Big Sandy

NPR does a Three-Minute Fiction contest where they ask writers to come up with a story that can be read in 3 minutes (which comes to 600 words exactly.) The task was: write a story where a character comes into town and where a character leaves town.  I took a crack at it..."Big Sandy" and "I'd Like You to Meet Someone" (ugh could've had a better title with more time) are what I came up with.

I saw Big Sandy outside of the Raymond’s place two days after Leon had left town following the new railroad west. This afternoon I found Big Sandy at the chestnut tree that marked the westernmost point in the Raymond’s property. He was walking right along the road, his back bare, his coffee-colored haunches and legs dusty, his reigns draping off to one side. I approached him cautiously and when I took his reigns his neck drooped, relieving the tension with one bow, his saucer-like nostrils flaring to let out a big breath of relief. Like he was collapsing into a loved-one’s arms.

Back at our stable, he drank at our trough so long I wondered if that water would be coming out his other end before he stopped gulping. I found my father inspecting an infected hoof, and I told him where I had found Big Sandy without Leon and he rubbed his neck while he thought. I told him it was on Tuesday morning when we saw Leon, headed toward Sierra Blanca and then El Paso beyond.

“You could get to Sierra Blanca and back before dusk if you hustled. Check in town there. Take your brother with you. And put Big Sandy into the last stall there.”

It took me only a few minutes to prepare, as fast as I had imagined the Rangers would mount their horses when pursuing scoundrels. My brother gladly left his rasp and saddled his horse, instructing me in his know-it-all way that we’d need to watch out for criminals on the road, maybe even Indians.

The road was dusty and the wind was at our face, making it hard to see. I was on Birdie, who drew to a halt after a large gust obscured our view. My brother turned around and smirked at my difficulty.

“You know, once we find Leon I’m going to tell him how Birdie almost bucked you off.”

I thought about Leon, imagining when we’d find him, where we’d run into him, at the saloon in Sierra Blanca maybe. Perhaps Big Sandy had been taken from Leon by bandits and had escaped, deciding to return to our stables to alert us of the misdeed. I looked around us, to the brushy patches of mesquite and bushes around us, and then I imagined Leon laying beyond, just out of sight, bloody and forgotten.

“Think he’s around here?”

My brother turned around, and let his eyes survey the land around us, the sky and the trail ahead. He shivered. “No, more like Indians.”

We continued down the road and the brush grew thick around our path, so we watched the mountains on the horizon as they rose before us.

“Why was he named Big Sandy?” I asked.

“He was named after a river near his home in Tennessee. You didn’t know that?” I shook my head. He had spent more time in the stables with Leon and father than I had. “I don’t know why father sent you along, he should’ve come himself. He knows how to track.”

The road continued and up ahead I saw a crumpled pile blocking our path. The wind died, the brush was still but I couldn’t tell what lay up ahead. Maybe a traveler had lost a pack, or a coyote had killed a calf. My brother sped up, leaving a gap between us, which closed when he stopped short when he could see what laid in our path.

“Its Leon’s saddle.”

I’d Like You To Meet Someone

The turkey was golden, oozing with buttery juices, and Dawn was admiring it sitting in the roaster. Looks like we wouldn’t have a dry turkey this year now that Dawn was in charge of Thanksgiving.

“You’re carving it this year,” she said, sliding the knife to me. Just then, the garage door slid open knocking the draft dodger into the hallway.

“Hi Hank,” I said seeing that Dawn’s dad had arrived first. He was wearing his blaze orange hunting cap and his Mossy Oak coat. Only the best for special occasions, I thought to myself.

“Smells like Mother’s dressing in here,” Hank said as he gave his daughter a pat on the back. The door shut, and in the dark the hallway I saw a figure standing behind him.

“Pete, Dawn, I’d like you to meet someone,” he said, gesturing behind him with a jerk of his thumb. “This is Faye.”

