Caleb Met His Great Great Great Great Grandfather

Caleb laid on the couch tired with dry sweat, fighting sleep, thinking of his day. The doorbell rang and the father of the house, Joseph, opened it. A short man took two straight legged steps in and Joseph stepped back, his eyes wide. “This is your place Joe?” the man said in his scruffy voice, “Huh. Thought it’d be different. I guess they don’t make homes like they used to, shame.” The mother of the house, Catharine, now in the foyer, was startled. “Hello,” she said to their guest, then quieter to Joe, “Who is that?” She held carrots and a peeler with her left hand fisted, her right hand scratching her forearm.

“It’s my Great Great Great Grandfather.” From a distance, Caleb saw his parents on one side and this thing on the other. The Guest had no knees, only foot long, single-boned legs, two slings holding both of his arms, bright red gym shorts, a young man’s scruffy, patchy, beard and a paint smeared, light blue T-shirt. He was about four feet tall and had all types of tiny bruises and scabs on his legs you could only see from up close. He walked straight past Joseph and Catharine into their kitchen. “Should we ask him to take his shoes off?” Catharine asked Joe. Their direction turned to Caleb, who was still staring into the foyer. Caleb looked into the kitchen to where the guest was. Joseph and Catherine’s attention followed.

“Vegetables?” the Guest said as he sniffed each food item laid on the counter, leaving a loose nose hair or two behind. This time proclaiming “Vegetables. Yes, Vegetables. Beautiful vegetables full of life.” His eyes laid on a deep pot that steam rose from. He got up on his tippy toes, attempting to see what laid in it. All the Guest could see was a reflection of his face, curved across the outside of the simmering pot. He looked frustrated, maybe sad, then tightened up and yelled out “What’re you doing? Useless! Help me up!” Joseph ran over and squeezed him from behind, squatting the extra weight up above the pot.

The Guest had a big, droopy nose, neither underbite nor overbite and light brown hair that could be and was combed back due to how thin the follicles were and how oily his scalp was. “Is this a good height?” Joseph asked. Catharine was cooking something earthy colored, but what the Guest seemed to take pleasure with was the steam that clouded his eyes and opened up the deep pores on his nose. He took a few deep breaths and during his last exhale said “Joseph.”

“Yes?”
”Let’s eat.”
”Catherine, honey. Is dinner ready?”
”Not yet, but it will be soon!” Catharine said.
”Joseph.”
”We’ll have dinner ready soon.”
”I know. I can hear. It will be a fantastic dinner. I wouldn’t expect anything less than that. It’d be a disgrace if it were anything less.”
”Okay.”
”Joseph, I’m going to give you instructions over dinner. Don’t write them down; Also, don’t forget them.”
”What for?”
”Could you just wait until dinner?!”

Caleb, still sitting on the couch, saw his Dad put the Guest down to his feet. He saw the Guest turn to him smirking, then walk towards him as if without the slings, his arms would be outstretched.

“You must be Caleb. My boy,” the Guest shouted. “Nice to meet you Great Great Great Great Grandfather,” Caleb said and the guest tripped over himself, falling face first.

“OUCH,” he yelled before a whimpering low cry of pain followed. Caleb stared at him, now sitting up, Joseph stared at the guest from behind and Catharine’s teeth chattered her fingernails. The Guest whimpered again and Joseph, now near him, put his hand on the Guest’s shoulder to ask “Can I help you up?” but as soon as his hand touched the Guest’s shoulder the whimper turned into anger and shouting “Get off of me! I don’t need your help! Damned vegetables!”

Caleb now stood and Joseph kept his hand on the Guest’s shoulder which fidgeted, the Guest’s legs kicked and nose ran. After a few cycles of kicking and screaming and getting nowhere he tired himself out, became quiet. Joseph stuck his hands into the Guest’s armpits and picked him up again, put him to his feet again.

Catharine returned to the stove and the Guest turned to Joseph and nodded, then waddled back towards Caleb who was two feet taller than him.

“Sorry, Caleb. What was I saying before I fell?”
”We greeted.”
”That’s all we did?”
”I think so.”
”You think so?”
”Yes, I greeted you.”
”Okay, right. Caleb, son, what do you do?”
”I’m working an apprenticeship right now to be a plumber.”
”You like to plumb things?”
”I like hands on work, yes.”
”Okay, but. You like to plumb things?”
”Yes.”
”Good. Alright, a plumber who likes to plumb things! Joseph, how do you feel about that?”
”I feel great. I think Caleb is doing a great job.”
”Right. Plumb’s up!”

