Hot Wings & Rug Burns: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Blonde

By Grant Guimont

Set amidst the 1990s in the Twin Cities - love, basketball, sex, David Lee Roth, dating, Snoopy, bar hopping, Camel Lights, and Evonne Goolagong collide to concoct this unique tale. Of course, these arent your typical ingredients for a comedy, but this isnt your typical comedy. This is the story of a jackass and how he becomes a real man.

Life is a clever cocktail of interesting moments, sinister monotony, and sublime mistakes. Jamie Tembreaux, a struggling playwright in Minneapolis knows that all too well. Unlike the famous Peter Pan Syndrome, Jamie suffers from a different Disney Disorder altogether, The Pinocchio Syndrome, which can only be disclosed within the confines of this tale. Forcing Jamie to realize hes twenty-five and has never really been in love.

Luckily for Jamie, he does have the support of his friends, but Trick Dunbar and Andrew Case are just as confused with their lives as Jamie seemingly is with his own. Torn between the fetching artist hes just met and an old flame who happens to be Andrews little sister, Jamie navigates the dangerous waters of bachelorhood without a clue.

With the help of another friend from college Jo Fabre, Jamie searches for answers at the only place that makes sense to him - his childhood home. There, Jamie discovers where his life diverted from its natural path to an entirely new one. Jamie explores his past choices and their consequences like never before. He deflects his personal ordeals through the use of humor, thereby divulging uncompromising insight into the male psyche.

The novel is a dizzying leap into the shallow end of the pool of life. And somewhere amidst the infinite spectrum between a Blue Fairy and a Great Whale lies a broken-hearted hero. A coming-of-age tale with a twist and a comedy with plenty of edge. HOT WINGS & RUG BURNS is a wild look at one of the scariest challenges facing young adults of any generation the opposite sex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462047581

Grant Guimont

Grant Guimont is a graduate of Marquette University. He has written two books – A Carousel of Sorts, and the one you’re holding. Guimont has held positions as a chimney sweep, international man of mystery, Elvis impersonator, and original gangsta. He enjoys interstate racing – Cannonball Run style; spelunking in the caves of Borneo, and taunting the Swiss. Guimont is looking forward to his impending eating disorder that will couple his obnoxiously, overbearing fame – which will be immediately followed by his E! True Hollywood Story. Guimont currently resides in Minneapolis. He also likes bunny rabbits.

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Copyright © 2011 by Grant Guimont.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-4757-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-4759-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-4758-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/25/2011

To my friends, for being true blue.

Also by Grant Guimont:

A Carousel of Sorts

Contents

Chapter One: Delirious

Chapter Two: Housequake

Chapter Three: Tick, Tick, Bang

Chapter Four: Dirty Mind

Chapter Five: I Wanna Be Your Lover

Chapter Six: When You Were Mine

Chapter Seven: Anotherloverholenyohead

Chapter Eight: Let’s Pretend We’re Married

Chapter Nine: Kiss

Chapter Ten: Baby I’m a Star

Chapter Eleven: If I Was Your Girlfriend

Chapter Twelve: Controversy

Chapter Thirteen: Gett Off

Chapter Fourteen: Around the World in a Day

Chapter Fifteen: The Beautiful Ones

AUTHOR BIO

Chapter One:

Delirious

August 29, 1997

Blink—and you might just miss it. I know I almost did. And I was there.

Our discussion turned serious rather abruptly. A wild twist of a tangent that seemed out of place for this low-key, weekend night. My boys and I huddled down to the Warehouse District on the fringes of Downtown Minneapolis.

The locale of choice this evening? A little place we liked to call The Loon. Most everyone else liked to call it that too, since it was the name of the joint.

Not in search of anything really. No good time. No mean buzz. No piece of tail. No attempts to regain some glory days that floated by us. We were more or less out, because that’s just what guys do. More importantly, that’s what my boys do best. The night had been shooting par up to that point. We were all caught up in our own little endeavors.

Drew and Trick had been casing the bevy of suburban trim loaded at the bar, blitzed on Merlot and a half-dozen shots, in search of a good time to accompany their bachelorette party that had found its way into the big city on this late, summer Saturday. Scotty had been drowning his relative happiness in his fifth Captain ’n’ Coke, celebrating his unique sense of freedom away from his better half for the better part of the evening. Dan was checking his beeper and its CNN connection for the latest college football scores, desperately hoping that Clemson covered the spread. I was somewhere inside my own head thinking something about nothing too specific, cutting the deadened remains of my bubble gum that had turned stale after huffing down a half-pack of Camel Lights in an attempt to distract myself from having a beer, or any other booze that was experiencing an up tick in its marketing.

