FireVaney

This guy on the bench-press bench, sitting up, hunched over, picking his nose, all the while, there I am: eight sets on biceps, eight sets on triceps, three sets on chest, three sets on calves, and, all the while, I’m wondering whether or not he’s gonna get up the nerve to try a single set—a single rep —before the place closes in twenty-eight minutes. Do I want to stop my (futile) efforts to pump myself up for all the single ladies and fetch this guy a tissue? Part of me does—not because it’s a nice thing to do, no. Maybe he doesn’t give a shit who sees him digging for snot. And for that, in a way, maybe he deserves my respect. That’s my problem: I give a shit. Or too much of a shit. In any case, when I leave, five minutes to close, he’s still there, picking his nose.  16 January 2005

Ma, Stepdude, and I drove up to Lake Geneva, WI for Mother’s Day.  Before we got there we stopped in Antioch, where Ma and Stepdude mused over the possible purchase of a lot in one of those Redacted Homes developments. Turns out there were too many hidden costs. That, and Ma brings home the bacon these days. Stepdude? He brings home the bupkis. And besides, Antioch is too far from where Ma works. Upon reaching picturesque Lake Geneva, we stopped for a bite at—of all places—Subway. After that, it rained. But the rain passed quickly. We wandered around the old business district, which was very much alive with tourists.  The Copper Mountain Toy Co. & Train Land Of Lake Geneva * sells, among a great many other trinkets, historical action figures of Jesus, of Moses, and of Shakespeare “with Removable Quill Pen & Book!” They also had an action figure of a coffee barista. On impulse, I purchased the three remaining Shakespeares: one as a future gift to one of my many theatri...

If you drop a notepad and it hits the ground, it’s not going to break. And you don’t need to recharge a notebook – that is, a paper-filled notebook. And unless you’re famous (or infamous), nobody’s going to want to steal your paper notepad or your paper notebook, either. Not that it matters. Forgive me, I am in mourning, for a Constant in my life has now faded into oblivion: The Chandler’s Assignment Notebook. In these parts, in the past, they’d go on sale around the beginning of August. But as I feared with last year’s edition, all was not well in Chandlersland. In years past, there’d be some famous, inspirational quote printed on the upper lefthand corner of every page. But for the 2007-2008 edition, there were no such quotes. That space on that side of every page was left blank.  Yesterday, whilst stockers stocked the shelves with Back-To-School supplies at the local SavYah, I asked a manager when they might expect their annual shipment of Chandler’s Assignment Notebooks. It had...

We attended the same high school, she and I, but we never spoke to each other. And now, thirteen years later, we both burn carbs and pump iron at the same gym. And still, although we frequently make eye contact, we’ve never exchange words.  Two days ago, whilst huffing and puffing on the treadmill, she walked by and stuck her tongue out at me. It seemed a playful gesture. In return, I offered a raised eyebrow and a slightly perplexed grin. She stepped onto a treadmill next to the one next to me (id est, leaving one in between).  Yesterday, whilst pumping up my gluteus maximus, she passed by, twice; and so I stuck my tongue out at her, twice. She didn’t notice. Two OTHER people, however, DID, and apparently they thought I was directing my tongue at THEM. They, in return, both offered perplexed stares.  Mayhap, the other day, whilst I huffed and puffed on the treadmill, she was actually thrusting her tongue out at somebody else—perhaps at the huffer and puffer behind me. 6 ...

A café.  AMY and BRANDI, sitting. Nearby, sits FIREVANEY, eavesdropping.  AMY  He kisses me too much.  BRANDI (slow nod, raised eyebrows) Mmm. You don’t like him anymore.  AMY  No —  BRANDI  Or you’re liking him less.  AMY  That isn’t —  BRANDI  There’s somebody new?  AMY  No! He just… too many kisses.  BRANDI (nods)  There are worse things.  AMY  He won’t let me speak.  BRANDI  Well, not with his tongue down your throat —  AMY  Exactly.  BRANDI  Is he a … substandard kisser?  AMY  No. He’s a fine kisser. That’s not what I’m —  BRANDI  Too much of a good thing.  AMY Exac— Yes. Sort of.  BRANDI (pushes her latte away)  Brandi? Sometimes? You make me sick. AMY  No, you don’t understa—  BRANDI  Nor could I ever. Nor could I ever.  (she stands and shoves in her chair)  I’m late.  (She exits.)  FIREVANE...

