Tornado, part 2

We went inside and Alex made us a late night snack.  I caught the end of Nightline. A local weather ticker flashed on top of the screen, announcing a severe thunderstorm warning for Cuyahoga and the surrounding counties. All told it was about a 25-mile radius around Cleveland -- a wide swath for storm activity. Rain rattled against the side of our house. Alex and I went out on our front porch to watch the weather as we often do. What began as a steady soak quickly accelerated into a violent downpour. Wind shook the trees on our tree lawn. I realized that the umbrella was up on our back deck. I ran through the house and out back to close it. Rain stung my neck and back as I shut the cranked closed the umbrella. A blinding burst of lightning signaled that it was time to go back in. As I reached for the back door a powerful gust nearly lifted me off the ground. I wrenched open the screen door. It tore from my grasp and slammed against the side of our house. I stammered inside and forced shut the back door. I caught a glimpse of Alex standing in the kitchen wide-eyed. All was noise, like the passing of a locomotive right over top of us. The lights flickered and went off. A tremendous crash sounded outside of the back door. I looked through the blind to see a limb from our centuries-old backyard maple, Broccoli, had snapped and dropped right where I had been standing on the deck. The view through the blind was that of leaves and wetness. Another loud crash, this time in the driveway.

“Should we get in the basement?” Alex yelled.

“Yes!”

We ran through the darkness into the basement, smashing heads together when we got there. The freight train had passed. We stood there for a few seconds before I ran up to landing to check the driveway through our side door. Again the view was consumed by leaves and branches and rain. Our cars were mere feet away but we could not see them through the debris.

“Did Broccoli fall?” Alex asked, terrified.

“I think so.”

I pictured the 100-foot tall tree smashed through the top of our house. Defying the storm, I sprinted upstairs. The second floor seemed okay so I went up to the attic. Shining my flashlight back in the eaves, I could see no pieces of Broccoli poking through. Imaging the thing falling at that moment, I doubled back down the stairs. I went into the living room and looked out the front window. Branches and leaves were strewn through the streets, filled with water gushing down. Alex called me to the kitchen window so we could look out over the driveway. We could see the tree limb had torn the gutter off of our neighbor Torry’s house and did some damage to a railing on her back porch.

Alex and I ran next door to check on Torry to make sure she was okay. We were relieved to see her answer the door, though she was quite shocked to see the damage to her house and her car. Now that we were outside, we could see that Alex’s car, a 2010 Chevy Cobalt was totally smashed. Several heavy limbs landed on the roof and hood, breaking all the windows and allowing the rain to leak in. Broccoli was still standing, though the wind had sheared off some of the limbs and caused damage. I tried to call 911 but it came back with a busy signal. I was not sure what 911 could do for us with our cars smashed by a fallen tree, but I needed to report the emergency somewhere. Alex broke down and cried while I stayed on hold with First Energy to report downed lines. Torry comforted her. I was lost in my own chaotic world. It did not help that we were still a little buzzed from the bourbon earlier. After sitting on hold for about an hour, I was able to reach someone at the power company to report the downed lines. By this time, the rain had let up significantly, but there were still eerie bursts of lighting that painted the landscape purple. In the distance, we could see smoke coming out of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, up on Detroit. Silhouetted intermittently by the lighting, fire fighters climbed up onto the roof.

Despite warnings from our neighbors two doors down, Alex and I risked live wires and traversed the short distance back to our house. The next day, we knew, would be to survey the damage and report it to our insurance company. We planned to awake at first light the next morning and take some pictures. Eventually we fell asleep, uneasily dreaming about the rest of Broccoli coming down on top of us.

Tornado

Alex and I sat at the edge of Edgewater Hill, looking out over our Great Lake, watching a storm roll in. Tendrils of lightning knifed across the sky, behind clouds and clouds of the advancing front. We had been drinking bourbon on our front porch with our friend Kate. She came over in the night to pick vegetables from our community garden. She had pulled her car into the garden, which is against the rules. We yelled at her from our porch, clutching our snifters.

“You can’t park there!”

Engine still running, Kate came across the street to our house. She explained that she would use the headlights to pick out the best tomatillos with which to make salsa. We said that we were drinking Seven Roses Single Barrel and suggested Kate have a glass. Later, the three of us sat with our snifters and watched Kate’s car, still idling precariously between the sidewalk and entrance to the garden. Kate admitted to us that she had purchased a life insurance policy from our friend Charlie, who had given up on teaching English to sell life insurance. Alex and I, too, had purchased a life insurance policy from Charles. He was my best man, how could I say no? I recalled signing the papers that very morning, over a Mr. Nomad skillet from Nick’s Diner in Ohio City. Paid for by Charlie himself. Shortly thereafter, biking to work, I nearly collided with a jitney trying to make a quick left. Luckily I escaped unscathed but I could not help yelling “JESUS CHRIST” into the guy’s car as we passed. I almost made Alex a wealthy woman.

Low rumbles of thunder portended an oncoming splash. I ran in and grabbed a flashlight. Kate, Alex and I went across the street to pick produce from streetlight, flashlight and headlight. The occasional strobe of lightning made things interesting. The flashlight I grabbed proved ineffective for it required constant shaking to keep it powered -- a kinetic motion flashlight. I had stolen it from an old roommate, for I would never buy such a contraption. After much shaking of the light, we gathered a sufficient amount of produce.  Kate thanked us for our help and she left, reversing her car back onto the street and leaving Alex and I in the darkness. We decided to take a walk down the street, towards the lake. 

The wind began to pick up and the lightning behind the clouds and clouds put on a great show. I could not get Alex to look though, for she kept trying to take a picture with her phone. We strolled back to our house, bourbon working its way out of our system. We had no idea what was in store.

To be continued...

Spare Change

Last night: I parked my car in the lot next to my apartment building. My car has been broken in there already, windows smashed out, CDs stolen, belongings rifled. Along with my roommate's car. And my fiance's car. Market Square is a hot area for theft and vandalism lately, now that warm weather has moved in. A few weeks ago, the side of my building was tagged brusquely by 'ALOT,' a local graffiti artist or artists. The piece appeared to take all of 25 seconds. Surveying the neighborhood later, I found several other instances of ALOT on electrical control boxes, utility poles, and, unfortunately, on the neighboring Hansa Import Haus.

As I stepped out of my car, three teenaged boys walked past, carrying a couple pies from Pizza Hut over on W. 25th. I heard the jangle of spare change cast upon the sidewalk. The youths continued down Lorain. I watched as one of them withdrew more change from his pocket and chucked it at the feet of one of his companions. The jittering of change continued intermittantly, slowly fading as the trio proceeded westward. Looking down, I saw the group had thrown pennies and pennies alone, no nickels or dimes stood out in the amber streetlight. Curious that kids would be throwing money away, though I assumed it said more about the devaluation of currency more than anything. It did seem like an awfully lot of pennies though.

This afternoon: My fiance and I had just returned from the grocery store and were standing in the Dust Bowl, a trash-ridden brownfield next to my apartment. Alexandra spotted an empty jar sitting atop a pile of broken cement block. I went over and retrieved it. Taped on the outside of the jar were a couple of missing children bulletins. Two young girls, missing since late 2009, from the neighborhood, the community. I could have been a fund for the families, set beside a cash register on a local business. Naturally it was empty.

This evening I put the two occurrences together and imagined the three kids with the pizza having swiped it from a counter of the Pizza Hut or a convenient store nearby. Maybe they sifted out the silver change, maybe there were only pennies. Granted, this is merely speculation at this point, but the pieces dovetail nicely. I haven't checked to see if the change was still there, outside my apartment. On the way to the grocery store, a man waved hello then asked me for money. I should have pointed him in the direction of those kids.

A Cormac McCarthy Conversation

I walked back from the break room with a copy of The Crossing tucked under one arm. Dave from the LatAm department stepped out of the newsroom and we crossed.

Youre reading The Crossing, he said.

I turned back.

Yeah.

You read All the Pretty Horses.

Yeah.

Youre going to read Cities of the Plain.

Yeah.

Dave nodded.

Nice.

Good talk.

VIDEO: How to Survive a Car Wreck

The following video was presented at Pecha Kucha Night Cleveland on Sept. 25, 2009, as part of The Bridge Project. Turnout was pretty astounding for the event, as the CLE P-K organizers estimate that about 300 people stood witness.

This is actually a condensed version of a story that was published in Picayune, the literary journal of New Mexico Highlands University. For a while, the full story lived on this site, but I have taken it down to encourage people to pick up Picayune.

Business Trip

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Travel Series Nov. 16 - 19

Pt. 1

Business. I was there on business. In New Jersey on a business trip. The Harborside Financial Center, to be exact. The night before, I had flown into Newark and taken a cab into Jersey city, which cost about $50. The cabbie did not accept credit card, so I paid in cash, though I had only brought about $60. This did a good job of wiping me out, though I would eventually expense the whole trip of course. It made me extremely nervous that I might not have enough money for a cab ride back to the airport. And I did not want to have to withdraw cash from a non-Ohio ATM.

But at least I had made it to Jersey City, and I checked into the Candlewood Suites there, learning, as I stepped into the room, that it was an extended-stay hotel. I was only there for one night of business sleeping. Of course I did not commence the resting immediately, though I probably should have. I drank down a glass of water for I was very thirsty.

I phoned my old friend Amy and attempted a rendezvous somewhere on the Lower East Side, a convenient mid-point between my Jersey and her Brooklyn. So I took the PATH train over, around the hulking core of the World Trade Center -- a great divot within the earth. I spied a welder spewing sparks down into the abyss. The train arrived at the WTC stop -- end of the line -- so I ventured up to street level to connect with an NYC metro train. I should have paid more attention to my surroundings, for the drunken return trip later, but due to the construction, I wandered along with everyone else through a corral-like system of plywood walls to a Manhattan metro station in the Financial District.

