together with the park ranger’s seal. A Warning sign posted that the park was closed. I couldn’t help but think of “NON SHALL PASS!” And I won’t lie, the hair on my neck shot up to the thought of the park ranger guiding me in this forbidden direction. Goosebumps, R.L. Stine style, jarred my insides. What should I do?

I took a deep breath and stepped into the forbidden doom. In a mysterious wood: stood a frightened but fearless boy. I was on a search. I delved into the dark forlorn abyss. Fearing life, fearing death. Wishing I could just be bored at home in front of a computer, or, a T.V. Anything but this Undertaker of a journey. I stared at it and it stared at me. We were both blank and motionless. I winked into the cold night and pulled air deep into my chest and took a step and another.

My shoes are old. The moistness of the earth had seeped between the cracks and with every step of my left foot I heard a squeak. “erh . . . . erh.” In the pitch of the night I was turned into natures chew toy. I was a walking rubber ducky. The bears wouldn’t have to look for me and neither would the crazy psycho park ranger. And God was laughing. “erh . . . . erh.” If God wasn’t laughing, the frogs and buzzards sure were. Frogs sure like to talk out here. They croak all night. They don’t care if you know where they are. Frogs and women are a lot alike. They both talk all the time. But somehow they’re cute when they talk (now I’m talking about women, not frogs, I’m not attracted to frogs).

I’ll be honest, the scariest thing about all of this was the black patches of asphalt where they had filled in potholes. They were either black holes, giant leeches, brooding and hovering sting rays or something much worse. “erh . . . . erh” I squeaked on. Things come alive at night.

Finally, I found some rock and dust that I managed to choke out the chew toy with. I silenced the rubber ducky.

It wasn’t all scary out here. I stopped a few times and marveled at the stillness of it all. I became amazed by the thought that this just sits out here under the diamond sky. The moonlight dappled through trees and draped the leaves leaving them suspended in time. They were floating and I was watching.


But I was getting tired. I had walked along ways and it was getting late. I didn’t quite realize that the train went this far into the park. I had been to this park before but not this far in.

I eventually found my way to the touristy part of the park that I was more familiar with. And I went straight for the Rose Garden. Portland is nicknamed the City of Roses. There are a lot of roses up here.

It was tranquil and serene. Have you ever smelt the roses when they’re being watered in the moonlight. I heard water but I didn’t see it until the moon prismed off the glassy sheet. There were a thousand tiny water spicket doing the same thing around me. I now understand why a Garden is a metaphor for paradise and redemption. Being weary and lonesome, I stumbled in, and found solace in the calming aroma. In the middle of the night when they are being watered the roses open up let off an angelic smell. I sank my weary bones on a concrete bench and fell asleep amongst ten thousand roses. Jesus
was right the son of man has no place to lay his head. The birds and swallows nest. The badgers burro. The bears cave. But what does man do? Man wakes up shivering a bit with a pain throbbing in his lower back and decides it’s time to find home.

I don’t know where I’m going most of the time but when it’s dark I am really lost. So I weaved my way down through more park and came upon some houses. I took a few trails. Apparently just below Washington Park is where all the doctors and lawyers in Portland decided to live. The houses and cars weren’t cheap.

I found myself climbing a steep incline to a city bridge. Standing there overlooking the city. I didn’t recognize anything. What the hell? I saw buildings but I didn’t recognize them. Do you know how disappointing it is to see buildings jutting from the ground that you’ve lived next to for six months and not recognize one of them. I live right downtown in the middle of all this. I should recognize something. Shouldn’t I? Did I just wake up in New Jersey? But I kept walking. I passed a stumbling hobo and waved. He waved back. That’s solidarity a four in the morning.

I unzipped my bag and took a swig from the water I packed. I had to put it in a coffee thermos because we didn’t have a water bottle in the house. I about gagged and spewed the water everywhere because after five hours of being in a coffee stained thermos the coffee takes over and seeps it’s way into the water. Hungry, thirsty, tired and confused I kept walking.

And then I saw her. Clay Street. I was about 12 blocks south of my house. How the hell I got that far away baffles me but I was regenerated by knowing where I was. I was going home.

At an intersection some cops stared me down. They eyed my thermos. I gave ‘em a cold shoulder and kept walking. I mean, I was on a search and these petulant predators didn’t have anything for me. They didn’t know what I was looking for.

I found a Thai restaurant on 13th and Jefferson called Thai Chili Jam . Pad Thai sounded good. But it wasn’t open. So, I vowed to return the next day with my writing friend Fred. And to make it sweeter I staved off my hunger until lunch the next day. It was really hard to do but the curry tastes better that way. I staggered on home, took my shoes off at the door and sat down at my computer. And wrote Fred an email telling her I had a story to tell but that I would do it over Thai food.