The Guest stood with his thumb up, jerking it off, then looked up at Caleb and Joseph’s faces before walking back into the kitchen. “Catharine, would you like any help?” he asked while staring unapologetically at her ass and feet. “I can handle things alright,” she said. “You sure I can’t help in any way?” and she looked at him, who looked up from her ass and feet to the veils of her soul, her deep brown eyes. She was wearing light foundation and red lipstick. She had curly brown hair that stopped near the top of her neck where a pulse beat through for everyone in the room to see. Caleb, Joseph and the Guest all noticed the thum thum that brought red blush to her otherwise pale face. The steam rose from the deep pot on the stove she turned from and her leg curled, her left toe pointed down bearing no weight. “I-I’m fine. Why is everyone looking at me? D-dinner is ready.”

Joseph walked over to Catherine and put his hand on her cheek, leaned in and kissed her, then said “Thank you for dinner honey, let me help you serve it. Caleb, could you make the table for us?” Caleb got up to set the table for four and the Guest stared with admiration at Catherine wanting to give her a salute, but his arms were rubber. “No, I got this Joe. Just save me a seat.” Joe sat at the set table and stared at it while Caleb sat to his right and the Guest sat to Caleb’s right.

It was October 4th of 1981 in the small suburban town of Tewksbury when Catherine walked over to the table twice, each time placing two dishes of Rabbit Cassoulet in front of the three filled chairs and one empty chair that she ended up filling. They blessed themselves, thanked God for their food and ate, at first, quietly; But, what broke the silence and still kept a harmony of sorts was a tableful of throat moaning that came with a meal well made.

Joseph ate around the rabbit meat first, holding his spoon flat to the cassoulet and dipping it, having gravity fill it. Catherine used a fork and scooped with it, watching the liquid fall through and beans fall off. She ate one third the scoops she took, but she smiled at all of them. Her appetite was full from the moans of the people around her. The Guest sat with his arms in sling and the bowl a little too far away. When someone not named Catharine at the table asked if he needed help eating, he thought for a second and asked for his bowl to be pushed closer him. He dropped his face into it, wolfed up his share. Caleb dipped twice into his bowl before biting off of the fork. He’d spear the rabbit meat, hold it up for inspection, then dip again to cover it in the objects of cassoulet that’d stick.

After the Guest’s third face dip, he looked up and said “Catharine. This is great,” which made her smile more than notice the mess that was him. “This is great,” both Joseph and Caleb agreed, “thank you.” When Catharine was not even halfway finished and the rest neared finishing fully, a wind swept through the large window nearby, passed the table and through another window in another room. Wind never traveled to where it would be trapped, it couldn’t exist there.

When the Guest was staring at his feet that couldn’t touch the ground while he sat, Joseph broke the silence. “It’s great having you here, and—”
“Joseph,” the Guest said very lightly, very calmly, cutting him off after smirking with cassoulet smeared around his mouth.
”Yes?” Joseph replied as Catharine gestured with a napkin towards the Guest.
The Guest nodded and Catharine started cleaning his face for him while he continued, “Let’s not ruin it. Would you like to hear your instructions now?”
”Of course. Like you mentioned earlier.”
”Yes. Joseph. First, I want to say thank you, for having me tonight. Not everyone would do that.”
”You’re family.”
”Okay, Joseph. Caleb, time is tricky. When you look around, near the end of your life, who do you want to see? Catharine, who would you want to see?”
”Well, I—”
”I’m not interested in your answer. I’m only interested in telling you things, you all. Well, Joseph, as for instructions.”
”Yes?”
”I’d like you to bury me under your lawn. In the back, not far from the house.”
”What?”

In the cassoulet, near the bottom of the bowl laid a rabbit’s tibia amid Canneli beans, red onions, chopped carrots, the broth and a sprig of thyme. The timing was comic, when Catharine took the napkin off the Guest’s face and the Guest’s face lowered back down into the bowl making it dirty again, but it was impossible to even snicker at. Caleb stopped eating, the Guest started coughing. “What’s going on?” Joseph said across the table as Catharine put her hand on the Guest’s back, hitting it—thud. “What’s going on?”

thud, thud, thud, thud

Catharine shrieked, it wasn’t working. Caleb sat still. Joseph’s chair slid back seven feet when he rose. The Guest’s face had come out of the bowl and whenever his body tried coughing out, he swallowed in as much. A small river of tears streamed from his eyes down his face making it seem the Guest was worried; But, when Joseph got behind him again, this time to Heimlich, it further proved the Guest was incapable of receiving help. For no matter how hard Joseph tried to move the Guest’s slung arms out of the way, he couldn’t. They fought for minutes until the Guest’s face turned purple, when his mouth that refused to open, did open. Everyone at the table saw the tibia, lodged in his throat—the throat that Joseph stuck his hand into, the throat the bone was ripped from, the throat that bled afterwards—after he was suffocated, after the tibia was ripped out. No wind would pass through this throat again.