I took a blue train to a green train and then got off on E. 14th St. I met Amy at the Beauty Bar and we had some drinks there, then went over to the Crocodile Lounge, which gives a free personal pan pizza with every beer you buy. This transaction is executed via raffle tickets. You buy a beer; you get a ticket; you go to the back and give the ticket to a guy at a pizza oven; he holds up a coffee tin labeled 'TIPS'; you ignore that gesture; later, he gives you a pizza. Amy managed to hide her ticket and we got an extra pizza because of that little sleight of hand. At one point she disappeared around a corner and came back with 2 slices of cheesecake.

--It's someone's birthday over there, she said. This is Carnegie Deli cheesecake. It's phenomenal -- like $10 a slice phenomenal.

I'm not much of a cheesecake fan, but it was pretty much the best that I've ever had.

Nearing one a.m., I decided I should head back to N.J. So we parted ways. I think I got on a grey train going East. Then I got on a blue train going South. But the stops did not match up. A recording said something about not going down to WTC after hours. I estimated the next comparable stop, as the line veered off toward Brooklyn. But the map was hard to decipher, for it was horizontal above a door, but I knew we were moving vertically. This confused me to no end. Plus, the little dots marking transit stops -- they are not to scale, as I found.

Not exactly sure where I was, I stepped up to street level. Despite being lost, I was glad I got off because I had to take a leak real bad. So I found a dark alley and did my business through a chainlink fence. Much relieved, I focused more on my place in the world, and how to use that to get me to the PATH train. None of the street signs rung any bells (McDonald? Feltcher?), so I wandered -- more or less aimlessly -- through the Financial District, as so many investors had over the course of this recession. Difference: I was literally lost in the financial district.

So I dialed Amy again, hoping that she could zero in on my coordinates and get me to the PATH station. She answered almost immediately, which proved very promising. I told her the intersection at which I stood. I saw not one person in either direction, as if I were back in Cleveland. Except that New York has 50 ba-jillion people or something. That made me scared. Amy quickly logged into her computer and told me to walk straight. I trusted her, even though I failed to mention which direction I was facing. 200 paces later, I came to an intersection and Amy, my Eagle Eye, guided me right. And so it went: me calling out intersections; Amy saying right, left, straight.

Suddenly my phone blared in my ear, alerting that its power had run low. A single solitary bar flashed red in the far corner of a battery frame in the far corner of my screen. I needed to pick up the pace, for I remained as lost as ever. I began jogging. My breathing became strained. My voice wavery. Amy asked if I was running. I told her that I was, in fact. But I was out of shape and had to slow down, eventually reaching a pace that was perfectly between walking and running -- power lunging.

Eagle Eye said that I was almost home free, having walked nearly two miles with her on the line. Straight ahead, said Eagle Eye, you will see a sign that says PATH. Was she looking at me through a series of realtime cameras? Or was it Google Street View? Either way, within steps I saw PATH: NJ Transit and a rightward-directing arrow. It was stapled rather inconspicuously to a plywood wall. I had reached my destination and thanked Amy profusely. I was out of breath, but had plenty of time to catch it, in that I waited about a half hour for the next PATH train to come. And I had to take another leak.

As I stood there, I considered the implications of 9/11. Had it never happened, I would have had a much easier time finding the PATH station, in that searching the sky for two enormous twin refrigerators is much easier than trying to find a gigantic pockmark.

I made it back to the hotel around two in the morning and slept rather restlessly til seven.

Art

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Galleria Series: Nov. 9-12

This day, I ride around the Galleria on my bike, trying to track down a bike rack. I am too late for the food court, as it usually closes around 4:30, but I have prepped by picking up Jimmy John's from the Euclid Ave. shop. I complete a lap of the building, but find no bike racks, which is odd, for it is a retail site in a city adjoined by a large office tower. How could there be no bike racks?

I eventually chain my bike to a bronze railing on some stairs leading to the rotunda. The bike cascades down 4 steps. I enter through the food court and the mall is already uncomfortably dark. In reality, I am in there beyond operating hours, but the door is open so I go inside.

I notice that the Cleveland Bar Association is having some sort of mixer in their office. I do not belong there. Taking my place at a table on the upper level, I unwrap my submarine, dial Charles Parsons. We discuss getting together Friday for the Kent State Folk Festival and living our lives like we are 22 again. He asks if I have paid off my Flaming Gyro debt. Not yet.

To my right, a couple of guys in one piece coveralls stare into a small art gallery. They are possibly in HVAC or pest control or escalator repair -- it is hard to say. But they stare for a long time at one painting -- a 4' x 6' canvas of fanciful humans with a great splotch of red in the middle.

-- I guess, one of them says, that most of these stores are for people that work in the office.

-- Yeah, says the other, too much bread for me.

But they continue to stand there, and eventually walk inside the space for it is very small and not staffed. I don't believe it even has a name. I continue to munch on my sub, glancing over from time to time to see the men gesturing wildly at the great red painting with the gold frame. They demonstrate lines of articulation.

I check back and they are gone. Time to leave I guess. I descend into the rotunda food court, now pitch black, and walk outside into the chilly November air, back toward my bike on the stairs.

Dario

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Galleria Series: Nov. 9 - 12

I buy a gyro from Flaming Gyros and attempt to pay with my debit card. The large man behind the counter says that if I pay with cash, he's willing to give me the gyro combo for $5 instead of $6. He mumbles something about the card not going into his account until Monday. I fish in my wallet, knowing I only have $4. I tell him this. He does not say yes or no, but goes about making my meal. He comes from the kitchen with a nice looking sandwich. I give him all my money but he asks for fifty cents, something to get a little closer to the $5. I don't have it. I just don't. Then I tell him I can pay him the other $2 next week. He does not say yes or no but gives me the food and a small drink.

From my usual table in the upper middle of the Galleria, I look down on Dario Fashion Group. Yet another day where not one soul will even give the place a glance, I think. Today, though, an old man in a trench coat and large plastic rim glasses walks along the outside perimeter of Dario. He cases the suits hanging side-by-side-by-side in the display window. He ponders for a long time in front of the sign advertising a ridiculous sale on fine suits. He walks to the entrance and stares inside for a while longer, then decides to keep going, it seems. He walks past the door.

I deflate a little, disappointed that he did not take the leap. Then, inexplicably, the old man turns around and walks into the store. I am shocked. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. I expect to see the man come out any second, but no one else comes in or out.

This signifies a golden opportunity for me, as I have wanted to browse Dario for some time, but have always been off put that no one is ever in there. Today, though, I could walk in and overwhelm the clerk with business.

-- Two in one day, he would say, must be Black freaking Friday.

But the gyro has left me feeling greasy and nebulous. Beard month has me looking haggard, listless, like a derelict. This is not the day to shop for suits.

More time passes and I realize it is time for me to return to work, so I toss my pop in the trash can, take a quick look at the Lakefront Hullet Plan and mosey out of there, gyro shifting back and forth inside me.

Arcade Tour

Part of NOMENCLATURE's Galleria Series: Nov. 9 - 12.

After yesterday's post, I decided today to partake in an 'Arcade Tour' of Cleveland. I walked to Superior and into the Euclid Arcade, then crossed over to the Colonial Marketplace. At that point in the day, most shops had locked up. Hunger rang within me, and as all the food vendors had closed or were emitting disinfectant smells, I decided to try another place for food.

I ended up walking down E. 6 and over to Au Bon Pain in the Fifth Third Center. The place was virtually deserted at 4:25 pm. One cashier stood post, talking to a man with a coffee. Occasionally, a cook would appear from the kitchen. He said he'd be right with me.

I ordered a chicken sandwich, asked the guy how his day was going. He seemed preoccupied with a cart that held several dozen containers of dressing.

-- I'm just trying to get out of here, man, he said. 6:30 and I am out that door.

He slapped both hands, clad in rubber gloves, then pointed to the outside. I noticed that he had a tattoo the upperside of his wrist that read: Shelly.

I nodded in commiseration, though I knew it to be no earlier than 4:30. I thought, am I the last person to order for tonight? Do you always start your closing work at 4 pm, when the place closes at 6?

I paid for my sandwich and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. The clerk tried to upsell me on a cookie and a drink. I politely declined.

With last night's post still on my mind, I walked up E. 9th to the Galleria and took the escalator to the second floor. For the last month, the down escalator at the E. 9th entrance has been busted. The guts of the movable stair are exposed like a war casualty in a film.

The spot I always sit at is located near the center of the mall and looks up at the Erieview Tower and down onto an open space. On this day, a book seller had set up a series of tables with sash that read: Reading is Fun. I also looked down upon a suit maker named Dario -- a shop in which I have never seen a customer. The same sign accosts me: 1 suit: $99 ; additional suits: $1. Behind me was the Friends of the Cleveland Hullets display space. An older couple walked past me. They seemed to recall when there was legitimate business in the retail space. They noticed the Hullets store and decided to take a look inside. It was the first time I have seen anyone in the hullets store beside me.

I attempted to write in my comp book, but I could not find a pen. So I read a little of the latest A Public Space. By the time I needed to head back to work, the sky had mostly gone dark and the Galleria took on a dimness that astounds me each time I see it.

Ohio City House Fire

Last night I was riding down Franklin, on my way back from the Happy Dog, I approached a haze in the distance near W. 30 and the field at which we sometimes play kickball. Entering the cloud, I was inundated with the reek of woodsmoke. This triggered instantly the notion of fire. I turned down W. 32 to see about 10 firetrucks lined up along the entire length of the street.

I rode down to a hydrant with fire hose attached, living the dream, spraying streams of water down the street gutters. I stepped off my bike and crossed to the other side of the road and onto park space adjacent to the burning house.

A man in sweatpants and a white undershirt came to stand at my side. He said that it was a boarding house, and one of the tenants had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, and there you had it. I simply nodded.

As a matter of coincidence, I had my digital camera and immediately took photos of the blaze, despite my better judgment. Then came memories of my old man and I, late into a night of my youth, on a street with a house burning down, opting to stay in and not rubberneck -- a term I heard for the first time then, in reference to those that glean inspiration and reality from tragedy.

