White Noise

There’s this song in my head,
and I’m waiting for it,
to be loud and clear.
Wanting to hear the sweet music;
dance to the rhythms of my success.
Float on those powerful waves.


But what I mostly hear,
is that, scum-sucking-gonna-get-me-some-
-hype-filled-read-all-about-it-business-fuck-white-noise.
And that shit’s loud, man.
It gets into your shirt, man.
Until you perform with the norm.
You know
marry rich, invest well, buy a house, vote Republican,
watch TV, and believe what all that “common wisdom” bullshit,
does to your fear and guilt, man.


But I ain’t gonna hear that shit.
I ain’t gonna sing that white song of suppression.
I ain’t gonna reach out and fuck someone,
to please the stockholders.


Instead I will raise my right hand.
And I will pledge allegiance to the edge;
to the furthest part of my ability.
And to the song which is in my head,
I will dance and sing like a silly damn fool.
Dig It!


-ERK
4/1/95
11:00 pm

Strange Dream

Last night I dreamt I was meeting a friend that I had not seen in a while, and was trying to make a good impression, but was totally blowing it. It started with everyone at the gathering was wearing a costume, and I was just in regular clothes. And then later in an enclosed space i was talking to some woman at length and realized I wasn’t wearing a face mask and everyone else was. The look of horror on this woman’s face as I was speaking loud was amazing.

So I decided for some reason to show this woman a magic trick. Mind you, I don’t know any magic tricks, but that didn’t stop me. I knew I needed to make a good impression. So I took a book and started ripping pages out of it. At first I was pretending to rip the pages, but pretty soon I was taking out whole pages, and then clumps of pages, and then shaking the book upside-down and having confetti and small pieces of paper fall out.

The magic trick was I was going to make the book whole again, and it worked, the book was made whole, except…. Page 17 and 18 didn’t want to go to the right place. Page 15-16 was full of violent language, and page 19-20 was almost a war. The poor page just didn’t feel right being between those two, so it asked about and traded with page 57-58 who was bored of the staid and sedate place it was in, and was looking for more adventure.

And when I woke for the last time (for this dream was more like several dreams that worked together with me waking sometimes in-between) I thought to write a children’s book where one could rearrange the pages in different ways. So the story could be easily changed many time the child got bored. They could put all the exciting stuff right next to each other, or put all the stilly parts in the back, or whatever.

It should be an interesting project.

Is it good business?

So yesterday the New York Times began to release information about Donald Trump’s taxes for the last 17 years or so, with the exception of the most recent two years. Without going into details, the main gist is that he has consistently lost money in business, so much so that for 10 of the last 15 years he paid $0 in Federal income tax, and for two of those years he paid a miserly $750.

As to the truth of this information, I obviously cannot say. The President has claimed it is “fake news”, but he has made that same claim so often, and over events that have proved to be true so many times, that I can no longer believe him. To me, he is the proverbial “boy who cried wolf.” Mind you, he could prove the truth quick enough. All he has to do is release his records, free and clear. Absent his “actual” tax data, I am forced to believe it is either true, or reasonably close. I am not alone in this decision. Most people I notice are treating this info as if it is true. 

Which comes to the point of this essay, what does it all mean? There are lots of numbers and lots of things to glean from it. The data suggests trends, patterns, methods of operation, etc. Frankly there is enough information, with enough of it sufficiently contradictory, that one could invent almost any kind of a narrative for it. The defense I hear often from Trump’s supporters is, “But it’s good business,” and it is precisely this defense that I want to unpack.

Is it good business?

While I am not an expert at large real estate transactions, I am a businessman. I’ve successfully run my own small business (a sole proprietorship) since 1993. That is 27 years of continuous and profitable operation. This business is the machine that pays our bills, makes payments on our mortgage, pays for our insurance, gas, and all our other expenses. It is the sole source of income for our household. I will not disclose how much we make, but I can say it is sufficient to pay our bills, plus put money aside. We’re not rich, but we’re pretty well off, considering. 