“I won’t bury you in my backyard,” Joseph said weeping, holding the Guest’s head with his palm. They all cried together for some time as the tears on the Guest’s face dried with the cassoulet. A wind swept through a window far away, passed the table and exited through the large window nearby. Eventually, Joseph called 911.

They received the phone call as Catharine cleaned up the cassoulet left on the table and seat where the Guest’s scent lingered. Joseph had no reason to tell Catharine the confirmation the hospital let him know about, so he didn’t. The family was going through a tragedy, their first.

As Catharine laid next to Joseph in bed that night, she poorly played with his hair. She wanted to ask about his Great Great Great Grandfather, but was afraid to bring it up so soon. Rolling over, onto Joseph in a position that aroused him, she squeezed him with a hug and he returned the favor. She kissed his lips and neck and he returned the favor. She continued these acts of kindness and he continued returning favors. Afterwards, they laid naked under their light, but thick, white comforter. It was dark out and fall was upon them. They could hear the wind brush off the rooftop above them and imagined the fall colors that awaited them in a few weeks. That was when Joseph spoke.

“Do you mind if I buy a rake tomorrow?”
”No.”
”Leaves are starting to fall and I would like to get ahead of it.”
”What’s the problem with the one we have?”
”It’s meant for garden work, I’d like a leaf rake.”
”Oh, I knew that. I don’t know why I asked.”
”It’s okay. Did you get to the dishes?”
”I was going to do them tomorrow morning.”
”I’ll do them, don’t worry about it.”
”I don’t mind doing them, Joe.”
”Don’t worry about it.”

As their bodies turned away from each other, signifying goodnight, Caleb was up in his room considering a shower. He laid on his bed licking the salty skin beneath his nose. He traced back the sequence of events aloud, often stopping where the Guest gave Joseph instructions. Growing more upset repeating the account, he thought of his apprenticeship and how he liked to plumb. The day ended.

LB

The Time I Sneezed and Michael Cera Covered My Mouth

It was a Tuesday in September, early in the month, when I was in Brooklyn volunteering for IFP Week (Independent Filmmaker Project). I was staying over my pal Koji’s place in Prospect Park, taking the B or Q early in the morning to Jay Street and transferring to the A or C to High Street, where I’d hop off in DUMBO, the luxury warehouse district of Brooklyn, NY. IFP’s main campus was located here, in these multiple buildings whose connecting streets courted many of their volunteers and members who famously wore lanyards. It was oddly quiet, between these buildings; In general, at this part of Brooklyn, sound didn’t travel very far.

That morning, on the seventh or eighth, I arrived near 30 John Street, but early and with time to spare. I walked to the Brooklyn Roasting Company to grab an early morning cup of joe I so dearly missed and decided to check my schedule before checking in. I sat on the right side of the ‘U’ shaped configuration of large cushioned couches figuring I’d accomplish three things by sitting near the armrest furthest from the conjoining couch: First, I’d be able to see outside, through the walls made of glass, the sun, the road and people and dogs. Second, it allowed me to resist the innocent lookup and eye lock of mine with any stranger standing in line, or anywhere else behind me where most people were. Third, if something terrible were to happen, or I were to lose track of time, I didn’t have to issue the excuse mes or pardons or coming throughs to get up and leave. I was sitting somewhere equivalent to the aisle seat in an airplane, my legs are long and even if I can stilt them at a 97 degree angle as opposed to an inward 70 or 80 degree angle, I’ll sure as hell take all 97 degrees.

The coffee was too hot, the people too loud, the wifi too slow. I had been lost in the NYC way of life, of living, and the usual constant reminder of mindfulness, the broken record, the hourly, sometimes minutely reminder to be mindful and aware, had slipped until now. I took my deep breaths and even closed my eyes in the public space, breathing in, and out, and iinn, and ooouuuttt, and so on, and so forth, and soo oonn, and ssoo ffoorrtthh.

With this newfound sense of being, thanks to David Lynch’s Transcendental Meditation (affiliate link), and months of working with the Headspace App, yes the annual $60 is worth it (affiliate link), I decided to hang outside for the remainder of my morning.

Brooklyn’s waterside was shimmering and I felt like the single benefactor of its beauty. It’s funny, in a city like New York, how you can be lost among a crowd, the crowd, yet feel special about it. As if the way to feel special about something so big, is to realize you’re something so small. Sorry, but that’s awe, folks. I threw down my backpack and laid on the grass listening to whatever I could. I heard the water lapping against the rocks, a natural rhythm provided by the water and moon. I thought about the earth, covered only in water, the moon pulling said water, wherever it’s headed, the same places, around and around, a cosmic loop, two friends teasing, the moon and water.

