Roger Wright – Chicago

She was walking out of the back room of his jewelry store buttoning up the burnt orange cashmere sweater I had bought her on my last trip to her little town outside Kansas City. Harry the Jeweler was right behind her.

He saw me first and he put his hand on her shoulder as if he knew exactly where to touch to make her head rise. I could almost feel the current between them. His face ready for trouble. Her blue gray eyes clouding up with innocence as she smoothed the thighs of her jeans.

“Roger, you’re ah early,” she said. I wasn’t expecting you till tonight. And what are you doing here anyway? I mean I just stopped by to say hi to Harry. He got some new diamonds in and. . .”

“Oh, no big deal. I got off work a little early and the traffic out of Chicago was good.”

Our life had been driving and cheap second tier holidays since the beginning. That’s what happens when the loving is long distance. The holidays gave us markers for our trips. Then came the road.

The best trip was the first one. Maybe that’s why looking back, even after all these years, I can’t even hear one whisper of a regret. No regrets. No tears goodbye. Neither of us were the crying types. Especially not that first trip.

There’d been snow that year. And if you’ve ever driven Highway 57 between Chicago and Champaign Urbana Illinois on a blue sky, wind across the snow fields day; it’s just how you’d imagine Antarctica. Just the endless oceans of blinding white snow and the clear blue sky. And nothing else. The miles of telephone wires and the fact that the road was paved, the only clues that there had once been other people here. Perhaps to make a movie called “Snow Planet Nine,” or “The Blizzard that Ate My Dog.”

My pal Eddie and I. On our way to see Will and Betsy. She was taking more classes at the U of I. She was always taking more classes somewhere. And Will had a job at the Air Force Base. They lived in a tiny one story house on the edge of a cornfield—now of course a snow field. And we were all at that time of our lives when we had all done school but we had not yet done life.

Eddie had a girlfriend somewhere on campus. And Betsy had told me that she had this friend who would be by. They were both receptionists in a doctor’s office. I remember asking her on the phone if they both wore really tight nurses outfits to work and her answering deadpan that mostly they worked naked because clothes were a symbol of the oppressive medical establishment. And then I didn’t think much about her friend again at all after that.

Besides there was the deal with Eddie’s 1969 red Ford pick up with the rusted out hole in the floor, the oil leaks and the habit of often going about 50 miles before sputtering over to the side of the rode for one reason or another.

But we did get there. Giant piles of snow like castle gates to their driveway. A flag pole stuck in one and a rippling white flag, scrawled in black magic marker THIS WAY TO THE BEER.

Inside Will and Betsy’s kitchen. Out of the down coats, which piled together were the size of a small car. The warmth of the room radiating with Will and Betsy’s glow in starting a life together. Jerry Garcia’s guitar burbling warm springs of flowing music bouncing gently off the walls that kept out the cold.

“Come hear, Uncle John’s Band. . . .”

And when that warmth reached what I thought had to be a peak, the back door opened and Teresa walked in.

And if in some other writer life I could come up with a line better than the great John Cheever’s, ‘This is a woman who could stop time just by taking off her sweater,’ I would use it to paint the picture of the instant connection I made with her soft, smart, laughing blue eyes.
When you’re just starting out to live your life, you often have the feeling that there must be some other place you should be. So after hanging out in Betsy’s kitchen for awhile, all of us piled into our mounds of electric colored, goose down coats and scampered over to campus where we went ice-skating at an indoor rink.

Making lazy sweeping circles around the ice rink with Teresa. She was from the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. Which to me, having grown up in Chicago and never really lived any further than Wisconsin, was like being from Casablanca or the French Riviera. Add to that the accent. A southern woman reading the phone book, to me, conjures up visions of eternal bliss living under the warmth of a million Carolina suns. A Faulkner character who somehow ended up happy. I remember her saying, with an innocence I’d never known, “I just finished this book? It was called Ulysses? By James Joyce? Did you read that book? I was just wondering what you thought?” And then proceeding to match me all through that weekend beer for beer, telling stories of the Gulf Coast that would make seasoned sailors howl.

The snow kept coming, so when we got back to Will and Betsy’s we all thought it safest if Teresa spent the night. Eddie was gone to his girlfriend. I insisted Teresa take the couch and I wrapped myself in blankets on the floor.

The next morning Will and Betsy doing an exaggerated tip toe walk out of their bedroom pretending to be quiet, walking past Teresa and I now both on that floor—the couch empty.
That was our first Valentines Day. That morning. Waking up warm on the floor next to Teresa.

And there wasn’t a holiday for the next two years that didn’t involve a long lonesome highway with her at the other end. That time when she called me up, this was after 6 months or so, maybe it was Arbor Day or something, and said, “Roger, I want to come see you in Chicago. But I don’t think we should have sex.”

