Phantom Limb

It's not something you notice at first, except the old guy in the marines t-shirt walks with just a hint of a limp. Barely that, it's more of a slight drag in his step. One leg is just a little out of sync with his pace.

Of course, if you follow the man's leg, you can't miss it. He doesn't hide it, doesn't cover it up with by wearing track pants or sweats. It is what it is. At the knee his leg tapers sharply before becoming a dull aluminum pipe that burrows like a screw into a tennis shoe.

It's something to watch him work out. Others his age conserve their strength. They step onto the treadmills like cows drowsily being led through the chutes at a slaughter house, but not him. He fights. He rages. His fists are clenched around the handles and he swings like he'd fucking kill you if you tried to stop him.

I understand.

Every now and again, someone asks him about it --his leg. It's a curiosity at the gym, though he isn't the only man to be missing a leg. There's another man, much younger, also ex-military, who comes in on crutches. He's still getting the hang of his, but the old marine is practiced. He lost his leg a long time ago. He's used to it.

"Does it hurt?"

The marine smiled and shrugged. "The funny thing is I still feel it. I can feel if it's turned the wrong way and just yesterday, I was sure, I was absolutely sure, somebody was standing on it."

Phantom pain, phantom sensations, he talks about and the mousy old man's eyes grow huge. He could not imagine.

"It still feels like it should be there," he said. "It's just not."

Red, Green, Amber

There wasn't much of a crowd --maybe 25 people, a poor turnout no matter how you looked at it. With it being opening night, at least a third of the audience was probably related to someone in the production. A few others would be members of the theater group. They served on the board. They were volunteers and they'd come out as moral support.

Really, there were only a couple of truly die-hard theater fans: a scruffy, bent man sipping fizzy water flavored with a big olive and very little water; a pair of teenage lesbians who'd taken their waifish, pet boy out for the evening and one or two gray others who'd come alone.

For a second, I envied the guy who'd bought the tonic water with a splash of vodka (six bucks, what a rip off!), but at least he had some idea what he was doing here. Me, I had no clue. I didn't know the play, barely knew the actors and had no idea where I was going with the review.

Reviewing local theater can be kind of thorny. Musicians tend to develop thick skins by exercise, by simply watching how many people leave their seats during their show to go to the bathroom, go outside for a cigarette or head off to chat up the bartender, the waitress or the militant-looking girl with the nose ring, the black boots and the short skirt. Visual artists largely don't care what you think --if you hate it. They're creative cocoon is comfy enough for one and besides, they sold a piece last fall so fuck you --not that it's about the money because it's not.

Local theater groups are a culture unto themselves. They're tribal and when they decide they've been wounded, they can get bitchy. They won't call or write, but you'll hear them mumbling about it for weeks. Their displeasure will not show up in the comments section or on the vent line, but will be telegraphed along the various grape vines.

The best you can do is choose your words wisely, be honest, avoid unnecessary cruelty and look for what works. Getting up on stage is hard. It's brave, particularly when you know you're not GREAT. You're just a local actor doing a small play only a few people will see.

The play was about to start. A few stragglers came in late and grabbed seats in front. The actors took their places. One of them looked out over the shallow pond of faces and seemed to stare right at me. The jolt was immediate and powerful.

For a second, I didn't believe it was her.

In my life, people come and go. Often, they disappear suddenly. They call from the road, leave weird notes that make you think they've joined a cult or sometimes they just stop showing up for work. They utterly vanish.

A month or a year later, somebody tells you some little thing about them, how they ran into them while they were on vacation or how they got a card from them at Christmas, unexpectedly.

Each absence cuts deep into the heart of met. No loss is ever recovered, even if new people come into my life and start new conversations. The ache never goes away. I miss them forever.

Amber was one of those people I'd gotten attached to. She'd dropped out of my life suddenly, went off and got married. I thought she'd left town, left the state, left the solar system, but there she was. She smiled and winked.

I tried to make some sign that I knew it was her, that I was seeing her, too. I wasn't sure if she was getting that then I looked over. Sitting three or four seats over and a row back was her very proud, absolutely beaming husband waving back.

My heart sank. She hadn't recognized me.

It had been a couple of years. It was dark. I was older, though to me I look the same, but I didn't remember if she'd ever seen me with a beard --and honestly, maybe I hadn't meant so much to her. It sounds cynical, but you never never really know how much someone cares about you, regardless of what they say. The allotment of space in the human heart varies from person to person.

The theater darkened and I tried not to stare. I had a play to review, but it was hard not to focus all of my attention on her. We'd been friends. I'd missed her, but that didn't even mean she remembered me.

