Blink and You'll Miss It...

     For the most part, deviation as far as the route on this trip has been kept to an absolute minimum.  However, as I sat on the side of the river in Waycross, chucking pine cones into the coffee tinted bed of water we were resigned to camp by, I decided a little research into other areas wouldn't hurt.  In a flash, I geared up and scootered on over to the local public library, checked in at one of the computers, and started investigating.  It didn't take too long, I soon discovered, as I stumbled across a cyclists' blog who highlighted a particular spot in Brunswick, Georgia: The Hostel in the Forest.

Raised eyebrows. Open new window.  Scan their information page.  Jackpot.

  My brow is softened in relief as I punched the number into my phone.  A creeping suspicion attempted to plant some doubt into my plans, but that was quickly squashed.  A handful of rings later, and a voice crackles to life at the other end.

"Hostel in the Forest, how can I help you?"

     "Hi, my name is Myles Chung, and I am traveling with a buddy of mine...."


  

 As luck would have it, the pieces started to fall in place as I talked with the man at the other end.  Being only fifty or so miles away, the hostel already seemed like a detour that was worth the effort.  And, seeing as how a severe thunderstorm was ready to bear down on us on the day we left the area, I figured it would be nice not to pack up in blankets of rain and tumbling tree branches from heavy winds.  I went into detail about our mission, highlighting some of our more unique encounters and experiences, and the man's interest was appropriately peaked.  Eventually, I brought up the topic of their work exchange program, which would potentially replace our one night stay charge in place of a few hours working in their gardens or wherever they need an extra couple pairs of hands.  Crossing fingers, at this point.

     My anxiously tight grip on my pen relaxed as the man's voice crackled back to life on the other end, confirming a possible work exchange at their site. My fist silently punched the air above my head, followed by a string of "Thank you's" on my part and a couple "Looking forward to seeing you's".  I hung up, and relayed the good news to Dan.  Come twelve noon tomorrow, and we'll  have a roof over our heads and a pillow to lay on.

     The next morning we shuffled around and rolled up our belongings, going through the motions as we packed up our 49cc mules and puttered off to the hostel.  It was a fairly quick ride; perhaps our eagerness gave us a MPH boost.  Missing the signage for the place, we backpedaled and finally made our way down their crater speckled driveway.  One of the first things I noticed was how absolutely lush this forest is with its  Gothic architecture like tree trunks reaching out towards the sky and its vibrant foliage canvassing the skyline.

  Involuntarily, my body pumped out its chest as it took in a large breath to taste the beauty we stumbled across.  We dismounted in the parking lot and I ventured out in search of the main office.  My none- too-dainty boots stomped on the path as I spotted some of the facilities "tree houses", remarking to myself how naturally they seem to be a part of this area.  The main office came into view and I ventured in, converging on the hole in the wall where a man by the name of Andrew Douglass sat behind a computer.  I come to find out that this was the man who confirmed our stay just the other day on the phone, and it was nice to finally connect a face with the voice.

 

 We exchanged greetings and I already felt at home here.  Dan and I checked in with our I'D's and gear, but not before being warmly hugged by some of the staff members who crossed our paths, and at that point I realized how much I despised the stagnant feeling of handshakes for first encounters.  After successfully checking in, Andrew informed us that there is need of some work in their garden and blueberry plants, and we changed our clothes in anticipation.  Andrew himself had quite a large checklist to finish that day, but we eventually made our way to the garden.  We were given a nice little tour of the area, and made our way with tools in hand to the blueberry plants.  We could tell that there was a lot of work to be done here, and we proceeded to clear the choking vines that were wrapped around the branches and deep in the soil underneath the plants.  It was refreshing to be doing something that didn't feel at all like work. We put in some solid gardening time and headed back to our rooms, and I commissioned the camera for a little photo shoot of the facility. 

     Every aspect of this place left a sliver of envy in my awe as I marveled at all the quirky intricacies littering the area, while at the same time soaking in the sights and sounds surrounding me.  Granted, this all may not be noteworthy for some who have experienced this before, but being a shut in of sorts myself, it all felt like some sort of intoxicating aphrodisiac, to me.  It surprised me to learn that this facility has been around for quite some time, being founded by a man named Tom Dennard in 1975.  It's had its share of facelifts since then, but its primary focus is to leave a lasting impression on its guests and on the Earth.  From its composting toilets and outdoor showers to the thoughtful and loving attitudes of all who live there, I came to understand the wholesome impression this place left, what with its emphasis on embracing a lifestyle that is not only good for the body and soul, but also for the soil and leaves that I squished in between my toes.

     Tearing myself away from this other world, I made my way back to the main house and we were invited to pick some items from their garden in preparation for the group dinner.  Making our way back to the garden, and we start to pluck some lettuce leaves with the subtle sounds of our greedy munching on the offerings filling the air.  Dan and I at this point have contentedness written all over our faces, as if some sort of drug was being gleaned and leaked into the air from the compost pile itself.  We pick our fill, and headed back to the main area, chatting a bit with some of the residents before the dinner bell rang.  We hurry on over to the dining area and form a circle of hands with staff members and guests alike, highlighting what we are thankful for and opening up to each other.  We make the rounds, and then proceed to pounce on the Mexican inspired meal, including a salad made with the lettuce we picked.  Despite their produce output being only around 11% , they do an admirable job with keeping their meals wholesome and clean, and its only bolstered by their own little chicken farm that is right on the property.

