A Conversation in the Woods

2012-10-07 13.22.05

“I have cheated death before,” my uncle said to me.

He pulled what remained of the small piece of wood he had been chewing since we lit the campfire and spat a gob of spit to the ground before returning the wood back to the corner of his mouth.  The embers of the flame lit his face in a revolving glow of yellow and orange, making him out like a ghoul out of a nightmarish dream.  The flame highlighted every ridge, crevice and wrinkle line on his feature, especially his eyes.  His eyes were grave and distant.  He was gazing at me across the fire but his eyes seemed to gaze beyond me . . . into the past, or wherever it was they transported him.

“Four times I have cheated death.  The first time happened forty-three years ago far from here, in Vietnam,” he scratched an itch on his cheek.  His voice sounded hollow and strange.  “That was another time.  I was young and like plenty like me, too dumb to know what we were fighting about or to care.  I remember that day.  There I was driving my squad truck back to base in the morning when I caught a flat tire.  I was three miles from the camp and in the middle of nowhere.  Nothing all around but green foliage that went for miles.  No one out there beside me and all the things you hear out in the woods.  I should have been scared—that’s just how dumb a fellow I was back then— but I wasn’t thinking any of that.  All I wanted to do was change the goddamn tire and haul ass to camp before I got my ass chewed out and pull KP duty.”

My uncle stopped to look at me as if he assumed my attention had wandered.  Nothing regarding his tale could have made me think different.

“I heard rustling in the bushes behind me,” he continued.  “But I never heard it till it was too late; the whole time I was working the jack handle to get the tire out.  Then the world exploded around me.  I heard something zip past my ear, sounded like a bee on a jet pack, then came puncturing sounds in the body of my truck.  I looked up and saw holes, three of them, about five inches from my head, and then the fear hit me like a brick in my gut and I knew I was in a shit of trouble.  The rustling noise in the bush was getting louder.  I turned around and at that moment I’d never been so scared in my life when I saw two . . . no, three Viet Cong guys aiming rifles at my ass.  I ducked face-forward and rolled under the truck.  Felt like it happened slowly like time had quit moving.  The guys kept on spraying bullets at the truck; till this day I’m surprised none of it landed on me.”

My uncle paused in his narration.

“What happened after?” I asked.

“What happened was there was a group of Marines who were in a motorcade coming behind me, also heading to the camp.  They got to my rescue in time.  But the Congs melted back into the bush like they’d come out of nowhere.  That was the most exciting time I had while in Vietnam.  I had countless others, but none topped that.”

He picked up his small bottle of rum that was beside him and took a swig from it then muttered a sigh.

“Second time I almost died I was caught out in a blizzard back in ’82.  I was working for a hauling company back then out in Chicago.  Cold fucking day that was; so cold and windy you couldn’t see anything but white.  The wind was rough, I tell you.  Fool that I was, I thought I could make it across town in record time ‘cos I was on a deadline to deliver the goods I was carrying.   I could barely make out anything in front of me.  Just like that, I rammed into some truck caught in a ditch and some lengthy pipe tore through the windshield and stopped three inches from slamming into my face.  I stepped so hard on the brakes my head bumped against the wheel and I definitely saw stars.  I could barely move, and I was bleeding from a cut in my head.  I probably would have remained there and frozen to death if a cop car hadn’t been patrolling around.  The cops came to my rescue; I ended up with a couple of stitches afterwards.  Spent the rest of the week hauled up in bed fighting off frostbite,” he chuckled.