And then I started in on my friend Krista Winchester’s support letter that she will be sending out soon. We had talked earlier on the phone about it. She wanted some help and I was honored and glad to help her. Weary and exhausted in the boring 4AM glow of the computer I jumped in to letter writing. She is leaving this October for a survey trip with her teammates (James and Katie Waddell) in the country of Niger located in Northwest Africa. She’ll be learning French for a few months before she joins the team for the long haul. She would love your prayers and your money. Coming from me, I couldn’t imagine spending either in any better way. Neither will be wasted on her. If you want to help Krista, I’ll be glad to help you.

Jeremiah, that was my search. But here we are again. “The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks that looked like scaffolding and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars that all seemed to be moving very slowly as if they were about some vast construction work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete. No one was paying any attention to the sky. The stores in Taulkinham stayed open on Thursday nights so that people could have an extra opportunity to see what was for sale.” (Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood).

But remember Flannery's mine.

Power Thru Language

P.S. I read this during the beginning of Church services yesterday at Imago Dei Community.

As Imago moves through the season of Pentecost, a time in the church calendar for exploring how the Spirit of God transforms apparent weaknesses into power, today let us worship God for the power He brings through language.

--

Imago, John’s Gospel reveals that Christ is the Word of God and it tells us that it is through him and by him that all things were made. Words were pushed through the lips of God into an empty space . . . a vague nothingness . . . and something happened. Light flashed and darted into the world. Through a single word the soot and marrow of the earth jointed together . . . the blood and patter of life stirred. A word was uttered and mankind bloomed into the Image of God.

We understand that the confusion of the Tower of Babel is being undone by the reverberating power of Pentecost. The day when the Holy Spirit rushed down as fire upon a Christ centered community and animated it with a new language, a new story. Paul tells us that this new language, that this new story cultivates things like love and joy, peace and patience, goodness and kindness, things like faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

Imago, this is our story. This is our identity . . . that of being salt and light to the earth. Of bringing comfort to the sufferer. Of providing food to the poor. We are a people of turning low things high and high things low.

We will soon be partakers in the sacred ceremony called communion. A grand remembering of our story. Where we will consume the Living God through the emblems of Bread and Wine. l call you to begin this communion now through song. And so may the Spirit of God transform our modest mouth-pieces into majestic declarative instruments of worship. I call you, a-court-of-noble-story-tellers, to worship, adore and venerate our Lord.

-e.p.allen

A FLIGHT CALLED TULSA

I was sitting on the train heading my way across the city called Portland en-route to the airport. I watched people check their watches and phones in haste for the time and I smirked because what difference does it make if you know the time on the train or not? It wont change anything if you know what time anyway. It's really simple, the train gets there when the train gets there. You can't change a thing about it. So why check? Now, it might change the way you get off the train. You can either run to the check-out-counter or you can casually get off and enjoy a cup of coffee and watch other people run to the check-out-counter.

And so yes . . . I checked the time.

I reckoned that I didn’t have to do no running but I couldn’t go on sitting around wasting my whole life watching people either. I mean I was betwixt the two folks. You know I was kinda just on-time and well that can be a big bore if you ask me. How lame is it for a guy to be just on-time these days? No fun in it I tell ya.

The guy running with his arms flapping about is way more exited about the airport than I. He is on a mission, an adventure. Everyone is ducking out of his way because he seems more important that’s all. And then there is the guy who is far to early for anything productive. God's not even this early. This guy has the freedom to do whatever he wants. I'm jealous of this man's leisure. He has it made. And then there is boring old me. Standing in line. Getting out my drivers license and ticket information for the lady at the counter. No excitement in that at all. I am a predictable traveler but I have to remind myself that I am going somewhere.

The lady behind the counter greets me and then informs me that my bags are to heavy. I wanted to tell her that she was too heavy. But I didn’t. She said I could take something out and put it my carry-on or I could pay $25.95. I said, “25.95 for 2 pounds are you serious?” She said, “yes, I'm sorry sir!” So I took two big books out and re-tried. She told me my bag had lost weight. I said thanked her. But she hadn't lost weight.

Now my backpack was heavy and I didn’t like that much. It was getting to me and all. I have sensitive shoulders (not really). Lugging that around all day didn't thrill me much. So before I took it over to the guys with the big scanners behind me I slyly (I can be pretty sly sometimes) looked around and put one book back in the fat bag. I don’t know why I do things like this. Maybe I'm crazy. To know the truth I wanted to put both books back in but I figured that I couldn’t be that rebellious and still have a good day. My ethical self would be compromised. It's just not healthy for a guy to do. I figured it would be bad karma or something eastern like that. Fortunately for me nobody saw, or nobody cared. Yes, I know, God saw but I'm sure he didn't much mind. I don't see him getting to upset about something like putting a big book back in your bag when you have sensitive shoulders and all.