I was tipsy, my judgment markedly skewed and I did not feel much guilt at my decision to record the event. Shortly thereafter, I witnessed several others snapping images or capturing video on cell phone cameras or more sophisticated equipment.

Scanning the crowd that had gathered, I began to posit those that have been a tenant in the house. A man in a football jersey, pajama pants and no shoes shifts uneasily back and forth. Bides his time between the sidewalk and a cab of a Cleveland pump truck.

I noticed my friend Dan with a few other guys on bikes. I drew alongside him, stated something about how crazy the whole thing was. He said that a friend of his had called earlier, told him to call the fire department as a house was definitely on fire. Dan's friend then rode down the street and roused the residents of W. 32. He was a hero.

* * *

The next day, I learned that two people perished in the fire.

UPDATE - 11/08/09 - 10:47 PM: Four people have perished in the fire. (Thanks to Thed for the update.)

Rest In Peace.

Multimedia:

In a Nutshell

Tonight I rescued a stolen bike that belongs to my friend Abe.

Thed and I saw some kid riding it up Detroit as we were leaving the Happy Dog.

Unmistakable: sky blue Schwinn Madison with a dowel rod for handlebar.

And the helmet -- Abe's helmet: stark black with no decals -- hanging from those handlebars.

We followed, down to 65th and then a right.

The kid stopping at a house.

Side door opens and the bike begins to disappear.

A confrontation, brief, not particularly heated.

A walk then an exchange.

The bike is returned.

Thed and I walk back with three bikes.

Now I own Abe's bike.

In a nutshell.


---------story to follow---------

Quarters

They day they find 11 dead bodies in a house near Kinsman, I take my lunch during the evening rush and go towards CVS to buy my mum a birthday card. Crossing over St. Clair with no Walk sign, a few pedestrians and myself make our way South down East Ninth Street. I pass alongside the ING building, where an old woman in a puffed up white jacket begs people for money.

--Does anyone got a quarter? she yells while slamming fist into palm.

She accosts the walkers in front of me, and I try to sidestep her pleas behind a column of the ING Building. Very spry for an old lady, she notices my maneuver and catches me as I emerge from the other side.

--Can you spare a quarter or let me use your cell phone? she expells, both arms extended and fingers wrenched.

I just shake my head, continue onward, hands-in-pockets.

--I just need one quarter!

Nearing CVS, a man sits on the sidewalk with his back against the building. His legs are splayed nearly into the street. He clutches a styrofoam cup, shaking change and bottlecaps. This method is far less obtrusive and easier to ignore.

The woman in front of me also enters into CVS. She does not make any attempt to hold open the door for this is not a city of people.

I make my way to the card section and pick out a rather standard card for my mum. On the cover, a turquoise cake sits below a bow. Above, text in Garamond: A Wonderful Birthday for a Wonderful Mother. Enjoy Your Day.

Standing near the front counter, I wait for maybe thirty seconds for the clerk to acknowledge my presence. To my right, a customer examines wristwatches for $9.99. The clerk is glued to a 3.5" portable television hooked to an obnoxious antenna. The County Coroner says during a press conference that the identities of the victims will need to be determined using DNA evidence. A flyover shot shows a bunch of people milling around a backyard riddled with holes -- graves.

The clerk notices me, motions me over to the register. He says a price and I scan a credit card. The machine spits out a receipt. He uses the edge of the counter to tear it and gives it to me. On my way out, a man clearly shoplifting exits behind me, undeterred.

The man with the cup still plies his trade. No luck again from me.

Coming back to the ING building, I search for the Quarters woman, and am relieved to see her not there. A nicely dressed woman leaves the ING building and then Quarters is on top her, having materialized out of thin air. The ING woman is trapped within a web of wrenched fingers and outstretched arms and puffed up jackets.

--Can you just give me a quarter? Just one quarter?

The force of the sound echos between the columns and lifts shreds of newspaper off the ground.

ING woman is despaired, she says that she cannot -- ahem -- cannot help. Though she wishes against wishes that she could. She says that Quarters should go to Prospect because some there surely will help. Surely. She digs around her purse for quarters that aren't there.

I poke around in my pocket and my thumb and forefinger collect one single, solitary quarter. I take it out and approach Quarters and her puffy coat. My hand lightly grazes her elbow, to garner attention. I drop the quarter into the palm of a hand with wretched fingers.

--That's what I'm talking about, says Quarters.

The ING woman says that it is a blessing and she thanks me, she thanks me. She is so damn happy. I wave and continue back to my job in a brown-and-glass midrise to heat up some Ramen before my lunch time expires.

From behind I hear:

--Now I just need another quarter!

Contest Entry

Controlling idea: Tell us what you are most excited about this Black Friday. (250 words or less)

My heavily-insulated back leans against cold precast concrete. I am in competition and in cahoots with the dozens of shivering souls that surround me. Together, we are a force with which to be reckoned. But at the same, we remain a force of good. We sacrifice a day of rest for a frigid, impossibly-early awakening to stretch our legs and stretch our budgets, to try to provide the best holiday for our loved ones. I bond with perfect strangers over hot coffees and Pop Tarts, hoping that I can wrangle my purchases quickly and retreat to the warmth of my bed by mid-morning. I hope that my newfound friends can do the same.

* * *

In keeping with said controlling idea, possible Black Friday Brunchy(TM) at either my place or KateSpace's (Kate'sSpace?). Get in line early folks -- Thed's making pancakes!

I Don't Need That

After tossing back some cafe Americano and some life issues and big old ideas, Charlie and I left Gypsie Beans in pursuit of a smoke shop. We passed the glistening new storefronts and restaurants indicative of a neighborhood on the rise. We also passed a few indicators of a not-so-ebullient and not-so-distant past. While Charlie was looking for smokes (I was helping), we sought a vendor more upscale than CONVENIENT STORE FOOD MART. So we continued down Detroit Avenue, beyond where the redevelopment was most noticeable.

--I think this part of the neighborhood is still looking for development, I said

--We might have to go to Little Italy, Charlie said, removing the last Nat Sherman from the pack.

We passed a Save-A-Lot, then a Family Dollar, where a young boy emerged, shopping bag in hand. He reached inside to remove a new AM/FM walkman. Charlie and I stepped past, and I thought the boy called for us, about 20 steps behind.

--Hey!

--Hey!

The calls were ignored.

The chapel at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel let loose a volley of bell chimes, either recorded or the real deal. I did not believe it was the turn of the hour.

Charlie and I had reached a block of apartment buildings to our left. Beyond the apartments there appeared little in the way of retail, let alone a high rent tobacco shop, though the Golden Arches were appealing. We stopped. Twenty yards away, a middle aged woman in curlers and a housecoat sat on the front stoop of an apartment building. We turned back the other way.

--Excuse me, she said.

We began walking.

--Excuse me, she said.

--Excuse me.

--Excuse me.

Our Lady of Mt. Carmel continued Her cadence.

We approached the child again. He walked toward us holding out the radio, still in the package.

--Hey. Hey you. Can you open this?

I said sure and took the thing off of him. It was encased in a bubble of plastic, fabricated in China or Taiwan, more than likely, and would serve the kid well for about two weeks, when it would either be lost, stolen, or deceased of natural causes. I took out my apartment keys and used one to saw through the container.

The shopping bag that had once contained the boy's purchase fell lazily from his hand and began to waft down the sidewalk. Charlie lurched with his left leg and stepped on the bag before it could float further away.

--You dropped your bag nephew, Charlie said.

--Huh? the kid said. I don't need that.

I managed to cut a healthy gash through the packaging, and used my hands to separate one half of the shell from the other. Our Lady signaled the fifteenth hour, roughly. Or maybe the sixteenth. Daylight savings had ended just that morning, and it takes the world most of the day to adjust.

--You better pick up that bag, said Charlie.

--But I don't need that, said the child.

In seeing him speak, I noticed that his teeth were stained orange -- a gradient moving from dark to light as the tooth descended from the gum.

--Look, Charlie said, foot still resting on the bag -- you throw this bag into a trash can.

--I don't need it!

The kid, maybe 10 or 11, took a wad of cash from his pocket and quickly ran his fingers across it. All singles amounting to maybe eight dollars. He slipped the dough back into his jeans.

--Trash can! Charlie said.

The kid stared from me to Charlie, then back again. I noticed that he wore glasses. He bent down and picked up the bag, eyes appearing perplexed behind wire frames and lenses.

Through it all, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel continued her song.

Undoubtedly, the youth dropped the bag as soon as we turned our backs. But Charlie had won a small battle. I would not have said anything, had it just been me. I would have pretended to have not noticed the blatant display of laziness. My day would have moved on, and I would have made no effort to address the issue or correct it. But I would have complained about it later, no doubt.

As we made our way back to Gypsie Beans, Charlie and I greeted every piece of flotsam on the sidewalk -- usually near public trash cans -- with I Don't Need That.

Burger King cup: I don't need that.
K-12 RTA bus pass: I don't need that.
Funions bag: I don't need that.
Cash explosion lottery ticket: I don't need that.
Empty pack of Winstons: I don't need that.

Under the Bridge - Sept. 25

On Friday, September 25, I will be presenting a spoken word piece for Pecha Kucha Night Cleveland, as part of The Bridge Project.

I will be reading a creative non-fiction piece, "How to Survive a Car Wreck," which appeared in the most recent issue of Picayune, the literary journal of New Mexico Highlands University.

The idea behind Pecha Kucha is a short winded presentation, executed via PowerPoint, aided by graphic slides -- 20, to be precise -- that last 20 seconds each. Presenters are limited to 6 minutes and 40 seconds of content.

So I've spliced a condensed version of the narrative with images from the actual event of being in a car wreck in downtown Cleveland.

Please come out if you are in the neighborhood of the Detroit-Superior Bridge this Friday. Pecha Kucha begins at 8:20, but the Bridge Project festivities are open from 4 p.m. to midnight.

Here is a sneak peak at my presentation:

It’s one of the perils of traveling with urban design students. Always looking at the buildings and the urban fabric and such and such. The ‘Big’ City pulled the car inside, like a rusty, post-industrial tractor beam.
‘I’da took the Shoreway to MLK. Way faster. Safer too.’