This was not my first business, but my third. All together I have started or helped to start five businesses, and I am very likely to do more. I am what they call a serial entrepreneur, that is to say I am comfortable starting a business if the situation merits it. 

But note those numbers. Five business. While I can honestly claim I have had much success at business, I have also had my share of failure. And this is important. I have run small businesses into the ground though my ignorance and/or poor management. I have watched small businesses wither and die as the market and our personal needs changed. In short I have fucked up. It’s not something I am proud of, no one likes to fail, but failure is instructive in business, believe me. Failure can be a master teacher, if one is willing to learn.

All of that to say I’ve seen a lot in business, both my own and for the hundreds of other companies I have worked for. And I wasn’t just working, I was also paying attention. I have not just observed my own business dealings, but those of every other company I have worked for, or of every other businessperson I have known. I have gone to school on friends, family, and total strangers, asking probing questions, yearning to understand what works and what doesn’t, because failure is expensive, and yo, my family is on the line here. If I screw this up, they suffer. And no one wants to harm their family. So I pay attention, I ask questions, I look around, I book up on certain accounting or tax topics. This doesn’t mean I am the most knowledgable around, but I treat the running of my business as if my family’s well being was on the line if I fail, because it is.

So yes, we are well aware of tax dodges in our family. We understand that you often want one business to show a loss so you will pay less in taxes, we understand that tax write-offs, if done well, mean you keep more of your hard earned money, and we understand that showing less income means paying less taxes. But there is another side to this. If you show less income it means the banks will not loan you as much money, or they will change you more interest on their loan. Trust me, being self-employed sounds great up until you try to buy a house. Even good credit is not meaningful to banks if they suspect you are a risk, and they are not afraid of expressing their concerns in terms of higher interest rates. 

All this to say there is a limit to how poorly one can show up on their taxes. Tax information is required for many business dealings, especially when borrowing money. If you lose too much, no one will lend to you. Why? Well, because you lost to much. It’s a concept not unlike your credit score, albeit one calculated with a little less precision. Basically your business finances are judged like your personal finances are, and the banks will treat you accordingly.

So is it good business to continually show a loss on your tax returns? Only if you don’t want to be in business long. You might pay less in taxes, but ultimately you will pay more in loans. Like a lot of things, there is a balance that one needs to strike in order to succeed. Pay too much and you lose. Pay too little and you also lose.

But is this true for Donald Trump? A fair question, after all I’m still running a tiny business compared to his vast empire. Well, what kind of loans does he make? We know Trump borrows money. He tax records show he has hundreds of millions in loans that will be due in the next 4 years. So where does he borrow? Not here in America. For all that he purports to make American great again, he doesn’t do much business here. Why? Because American banks won’t loan money to him. Not at any price. Why? I’m guessing because he keeps showing a loss. Remember when he shows a loss on his taxes its not just him that is loosing money. When you do business on his level there are hundreds of companies all with some kind of financial tie to yours. Everyone is vested in the same outcome. If it fails, everyone fails. 

And failure on this level is massive. If you start something like a casino, there are all kinds of losses if it fails. Not just the banks you borrow money from, but the investors you sold stock to, the businesses you hired to build your building, the people you hired to run things, the companies that gave you a lower price so their name can be associated with yours, all of those people lose money too. Even the local governments that sinks money into roads, sewer, and electrical connections, not to mention business tax breaks, will lose a chunk of money. 

If your losses are large enough, you can actually cause the local economy around you to plummet. So now your losses are not just yours, but everyone connected to you, either directly or indirectly. Not just investors, employees, and local governments, but also the bank teller down the street who loses their job because the bank closes that branch, the checker at the local grocery store that goes under because no one has enough money to buy food, the clerk at the clothing store. All of these people are now losing too. Because economies are never just a local business, they are the hundred and thousands of tiny business transactions around you. Its not just the businesses you contract with, but the businesses they contract with as well. Its not just the employees you hire, but the employees someone else hires based upon your employee’s income.

Is any of that good business? Well, maybe to you, but not to anyone around you. That 100 million dollar loss on your taxes could mean as much as a billion dollars of loss to your local economy. The nice large number in pointy brackets on your Schedule C that ensures you are saving millions in taxes, will translate directly into misery and discomfort for hundreds or even thousands of people around you.