     Our bellies pleasantly lined with bone sticking goodness, we took turns cleaning up the dishes and transferred over to the fire pit and conversed amongst each other as the smoke stung our eyes and the cool night air lapped at our backs.  Exhaustion eventually laid its hands on us, and we slunk back to our respective beds, cataloging all the sensory details of the day as my head sank into the pillow.  I have no way of telling, but I like to believe a permanent grin was languishing on my face as I dreamed about composting and howling roosters.

     I can't avoid being sappy about this place.  The reception towards us when we stepped onto the property was humbling, and the love for Mother Nature is interwoven into every nook and cranny as we investigated even further.  I wouldn't even call it low impact: just living like we should be.  If you take away the constant overbearing sheen of money, power and superficial life requirements, and in turn embrace not only your own health and sanity but also your neighbors and the world,  then what excuse do we have of having such epidemics cripple our livelihoods?  Cure homelessness.  Evict costly and blood stained wars.  Refuse a foothold for hunger.  This place is a tantalizing glance through a window to a world where common sense and love for your fellow man should be aplenty, and it's a vine that should not be ripped out from the ground, but instead allowed to be invasive in its influence and spread throughout our society. 

Leading by Example

   In an Ideal World...

 

  "Stigma" can be such a debilitating word when it looms over the heads of a particular city, especially one that is hampered by a, shall we say, waist band problem.  Riding into the Tennessee area, Dan and I were informed about the health epidemic in regards to the mass consumption of fast food chains and a lack of embracing a healthier, cleaner diet not consisting of preservatives and dye ridden condiments, the catalyst for a state with such a high obesity rate amongst its occupants   It was only the first day, and we could already smell the influence of these processed food havens in the air as we puttered along, noticing throngs of cramped vehicles being chaperoned through drive-thrus like chromed cattle to the slaughter.  Noticeably, however, as we lazily rolled over the cow dotted dipping hills of the more rural country side, I could taste in the air what I can only describe as something that was unmolested and unadulterated by the hustle and bustle we just left behind.  For miles I could see the vibrantly green waves blanketing the country side with the burgeoning nimbus clouds casting cooling shadows over the stark naked trees lining the road we were traveling, and in time I soon became enamored with my surroundings, almost to the point where my oblivious attention towards oncoming traffic almost got the better of me.  

    

 

     And then we met Jason and Mindy, our hosts in the Tennessee area, along with the new member of their growing family, Parker, and my admiration for this family is only slightly tinged with a tendril of jealousy.  Nothing negative in its connotation, mind you; it's just that they are a family with pure Americana stenciled in everything that they are and do,  and it's humbling to see this healthy and happy family achieve a lifestyle that I imagine all of us aspiring to be like, one day.  As we start to talk and trade each of our fair share of stories, Dan and I are invited to a dinner being made by Mindy, which we are informed consists of wholesome ingredients gleaned from a combination of their own farm and through the friendships they've built with other local farms.  On the menu:  authentic biscuits and gravy, made from scratch.  My stomach growled a bit too earnestly, which prompted me to hide the thunderstorm in my belly with a couple well timed coughs.  

   

    At the tail end of the week we rode over to their house located in the town of Norris, and Jason, upon our arrival, invited us for a lengthy hike up to the blueberry patches that are owned by Mindy's parents which we gladly accept, giving us a chance to stretch our legs for once.  We inhaled the earthy bark and brush as we clamored our way up the trails leading to a look out,appreciating the scenery of the barren foliage and steep hill sides, properly kindling and fueling our appetites as we made our way back down the trails and to their house.  

     Once we had arrived, we were treated to Mindy showing the process of making the meal, all the while demonstrating the ridiculously simple and yet time consuming process of making fresh mozzarella.  I resisted the urge to toss the camera aside and make off like a bandit with the bowl.  Later, I'm informed that she also tried her hand at kimchi, a Korean spiced fermented side dish, and my eyes blossomed to the size of saucers.  For the record, this half Korean concedes that her first try ranks up there with some of the best I've ever had.  

What particularly intrigued me about this whole process was that rarely anything is wasted in this kitchen.  The raw milk that they get from a sort of "Groupon" cow that they co-own (which, by the way, has officially converted me from the watered down reduced milk I am used to), is used to make this fresh mozzarella, and the eventual whey by product of the whole process was actually used for the kimchi she whipped up, along with a myriad of other food items bulging from her refrigerator.

 Soon the kitchen is cluttered with the unfair and sinful combined fragrances of rising biscuits and sizzling crumbled meat, all the while a bubbling pan of white gravy is practically begging me to chug it.  Self control.  Just keep taking pictures, Myles.  She tops off the meal with a couple of farm eggs straight from the source, and the meal is ready.  To be quite honest, I can't exactly recall the transition from the kitchen to the dining room table. The smells and my salivating were blocking my immediate memory. I can, however, reminisce spreading that golden broken yolk with a gravy slathered biscuit around the perimeter of the plate and shoving it into my mouth.  For a split second, I couldn't exactly handle what I was tasting, for that processed air I was swimming through in the city area choked with fast food restaurants was not at all present in this house.  It felt wholesome, and it tasted alive.  It.Was.Blissful.

