Madness takes it's toll

Johnny kicked nervously at the sandy grit on the edge of sidewalk, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together, he stared at his feet. March was a miserable time of year this far north, all dirt and melting snow. Everything looked grey and bleak. The park was situated down by the river, well treed and poorly lit just like Sam had said it would be. It wasn't cold enough anymore for real jackets, nah this was try not to shiver in a sweater weather, if you shivered they'd know you weren't made of tough enough stuff.

Sam was supposed to have been there an hour ago. The backpack was heavy, but he wouldn't dare put it down, as Sam had said, "that's when they getcha. When you're weak kid, that's the moment they strike." Sam was never very forthcoming with information, he preferred to speak in riddles, never giving much info about who "they" were, but apparently you had to watch your back in this business. Johnny wasn't even sure what the business was really, everything shrouded in innuendo and suggestion, but he knew enough to know he wanted in.

The familiar neon orange sneakers were the first clue Johnny had that Sam had strolled up beside him. He raised his gaze up slightly to see the bright red hair and freckled face of the guy he'd come to meet.

"D'ya bring the goods?" Sam slurred slightly.

"Yeah," Johnny replied shrugging the backpack off one shoulder, "see", he unzipped the bag just enough for Sam to peer in.

"Nice going, kid, ya done alright here," Sam grinned slyly, reaching over and relieving Johnny of his burden.

"Uh, thanks Sam, hey listen, you're gonna pay me for that right?" Johnny asked glancing around the deserted park.

"Heh," Sam grunted with a grin, "lesson one kid, lesson one." And without another word Sam turned his neon orange sneakers around slung the bag over one shoulder and whistled off down the walkway toward the center of town, leaving a cold and confused Johnny to scramble after him.

A very small man, in a very long tailed coat, with a crooked nose, and hair that has mostly migrated from the top of his head down toward his ears, wades his way through a crowded amphitheater, "Hi, hi, excuse me, pardon me. Step to the side please. Thank you. Excuse me. Pardon me. Thanks."

After a thousand apologies over stumbling through the sea of people he reaches the stairs to the stages and scurries up to the podium. Climbing onto the small step-stool that allows for his voice to just barely reach the microphone, he clears his throat rather loudly and in an overly nasal tone he begins, "Ahem. AHEM. Hello, good evenings, so glad you could make it here today. We have a special guest speaker joining us from Getoutofbedsburg she is the reigning queen of "I'll get to it tomorrow's" with an impressive resume of half finished projects and wild ideas, it is my ultimate pleasure to introduce to you, the one, the only..."

Just as the suspense in the room reaches the pinnacle of pre-climax a tall man in a dark suit starts waving frantically stage left making throat cutting motions, desperate to get the attention of the announcer.

For his part the announcer turns ever so slightly, to see a peanutbutter covered pajama-clad toddler tripping her way across the stage. Her outstretched sticky hand shoves out a crumpled piece of crayon-covered paper. The announcer flinches slightly reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of silver rimed circular spectacles; attempting to read the note as best he can.

"Wait what?" he half-whispers into the microphone, "What's that say, right there underneath that raisin?"

The crumb covered munchkin shrugs and exits stage right, much to the bewilderment of the announcer who leans back into the microphone sighing dramatically, "Ladies and gentlemen, our sincerest apologies, it appears our much awaited guest is presently passed out on the couch watching House Hunters."

And I think it was Siobhan who used to dance in my living room singing Tori Amos' "Girl" as if it were a prayer for my new born offspring. Oh on the eve of 11, if I could just spare her the next 20 years of anguish and term oil I would.

Some days I feel this journal has become a series of unsent love letters.

I crave your company and a bottle of wine in your kitchen. I lack the freedom to drive past your house wondering if you'll notice.

It's never been the sex I've craved though that's always been the tool used to open the door. I suppose I should have learned years ago to stop fucking my friends.

When I think of you it's always your company I'm longing for, your pontificating while I sat silently embracing your rawness, your ego, and the fabrications you embellished to mold into your own truth. I crave that unabashed bravado the ability in myself to be still. I could have tolerated you from our distance forever if you hadn't been so possessive.

My life again echoes the busy yet stagnant the loud nothingness.

I miss the lake, your words, my wholeness.

I don't miss your sex but I'd be willing to partake if I could have your conversation back.

I drove past your house 3 times tonight glancing at you through the window. You always hated curtains. More than two years since last we spoke. I think of you often. I pick up my phone, dial your number, knowing full well that mine has changed and would be unfamiliar. I hesitate to call. My fingers dance around the thought of no pressure over endless cups of coffee and the glass table in your kitchen. Mind drifting briefly to the sex that was alwaysnevermorethanenough. You were a perfect fantasy that didn't translate into substance. I miss your friendship like a hole through the heart-Ache of a social life left shattered by sleeping with too many friends. My fear; you might mistake my nostalgia for somehing more than friendship.