Is this good business?

But what, you may ask, if the numbers aren’t true. What if Trump is merely using “creative accounting” to show a loss, and thereby paying less in his taxes?

This is a fair question. So let us peak into it some. My first thought is not to examine his taxes, but how the banks treat him. As I have mentioned above, banks are surprisingly circumspect with their money. They don’t just give it away, even for a “good” opportunity. They expect their pound of flesh, and they are exceedingly good at getting it. 

(A short break here for a No Bullshit Hot Business Tip: Go into the business of loaning money. it is the safest and most profitable gig around. Just do it at the institutional level, not to your neighbors and friends. Seriously. This is the one business I wish I had started a long time ago. It is much more profitable than doing art, or selling products. Money never goes out of fashion, and like an undertaker, everyone eventually needs a loan. And no, I’m not selling this tip to you. You can have it for free.) 

So back to honesty on tax returns. How do the banks treat Trump’s business? As we have been seeing for years now, American banks do not loan money to Trump. This, I think answers the question if the numbers on his tax return are real or not. The banks collectively treat him as if they are. They may be nothing more than accounting fiction, but to the banks it is a real as hard cold cash. 

Honestly, that should be sufficient, right there. The people who know the most about money and its management, the people who’s job it is to sell money, do not in fact fact do business with Trump. Let that sink in.

And while you’re thinking about that point, allow me to present another, and that is of honesty. See I’ve been doing this business thing for a long time, and one of the more interesting things about business I’ve discovered is how much honesty and integrity pay. That is, treating others well, is ultimately a good investment.

In business you quickly learn what you mostly sell is trust. If people are going to give you their money, they expect something in return, and that something better be good or they will go somewhere else. If they cannot trust you to deliver, they will not give you their money. It’s a sample as that. This is true of every business interaction, from buying coffee at the local coffeeshop to multi-billion dollar business mergers. Businesses sell trust. This is also why it is so difficult to start a business, because when you first start out you have no track record. You are literally selling yourself. After you have been around a few years you gain a reputation, and that reputation is nothing more that a large pile of built up trust. Success ensures success. People see that you have been in business for years and that makes it far more likely they will trust you with their transactions. You have proven your worth.

And the opposite is just as true. Almost always I have found that people with bad reputations have earned their reputation the hard way, by being dishonest in their business dealings. No one wants to work with them. Countless times I’ve seen someone who’s business seemed a little off, and sure enough when I asked around I found no one trusted them for a reason. They left a trail of bad decisions behind them, casting a big old stink like a fart in church. People like that rarely last more than 5-6 years in our industry before moving on to another. They get run out because their reputations loom so large that no one will trust them anymore. So what do they do? They go into another industry and do the same damn bullshit all over again. 

I’ve met men who I wouldn’t trust with a dollar. Are they rich? Sometimes. It depends upon when you catch them. Men like this are good at making money, talking up their reputation, making themselves look large and in charge. But their bad dealings eventually catch up with them, because you can’t outrun your reputation, and when that happens they go broke, and then switch to a new industry. Men like this have an interesting pattern of success and failure. They flourish for a short while, then it all comes tumbling down. Then they move not to a new place, and flourish again, but that eventually comes tumbling down too. Are they successful? Maybe, depending upon your definition of success. Is this good business? Ultimately no. You can only be a con man for so long before enough people are inoculated to your bullshit, and when that happens you end up broke. 

Does this sound like someone you know? Think back. Ever had a friend or family member who was a drug addict? Ever tried to deal with an addict of some kind? If you’re nodding your head, then you know exactly what I mean. I started my first business with an alcoholic in recovery. He was exactly like this. He was good as talking the talk, but when it came time to working the work, there was always an excuse. After a while you just stop trying to make things work with someone like this, no matter what their potential. Get burned enough times and you’re shy to do it again. 