As I mindlessly toyed with the rubber band that perpetually adorns my left wrist, I was hastened back to the conversation at the table by a gentle prodding of my elbow. I more or less shook off my inner-dialogue and became aware of my own presence within the bar once more.

After another pull off my nail, I asked Tommy to repeat his question. The one that had slipped past my goalie. A question so important it seemed that in search of its answer, the query had elicited a physical response from him unto me.

I said, have you ever thought about it? Tommy asked again.

I must have missed more than I thought, because even this fragment didn’t shine any rays of light amongst the clouds in my head, or the ones that I had just exhaled from my lips.

I tried lending a reassuring head-bob-slash-nod-coupled-with-a-smile-motion to Tommy. You know the one you use when you’re not entirely sure what the other guy said, so you just guess yes instead. But Tommy wasn’t buying it. His quizzical expression never faltered even after my feeble attempt at acknowledgement fizzled away. I mean what’s a guy supposed to do? There’s a mound of assorted hot wings in varying flavors and spices just asking to be devoured directly in front of me. I got the Kinks blaring in my skull, courtesy of the Loon’s choice stereo. I got Dan yelling obscenities at me for suggesting he lay down on Clemson and they’re in the fourth, down six on his bookied line. Scotty is jabbering away in my general vicinity about some sort of landscaping scam sweeping the western suburbs that he somehow got snagged into. Drew and Trick are tangled up to their Abercrombie & Fitch hats in cleavage and belly rings ala the displaced pelt from the bachelorette party, who have now decided to grace us with their presence, while one of them has her thong-wearing ass directly at my seated eye-level gyrating to You Really Got Me, with her bestest friend in the whole world poking her suck-for-a-buck T-shirt in my face, and I really want one of the Blow Pops attached to her with Scotch tape to get rid of the rubbery remnants of my gum and the wicked bad taste it’s left tracing on my tongue, to me in that moment, a dollar for one sucker seems entirely worth the price of admission, especially if I get to take it off the bride-to-be’s amply endowed chest, but Tommy needs his answer, and he needs it right now. So, I dismiss everything else with nothing more than a swipe of my hand like a pestilent Caesar in favor of my friend and his current dilemma.

I’m sorry. Thought about what? I semi-yell to cover the persistent thumping of the Loon, peppered with my annoyance for Tommy, because if it wasn’t for his meddling question, I could be sucking something else entirely, rather than sucking up to him.

Have you heard a word I’ve been saying to you? he asked.

And all the various amusements within my arm’s reach, especially the young vixens, begin to tempt me again. I signal to Tommy a casual swooping of my index finger in a fit of non-verbal communication, which resembles a referee’s call for a resetting of the shot clock, as if to say, It’s not my fault, it’s the bar’s.

Tommy seems to oblige because he finally notices the tasty morsels that have laid themselves on to our cookie sheet. Now he gets it. But he still won’t let me have my fun. He decided to forgive me instead.

The Kinks have made way for Social Distortion by this point, and Tommy stage-dives right in, I was just saying, that I’ve been wondering lately…

Good for you, Tommy. Congratulations. We all knew you could. Now keep in mind, Tommy and the word wondering rarely propose to marry themselves within the same sentence.

More so for curiosity’s sake, I asked the question that wanted to be asked, Wondering about what?

Tommy was glad I did. I could see that in his crazy eyes. The eyes that were tripping over his mouth in order to reveal whatever was burning a hole in his brain, something akin to Superman’s X-ray vision.

Timing, he said.

That was it?

One simple word that evidently encompassed more than I would ever know for Tommy. I had my own connotations of that particular noun and what they may mean to me, but it seemed as if Tommy had delved a little deeper, uncovered some glorious prize, discovered a lost city of possibility within the context of the word itself. Quite frankly, I was almost jealous. I relented before the multiple definitions swallowed me whole.

Well whadiya mean exactly? I asked, fearing that within my own career complacency, Tommy had indeed grown smarter than me.

By this time, the chick with the obscenely, delicious ass had taken her friends and exited our scene. Probably to find a few good men. A few good men whose intentions were not so graphic or readily obnoxious. Drew and Trick only dug in harder with the next batch that aimlessly happened by, innocent gazelles trailing into the lions’ watering hole.