Come see me read.

A Post About Flatulence

Last September, I embarked on a Midwest Tour, if you will, via the Megabus. From Cleveland, I bussed to Chicago, met up with old college friend Bigler, then immediately transferred to the next bus to Minneapolis. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I pulled out of the driveway on the way to the bus stop in Cleveland, for I had to move my bowels. Problem is, when I am in transit -- or really any place away from home or work (it's easier to go when I'm getting paid) -- I cannot force myself to go. I lock up. Something about the transient nature of travelling.

And this was to be a trip of crashing on couches, not one of posh (or even ratty) hotel rooms with which I could garner a sense of place. My window for relief expired as I wandered around Tower City in downtown Cleveland, only to find the public restrooms gated and locked. I could not bring myself to go on the bus, though there was continual pressure in my nether regions throughout the night.

Upon arrival to Union Station in Chicago, early in the morning, I made an attempt in an Amtrak restroom. No such luck. The cellophane sheathing around their toilet seats felt unfamiliar and I was thus unable to relax. I metBigler shortly thereafter and informed him of my dilemma. He advised trying again but I could not bring myself to it for I knew the end result: nothing.

So we went to Minneapolis, met up with another college friend Erin, and again I could not find relief. Somehow I knew, pulling out of my driveway late Tuesday night, that this would be an ongoing problem the whole trip. I deliberately attempted to set my innards in motion by drinking lots of coffee and smoking cigarettes and eating lots of Asian food but nothing in Mpls did the trick. All the while I felt a constant weight building down below, like pressure pumping into an innertube.

By Friday evening we were back in Chicago -- Bigler's home -- and trying to track down a place to eat with Bigler's girlfriend, Ashley. We eventually settled upon a place and I ordered a falafel sandwich with lots of veggies. Still nothing. We went to a bar, I had a few draught beers. The next morning, for breakfast, we went to a diner and I had a rather large omelet with broccoli in it and several mugs of coffee. I think you know where this is going.

Afterwards, we went to the McSweeny's store, 826CHI, and goofed around in there. I began to feel a not-so-good sensation mounting, like indigestion. Though this was like indigestion on growth hormones. I hoped amongst hopes that I could make it back toBigler's apartment. We were just about to leave, but just for shits (no pun intended), I decide to look at a book low on the shelf. As I crouched down, an extremely pungent fart escaped. It was silent; deadly. I immediately locatedBigler and Ashley, safely out of harm's way -- for now. I tried to act casual and slowly close the book and replace it on the shelf. ButBigler and Ashley had moved next to me and they knew something was wrong. How could they not? Think of the combination: falafel -draught beer-eggs-broccoli-coffee. They commented on the stench and moved far away. Ashley looked particularly disgusted. We left hastily, for there were others in there and it was only a matter of time before they caught it.

I apologized a lot on the way back. Ashley said that if there was such a thing as glasses that could make stink visible, I would have been a solid puff of green, indiscernible from the flatulence I produced. Anytime you would go back to 826CHI, there would be a dark green smudge on the floor near where it had happened. A child, learning to read, would innocently open the book I had been browsing and vow to never look at another written word ever again.

Bigler went on to say that I put McSweeney's out of business for health code violations -- a dangerous amount of methane gas. One flick of a match would have sent the place up in flames.McSweeney's never recovers from the bad PR and eventually goes out of business. I effectively murder one of my most cherished publications.

Suffice it to say, the whole thing was embarrassing. But the wheels were sent in motion for an exodus of the evil that had accrued within me the last five days. Upon arriving atBigler's apartment, I set up shop on his commode -- inside a bathroom of his private residence, which provided me some comfort. The act took close to a half hour and by the end of it I was tired. But it had triggered an imbalance and my digestive track was not quite right the rest of the trip. I could not hold in anything, quite terribly. It became the exact opposite of my previous problem, culminating in a rather nasty episode involving a bar bathroom in Lincoln Square during a German Fest. But that is another story altogether.

I took the overnight Megabus back to Cleveland and upon my arrival, everything settled back into place, for I was home, and my bowels knew it. They are very perceptive like that.

Skaters

As I came to learn over the years, one of the positives (or negatives, I suppose) of being an only child in a divorced family is the ability to disappear into the void between Mom's House and Dad's House. I am in the eighth grade and recently discovered a route through the woods by my Mom's House that leads to my Dad's house. It is a Friday, around 4 p.m., I am 14 years old with nothing to do. The season is May. My mom's house is full of boxes, for she is getting married to her boyfriend Jeff, and we are leaving, leaving in a week or so. As most of my belongings are packed into boxes awaiting the van, I decide to hop on my mountain bike and ride via the trail to my dad's house.

I do not call my friends over there to let them know; I do not tell my dad; I certainly do not tell my mom. I did not plan to be gone long, certainly not past dark, and more than likely my mom would be working late or out with Jeff. I lock my beagle Sam in the basement and set out. I always feel bad about leaving Sam behind, but she is spirited, especially when let loose in the woods, and I would lose her easily.

The trip is much faster on bike than walking. When I had discovered the trail last Fall, I had walked it through Winter, but now that the weather had turned, I went via bike. This lesson I would take with me the rest of my life: biking is faster than walking and more convenient and proud than asking someone for a ride. The trip takes around 15 minutes, and that includes a stint where I walk my bike up a steep rocky hill on the trail. This is just slightly longer than driving over. Once out of the woods, I bike through my dad's neighborhood in East McKeesport. Most of friends live on this side of the woods, so this is where I would come to be social. Apart from my neighbor Brooke, I don't really have too many friends at my mom's house, even though that is where I live. Brooke does not come around much anymore, as she has fallen in with the smokers clique and I am still a nerd. All is well though, for I enjoy the solidude of my mom's house, nested atop a dead end hill, next to woods and a church and not much else. A few times though, Brooke came over and we would smoke cigarettes in my garage. I would consider asking her to make out, but would never. Mainly, I think, becasue I feel guilty for not being attracted to her because she is overweight and not nearly so smart as I am. All told, I am looking for sexual experience.

I turn onto my dad's street, Wilmerding Ave, and see my good friend Jason Mamrose -- a skater, but an all right guy -- with two of his skater friends. I recognize them as Justin Pitilsky and Scott Harness. These guys are not very friendly towards me on a day to day basis. I think about turning around to go back but Jason waves me down. He is wearing his new K2 skates. He installed a grind rail -- stolen from God knows where, my dad would say -- in his mom's front yard. Jason's dad lives in Monroeville which is very far away. Certainly not walkable or bikeable and inconvenient even by car.

Jason attempts a grind but slips off and lands in the grass.

"You suck dick," Justin says. He is not wearing skates, nor Scott.

"Fuck you," Jason says. "I don't see you trying it." Jason is good at skating. Better, I would surmise, than Justin and Scott.

"I don't have my fucking skates on, genius," Justin says.

"Yeah, that's cause your mom hid them from you," Scott says and spits.

"She's a bitch," Justin says. "She is always hiding my shit."

Jason says to me, "What's up, Ryan?"

I tilt my head up, give him a silent What's up. I am standing behind them, on the street, and have been for the duration of the conversation, but Justin and Scott just now notice me. They both smile as if they are playing a joke on me.

Scott says to Jason, "You know this kid?"

"Ryan DeBiase," Justin says, screwing up his voice to sound like a computer. He is impersonating me, but I do not sound like a computer. I don't think so.

"Yeah, we're cool," Jason says, dismissive. He is a year behind Justin, Scott, and I, though the same age. Jason and I share no classes and don't interact much at school. He is unaware of my low social standing, though I had alluded to it at times early in our friendship. I cannot skate, which is why I ride this mountain bike. At this point in history, mountain bikes are not in vogue.

"We're cool," Scott says, inflecting his voice low, like a Dunce. He turns to me, "Why don't you go do some homework, fag."

I feel my stomach sink. I shrug, consider going back, or making up some lie as to why I came over and going to my dad's house to watch TV. Or maybe going up the street to Gerry's to play GoldenEye on Nintendo. This is a strong option.

"Is Gerry home?" I say to Jason.

"Nah," Jason says, "he's on some boy scout trip with his dad."

"Boy scouts," I say, "what the fuck? That's gay."

"Gay?" Scott says, "Did you just call Gerry gay?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Are you two gay together? Do you have anal sex?" Scott asks.

I do not understand the concept of anal sex, but follow along, "I only do that with your mom."

Justin and Jason errupt in laughter. Scott mutters, "Fuck you." Then he looks at me defiant, and reaches at my chest. He clamps onto my right nipple and tweaks. Pain knifes through me but I keep a straight face. Some time ago, I decided I would make my stand by being impervious to the titty twister. Scott releases, attempts a differnt position with the same result. Frustrated, he eventually gives up.

"Are you the Terminator?" Justin asks me.

"What?" I say and shrug.

Scott goes over and attempts the same move on Jason, who squirms out of the way, laughing. Scott turns back to me, "You're fucked up."

After this, I do not say much to Justin and Scott and they do not say much to me. They attempt to pass each other out by pressing hard on their chests while one stands against a wall. It does not work, for no one passes out. Bored, they decide to walk up the street to track down Kasey Gustey, up on Congress. I do not really desire to travel with these kids, for they are not my kind of people. I attempt to locate that elusive excuse that will separate me from them. I search, but it does not come. For some reason, I am focused on my grandmother, as if she hinges on my staying or going. Any excuse I consider starts and ends with her, and that -- that is just not suitable for these skater kids. I would be laughed off the block. Not that this bothers me, per se, but I had made valuable inroads with the your mom comment and the purple nurple defense. I did not wish to throw that away. I put up a brief fight with Jason about it, but he persists in encouraging me to come along. I do.