So what about the opposite of poor behavior. What does honesty give you? Well in my small experience growing and maintaining my business relationships, it has paid off very well. I work in an industry that is full of freelancers. We are the original gig economy. And our reputations mean not only a paycheck, but are directly tied to a pay rate. A poor reputation means you not only have a harder time finding work, but when you do find it they pay you less. The people with good reputations not only find more work, but they find more success at it. They get paid well, and on time. People trust them. They establish relationships that last for years and even decades. I’ve had people recommend me who I have not seen in over 10 years. Why? Well, I hope it because I’ve been honest and caring in my dealings. People trust me. I also deliver in the work they give me, but trust me on this, you cannot always deliver. My reputation has helped me through many a dumb mistake and nightmarish project. It has smoothed the bumps in the road, making thing easier.

But also this needs to be said: There is a joy in treating others well, of being kind, of sharing hard times with others, of building professional relationships until they start to become personal. We all like it when the person at the local store remembers our name. We all like to be approached with a honest smile. We all appreciate the value of an honest hand shake. Why? Well, maybe its because we are all primates who were designed to live and thrive in small groups, but honestly I don’t care too much what the scientists say about this. Being nice just works. Having the trust of others is the greatest gift. I may not be rich like Trump, but when times get tough I have people at my back. Do you?

Is this good business? I’d like the think so.

What do you think? Who do you invite over to meet your family? Who do you let sit at your supper table? Is it the rich man with a bad reputation, or the poor man who is nice to everyone? I know my answer. What is yours?

Is it good business?

The Thing About Breonna Taylor

(a duplicate of something I posted on facebook, and wanted here for posterity)

I’ve been thinking a lot about this case lately and why it doesn’t sit well with so many. I am not a lawyer or a legal expert. These are just my musings, an attempt to understand the reason why this whole thing feels so unjust to so many.

So there are a few assumptions at play here that are important. The first is that State is required to act on behalf of its citizens, the second is that if there is a dispute we have a legal place to resolve them, we call it a court of law. Both of these are necessary for “justice.”

The first part is easy to see. If a citizen dies, the State investigates. If their suspect is found guilty of the crime, the State punishes. I know this is pretty basic, but its worth pointing out. The State’s job is to speak on behalf of the dead, and if necessary, punish their perpetrator. We all understand this. It is in every cop show, it is the basis of much of our laws, it is found in almost all crime fiction. This is a culturally excepted practice. Hurt someone and the State comes after you.

The second part is also culturally excepted practice. If there are any disputes regarding a crime, the State resolves them in court. We all know this, and understand it. We all carry with us a sense that we can expect “our day in court.” Again, our laws, our history, our culture, and our media all have this expectation.

But what does a court mean? A court is a strange place. There is a prosecutor, a person who’s sole job is to try and convict the perpetrator. There is a Defender, a person who’s stole job is to defend the perpetrator. There is a judge, a person who’s job is to make sure the court proceeds correctly, smoothly, and follows the law (essentially they defend the law for the State). Finally there is an audience of citizens, a jury, who’s sole job is to determine if the perpetrator is guilty or innocent. 

Note: this is an adversarial process. It is aggressive and partisan. There are sides. There is conflict. This is how it is supposed to be. In fact, long ago court cases could be settled by might of arms. We no longer have those rules (no one is allowed into a courtroom armed except bailiffs), but the idea that we resolve conflict with fierce words is still deeply important.

So, there is a verbal fight, a judge (a referee), and a most importantly, a group of every-day citizens who are the only ones who get to determine guilt or innocence. 

And notice the role of the State is not to determine guilt, only citizens do that. The state determines and defends the law, and it provides one (or both) sides of the conflict, but it does not determine guilt.

This is how we do justice in America.

Now, having laid all that out, lets see how the State of Kentucky did regarding Breonna Taylor.

First of all we know she was killed by employees of the State. While not common, this does happen, but there is a conflict here. The State is now needing to both prosecute and defend its own employees. It is essentially prosecuting itself. This is considered a conflict of interest. At the very least, the State needs to ensure that every legal proceeding has at least one person present to speak on behalf of the dead, because we all understand it would be very easy for the State to simply look away and not prosecute itself. 