Most nights, the gazelles never stood a fighting chance. And amidst the strained lines the boys slung their way, they debated if the bachelorette party leaving was a good thing or not. For Drew, the girls’ departure served them well. Better odds. Simple as that. One of them was getting married anyway. It was a lost cause. For Trick, the opposite was true and I’m ready to side with him on this one. Seeing one of your best friends about to be married, kinda places things in perspective for the rest of the troupe. Desperation clung to the bride’s friends like Rosie O’Donnell clings to a turkey drumstick. Desperation is a man’s second best friend. (The first is a dog to be sure, but only within the context of a freshly-mowed lawn. At night, at a bar, man’s first best friend surely is liquor.)

Those girls would have been up for any, and I repeat, any, sexual Olympics that Drew and Trick might have suggested after just one more shot of Jag. Plus, who knows? Maybe the bride herself wanted one last taste of the good life. One more divergent path before a life of the straight and narrow.

As far as Trick was concerned, their best chance had just made a mad dash for the door. I think Trick wanted to track their scent, because the rest of the night he never did readjust to the scene. He became almost surly, as most guys do in the same sitch. At the other end of the table, Dan had now joined Scotty in a balls-out buzz-on, after he envisioned himself handing over two bills to Jimmy the French since Clemson had failed to come up with any last-quarter heroics. And then the Rolling Stones were singing about some unwelcomed guests on their puffy white clouds.

Tommy lit up one of my smokes. The bastard. He was one of those social smokers, never too eager to flare up a dart if it wasn’t attached at the lip to a domestic bottle. Lackadaisical in his approach to the appreciation of the finer art of dragging. Bumming a nail to a casual smoker is like handing over the keys to your Mustang to a marathon runner.

The treat was more or less something to do for him, something to occupy his time, not something that he desperately enjoyed or was addicted to. But I had known the guy for sixteen years, I had to oblige. Especially if he was about to wax poetic.

Tommy rolled the stick in his fingers, then rolled his words unto me, Timing. The fact that so much of it has slipped through our fingers lately. When we were younger, it seemed that’s all that we had. Time and the chances to fill it in.

Nothing shocking. There had to be more to it than that for Tommy. I let him vent.

I mean, I get the whole adulthood thing. Growing up, things changing. But it’s more than that. It’s like the relative nature of time itself has changed along with us. Take a look at where we are and I don’t just mean tonight. Two years ago we all sat here, in this very bar, with our grandiose plans on how to conquer the world as we know it. Not much has changed in those two years, but those two years only seem like a few short months ago to me.

Theories on relativity on a Saturday night, I looked around the table for a friend to pawn the conversation off on. I found none. All the boys were preoccupied with their latest diversion. Sports Center had just started and even though the sound was blanketed now by The Who’s Won’t Get Fooled Again, all eyes were attentively fixed on one of the six sets scattered throughout the joint. There were NFL injury reports to consider, priorities adjusted accordingly. There was even an audible groan from Dan when the Clemson Tigers’ logo flashed on the screen making things official.

Then it happened. Tommy asked the one question that had eluded me for so long. My lack of articulation on the subject and the formulation of the actual question itself only seemed to fuel my desire to encapsulate this larger feeling into simple sentiment. In his question, I found that sentiment.

When did it all change?

The sentiment had been named, but its answers would be harder to come by. Most tough questions are like that.

Tommy continued, I wonder when my life diverged from the natural path it was supposed to take. I wonder if I would be living a different life if I had decided to take a scholarship from Colorado, instead of the U. If my leaving would have allowed for a different outcome for Debbie and me. I wonder if my life switched tracks even long before that. I wonder if everyone’s life, everyone’s choices, change on a daily basis. If somehow each choice we make, no matter how large or small, sends us on a new path in the infinite roadmap of life. If that very change is part of the ultimate plan. If that change simply diverts us from the person we could have been or worse yet, the person we should have been.

Tommy could see his diatribe was bordering on the philosophical and that was more than he had originally intended. Little did he know I felt a close kinship with him at that very moment. Simply because Tommy had been able to attach a definition to the very thing that evaded my clutches for the better part of four years—maybe longer.

He shifted gears, Debbie. Debbie was my best.

Then he trailed off. Until this came out next, What woman was the best of your life?

More questions. Here was the double from the first whammy. During a commercial break we brought the rest of the boys in on the fun.

Answer that question any way you chose. The definition that seems to fit for you. All of my crew did in one way or another. Some were crude. Some were genuine. Some were even romantic. I… well. I was dumbfounded. And here’s where the truth comes into play. I was silent. I left my crew’s company without divulging any answer that evening. Not because I was afraid. Not because I was embarrassed. Simply because I wasn’t lucky enough to have discovered one yet. Let alone discover much of anything else either. I’m getting a wee bit ahead of myself.

And there was the blink.