Characters : GRANDPOP a retired accountant; FITZ VANNI, his “caregiver.”  Scene : The “study” in GRANDPOP’S house.  AT RISE : Early morning. FITZ VANNI, at the desk, writing in his notebook. Enter GRANDPOP. FITZ VANNI puts down his pen.  GRANDPOP    Couldn’t sleep.  So I took a second Melatonin.  Then, I slept.  That’s why I’m running late.  FITZ VANNI   You’re running late, huh?  GRANDPOP   I’m running late.  FITZ VANNI   (brief pause)  What are you running late for?  GRANDPOP   (subdued chuckle)  Good question.  (FITZ VANNI nods, smiles, and returns to the first draft of the day’s, or some future day’s, blog post. GRANDPOP moseys over to the newspaper that waits for him on the sofa.)  (LIGHTS FADE)  18 August 2004

He headed for the wall of glass doors, beyond which lay the night-shrouded parking lot, and he caught himself reaching for the Ray-Bans tucked into the collar of his shirt. Concurrently, and entirely coincidently, his companion asked, "Do you ever feel like you don't know what you're doing?"

Mine eyes scrutinize the packaged, pre-washed greens; mine fingers leaf through the spinach packs, seeking out a Use By or Best By date that’ll satisfy my strict standard of fresh.  And this woman,  a fellow shopper  (although not a fellow fellow),  likely ten years my senior,  double-takes me.  “Nick?” she says.  Now,  what should’ve come out?  “Yes! How are you?”  Instead, my mouth goes,  “Huh?”  (As in, “You talkin’ to me ?”)  She says,  “Are you…  Is your name:  Nick?”  And my stupid mouth it  does it again with,  “No.”  But it’s a “No”  with a smile.  Not embarrassed,  at least not overtly,  she says,  “You look like my son’s teacher.”  My stupid head nods;  my stupider mouth spits out,  “Oh.”  She’s a suburban,  middle-aged  soccer-mom kind of beauty. *   No,  she wouldn’t meet central casting’s criteria,  but ...

[Take heed: This post is not for the faint of heart.]  Pop’s mechanic’s porter shakes my hand every time we meet. He drives me back to Pop’s house, then picks me up when the Caddy’s been tuned-up, patched up, or whatever. I ride shotgun and we chitchat. This porter tells me he’s seen fifteen dead bodies. No, not all at once, but that’s quite a few stiffs for a dude who’s still in his twenties. I’m at least a decade older and I’ve only seen one. And, no, this guy isn’t a war vet. His folks don’t run a funeral parlor, either.  This porter, he’s all muscular bulk. His black hair is crew-cut short. His arms are tan and hairless. Besides being the porter, he’ll change oil and wash the cars. He’s not interested in being a mechanic, though. He’s only doing this to make ends meet. He’s got a wife and kids in a suburb north of here. He grew up in Chicago, but he doesn’t want to raise a family there.  Where the Russian mafia haunts and where the Polish mafia haunts, that’s where t...

Alright, yes!  I am a glass of orange juice.  Rather, the orange juice itself.  The glass is merely for containment.  Though perhaps it’s something of a fashion statement.  But yes,  that’s right,  one hundred percent,  fresh-squeezed,  pure Florida orange juice.  Absolutely,  positively,  not  from a concentrate.  Even so,  please,  I beg you,  refrain from consuming me.  Yes, your eyes indeed deceive you. These appendages, the clothing, the face? Simply a disguise. You haven’t a clue as to what it’s like: Every morning—people staring at me—a thirsty gleam in their eyes; and then, every evening, terrified to go to bed; fearing that ever-recurring nightmare where huge unwashed hands grab at me and spill me all over the kitchen floor—so that a big dog named Butch can lick me up. I was perfectly happy housed in a peel.  It’s dangerous propaganda, I tell you, all this talk about the benefits ...