I woke up, now disappointed, distraught, downcast, whatever you name it. I thought about showing up, claiming I misread the schedule, apologizing for my stupidity and hearing in return “Oh no, that’s fine! You’re volunteering, not working for us.” I also thought about running from DUMBO, to another part of NYC where I’d consume rather than give. My mind started to recontextualize a new set of ideas regarding the trip, I’d use this time to visit old friends instead of networking new friends. I’d enjoy myself, the life and relationships I already have. There’s an instinct to believe I would be an individual making a decision opposite what people expect from me, to not show up. To some, being an individual is a coverup for being a scumbag, i.e.—not caring what people think is an all too easy excuse when falling short of standards, it’s a contagious thought (R0>1) and it does spread/enable mediocrity to be enshrined if you don’t do your part—Here, it would be just that, a coverup.

It’s funny now, looking back, that shameful slumber is a minor victory in my life. How happy I am thinking about it, sleeping publicly in America’s largest city, just because. It was beautiful out! I arrived at 30 John Street and found my supervisor, Ashlyn, beside a puddle of pollen out front. I apologized, joked about kissing her feet for forgiveness (she initiated), and got to work. I was tasked to help with a Skype call, in case things went awry, with Cannes Festival’s President, Pierre Lescure. Luckily, things going awry had already found its place in my day and passed on somewhere else.

The meetings came and went after Skype, to a “You Can Do It” speaker from a woman who has, in fact, done it, to a male with a lifetime of privilege who instead said “this is how it’s done.” There was a good balance of hard and soft information, a hodgepodge of TED Talk styled panels followed by Q and A’s. All in all, it was good just to see what was offered. Most of it seemed like the information you’d find on YouTube, looking for some secret about dream chasing. I hope most people realize the secret lays in the act more than the anything else. Sure, I learned some interesting things, but the only way IFP Week furthered my career was that I grew more and more enraged the more and more I saw the same people coming back to the same classroom for the same stuff. By the fourth day, I wanted to shake each one of them down and tell them to make a movie already, time’s a tickin’ and others are kickin’.

I was starved, it was happy hour, Ashlyn had some emails to send out and schedules to complete, but she felt the same. We walked to a local pub, 68 Jay Street Bar, and indulged. Ashlyn was amusing to me, proving to be positive even when saying negative things. There was something so hopeful about her face, it always had a big globe of light reflecting from her pupils, I don’t know how. Her face was pale, somewhat wide with light freckles dispersed throughout, it contained shiny white teeth, a shade of lip that worked and curly brown hair that you could assume, I found out correctly, her mother also had. She wasn’t the most attractive girl on the planet, but you felt good around her which is important. We drank our $2 Yuenglings and talked about mundane, kind of exciting, but mostly regular things, cities and travel and all that. Eventually, I started listening to the groups of people around me. The guy component of a couple sitting next to us happened to be very passionate about Woody Allen, as if he wanted everyone to know that he knew something, he boomed his voice and talked about Stardust Memories.

Now me, knowing some of Woody Allen, but not all of Woody Allen, waited for a more inviting part of the conversation to pop up. I planned on asserting myself as a man with interesting interests at the bar, casually standing up and all that. That’s when she asked me “Have you seen Stardust Memories?” and that instinct to run from DUMBO came back. The problem was, I did not live in New York and had not seen Stardust Memories, but I was there for IFP Week and had already started to be seen as the niche movie buff and this made me an imposter. The other thing, which I worried less about, was the fact that a guy was boisterously speaking of Woody Allen, which according to Twitter is a career killer. The last thing I noticed, but didn’t worry about, was the tickle in my throat, the tease of a sneeze. "I actually haven’t seen Stardust Memories, but one of the coolest people I’ve ever worked with recommended it to me as a good, not great, but worth the watch type of movie. Do you like it?” I owned up and felt like a person doing so. I looked over at the boisterous man and the girl wearing a black rancher hat with a feather of the same color and noticed they probably were on a first or second date. He was the confident guy who probably lived in DUMBO and sloppily threw out every interesting name he could think of in the faces of the people he went out with, copying things from somewhere he heard. She was just as boring buying it, even asking for more of it. I bet she also lived in DUMBO. They were perfect for each other and I hated them both.