And yet I found myself in another line being prodded along with the rest of the heifers. There was this real dangerous couple in front of me that had this jar of Jam. I was getting pretty antsy and nervous about them. And then the-big-TSA-cow-prodding-rancher-lady came over and saved the day by telling them to throw it away in the name of safety. So I told them, they were from Madison, Wisconsin, that I was horrified and shocked that they would even try such a thing. Bastards, not on my plane. Then I asked what flavor it was and where they got it. They bought that dangerous, potent and conspicuous Rhubarb Jam at the Saturday Market here in Portland for his dear mother back home. After I heard that I was sure glad they threw it away and all. I told em' I would pray for em' and their evil ways.

When I made it to the front of the line the safety people made me take off my belt and de-robe my feet and then take out all the little clangy things in my pockets and then they scanned my bones and my luggage. Sure glad that happened. Aren’t dangerous people (I didn't use the word terrorist) smarter and more crafty than these safety nets we throw out there?

When I got on the plane I sat next to a lady that looked nice enough. But boy did she have a jibber jabber jaw on her. It clacked and smacked up and down. It sang the whole way to Phoenix. She talked my brain raw. She went on about her photography business, about her niece whose coming out to visit, about her husband, about her dog . . . I was damn near surprised she didn't start talking about her menstrual cycle. Though she was forty something...so I reckon that wouldn't be much of a problem...or maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. To know the truth, I'm sort of blushing now. But then Chatty Cathy (I don't remember her name) gave me her peanuts. A kind enough gesture for talking my damn ears off. I mean, I was trying to look out at the Grand Canyon for the first time in my life. I tell ya, we flew straight over the top of that magnificent red beast. The earth was jutted, clawed, rooted and creased. But little-miss-chatty-pants just kept jawing as we was flying right over Americas scar called Grand.

When we got off the plane in Phoenix I got as far away from her voice-box as I could. I was getting kinda hungry so I went searching. I found a little place called Yoshi’s in terminal D that whipped up some Chicken Curry for me. After living in Oregon for so long I kinda forgot that most of the country has this thing called sales tax. So I'm guessing that I looked a little dumb when I pulled out the correct amount of change.

If you're ever there, the curry is good. My phone rings. It's Solomon my roommate. He's starts in asking me how far I am away from the apartment. And starts telling me that he doesn't have his keys on him. So I smile and try to tell him that I'm about a thousand miles away from the apartment. You see he thinks I'm down the street or something. He wants me to come back and let him in. I say, I'll be right there...he laughs. I laugh.

And then I make a phone call to this girl I recently met. A most fair creature to say the least. I'm sure I'll tell you more about her later. While I'm talking to her I find a huge window at the end of the terminal. And there are these giant binoculars that overlook the burnt and jutted desert. And some prince put the binoculars on a swivel and forgot to set its boundaries. You bet I didn't turn those suckers right round and look all the people. I felt a little creepy but I didn't mind to much. I didn't know any of these people and they didn't know me so continued to look. I did too. I saw a gentleman in a suit picking his nose. I saw a lot of things though I didn't look to long or nothing. I’m not that kind of guy. I just couldn't do it very long. But props to the bone-head who forgot to set the swivel. If you’re ever in the Phoenix airport don’t forget about the giant binoculars at the end of terminal D. It’s a good way to spend a few minutes, well maybe not so good of a way, more just like a way, one of many ways to spend a few boring minutes in transit.

I think, I'll end there in Phoenix. But actually I made it home and saw most of the people I care about.

I could tell you about taking my friend Brian and Veronica’s Great Dane Charles on a walk, or about their excitement showing me their babies room (Oliver is coming soon), or about meeting Jaymi Cook at Waffle House late one night for a cup of coffee, or the pain of getting my tires fixed at Wal-Mart, or roasting marsh mellows in the backyard with my niece and nephew, or about going on the roof at Columbia Traders overlooking Joplin with 8 different people in one night, or about having the president of my college Matt Proctor say “well done” in my ear as I walked across the graduation stage, or about singing along with the John Brown and the Cougars as they perform their last show, or listening to Alex getting jazzed about doing a new kind of Church in the ghettos of East St. Louis, or dancing with the Baugh side of my family at Kelly’s and Ryan’s graduation party, or about the excitement upon my friend Scott Jiang’s face as he talks about his upcoming wedding in a few weeks and about how his parents are flying in from China for the first time, or I could tell you about visiting my Church and my favorite Mexican restaurant El Charro’s, or about how my grandma is convinced that I’m finally losing all my baby-fat, I could even tell you about playing 54 holes of competitive-glow-in-the-dark-mini-golf with Sam and Andy all afternoon, or I could tell you about staying up till 2AM having a much needed laugh with my dad, or about hugging my mom goodbye in front of airport security.

But then I would be telling you way too much about myself and I don’t have that kind of time. Just know that I miss and love the people back home and that I made it back to Portland with a story to tell. I could even tell you about that trip as well. About the 6 foot 8 inch guy with high frayed jean shorts sitting next to me rubbing his knees on everything that moved, or about watching the sunset in the Reno, or about hugging that girl I was talking about earlier in front of baggage claim. Yeah, again I could tell you all that but why would you want to know?