“But if you think that I had that one coming, the third one was the scariest.  This happened in the late eighties—’89, I think it was.  I had quit Chicago by then and was back in New Jersey where I grew up.  I was doing plenty of maintenance in my old home.  There I was at a traffic stop waiting for the light to turn green.  Nothing wrong was happening; it was another typical spring afternoon and I had plenty of stuff doing then.  Anyway, the light did turn yellow then green . . . except for a moment—couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds—I didn’t move.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to believe me when I say this, not that I expect you to, but you know me well enough that I’m never the sort who likes to waste time at a red light.  Once I see that light turn green, I’m off like a rabbit.  Except this strange time that didn’t happen.  What I heard was some voice speak in my ear telling me to wait . . . just wait.  And wouldn’t you know it, just when I was about to hit the gas, a car came speeding from my left and almost knocked out my side mirror.   The car cut across mine and drove on like a demon into the opposite lane.  I must have shut my eyes for a second, my hands gripped the wheel tight and stomped down on the brake, ‘cos what I heard next was metal hitting against metal.  I opened my eyes and saw the speeding car crashing into a Toyota that was coming from the other lane.  Truth be told, had I not listened to that voice, had I been myself and just driving on, I’d have caught in that mangled mess.  I know, it sounds strange, especially coming from a dumb old fart like myself.  Call it whatever you like – luck – for me, I knew what I heard, and it was a voice.  Where from, I don’t know.  Glad I never got to hear it since then.”

The fire was gradually dying down.  I picked up two logs of wood and threw them into the pile and in no time, the fire built back up again.  My uncle removed the stick from his mouth and spat a couple more times into the fire before resuming his chewing again.  A flock of bats screeched above our heads into the branches of the tall trees around; twilight was nearly upon us.  The wind was getting stronger and colder.  I hugged myself and drew as close to the fire as I could.  My uncle though seemed impervious to the cold, though.  His eyes were still staring beyond me into the approaching night.

My uncle’s voice grew sombre when he spoke.  “My fourth experience, well, you could say I probably had that one coming.  Not something I could have dodged, not in my age, but thinking about it, I’m surprised it took so long for it to happen.  But I’m glad I lived through it.”

“What was it?” I asked, too eager to hear.  My uncle gave me that wan smile of his I’ve always cherished.  His feature seemed to warm against the camp fire unlike when he’d earlier begun his tale.

“I had myself a heart attack.”

He said it like it was something cute and ordinary, and then he laughed.  I didn’t know whether to laugh with him or not.  I sat there baffled by his action and simply watched him break his chuckling fit into a cough and then he hoicked and spat into the flame.

“Sorry about that,” he said.  “Anyway, yeah, that was what happened eight years ago—a fucking heart attack was what I had.  It was the last year I spent in New Jersey, month of February.  I was out shovelling snow out of my driveway, just another typical winter morning.  My neighbour, Morgan, came out with his snow-blowing machine which I wanted to borrow from him.  He was saying something except I wasn’t listening.  There was this tightness in my chest that was growing inside me.  It felt like someone exploded a hand grenade inside me and I was burning from inside.  I remember clutching my chest . . . I so badly wanted to scream but couldn’t do that.  The pain didn’t seem to want to go away.  I tumbled on the snow and saw Morgan race into the street.  That was the last thing I saw before I passed out.”

He removed the stick from his mouth and threw it into the fire.

“What happened when you came to?”

“Opened my eyes and saw myself in bed in St. Peter’s hospital, that was what,” my uncle said.  “That was two days later.  They’d operated on me and put a heart packer in my chest and the whole time I was out of it.  Your mother was there as with two of my kids.  She kept saying I was lucky; if only she knew.”

“But you are lucky, uncle.  Four times.  That’s great coincidence.”

“Well, I’d say two of those were coincidences.  The one of me hearing that voice, you might put that under supernatural; the fourth one is just . . . I don’t know like it was bound to happen, I guess.  There’s plenty of things out there that can kill you, boy.  Out there and in here,” he jabbed a finger at his body.  “Doesn’t matter what.  When your time comes, that’s it, you’re done.  End of story.”

I couldn’t think of anything to counter that with.  Not that I had anything else to say.  My uncle was usually a taciturn fellow; this was this first time I’d heard him talk so long and I wanted so much to treasure the moment.

He raised his head and stared at the night’s sky that had pretty much crept upon the world.

“When it’s your time to go, you go,” he said.  “But until then, ain’t no use thinking about what should and shouldn’t be.  Just keep walking, my boy.  That’s what your uncle has been doing since.  It’s what I’ll be doing still.”

I smiled at that and said, “Happy birthday, uncle.”

Where I want to Be


There is a place where I want to be
Here and now:

Paradise by the beach

With my feet sweeping the sand

The wind slapping against my corduroy 

Sweeping through your hair . . .