“Oh, cool. Do you want to go somewhere else after this beer?” I said after whatever she said. “I’d love to, but I have to get things ready for tomorrow. I’d have another beer here, though,” she told me. I could not have another beer here and would not, but it took me a second to find the words to put nicely. “Let’s save that beer for later in the week! I’m starting to feel tired and wouldn’t want to give you anything less than all of me, in conversation.” She got me with the next one, “I don’t mind it, I’m having fun!” to which I responded, “I do mind. Sorry.” I already felt we would not get drinks later in the week; So, we paid for our drinks separately and parted ways.

It was getting colder out and with my backpack slung over only one of my shoulders, I put my hands in my pockets and looked at my feet. I followed the blurs of them moving and thought of Charlie Brown music. I self sabotaged. I find certain types of people despicable. How am I ever going to survive in this world? It’s full of all kinds of people. The Charlie Brown music played louder and louder until it was right in front of me and bumped into me.

Michael Cera, his backpack on the shoulder opposite of mine, mimicked exactly what I was doing, coming from another place for another reason. “Sorry,” he beat me to saying. “Same. Didn’t see you there,” I said back. It hit me I should’ve at least heard him, it was his Charlie Brown music. I continued “I thought the Charlie Brown music was in my head, that’s why I didn’t notice you.” He politely responded “Crappy day too?” And, even though the mean average of my day was pleasant, those dweebs at the bar getting along ruined it. I agreed “Yes. People suck,” and we stood there. He noticed the lanyard I was wearing and his eyes lit up, “Are you volunteering?” to which I said “Yea.” He was inquisitive and seemed to actually care about people. “Which building are you volunteering in?” I noticed he was also wearing a lanyard and I opened my mouth “IFP’s main building, Thirty John Street,” which was cut short due to nature’s final secretion before winter, the late fall push of pollen. “IFP’s main building, Thirty Joh—Joh—Ahhhhh—” and I reared my head back and my eyes closed and the violence of a sneeze started, but a hand covered my mouth. The “Chooo!” part was more like a “Chuh!” and the apology was all mine, but I was confused whether to apologize or thank him. It was awkward for us both. “Sorry, thank you,” and we both looked down. In this part of Brooklyn, sound didn’t travel very far and I heard nothing for some time. To interrupt the silence Mike spoke angrily “You know what, I always do this. I always try doing something nice and ruin it. I was walking around Brooklyn thinking some people would think it’s funny to see me walking and hear Vince Guaraldi playing just like in Arrested Development, but not one person laughed. And I ran into someone. AND damnit. I’m not George Michael, why do people think I AM that character? I’m Michael Cera, I can listen to Vince Guaraldi too!” He stared at his one foot standing in front of the other, “Darn it, Darn it, Darn it!” and my instinct to run away kicked in again, to leave DUMBO and arrive somewhere else in NYC, or outside NYC. Maybe I didn’t belong here.

I disappointed Ashlyn earlier and therefore disappointed myself, I thought. I also thought, if George Michael were aware of Vince Guaraldi’s music in his life, he’d also walk around playing the music, in hopes of someone, anyone laughing. “No one has done anything as nice as that to me,” I assured him. “You think so? I mean I’ve done nicer. I put my hand over someone’s fart the other day and she seemed to appreciate it.” I said nothing. “I’ve washed my hands since, don’t worry about that. She was attractive anyhow.” As the camera shakily zoomed in, he nervously said “I’m joking. God, you really thought that happened?! No. No way.” I laughed. After all, what’re you supposed to do when these crazy things actually happen in your real life, stay serious? “Let’s get a drink and wash off your hands, pal. The Vince Guaraldi music is pretty funny.”

“You really think so?” I actually did, not in the sort of laugh out loud way, but it sounded like something I’d find funny writing about. “Yes” I told him. It was the start of a friendship, something hard for me to find in DUMBO. We walked to Olympia Wine Bar and talked about a lot: Abbas Kiarostami’s Where is the Friend’s House, working with Sharon Van Etten, Marlon Brando, learning Spanish, Wally Brando, Murakami, Lynch, some of my projects, being a celebrity and I even sneezed again, and he covered my mouth again.

Why it was funny this time and not last, I cannot say; But, we did laugh this time. I heard one concept of humor as being tragedy plus time. While time usually brings levity to a situation, it doesn’t explain slapstick, impressions, tickling or other things people laugh at or because of. There have been other attempts to explain it: incongruity, release, resemblance…etc. And, while they all explain a framework for why certain jokes can be logically deemed as ‘possibly funny’, it’s hard to think of a universal code (Don’t forget to fit Apes, Rats and other animals who laugh within the context of the code).