The best. The best ever. That—has yet to happen. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt for single, solitary moment that it will one day. I just prefer to think that I have endured my lifetime up until this point for that one moment of incredible fruition. A moment that has yet to materialize. A moment I can only hope to call the best. My best.

In case I haven’t driven my point home clearly enough, I’ll spell it out for you. All of it. The best. My best. And when it comes to such lofty ideals, there is one element that does not belong within this particular realm for me—that element is surprise.

Now, I know that those two words are nearly inseparable, as in the element—of—surprise! But not here. Not for this bloke. Not with my best. It comes down to this and everything comes down to something sooner or later, surprises are elemental in their same rapid disappearance.

Take sex. Surprises in sex are fleeting. I’m not talking about The Crying Game kind of surprises either. I’m talking about the one-nighters, the illicit flings, the moments of passion. God bless ’em, one and all. The best is not born from such a beast. Hell, the best isn’t even conceived from such a beast.

I’m not one to object to such frivolities, I’m just a guy who doesn’t happen to adhere to them. Where’s the skill in that anyway? Two to three hours of work out at a bar, liquids running their course, the right pick-up line slung her way, the small talk hitting a nerve, the next thing you know, your clothes are on the ground, intertwined with hers, and you’re bumping uglies with a perfect stranger on a couch that’s seen its better days come and go, only fearing that her roommate may be home too soon. No hint of commitment. No hint of trust. No hint of the best.

By the way, more times than not, the closer your appearance does border on perfection, the better you will succeed in such measures of surprise. To be honest with you, I’ve never had too much trouble here in this land of decadence, but it ain’t my best.

I’m the kind of guy that thrives on groundwork and originality. The pursuit. The mild obsessing. The tenacious defense. The forty minutes of hell. Sure it starts where the other leaves off—at a basic fundamental attraction. But it takes skill and charm to accomplish, and fortitude and perseverance to maneuver through the long term. I’m talking traipsing strolls amidst hole-in-the-wall art galleries and insightful theories regarding the JFK assassination. I’m talking dinners of Cornish game hen served on a bed of wild rice prepared by my own hands and the knowledge of who her favorite Beatle is. I’m talking about playing Scrabble with her college roommates and meeting her great-aunt Sheila at her cousin Tina’s wedding. I’m talking about holding the strands of her first haircut in your hands and knowing who she had a crush on in high school because you read what he wrote to her in her sophomore yearbook. I’m talking about what she wants to name her kids and opening presents with her family under a lavishly, decorated Christmas tree. I’m talking about committing to paper a poem fashioned in the wake of her heart describing the intricate color of her eyes and smelling the lingering fragments of her perfume on your clothes hours after she has parted your company for the evening.

Do I know what I’m talking about? No, I don’t. Because it ain’t happened yet.

I’m about the future. The horizon. The big picture. And if you think that all of this has been some romantic form of idealism, some sort of new millennium, sensitive perception into what women truly want, desperately crave, and ultimately need—you’re dead fucking wrong. The end result is still the same. This is like every other guy out there on the prowl. It always has been. It always will be. One goal. One truth.

I want to see you naked. I want to get you in the sack.

That’s what it’s all about, but it’s not about the surprises. It’s about getting inside of you. Both figuratively and literally. Getting in. Getting in is easy. Getting back out again with all of your pieces intact—that’s the trick. That’s what separates the quick scores from the professionals. That’s the difference. The immediate gratification versus the long haul. Other guys can get in. I can get back out again. The problem for you ladies is which variety of us you’d like to trust with your closely-guarded intimacies.

My problem? Well, I got none. Unless you don’t happen to like the idea of me actually getting out. Then, we need to talk. When and if I ever meet the girl who can make me forget about getting back out again, that’s the true meaning. That’s the reason why I play. When it finally does happen, I’ll gladly submit my secrets for your approval. I’ll bestow the key to my heart unto you. I’ll present the map to the paths of my soul for you to tend.

That’s the best. The best ever. When it happens, my best will have a name. I will be able to define it as such. Like I said—that has yet to happen. It might have happened with her. It still might one day. But then, I guess that’s the reason for most of this tale in the first place.

Somewhere before we left that night, Warren Zevon was howling in the background. In Tommy’s hope, he tried to dissuade the seriousness of the very conversation that he had created by provoking an ounce of levity.

Do you know what I wonder most? He didn’t even give me a chance to answer, When I’m going to get laid again.

Then he took a swig of my Coke. I need a mouth mixer, the waitress burned my cocktail.

Translation: Tommy needed a chaser because his drink was too strong.

Which doesn’t change the fact that I now need a new Coke. I flashed him a smile, a courtesy for the attempt at humor. But more so for what Tommy had shared with me. He understood, and I think he appreciated it.