There is a place where I want to be

To sit out and count the stars at night

Point out to you Orion and Andromeda . . .

Turn off the cell phones for a moment 

Let’s unplug ourselves for a while 

And just bask in the silence

Yes, there is life in silence

Nothing but the sound of the ocean sweeping over the beach

This is where I want to be.

Just you and me.

Lonely Road

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Lonely is the road
Especially at night,
So afraid, so anxious was I
To get to the other side of town
No one by my side to hold my hand,
Nothing except the roaming wind
Shaking the tree branches.

I want to stop –
The destination isn’t too far, and yet it was – I could make it another day.
But I know another day will come
Just like this,
And here I will be indecisive as today . . .

I brave my heart as I walk
And like that, the road isn’t so lonely after all.

Into the New . . . Leaving the Old

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Jan. 1st.

You wake up into the early down of the New Year with so much expectations on the mind. Like been born anew, wanting all dreams and desires fulfilled before summer . . . Yet its still winter. The sky is ocean-blue with wisps of clouds, but the wind is merciless against your huddled face.

So much to dream, and little or no time to brush your teeth.

By this time last year, I was coming awake in my friend’s apartment in Mount Vernon, New York. I wasn’t happy. Or rather I wasn’t content with where I was starting. I’ve lived under people before, so its gotten easy for me to know when my stay isn’t welcomed anymore. Of course I would have packed up and left, but if only I knew where to go. The weather forecast wasn’t helping either. I’d have loved to head down south. Too bad the borders wouldn’t open to an Immigrant traveler/writer like myself.

I was waiting to attend a writers conference in New York City that was several months away at the time. My visa was meant to expire in the summer. I stayed with my friend another two months, after which I became homeless. Picture a foreigner in the States, spending homeless nights at the NYC Port Authority building, and you’ll know what I mean.

But who was I to know 2013 would start out so interesting? And now it’s 2014. My God, where did all the previous months go? Into the new, I guess.

Wouldn’t we all want to know where we will be by summertime. Would we have changed by then. And if by chance we have . . . Into what?
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The House on Delafield Place, NW.

2012-10-21 12.31.35There was me and my one-room crib.

There location was decent – just off Decatur Street, NW. Once it was a black neighborhood. But real estate in the nation’s capital had changed. Lots of folks were relocating into the city, away from Maryland and as far as Baltimore. Latinos and white Americans were gradually populating the scenery. One of my neighbor who shared the apartment with me said he could still recall a time where a white kid would be in danger walking around these streets, especially without a black friend by his side. Somehow I believed him.

There were four of us living in the house, all of us males. One who lived down in the basement was from Brazil, and he was almost always on the move traveling in and around the country. There were two Africans in the house: myself, and another young man from Uganda. Though we hardly got along. There was James, who was the oldest amongst us, and the other, Wallace. Wallace was a cool fellow, except when it comes to cleaning up whatever mess he’d leave in the kitchen. Much of the time I was the only always taking out the thrash.

My room was in the back. Behind it was the alley. Lots of cats hung around the alley. One time I almost stepped on one of them in the dark.

Much of my time was spent in my room, at my table, facing my computer. I had nothing else on my mind except then working on editing my novel, ‘The Rabbit’s Man‘. It was a real headache thinking of just one thing and nothing else to do with myself. I couldn’t even go out and see about getting a job because my visa status was against my attempting that. A good thing I’d saved up enough bread before I left home, so for the time being meeting the rent wasn’t a problem. Though that was bound to change the day Hurricane Sandy hit. But for the time, it was summer and hot as a African desert outside.

2012-10-18 18.39.45Evenings when the heat cooled, I’d head out for long walks. Sometimes stroll down to Petworth Library, or go watch a college football playoff at the Theodore Roosevelt Senior High School which was just next door behind the library. I remember one time getting lost, and that usually happens whenever I try to be adventurous at nighttime.

Weekends I’d ride a bus down to Silver Spring and go watch a movie at the Highwood Theater. Do some window-shopping and stop by somewhere to water my lungs with a beer. It felt good walking the streets of a foreign country. But never so good when alone. Especially knowing you’re going to return back to your one-room crib with the silence waiting for you.