Faye stepped out of the hallway into the kitchen, a small woman with tightly permed brown hair. It was probably her natural hair color circa 1985 but some old ladies were like that. Like their hair was the only thing about them that wasn’t getting old.

“Hello, thanks for having us,” Faye said, her voice breathless like an old time actress. She offered up a saran-wrapped pecan pie, Dawn’s mother’s specialty.

I extended my hand and gave hers a shake in welcome but Dawn hadn’t moved at all. The bit of chest right at her throat was speckled with pink spots and her lips were drawn into a thin line. It was the face she made when she was just about to cry or right before she started to yell at me. Those two things often happened simultaneously.

She moved suddenly. The spoon she was holding was thrown down with a clatter and she walked out of the kitchen. Then we heard the front door slam.

I ran after her. She was standing in the driveway crying, her hands pressed to her eyes like she was trying to keep the tears in there. She reached for me and I held her as she cried and shook in my arms.

“How could he?” she asked between breaths. “The first Thanksgiving without Mom and he has to bring her? Do you think they’ve been together all this time?”

I realized then that we had seen Faye before, at our engagement party. That was what, twenty-six years ago? There had been this rumor in town that Margie had heard about Hank and this other woman...God Almighty that had been a night full of confrontations, crying women and doors that were nearly slammed off of their hinges.

The door opened to reveal Hank.  

“Dawn, I didn’t drive an hour for my daughter to walk out on me. Get in here.” He motioned to her like he was calling his springer spaniel to his side.  

“How could you bring her here? Mom’s only been gone for nine months.” When Hank didn’t reply, Dawn turned around and walked to the end of the driveway. She continued onto the sidewalk and just kept walking until she was out of sight.
    “It probably wasn’t the best day for this, Hank.”

“What would’ve been a better time? My funeral?” He went back in, slamming the door behind him. I wandered into the driveway to look for Dawn, and a green sedan coasted into the driveway in front of me. Dawn’s brother with his family, I groaned. At least they beat the girls home from college.

Is There Somebody Out There....

That's reading my pitiful blog? Creepy!

I'm surprised that no one asked me to provide a quote, as I clearly was the inspiration for this story. ("Uh yeah, I'd say that I have a dream about U2 about once a month...No, no, I didn't hear Bono talking about Songs of Ascent...")

Or perhaps I have powers...

It Was Just a Bad Night

Olivia was laying on the floor, her eyes glued to the television. She looked peaceful but the sweat at her brow and her whimpers told us how uncomfortable she really was.

“Think she’d drink more apple juice?” Scott asked, “Is it even working?”

I ran my hand over her pale tummy. I massaged it and noticed her stomach had the sticky and spongy feel of an unfrosted cupcake. “It should be. She’s been drinking juice since this afternoon...”

Olivia looked up at me. “Momma...tummy...” and she pointed to where my hand sat. I cringed. She kept getting stopped up like this.

“I’m going to run to the store to get some drugs. She can’t go to school if she’s still this way tomorrow...”

Scott ran his fingers through her sandy hair coming the tangles out, which made it look like crooked branches were encircling her head. “I just wish she didn’t get stopped up like this, poor thing.”

I picked up my purse. “The drugs will work right away. Anything else I should get?”

“P-o-p-s-i-c-l-e...” Scott said sotto voce while the cheerful cartoon music chimed on in the background. I nodded in agreement and walked out into the garage.

Don't Look Back, You can Never Look Back

"Going out of business" sales make me kind of sad. Borders' downtown Ann Arbor store is closing and their gratuitous signage shows that indeed, they are having a sale. Shopping one of these sales feels like picking through the belongings of the deceased. I'm sure the business owner/bankruptcy entity that administer the sales feels differently, they rely on these sales. I can just imagine the sales people ringing me up thinking, "Wow you saved a two whole dollars on this two year old Vampire Weekend CD. Man too bad you had to wait until the going out of business sale to get it. Our jobs could've been spared, but I understand you needed that two dollars. You know what COBRA costs each month?"