  

 Top it off with freshly juiced organic apples, and we finally laid down our forks, feeling satiated and rich in goodness.  It's a wonderful feeling, really: to consume something that weighs down your stomach not with chemicals and overly saturated mystery ingredients, but with a heft that invigorates you instead of prompting you to regret that last bite.  I have to say this is the first time that, after eating biscuits and gravy, I didn't feel like a  total slob and feel compelled to take a three hour nap.  With the meal wrapped up, we lounged in their living room and bathed in our own personal puddles of contentedness. as if we had just proven something to the world and are now reaping the rewards of our enlightened sensibilities.

    

     For me, this is how I envision a healthy America.  I crave to see discover these places not with a layer of the aforementioned stigma hanging overhead with its health statistics and obesity rates, but instead stitched together with families like Jason, Mindy and Parker; a family whose collective smile is infectious, and whose day to day lives are fueled by clean and wholesome meals (not to mention absolutely delicious) ,and steadfast relationships with their farmer friends and neighbors.  I picture this idealistic future, and it emboldens me as we climb back onto our little scooters, ready to continue to spread the word and influence of the influential families we meet along the way. 

Virginia Beach: A Taco Well Spent

   

Meet Taz.  Taz has been homeless for the past 4 years.  I bought Taz a taco.

 

 

 

Kodak Moment

 

In all honesty, he practically blindsided me.  I had decided to cut off about three pounds of my curly locks at the local barber shop while we took a two day reprieve in Virginia Beach, and the day had already a warm blue sheen from the receding daylight.  I was tucking my collar back behind my slightly scratchy neck when I turned my head to see him galloping over, a stitched together gait interlaced with strands of past addictions and scuffles.  With the diction of a fresh faced public speaker, he immediately launched into a convincingly well rehearsed boiled down timeline of his life on the streets.  As with anyone who has dealt with this type of encounter before, I could taste the point of this conversation coming to a head.  Sure enough, the subject of how many green backs were in my wallet at that time came into the spotlight, and it was then that I decided to embrace the mission I had set out on all those weeks ago. 

 

 

 "Sure, man.  I think I got a couple of bills here, somewhere."

 

   

"God Bless you, man, God Bless." 

 

      

   Some part of me cringed at the color by numbers lines he was rolling off of his tongue.  My turn in the conversation, now.

 

 

"Actually, man...you hungry?"

 

 

Even Colgate couldn't fix that grin he flashed me. 

 

"Now THAT'S pretty funny, man, haha."

 

 

I chuckled and nodded my head, and the hook sunk in.

 

 

"Yeah, well, I mean, if you want man, I can get you something, you know, close by, if you want to, bud." 

 

 

I shifted my weight to my other foot and gestured towards the littered Virginia Beach Boulevard, lined with neon veined chain restaurant signs and soccer mom vans.  He doesn't bat an eye.

 

 

"Yeah uh, so there's a Taco Bell like two blocks down, man.  I like tacos man, like, for real, man."

 

 

Can't argue with him, there.  Tacos are awesome.

 

 

"Alright, yeah sure, Taco Bell, man.  Hey, uh, do you mind if I like ask you a couple of questions, like a testimonial, type of deal?  You think?"

 

 

 

Momentary hesitation quickly proceeded by, what I imagine, a high pitched squeal from his stomach.

 

 

"Sure, sup' man, whatever, sounds good."

 

 

I have trouble keeping up with him over to the Taco Bell.

Margate City, New Jersey

                                      

Sappy Life Time Channel Moments

 

                         

     I've come to the conclusion that I am destined to become a disheveled fisherman on a rickety old fishing rig with a six pack tucked underneath my fold up lawn chair and a sea salt encrusted radio blaring 60's/70's one hit wonders behind me as I cast out my line for the millionth time that day.  That image has soaked into my sub-consciousness since our arrival here in Margate City.  It's a nice suburb town, but nothing that would differentiate itself from the usual sea side attractions you tend to run across.  What really gives it its tantalizing flair is its proximity to the beach, and what a beach it is. 

    
     Don't get me wrong; I realize there are infinitesimally better beaches in other tourist trap towns that exceed the beauty of this one.  However, since being on this trip, I have come to truly appreciate the small wonders that we all take for granted due to certain luxuries and accommodations. 
    
     When I decided to go for a run on that beach, I was lost in some cringe worthy sappy emotions as my lungs bulged with the sweet sea breeze and my skin lapped up the addictive rays of the evening sun.  I wasn't surprised when my skin felt as if it was on fire, due to the lack of exposure since we set out on our journey. 

     And, with a primal urge that overtook my still introverted demeanor around complete strangers sauntering on the beach,  I unleashed a guttural challenge to the frothing ocean sheets receding back and forth on the beach sand that managed to somehow expel all of my pent up anguish about various things, as if yanking the stopper in a sink and witnessing all that build up of toxic sludge just spiral down the drain, leaving a sparkling porcelin bowl in which to dump the next load of thoughts into; ready to start again replenished and invigorated.
     
     I don't need a therapist. I already have myself.  I just desperately pined for the right catalyst to ignite that fuse towards my eventual catharsis.  It's almost embarrassingly beautiful how such a simple landscape can have such a soothing impact on the things I deemed stressors in my life, and from then on I cared less about trivial matters that would normally invite an overly saturated level of negative self critique.
    