Worse when you know you’re probably going to be doing the same thing come morning.

Lemmon’s Journey (Excerpt)

2013-09-09 15.27.19Before I quit living in New York, I thought of writing something to carry the memory of my time spent there in the Big Apple. Of course it was the month of February. The snowfall hadn’t lessened, and I wasn’t yet used to the cold. I’m a son from the Sahara. Being cold is never something I’m used to.

During my stay, I wrote a short novel titled ‘Lemmon’s Journey‘. A story about an old man traveling from his small mid-western town to new York City in search of his lost daughter and grandson. I haven’t published the book yet, and I’m still double-minded if ever I will showcase it. Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter. The story is kind of dark, and moves at a slow pace, so be patient.

* * * LEMMON’S JOURNEY * * *

The beginning of Lemmon Grandee’s second life began on the morning of the first weekday of March in the small town of Sheffield. A crisp morning just like any other, except this was a morning he’d wished to avoid. He had been dreading the arrival of this particular morning for months. Matter of fact since last year, knowing it was going to come no matter what. There was no avoiding the future. He turned sixty in February, so he of all people should know that. The future comes to you, as sure as death does.

His ears caught the rumble of a train in the distance and seconds later his eyes blinked open. He spied the onset of dawn through his window curtain. He was up usually before dawn, but not today. Today he wanted to grasp the moment, as if remaining in bed would drive away the inevitability of what today meant for him. Anything to stall the time. He took his feet out of the sheets, sat on the side, and massaged his face with his hands. Behind him echoed his wife Abby’s snoring breath. Wind blew against the French windows, ruffling the curtains. He admired the back of his hands with abhorrence at the way his slack flesh seemed to bunch around his knuckles, making his skin appear gnarled, like it was the first time he was seeing his flesh like this. His skin reminded him of a molting lizard. Lemmon looked to the window and observed the sky turning a shade lighter. His eyes went to his glasses beside his bedside lamp, but didn’t reach for it He left the bed as quiet as he usually did so as not to wake his wife, and grunted when he flexed his spine to lock his bones back in place. He stepped out of the room to start getting ready for the day.

His hand searched the bathroom wall for the switch and turned on the light. He washed his face in the sink then admired his reflection in the mirror. He hated everything about the face that stared back at him. It wasn’t the face of a man sixty years past his prime and content about it. His face was like that of a man awaiting his hour on prison death row, awaiting his moment to take the needle. It was hard to imagine he’d ever once thought of himself as young and handsome. Where have all the years gone? He pulled at the flesh of his cheek with his thumb and first finger as if it were a mask he wanted to rip off to reveal his hidden flesh. Nothing happened. He was saddened by the dowdy, pockmarked features with thick crow lines etched under his eye sockets. His gray-blue eyes stared back at him with cold resignation. They were the eyes of someone who no longer had any care for the world, resigned to its whims and caprices. His stubble of beard appeared gray as the ones on his head.

Lemmon forced the muscles under his cheeks to exude a smile to his lips; the whole thing felt contriving and stiff. He removed his pajamas and stepped back from the mirror to admire the rest of himself. His hands inspected his paunchy frame, his droopy pair of arms. He raised both arms up, down, and over his head like one performing rudimentary calisthenics, then finally he felt the heat under his arm pits. Everything seems normal, he smirked at his reflection. Wasn’t expecting anything else.

Lemmon shaved before stepping into the shower stall. Everything about him was slow and purposeful. The water rained down on him and he hummed a tune as he went about his business. Finished, he waited for the water to dry off before grabbing his towel outside the stall.

He was fixing his cuff links when Abby came awake. She rolled to his side of the bed and looked up when she didn’t find him lying there. He was wearing a stripped black and blue tie, a gift from her on his birthday last year, though this was one of the few times he’d decided wearing it. Today seemed like a fitting occasion after all. He wiped the lens of his glasses on his arm before returning it to the bridge of his nose.

“Morning,” she said to him.

“Good morning,” he replied. “Thought you weren’t waking up for another hour.”