To think of the act of laughing, how oxygen is seized from your lungs and given to the world, how faces alter and heads nod and hands fly. Some laugh hard, others soft. The surrendering of motor skills, giving whatever grasp you have on yourself to ‘other’ or ‘else’. The freedom and pleasure to not be free, to lose control. I like to think laughter does play a role in life, but the role humor plays in laughter?

I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter. I had a fun night with Michael Cera and even though there’s a thought running counter, on my spine, telling me something ‘else’ is happening, I kept my eyes on what’s immediate, the space that’s shared, the things and people in it.

I woke up Wednesday morning with my head aching and it's longtime friend, a frown, accompanying it. I was looking forward to coffee and water, knowing eventually the headache would pass and in a second, or minute, or hour—at some point, would come back. I concentrated on the space between.

LB

Michael Cera if you read this, email me.

My Time Online Playing Warzone with Joe Biden

Since the COVID-19 Pandemic begun, Donald Trump has been a mainstay on Television. After misleading comments and a whole lot of “sarcasm”, White House members have decided to cut his time. In the background of all this, people are asking “Where is Joe Biden?” The past three weeks, I’ve been hanging out around the neighborhood corners of my childhood, asking the youngsters what the latest scoop is. I finally got it.

Nick Fisch, 13 years old, was the head man of the V-shaped brigade of middle school bike riders. As I stood at the end of the cul-de-sac, where the sidewalk crossed through a part in the fence, towards the open grass field, I held my hand up to give high fives to the passersby. The kids stopped, mistaking my high five as a “holdup!” hand gesture. I questioned my sense of youth. Was I, Opal Green, too old for this crowd of hubba bubba chewers? No way. In an effort to catch the scoop, I played along with the seniority they perceived in me. Noticing how the group of seven badass eighth grade bikers had to lineup front tire to back tire in order to pass efficiently through the fence gap while maintaining social distancing orders, I assumed they were all pretty bright, upstanding individuals, with good family lives and a strong support system. It was around 3:00 PM, which meant online school had long been over; And, you could tell by the sweat on the tips of their overgrown hair they had been biking for quite a healthy while. I could offer drinks, or food, or something of the likes to try and win their friendship, but still hyperaware of stranger danger I quickly had those thoughts dissipate from my head.

”What’s your name?” I asked, in a scramble of making noise to fill the awkward void of five minutes of silence while still holding my hand up for a high five. “Uhh” he looked around at his friends, “Nick.” His friends all giggled. “Nick Fisch.” I spell it as Fisch with a ‘c’ being it seems the most believable way to spell a real last name, it would seem as if it were a joke if his last name were spelled without a ‘c’, as “Fish.” “Nice to meet you Nick Fisch, my name is Opal Green. I live right over there in the green house and used to be just like you.” Damnit, I’ve already given into what they want me to think. “Sorry, I’m still like you. I still live in that green house over there. I just have a bigger bike now, my knees can’t pedal on a twenty inch rim anymore. I use twenty four inch rims, but it’s only my legs that have grown.” The kid behind him shouted out “I’m Fisch Nick!” and they all giggled again. I joined them in giggling. “Fisch Nick, sounds familiar. Do you have an older sibling that might’ve been in my grade?” He looked dumbfounded, I have a feeling he was thinking “How did he know I had an older sibling?” but he responded “No, I don’t.” I know he did, I’ve gone to school with plenty of Nicks. I decided to let that pass, hoping to figure out the scoop soon. I was itching for it.

“What are you guys up to?” I then asked the group, at large. Nick Fisch answered again “Riding bikes, just got back from Wawa.” Of course, how did I not notice the plastic bags of cheese danishes already half eaten? The smell of soggy hoagie wrappers, the vinegar and now warm Italian meats. “I love Wawa” I said nervously, not offering anything new to the conversation, but rather looking for acceptance of my views. Right then, a sweet blonde haired boy poked his head out, third in the line of bikes, with a smile and asked “I have extra danish, would you like some?” Half the kids giggled and half the kids looked at him, angrily. I felt very vulnerable and held back tears caused by the wind over the grass fields. I spoke back to him “I’d like that young man. I’d like that very much. What should I call you?” He giggled, “Dirk Calloway. My name is Dirk Calloway.” What a sweet boy he was. The best ways to get the scoop, are with the people most willing.

So, we all sat in the field passing around Entemann’s Cherry Cheese Danish, licking the sticky sugars off our fingers before wiping them on the dirt and grass and earth. We talked about a lot of things, their online teachers, fantasies of fist fighting our dads and how it’ll all make sense when one day when the pandemic passes. When it passes, we all planned on playing for the Yankees, breaking the HR record of seventy three and buying every single Topps, Fleer and UpperDeck rookie cards of ourselves while driving up the price of them year after year. We all agreed we’d sell half of them and use that money to build a Billion or Trillion dollar estate that looked over the Cal Ripken Jr. fields in Maryland that we’d live in with our TikTok wives. While it seemed implausible we could all marry Addison Rae, we didn’t start a fight over who would be best suited to raise a family with her. If we talked about it, they’d all have to admit that I’d be best suited; And, no one wanted to admit that.