     Take my on going weight loss struggle, as an example. My first day on this magnificent stretch of sand and I manage to clock in at a 6:50 mile average during my jog, and yet the external signs of my athletic progress are abysmal.  I criticize my failure every day in whatever available mirror I catch my reflection in, and then my sink begins to accumulate a fresh layer of self doubt and sickening pity. 
     
     The next day, while on my way over to the beach for my next jog, two fairly attractive females pulled up next to the stop sign I had just passed and decided to yell out in unison, "Fat-Ass!", followed by a peeling out with audible cackling emanating from the car.  Now I don't honestly know if they saw something that warranted a response of that nature,  or if they were just messing with whomever crossed their path. Regardless of that, it prompted me to wonder in my head, How could something so outwardly beautiful project such a grossly hateful exclamation towards someone who is desperately striving to change their image towards something acceptable in their eyes?"
   
      ...And yet when I stepped out onto that sand, my toes forming fists and clenching the sand encrusted shattered shells littered across the dunes,  I realized that I had finally discovered my answer.  It certainly didn't justify their actions, but instead unraveled a plan for my response to these negative empty painted shells:

     I care about me,

       Not you or your judgments,

 

      And as long as I am constructively improving myself  in whatever way I can,

 

 I am content with me, and that is the single greatest weight off of  my shoulders.

      It's funny: you hear countless throngs of people preaching this sappy verbal discharge to the innumerable helpless schmucks stuck in various ruts, and yet the words are somehow transcendent once you are dipped in that blissfully relaxing eureka moment, yourself.  At this point, this stretch of sand on the border of Margate City in New Jersey has given me a gift that will never be equaled, and I'd be remiss if I said I wouldn't miss that golden, ocean washed stretch of pavement.

A Meditation on Perseverance,

  Frost Bite, 

    and Rebirth 

 

...Has it been a month, already?

   

     Don't get me wrong; I've certainly felt every excruciating minute in the bitter cold as we crawl our way through the first set of states, with every appendage and digit attached to my body cursing me in my blind idiocy.  Frostbite?  Quite possibly, I coo to myself as I progressively lose sensation in my hands while I wring the life out of the throttle, scanning the road sides for a safe haven in the form of a gas station or accommodating restaurant chain.  Nothing.  
     
     At this point my ice fused toes have written me onto their shit list.
    
     Pay them no mind.  

            Screw your better judgement.  

     Sure enough, a Shell station pokes its head up over the horizon, its vibrant yellow shell tantalizing in its promise of deliciously stale and scalding hot coffee and curious patrons questioning our sanity.  We arrive at the building, hitching up our 49cc ponies and head on in dressed like a couple of unemployed stormtroopers.  We dance through the routine: unstrap helmets, toss chapped smiles at the customers and owners, roll out the practiced and well worn speech of our cause, until we finally cower next to the nearest heater as we rub the circulation back into our white washed skin.  And all the while as I do this... I chuckle.
      

Why?  

Because it's just not sane. 

        It goes against my self preserving grain.  

                     Because I sense myself strengthening                      in spirit and in fortitude.  

                    Fortitude that is intoxicating.  


        Intoxicating in its blunt ignorance. 

 Ignorance that is pure bliss.
     
     I manage to wiggle my thawed out toes.  Thank. God.  

"Ready?" 
      Dan hoists his burden from the floor and onto his back, once again.  I stamp my feet and pump out my chest.  

"Let's do it, bud."  
     My body groans in exasperated submission.  I'm beaming like an idiot.



Here's a short video to go along side this post.  A little lengthy, so sorry about that!

Mega Update

     

    This post has been a long time coming, and I promise to my potential readers that my updates will be much more timely as I continue to try to find my footing during this expedition.  As some of you reading this may not be aware, I am currently trekking across the U.S on 49cc motor scooters, (48 states total), with my buddy Dan Emery to look into the epidemic that is hunger.  Specifically, we strive to gain a more insightful understanding of the struggles millions of Americans are facing in regards to lack of food, degradation of American agriculture, the abysmal waste of over 40% of our food resources, and, perhaps the most pivotal of all blossoming concerns, the lack of education that is not imparted onto the general public about these problems.  Of course, I'm damn sure this well worn menu of factoids has been shoved down your throats quite frequently if you've been trailing our progress, (along with the ACP blog), so I'll save you some time and get to the marketable aspect of this post:  my personal experiences and emotions I've run across while freezing my tookus off on my two wheeled pony/stallion.  

    

     *Deep breath*

                               Here we go.

MASSACHUSETTS:  One Way, or the Highway

"Wait, if that's a one way, then... screw it, where's a pub?"

     

                "Well...sheeeitt."

     This soothing mantra that I chanted to myself quite frequently while navigating the rat maze that is Massachusetts, (particularly the epicenter of Boston), is what reined me in from the tantalizing idea of punting a puppy in the face, just to alleviate the stress that was clouding over my vision.  Up until this point I had never taken a full dose of a state like Massachusetts before, only fleetingly getting lost like an idiot/tourist while roaming around locations like Faneuil Hall or other frequently flocked high traffic zones.  So, imagine my deflation as I looked upon the blocks upon blocks of one way streets, cornering me into alleyways littered with coffee cups and shattered beer bottles and exits onto the highway which, unfortunately, we had to avoid due to how slow our mopeds would allow us to go.