The play was fine, better than expected. I laughed. I groaned. I tried to keep a tally of what worked for me and what didn't. Mostly, it worked. The play ended. The actors took their bows and the lights came up. I shuffled on my coat. It was time to get back to the office.

At least, I knew her new last name. It was in the program. She seemed to be doing all right.

The actors wandered into the crowd, shook hands and accepted kind words from their friends and family. Amber spoke with a few people on the front row then pulled away and came up the steps.

She called my name.

"I knew it was you," she said. "I tried to let you know I saw you." She smiled. "Your face..."

She told me she didn't know if I'd recognized her. She'd had a child and gained weight. That seemed to pain her most of all. She didn't look exactly like she did four or five years ago.

"I wasn't sure if you'd know me," she said.

"I'd recognize you at a hundred yards," I told her. "I've missed you all along."

She wanted to talk. She wanted to know where I'd been in the last four years, what I was up to. She wanted everything right then, but there wasn't time to explain, though the short answer was, "nowhere." I've been here all along.

I wrote down my office number, the only reliable way to reach me.

"Give me a call," I said. "I'll buy you coffee. We can have lunch. I want to hear everything."

Before I left, she introduced me to her husband. We'd met before. I remembered him. He did not remember me, but that was fine. I didn't really miss him either.

I did the work I had to then while I was thinking about it, I looked her up on facebook. The damned thing has its uses. I threw out a line to her there --just in case she lost the number. I haven't heard back yet, but I'm hopeful.

People have left my life lately and it has been a heavier burden than I would have thought it to be. I thought I was used to the traffic by now. I keep blaming my age, this middle age, and maybe that's it, but also maybe it's a failure to see the people who've come back.

Seeing Amber again gave me some comfort. Not everything lost is gone forever. Sometimes they come back and sometimes they've missed you all along.

I needed to feel that again. I needed to believe that again.

The gig

"Hey, we're closed."

Sunday afternoon and the Empty Glass was empty, practically dark, but it would be. Only the most devout alcoholic or a fraternity kid would be in a bar getting hammered this time of the day --unless there was a football game on. That goes without saying, I think.

I smiled, waved and said, "Hey, this is Bill with the Gazette."

Roadblock, the bouncer and sort of manager of the place, squinted then smiled.

"Sorry. I can barely see you, man. How are you?"

He's a big guy and comes by his name honest, but I told him, "Fine," as a couple of people scurried out the door, hauling amps and a drum kit.

"I think that's the band I'm supposed to be interviewing," I told him.

Roadblock looked at me. It was news to him. They'd just been recording, and a guy come to do an interview with a band in his bar, that couldn't be terrible.

He chased after them. "Hey, dude from the paper is here for you guys."

I followed outside. The remnants of the band blinked and stared like they thought at any second I might burst into flame and get some ash on them. It was just two of them, a man and a woman. I knew the woman vaguely. Her name was X and our careers in this town had sort of run parallel. She got started in music about the same time I started writing music.

It took her a second, but then X seem to remember inviting me to come, "between three and four."

It was 3:30 and watching her, you could almost see the stomach ache starting to form and the words, "Oh fuck," dangling from her mouth.

Instead, X said, "Sorry. I should have like checked back with you to see if you were actually coming."

In my mind, this had already confirmed, but an argument was pointless. I was annoyed. The interview was a favor to them --on a Sunday afternoon, during what are usually my off hours --but there was nothing to be done except to see if something could be salvaged.

"That's okay," I said. "My photographer should be here in a minute."

I said this because I hadn't given up on them. I was still willing to do this, if they could pull it together.

"No, the guys left," X said, eyes wide-open. "I mean, they're gone."

For the next couple of minutes, they tried calling the two missing players while I worked out what I had and what I didn't.

They'd put away their gear, packed it up and loaded it in the car. So, a cool picture of them looking all rock n' roll was probably out. Also, the bar was closed. Roadblock might have been okay with us coming inside to sit and talk, but then again, he might have had other plans. They hadn't cleared this with him. This could mean sitting in Wendy's, which is just about the lamest places to talk about anything other than taco salads.

Also they were having only limited success in getting in touch with the rest of the band and I had another gig in about an hour. No secure location. Not enough people. Not enough time.

Essentially, the interview was toast. There would be no picture. There would be no story. There would be no press coverage.

"Well, this is pretty much a wash," I told them then broke the news to the photographer. No way were we shooting half a band.

He shrugged. It was just one more thing of his to do list.