I had no idea how to respond to that. We talked for awhile. Skirted around it. And I said, “Hey, let me call you back, there’s someone at my door.”

And I did what I always did when life tossed a problem I couldn’t handle. I called my Aunt Mavis. And my Aunt said, “Tell her, OK. You want her to come visit anyway.”

“But I. . . we’ve already. . . .”

“Yeah. I know. Just tell her.”

So I did. And we didn’t make it past the wall of my front entryway before she decided to change her no sex plan.

Valentines Day, Flag Day, every holiday imaginable. Memorial Day found us following blue dawn trails through the Smokey Mountains. Driving into Asheville. Looking for the grave of Thomas Wolfe.

One July Fourth I even loaded up the big rig U-Haul to drive her to a new life in that little town outside of Kansas City. A hot summer day. Looking down at Will and Betsy from behind the wheel of the big truck and Will saying up to me, “You don’t have any idea how to drive one of these do you?”

Me smiling down at him “Not a clue! Seeya!” And then almost ripping out the clutch.

It was the next Valentines Day that I got into town and accidently ran into her at the jewelers. Truth told, I had felt a distance in that soft, smart southern voice when we talked on the phone. And not having a whole lot of plans, other than to be Thomas Wolfe, I thought it was time to maybe grow up a little. She talked about her friend the jeweler a lot. How they’d go fishing together. Do small town stuff. The closest I’d known to that life had been fantasies of settling down in Mayberry, from the Andy Griffith Show on TV. But then coming to believe I’d end up like Ernest T. Bass, my favorite character. A guy who liked to throw rocks through windows.

Teresa and I liked to think of ourselves as not the jealous types. So the jeweler didn’t bother me. No sir.

In fact I’d even buy the engagement ring I was going to surprise her with that Valentines Day—I’d even buy it from him.

And I almost did. That’s why I had stopped in the store.

On that second Valentines Day. Worst one I ever had.

It started when I saw her walking out of the back room of that jewelry store.
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Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of this because it can happen in every single town in America. A soldier at home on R & R.

She’ll be sliding into the booth next to yours at the restaurant. They’ll be one kid talking about chicken fingers and milkshakes, another child looking for trouble, any kind of trouble. Because please God don’t let my Mom go back to Afghanistan again. And the responsible kid. The eldest. Like an ancient sheepherder. Helping Dad while Mom’s away. Dad will be quiet. But strong. Keeping things going.

If you are exceptionally fortunate, you’ll get a message like the one I got this morning. “It has been a wonderful time home with the family. We’ve spent almost every minute together. The children have grown so much since the last time I saw them 8 months ago. They’ve taken me to church, ballet, jazz/tap, piano, horseback riding, the western wear store (apparently you need cowboy boots and a cowboy hat to ride horses) and many dinners out to eat. And Teresa and I did get to have one date night when I was home.”

You think back to the last time you saw him and it’s blurry. Lost in the fog of emails. But you remember sitting at a bar in the fine southern town just down the street from a bona fide presidential library and a guy comes in, takes the stool next to you, so you start to chat. And the guy knows your soldier too. They went to high school. “This,” says the guy, “This is the man I’d want next to me when the shooting started.”

You nod because you knew that too.

You think about the countless news reports since then and you are simply, unequivocally in awe of his wife because she also listens to the news.

He is almost done with his tour. Only two months left. He will come home in April. Come home for good.

But the flow of military heroes coming back home to take a breath before they go back to fight again will keep coming. You will see them, Know their families. You will, if only for one golden moment, come alive in the connection they provide all of us.

And whatever you decide to do next. Buy the soldier’s child a plate full of chicken fingers and a milkshake, give the man a nod when he’s standing ahead of you in line to buy a tiny cowboy hat, tell the soldier that you’re going to pray for her, don’t just do it—let her know that you’ll do it, send him positive energy, ignore—for just a second—the politics because this one moment is about the soldier, not the connection to the politics, there will be time for that later; or maybe ask if you can buy him a drink or just say “Thank you” out loud. Whatever singularly individual thing you do that lets that soldier rest for a moment, regroup and ‘take off their thirsty boots’ and stay for awhile: watch how what happens when that soldier gets your message. Maybe they’ll get it right that moment. Maybe they’ll get it later. When they need it most.

But when the soldier hears your story, your action, your moment of thanks.

You might find yourself to be even more alive.

The Kepler Telescope is a planet seeking satellite. And yesterday, as the Kepler glided on through deep space, continually searching to see if we here on earth are alone, the Kepler Mission Control team announced the discovery of 1,235 possible planets orbiting other stars.

A discovery that could triple the number of known stars.

From this new discovery, 54 of the new planets could be habitable. All this from a satellite that is patrolling only 1/400 of the skies.