And so on.  (This was just an example, I didn't buy anything from Borders' GOOB sale.The two-year-old Vampire Weekend CD, which I burned from the library, *is* actually quite good, but as you can see, again, I wouldn't pay full price for it.)

So I keep going to Borders each week, and I keep leaving feeling depressed. This is irritating because its a STORE. A business, not a park or a house, an amusement park or anything real. It had gotten tacky over the last few years, with their bargain books piled in boxes outside their front door, and their junky wind-up-toy selection that Leo would gravitate toward every time we visited. (And the super balls displayed at toddler height? Nice try.)

Perhaps the Kindle killed it. Maybe people don't buy physical copies of their entertainment anymore, books included. I'm sure the New York Times or Slate could wax philosophic about The Fall of the Bookstore and What That Means. I know I started to shop on Amazon more, relied on their 99 cent used books with $3.99 shipping. I know I'm part of the problem. It feels like a breakup where both parties were increasingly unfaithful to each other, yet whenever I go back to Borders (hoping for a little taste of what used to be), I'm reminded how over it all is. It's over. That building will be empty then probably it will be an office. It will constantly referred to as the "Old Borders" until five years from now new people in town won't know what that is. "Oh you mean the Initech offices? That used to be a Borders?"

I moved to Ann Arbor in October 2000 and I started to work right around the corner from Borders, and its (to me) the heart of downtown. I bought a Q Magazine in 2003 that had a story in it which inspired a multi-year obsession to write a screenplay. I've bought my pregnancy books there, "how to fix my life" books, "how to write a screenplay" books, book club books, a billion magazines, and CDs. I remember walking down Liberty on a very cold Tuesday in November 2004 to buy "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb" because I felt that even back in ye olden days, downloading music was removing an important tangible part of the "listening to music" experience. (Unfortunately, the art for that album sucked along with most of the music on it so I went back to buying digital.) I did go see Ira Glass there when This American Life a short-lived TV show. He wore a disappointing cardigan. But still! A (NPR) celebrity! I had Jennifer Weiner autograph a book for me too and she was sweet and funny in person.

So Borders will be gone shortly. It will probably be forgotten eventually, after all we don't pine for bag cell phones or Laser Disks. Progress, etc. It just is sad when progress leaves your downtown with a hole in its heart.

Good Things (wait is that a trademark infringement?)

These are things that I've enjoyed over the last few weeks. Perhaps I can be like Oprah or Martha Stewart some day, endorsing books or kitchen implements, but for now its just going to be podcasts and music.

WTF with Marc Maron Podcast - Marc Maron has been living in my head for the last month. The podcast is addicting, funny, sad and it feels honest. Creative people talk about their craft and their calling, their depression and failures! How novel! Marc has said in interviews about the podcast that he feels its become popular because its recapturing a lost art form: conversation.

Joe Henry's"Odetta" is lovely, perhaps another fantastic album is around the corner. (Please come back to The Ark, Joe!)


"Sweet Land" - this had been languishing in my Netflix instant queue for months, but on vacation last week I finally watched it. What a sweet, earnest, romantic movie with more sexual tension than any movie I've seen in years. Plus, Inge (Elizabeth Reaser), the heroine, rocks her huge brunette hair like a goddess. Power to the curly haired women!

And (ok sorry) U2's 360 Tour is done. This video of "40" (the last song, of their last show) also lovely.  

Arts and Crap

To avoid becoming this blog (which is kind of awesome) or this one (which is a personal favorite) because they've got me beat at that game, I've got more stuff up my sleeve.

Its the third week of July, it feels like Mumbai during a heat wave, so it means that its Art Fair time again. I have worked downtown since 2003 and have had to commute to work through at least six art fairs, and I have historically been smitten in by the whole experience. Its novel to see the streets closed, and to have something new to go look at during my lunch break. Townies bitch about the traffic and the influx people, but Art Fair goers spend money when they come. And I usually see one person driving the wrong way down a one-way street, its usually not that big of an inconvenience.