Here is a quote that captures my sentiment about coming and going out of peoples lives. And go figure, I read it while in Wal-Mart waiting for my car to be fixed. It reads, “You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you” – by Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth.

-e.p.allen

An Ode to Holden Caufield

If you didn’t know then I’ll tell you. I have found work at a dumpy little place called J’s here in Portland. I work for Kevin and Helen a nice Korean couple. They are swell, they really are, a little corky but real swell. After talking about where and why I went to college Helen leans in and whispers in my ear that the ‘J’ in J’s Market stands for Jesus. I think she likes telling me things like that because when she does she gets this big devilish grin on her face and all. She can be a real devil sometimes. No, not the scary red horned Milton devil. None of that religious stuff at J’s. She’s the good kind of devil that’s always up to something funny and all. I sure get a kick out of ol’ Helen sometimes.

I guess I work at Jesus’ Market. Helen’s a clever lady and all. You would never believe me but behind the counter there is this picture of old Jesus laughing his big damn ears off. I’m sure old Jesus would be the kind of guy standing around laughing his damn ears off every once in awhile. Though not all the time or nothing like that, old Jesus can be real serious sometimes, like the most serious guy you ever met. But I’m sure he did a lot of laughing those big old ears off and all.

Around the time I started working for them they let me off work one night so I could go to this razzy event at Church and all and old Helen told me that if I would have asked off for any other reason then her and old Kevin would have said no but since I was asking off for Church they said yes. She told me that it was because they loved God or something like that. I nodded in agreement I was off of work. I mean, I love God I tell ya. I do. I’m one of those guys that’s going around and praying all of the damn time and all but don’t get me wrong I’m not no goofy fundamentalist or nothing. Getting off of work was good and all don’t think it wasn’t. But when a guy gets off of work to go to Church he starts feeling bad for all those dopes who have to work. I think it’s weird how a guy will start feeling bad over something he can’t control. I mean I would have worked and all but I wasn’t really in the mood you know. I mean all I’m saying is that you just have to be in the mood to work on a day when your boss lets you off.

Knowing that I went to a Bible college old Helen naturally thinks I’m a preacher. Come to think of it most women do, you know the type: they’re all sweet and everything but they go around saying he’s a preacher and then they start gettin’ jazzed about it. Like saying he’s a preacher is going to jazz anyone these days. Preachers are a funny bunch. I mean they are people who can be real serious one minute and then go laughing their ears off the next. Old Helen’s a sweet lady I tell ya. She told me that she’s been Catholic her whole life and only recently her and her family have become Protestant. Have you ever noticed that all the Catholics want to know if you’re Catholic and all Protestants are going around trying to make you Protestant. I don’t like it much though. I’m not a sore guy or nothing like that. I’m really not. I mean I’m a protestant who likes the Catholic’s a lot. I mean I used to not and all. But then a guy grows up and starts liking all the damn Catholics in the world. So I told old Helen that I like the Catholic’s and she started getting all jazzed with this big old grin, “Then why don’t you become a Priest?” I didn’t have to think about this very long. I’m pretty quick on my feet sometimes. I told her that I wanted to get married someday. She grinned about as big as old Jesus behind the counter was grinning and said, “O, very clever boy!” I got a kick out her calling me a clever boy and all. It was just the right thing to do. I mean when somebody calls you a clever boy you know they like ya. You can just tell when a lady like Helen calls you clever that she really likes you.

She went searching in her big oversized dumb purse for something to show me. Old Helen looked back at me and said, “I’ll show you a picture of my daughter!”

As I have said earlier Korean girls are the prettiest girls in the world. Hell if you wanna know the truth, I think all these pretty girls have it too easy in the world. They just go around hanging off the arm of some dope they don’t care too much about and all. But let me tell ya that old Helen is an attractive 49 and she’s about the only pretty girl in the whole world that’s not going around not working. So my expectations were high. “Ah, she is very pretty . . . I see she takes after her mother.” And let me tell ya, I wasn’t flattering Helen, I was telling the truth. Although I’m an excellent liar, I wasn’t lying. Trust me, I can but it wasn’t necessary. My boss’s daughter was as pretty as I’ll get out. I love pretty girls, I really do, I get a big kick out of em. That’s the trouble with me I’m always fallen in love with every pretty girl walks by. But when a girl knows she’s pretty is about when I stop liking her. I mean I can know when she’s pretty and all but when she starts knowing about it then that sort of ruins it for me. That’s why you don’t tell nobody nothing.

Like all mothers these days when you talk about their children she was getting a real bang out it. Boy was I piling it on. I sure do know how to pile it on too I tell ya. She was about knee deep in what I was piling on. Boy, was I given it to her.

Old Helen was having a good old time telling me about her daughter and all, “She’s 23!”