Reported in the New York Times, Sara Seager of the Massachusetts Institute of technology said, “For the first time in human history, we have a pool of potentially rocky habitable-zone planets. This is the first big step to answering the ancient question, “How common are other earths?”

And as this new light from distant stars shined on our own tiny little planet, it’s likely that the visionary storyteller from Waukegan, Illinois, Ray Bradbury, heard the news too.

Perhaps the news prompted a story. Like the one Bradbury tells when people ask him why he became a writer.

It was the Labor Day weekend of 1932. Bradbury was intrigued by a Carnival Tent on the shores of Lake Michigan advertising a magician who called himself ‘Mr. Elecrico!”

In Bradbury’s own words:

“Mr. Electrico was a fantastic creator of marvels. He sat in his electric chair every night and was electrocuted in front of all the people, young and old, of Waukegan, Illinois. When the electricity surged through his body he raised a sword and knighted all the kids sitting in the front row below his platform. I had been to see Mr. Electrico the night before. When he reached me, he pointed his sword at my head and touched my brow. The electricity rushed down the sword, inside my skull, made my hair stand up and sparks fly out of my ears. He then shouted at me, ‘Live forever!’

I thought that was a wonderful idea, but how did you do it?”

The next day, young Ray Bradbury went back to that tent and managed to get a private conversation with Mr. Electrico. Bradbury continues:

“He then walked me down by the shore and we sat on a sand dune. He talked about his small philosophies and let me talk about my large ones. At a certain point he finally leaned forward and said, “You know, we’ve met before.”

I replied, “No, sir, I’ve never met you before.”

He said, “Yes, you were my best friend in the great war in France in 1918 and you were wounded and died in my arms at the battle of the Ardennes Forrest. But now, here today, I see his soul shining out of your eyes. Here you are, with a new face, a new name, but the soul shining from your face is the soul of my dear dead friend. Welcome back to the world.”

Welcome back to the world.

As the great writer Bradbury heard the news of new planets discovered by Kepler, perhaps he wasn’t surprised at all. Perhaps the next story to come burbling up through his timeless soul began “Welcome back to the world.”

Perhaps Bradbury read the scientists’ quote on ‘KOI 157’, for ‘Kepler Object of Interest.’ KOI 157 is another Sun. And as the Kepler team studied the way newly discovered planets circled this ‘new’ sun, they likened these orbits to an old vinyl record. Spinning around an old turntable.
Light from distant stars and the spinning of a record on a turntable.

I wonder if Ray Bradbury smiled, remembered, dreamed and then said to himself out loud:

Light from distant stars and the spinning of an old record on a turntable.

Today I’ll write a love story. Maybe even one that will live forever.

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She’ll be in the 5th row, along the first base line,

Eating popcorn on a warm spring night.

And they’ll be a moment when she stops

With the crack of a bat and watches the arc

Of the white ball sail off into the sky as if

It really could fly forever.

And a spring wind whispers,

Don’t let another moment slip away.

He’ll be in the dugout.

Jittery, electric trying so hard to just look bored and cool.

When it’s time, he reaches down.

The polished smooth shining handle of the bat,

Shuts out all sound.

Then the calm.

Like endless green fields waving in the shimmering winds.

And a spring wind whispers

Don’t let another moment slip away.

And at the top of the stands. The old man.

More like a shadow. Look hard or you will miss him.

Watching every inching shift and flow of every player in the field.

Sifting it through the seasons past, thinking

I would not trade a second

For the loving of the game.

Now I will watch.

And I will forever be down there on that field

But he still feels every stinging shot whomped over to third base,

Still sets his feet and rockets it to first.

He’s out!

Today right now this second

Is where it starts again.

And a spring wind whispers

Don’t let another moment slip away.

So she munches on that popcorn.

Watches him do his cool guy stroll to the plate

Wonders with her shining smile of spring

Just where this will go.

Wonders what her memories will be.

He squares off and faces down the pitcher.

The old man remembers it all

And keeps watch.

A green fields of coming summer moment,

Renewed.

Set against a raging, broken world that no one has forgotten.

The terror and torn dreams like shattered glass.

That bubble of fear as real as slashing street knife sirens.

But there is also this

Green fields of summer coming moment.

So, she smiles and tastes the salt in that popcorn.

He concentrates. Gets ready to swing.

And the old man watching knows

The spring wind whispering,

Don’t let another moment slip away.
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When Zuckerberg’s Army came for me, there was no reason to fight. I was the last human being on earth not on Facebook. I knew it. They knew it. We were all long past any reason to struggle. I would go quietly.

It was a gray winter afternoon in a big city that sat obediently in the northern part of the United States. Snow threatened. The music I had on was an old song by Greg Brown with the lyric:

“There’ll be one corporation selling one little box

It’ll do what you want and tell you what you want and cost whatever you got.”

Facebook revenue had just surpassed the gross national product of Europe. China had finally acquiesced, asking only for their own “wall.”