We reach Kasey Gustey's house but he is not home, his mom tells us. She keeps the door cracked slightly, and does not invite us in. I remember Mrs. Gustey from the cub scouts, which I was in with Kasey about six years ago, but do not acknowlege her. It would be inappropriate given the company. Instead, I wait behind all of them and try not to make eye contact. With one plan overturned, we instead head for the East McKeesport playground -- the Park, as it's called. My stomach again takes a turn. The Park was not a place for people like me. That is where the skaters hung out and the last thing I wanted was to hang out with more skaters. As we are walking, I hang in the rear, attempt to confer in Jason that I wish to leave. He asks what else I would be doing, other than going to the Park? I begin to say something about my grandmother but stop. I tell him nothing, I would be doing nothing.

On the way, we pass a bar on Fifth Avenue. The door is open and Justin calls someone at the bar a fag. The guy at the bar says that he'll fucking kill us kids. Justin and Scott both stop while Jason and I try to walk on. There is a bit of a standoff, the guy inside comments on our age, how we can't go it, but he does not come out. Justin and Scott, laughing, move on. I think I hear the guy in the bar say: "Fucking kids."

In short order, we are at the Park and there are a few other kids there, some older than me; some younger than me. None are in my grade, which is a relief. Justin and Scott start smoking. They each have a pack of cigarettes. Scott gives one Jason. Jason tells him to give one to me. Scott looks at me confused. Asks if I smoke. I told him I quit. I told him I used to smoke in the seventh grade with Brooke Coolie. This is true, to a point, though I never smoked with regularity even then. The group of skaters shares a laugh at my expense, as if my name-dropping of Brooke suddenly affords me some cred. We continue to smoke. A young girl, most likely in sixth grade, wearing baggy JNCO jeans and a red tank top glances me from head to toe. I am wearing a grey Steelers T-shirt and a pair of Levi's jean shorts.

"Who is that?" she says with a disgusted look on her face. She is smoking also.

"One of Jason's friends," Scott says.

"What's your name?" the girl asks.

I tell her.

"Who do you hang out with?" she asks.

I search through my group of friends, mostly nerds from the orchestra, and cannot really think of one she might know. I take a stab. "Tim Mitchell," I say.

"Who the fuck is that?" she asks incredulously. "I don't know who that is."

Scott and Justin laugh. Tim is a peripheral player, at best, on the stage of junior high. My gambit failed. She asks for another name. I provide Jim Dunston, another of my orchestra friends, with whom I go way back.

"Who the fuck are these people?" she says, waving her cigarette through the air.

I admit that we are in the orchestra together, though I do not say I play the viola. I tell her I play bass. She rolls her eyes, unimpressed.

Jason notices a cop drive past and tells us to put our smokes out of sight. I drop mine to my side but do not toss it. Just as the cop is almost past, Justin takes out his pack of Newports and waves it in the air. He gives the cop the finger. The brake lights come on and my heart stops. Everyone shuts up. Then the lights go out and the car keeps rolling slowly out of sight. A few more cars drive past and I become afraid that someone will recognize me, smoking with a bunch of skaters at the Park. For some time I do not say anything. There is some debate over whether it is illegal for a minor to smoke or if it is just illegal to sell a minor cigarettes. No one seems to know the answer.

Scott asks why I am keeping so quiet. I shrug. He says that I am just standing there with my hands in my jeans, playing pocket pool. To confirm, a make a squirting sound with my mouth, mimicking what I think come must sound like on its way out. I am lightheaded and nauseous from the cigarette and I again consider going home. But it is a long walk to my dad's house and I still cannot think of an excuse. The guys talk about leaving anyway, making our way over to Broadway and trying to track down Kasey again.

After crossing over 5th Avenue, the guys lead me into a narrow alley which cuts over to Broadway. Tucked back in the alley is squat two story apartment building. We stop beneath a wooden balcony. Justin tells us to hold up. He goes up a flight of wooden stairs. Scott gives Jason and I cigarettes. We begin smoking again. Jason asks what is going on. Scott tells him that Justin is going to Ziggy's house to buy some weed. I do not know who Ziggy is. Upstairs, I hear pounding against a screen door. This goes on for several minutes. I finish my cigarette and flick it onto a patch of grass. The alley continues in front of us and we can see a brief swatch of Broadway, all cobblestone and divots. Scott gives me another smoke.

I hear a door open upstairs, and a woman's voice yell, "What is wrong with you? Would you shut up?"

Justin mutters, "I'm looking for Ziggy. Is he home?"

"How the hell should I know?" the woman says. "I ain't his ma, why don't you all go buy drugs somewhere else."

"Fuck you bitch," Justin says as he plods down the wooden steps.

"Yeah, suck my dick you fat bitch," Scott says.

A head, pockmarked and full of curlers, lurches over the railing. "You little shits better get out of here. This ain't no smoker's den."

"It's a free country," Justin says. He lights one up, balls up his empty pack and throws it on the stairs.

"You better pick that up," the woman says. When Justin ignores her, she spits at him. It misses, but splashes near his foot. In retaliation, he flicks his cigarette at her, though it arcs low, striking a board over Jason's head and raining embers on top of him.

"Hey Justin!" he says, clawing at his neck, "What the fuck?"

Through the swath of Broadway, a police car rolls up, slams on the brakes. Two cops get out and walk toward us. Everything is panic. Scott and Jason take off through the alley, back toward 5th. I follow. Scott ducks into a pizza shop on 5th, but I continue to follow Jason around a corner and onto a narrow sidewalk between buildings. We come out in the rear of the Post Office. Jason waves me over to the loading dock, tucked away behind a brick wall. We climb onto the thing. It seems that the plan may work, though I wish there is a dumpster we could crawl into. Something with a lid. Instead, we sit atop a concrete platform and wait. No more than three seconds later, the officer jogs around the corner and sees us easily. He stops and motions for us to come down. We do that, caught as if it is a game of Hide and Go Seek.

"What the hell are you kids doing?" he asked. "Never run from the cops."

"Sorry," I say and shrug.

"Yeah," Jason says.

"Come on," the officer says, "Let's go back to the car."

The three of us march back across 5th Ave. The officer's partner is at the end of the alley by the apartment. The one that caught us says to him, "These two were trying to hide in a loading dock." His partner laughs.

We walk through the alley to the polic car. All the while I am considering the consequences: who I will call (my dad? my Pap? definitely not my mom), how much bail may be, how I will explain this arrest. One of the officers opens the back door and we climb inside. He shuts the door. The two of them converse outside. Justin is already inside. We are pretty well squished together, he, Jason and I. I am in the middle.

"What happened?" Jason asks him.

"Don't ever run from the cops," Justin says. He turns to me and says, "Dude, I'm sorry. This is the first time this has happened to us, I swear."

"It's fine," I say. Honestly, I am not so much mad at him or Jason or even at Scott for getting away. I don't feel much of anything. It is very hot in the car and all the windows are up and we are all very sweaty. A few minutes later, the door opens and the officers let us out. They say they are not going to charge us for anything, as we weren't doing anything wrong. They just say to leave the upstairs woman alone. They also say that they were just coming over to talk to us and not to arrest us. In running away, we were implicating ourselves and we should never do that, guilty or no. So nothing ends up happening apart from one officer taking down our names and addresses. I am sure to provide the one to my mom's house, as I will be out of there in a couple weeks. One of the officers asks how we know each other. Justin tells him that we go to school together but goes out of his way to says that I have never hung out with them before. The cop does not particularly seem to care and they leave us to walk down Broadway.

A few moments later, someone says, "Oh my God, that was fucking crazy!"

We all erupt of giddy thrills, dancing along thae sidewalk because we had gotten away with something, even though we really hadn't. Justin again apologizes to me and says he feels real bad about ruining my impression of them. I tell them it's really not a big deal, as I am moving very shortly, and am a man untethered.

Scott catches up to us and we lash out at him for abandoning us. He has trouble believing that we were in the back of a police car. He also apologizes to me. Along with Justin, he says that they will not give me a hard time anymore, nor join in if others talk shit on me. Once again, I say, "It's cool."

For some time after, we loaf around Broadway and Jason, Scott, and Justin attempt to pass each other out. This time it is more effective, for Scott falls flat on his face. When he stands back up a tuft of grass is stuck to his shoulder. Jason's eyes roll back in his head and he slides down the brick wall, flailing his arms over his head. Justin lists sideways into a bush. I refuse these shenanigans.

Then it is very late in the evening and the streetlights have come on. Jason leaves with Scott to grab a skate tool from Scott's house. Justin and I head back toward my dad's house, talking the whole way as if we were friends to begin with and not from crisis. We get back to Jason's mom's house -- directly next door to my dad's house -- and sit on his grind rail, bullshitting all the while, constantly reiterating the episode with the police. Jason and Scott come back and Jason goes into his house to drop off the tool he is borrowing from Scott. Once he is inside we hear screaming. It is Jason's mom, going nuts on him for not telling her where he was. He leans out his front door and says he is sorry but he can't hang out anymore tonight.

Justin, Scott and I laugh a little bit. It is completely dark by now and I worry if I'll have to ride back through the trail in the dark. Justin tells me to walk my bike through the trail. Then my dad's girlfriend Carol pulls up in her white Camero. She gets out, still in her Chili's server outfit. I tell Justin and Scott that I'm going to try to get a ride home from Carol and tell them I'll see them around. We will never hang out ever again.

Carol agrees quite cheerily to give me a ride home, though I am worried that I'll have to leave my bike behind. But she says there is room in the hatch of her car. I wheel it onto the street and she lowers the backseat. The bike slides in easily. I am home by 9:30, before my mom. I am with my dog Sam, among the boxes of my old toys and junk, when she asks me what I did that day. The previous 6 hours disappear into a void, for she can never know.

Potluck - 2008

Dang. I missed a day. Sorry about that. Around 10:30 last night I realized I had not put up a blog. At that point I was into my fourth or fifth Christmas Ale. Much of Saturday was spent preparing and then throwing our annual Potluck Party. This year's theme was Gluttony v. Recession - 2008. Ted brought Hot Sauce Williams. KateSpace brought wonderful rum cake (a much better choice, I might add, than my suggestion of a chocolate volcano). Austin brought schnitzel; Jake -- a homemade pecan pie; Aaron and Jeremy both brought store bought cakes that no one really touched in the face of so much delicious homemade stuff. I made lasagna (a first, for me) and three-layer bean dip (my Potluck standard) and my roommate Sam made delicious vegetarian chili (spicy!), a potato-cheddar casserole, and monkey bread.