This year, as I watched a vendor unloading 12-foot-high copper octopus tentacles, I thought, "the whole week is focused on people coming to town to SHOP." This one great civic event is all about shopping, or not shopping (because like the copper octopus tentacles, who buys that?) Then the number of non-art vendors seemed much higher than in years' past, places that sell tacky bedazzled tank tops or crushable hats. So half a million people come to town to wander around the scorching streets, look at fine art, but buy birdhouses, and they go back home.

I was comparing this arts-centered event to Grand Rapids' Festival of the Arts. It too is an arts festival, but its also focused on music and dance. Area schools' jazz bands, dance troops and rock bands fill the downtown and you can really get a wide selection of acts within a block of each other. (Celtic music might be on a main stage, but around the corner a mariachi band will be playing.) The downtown streets are closed, vendors come in to sell elephant ears and food to the 500,000 attendees, but the vendors in this instance are usually non-profit organizations and their booths are their chance to do fundraising.  So as a Grand Rapidian you can come downtown, buy your souvlaki from the Greek Orthodox Church, wander down to the main stage and watch your neighbor's kids perform. Its not all great, there is often lots of bad art or bad music, but its all done in a real spirit of civic-mindedness and arts appreciation. Its an opportunity for organizations to do fundraising, its a way for locals to perform - its not America's Got Talent, but I think that's a positive.

Maybe I'm a homer for GR but they do an arts-festival right. Art Fair seemed so oppressive this year. I'd walk past conversations about the number of attendees, I'd overhear vendors talking in a worried tone about how many people were actually spending their money. I'd love to have a Festival of the Arts in Ann Arbor, a city that prides itself on its love of progressive ideas and altruism. The fact that a community of (mostly, not all) religious conservatives is so progressive with its attitude toward the arts is astounding (*cough* ArtPrize! That's a topic for another day.) But nope, here in our liberal utopia we just have a celebration of the almighty dollar. And birdhouses.

Their Jackets LIT UP

Concert reviews. Whats the point? I read the local papers reviews the day after a concert and am usually disappointed. Reviewers aren’t usually familiar with  the songs that the band played (beyond the radio hits) at the concert. The reviewer ends up writing something like “oh  was all right, everyone there seemed to like it, but I take issue with the fact that they played too many of their popular hits and ignored their back catalog.” Or, “They played too much of  their back catalog.” My proof: Grand Rapids press reviewer, when discussing “Zooropa” -it came out as “Van Europa” in print. (Does everything have to have “Van” or “Vander” in front of it in the GR Press? Is that a default setting on the keyboards there, like the Euro sign is on the keyboards in Europe?) Rock concert criticism is pointless so fans should get to write the review. The reviews will likely always be glowing but if I’m the reviewer, I’ll know all of the song titles.

So I will start by saying that that day, Sunday June 26th, was the most gorgeous day of a gorgeous week of gorgeous days. Palm-Springs-blue skies, no wind, mid-70s. (Maybe the Claw also regulates the weather within 100 miles of the concert venue.) Describing the Claw is hard to do. Of course I’m referring to their multimillion-dollar, it takes-75-trucks-to move-it stage. Its big. Its the tallest thing - other than a building, a plane or an aircraft carrier - that I’ve been next to. The arc of the 4 legs are sloping and graceful, the green tent punctuated by orange buttons is playful, the spire recalls the swizzle stick that the Popmart lemon rotated on, its funny, strange and beautiful.