Count to 10. 

Shout expletives and down a couple of local brews.
  
Deep breath. Proceed.   

     Fast forward into the late afternoon, and we scuttled into the parking lot of our destination.  Lesson learned.  

    Now, I only start off this post with such a negative first take because I feel compelled to get it out of the way before I harp on the positives of this great state, despite what my tone may invoke.  Commute being put aside on the back burner, my encounter with the residents, (particularly in the little town of Wakefield), of Mass. has given me a tantalizing taste of what to expect as we further our progress along the next few states.  For that particular week, our base of operations was at a friend's home in Wakefield, where we were greeted by a lovely family consisting of a hard working mom, a super chill father and four boys with energy levels rivaling Russell Brand on liquified crack.  

     After we unpacked and settled in, we proceeded to visit a local food pantry with the intention of seeing with our own virgin eyes just what exactly was required to keep such an operation afloat.  At first, we had almost missed the damn place since it was discreet in its location; no sign or anything signifying it was a safe haven for the hungry in the town.  Nevertheless, we tracked it down and headed on into the facility, where we introduced ourselves to the head honcho of the whole operation, whom we had contacted earlier.  As she showed us around the actual pantry, she laid out a brief timeline of the life of this particular pantry, and the struggles they've had to overcome to keep themselves relevant in the town.  

     While all of this was going on, my eyes scanned over the labels of tomato soup cans and turkey stuffing mixes hugging the walls of the room, and I grimaced at the dwindling supplies and fluorescent bulb washed decor, clearing my nostrils of the air that was choked with a layer of disparity and an even meatier layer of defiant perseverance.  My shameful shell recoiled from the saturated heroism seeping from the pores of these tireless people as they shared their stories and personal motivations for devoting their energy towards this establishment.  My ignorant heart couldn't fathom, (let alone sympathize), with the love that radiated from these volunteers, because I have never done anything in my life so selfless and worthy of a god damn Nobel Peace Prize.  And then, even when I couldn't possibly take any more sobering testimonials, we were introduced to a lady named Debbie.

     My God, what an extraordinarily beautiful woman.  I say this with no hint of superficial intent, because I am referring to the energy that is just absolutely radiating from behind her legally deemed blind eyes.  Her role is the actual ordering and organizing of the food stuffs that find their way into the pantry, so her perspective is that much more relevant to our unending and ignorant questions.  

     As I first lay my eyes on her, a cloud of skepticism hangs over her head as we lock hands, dancing the well worn steps of the usual greetings and introductions.  We then proceed to ask if she can lead us through her daily task routine, which she agrees to do with a fleeting glance over our shoulder at the wall clock directly behind us.  Aisle after aisle she recites from the back of her hand the types of donations they receive, the struggles of keeping the shelves stocked, and the daily check list she adheres to in order to maintain the center's survivability.  

     And yet, as she regurgitates these bullet point factoids, she starts to become comfortable with our unwavering attention, her eye contact less wavering with ours and her body language less confrontational.  Eventually, we stop roaming the aisles and simply allow her to vent all of that pent up frustration and charisma that was previously caged behind those eyes.  Her shoulders sag slightly.  A sliver of vulnerability creeps through her eye lids as she sinks back on her heels, confiding in us the images that have been burned on her brain ever since she started working here...

...And then she catches my eye.

     My arm hairs spring erect beneath my sleeves.  Moisture is vacuumed from my mouth as my pencil grinds to a fidgeting halt over the pages of my notepad.  Never, ever in my life have I seen such stubborn orbs gush forth such pleading daggers of desperateness and soulful beauty.  Her words fade into the back round, for her eyes tell its own ragged story.  The irritating filter that is verbal communication is cut out of the interchange as she shifts her gaze back and forth from either of my eyes, scanning for any understanding behind my lids.  

     I nod dumbly, keeping the contact alive as I shift my weight to my other foot, lowering my notepad and clenching my jaw.  I reek of inadequacy.  Naked.  This continues on for what seems like an eternity before a phone ringing in the hazy distance breaks the interchange, and the veil is pulled over her eyes again, her plea receding back into her body.  Cue the obligatory thank you's and promises of further communication.  I shake her hand, and she constricts her grip, that one last reassurance that I had received her message.  

 I most certainly did.

      From then on, everything else felt strangely monotone.  I made a trip into Boston to snap some photos and enjoy the sights.  I mucked around with the kids at our host's home, making even more memories to further chew about in my mind in my contemplative moments, yet it all felt somewhat bland compared to what I experienced back at that pantry.  In the end, I came away with a sobering tendril of what to expect on this trip, and I pray for even more "one way streets", so that I may slow down enough to appreciate what I so callously under appreciated.  A tantalizing taste for things to come.

      

    

Short Story #1

     This is a short story I've been slowly ironing out for a while, now.  It's probably my most personal story, and I hope the writing and tone shows.  Again, any constructive criticism is appreciated, and thanks in advance for taking the time to read over my dribble, ;).

Only Mothballs

Tick.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

                I can’t seem to remember another time where I wished death on an inanimate object more than that cheap Walmart analog wall clock.