“I’m 25.” I mean since girls mature faster than boys and all. At least that’s what all the Harvard phonies walking around with pretty girls on their arms making all the dough in the whole goddamn world say. Big deal.

Now at this point a guy has to be real careful with his words. Helen is still my boss. And it is her daughter who is a pretty damn good lookin. I came up with a plan. I’m full of these plans. I dream about plans, I do. This one time in high school I told my mom, she’s great, about a plan of mine to get more sleep before school and all. She didn’t like it too much but I thought it was a swell plan. My plan was to suggest that old Helen was an expert in Korean cookin’ which I’m sure she is too. All these Koreans are good at cooking. They can’t help it. I’ve never met a Korean that wasn’t good at cooking something. And I was going to tell her that I had a knack for trying such things, which I do. The second part of my plan was to meet the girl in the picture. I mean she was cute and all but nothing to get too excited about. Helen gave me the worst news a guy could hear at this point. Rotten news. This news was so bad it made my chin hurt. It did too. I think it even made old Jesus stop laughing his big old ears off. She told me that her daughter is attending college all the way out in distant . . . faraway . . . long lost . . . at the end of the earth . . . California. I hate that state. Why do things like that happen? I mean what’s out in California? Not much I tell ya just a bunch of dumb phonies going to college and all. If you wanna know the truth, news like that sure makes a guy feel lousy about himself. I don’t smoke or nothing, I don’t I tell ya but I was sure wanting to light up a cigarette and all. One of those Turkish kinds that you roll up yourself and put behind your ear. I mean news like that’ll make a guy turn to smoking. I don’t smoke or nothing. It’ll kill ya if you’re not careful.

I recovered. I mean a guy has to recover after news like that or he’s a phony and all and will probably start attending college out in California or something like that. I told her I would be around in the summertime don’t think I won’t either. Helen smirked. She knew what I meant. That’s the trouble with women these days they always going around knowing what you mean. All of em’ are goin’ around knowing what everyone in the whole world are meaning. It’s alright sometimes but a guy has to be in the mood for it or it’s just a big bore when people know what you mean. It just takes the fun out of things. I started wondering if old Helen’s daughter knew she was pretty or not. I mean if she does, she’s probably with one of those big hot-shot phonies making all the dough. No, I bet she doesn’t because old Helen is about as sweet as they come. In the mean time I’ll work scoring some of that food. I mean one out of two ain’t bad for a guy busy catching people out of the rye and all.

At J’s we have an unwritten rule that says if you bring-in over fifteen hundred dollars on any given night then you get a bonus. I never gave it much thought because no-one has ever made over fifteen hundred dollars on any given night. I mean one night I came close with thirteen and all but that’s far away from fifteen when candy bars are 89-cents a piece. If you wanna know the truth I think fifteen hundred would be a miracle for old laughing Jesus behind the counter.

So as you are probably guessing I made over sixteen hundred dollars the next night. I’m a real prince sometimes a real prince I tell ya. I guess our candy bars are that good. And don’t think for a second that I didn’t hesitate to put a star and a happy face on the paperwork so that old Helen wouldn’t overlook it or nothing. If you don’t use stars and happy faces every once in a while you’ll get lost in this big lousy world of ours. Somebody will forget something you did. Old Helen sure was smiling when I came in the next day. She was grinning from ear to ear like old Jesus. She was having a good time. Like I said, I get a big bang out of stuff like that.

“Very good! You made over fifteen hundred dollars . . . O so busy for you!” all with her cute thumbs in the air and all. She sure was having fun. She was elated and all. Elated, now I sure hate that word. But old Helen hardly ever gets sore about anything. She can be a real riot sometimes. Anyway, it was a good sight for a guy that works at J’s. She reminded me of the bonus policy, don’t think for a minute that I forgot about the bonus. I dreamed about it all night. Though I started feeling depressed about using stars and happy faces and all. But Helen didn’t care too much. She really is a good boss and all, I mean as far as boss’s go. But I was still unsure of what “bonus” meant at J’s. Really, it could mean anything around here. And when something can mean anything you sort of start going crazy and all trying to think of what it could mean. Your brain just can’t take it. But you’re not going to figure it out no-one is ever going to figure it out, I mean until it happens and all. Some things just happen and then you know. That’s the fun part.

But nothing happened. I mean nothing at all. I began work and she went home. . I was like a child before a wrapped present under a tree now experts say that the anticipation brings more enjoyment than the actual receiving experience. I think that’s all a bunch of high brow Yale boy talk but I’m sure they’re all right fellows and all in their own way makin’ a lot of dough.