“Space Oddity” began, the crowd erupted and the band walked on stage. I can’t describe any of these emotions without sounding hackneyed, like the lamest Dollar Store greeting card. I have loved this band since 1992, and while sometimes this emotion ebbs, when I saw Larry Mullen Jr waving as he walked into the stadium, I felt overpowered by affection and familiarity, like friends seeing each other after years of separation. (I’ve never felt that emotion with anyone I’ve known, but instead it happens when four millionaire strangers walk on stage? Ugh I know.) Finally, it was beginning, after 18 months of waiting, they were here, breathing the same air as me. And that's when I started screaming. (To the guy who stood in front of me for the whole show and had to deal with my singing and dancing: I apologize.)

“Even Better than the Real Thing” was slinky and groovy, “Until The End of the World” is becoming a live favorite of mine, “Miss Sarajevo” was lovely, and Bono singing Pavoritti’s parts were unexpectedly beautiful. And “Zooropa” was when the night went from stadium rock for everyone to being a show for the super fans (said the super fan, who thought the whole show was played for her benefit.) The screen descended, like a honeycomb to envelop the band, a four story Lite Brite, and the stage turned dark and they played. Their jackets, embedded with thousands of LED lights lit up. The motherf***ing jackets LIT. UP. They were absent but there in the dark while the Claw turned into a big radio. Nicely done, guys. Thanks for keeping it weird. Bon Jovi doesn’t wear light up jackets to play “Have a Nice Day” in the dark. No. U2 does.

The power of seeing these songs played live versus listening to them on my (special U2 edition) iPod is similar to going to church: as you sing along you reflect on the words. I’ve sang some of these songs for as long as 19 years, so I know them like I know the Nicene Creed. Sometimes when you say the Our Father words run together and they lose meaning or become new words (hallowedbe thyname.) When you’re able to sing along and feel the emotion of the words as the cantor sings them, that's when the experience can get magical. During “One”, as Bono sang “It's one love/We get to share it/It leaves you baby/If you don't care for it,” I heard him. Standing there in the dark with 65,000 people, I felt like I stumbled upon this pebble of truth. Maybe we had both lived through similar conflict and pain. That honesty, him admitting that things had gone wrong, that it had been shitty for a while, but all that pain made sense? That's what I’m missing in life lately - honesty, “that didn’t work out the way I had planned,” or “I’ve felt that heartbreak too, but this thought comforted me.” I’ve lived through enough to understand the depth of emotion in a song, which admittedly sounds small, but it felt like I was able to see a new color or speak and be understood in a new language. It felt like everything made sense then, and I felt finally gratitude for the ability to feel all of those emotions.


As they played, a video of the band in 1991 filmed in Berlin played overhead. It was a video that I had seen before (the band in a Trabant, Bono and Edge with long hair, Adam and Larry looking so young) and it felt like we were all old friends, the band and their fans, watching a home movie together. Earlier that day I been joking to my dad that I was getting too old to be going to concerts, with the standing for hours and being up beyond my bedtime, he said (pragmatically as always), “Maybe next time you should just buy the CD instead.” When a concert makes you fully contemplate the truth about life, love and our time on earth, it moves beyond just the music or the stage. And there’s no chance that I’d ever miss one.

Heart Attacks Aren't Very Rock 'n Roll

Fear The Hitman

I had a dream where Ke$ha and Larry Mullen Jr (U2's drummer, though if you're reading this I'm assuming you know that) had a beef. She said that she thought he was untalented. He was furious, so he left to go talk this over with her. And he was going to take a baseball bat along with him to do the talking. I found his bat and handed it to him like he was Braveheart going off to battle. (What, I didn’t mention that I was in the dream? I was. And I was apparently an accessory to Ke$ha's demise...which actually, doesn't sound all that bad.) 

After Larry left, Bono leaned over and said to me that he didn't have back surgery last year, but a heart attack. His voice was low as he admitted it and why they kept this a secret. "Heart attacks aren’t very rock n’ roll," he said with a wink. Then we waited for Larry to return from his errand.

I wonder if famous people have regular people pop into their dreams, where they follow them to their cubicles and help them finish time sheets, or unjam the office copier. I really hope so.