Fuck.You.Fuck fuck fuck fuck…

                My face contorts itself into a tight lipped, spiteful stare down with those monotonous hands slothing around the clock’s opaque face, all the while my surroundings flow along as my teacher’s throaty voice weaves its tendrils through my classmates perked up ears.  Topic of discussion for today?  Harry Goddamn Potter.  At this point in our curriculum, I’ve already concluded that the reading level everyone else is stuck at doesn’t warrant my undivided attention, so I flip the switch back to my preferred state of bubbling anticipation, sprinkled with shavings of anxiety as the seconds tick before that fire truck red bell rings. 

Just.Fucking.End.

                At this point the tick in my dominant foot has made a sizeable dent in the linoleum floor, and I’m fairly confident my right digits have fused quite successfully with the laminated pale wood top of my prison cell, crafted lovingly around my chunky frame and cutting off blood flow to my lower extremities.  Luckily, I’ve acclimated to my second home fairly decently, yet nothing could have prepped me for that insatiable ticking. 

                Realizing my sentence is far from fully served, I chew my tongue and flex my eyes across the classroom.  It’s in your typical disarray of scattered backpacks and strewn school books, tastefully accented by the ungodly amount of inspirational posters with bold font gems like “Perseverance”, “Determination”, and, my personal favorite, a ridiculously photogenic tiger with “Respect” plastered over its head.  If I hadn’t known better, I swear I was in a suicide prevention self help group, determined to stop me from jumping out of this third story windowed classroom just so I can avoid anymore mind numbing debate over some perceived symbolism regarding three headed dogs and magic  potions, written by a British hack.

                However, personal gripes aside, it’s actually my least despised classroom.  This is due in part to my sick glee in watching my teacher work her smoker’s lung charm across my classmates, who were more or less petrified by the gaping hole in her larynx.  As far as we knew, she was one step away from being a full blown Sith Lord, so rambunctiousness was kept to a minimum on our own accord.  But besides her nightmarish impairment, she had developed an insatiable taste for making us twelve year olds feel like morons; taking every chance she could to chastise us for our limited literary intellect and finding miniscule things to ship us off to the principal’s dungeon.  Hell, I’ve already been subjected to multiple sit-downs due to my daydreaming and desktop acoustics with whatever I could find to tap with.  So, when I felt the familiar vibrations of her raspy voice form the shape of my name through my mind haze, I begrudgingly stick my head out of my shell and acknowledge her cackling. 

                “Yes, Ms. Kruger?”

She locks on to my signal, an almost merciless grimace painted over her jowls. 

“You’re being called down to the office.  You can get your bag and pick up today’s assignment from someone, tomorrow.”

I shift slightly in my seat, my mind still processing the incoming order.

                “Wait, So I can leave?”  My befuddlement is understandable; there are still twenty minutes revolutions on my sentence.  Yet, even after saying that, my incredulousness goes unheeded as she continues talking to the black board, and my classmates glare murderously at my get out of jail free card, gyrating above my head like a golden Mario token.  Without further hesitation, I shimmy out of my chair, stumbling across my bag at my feet before I sweep it in one arm, cradling my lunch box in the other.  And, like an apparition with supposed hidden symbolism, I vapor out of the room to my parole hearing. 

                My squawking sneakers echo along the halls as I make multiple sharp angle turns, my impatience suffocating my thoughts as I navigate this well worn rat maze. 

Whatever it is I’m in trouble for, at least I cut a chunk out of my day.  Oh shit, I have Gamecube at home!

                With that sudden realization, my pace is quickened as I practically gallop towards my destination.  Rounding the last corner and down the final stairway, I land at the base of the exits where the office window sits along side the doors.  What I glance next out of the corner of my eye actually procures a lump in my throat.

…Shit

                It’s the glint off of his glasses that catches my unusually unwavering eye.  Any more proof is unnecessary, but my mind predictably betrays me as my blank face scans the rest of my father’s exterior shell.  Standing tall with his 5’5” frame, my father is sporting his usual knitted vest and well worn dress shirt tucked underneath the top layer.  But I’m not fooled.  I can literally taste the boxed wine radiating off of his off white collar and stained grey trousers, coating the back of my throat.  I repulse myself for missing that stench of cheap liquor and mothballs.  Strangely enough, it’s the latter that churns my stomach more. 

                And, yet, I notice a splash of impromptu disheveled tucking, especially around his stickly waistline.  To anyone else, he looks like a typical father of three, who is stuck in Korean accountant family man attire.  In my eyes, though, he appears distraught, and it actually colors me curious.  We make eye contact, and my spine snaps straight as an arrow. 

Suddenly all too tactile memories of multiplication table home school sessions gestate in my mind as I reminisce the vivid days of head smacking and sneering from those coffee stained fangs, and I disgust myself as I relish those memories.  I can still taste his Colgate coated, acid tainted breath permeating my sinuses, almost subconsciously making me second guess what eight multiplied by eight really was.  Yes, this is a man who bathes in the waters of my and my sibling’s tormented tears, and I accept it with a leashed disdain that makes the man in me tremble with rage at my defeated posture; my shoulders slumped with fear of the near future.