If I had blinked, I would have missed it. All my other boys present here tonight did. I’m glad I listened. I’m glad I was in tune with something larger than myself.

Tommy was the impetus. His question was the reason for this tale. My answers to those same questions are what you are about to read.

This is what I know. This is what I discovered. This is my truth. As I see fit to tell it. It’s a funny thing about truth, sometimes the truth can destroy easier than a lie—but that all depends on where your sympathies lie.

Chapter Two:

Housequake

August 31, 1997

389.564

Sections 2

Parts I & II

. . . As a man: the essence of friendship as defined by the differences amongst the sexes, is as varied as the difference between the sexes themselves. Please note the intrinsic nature of a man’s friends is to shield them from the interdependence of their mutually exclusive, significant other. As a man, your responsibility to one another is to provide an oasis from all under trappings of the feminine variety. Your responsibility is to allow for a necessary, vicarious exchange of masculine validity.

However, be forewarned, your responsibility as it pertains to the fairer sex, and their subsequent friends, is to provide a showcase of your admirable traits. Your role is that of a trophy to be polished and displayed to prove to their own kind that they indeed do possess good taste and the ability to be loved.

-Excerpted from: The Official Men’s Handbook (Used by permission.)

*     *     *

This dance ain’t for everybody, just the sexy people.

*     *     *

If Tommy was the straw that stirred the cocktail. The actual forward momentum of the tale came from this.

Every now and again, you need a good punch in the throat to make you aware of how much you can feel. Even if it’s a feeling that will leave you crouched in the fetal position and sucking your thumb for a few hours or days. You need the pain to feel the joy. Ask Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Another day down, another down day. Birth. School. Work. Death. As The Godfathers so famously sang to me once upon a time in their infinite wisdom.

Hear my footsteps on the wood floors of my apartment? That’s me returning from a double shift at Figlio’s. Long story short, Figlio’s is the Italian restaurant in Uptown Minneapolis that I’m currently working at, more on the joint in a chapter or two. I’m mentally exhausted and physically drained, I glance over to my answering machine.

My machine speaks to me, You have, twenty-six new messages.

If anyone here is easily offended or even the least bit squeamish, I suggest that you skim ahead right now. It’s only going to get worse from here on out.

I hit the play button and then react to what I hear.

The machine prattles on, Message number one.

—yeah baby. Do me like that. Harder. Harder! It’s my girlfriend Gretchen, caught midstream in her conversation.

It seems that my girlfriend, and I now use that word as loosely as she appears to be, has been having a little affair.

—just like that—

Apparently, her cell phone fell to the floor.

—I didn’t know you were this big—

Her automatic call button repeatedly dialed my number…

Message number two, my machine cutting in once again.

—Do it, just like that. Don’t stop, just a little more—

 . . . When one message was full, my line hung up.

—I’m so wet. Oh my God. Please don’t stop. God. Oh God. Just fuck me—

Gretchen’s cell phone just called right back. And kept leaving messages.

—you’re driving me crazy. You are a god—

And kept leaving messages.

Message number three, at least my machine wasn’t judging me.

—mmmmmm. Yes. Yes. Yes—

And kept leaving messages. I check my watch in disgust. You might want to plug your ears, this goes on for another thirty-seven minutes.

—I’ve got blisters on my fingers.

I close my eyes and shake my head. I have no other answers. Don’t you just love technology? I’m pretty sure I’m going to break up with Gretchen, she gave lousy head anyway.

I now suffer from abstinence by consequence.

*     *     *

When I first decided to do this—this being the written documentation of my life, I wanted to begin where one would expect you to begin, namely at the beginning. Makes perfect sense to me. Low and behold that beginning would make perfect sense to me and me alone. Beginnings, they’re a tricky bunch. Don’t believe me, just take this one for example.

The earliest memory I have, and I know it to be the earliest because of the simple math involved, is of my grandmother reading me The Cat in the Hat when I was four. I remember being transfixed by the rhythm of the words and the perfect lilt of her voice, sitting on her elongated couch which seemed as long as a football field. I know this to be true because it is in fact the only memory I do have of her. That memory and our exchanges of: Later alligator; After awhile crocodile; See you in the funny papers; and our Eskimo and butterfly kisses.

I know I was four, because that is the year she died. That fixes it. Kind of cleans the slate for the memory. Dr. Seuss and death make for strange bedfellows, too strange from which to begin spinning a yarn.