Shortly afterwards the boys led by Nick Fisch started talking about Call of Duty’s latest function, Warzone. “If I’m not too busy french kissing Emily, I’d play Warzone tonight.” The scoop I thought I’d been looking for was here, Nick Fisch and Emily Wilson had been tongue kissing. I had ran into Emily Wilson last week on the corner, she was wearing eye makeup and her friends she was with were not. “What’s it like?” Dirk Calloway asked. With a smug-faced smile, Nick responded “It’s just like Fortnite, but Call of Duty. They have this thing called a Gulag, where if you die you can respawn.” All the boys quickly started talking about Fortnite or Warzone as if to avoid the fact that none of them have kissed anyone but members of their family before. Dirk and I stared at each other with anxiety. “Do you play Warzone?” I asked Dirk. “Yes,” Dirk responded. “What’s your username?” I asked him. “It’s Calloway, See-Aye-El-El-Oh-Dubba-uwe-aye-why. Then an underscore. Then two-thousand-six, the number.” I took out my phone and wrote it down. “Will you be on tonight?” I asked. “I should be,” he said, “Unless my older brother is on.” I knew the feeling, not of my older brother being on, but my Dad.

Time passed slowly as the breeze continued to push and dry our hairs on the side of the bike and kid scattered field. It was getting dark, probably around five thirty, and Nick Fisch, Fisch Nick, Dirk Calloway and the other boys whose names I do not remember all had to leave for dinner. I imagined how nice their lives must be at their houses. They were all gentlemen who spared some time with me. Which, as a gesture, I appreciated very much. Walking home, I thought about the high five I offered, how they stopped and how stupid I felt, but through no volition of my own consciousness, a thought popped up in my own consciousness. They could not give out high fives, there’s mandated social distancing you dumb brain. It was self-defeating my brain would call itself dumb; But, even though that usually kept me down, I felt better about the high five. I thought about Nick Fisch, Emily Wilson and the scoop I had picked up hanging out another day on one of the neighborhood corners.

When I walked through the front door of my house, I decided that tonight I would not brood on the fact that it is bullshit I have to empty the dishwasher and clean the sink. I would not stay in the warm watered shower for an extra half an hour. I would not lock myself in my bedroom to vape, avoid my parents and limit sunlight. No, that was not me today. Not after I had received a few new best friends. The natural order made sense and for once, it worked out for me. I cleaned my plate and loaded the dishwasher after dinner. I kept an eye out for the basement door. If my dad entered it, I could not play video games tonight; Instead, he went into our living room to watch FoxNews and take pleasure in what he called “the best looking newscast in all of news.” I snuck downstairs and added Dirk to my friends list. He immediately accepted my friend request. I joined his party and shock awaited me.

Buttmuncher69, Shaquille_0atmeal, therealjoejr42, stinkypinky06, Lisaannsstepston, johnydeep, 69milfHunter, jawnsmith05, At0micFart, troudecul, doublewanker, triple_wanker, singlowanko, hunter4wabbits and Calloway_2006 were the names in the party. They had not started playing Warzone, but instead were talking about when they thought sports would resume play. The conversation was composed of questions and assertions “NBA started practicing again, they must start playing soon. Baseball can’t be canceled. Have you heard about the Cactus League? Is it crazy if the NFL doesn’t have a crowd? What about next year? There’s no way this lasts past summer.”

In an effort to catch the scoop, I asked “Nick Fisch, how was Emily?” Stinkypinky06, At0micFart and therealjoejr42 got a kick out of this, but no one answered. I decided to wait if it came up. If not, I’d press again later. The pandemic talks continued and eventually went away when it was time to play Warzone. We did three groups of quads and one group of trios, which included me with Calloway_2006 and the doublewanker. In the lobby leading up to the mission, Dirk asked me “Are you any good? On a scale of one to ten, what do you think you are? I’m probably a three.” I am probably a six, but I responded modestly “Probably around five. How about you doublewanker?” The mysterious username responded “I’m probably an eight. I beat Mr. Biden a few times and he let me call him Joe. I’m better than his son, Hunter and he’s probably a six or seven. So, I’m an eight, maybe a nine. Mr. Biden is a ten.” My curiosity peaked, Mr. Biden with a first name Joe? The man who Trump called SleepyCreepyJoe online in a bullying effort of a tweet to seem above him? The man who has been caught on tape falling asleep in Zoom Town Hall meetings during Quarantine? The man who has been rambling as if he could not concentrate in discussion? The man who squints his eyes when looking at people as if he’d been up all night playing video games? It clicked. “Dirk, doublewanker, is Joe Biden therealbiden42 and his son Hunter Biden hunter4wabbits?” Without any emotion of any kind, doublewanker responded cooly as if he were concentrating on the game, which he was, “Yea. He’s probably the best in our friend group. Consistently wins Warzone.” To which Dirk responded “I feel bad for Hunter. It’s not that Joe puts any pressure on him, but he isn’t as good as his Dad. That’s got to be tough. I wouldn’t enjoy Warzone if I were him. I’d probably get good at another video game or something, and make my argument that the other video game was better than Call of Duty.”