“I had a thing for a stoner girl,” I tell Ernie. “That’s why I tried pot for the first time.” Short and blonde, she was my first college crush. One party, as the pipe was passed around, she kept telling my blushing face, “Stop staring at me!” Sorry, but an eyeful of Tatiana always did more for me than pot ever did. Smoking pot was always some kind of excuse. Ok, sure, it made me feel warm and fuzzy, but never enough to justify the migraine that came later.  And, yeah, sorry, I’ve always been something of a starer.  All that, I tell Ernie in the here and now, as he’s packing weed into his glass pipe. This is in Ernie’s west suburban condo, before we leave for the concert. He’s packing this pipe after rolling three massive… joints, reefers, spliffs? I dunno, don’t ask me. I’m not the expert. When I look at them, I think three wrapped-up Tootsie Rolls on steroids. See, my drug of choice, it’s sugar.  Oh, and, Ernie? Not his real name.  While he’s packing and rolling, I’...

It’s jam trafficked all the way into the city.  Pretty much, Ernie’s spent all of this month, all of last month, and half of the month before that gearing up for this concert. He’s been cranking Megadeth’s entire catalogue through his car’s speakers—even all their stuff he doesn’t dig.  He tried to get us dates, too. But the concert sold out before that possibility presented itself. Plan B? Lure a couple of metal-headed babes (already inside the Riv) with pot-baited hooks.  If I’m saying anything, it’s all stupid. (I don’t necessarily mean right-at-this- very -moment. I mean right-at-this-moment in Ernie’s car on the way to the Riv.) And after a while of non-stop Ernie, I realize, and then proclaim, “Pot shuts me up.”  Ernie is definitely not defensive driving into the city. Clearly, he’s missed his calling as a getaway driver. As he casually guns and weaves toward our destination, he volunteers to fill-in movie plot holes. Exempli gratia, with Back To The Future, h...

Parked, Ernie tucks three over-stuffed joints down his sock, into his shoe. He didn’t tell me the joints were in a plastic baggie, so I had to cope with the ostensibly presumed inevitability of smoking a reefer laced both with sock stink (assuming his socks stank), and maybe a few stray feet hairs (assuming his feet were at least half as hairy as mine). Well, this was, at least for me, supposed to be a night of living dangerously. So bring on the sock stink, the feet hairs! There are way worse things you can press your lips to, right? It’s not like I’m gonna pull a drag off some wild baboon’s ass, am I?  Ernie slams back a beer. Outside, after locking the car doors, he chugs down another one. He leaves the can on the curb. My full bladder saves me from following his lead. Besides, I’m not a chugger. I’m a nurser. My stomach sends back anything it’s forced to accept in haste.  Through darkish, residential Uptown, I’m wincing and walking funny. It’s like God’s giving me a wed...

Lemme backup a half two dozen steps…  They’ll stop you for a pat-down in the front entrance vestibule. When you look deeper inside the Riv, you’ll think some fool and his cousin started repainting all the walls at once—and gave up halfway through. Like maybe the fool painter and his cousin both suffered from serious attention deficits. But maybe that’s why they came so cheap. In sooth, I can’t really speak for the fool’s cousin. Lots of folks follow orders without question. Not just the fools. (Or so I’d like to believe.) But maybe all of this patchiness is just the middle of remodeling. One can only hope.  Either it’s all David-Fincher-esque or Terry-Gilliam-esque. I can’t decide. (I’m referring to the general decrepitude.) Whichever, I’m pulled between digging it and grieving it.  Chicago was, once upon a time, the palace theater capital of the country. Your great-grandparents might’ve shared their first smooch in the upper balcony of one of these once opulent venues. M...

Down here, in the men’s room, amongst all the other pissing peckers, there’s a jolly fat guy standing before a urinal. He’s shirtless; his shirt’s slung over his shoulder. Why? I don’t ask. Every other guy parked in front of a urinal is taking aim with one hand, sipping plastic cupped beer with the other. Of all the public pissing situations I’ve found myself in, this one gets the medal for Most Jovial. Call it a Friday Night Frat House Kinda Vibe. And what’s this ephemeral fraternity’s mantra? “Yeah, Megadeth!” One shouts it, everyone around repeat-shouts it. You’ve never seen so many smiles in a men’s room full of heterosexuals.  I shake out my own warclub, pull up the maroon boxer briefs, button the blue button flies, buckle the brown belt, pass the doorless shit-stalls, and round the corner toward the sinks. There’s this tall, buzz-cut headed guy. He’s got a white plug in one ear, Secret Service style. It’s attached to a coiling wire running down the side of his neck and disap...