The Starbucks by my house is out of Zen tea until tomorrow so I either have to go to another Starbucks or drink the china tips.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled internets to bring you a thought about child protection. Grab your coffee spike it with some Baileys and get ready for Ani's Unpopular Opinion Time TM.

Ok kids recently in the news there have been a number of parents arrested for what can only be described as "questionable parenting practices". Things like letting your 9 year old play alone at a park, or allowing your child to walk unaccompanied. Now I don't personally care whether or not YOU think it should or shouldn't be legally allowed for children to walk, to or play in the park without another adult. I also don't care whether or not you did so yourself as a child that age.

What I wanted to talk to you about today is the idea of alerting the authorities. If I had a dollar for every self-righteous woman on a parenting forum who advocated the advice of "call child protected services" or "alert CPS" I'd be a rich, lazy, woman myself. However, the mystical powers that be don't pay me to watch other sanctimonious women berate eachother on the internet. They also don't pay me to be judge and jury while trying to decide who should and who shouldn't be allowed to parent or how or when or where or why.

The reality is parenting is a series of judgement calls. And sometimes we all get it wrong. Every single one of us. Some of us, get it really wrong. Some of us belong in jail, and our kids truly are better off raised by "the system". But before you or anyone else gets to make that judgment call we need to consider the following:

1) Is reporting this to the authorities a better option than offering to help? Is offering, your time, money or assistance or suggesting resources a possibility? If you have offered or tried to help. If this is not a first time you've witnessed whatever "bad" parenting practice from this parent then by all means continue to clutch your pearls and move on to question 2.

2) Is reporting this to child protection in the best interest of the child? What are foster homes like where you live? Are they made up of classy well educated people of similar color and class as the child you think you're going to save? Or are they more like the foster homes you read about in the news? Do you know for certain that foster-care is a better option for this child than the environment with the "bad" parenting you've witnessed? Are you aware that older children tend to end up in emergency shelters or group homes than in foster families? What are the realities of the child welfare system where you live?

Now I hear you, you're saying "well not all reports involve removing the child(ren) from the home Ani, you're being awfully quick to judge the system! And you know that's true, and I am all about educating and assisting more than I am about tearing families apart and after all you are just trying to help...

And some kids really do need help from someone more than just a concerned neighbor, which leads to this next question you need to ask before you start alerting the masses.

3) Who is the proper authority to report to? Should you call the police? Child protective services? A school counselor? What about the child's other parent or grandparent? Sometimes the police or CPS aren't needed, a kid you see often walking home alone from kindergarten may have a new baby sibling that's unwell and mom may not have a car. Sometimes what looks like neglect to you isn't really so much neglect as it is survival. Not everyone is sorrounded by caring friends and family. So that kid you see walking home from school alone who looks way too young in your opinion to be walking two whole blocks, well maybe dad or grandma can pick the kid up and drop him off? Or maybe mom doesn't know about the school's position on low income assistance for the school bus or maybe it's just none of your business. Heck maybe you can offer to help out yourself.

So now before I get off my sap box I have one last thing for you to consider before you reach for the phone and your local branch of the child protection office.

4) If the child remains in the home and you've meddled, gotten the proper authorities involved etc, are you, or is someone else going to be around for the fallout? Is the child going to be in more danger from the parent, step-parent or other siblings for the disruption?

Well all knew that kid, the one who's mom got reported to family services, and then the nothing happened, except maybe they moved and you never heard from her again, or he came to school with a black eye the next day and no one said anything because "well, we did report them". If you're going to disrupt a family, even a dysfunctional one, you have to remember that the children in that family need an advocate and a voice, if it seems wrong and you are seeing clear cut abuse and neglect one phone call isn't always going to do any good. Open your mouth and you really need to be prepared to open your heart, your mind, and maybe even your door.

We seem to have forgotten somewhere between carpools and violin lessons and keeping up with the Kardashians Jones' that it takes a village, that we are a global village trying to raise these children to be whole happy functional adults.

Sometimes it is a clear cut case of "yes this child needs help, anywhere would be better than living with those monsters at home" but in the case of a 9 year old playing in the park while her mother works in the McDonalds's across the street, would we not have been better off handing the girl a leaflet for a local free or low income "keep kids busy in the summer program" or offering to introduce ourselves to the mother and keep an eye on the kid ourselves? At what point are we forgetting that the key piece in calling the police should be about getting help for those in need, not punishing those who have less.

Remember guys, it takes a village to raise a child.



This is my take on this weeks topic for idol. I just barely made it through last week and this week felt inspired to rant about current events who knows how that will go over, wish me luck!

You see a lot of weird stuff as a barber, people tell you their secrets, they confess their sins. Like a priest or a bartender or any other type of amateur therapy job, barbers hear and see some weird stuff, after 45 years in the business Jake had figured he'd seen and heard just about everything, that is until he met the stranger from down south.