World news was dominated that day by the entire land mass of New Zealand being submerged under a mile high tsunami that American scientists had pinpointed as originating deep in the frozen tundra of Antarctica. As the stories of the devastation began to surface like ancient ruins in an endless watery grave—reported of course through Facebook—American political leaders sought to calm the world business community with proclamations stating that the tragedy had nothing to do with global warming.

Statements verified by Facebook.

So there were bigger issues than Zuckerberg’s Army knocking on my door.

To be precise, what really happened was that a door knocking sound began emanating from the computer speakers on my desk. My sleek little Mini Mac box began to throb and then jump like an old cartoon of an alarm clock going off.

The freelance management training piece I was working on to help the internet’s newest “it” company figure out that they might not want to let supervisors go months without having an actual conversation with an employee suddenly got much less important. Even if I was being paid money to create and deliver the piece.

It’s really easy to loose focus when your computer starts spitting out a door knocking sound every 32 seconds.

After about 2 minutes of the knocking, I couldn’t take it anymore. So I said to the room I had thought was empty, I said with as much control in my voice as I could muster,

“What??????”

To which the voice of Zuckerberg himself replied in friendly tones, “Sup dude?”

Through gritted teeth I said, “Do I know you?”

“Chill dude. Guess that doesn’t really matter, does it? Now you know you’re coming with us. But before you do, I’m just kinda, well, what’s the word they used to use. . . .oh I remember! Curious! That’s it. I’m kinda curious. So tell me, why did you stay out in the cold so long? Why didn’t you sign up? What did we ever do to you?

“Oh, you never did anything! I mean, I didn’t have any big philosophical position. I just never saw the point.”

“Dude. The point is friends! What, you don’t like parties? You don’t have friends? You don’t LIKE friends?”

“Mr. Zuckerberg sir. It’s not that I . . .”

“Hey, Mr. Zuckerberg is my Dad! Feel free to call me Dude. That is unless you’re my Dad. You’re not my Dad are you?”

“Probably not. But in case I was, could I have a loan? There’s this little bookstore I’d like to start. . .”

“No such thing as a little bookstore, Dad. Or Dude. Or whatever. But you know we’re all friends here. So tell me. What kept you from my party?”

“Well, I don’t know. I guess it’s because when I go to a party. I don’t often work the room. What I like to do is find one person. Sit in the corner. And talk with them for awhile. Does that make me a bad friend? Or somebody you wouldn’t want to lend, oh I don’t know, whatever change you’ve got in your pocket right now and help me out with that bookstore. Or even maybe help me find an agent. I just finished my fourth book and I. . .”

“Yeah. Well that is awesome Dad. And I would love to help you out. I remember books. I even read some. So I’m all about bookstores. And I’m sure there are messages from 5 or 6 hundred agents wanting me to do a book, all of those messages sitting back in the server outside one of my houses. So I could pop you one of those, but you see I gotta run. So I’ll get back to you and. . .”

“Mr. Zuckerberg, that’s the other part that kept me away. Right there. The ‘I’ll get back to you,’ thing. See, one of the things about virtual communication is that a whole lotta times, no one does get back to you. No one answers back. You scream into the void, you write on a wall and you never know if someone’s listening because no one answers back!”

“Wow. You are one intense Dude, Dad. People are like, well, I guess the word would be busy. Yeah, busy. I basically don’t do replies myself. But that’s just my thing.”

“I see. Well, no worries. I understand. And I’m coming quietly. I’ll be posting pictures. Writing on walls. Saying “awesome!” a lot. I’ll be good. You’ll see. Pretty soon, you won’t even know I’m there.”

“That’s what we’re counting on dude. That’s what we’re counting on. Calm, cool, sweet. Not even knowing you’re there. That’s what we want. You go ahead and have as many screen names as you want too. That’s all cool!”

“Oh, Mr. Zuckerberg. Just one more question before we go. It’s about the music. Sometimes I have music playing in my head. No one else hears it but me. It’s just kind of part of who I am. So, my question is this;

Can YOU hear the music playing in MY head too?”

“Oh no! Whatever songs are in your head? They’re just yours! No one can hear them but you. At least, for now. In our next release we’ll have a way for you to share the songs in your head with friends. The engineers are working on it now. Actually it’s in beta. But as of right this moment? The only one who knows the songs playing in your head is you.

So are you cool with that? You all calmed down and everything? Wouldn’t want anybody in the army—especially the very last person to join—to be agitated or excitable or anything but mellow and fine. Cool?”

“Cool Mr. Z. Nothing agitated. Nothing excitable about me.

Nothing excitable at all. See how calm I am?

I just can’t wait to write on my first wall!

You can tell your army I’m ready now.”

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Once all you had to do when trouble showed its head was to pack up and leave.