An hour later the phone rang. “J’s Market how can I help you?” I always have to answer the damn phone like that. And I don’t like it one bit. To know the truth I hate it. I hate talkin’ on the phone at work and all it’s a real bore. It makes a guy feel like a real sonuvabitch sometimes talking on the phone at work. I mean it’s all right and all but you just have to be in the mood for that sort of thing. It was Helen on the other end. In her fast Korean accent she asked, moreover she demanded old Helen’s always demanding things but she does it in this real sweet way with an old Jesus smile and all. You can’t get mad at someone with a Jesus smile, especially old Helen. “What’s your pant size?” She wanted to know my pant size. My heart damn near skipped a beat out of my chest. This was the cutest thing I’ve ever heard of and I was gettin’ real excited about a new pair of pants.

The next day she waved a pair of dark brown shorts in front of my face and said with a big Helen smile, “Your Bonus!” If you want to know the truth, I thought it was a little cheesy and all but they were good looking shorts, they were too. I started feeling sad for every dope in the whole world who didn’t have great shorts like these. That’s the trouble with getting something new; you always start feeling damn near depressed for everyone who has something old. I wanted to give the shorts to some guy who had old raggedy shorts on and all. But I didn’t do that. I guess she was tired of seeing my shorts that I picked up three years ago on a sale rack at American Eagle. I don’t go shopping much, it’s the truth.

Helen is a very good boss, though not as good as old Laura Dudley who gave me food everyday of my poor life – I get a kick out of getting food when I’m poor and all, if you’re ever downtown Joplin Missouri stop in at Columbia Traders for lunch and coffee. To know the truth I usually hate phony plugs like that, but sometimes I surprise myself and throw one in there every once in a while.

When I made it home I told my roommates about “the bonus” and joked while looking for money in the pockets. There was no money in the pockets but that would have made a guy feel swell about himself. Though I don’t care much for money, I really don’t. I don’t care if I make a lot of dough and all. I mean there are better things in the world like talking to some nuns about Romeo and Juliet. But let me tell ya these shorts were real nice, at least my roommates thought so.

The next night you can bet I was wearing my new shorts. I was looking good too, like a damn prince, I was. In my shorts I was mopping old J’s floor. I was gettin’ it real clean. To know the truth I was having a hellavu time too, because old Tchaikovsky was playin’ in the background. I’m crazy like that sometimes but it was real epic and all. A guy has to feel epic once in a while or he’ll start feeling lousy about himself and the world around him. I was feeling good and thinking of how I was going put this into a movie someday; A twenty-something moping an old crusty floor at his old crummy job with old Tchaikovsky playin’ in the background, now that would make a great movie, though I don’t care much for movies. But this would be different, there would no phonies in the whole goddam thing, that’s the trouble with movies these days, they’re always putting phonies who walk around lighting up cigarettes fallen in love while saving the whole damn world.

I mean every once in a while a guy has to play some classical music at a place like J’s Market or he’ll loose his brains, he will I tell ya. Hell, if you wanna know the truth, I think old Jesus would get a big bang out of a guy mopping a lousy floor with Tchaikovsky playin’ in the background. I was enjoying myself, I really was too I tell ya. I was thinking about meeting my boss’s daughter, commenting on how good Helen’s cooking was and all. You want to know something? Well, I am a good eater. I know how to tell someone when their food is good. It’s as simple as that. Some guys are lousy eaters, but I’m not. And then this guy in a big green Mickey-Mouse tank top walked in the joint like he owned the place, he really did too. I had to go and sale him a Schlitz or something like that. Normally I would feel embarrassed about a guy in a Mickey-Mouse tank top buying an old Schlitz and all but there was nothing phony about him, he practically owned the place by now, he really did too. I would have sold old J’s to him. If you wanna know the truth, that stuff just kills me sometimes. And there I go digressing again I’m always digressing. I mean it’s funny when a guy digresses he finds out what he really wants to talk about and all but some people get sore about it and lose interest. Big deal.

[Thanks for the voice J.D. Salinger -e.p.allen]

GETHSEMANE: A Prelude to Redemption

Tranquil
Serene
Calm

After dinner
Hillside
Olive Grove 

Trees,
gnarled

Moonlight,
soft 

The Son of God is;
Anxious
Disturbed 
Disheveled 

Turmoil is rot within his soul
He is trembling 
Torment compounds 
Angst contorts his brow

Couplets of blood form
Droplets fall 

The earth shutters
She blushes 
Forever stained

What makes Him shiver? 
What makes Him quake? 

Gall and Rage
Anger and Suffering 
Grief and Sorrow 

What is in that cup?

The silence of God
Stares back aloof 
Cold
Distant 

Left alone
All alone
Grasping an empty sky

The tranquility of the garden 
is about to be laced with the 
chaotic sin of the world. 