So did the State do this? Was there a legal proceeding with some kind of conflict, and both sides represented? The answer is no. There was not. The State looked at a lot of evidence, some of it showing their employees acted correctly, but a lot of it showing they did not. The employees themselves did not follow proper procedures, did not fill out the proper forms, did not follows accepted practices, etc., and they did not provide exculpatory evidence in the form of body camera footage that some at least were wearing at the time.

Still in all of this the State judged their actions did not merit a trial. In effect, the State judged them innocent.

Now it is important to point out, by Kentucky law, it is entirely possible the officers involved acted within the law. It is entirely possible that if they were prosecuted, the case would end with the a not guilty verdict. These things can all be true, but we will never know because the Sate determined we wouldn’t. In effect, the State acted as the role of the Jury, the Prosecutor, and the Defender, in a case that clearly was controversial, and in which its own citizens had demanded more scrutiny.

So was there justice here? No. The state neither acted on behalf of its citizen, Breonna Taylor, nor brought the case against her killers to the proper place to resolve such conflicts. There was no opposing side given a voice in the proceedings. There was no speaker for the dead. It was the State sitting in judgement upon its own actors, and determining, by itself, that they had done nothing wrong.

If you find yourself wondering why people are protesting, this is why.

A Summer Morning

A secret path

Looking far into the backyard.

We haven’t done anything with the backyard in a while, letting the weeds that have rooted grow as they will. The back was never really planted. When we bought the house there were two massive silver maples, sadly gone now and deeply missed, with the remainder of the yard mostly gravel over roofing material, or in some places instead of roofing material it was plastic. As the trees died some of the gravel we removed. We also planted a hedge of yew pines across the back to act as a screen from the ally and the apartments behind. 

Because the back is not planted it has a feel of wilderness to it. It’s very subtle.  At first glance it’s just a jumble of dried grasses. Then as you look patterns start to emerge. The grasses grow in waves, little pockets of order in the midst of the chaos. New plants are constantly emerging even though we haven’t watered or treated the soil. The neighbor’s hedge is slowly taking over our common block wall. Already the ugly spiked metal topper he put on is mostly covered, the vines clinging tightly to the wall taking advantage of the morning sun. 

A neighbor’s vines consuming the wall.

New green growing in the midst of dry plants.

Two large trees from the adjoining neighbors east of us shade the middle of our yard. Between them and the garage, the morning light is arrested by a deep shadow that does not give way until you are almost to the base of the yew pines. There the sun suddenly springs forth, a natural spotlight shining across the entire back. For the ground at that spot this is the only time of the year it will receive direct sunlight. The sun will soon swing south around behind the trees plunging their north facing bases into shade. In winter, indeed in every season except high summer, their bottoms never receive direct light. 

Between the trees and the garage the deep mid-yard shadow gives another dimension. It marks the shadowy line from the real world, through an underworld passage, to a far off sunny land on the other side. I think this is part of the allure, partly why the back feels so wild, because of that journey through the shadows.

The view back, though the land of shadows.

This same spot, the deep part of backyard, has an entirely different feel at mid day. When the sun is high, the house is parched, the heat baking. It is like standing in an oven with weeds, whereas in the cool of the morning is it a sun-dappled secret garden, a fantasy realm 50 feet from out back door. 

As I stood back there, first in the shade and then later in the sun, everything felt removed. Walls of foliage and surrounding tall fences give the space a sense of shelter. There are no flat distant lines marking the horizon, short of the one leading back to our house. Traffic on the nearby avenue is blessedly light in the morning, so the road noise doesn’t intrude upon my sense of wilderness. Private jets from a local airport pass overhead so high they sound like some strange species of bird. Over a neighbor’s yard two actual birds flay past, carrying on a very loud and ernest discussion. They weren’t close enough for me to recognize, but I’d never heard that kind of call before. Listening to them as they passed gave me that embarrassed feeling that you get when you find yourself suddenly next to a strange couple that is bitterly arguing in public. You don’t know whether to plug your ears or pick a side and loudly cheer. 