                I snap back.  Luckily, I haven’t broken eye contact.  He would have chastised me in his own demented way for my fault in saving face.  No, stone cold Steve Austin, I muse in my racing head.  Coolly, I trail off my gaze to the back of the receptionist’s head, followed by my intense focus of the door knob as I round the corner and stretch out my clammy palm towards the knob.  I don’t recollect turning the knob, nor the breaths that led up to the turning point.  I honestly can only recall the welcoming stench of printer paper and stale pepper mints from the counter of her desk.  For once, I resist the temptation to stuff my greedy face with a fistful of these distracting confections, and I once again meet my father’s battered and stubborn gaze.  I miss his smile.  His twisted revolting smile.  At least it was an inviting form of trickery. 

“You have your homework, with you?” he recites, going through the motions; the steps to our little jig.  I predictably nod with not even a peep, and my feet switch the weight distribution to convey my half hearted annoyance aimed at his cookie cutter questionnaire.  I dare not push it further, though.  I don’t much feel like relishing in his cheek stinging “reminders”, tonight. 

“I’ll be in the car.  Sign out and meet me at the front.”

What a lovely grimace, on his part.  I wonder what the occasion is?

 He exits and I take up my post at the counter.  The secretary, in exemplary fashion, feigns interest, with me responding in kind by slopping off a half hearted smile form my twitching facial muscles. 

She fucking knows.

                One chicken scratching of a signature later and I find myself dragging my stumps across the dirt choked carpet out past the fingertip stained glass double doors and onto the curb.  There, like an apparition brooding atop his cold, metallic grey steed, is my father in his twice wrecked BMW.  Cue the beckoning gesture laced with annoyance.  Cue my dejected shuffle towards the passenger seat.  Commence the suffocating and torturous silence, save for the clicking of my seat belt and the gear change of our stallion that careens off into the distance, leaving behind a place I suddenly embrace as a sanctuary, given the circumstances. 

                The entrance to the highway rears its reflective head as we round the curved entrance to its maw, and we continue on at break neck speed to our still undisclosed destination.  Passing a roughly nailed together cross marking Sparky’s final resting place on the side of the highway, I peel my gaze away from the attractions rushing past my vision and soak in my father’s stoic visage behind the wheel.  An irritated acceptance, I gawk.  Sensing this, he shifts his gaze form the hypnotic yellow lines gobbledup by the car’s grill and rests his high beams onto me, scanning my unspoken questions.  I give in and my attention is quickly taken by the absorbing detail on the exterior of the dash board.  Deafening silence engulfs our burgeoning dialogue.

                A lifetime careens past my jittery senses before we arrive at the exit.  The tempo of our turning signal harkens our arrival into the downtown area of our hometown.  It’s a quaint location, its landmarks most notably being the towering golden arches of McDonalds, partnered at the hip to the sickly sea green tinge of the mermaid mascot of America’s favorite coffee chain.  Apart from them, however, I mentally check off the plethora of vintage second hand clothing stores and pottery work shops that lazily scrawl their reflections across my passenger side window, further illuminated by the droplets of that morning’s dew on the outer surface.  An elderly woman with an odd fixation for plaid waits patiently for the little green man to grant her safe passage across the clogged downtown street, while at the other end a business man can be seen scrubbing furiously at his tie to rid of a mysterious business lunch stain.  My attention teeters back towards the steady turning radius of my father’s hands as we park outside the entrance of an inviting Subway restaurant, cozying up to a very lovely, if overpriced pizza restaurant with insane pesto pie confections. 

Squeak of brakes. 

Grinding of emergency brake. 

Snap of receding seat belts. 

And just like that, I find myself straddling the corralling pens that lead up to the dejected cashier.  My father’s attention is stagnant as I decide whether or not to pick my customary meatball sub, in all its sodium dripping glory.  Transition to us occupying the window seats that overlook the bustling downtown scene.  Even though I’m still reveling in this odd moment with my father, I tune him out as I claw the protective wrapping away from my sandwich, all the while he fingers some loose change in his pants pocket; the jangling melting into the cluttered sounds of scraping chairs and overhead ceiling fans.  A few bites in, however, and his patented brooding overtakes my curiosity as I peek up from the herb and cheese bun and ask him that unspoken question with my halted mastication.  I spot his clenched jaw right before he lays out, “ Haraboji had an accident about an hour ago.  We’ll be heading over in a bit to see him.”

Still computing. 

I finish the bite in my mouth and swallow. 

This next bite will be delicious.

 He cocks his head ever so slightly at my lack of an auditory exclamation.

 “Your mom says he must’ve slipped and hit the sink.  It’s happened before.”

               

The next bite is appropriately glossed with concern.  Perhaps even a little hind sighted annoyance with my grandfather’s carless nature.

 He might not be so lucky next ti-…

                A marinara drenched meatball slips from my grip, my hand reduced to jelly.  My toes curl into tightly compacted balls in my light up Sketchers.  Honestly, this is new to me.  Not sure which mask to don to emphasize my unsettled emotions.  I mock stunned silence, which I suppose is the right reaction since my father seems satisfied with it.  I am a blank slate, closing my mouth and framing the windows in my vision.  My father proceeds to pluck the meatball from my plate, “ Your sisters and Mom are already over there, to say goodbye.  Finish up, soon.” 