In the distance
A violent coup 
A hellish rouse 

Hoof-beats
Clamor
Clang 

Torches
Shadows shifting
Indignant
Malicious and
Mad 

A tyrant
A step
A kiss

Tainted
Spoiled 
Rot 

History falls a’hush

A scuffle ensues
A venomous uproar 
A cosmic struggle 

Hissing 
Howling 

Clubs and fists

Mankind at his worst

From the scorn
“Peter, sheath your sword” 

Dust settles
The Earth sighs

But the earth is different 
Something’s wrong

She’s not 
so tranquil 
Not so serene 
Not so calm 

She groans

Man waits 

God loses 

After dinner 

In the garden 
lies the prelude 
to the Friday that we call Good 
An end to the smear called Eden

In the shattered Christ 
Redemption Dawns 

-e.p.allen

BETWEEN ROMANIA & RUSSIA

(A Ukrainian Fairytale: How I met a girl named Virya)

(Достое́вский . . . not Dostoevsky)

(Wallets & Opiates)

(Not so Happenstance)

(Sorry for saying damn)

 

I was waiting for that damn train.  All I ever do anymore is wait on that damn train to come up around that damn bend.  There is nothing more boring than a damn train.  It comes and goes . . . It opens and closes.  But I resolve a guy has to get places in this world so I guess I’ll keep waitin’ on that inconspicuous and oversized slither of metal.    

 

I had a Powerade stained mouth and a patch around my arm.  The patch was hidden under my grey jacket but it was clawing and digging its way into my story.  That is what Plasma will do to a guy.  In an attempt to ease the drab melancholy of modern life I thumbed the fresh $40 in my pocket.  Two Andrew Jackson’s sure does make a guy feel better about waiting on a damn train.  It brings a little comfort. 

 

Now I’ll go so far as to say that money has become the morphine of modernity.  Drip…drip…drip into the wallet it goes.  And how sad is it for me that most of you have more “morphine” than I.   Will somebody please pass the drugs?  I regress because to many people have written about the depression of man inside the modern city. 

 

At the train station I overheard two blocky old women dressed in earth tones (grays and browns).  I didn’t understand a word they said.  But I listened.  They reminded me of the post-Soviet-war-torn-women-of-Eastern-Europe I encountered during my summer in Romania.  I wanted to know where they were from and what they were speaking so pulled a prop from my bag, “The House of the Dead” by Dostoyevsky.  My guess was that they were from Russia, but just maybe they were from Romania.  There was no way of knowing unless I spoke up.   

 

I wanted to break into on their conversation . . .  but I didn’t want to all at the same time.  The train was taking its sweet time as usual and the 40 dollars was losing its draw in pocket so I forced my way in.  I am shamelessly rude sometimes.  But then again there are rewards to being uncouth and barbaric like me.  You get to meet people.  Interesting people . . . people with stories.  

 

As I nudged my way in one lady began scowling while the other began smiling.  The scowling one stuttered my tongue so I turned to the smiling one.  Scowling people are just harder to talk to that’s all.    

 

I was just hoping that the glaring one wasn’t a biter and so I calculated that there was about a 58% chance that she wasn’t so I took the bet and asked, “What language are you speaking?”    

 

They looked at each other and explained that they were speaking Ukrainian.  My estimate was close . . . Ukraine is literally in between Russia and Romania. 

 

The scowl slowly began to melt away.  She didn’t bite after all but she kept a keen eye on me.  A cautious shrew she was.   

 

The train came up around the bend as we were standing in between two carts.  I reasoned that I didn’t want to come off as being too pushy and since satisfied with the conversation I turned left as they turned right.  I looked out the window and carouseled through my summer in Romania.  And before the train took off the two women waddled their way to the seats next to me.  The smiling one was pulling the scowling one along (It was obvious).  Boy, she didn’t like me.  But her stop came first (reflecting on it now I think her early departure saved my life). 

 

So it was Virya and I.  Virya is a very sweet old lady with a harsh yet endearing Ukrainian accent.  I showed her my book again and asked her to say his name (Dostoyevsky) for me.  And she did.  It sounded like the glassy sea rumbling through the thrown room of God.  She said his name the way it was supposed to be said.  She emphasized all the right syllables in all the right places.  I have never heard anything more beautiful in my whole life.  I will never say his name the way I used to.  How foolish was I back then.  She did not merely say “Dostoyevsky” no, she said “Достое́вский.”  There is a big difference.  Was I falling in love with my 82 year old Virya?  

 

She told me that she moved to America sixteen years ago.  And that her husband died ten years ago.  She kept repeating the phrase, “I am one person.”  This was her way of telling me that she was all alone in this world.  She told me of her disappointment about her son not giving her grandchildren.  I asked her why that was and she tried to explain to me that a mother could not have that conversation with her son . . . maybe her daughter . . . but definitely never with her son.  And she smiled as she told me that her sister has five grandchildren and that she (Virya) spoils them with candy and treats as her own.  She told me that she lives alone in government subsidized housing . . . again she says, “I am one person.” 

 

My heart throbbed as she leaned over and garbled, “Достое́вский was a Christian, you know?” 

 

“I know . . . I know.”  I was a giddy as Christmas morning.

 

“Do you go to church?” I asked. 