X said, "I guess you were right with what you said about interviews at rehearsals being not so good."

She felt kind of bad about it, but there was nothing to be done.

Apologies all around again. I was sorry it didn't work out. They were just sorry. Oops. Didn't mean to like wreck your Sunday afternoon. We made vague promises to work this out another time, but I don't know if it's going to happen.

Six or seven years ago when I was just starting to get into the whole business of writing about musicians, I was working nights at Books-A-Million. One night, X was out on the patio playing guitar. I thought she was pretty good, unusual, so I introduced myself and handed over one of my nifty, little cards I got over the Internet.

"I'd love to do a story," I said then explained that I'd written for Graffiti, wrote for a couple of free papers, and had just landed a few stories with the Charleston Gazette.

She smiled, but never called. I tried asking around some of the people who knew her at the bookstore, but she never came in again, at least while I was working, and I never got much of an explanation of why she didn't appear to be interested.

It was the first time I pitched a story to my editor that I failed to deliver on. The rejection bothered me. I was just getting started. I was a bundle of nerves and back then not a lot of people took me seriously --this is not to say they take me seriously now, but I did get some better.

Anyway, you hear, some things are never meant to be. The timing is never right. Some pieces never go together. Fate always conspires against, never works for.

Of course, I don't believe any of that.

Iron

There's a cluster of middle-aged men at the gym who tend to hog the benches. They laugh too loud as they work out. They bray like donkeys and it distracts me, with my ear buds planted firmly in each ear canal, the music turned up so loud it starts to hurt after the second or third station.

They chatter and make jokes, talk about football, basketball and God. Politics used to come up, but they don't really agree so they don't talk about it. Everybody wants to be pals. They move from station to station like a herd of Galapagos turtles.

I am a soloist in the gym. I stick to myself, try not to gawk too much (not that it's really a problem in a place where some mornings I am the youngest guy in the room) and do my best not to draw any attention.

Three days a week, I lift weights. The other two days, I climb a machine, swing my arms and legs and quietly work toward a heart attack. This wouldn't be a bad way to go. It would look like you tried.

I think I've come close once or twice.

I am an angry exercise enthusiast. This is where I come to work out my rage, my aggression, my endless frustration and my ever-present sorrow. I do penance for the sins I have committed --both real and imagined. I do penance for the sins I have not committed --both real and imagined. I do not do it for love or for vanity or really even for my health, except to say that I need this. It has become my raft.

Pain is my constant companion. I overdo it and stay sore, particularly over the weekends after a leg workout. In high school, I used to dread squats. Now, I hate them, but I do them. The pain is a comfort. It is shelter against the numbness and the cold pit of indifference.

By accident, the exercise clears my head. Lying on a bench with a weighted bar slowly approaching my throat somehow quiets the noise. The crushing pressure of iron on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees, lances and drains the poison in my mind. This is where I find peace these days.

It lasts barely the length of a single day.

Watching the turtle men, meandering through their workouts, wasting time, laughing like a squad of junior high cheerleaders, I can't help but feel a little envious --not for their little morning communion, not for their fraternity, but that the weights I lift seem so much heavier.

Bliss: Glutton

I tried a few new things this week. I had lunch with a friend I hadn't spoken to in a year. We talked and I was reminded why people like me: I am an amusing asshole.

We joked and talked and toward the end, I insulted her boyfriend a little by describing my job as not really being about important things. He's a musician and a good one, quite possibly one of the best in the area and I've written about him. There wasn't a way to recover from that, though what he does and what I do is not the same. Creating art and talking about art is not equal.

Self-awareness isn't always kind. I know what I do. I strive for truth, but usually settle with being entertaining or just a distraction.

It's okay. There is some nobility in being a clown. I am a holy fool.

But they were nice enough to buy me a shot of wheat grass, which tasted green. It was a new experience.

Most of my new experiences were edible. I had the wheat grass, ate at the Pita Pit and bought some candy from the International Food Market. None of it was earth shattering and felt sort of shallow. I think I should stop trying to eat my way to enlightenment.

I'm trying to read more philosophy. I'm studying Buddhist writings again. As I like to say, I am a Buddhist, just not a very good one. Anyway, the new reading is me trying to pick up some of the strands of thought I've misplaced --particularly the ones about letting go of cravings and attachments. Right now, I feel like Luke Skywalker, wanting to get off the farm and take on the Empire, and that's kind of silly.

I'm also reading Joseph Campbell, which explains the Star Wars analogy. He's fun and broadening in his way, but not every insight is useful. That's an insight right there. Not all wisdom is important, but it almost always seems that way.