It was in the making of said monkey bread that Potluck Fluke #1 occurred. I was working on dressing our dishwasher up to make it look like a drink serving station. Sam was in the process of tearing apart biscuit dough for the monkey bread. I noticed that one of our rocks glasses was dirty so I went over to the sink to rinse it out. Sam remarked that biscuit dough smells like balls. To confirm, she made me take a whiff, which I did and agreed with her. Therein biscuit dough existed a certain sweaty crotch-like odor. Sam went on to say that herrecognition of ball smell did not make her perverse. Everyone know what balls smell like, after all.

I attempted to shake the excess water out of the rocks glass, as I had just ran some water through it. I made a hard downward motion with the glass in my hand. It slipped from my grasp and crashed against the edge of the counter, raining shards all over the floor and my crotch. I yelled for Sam to help -- My balls, my balls. Sam made no remarks of my balls smelling of balls.

Much much later in the evening, I was deep into drunkenness, and someone made an off-color remark of Ralph Nader. Still slightly irritated about the election, I tore off into belligerence, screaming the Mr. Nader should not be the butt of jokes, as he is to thank for seat belts and airbags. Most everyone in the living room got up to leave. KateSpace, at that moment on her way out, left without saying good-bye. Someone compared me to Larry David of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Immediately thereafter I felt shame, not necessarily in my intended message but in its delivery. Whiskey and Christmas Ale and civic apathy fueled my rage.

I apologized profusely as everyone left, and one of my friends said he wished he had voted for Nader. Speaking to my friends since Nov. 4, I have heard the argument a few times that if he or she would have known of the Obama landslide, he or she would have voted Nader. The logic is, ironically, if I'd have known my vote for Obama wouldn't have mattered, I would've voted for Nader. It sounds familiar, but the roles are reversed, right? What bothers me the most is that Nader needed votes more than Obama, who won the states of Ohio, Virginia, North Carolina -- historically very Republican-leaning states. While this is notable and extremely impressive of Mr. Obama, it is my belief that swing votes -- on the fence in regards to Obama v. third party -- would have better served Mr. Nader's campaign, which, admittedly held no chance of winning, but could have secured much-needed campaign funding by reaching the 5% plateau. This simply did not happen. I am not familiar with the final poll numbers, but it does not appear Nader cracked 1%. It was extremely disappointing and increasingly frustrating as I talk to more people who said they would have voted Nader had the known the outcome to begin with. Instead they lumped more support into a landslide already out of control.

1% is laughable, I realize. Of course I realize this. But at the same time, is it necessary to continue to poke fun at the man who has affected so much positive change for this country? Maybe I am overly sensitive, as I had a lot invested into his campaign and I do regret ranting on as I did. In a way, though, I do not regret it. My fit was cathartic, albeit alcohol-inspired. I released a lot of pent up emotion. That part of it felt good.

Once more and finally, I apologize to those I offended/possibly woke up.

Injustice Revisited

Walking down to the train station yesterday on my way to work, I cut across Cedar, not at a crosswalk. I flagrantly jaywalked. A Cleveland Heights police car was parked on the opposite side of the street, in front of the bank. I held my breath as I made my way to the other side of the street. I did not run, but held a brisk pace for there was a considerable window between the next wave of cars. While passing in front of the police car, a tinge of ice water pumped through my veins.

Just as I stepped onto the curb, the cop car lit up and screamed its sirens. My heart began to beat out of its chest. I thought for sure I had been nailed. The sound came from all around me, entered down through my windpipe and reverberated around my ribcage. The car sped past me down Cedar Hill, running the red light at the top. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, feeling numb as a result of the adrenaline. It took most of my walk down the hill to calm down.

Half way down Cedar Hill, I saw what drew the cop's attention. He had pulled over a woman in Volkswagen SUV, right on the bend in the road. Traffic backed up around them. The officer was in his car writing up a citation. I assumed it was a parking violation.

In[pursuit of]justice

Labor Day Weekend

Labor Day Weekend is essentially the high water mark of Cleveland events. On the shores of the mighty Cuyahoga is the Taste of Cleveland Festival, an $8 cover followed by a series of vendors serving $8 carnival food. Spanning the Cuyahoga, the Detroit-Superior Bridge opens its disregarded lower level to pedestrians, free to explore the remnants of the city’s subway lines. From a short airstrip bordering Lake Erie, jet fighter planes weave in and out of one another, break the sound barrier and stage phony dogfights, display American superiority. Of the smogasbord of downtown happenings, the Cleveland Air Show best drew our attentions.

We, Burning River Bikes, six cyclists, with jeans cuffed or cut-off, T-shirts from H&M or Thrift or American Apparel or of Irony, and no helmets plotted our course through the green city to the blue lake. Specifically, we sought an abandoned Howard Johnson at the terminus of East 5-5, a pre-cast monolith, frames of busted out windows jutting out like a bellows, the building a relic of an earlier, more Brutalist era. The roof, in particular, equated to a $21 seat, had we been one of the saps who actually paid money to get into the show. We were to infiltrate our seats.

After a morning of coffee and pooping, I set out to rendezvous with Ted and Aaron on Euclid and 5-5. We biked up to the lake, turned down a dirt road and snuck up behind the abandoned HoJo, staring blankly back at us. We cut through a field and stashed our bikes beneath a tree along the fence.

Aaron went over first, using the tree as support. I threw the bags over to him. Then Ted went, slowly and completely without grace, eventually landing, but not before actually sitting on top of the fence. The sharp, twined links jabbed into the skin of his ass. That his pants seat remained intact still amazes me.

--Ow. Ow. Ow, Ted said.

I leapt over efficiently and without incident.

--There’s a Fox 8 guy over there, said Aaron.

--Shit, I said.

The Fox 8 News Station sits directly next to our derelict abode. I caught the last of a direct glare from a prominent local news anchor as he disappeared into his building.

Our spot was no secret, regardless of being identified by the news media. Bad graffiti bespeckled the uppermost reaches and it became apparent that we were not the only Urban kids that hit it up. I retired my malaise in the hopes that Mr. Fox would not bother us if we did not bother him. I also vested a lot of hope in his thinking that we were not responsible, which we were not, for the scribbled swastikas and mentions of ‘white power’ that appeared sporadically on the building’s exterior.

Aaron, Ted and I entered through a voided wall of the lobby. Uprooted trees had been placed in the foyer. Piles upon piles of apples spilled out into the overgrown parking lot. We passed through the lobby, took stock of the detritus: overturned velour couch; pornos; dusty front desk; insulation hanging from the ceiling. In the kitchen, a sign read: Please Excuse Our Dust. We are undergoing a facelift. A cartoon man with a hat and a push broom kicked up all sorts of mess. A section of roof in the food prep area had collapsed, allowing a ray of sunshine to illuminate the many holes in the floor. None of us had remembered a flashlight, but I did have the headlight to my bike and we used its weak beam to navigate the darker regions beyond the freezers, long vacant.

Soon, we looped back to the entryway from whence we had entered. The place appeared brighter than it had earlier. I noted to Aaron how much the eyes adjust to the darkness, as those hallways had seemed pitch black before. We could discern objects in the abyss: a stack of PVC pipe, the few remaining wall studs, electrical wiring dipping like ivy from the ceiling.

We climbed the stairwell, reached the second floor and were greeted by a sparse floor plan, for all that remained were the cages of wooden studs and some plumbing. The windows had been removed or busted out, covered at some point by plywood, which had subsequently been blown out by the wind or pulled down by transients. In the interest of respect, my friends and I tried to affect as little change as possible on an abandoned site, treating it as relic, a ruin, a museum. More appropriately, it was a mausoleum – a casket that contained some general idea of commerce, long deceased and in the late throes of decay.

Through one of the voided portals, we caught sight of a red biplane circling outside. The barnstormer spat smoke as it climbed and fell, stalled, then kicked its tail out, caught the air and zipped past at very low altitudes. Aaron asked that we forgo exploring the other 12 stories and skip to the top. Ted and I agreed. The long climb to the roof was arduous and we passed remnants of bottle rockets and some more poorly executed graffiti. The site may have served for someone else’s July 4th. Near the top, the stairwell began to reek of stale piss and we came across a copious amount of bird droppings. The vacant hotel did seem to acquire a few tenants, which, unfortunately, did not share our respect for the site. As we passed the door for the 13th floor, the stair treads were no longer visible as the dung covered them wholly. I tried to tread lightly as to not kick it up on those following me. Up in the rafters, a lone pigeon, obviously bothered by our presence in his home.

-- I hope this isn’t the work of one pigeon, Aaron said.

-- I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t, I said.

We escaped the Bird Den with harsh interactions with its denizen, though I have to admit that I was a bit surprised that Ted did not slip. We passed out of the stairwell and into the dim rooftop utility room that let outside. Another pigeon, possibly a roommate, fled from behind a huge shit-covered propane tank, passed in front us, then through a door to the roof. We followed, out into the glowing day with not a cloud in the sky, optimal for illegal viewing of an air show. We settled in between the two stair towers, an area of about 150 square feet that provided defilade from the street. About a mile to the northwest, the Red Baron continued his dekeing of an imaginary foe. I walked out to the roof’s edge, stared North at the blue horizon, the lake dotted with dinghies and yachts. This view presented itself as a fleeting luxury, for the freeway pulsed below, and the authorities frequented onramps. Still near the edge, I grabbed an empty 10-gallon bucket to use as a seat and brought it back to our cubby. Ted and Aaron took up residence upon a cement ledge between the stair towers. They said they wished they had buckets. I said they should have grabbed it before I had.