                I can feel his gaze smothering me.  The afternoon sun penetrates the window panes, casting columns of warm rays into the restaurant, coupled with the wretched and sterile overhead fluorescent lighting.  Innumerable flecks of dust particles and microscopic debris roll and tumble in the blades of light; a sort of larger than life lava lamp showcase.  I forget to swallow my previous bite.  I tell myself to do so before it falls out of my mouth the next time I speak. 

God, what a bitter taste.

“Myles.”  No trace of concern.  Laced with impatience

                I shift my weight, noticing the creaks in the Irish green upholstery echoing in the restaurant.  I spot the condiment stained man across the street; I wait patiently with a contemplative gaze as he fumbles with his keys, bookstore shopping bag and jacket draped over his arm.  I can feel the greasy flecks of salt on my grubby fingers, and my appetite is no where in sight. 

“Myles, they need to take him away, soon.  Finish up, now.”  Not a request.  Never is.

               

My palm absentmindedly nudges the tray away as I scoot out into the dining area.  My father creeps out of his corner, deftly sweeping the tray up and tumbling the trash into the bin, finally taking his place behind me as he ushers me out into the cold mist of the afternoon. 

Still can’t pick a mask to wear.

 I interchange my emotions as we drive off towards our next stop,

               

Haraboji.

It really does roll off the tongue better than “grandpa”.

                I remember him being aromatic, my grandfather.  A combination of Asian fish stew and mothballs always bombarded my sense every time that door swung open invitingly.  A faint sheen of peppermint mouthwash topping off the scents.  I always looked forward to that embrace; it was unwarranted and intoxicating.  It didn’t even matter that he didn’t speak a shred of English, despite his migration from Seoul a score of decades ago.  No, I could translate anything he said with a grin like that.  So warm.  So excruciatingly warm.

                My family made mandatory dinner visits to my grandparents little suburban hut on the other side of town.  I especially looked forward to these excursions simply due to the fact that my father could vent on someone else for a change; the food didn’t hurt, either.  In typical Korean fashion, my grandmother would lay out countless side dishes composed of spiced and pickled vegetables, each one more pungent than the next.  And then the superstar of the hour arrived at the table: a spicy, fermented fish stew that created perspiration on the overhanging lamp shade as the steam engulfed the table. 

                This was my grandfather’s specialty, and I made sure to take an extra bowl to show my appreciation for his masterpiece.  Delightful to discover my admiration for his cooking, he took it upon himself to introduce me to his own personal vegetable garden behind his house, bordered by the choking construction of other affordable accommodations for elderly retirees.  A considerable chunk of his time he devoted to aiding me in keeping his garden at peak condition, and I was wholeheartedly hooked. 

That dirt caking the underside of my fingernails,

The bitter aftershave of vegetable greens and herbs,

The aroma of spiced cabbage wafting from the open window in the kitchen,

Reminding me of the tasty resolution to our endeavors on our dirt stained knees. 

And, of course, that beaming grin of his.  Unquenchable in its plea to reassure me very time I saw it.  I was addicted to it.  Now that I think about it, I can’t recollect if he ever didn’t beam like an idiot.  He loved me unabashedly, and I worshipped him unconditionally.

My eyes lazily slit as I feel the car downshift.  Blood rushes back to my numb right arm as I cease crushing it between my head and the car window.  Rolling my gaze, I spot the turn into the residential area where a flashing white hearse embroidered in blue and red lighted bulbs marks the lawn of my grandparents house.  A couple ninety degree turns later, and the car mutters to a halt behind my mother’s magenta minivan and a par of scooters parked alongside the mailbox of the house. My father motions to unclip himself.

“ Ok, let’s go.”  Too cold, I gestate. 

Why so sterile? 

Calculated? 

Too cold for Haraboji.

                In a fitting state of reluctance I scrape myself off of the beige leather and push the car door shut, shuffling across the uncut grass and ascending the granite steps to the open doorway.  I spot his feet lying atop the oriental rug of the living room before I even step past the threshold.  Better late than never as a jolt pulses from behind my eyes to my jaw line.  My brow scrunches in a self defensive posture.

No more.  Just no.

                Too late.  I find myself being suffocated between my mother’s rotund figure and the claustrophobic tears of my sisters as I stand erect over his wrinkled visage, laying there prone on that god awful rug.  You’ll find my father in the corner with the bookcase, shooting the breeze with the paramedic.  Someone urges me to give Haraboji a kiss. 

“It’s ok; go ahead,” I’m assured tearfully. 

Of course it’s OK, you condescending fucks.

Stop it.

                I chew my tongue to shake my blossoming frustration.  It seems wrong, regardless of their reassurance.  I shoot a look at my father.  He has beaten me to the punch, already drilling a hole into the back of my eye sockets. 

Please smile.

                I curse my self in my plea.  I know what to expect from him.  And, yet, I can’t seem to prepare myself for what I see next as I peel off and rest my blurring focus on my grandfather’s battered mug.  No, not in all those slivers of sprightly tranquility with my grandfather in his garden, or hovered over the black stone pot with our hands plopping in vegetables into a steaming pot of mouth watering goodness. 

That smile.

I can’t find it.

                Where is it?

Help me find it.

                Of God, please help me find it.

Nothing.  A blank slate with no discernible love laced in its creases.   

                …My face burns poker hot.

 I can only smell the mothballs, today.