She stretched her limbs and yawned. “Was afraid you’d gone already.”

“Another couple of minutes and I would have.”

She rubbed her fingers against her eyes to view him better. “You’re looking smartly dressed today.”

“It comes with the reputation.”

“You going to stop by the market on your way back?”

“I will,” he said. “Today’s the day, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know what you mean. You got the list?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it. I left it in my coat pocket before I came to bed last night.”

“I know it’s late, but do you need me to make you breakfast?”

He picked up his jacket where he’d draped it at the back of a chair. “No need, I’m already late. I’ll grab something at the cafeteria.”

“I thought you said you can’t stand the food they serve there.”

He shrugged. “I’m making an exception today.”

Abby came off the bed and walked round the bed to him. She straightened his tie for him and smoothened the shoulders of his jacket with her hands. She was a year younger than he. Her shoulder-length blonde hair had gotten lighter over the years. While his features had turned downcast over the years, hers remained sunny and smiling. The edges of her lips curled as if always in the mood for something hilarious. He seethed with envy sometimes reckoning that between the both of them, he was the only one who had aged. It wasn’t fair, he screamed inside himself. My God, life just ain’t fair!

“How’re you feeling?” she asked him pretty much the same way she’d have asked if he’d brushed his teeth already.

“I’m far from being great,” he said. “Other than that,” he concluded with a shrug.

“You shouldn’t think things too seriously. It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

“Gee, what a relief. I’m feel a lot better if the world really was coming to an end today.”

“Stop being naughty, you’re not fooling anyone, buster. And pull your chin up. You’re a good man, Lemmon,” she said to him solemnly. “I love you, and I’m proud of you. And they would, too.”

“Yeah. I guess so,” he managed a wry smile. Anything to take off the dour mood he was feeling. His wife gave him the real thing and kissed his cheek. No matter what, he could always count on Abby for strength.

“Stay strong. I’ll see you when you return.”

“Me, too.”

He picked up his suitcase and left the room. He wore his coat and hat from the rack beside the front door. Abby came to the living room in time to watch him open the front door and step out into the front porch, into the morning sunlight. She stood behind the porch’s screen door and watched him walk down the driveway and turn left, heading toward the bus stop.

He was ten minutes late to make the 7:00 A.M. bus and had no choice but to wait for the next one supposed to arrive in the half hour. He exchanged perfunctory pleasantries and shook hands with other familiar commuters there. Ironically he wished for the bus to take forever in coming—he won’t mind the wait.

The bus arrived a minute past its scheduled time and he and everyone else clambered inside and took their seat. The door shut and the bus drove on and they all watched the neighborhood slip past. A young kid rode by on a Schwinn, hurling rolled-up newspapers at each home. People sweeping the front of their stoop, unlocking their shops, some standing in their bathrobe on their porch drinking something out of a cup in their hand. It was the same picture he saw day after day each time he rode the bus to work. A lot of the neighborhood had changed over the years, like that wasn’t supposed to ever happen. Plenty of folk come and gone: some deceased, others relocated to a different town. Old homes torn down and new roads built to expand the Wal-Mart shopping mall here in Sheffield. The train yard was about the oldest piece of property still standing—a relic since the town’s founding years—rolling across whatever was left of the mid-west frontier like it’s got anyplace else to be. Lemmon relieved the same gloomy picture every miserable morning he woke up to get to work.

By the end of today, he knew none of this would matter anymore. This was going to be the last time, he hopped, in a long, long time he got to travel this route again.

The bus got to his stop which was a twenty yard walk from the intersection to the Birdwell Packaging Factory. The same company he’d worked thirty-six years of his life. Its brownstone structure stared back at him, each day welcoming him to his office located in the admin building behind. It was an unimpressive building that an eyesore each passing year. Looking at it, the building reminded him of something out of a Charles Dickens novel where sinister accidents happen to good people with little livelihood. How fitting it would be if a tornado hurled along, or even better a fire happened and burnt down everything, thought Lemmon as he approached its gate.