I wished the barnstormer to be done with his shenanigans. That sort of classic aeronautics is entertaining to a point, but he had stayed out too long, and it became quite frustrating to see him buzz the landing strip as if to land, but then pulling up into a steep climb, then corkscrewing into some fancy loopdiloop. I wanted to see supersonic jets. I wanted some muscle.

Some time passed. My rolling took close to 20 minutes. The clatter of the biplane engine had ceased and Ted’s voice took its place. He was on the phone with someone, relating to him or her our coordinates. Then he was done.

--Who was that? I asked.

--That was Jake, said Ted.

Jake was his roommate.

--Him and Austin are meeting us here, Ted continued.

Austin was his other roommate.

--Five bucks, said Aaron, that they get here before Mike Sokol.

Mike Sokol was an old friend of mine. We go way back, as I liked to say. Originally the intent was for Mike and I to ride down together, that he would come to my place in the late morning and we would both meet Aaron and Ted. However, Mike often became lost in World of Warcraft binges on the PC and as a result was very unreliable in circumstances outside of that game. Promising, though, was that I had reached him on the phone before I was about to leave. At 11 a.m., when I last talked to him, he had apparently just woken up but did seem to possess intentions to meet up with us at some point, though not ride down with me directly. Still, that was 3 hours ago, and a very real possibility existed that he hopped on WoW and that was effectively the end of his day. Still, I had faith in Mike, my old friend.

--I’ll take that bet, I told Aaron.

We hadn’t talked for a while and nothing of interest was happening in the air around us. Down on the airstrip, we could make out some sort of jet-car demonstration. We could not really see the car, but the jet plume stood out well. The horizontal torch went straight, then turned, went back the other way.

--I was thinking, I said, that back in the 50s, the government envisioned the atomic bomb as something to use at air shows. Before they knew anything about radioactive half-life and all that, they would demonstrate this bomb at the Cleveland Air Show.

By their lack of response, it seemed a terrible idea. Which it was.

--Picture this, I said and gestured broadly at the lake, at dusk, right when the sun sets, on the Sunday before Labor Day, they would set off the bomb in the middle of the lake. Right there.

I pointed at Lake Erie. Slightly down and to the left, a bulbous tuft of smoke wafted up from the air strip.

--And boats would be lined up near the shore, as far down as you could see. Kids in innertubes start swimming toward the middle, saying they want to be closer to the heat. And then it would go off and this huge wave would knock everyone over. The kids would be rushed onto the shore and float down Marginal Rd. You could see the mushroom cloud from Sandusky.

I was in the act of imagining more fully when my thigh began vibrating. Actually, it was my phone. I pulled it out. Mike Sokol called. As I went to answer it, the air around us exploded with jet thunder. An F-16 flew past and we leapt from our perch, ran to the edge of the roof.

--Did you see that, yelled Aaron giddily, you could see the flame coming out of the back, it was that close!

--What do you want Mike? I yelled.

--I’m here dude, Mike yelled back.

The jet sound echoed between my phone and his. He was close.

--We just got buzzed! I said.

--I know, I’m right here! Mike said.

--Oh. Ok, I’ll be down.

I hung up and ran through the utility room. At the top of the stairwell, I glanced for good measure down at the fence. Mike Sokol was on the other side, walking his mountain bike toward the tree where ours were chained. I ran down the stairs taking each step rapidly but never skipping one. It took quite a very long time to get to the bottom. In the process, I realized that Mike had won me $5 from Aaron. The F-16 and the run down the stairs had my adrenaline flowing.

I made it to the bottom and ran to the fence. I told Mike to brace himself on the tree and climb over but first throw me the bag. He lobbed his backpack over. I looked up and could see Ted and Aaron poking their heads over the ledge. I pointed to the fence and yelled.

--Mike.

Then.

--You owe me five dollars.

The F-16 flew overhead again. I feared that the hotel might crumble. But it was made of concrete and steel and would stand for probably hundreds of years.

Or not, what did I know?

--That plane is so fucking loud, Mike said.

--I know, I said, we are really fucking close up there. It flew right past us.

--Awesome man, Mike said.

He jumped over the fence.

--You know, I said, that took Ted like ten minutes. It was terrible.

--Ey! Ted yelled down. Jake and Aaron.

He pointed over us, beyond the fence. Through the vines and chain link, I could see two figures stepping off bicycles. I waved at them. Told them to use the tree for everything. Quickly they were over.

--I heard that took Ted ten minutes, Mike said to Jake and Austin.

--It was the worst thing I’ve seen in my life, I confirmed.

I led them straight to the stairwell and we made the long climb back up.

We reached the piss and shit of the pigeon.

--Guys, I said, be careful. There’s a pigeon up here.

--Is he crazy? Jake asked.

--No, he’s just a pigeon, I said.

But the pigeon was not there. The F-16 must have scared him off. We went onto the roof and tried to track down the circling fighter. Aaron pointed to a small dot just below the sun. We shielded our eyes.

--What’s up Mike, Ted said. Longtime no see.

--Yeah, Mike said, I heard it took you ten minutes to get over the fence.

While I had been downstairs, Ted had removed his shirt.

--Jesus Ted, I said, you’re going to give up our position. People from the street will think it’s a ghost. Your nipples are the eyes.

--I need my vitamin D, Ted said.

The fighter had entered into a long horizontal turn around the East Side of the city, to the South of us. Just slightly ahead, a P-51 followed a shallower turn. The two intersected and locked into formation directly above us, turning high overhead and heading back toward the airstrip. Then another jet came, seemingly from nowhere, and shot right past them and us. It was an F-15 and it was moving very fast. First we saw it, then heard the sound and then felt the fury. We turned to look back at the F-15 and were met by three other dudes, none of whom we knew. They had come up the way we had.

--Sup, I said to one who appeared the most accessible. He had on a winter cap and it was 85 degrees out.

He nodded back. Instantly, both groups sized each other up. The six of us were the urban cycling sect – the bike messenger crowd though none of us were actual bike messengers. They were skateboarders, and pretty laid back about running into 6 guys on an abandoned rooftop.

--I see you guys found the best place too, one of them said to me.

--Yeah, I said, have you guys ever been here before?

One of them climbed a ladder onto the top of the stair tower. Another disappeared around the corner of the utility room and out of sight.

--Nah, said the guy in the cap, we skate. Heard that there was a pool here so we came to check it out. Turns out the sides are too steep.

These were some guys that could apparently appreciate an abandoned building. I introduced myself.

--I’m Ryan, I said, shaking his hand.

He introduced himself to me but I don’t remember his name. We turned back to air show, as the F-15 had linked up with the other two planes.

--I think this is called the ‘Old/New’ demonstration, Jake said.

The two fighter jets had flanked the old propeller-driven P-51 and escorted it gingerly around Cleveland airspace. As we were now used to the flash-bang entertainment of the newfangled jets, this display seemed dated and tame. I turned back to check on the skaters and they were gone. Though they were good people, their presence did prove a little unsettling, as we all realized how fundamentally insecure our spot was. Still, the afternoon was young and although we were running out of water, we decided to stay put until the Blue Angels, which were due in the air in about 2 hours.

The space around our building grew quieter, as the jets had gone back to headquarters. Ted had stolen my bucket seat but I didn’t ask for it back because he didn’t have a shirt on. I tend not to draw my attention to guys without shirts. Call it a rule. I sat down in the doorway to the utility room. My five friends and I formed an impromptu circle.

--The Blue Angels are going to be so tight, Aaron said. They’ll be right over top of us.

--Wouldn’t it be funny, I said, if the Blue Angels decided to do a new routine and bomb an abandoned building.

-- The headlines would read, Jake said, Cleveland Air Show a Success! 6 derelicts killed during Blue Angels Demonstration.

--Or 6 hipsters killed, Austin said.

--Local eyesore razed, Ted said.

--We should get the fuck out of here, I said jokingly.

--I don’t know, Aaron said, those skater kids did kind of surprise me. I turned around and was like, hello.

--Yeah, Austin said, at least they were cool though.

--They were just like, whatev, Jake said.

--There’s some shit falling out of a plane, Mike Sokol said.

He had bunched his gym shorts up around his crotch.

--Jesus Mike, I said, you look like a fucking conquistador.

--What? Mike said incredulously.

He hung his arms out.

--Parachute pants, Aaron said.

--Is that what that is? Mike asked.

He pointed east. True to Mike’s word, an Army plane dropped smoking objects attached to parachutes. They spat multicolor smoke – hyper neon, a streaking rainbow through the atmosphere.

--Paratroopers? I asked.

--No, more like paradudes, Jake said.

--Nice.

--I am getting so hungry, Aaron said.

No one had thought to bring food, and most had forgotten water, so our stores were running low.

--We should order a pizza, Ted said.

Mike laughed.

--Make him come all the way up here? That’s hilarious!

--Mike, seriously, I said, fix your shorts.

One of the pigeons performed a flyby of the roof, dipping dangerously close to our heads. I believed that it wanted to go home, but was scared off by us interlopers. It looped back around to the other side of the stair tower.

Just then, from behind me, in the utility room, I heard a girl’s voice.

--Hello? she said.

The tone was confident and vouchsafed that she knew we had been up there and was obviously unafraid. The girl stepped out of the stairway. She wore a scenester haircut, large plastic sunglasses, a tight-fitting purple longsleeve t-shirt and some jeans. She was a stalky girl, with thickness in the waist and thigh area, not necessarily complimented by her jeans. Everything about her was completely unremarkable. Closely behind her trod a meathead-type guy, broad shoulders sheathed by a baby-blue baby-sized striped polo. Popped collar. Backwards fitted baseball cap. He was a dozen or so yards away and the utility room was quite dim, but I could estimate the placement of 3-5 terrible tattoos on his biceps, neck, and/or calves.

Behind them, two scrawny, wan figures emerged from the stairwell. I did not get a good view of them at first, for I quickly turned and stood up from the doorway. I walked straight to Aaron.

--We need to get the fuck out of here, I murmured.

This time I was more serious.

I grabbed my messenger bag off the deck and slung it over one shoulder. The six of us exhibited a stirring motion. By the time the kids had reached the doorway most of us were standing.