Then finally the morning sun had warmed me enough that it is time to return. Mug of coffee in hand, now almost gone, I walk past the weeds, plunging again into deep shadow, only to emerge on the other side, back again in the real world. But the rest of the morning that sense of the wildness persisted in my mind. If felt like any moment I could spin around and suddenly find myself back again encased by nature.

And this I think is the reason why we love the wild. Because once we’ve crossed their border and entered their realm, the wild never truly leaves us, but clings to us, following us back to the real world so that even when we are surrounded by cars and buses and city streets, the wild remains, just around the corner, waiting patiently to reclaim once again its land.

On the bodies of black boys

I dreamed last night that our soon to be 19 year old son was back in elementary school. A bunch of us parents were standing around, kids milling all around us, so it must have been a party or the end of the school day. Kids at that age make a sea of noise and movement, and parents sort of carefully wade through it without trying to disturb the energy too much.

One parent was there without their child. He had gone missing a few days before. The mother and father were asking us questions. Had we seen anything? Did we know anything? When was the last time our child had seen their son?

Suddenly one of the parents, a father, started crying out. They couldn’t find their son either. It was broad daylight, with dozens of parents and teachers about and his boy had just disappeared.

I had one of those frozen moments of fear that you get when you’re a parent. The thought of loosing your child goes through your bones like a knife. A sense of panic rises up taking over your mind like a tsunami, and it cannot be quelled until your child is in your arms. I grabbed our son and hugged him, picking him up off the ground, and what was going though my mind at that moment was the worst kind of selfish relief. I could sense the panic of the father calling out to his lost son, but at least I knew our boy was safe.

If you’re a parent, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. Its a feeling of equal parts  terror for the parents of the missing child, mixed with relief that your own child is safe.

Then in the way that dreams go, a very cinematic sequence occurred in my mind. I was looking at a sign, a name made of white lettering painted upon a black background. It was one of those many projects that kids do in elementary school, the paint and the writing were done by the children. The name on the sign I was looking at was that of the first boy that had gone missing. As I watched the name of the second boy joined the first, like someone was keeping score. All of this was superimposed upon the scene of children milling around an elementary school, and a father trying not to panic while calling out for his missing son.

I knew in that moment that his son was lost, and the father would never see him again.

Then I woke to my alarm, groggy and stiff.

The emotions from this dream were still echoing fresh in my mind as I headed for the kitchen to start my coffee. It took me a few seconds to process what I had been dreaming, trying to piece together the setting and the emotions, when suddenly I recognized the names of those missing boys. They weren’t some random children, they were Black boys that our son had gone to school with. We’d had them over to our home for birthday parties, we knew their parents by their first names. These were families we knew, and liked, and we enjoyed their brief connection with our son.

At this point I doubt that anyone reading this will be surprised. This dream came after a terrible week where a Black man, George Floyd, was essentially executed in broad daylight by the police, and the resulting protests and riots that followed. The week was like living through the 92 Rodney King riots again, only this time it was more diffuse with protests in hundreds of cities all across America and the world, and not just contained to a small part of LA. And there were far more white voices and bodies joining in the march. Oh, and let’s not forget the specter of Covid-19 looming everything like a horror movie scene in the back of everyone’s mind. So not just protestors, but masked protestors, facing ranks of masked and helmeted, police officers. The street of our believed nation filled with smoke and with fire, looking at times like a war zone from a third world country.

So yeah, there is plenty of fuel to build horrific dreams.

Since our son attended our local elementary school, two more black families have moved to our block. Successful families too, as the cost of owning a house in our once blue collar neighbor has doubled and then tripled. They are friendly, they have nice children, we talk to them fairly often, especially the neighbors across the street, and I can’t help but think they have the right to feel their children are safe too. That their children will not be taken away from them on the whim of a man with a badge and a bad attitude.