He’d started at the bottom and worked his way up to his current position, from meat-packer to Chief Production Manager. That was as high up the management ladder he could go. Today was his last day on the job. The company was downsizing and cutting down workers and staff they could do without, starting with those who’d attained or approaching retirement age. His name had unarguably made the top of the list. He’d been aware of the rumors since it started making rounds last year. Lemmon was grateful that through all these years he’d made it to this epic moment. Still it stuck a wedge in his heart knowing after today he won’t be walking past this gate anymore. Final and none after. So many memories, good times and bad, it felt hard giving all of that up in the space of a day.

He exchanged pleasantries with the security fellow seated inside the pillbox beside the gate before walking toward the building. He walked toward the end of the first phase of his life.

* * *

He was in his office eating a sandwich and doodling on his desk blotter when Simon Birdwell knocked at the door and stuck his head in through the opening. He was the grandson of Arty Birdwell, the patriarch who’d started the meat-packaging company. The same man who’d hired Lemmon back when he was a pup and wanted to earn a living prior to when he made Abby permanent in his life.

“Hi there, Lemmon,” Simon smiled at him. “You got a minute? Hope I wasn’t intruding or nothing.”

“No, not at all. Please come in.”

Lemmon dropped his pen and sandwich and wiped his hands before shaking his boss’s hand and offered him a seat. Simon was in his mid-thirties. To Lemmon he had the smug, cynical outlook of a kid who hadn’t yet become a man, at least what his impression of being a man ought to be. The same kid now held power over thousands of others working in subsidiary branches of the company across the country, like his old man before him. That was where the similarities ended between father and son. The truth was Simon never gave a farthing for the meat-packaging business. He was content been a major shareholder than the undistinguished Joes like Lemmon who ran the machinery of the place. He made it obvious with his flashy brevity whenever he dropped by to check on the well-being of his staff.

Lemmon satisfyingly counted his stars that he wasn’t going to be here to witness the painful losses the company was going to make down the road. The recession had taken a huge bite at the meat industry, and the pain was far from over.

Lemmon was lucky he’d be leaving with his pension intact, though he couldn’t vouch for others soon to follow. Other poor sobs too will be getting the booth, but right now all eyes were on him.

They were hosting a party for him downstairs in the cafeteria at closing hours. Presently he was on lunch-break. He had opted to have his meal here than head down there and be the brunt of clamoring handshakes, smiles, and shoulder patting from his soon-to-be former colleagues. Lemmon didn’t want none of it and didn’t think he could stand the sight of them, though he knew in the end he was going to have to brave up and join them. It was his party after all, even though he wasn’t happy being the centre of attention. Already he thought he saw through his colleagues’ phoniness, all probably rejoicing about him getting shafted: Lemmon’s an old fart, anyhow! Surprised he ain’t dropped dead a long time ago. Then there was the annoying questions they’d most likely throw at him: What you going to do once you’re gone, Lem? Got any future plans? Lemmon doubt he could concoct a lie to satisfy such probing questions, especially when the truth scared even him to admit. The truth was he had no idea what he was going to do once he woke up tomorrow and realized he wasn’t needed here anymore. The past months since the impending rumor, he’d wrestled with plenty ideas of what to do with himself as the time approached and still couldn’t picture what his retirement life was going to resemble. It hurt to even think his way around the problem. He was like a sailor on a skiff lost at sea to a raging storm and didn’t know which direction the sea was carrying him to.

“How’re you doing, Lemmon?” Simon asked him.

“I’m doing good. Thank you for asking.”

“You looking forward to retirement?”

Lemmon shrugged as he thought how best to answer. The image of him lost at sea played in his mind. “Nothing to do but ride the waves when it comes.”

Simon laughed. “You’ve got enthusiasm all over you, I like that. Most old geezers here would be crying their eyes out right now.”

That hurt to hear, but Lemmon rolled with the pain. “It’s not going to be the end of the world. Good or bad, I’ll make it through.”

“That’s good to know. My grand dad was always fond of you, you know. The same with my dad, too. I know he’d been happy to be here today.”

“Yeah, I feel his loss. The same with your grand dad. They were both good men.”

“Yeah. It’s hard living up to your parent’s expectations, you know what I mean? Lots of trails can be too much of a burden, if you ask me.”