Jake's barber shop had been on the corner of 142nd Street and Morrow Ave for as long as anyone could remember, it was one of the oldest shops in town and just about everyone knew crabby old Jake Simmons who owned the place.

It was a sunny Wednesday in the fall of '98, the south wind blew through the tiny northern Ontario town bringing with it the first round of tumbling maple, elm and oak leaves in varying shades of gold, rust and chocolate. Jake was grumbling to himself sweeping the scattering debris off the steps leading up to his shop, muttering under his breath that his no-good nephew had missed some spots on the candy-apple red trim he'd repainted over the summer. Jake was so preoccupied with his busy-work he barely noticed the heavy set stranger's approach.

"Howdy," the man drawled with a glaringly American accent, "y'all open today?" He asked.

"Yes, I am, you here for a trim?" Jake replied taking stock of the man in front of him. The stranger was younger than Jake by a wide margin, probably not much over 40, he had the palest blue-grey eyes lined with large round eye-glasses, baring a striking contrast to his darker hair that looked about 2 weeks late for a trim.

"Yes sir," the younger man replied, "the name's Pete Crow, I'm a trucker from down south, just passing through but seems this little town was just to pretty to not stop by a take a look around."

"Well Mr. Crow, I'm Jake and this here's my shop" said the barber, "come on in and have a seat and we'll get you trimmed up and on your way."

"Thank you kindly sir," Pete replied.

"Mr. Crow I'll need you to take off your spectacles and we'll get started," Jake set to wiping the sterile solution off of his combs and scissors, and draping a cape around his clients neck, when he was all set he looked up at the man from down south to find his glasses still firmly perched on his face. "Your glasses, Mr. Crow, they'll need to come off," Jake repeated, trying not to sound annoyed with the stranger.

"I'm sorry sir but I can't do that, you'll have to cut around them," Pete replied.

"I beg your pardon Mr. Crow but in all my years as a barber I have never cut around a set of eye glasses, you'll need to take them off so I can give you a proper cut," the barber replied, his frustration now barely contained.

"Again Mr. Simmons I'll have to respectfully decline to take them off," Pete retorted, calm as the moment he'd walked up to the shop.

"Sir, I insist, this is bordering on absurd, I simply cannot in good faith charge you for a proper hair cut with your glasses on your face! May I ask you why you can't take them off?" The barber argued trying desperately to remain as polite as possible.

"Well Sir, I suppose I may as well just show you," replied the truck driver reaching up and pulling at the temples of his spectacles.

Well they say Jake turned an unholy shade of red that day when he saw those glasses come off the face of that stranger along with the poor mans prosthetic ear in one swift movement revealing the natural facial feature to be completely lacking.

"You see Mr. Simmons, I was born without my left ear, I hear just fine out of the right and they've given me these great glasses to even me out, but honestly Sir, you can just cut around them, I promise you it'll be easier that way."

Jake blinked wildly, trying desperately to hide his embarrassment, failing miserably of course, and quick as Mr. Crow had put his glasses back in their place, Jake was trimming and apologizing for his prior insistence.

Mr. Crow for his part, just chuckled, paid his bill and was on his way, but they say Jake was never quite the same around customers with glasses after that.

This is my entry for week 14 at LJ Idol, topic: Confessions From The Chair. This story is based on a true story I heard from a local barber when I was a very small child, whether or not any such thing ever took place however, I couldn't actually say.

Scott-Allen flipped on the old slide projector, it was an archaic and unnecessary misuse of technology, especially in this day and age but he loved it all the same, especially for the one lecture he insisted on giving himself, a pet project lecture he called "Introduction to Hospitality Engineers Licences Limited". He pulled out his best Ben Stein-esque monotone and started on his presentation flicking painfully slowly through the old slides, "In 1939, at the beginning of what they refer to as the second global or "world war"," he began prattling, even adding the effect of miming finger quotations when he said "world war" just for that extra added non-dramatic effect.

He paused briefly glancing around the room before continuing, some wise-ass in the back row of the lecture hall was sticking a #2 pencil into his eyeball thus proving Scott-Allen was doing an excellent job with his torture by boredom lecture. The front row was sitting directly under a vent that by all rights and reason should have been blowing cold air into their climate controlled environment, the AC had been on the fritz lately and the vent chugged sticky humid warm air into the already overcrowded and poorly vented space. While Scott-Allen had fully intended to have it fixed the truth of it was he really didn't mind watching the new recruits sweat it out, especially the brown-nosers who thought somehow they would make themselves more appealing to him by sitting front and center of the dreary lecture hall.