I remember seeing a commercial shortly thereafter involving a mother busily chatting away on her phone, while her daughter played unsupervised in an adjacent bedroom. When the mother’s conversation finally ended, she discovered to her horror that her daughter had tangled herself up, and subsequently suffocated, in the glossy confines of a dry-cleaner bag. Simply stated, I was mortified of my mom’s closet for a great many years.

A doomed p.s.a. doesn’t feel like the right place to begin either. Needless to say, parents and children alike have much greater concerns and worries today than the tragedies surrounding unarmed and otherwise quite helpless pieces of plastic, no matter how violent they may become. Nowadays, unsupervised viewing of that invention known as T.V. seems more of a threat indeed.

I even remember the cigarette lighter commercial for Bic that featured an easy-light flare. So easy in fact that when a butterfly landed on it, the flame came to life. Some kids lit their house on fire soon after that. No more butterfly-touch lighters. These are the first three memories I own, the ones that I can uniquely call my own.

I remember tons of junk, oodles of fodder, memories of fondness, heartbroken episodes, bitter stings, tender embraces. All of it snags my consciousness one way or another as I go reeling through the years like Steely Dan. All of it grates at me as I shift through the sands in my hourglass that have become the days of my life. They are all present here and there. Here in this story, there on the edited pages that couldn’t find a place into this narration, but I still need an entrance. Not for me, but for you.

I need a way for you to be let in. I ask for one from those closest to me. The people close enough to know the entireness of my life. With those lofty aspirations applied, there are only two people who fit the bill.

My father tells me to pick a memory at random and simply dig in and work. Because hard work is the cornerstone and the foundation from which a good life is built. Nothing in life comes easy. Nothing in life goes to those who do not work for it.

My mother on the other hand, explains to start at a point that makes sense and go from there. Because life is senseless without forethought and compassion. Only a life rich with experience and generosity is to be valued as worthwhile.

Advice frequently tells you more about the person giving, then the one receiving, don’t you think?

So, me being the son they raised or maybe me just being me, I truly listen to their advice and heed my own instead. Perhaps not my own advice, because I don’t believe you can take advice from yourself. Because at some point the line between experience and forethought becomes blurred.

When did it all change?

It comes to me like the Final Jeopardy answer, but only after Alex Trebek reveals it to the live, studio audience. The place and time of change. The point from where to begin. The next sound you hear will be your entrance point to my story. The window to my life, as seen through my eyes. Please wait for the beep, and the novel will begin promptly thereafter.

*     *     *

Beep!

No one knew when we lost our melancholy willow to a lightning strike in the summer of ’79 that it would serve as a precursor to the unexpected changes that would befall my family for the rest of our lives. And no one knew in the summer of ’79 that I would learn to use such fancy words in my lifetime, especially not me.

The melancholy willow never started out as a symbol for us. What we were or who we would become. Looking back now that’s the easy answer. That’s when simple things, simple things like our lives, do change.

Over time, the tree deteriorated at its fundamental roots, as we would all do soon enough. Maybe not a sweeping shift for my parents, but certainly for us, their own fundamental offspring.

The weeping willow tree, as it was still known then, before a subtle change of adjectives made a difference, was already flourishing and had been for quite a while. Steeped in gentle eloquence, lazily dipping its free-flown branches into our yard, long before we were conscious of its existence, a mere eighty feet from our bedroom window.

Back then, the tree lived up to its saddened synonym. Many hours were spent in hazy slumber or childish bemusement under the soundless umbrella of enormity the tree’s branches afforded to us. The outside world was swept away with an innocent effort, after ducking past the bladed beads hanging from its trunk with siphoned beauty and the strayed effects of gravity.

That soon changed when my father decided outright that he had outgrown the depth of its beauty. Matter of fact, a reason never seemed to transpire for the destruction that crippled our beloved willow. Perhaps acting on some higher level of authority, some deeper breadth of knowledge, some kind of psychological manifestation of displaced anger, whatever the reason, my father tore into its heart just the same.

We returned home from school one day to find the clumped remains of the willow’s branches lying in patternless heaps on the property line of our yard. The estranged, spear-like leaves effortlessly scattering themselves to greater distances than we were allowed to travel at that tender age. The tattered switches stripped of their children, yearning to be connected to their own foundation, forever lost in the senseless destruction.

Mind you, these colorful similes and such did not materialize for me until I reached an age that was not selective in its own limitations (namely right about now). What did leave an indelible mark was the first sight of that once magnificent tree and of what it had now become. One word still best describes it for me, and that one word is this—vulnerability.

For that one instant, that tree seemed to be human, if that is at all earthly possible. It seemed as though that tree held a tiny piece of that what makes us so in its barren branches that day. I honestly believe that to be true. And not until my brother Tony spoke up with his humorous proclamation did that feeling of sorrow leave me with a clear resolution.