I was shocked at how easily the beautiful and bright young Dirk had made that assessment. It made me wonder if his brother was better at Madden, or something else, growing up; So, Dirk started playing Call of Duty to avoid a competition that would amount to nothing. I thought of my Dad, watching the news and whatever beautiful, stubborn blonde they casted as anchor that made him salivate and blame Disney for selling sex to kids. I thought about how hurt he might be if I had told him Joe Biden had a better kill to death ratio, win percentage and more points earned than him in Call of Duty. It would cause a flurry of quick, YouTube-fed responses including “Probably uses Aimbot! He forgot to stock the national stockpile of emergency equipment! Even though Tara Reade was probably lying, it’s still something! Fake News!“ and worse “What does this have to do with the fact that I’m better than you at Warzone?” It did not need it to get personal, it was not healthy for me. Instead, I decided to post this article under a cool and hip pseudonym to keep his feelings separate from my work as a writer.

While I still don’t know the story about Nick Fisch and Emily Wilson, I did learn something new today. Joe Biden, Presidential Candidate for the Democratic party, is filthy at Call of Duty. I later had the honor to play with him, finding out his favorite combination of weapons and perks. For those wondering, he uses the M13 with extended mag, FMJ and a thermal scope. Other attachments didn’t matter, he said, just attach any combination of two more things and the gun will get better. What surprised me was his RPG in gold camouflage as a secondary, saying “You don’t know how many teams I’ve wiped in, ugh…Sorry, had a team on me. Took care of them. But, teams camp in houses and stuff until the circle moves in. The RPG is perfect to wipe them. Or, as I say sometimes, those teams are ripe for the wipe.” Has he had his mistakes? Sure, he admitted of having a few, but he’s learned. “It’s a new game, you’re gonna learn along the way. You can’t stress about hiccups. You’ll learn to drink water.” I felt comfortable speaking to him, and even asked him about his PR hiccups, often seeming like a man out of touch, grabbing younger people by their hips as if he were part of their family, looking over top of them. “I was just trying to get a better view of their hands, in all cases. I’m always looking for new teammates and have found kids are the best teammates for Call of Duty.”

At one point, in an online party separate from Hunter, he told me he wished I were also his son. I was touched. In all twenty-one years of my life, I had thought video games were for the purpose to compete. While that’s an aspect of them, it’s limiting to think it’s the only aspect. I thought about telling my college and city friends about this experience, but I withheld myself realizing I hadn’t reached out to them at all since the Pandemic began. They hadn’t reached out to me either.

To me, Joe Biden, isn’t SleepyCreepyJoe, he’s therealjoe42. It’s the name he chose for himself and how everyone should know him. As my Dad yells “PANSIES!” at the television while standing on both of his feet gripping a controller, I know Joe Biden is better than him. At least, when my Dad pulls me aside asking if I know “the truth” about Joe Biden, I can say with confidence I do. No matter how often he berates and tells me I’m wrong, I know the reason Joe has tired eyes, the reason it seems his brain is slipping, the reason he nods off in meetings: Call of Duty Warzone.

Thank you therealjoe42. Love,

Opal Green

The Mole

The mole was digging and digging and digging until one day he dug and found himself in another’s tunnel. “Hello?” he asked, receiving no response. He thought “When I was little I had brothers and sisters. Although I do like digging, the dirt caked on my coat is all I am anymore.” So he followed the tunnel until he reached the end where a bright light waited for him. “This must be it” he thought, “My family is here.” He reached the top and could see nothing but the light. Excited, he yelled out “Hello!” and heard a voice in return! He went to jump, but as quickly as he rose, he fell, from a girl’s foot, stomping him. “Alas,” he thought while blood oozed from inside his eyes and coat, “I was more than dirt.” He died thereafter.

LB