So, my hands are washed. At least, they are, in a physical sense.  Pushing through the crush of metalheads, I pray that some brilliant way out of this clusterfuck will present itself. Up in the lobby, nobody is Ernie and nobody else is Officer Undercover Buzzcut.  Here I am, part of me soaking-in the Riv, soaking-in this swarm of humanity here to blow out their eardrums, and, most of me, praying for a call from Ernie. Though, if he’s only allowed one phone call, it shouldn’t be to me—especially if he’s going to jail. My phone’s in my hand on vibrator mode just in case. No way could I hear its ring over the din of geared-up metalheads.  The Riv’s main lobby and mezzanine foyer, both of them, their speluncar. Above the bit-too-snug basement-level restrooms (a curiosity, unless bladders and bowels were bigger or more durable a century ago, or folks were generally smaller), the Riv’s just one yawning cavernous chamber feeding into another. Everything about the walls and ceili...

I keep calling Ernie and Ernie keeps calling me and we keep losing each other until I find several display bars of strength, downstairs, at the base of the steps that wind up from the Riv’s foyer.  Ernie tells me he got busted and now he’s waiting for what’s next. His deflated voice says, “Go enjoy the concert.” But I’m staying put by these lobby doors, waiting for what’s next. I tell him, call me when he knows.  Two minutes later, Verizon shudders in my palm. Ernie tells me, “Enjoy Megadeth.” Because, they let him go.  “Your punishment is,” Officer Buzzcut told him, “you don’t get to see Megadeth.”  Whatever Ernie’s gonna do with the rest of the night, he doesn’t know.  “Go,” Ernie repeats, “enjoy Megadeth.”  This much is clear: the right guy is on the wrong side—the outside—of the Riv.  More than I’m here for music, I’m here for architecture.  It’s Ernie who’s spent the last month psyching himself up for this concert.  His voice through my ...

Understatement: Ernie is bummed.  “Megadeth, Maaan…” or,  “We missed Megadeth…” or,  “I can’t believe we missed Megadeth, man…”  The rest of this night,  when his mouth’s not full of diner food,  beer,  or pot smoke,  this is how Ernie compares to a broken record.  And I broken record right back at him,  “At least you’re not in jail…” or,  “Dude, you’re not in jail…” or,  “You could be in jail right now, dude…”  Or, “You got more pot?”  Because this was my night to indulge. Going back to the western ‘burbs, yes, there’s more pot. Only, out there, there’s nothing to do; no one we know. Staying here, he’s still got stuff in the car, but not much. Staying here, it’s the city— everything’s goin’ on. The trouble’s finding it. Which is easier for some than for others.  Things, they don’t happen to me.  They happen around me.  I live life after-the-fact.  Whatever that means.  We end up at Diner D...

Hours later we’re back at Diner Deluxe for more. Ernie says, before it was this place, it was another place. But that’s most of Chicago—nearly everything’s something that used to be something else. Take a boat ride down the river that winds through downtown, and the tour guides will draw your attention to all these architectural ghosts.  For Ernie’s second Diner Deluxe dinner, he orders an egg skillet with pancakes. That, he washes down with an Oreo cookie milkshake. Ernie says it’s good—no, actually, it’s a great shake. And this, Ernie says, is because it’s an end-of-shift-made shake. We’re our waiter’s last table. I don’t remember if he was male or female or both or neither. The first one, from earlier, was definitely female. Understand, between our first and second Diner Deluxe visits, Ernie and I got business-serious busy with the baking of our brains.  For my second Diner Deluxe dinner: mozzarella sticks. These are three times bigger than my best-ever erection. And when e...

Those of us seated at the far end of the table spend most of Jacques’s birthday dinner discussing what makes for real art, why I’m too old to drop acid, who the Bong Boy * is, and when at least three of us are going to try hallucinogenic mushrooms. We reach no solid conclusions, we set no firm plans.  And it looks like I’ve made a mistake with the Super Blowing Ball Series II UFO. As Jacques unwraps the gift, Mr. Wench proclaims, “Uncle Fun strikes again, huh?” I thought Jacques would dig it. It’s a rare, or seemingly rare, or at least somewhat unique, sci-fi-esque toy. I figured he’s had his fill of Star Wars stuff. But he seems a bit uncertain as to what to make of the gift. Ah, well.  Ry makes a cameo. He’d made himself scarce after he broke off a wedding engagement, twice , with one of our number. I hadn’t known that he worked at this particular tapas bar. (Whose idea was it to come here, anyway?) For obvious reasons, he would not wait on us. He said doing so might resul...