Tony smiled and shouted over to my dad who was huffing profusely after his day full of arduous labor, Hey Daddy, you gave the tree a haircut.

The statement seemed adequate. The feeling however, felt lost on my older brother of two years.

When my mom witnessed the demise of the willow later that night, she laid down a precedent that would last a long time in our household. Plus, she attached a new moniker to the tree to boot. The precedent was this, my father was not allowed to make any decisions that affected the household without her consent from that day forward.

The moniker for our tree on the other hand, would be remembered eternally. From that day forward the tree was known not as a weeping willow, but rather as the melancholy willow. Not entirely sad enough to cause actually weeping, but still depressed enough to show signs of sorrow.

Again, definitions as to the state of the willow in specific regards to the word melancholy were lost on me in that young state. My mom however, phrased it in a form all three of her children could easily understand, The willow tree just looks like it’s plain bummed out.

When lightning struck the melancholy willow that summer of ’79, it shattered everything. Well, maybe not everything. But when you’re seven, everything pretty much is your own backyard. Maybe shattered isn’t a good word either. Nah, shattered works. That’s what was left, a shattered tree crackling electric doom.

And then there was us.

A small glimmering band of five about to vanish from here and relocate some twenty odd miles away. After the tree was zapped, our own boom hit the next day. We were expected to move with our parents to a new house.

Do you believe that? Without even consulting us. A new neighborhood. And a new path that probably changed everything. Not because of the tragedy with the tree. But rather, because it was simply time.

I was only a kid, remember?

This is the quick conversation that I had with my good friend Jo Fabre at her house recently. It only sent me reeling more.

Jo is adorable, the neighborhood tomboy who grew up to be Playboy’s girl next door. One cool chick, with a mouth to match. She is my friend Drew’s girlfriend and she is also my good friend, which obviously complicates things.

Believe me, you will learn all of the key players in my life—my friends, my family, and my foes in due time. I just need to fit the tale to the narration at hand, but I promise, they will all get their turn. It just might take some time to get there.

We were on her couch in her apartment. I was nearly done with my Big Gulp of Mountain Dew. I was going after the remnants with my straw, when I let this fly.

You hear that giant sucking sound Jo? That’s my life slowly disappearing. Quite romantic.

She countered, Doom is always romantic. Unless it’s your own.

With so much thinking floating around my head lately, I decided to just dive in with her. I launched into my quandary, I need to begin at the beginning.

Why?

A good question. Quite frequently, it’s the best question. I looked around her apartment.

I’m just looking for answers, I said. I have enough questions in my life.

What are you doubting? she asked.

Whadiya got? I asked Jo back, but she wasn’t having it.

I’m serious, Jamie.

Fine. Time to counter with my best defense—sarcasm.

How ’bout sugar plumb fairies coming to hit the street, looking for soul food, and a place to eat.

No takers. My sarcasm fell flat.

Jamie, what do you believe in?

I believe that I’ll die one day, I said.

How’s that for serious?

Then why are you so afraid to live? Jo asked.

Damn legal mumbo jumbo. Morbid mood countered. She was really good at this. But so was I.

Because I’m so afraid of dying, I told her in all seriousness.

I could tell Jo couldn’t quite wrap her head around what I just said, That’s some seriously twisted logic, she told me.

Try living with it, I told her back.

Like I said, seriously twisted just happens to be my calling card. Then she got desperate.

Do you believe in God? she asked me.

I gave her my rendition of the truth, I don’t believe in God, but every night I pray for two things. That the Minnesota Vikings will win the Super Bowl. And that I’ll meet the woman of my dreams.

I don’t think it works like that, Jamie.

Even if it doesn’t. It should.

Why not Jo? What happened to our wishing wells and our birthday candles? Simple dreams ‘Ala peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.’

She rolled her eyes and then spoke, They were left behind in Neverneverland and the Hundred-Acre Woods.

I decided to relent to avoid a fight. And I countered with something else.

Did I tell you about my test?

Which one?

She bit on it.

How I got this scar on my right cheek.

I remembered it like a flashback in the movies. I have this scar on my right cheek about the size of a silver dollar in length. When I was five, my brother Tony pushed me into a porcelain, toilet paper holder.

It was without a doubt, the single most traumatic moment of my childhood. Maybe I should qualify that. It was the most traumatic moment that I could understand at that age. Back then physical pain was bad enough, emotional pain merely slipped through the cracks.

Back to Jo.

Women always ask about my scar. I tell them the story—they laugh. The first girl who doesn’t crack a smile wins.