 

“Oh yes, it is a wonderful place!”  So I asked her where and what it was. Thinking for sure she would say an Orthodox service. But she didn’t.

 

“It is named Ukrainian Bible Church.  Erik, you come and we will sit by one another.”

 

“I would love to.  Where is it?”  I mean, I could not turn a command like this down.  

 

She grabbed my pen and wrote 22820 Halsey in the back of my book.   

 

And then she smiled “We have many good looking young people like yourself.”

 

I guess I’m still good looking.  

 

The train came to her stop and before she left I asked her to say his name one more time.  And she did.  And it was as glorious as it was the first time.   

 

Well, I know where I’ll be on Sunday.  I’ll be at Ukrainian Bible Church next to my new friend Virya.  Where will you be? 

 

And to think, I almost got on that damn train without speaking up.  Hey, I will take a Ukrainian Princess whispering sweet “Dostoevsky’s” in my ear over $40 bucks any day. 

 

-e.p.allen

NEIGHBORS ARE FAR APART

(We live in Compartments not Apartments) 
(Tyler on Display)
(Karl Marx, Allen Ginsberg & Father Christmas) 
(You'll understand if I don't) 

We moderns live in compartments not apartments. At least this was the conclusion Solomon, Grant_2 and I joked about the other night. Architecturally speaking we are an isolated people. 

There is something fundamentally wrong with the way we interact with our neighbors. I say fundamental because we hardly see it as a problem. This problem has gradually nestled itself under our lives. It has become far too common. It has happened very subtly, but let me warn you that it is very deadly. It’s deadly, not only to ourselves but to everyone around us. No neighbors, means no community. Something profound in us will die if we ignore our neighbors . . . and something profound in our neighbors will die if they ignore us. Something has gone wrong. Meanwhile our humanity hangs in the balance.

Why don’t I know the people I share walls with? Why don’t you know the people down the street? Who are they? Who are we? 

If there’s something wrong with us . . . then there’s something wrong with them. For neither of us has made the effort. 

All the while we remain far apart while close together. I regress. Am I allowed to use the word “we?” There is no relationship here. Maybe I should stick with referring to "them" as “those people” “they” "theirs" etc... 

I’ve seen him several times. You can’t miss him, with his bushy-white-Father-Christmas-beard. He lives down the hall. If you've been following my Portland Chronicles, then he’s the guy who “burnt his damn dinner” the night the fire alarm went off. I’ve seen him several times but I’ve never actually met him. And I don’t think we would have met if left to the apartment . . . to the elevator . . . to the mailbox. There would have to be an outside force to pull us together. Kind of like the fire alarm. But even that did not prove formidable enough to bring us together. 

He lives seven steps away, but we’ve never spoken seven words to each other. 

Recently, Tyler put some of his Chicago photos on display at the Blue Sky Gallery (www.blueskygallery.org) downtown on 8th street. It was payday and I had the day off so I got on the bike. The Blue Sky Gallery is a place that is staffed by volunteers. They have a couple of rooms that are lined with the work of professional photographers, they are the main features. But they also support local/poor artists. They give people like Tyler a small section to put up their work for about a week or so. So Tyler signed-up and here I was checking it out and who other than our neighbor Father-Christmas behind the counter. 

I say to him, “I think you are my neighbor.” 

I knew full well that he lived down the hall so I used “neighbor” as a word strictly to connote proximity, because we weren’t neighbors in any other way. We just lived close by each other. 

To clarify I asked him if he lived in the Web Plaza apartments. 

He said yes. 

I informed him that he lives down the hall from me. He was impressed. And then I told him that it was my friend’s photographs in the back. Out of courtesy he went with me and took a look at Tyler’s work. I joked that our walls were bare at home because our pictures were all on these walls. He gave a Father-Christmas chuckle. 

To help you picture him, imagine a cross between Allen Ginsberg and Karl Marx. And that is my neighbor Paul. 

We made small talk and I found out that next week he’s turning 80 and publishing his first book. He said he’s been shooting for years. He shoots a little bit of everything (city life, nature, people and nudity). I can’t imagine Father-Christmas or Karl Marx shooting nudity, but nonetheless, to-each-his-own (I mused in my head that the nudity thing was the Allen Ginsberg part of him). He said that this book was a bit lighter in content, so that it could be eligible for libraries, schools and bookstores. 

He repeatedly thanked me for speaking up. 

I nodded and said, “No problem.” 

“Come over tonight, I have friends in from Seattle. I’ll show you some of my work and we can talk more.”

I said “sure” and went outside to unlock the bike. It was an unusually nice Portland day outside. I was wearing a t-shirt . . . go figure. 

Who knows maybe in the future we can actually become neighbors. I wonder what it will be like. I wonder if “we” will be different. Who is he? Who am I? Who are you? Who is down the street? 

I think I’ll knock on his door tonight. But I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t. 

-e.p.allen