I faced a pair of raccoons living in the crawlspace/unfinished dungeon beneath my house. I scared them off with bright lights, noise and some store bought crap that they supposedly hate the smell of. It appears to be working, which is good for them. The alternative was murder. If it didn't work, I was going to have to try a big batch of poison mixed with a jar of peanut butter.

I'd just as soon not kill something right now. I don't think I could bear the grief.

Bliss: Blood

A quarter to nine and there were probably ten people waiting to get called. Some of them were regulars, but a couple of newbies were looking around nervously, wondering what was going to happen next.

I did my meet and greet with the computer, explained for around the 60th time that I did not have relations with any Haitian voodoo practitioners while I was having a mad cow burger, took my seat and waited to be called.

And waited.

And waited.

The people leaving the room was a slow trickle. Meanwhile, one episode of "Charmed" rolled into another. I watched commercials about feminine itch problems and snack foods because pretty clearly whoever programmed the show starts drinking pretty early. You'd think they'd try to match things a little better in the same commercial break. I mean, if you've got an itchy vagina, do you really want Cheetos or a can of Dole pineapples right after you use the miraculous sanitary wipe that also deodorizes?

I don't think so. The magic of modern science aside, I'm thinking maybe you might wait --like the 15 minute thing before going back into the pool after having a snack. Maybe you'd want to test drive a new Honda first or plan to watch "The Dark Knight" Friday or Saturday, when it makes its non-pay cable channel debut with limited, but probably still a shitload of, commercials.

Pretty clearly, I was watching too much tv and thinking about it in ways entirely unhelpful to the people seated around me. Suddenly, it was 30 minutes later and there were still quite a few people ahead of me.

I could probably use the money, but I kind of needed to get to work and I wanted to stop by Habitat for Humanity to look at filing cabinets. It was 20 minutes after the hour then 25 minutes.

I got up and left.

There was no fuss. I didn't make a scene. I didn't go up to the desk and say, "Hey, why is this taking so long?"I just left.

Maybe it's time to put up or shut up, write the book proposal and see if anything sticks.

Bliss: Checkout

The guy bagging the groceries dropped two 50 pound sacks of dog food in the cart then slipped a package of toilet paper, some assorted boxes and bottles of cleaning supplies, and a jug of milk into separate bags. The last thing to go was a plastic container with an eight-piece of cold chicken from the deli, which is always overcooked, greasy and dry.

The woman involved in the transaction looked up at the screen above the cashier and bit her bottom lip.

"I don't know if I have enough," she said and pulled a cheap pocketbook out of her battered purse. "We'll just have to see."

The cashier only nodded. He was a young, but had seen this before.

"I might have to put something back," she said to no one in particular and brushed the yarn-like strands of her thinning, gray hair out of her face.

She waited for the kid to hit the total: $41.35.

The old woman winced, but nodded and began counting out tens, then fives and finally single dollars.

She had $38.

The guy bagging the groceries looked up and said, "You could put one of the bags of dog food back."

He was trying to be kind. The dog food was heavy and she had two of them. It seemed like a graceful way to exit the situation, but she declined.

"No, that's okay," she said. "We need that. Just put back the chicken."

The two grocery store employees looked at each other then I leaned forward.

"How much is she short?"

"About three bucks or so."

I'd come to the store to solve some needs and wants. My youngest wanted kool-aid. My wife wanted lite soy milk. My daughter needed a big ass candy bar and a bottle of root beer. She's an autistic and the last two days had been home from school. Lately, the world has become a lot more threatening to her and the candy was an easy way to calm her.

I'd collected these items and realized I kind of wanted something for me. I thought I kind of deserved it, but the movie selection kind of sucked and I wasn't really in the mood for candy, beer or even a magazine.

I laid a ratty looking five dollar bill on the counter.

"It's good karma," I told the lady. "I happened to have a couple of bucks."

She blinked, a little surprised, then thanked me. The clerks were stunned.

"That's like the nicest thing," the cashier said and I shrugged.

"It's not a big deal."

It wasn't. We all went our separate ways. The guy bagging the groceries only had a half hour to go until he went home and he couldn't wait. I saw the old woman out in the parking lot, riding in an old beat-up van that made me think of the one my parents had when I was a kid, the kind of vehicle good for hauling an army of ten-year-old baton twirlers to a parade or a bunch of very big dogs.

In the car, I turned up an old Motley Crue song as loud as I could force the stereo to go. Nothing had really changed. I felt the same, but it was a good kind of same.