Jo then realized that she just laughed too.

And you’re the prize? she asks.

And then came the truth. Probably more truth than anyone has the right to handle.

I’m no prize. I’m twenty-five. I’m already a recovering alcoholic. I smoke too much. My hair is going grey. I can’t drive a stick shift. I have never really been in love. I don’t know where I’m going. My job is just adequate enough to pay my bills, but too taxing to allow me to chase my dream. My best friend is married with a child. Another should be married to you. My parents just purchased their tombstones. My brother’s success is enough to make anyone feel inferior, let alone me and our sibling rivalry.

I light up a cigarette now.

Is that all? she asked.

Not hardly.

I’m just warming up. Nothing excites me anymore. Not even the new, primetime television season. My only reason for living right now seems to be the need for dispelling my crippling fear of death in general. I have an explicable addiction to strip joints and a predilection for attending them. It seems as if everyone I know fits into their place, found their niche so to speak—except for me. And oh yeah, I haven’t been laid in ten months since Gretchen and I broke up. That’s a lot to swallow even now. Harder still, if I completed the entirety of the list.

Since you put it like that, she said finally, stopping me from continuing. But there are still plenty of fish in the sea, Jamie.

Maybe, but soon enough that sea will change into a lake, and then into a koi pond, I exhaled the words hard. This life was a designated path, then I veered to a new one. At best, I’m just a close facsimile thereof.

Isn’t that fatalistic, Jamie?

I’m not saying one path is better than the other. I’m just waiting for when we get to that place we all dream of.

She seriously began to doubt me. I could tell.

But doesn’t everyone want the path that leads to the happy ending?

Is that honest, Jo?

Maybe not, it’s believing in something though.

I butt out my cigarette and couldn’t believe I was still yammering away. I wonder what the other path would have been like. What all the other paths would have been like.

She tried to cheer me up with, You’re dealt a hand, but ultimately you’re the one who plays it. Like The Gambler said, ‘Every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser. The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.’

*     *     *

Dying is a different subject.

Out of the conversation at hand, indulge me for a moment. In 1990, Loyola Marymount’s Hank Gathers collapsed during a college basketball game. He died an hour and a half later. Bo Kimble, his high school friend and college teammate, had to deal with this right before the NCAA tournament.

As a tribute to his friend Hank, Bo shot the first free throw of every tournament game left-handed, just like his friend had done thousands of times before. Loyola Marymount wins their way into the Elite Eight. Bo hit all three of those free throws left-handed during the tournament. He made all three.

The difficulty of that accomplishment can’t be ignored. That feat would be hard enough to accomplish after practice in an empty gym. Let alone during an actual game, and the NCAA tourney on top of everything else. That’s the best evidence I’ve ever seen for the existence of God.

*     *     *

Back to Jo.

Believing helps you get through anything, she told me.

Easier said.

Jamie, try it for two weeks, if you don’t like it, I’ll give you your money back.

I did as she suggested. For right now though, I’ll just settle for finding the perfect bowl of chili. So now?

So now, Jo has brought me back to this place. These humble beginnings. My old home. The beginning of the change for me. The melancholy willow. This suburban street, Seventieth Avenue North, which was simply known as Willow Lane twenty years ago. I guess that’s progress for you. Twenty years ago this town was known as Brooklyn Center. In fact it still is, I guess that’s the opposite of the thing you call progress. The two of us walk the old neighborhood haunts. And I can’t help but remember.

This is the house I was raised in when I was just a kid. Not much has changed. Not much at all. The lighting piers that lined our driveway have been shaved back by its new owner, brick by solemn brick. I suppose the interiors have been gutted ten times over too, filled with other people’s memories, which I have no desire to know. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t go in.

That’s no matter, they cannot remove what was once mine. The split-entry house itself is still painted a pale blue, and the mighty Mississippi still flows across the street. I assume the river is still a pale blue too, but you never know. Over there, past the Funk’s backyard, is the vacant lot where I once played. I wasn’t sure if they had developed on it yet. I wasn’t quite sure what I would find here today, but to know that this place still exists that this place hasn’t been forgotten in time, or been bulldozed over by progress, kind of fills me with a sense of hope.

Now that the willow is gone and not so much as a charred stump dots the landscape, I try to remember not what was lost here, but what I can hopefully still find.

This is where life began for me, here at this home and this vacant lot of little consequence. Over there in that clumping of trees, outlining the landscape of the lot is where Teddy Leonard and I built our first fort.

Out here on the playing field of the lot, things were different. It started with simple games like duck-duck-grey duck. Now, I know that the rest of the English-speaking, free-world plays a