He continued on his disquisition; "We saw internally here in the bank of S.O.U.L a minor uprising of some of our best and brightest, who thought they were perhaps ready for a full scale takeover of the mainstream culture. Now what we learned from the little adventure of one Jim Baker, who for those of you who weren't present or paying attention in history class, renamed himself to one Mr. Adolf Hitler, believing as he did that German names and identities were substantially more fear inducing than more English or American sounding names, he had also considered several Russian name choices including Vladimir Putin an unoriginal choice by one Don Brown who decided to merge top side most recently, was that conquest of the people top-side is not for the faint of heart and full scale dictatorship of a population base that large is best acquired via financial means. So we founded the Savings Our Users Love bank and trust shortly after Jim Bakers failure at absolute authority and have grown into a multinational conglomerate force in the past 60 years. Such ventures as Starbucks, McDonalds, and Disney all got their major funding from the bank of S.O.U.L and we are slowly encroaching on 3 billion members world wide. Contrary to popular belief we were in no way affiliated with George Lucas, the success of Star Wars was honestly a rare case of extreme luck."

Scott-Allen flipped through another half dozen slides that appeared to have nothing to do with what sounded like complete drivel coming out of his mouth. Just as it seemed he was losing his new recruits to day dreams of scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes or listening to insufferable aunt Martha talk about her latest colonoscopy, he paused his lecture, pushing his circular framed glasses up his pointed nose.

With a glint of flame-red flickering across his eyes he said; "Now do we have any questions?" The room remained silent, "Good now if you'll just turn to page 247 in your new recruit manual you will have 10 minutes to review all of this information after which there will be a brief quiz on material you are in no way familiar with that was not covered here today at all. No you may not leave early, yes your scores of the test will determine your placements in our organization. In all likelihood however you will end up cleaning out the cages of the flying monkeys, at least in the beginning, those of you who prove to be useful flying-monkey-feces collectors may advance in our organization, remember we are capitalists and teamwork will not be tolerated. Work smart not hard."

As he packed up his projector and began wheeling it's screeching metal case out of the lecture hall, he turned back to the room of horrified looking individuals from all walks of life, and said, "oh yes, my name is Scott-Allen Timmothy Andrew Norris, you may call me Mr. Norris, on behalf of all of us here at Hospitality Engineers Licences Limited, welcome, the air-conditioning should be fixed sometime next week."

Thanks for reading my LJ idol entry for week 12, these characters have appeared before here and here but the stories are in no way sequential or required reading. Please consider reading and voting for your favourites when the polls go up :)

Tip; the bartender on your way out the door.
Tip; your hat as you pass by him on the street.
Tip; the cab driver as he drops you in front of the bridge.
Tip; the bottle back and feel it's amber solace slide down your throat.
Tip; be sure to take off your jacket and boots.
Tip; as you stumble up to the platform, grab the railing.
Tip; over the edge as you fall into the dark.

Some days it feels like there is no other answer, just the bottle and the dark.

His last text message to her read: "Let love reign always, no matter the cost." When they found his body in a crack house two weeks later she wasn't surprised. Another of the drunks he'd worked with spared her from having to go down and identify the body. The two of them were really the only friends he'd had.

"You couldn't have saved him ya know," her partner offers the night of the funeral.

"I know," she replies; the tears starting again, stinging against the mascara that trails across her cheek bones, "but I could have tried harder."

Things are different after, she tries harder to keep her distance. He's not the only one, there are more, they come down daily for their liquid courage injections, don't want too much blood in their alcohol streams. One of them had a stroke a few weeks ago, came in to confess over a series of tequilas and vodka & waters.

She suggests a wager, to see who could be sober the longest. Bet a thousand dollars she didn't have on it. He's a competitive drunk and he accepts, they'll start next week, no the week after... It goes on.

In the DJ's jeep on a Thursday night ride home, she confesses to the wager and the DJ replies, "If he quits drinking we all lose. That guy spends a hundred grand a year in the bar. Your little bet could ruin us all!"

The lump rises in her throat as she counters, "We all lose if he drinks himself to death too. He's already had a stroke; he's got a fatty liver and an enlarged heart, the doc's only giving him six months if he doesn't smarten up."

"Yeah but, I mean, he can't quit drinking..."

She bites her tongue thinking loud enough that she's sure her friend can hear her. I can't have another one die on me. I'm at four since September. I can't do this anymore. Her tears are whipped away by the wind in the jeep and he kindly pretends not to notice.

The radio kicks in, breaking the silence as they bound over the potholes in the west end of town, some crass pop tune ringing in her ear drums as they turn the corner onto her street.

She jumps out of the jeep. "Thanks for the ride love, see ya tomorrow." She slams the rickety door and blows him a kiss, stumbles into her darkened house, reaches into the cabinet, mixes the vodka with some water.

Some days it feels like there is no other answer, just the bottle and the dark.


This was my week ten entry for LJ idol: topic "“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time” please read/comment/vote when available, there are some really talented writers out there.