“It’s tough, but no pair of shoes you can fill besides yours. Nothing we can do except try,” said Lemmon. He couldn’t help it that he was suddenly thinking about Gloria and his eyes became misty and distant. He looked past his Simon’s preppy, gregarious features at the window across the room which faced the east section of the compound. “It’s hard, but we’ve got to try. One step at a time.”

“That’s a good motto,” Simon complimented before getting up from the chair.

“Anyway, I thought I’d head down and meet with you. I don’t know if I’ll be around for the party. If by any chance I’m not, I want you to know it’s been a privilege with you working for us all these years. And no matter what, you’ll be getting everything good that’s coming to you.”

Lemmon got up and shook his hand. “Thank you very much. You’re too kind.”

Simon nodded. “Well, take care, Lemmon. I’ll be seeing you.”

Simon let himself out of the office leaving Lemmon to resume stewing in his lonely misery of noting the clock’s hour hand run toward the inevitable. Lemmon returned to his sandwich but couldn’t find the willingness to finish it. He opened a side drawer and found a napkin and rolled the sandwich in it then into his thrash bin it went. Lemmon’s eyes fell on a picture frame he’d laid face down on the bottom of his drawer. He hadn’t thought of the photograph in a long time since he placed it there. He took it out and wiped the film of dust on its glass surface with his palm and stared at the smiling features of his daughter, Gloria. It was an old photograph taken when she was twelve. A pre-pubescent smile on her face facing flickering candles of a birthday cake while he and Abby crouched beside her smiling as well.

A long time ago it was. Back then he knew what it meant to have a smiling face. Not anymore. That ship had long sailed, never to return again. Not since Gloria walked out of their lives.

Lemmon returned the photo to its place and slammed the drawer shut. He knew he would retrieve it when time came for him to gather his personal stuff, but for now the memory of his lost daughter was too much to bear looking at.

Lemmon resumed his doodling and turned his eyes away from knowing what the time was on his watch.

 

To read the rest of this chapter, visit my website, or simply follow the link below: http://www.damiendsoul.com/#!Lemmons-Journey-Excerpt/cosm/BE2D99F3-1734-419B-B0DA-651FBF72E3DF

 

An Unpublished Memoir Pt. 4

DSC00263I’m so lazy when it comes to updating this blog of mine. Don’t know why, but I’m always lethargic when it comes to me talking about myself, not to mention writing about myself. I know if ever I do become famous, I’m never going to sit and write my biography. I won’t even want to read it. Biographies are never meant for writers. Sure, a statesman, a holder of public office, a celebrity, or someone of notoriety can pen a biography, and who wouldn’t want to read about them. Look at how many biographies have been written on Elvis and the Beatles already . . . but not for writers. I don’t want to read J.K. Rowland’s biography and hear her mention where she was or what she was doing when the idea for Harry Potter came to her. That’s dumb. So, for those who do get a chance to stop by here, forgive my lateness, and let me resume from where I stopped . . .

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It’s a strange and surreal feeling when you’re landing in JFK airport in New York. Hearts drumming, yet trying to maintain poise even as the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac and rolled toward the terminal 4 building and then we all filed out. Always a lengthy queue in there, especially in the tourism section, but that’s to be expected. Everybody dressed for the summer . . . except me, of course. I doubt if I was dressed at all for anything. Just couldn’t wait to get past Homeland security and see what the country looks like outside the airport.

I did eventually walk past the front doors, and that was when I got a shock of reality: I’d made it! I’d made it into a new world. Everything looked so different. Hard to explain for an American to understand, but for someone coming from where I did, you wouldn’t understand and I can’t find the words to express the joy, happiness, sadness and awe that rolled through my gut as I walked toward a taxi. It won’t be the first time, but right then, it might as well could have been.

I’d quit my job back home and now I was in the land of sharks. It was either sink or swim from here on, and trust me when I say that nothing ever really prepares you for this. Africa felt like a distant planet from where I was. No way to communicate with anyone back home, and even if I wanted to, I doubt they were going to give me any good news.

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My friend still lived in the building I’d visited him last time in Mount Vernon. Though it wasn’t a happy reunion this time around.