Mike flattened out his shorts.

Ted put his shirt back on.

The wiry, nerdy boys had decided to come out first. They were mall punks, most likely from the outer ring suburbs, and shopped at the same mall as everyone else, but had branded themselves, or had been branded by a corporation, I suppose, as outsiders. One wore flannel with a retro-retail punk band Tee underneath, skinny jeans and some bulbous skateboarder shoes, laced but not tied. His buddy sported nearly the same shoes, slightly more worn, with cargo shorts and a baggy T-shirt which read: Poo York. Mall Punk 1 had his hair in a swoop, emo-scenester-style, and multiple piercings in his face, which appeared dumb and genuinely uninterested. Mall Punk 2’s hair was long and curly and parted down the middle. His face, specifically the way the far corners of his eyes curled upward like serif commas, led me to believe he liked breaking shit and setting it on fire.

As they stepped into the light, my sizing-up of the other two proved correct. The guy was a douche and the girl was plain jane for the most part, marginally punk because of the gauged ears, lobes roughly the circumference of shower curtain rings. Douche guy also carried a long metal flashlight. They were, all four of them, teenagers.

--Hi guys, the girl said as if we were some actors on a theme park ride.

I noticed a camera case dangling from her wrist.

--Hey, I said and smiled.

Somehow I felt that I should act as a steward to this building, and should represent politely the subculture of those who respectfully infiltrate abandoned structures.

--So do you break into a lot of buildings? she asked.

--A few. We do it from time to time, I said. I’ve been up here before so I thought it would be a good place to watch the air show.

--That’s cool, she said.

Then she pointed at Aaron and his bright red shirt.

--Yeah, we saw you all the way from the street.

Aaron gave me a look as if he accepted all blame for their presence there.

--Which way did you come in? I asked.

--Through the front, douche said. The gate’s open.

--Right, I said.

The mall punks strayed over to the roof’s edge. Mall punk 1 picked up an old cigarette box and tossed it over the side. He did not watch the descent. Mall punk 2 seized a shingle and lofted it, spinning, off the building. This was all done with an air of utmost ignorance, both in regards to our frigid reaction upon their arrival and that tossing sharp objects off a roof draws a lot of attention.

During the length of occupation, about 3 hours and counting at that point, a great many spectators had gathered in fields and parking lots near the hotel. State police patrolled the area every 10 minutes or so, but focused their attentions on the freeway. We held the belief that they could see us, probably quite easily, but would not fuss about it so long as we were not flagrant in our trespassing. Whereas trespassing of derelict spaces is generally benign, the act of vandalism on said spaces is significantly less respectable. It is just plain obnoxious.

Mall punk 1 climbed the ladder onto the top of the stair tower.

--Wow, he said after hopping onto the roof, it’s like really soft up here. I don’t know about this.

--Don’t jump, said the girl.

I could tell by her voice that the kid jumped off stuff all the time. It was probably his thing.

--Yeah, said Mall Punk 1 from the top, I don’t know about this. I should come down. This is dangerous.

While he was climbing down, Aaron said to me that we needed to get the fuck out of there. I concurred, but felt a tinge of defeat, as we had essentially been run off our spot by a bunch of youngsters. The girl and the other Mall Punk had found a half-full two liter of pop and proceeded to drop it over the other side. Douche tried not to touch anything, lest he smudge his shirt.

Just then, a bright blue jet seemed to appear out of thin air and zip over top of us. The Blue Angels had arrived. Or at least one of them. The others would be along soon enough, I thought. And so, in the throes of evacuation, we opted to stick around momentarily and share the experience of precision aeronautics. We sat on the ledge as we had all day. The presence of weapons of mass destruction did not faze the youngsters. The Mall Punks and the girl disappeared around to the other side of the stair tower.

Douche tried to make conversation.

--Where you guys from? he asked.

No one said anything. Then Ted spoke, as he was closest to the question.

--Cleveland, he said. Pretty much all over, East and West.

The girl came running back from around the corner.

--Ew! she said. [Mall Punk 1] just broke a pigeon egg on his hand.

Mall Punk 2 came next then number 1, holding his hand away from his body. He stood before us as if we were his audience.

--Aw man, this smells so bad, Mall Punk 1 said. This is like the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. It smells like--

He paused, contemplative.

--It smells like a dog’s breath, he said. Here, smell.

He offered his hand to us, we looked around and past him, as two of the Blue Angels were running exercises over the lake. Mall Punk 2 smelled his hand, began wretching. Then he picked up a large rock and chucked it at a pair of pigeons sitting at the far edge of the roof.

--I’m not smelling it, the girl said. That’s gross.

Questions abounded our camp, mainly: How do you break an egg on your hand? The answers are quite simple: You pick it up and squeeze. And: You are an idiot.

--Where are you guys from? I asked the girl.

--Mentor, she said.

As Mentor was one of the outer-ring suburbs, and had a high school of about four thousand kids, it made sense that these kids would be from there. Obviously, they had been the kids that were passed over, those left behind, skipped through the program. Maybe labeled as ‘headstrong’ or ‘different,’ but really part of the same commercial machine. They all shopped at the same mall, it was just a matter of frequenting the retail punk boutique or the retail surfer shop. It was all so commersh.

The four of them stepped behind us, entered into a private counsel. I tried as best I could to focus on the Blue Angels. Four of them had assembled into a tight diamond, while another skimmed along the lake, maybe twenty feet above the surface.

I heard the girl say that one of us would probably take their picture if they asked.

--There’s us, the young punks, she said, and they’re like the old school underground.

Old school underground. I heard her step up behind me. Her camera, in hand, came between Aaron and I.

--Excuse me, she said, would you take our picture in front of the Cleveland skyline?

Aaron agreed to snap the pic, because he was old school underground and because the ten of us, young and old, were obviously kindred spirits in that we were both ‘alternative’ in the face of conformity.

And so the four of them lined up in front of us, slung arms over shoulders and cheesed the biggest smiles they could muster. The Blue Angels performed an amazing stunt but we missed it because these kids needed proof that they had been on this roof. They wanted a little something to give back to the social network. Because unless there isn’t video proof, an event might not have happened. Which is why every single thing needs to be documented. And documented perfectly.

--Look, douche said to his three friends, you guys are like Hot Topic and I’m Hollister.

They laughed. Aaron took the picture. He gave the camera back and the group dispersed. Then the girl came back and tapped Aaron on the shoulder.

--Um, she said, that picture didn’t turn out, can you take another one?

He did. Again they cheesed it. Another amazing feat of aeronautics went unrealized in front of us.

This time, she checked the photo before she went away.

--Looks good, she said. Thanks.

An air raid siren sounded. Aaron just shook his head. The four teenagers spread out on the roof. They stepped away from us to reveal the Angels, flying six wide, directly at us. They buzzed us about 30 feet overhead and our hair brushed back. But something was off. I noticed some ordinance strapped to the wings. They split into two squadrons, arcing in echelon to the north and south. The kids still paid no mind. Mall punk 1 and the girl were yelling down at the FOX 8 staff below.

--Our building’s bigger than your building! they screamed.

Mall punk 2 tried to rip out a scrawny tree that had rooted itself underneath the roof shingles.

Douche casually played with his cell phone.

Aaron and Jake both got my attention. It was time to fucking go. The Blue Angels buzzed us again, even closer and it was the loudest thing in my life. And those were definitely bombs. I gave us maybe 3 minutes to get out of the range of fire. Like clockwork, we filed into the utility room and made toward the stairs. I brought up the rear to make sure all were accounted for.

Douche looked over at me as I was about to step through the doorway. I flashed him a sideways peace sign, said the Burning River Bikes call letters.

--BRB, I said.

He seemed to understand.

--Okay, he said.

Then, to his friends:

--He said they’d be right back.

I was spiraling down the stairs at that point, but I assumed those kids did not care. On the way, I contemplated if I was that dense when I was a teenager. It seemed so long ago and was a tough call. Was this just the fate of the young and the old, to never be able to even remotely comprehend how each other lives day-to-day. The young punks versus the old school underground. I thought of an alternative headline: TRAGEDY AT AIRSHOW: Four gifted Mentor teens perish in demonstration gone wrong.

We reached the bottom as the Angles pulled their next to last fly-over. Then would come the strafing runs. We briskly walked over to the bikes. We made sure not to run, as the panic might alarm the teens above. Mike and I knew about a spot that was easier to get over, as the fence was not attached to the pole. Mike stepped up onto the chain link and braced his weight on the post. This bent the fence over enough for us to essentially step onto it and jump down to the other side. Like a finely tuned machine, we were over and unlocking the bikes.

--Ahoy there mateys! someone yelled. It was Mall punk 2, emerging from a stairwell like a pirate from a crow’s nest. He dropped my bucket down onto the pavement. It busted into tiny chunks of plastic.

The sound of afterburner accrued in the airwaves. It swallowed whole any thoughts that may have been lingering. They strafed the building in two waves. The first wave launched incendiary missiles into the ground floor which set the structure ablaze up through the sixth story. The heat was immense, though at that point, we had reached the dirt road and only felt it upon our backs as we rode away.

Riding past on East 5-5, we saw the second wave struck with rockets into the meaty center of the building, spraying liquid hot concrete fragments onto the bystanders below. They loved it and cheered.

--It’s just like Iraq!

I heard someone yip with joy. The hotel teetered, though was not out for the count. Two of the F/A-18s circled back and at exactly the same, they released their five hundred pound bombs onto the roof, which caved in. A tremendous plume curled out and into itself. Flames licked out from behind the smoke. And all the while the cement is cracking and the steel is giving under the heat and the building is falling falling falling and notions of trespassing and vandalism are all moot when confronted with such spontaneous acts of violence.

I wished transiently that I had had a camera to capture this graphic display of American Air Superiority. But of course I didn’t. The six of us, Burning River Bikes, slightly dehydrated, a little singed, and very tired, made our way back to Ohio City, weaving through traffic and generally pissing off motorists. Then we had a Labor Day picnic.