The other day Teri was talking with a checker at a grocery store, and the young lady asked Teri how the current unrest differed from the 92 riots. It’s a tricky question as were much younger then, and much more selfish. I hadn’t met Teri yet. At that time she had been dating Black men for years, so she was intimately familiar with the LAPD and how they treated men of color, especially with a white girl in their car. I was seeing someone from my apartment complex who had lived through the revolution in Iran, and was terrified it would come here. I probably wasn’t very good comfort, being both young, and dealign with my own insecurities as this was before I went through therapy. I also didn’t know anything about PTSD or how to help someone with it, things I am much better prepared for now.

So I guess my dreams answered the checker’s question for me. What’s the difference between the 92 riots and now? This time it is personal. It is not just Black boys in danger, it is Black boys we know and like. And we’re no longer interested in allowing their deaths to continue so white families can maintain their perfect bubble of ignorance.

Things are going to be uncomfortable for a while, especially for white families. We’re going to have to deal with topics that we usually do not talk about. We’re going to have to talk about race, and what that means, and what parts of our past we still carry unknowingly in our hearts like a poison that leaves wounds which cannot be healed. The unspeakable will be spoken, it must be if we are ever to find peace.

Because no parent should have to live through the horror of calling out their child’s name, never hearing a reply.

From the Writer’s desk

I was 12 when I first laid eyes on a locomotive, and I will remember that moment to the end of my days. Those crazy unbelievers up in Sisko had invented a new engine that was supposed to be faster and more efficient. All the newspapers from up north talked about the new-coming passenger service which promised travel to any place in the Empire within a single day. This was easily twice the speed of the ancient 2 + 2s they ran before with their open tops and their rickety carriages. But where we lived no one paid much mind to that, as no one we knew had money for the fare. What got all of the farmers tongues to waggling was the freight version of that engine, which was even larger and promised to take produce from our fields to the ever hungry tables in the capital in 24 hours or less. So my dad hitched our two ancient mares to our old buckboard, and took me on the six mile journey to the closest passage of the tracks that we might see for ourselves what all the fuss was about.

We stopped some hundred paces from the tracks, and waited, not sure how close we could get. Later we would learn the engine had been held up in Delano, so that it reached us some three hours behind schedule. For some reason in my childish mind I equated tardiness of the train with a lessor size, assuming, like many of those around us, that the “monster engine” as they called it was just another product of the capital’s hyperbole. So as we waited my fear of the impending engine grew less and less, until by the time it finally arrived I was standing just at the bottom of the rocky ballast, close enough that if I were to lay out on the uneven rocks, with my feet in place, I could have touched the closest rail with the tips of my fingers. 

Our first hint of engine was a tiny white plume on the horizon, with a darker smudge underneath it, the darkly stained oil-smoke defining the edges of the white steam. As it slowly increased in size, faint trace of its passage were carried to us. The first hint I had of something larger than I imagined came when the rails near my feet started to vibrate like plucked stings on some massive fiddle. They sang and sizzled with impeding energy.

Then suddenly the engine was upon us, so loud and so encompassing that I could not hear my fathers shouted warnings to step away from the tracks. The sound was not just loud, but penetrating, you felt it more in your chest than in your ears. It was as if it was too big for your ears alone, but required the entirety of you body to hear.

As it zoomed by, piercing whistle blowing, a massive steel edifice towering some 15 feet over my head, and passing me at a pace faster than even birds could fly, I felt something in my head fall away. My earlier fears were overcome by the size of that great mechanical beast, leaving me fearless in excitement and wonder. I reached out my hands to the newly painted freight cars as they passed, not so much as to grab ahold of one, though I desperately wanted to, but just to feel the air of its passage. In my fevered excitement, that was enough for me.

There is a story in the Holy Bible that speaks of crippled beggars in Jerusalem so desperate to be healed that they stretched out their arms that they might touch the hem of the passing Jesus. Up until that moment the meaning of that verse had eluded my 12 year old mind, but by the time that train had finished passing I knew exactly what those poor souls were feeling. The smoke, the steam, the speed, and most of all the noise, had baptized me. I was forever changed. I knew then that I wanted more than anything else in the world to work on an engine like that. It didn’t matter to me if I shined shoes, or was the chief engineer, I just wanted to step onto that massive beast of a train, and take it anywhere it wanted to go. 

Five years later I did exactly that.

The Serial Killer

There’s a serial killer and he is coming to your home. You spend the few moments remaining with your family frantically attempting to plan some kind of defense. The idea is you’re going to lure him into a room, and there together overcome him by striking him with things in your house.

So it comes that you find yourselves in an upstairs room looking out over the city at night, and pointing to the places he has struck before.

“Didn’t he shoot someone from that tower behind the Payless?” you say.

“I don’t think so,” a second voice says.

A third voice adds, “I think I remember that. It was a man wasn’t it. Coming home late from a bar? It was just past where he strangled that lady.”

The second voice says, “I did hear about the shooting, but I remember the lady. Was that last week?”

“Two weeks ago,” you say.

And in this way you bide the time until you hear the glass in your back door break, and he walks into your house. Downstairs you hear him prowling, then he grabs some item of paper from the living room and angrily rips it to shreds, and you realize that the last-minute plans you had made of weaponizing the meager furniture in the upstairs room are not going to work against all his anger and his energy, that you’re going to have to face him with almost no weapon and no plan.

So you turn to your partner/significant other, and you say, “When was it we were going to bring him up here?”

***

This is what it is like to write a novel. This is what it is like to get married, or have a baby. This is what it is like to lose a loved one. This is the metaphor of the living. You move, you plan, you think you have a bead on things, and then suddenly you find yourself overwhelmed by forces more elemental and powerful than you ever could have dreamed or expected.

Everything you know and love is at risk, you are quite sure you are not up to this task, but you do it anyway because to do nothing is unthinkable.

About Grace

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found.
Was blind, but now I see.

20 years ago, a man named Matthew Shepard died. His remains are being interred this week in the National Cathedral in Washington. Matt was not a very remarkable young man, had I passed him on the street I doubt I would have thought twice about him. The reason he is being interred, like the reason for his death, begins and ends with a single fact. Matt Shepard was gay.

At the time of his death, I was shocked, but didn’t think much about it. Already I understood that being gay could be a death sentence. It was a sad day, but not an unusual one. By that time I had already been on both sides of the gay “question”. I had gone from thinking homosexuality was the most terrible of sins to understanding that gay people were exactly like any other person, with the exception of who they fell in love with. It was circuitous journey for me, one full of events that I would really like to forget. I carry a very clear understanding that I wasn’t always on the side of the angels with this one, and some of my mistakes burn on my conscious.

Growing up, I lived in fear of being gay. It was a common slur, and one that I took to heart. A fag was the worst of creatures; a male who was not quite a man. Later, when I was a Christian, I continued in the fear of gayness; quoting scriptures, condemning to hell, the whole thing. The church is a great excuse for one’s actions, but let me be clear; the sins of my time then are mine, not theirs. I knew better, I just didn’t act that way. Mind you, I didn’t hit anyone, or look for ways to harm someone who was gay, outside of offering them condemnation instead of fellowship. But I was also never their friend. I was not, what Jesus would have been; kind and compassionate.

In 1988 when I moved to LA, I left behind most of my Christianity. It was here I met my first gay friend. Todd taught me many things; what it was like to be gay, how to like yourself regardless of what the world thinks of you, how to be happy in the middle of chaos, and how to be compassionate towards those less fortunate. This last part was ironic. We’d both come from the church–which was one of the things we hit upon from the start, and allowed us to grow closer–but it was only after leaving the church I learned to love those who were still afflicted with their own internal fears about manliness and what being a man meant. I had to leave the church to fully see its flaws.

Now that I’m a father, I am thankful that my son has not been raised with this particular fear. He will be many things in this life, and I look forward to seeing as many of his transformations as I can, but he will not be a homophobe. At least he will not learn that by me.

In the end, this is all I can leave the Matt Shepards of the world. I cannot repair the wrongs I have done in the past, but I can change what I do today and in the future. As his ashes are laid to rest, consecrating that already holy ground, I am reminded of that great hymn, Amazing Grace.

I once was lost, but now am found.
Was blind, but now I see.

May that we all find our grace.