That's What Friends Are For

The older I get, the fewer the friends I have.  In fact, I can't think of a single person I could call right now to ask to go grab a bite for lunch or to go see a movie.  Much less, think of anyone who would call me with such an invitation.

I'm not sure why this is the case.  Are we all so wrapped up in our jobs or children's sports teams that we don't have time for anyone else?  Have I worn out my welcome?  Does Facebook satisfy everyone's need for Drago?  Come to think of it, even those friends have fallen off.  I'd have to announce something dreadful has happened to get more than 50 likes on a post right now, as opposed to those who can garner a 100 likes for re-posting the latest meme.  Possibly a clip of a well-trained parrot feeding a dog off the kitchen counter.  Adorable.

Maybe this is just a part of getting old.  I used to have friends.  Plenty of them.  I don't remember much about Brooklyn, but when we moved to Staten Island, my older brother and I ran around with scores of kids.  We played stickball, king tag, kick the can, and a bunch of other shit.  My best friend lived on the other end of Gold Avenue (I think his parents still do), and we slept over one another's house almost every weekend.  We harbored a secret stash of chocolates.  We were stealthy.  He liked Twix, if I recall.  I preferred Whatchamacallits.  Those days are gone.  I can't even eat chocolate anymore without getting an upset stomach.

We moved to Phoenix while I was in junior high school (they called it middle school).  I fell in with a bunch of D&D nerds and played football, basketball, and baseball for the school leagues.  I always had someone to hang out with.  My best friend's dad was a retired schoolteacher who sold appliances at Montgomery Ward and died of bladder cancer while we were young.  I was asked to be his pallbearer.  I carried his body with his sons.  Do you know how good a friend would have to be for me to ask him to carry my dad's fucking coffin?  I don't have those kinds of friends anymore.  I did.

My crew expanded in high school.  I added the theatre geeks and the brainiacs.  A fringe benefit of being (kind of) smart and (somewhat) talented, I guess.  Think Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club.  My best friend played football, which kept me in line with the jocks.  Well, at least I could attend their parties on the weekends.  Their girls only looked at me for a chuckle.  I played Eugene in our school's production of Grease, after all.  The highlight was dancing with the senior cast as Patty Simcox.  She was runner-up for Miss Teen Arizona.  So beautiful.  She went on to be a popular news anchor.  I wonder if she has friends.

More of the same in college.  I had plenty of buddies.  And from all walks of life.  We had fun and kept busy.  Even as a young teacher, I had a group of colleagues who got together and played poker or made midnight runs to Las Vegas.  This was when Seinfeld reigned supreme.  I was our Jerry.  Single.  Neat.  Even-Steven.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)  I'm George now.  Cranky.  Bald.

You might think you know where this is going.  Marriage ruined my friendships.  Not true.  I had plenty of friends when we first moved to North Carolina almost 15 years ago.  Most I met while teaching or producing community theatre.  This lack of friends is recent.  The last three years or so.  I've shut myself off somehow.  I don't know how to turn myself back on.  If nothing else, friends would relieve some of the pressure my wife must be feeling from my constant companionship.  It's unfair, really.  Getting a life was much easier when I was younger.  What will I do when my kids go off to college?  Don't even want to think about it.  At least they give me a reason to get off my recliner and yell about something.

Writer's Block

I tell my college students all the time that the best way to escape writer's block is to start writing about whatever's on your mind.  It doesn't matter whether or not you have anything to say about the topic or if you make any mistakes.  You can fix things later.  Just pick up and start writing.  Don't think.  Just write.  Eventually, you'll find your way to where you want to go.

I've been stuck for a while.  No, it's not fair to say I'm stuck.  I'm not.  I have plenty to say.  And a ton of ideas.  So many stories started (and abandoned).  I keep listening to the song "Famous Last Words" by Billy Joel.  I want to know what made him stop writing songs.  Was he out of ideas?  Tired?  Bored?  A combination?

Maybe he couldn't say what he wanted to say.

I get that.  Stephen King once told me, "Write what you know."  What if I can't?  What if I'm not allowed to write what I want to write because I'm a schoolteacher?  There are just things that I can't put out there and expect to keep my job.  And let's face it, I'm writing for an audience now.  Sure, I can put words down in my blog and never post them.  Or I can write in a personal journal and not share.  For me, writing has gone beyond that.  I write to express my views with others.  Not to keep them to myself.  I have a file cabinet in my mind for that.  I categorize and have opinions on everything.  I just don't feel like I can share those the way I want.

Some teachers are willing to speak out.  Maybe they have more courage than I do.  Or maybe they're toeing the line.  There's no risk in that.  They're saying exactly what's expected of them.  Hollywood does the same thing.  Artists are held to certain expectations or risk blackball.  We're all struggling, disenfranchised Bohemians, right?

Don't you hate when people try so hard to be different that they end up playing a stereotype?  And, yes, I realize I'm implying that those who think they're nonconformists conform more often than not.  They do.  I don't.  Thus the fear.  It's not to say that I don't share the same views as my colleagues at certain times.  Of course, I do.  But what about when I don't?  Do I just shut the fuck up?  (Yes, Tommy, that's what you do.  You shut the fuck up.  Nobody needs to know what you think about sex, politics, or religion, especially not if you're going to rebuke the status quo.)

At a press conference before his sold out performances at Madison Square Garden in 1972, Elvis (dressed in a gorgeous sky-blue suit) replied that he preferred to keep his opinions to himself when asked for his thoughts about the Vietnam War, Civil Rights, and other political issues of his era.  Makes you wonder what he was thinking.  Maybe.  Or maybe you don't give a shit about the King's politics.  But when asked if he thought other entertainers should also keep quiet, he shook his head (a lock of shiny black hair bouncing across his forehead) and whispered, "No," almost with a smile.  Makes you wonder why he wouldn't talk.  What was keeping him quiet?  I guess we'll never know.

World's Biggest Stephen King Fan

My sister died when I was 13 years-old.  She was strangled by the umbilical cord during my mom's final trimester.  That was the most devastating event of my life.  Even now, I can't listen to "Ribbon in the Sky" by Stevie Wonder without crying.  That song was playing on the radio when we pulled into the cemetery.  Before we watched her little gray box go into the ground. 

Most folks would've turned to God.  I found Stephen King.  He landed in my lap, really.  My older brother's friend let me borrow his copy of Night Shift.  The cover reminded me of something out of the Twilight Zone.  Hands with eyes on the fingers?  What the hell is that shit?  Up until that point, The Lord of the Rings was my game, and everything I wrote was a knock-off.  

I didn't know it quite then, but Stephen King was teaching me that it's OK to be scared.  That bad shit happens, but you can still go on.  

Our relationship developed gradually.  My mom bought me The Dead Zone for Christmas that year, and then I found Different Seasons and Christine at the bookstore.  I devoured these.  Falling in love with the characters, captivated by the prose.  I became an addict.  Since my older brother was more interested in sports, girls, and parties (like most teenage boys), I recruited my younger brother to go on my quest.  We scoured used bookstores, buying every rare, limited edition we could get our hands on.  Movie tie-ins, foreign prints.  You name it.  I even read the British version of The Shining just because I thought it looked cool.  My younger brother kindly informed me that nothing I did was cool.  He was right.  Girls don't notice boys who read.  They laugh at them.  Something I learned from Arnie Cunningham.

The book that sealed our relationship was Pet Sematary.  It's still my favorite.  When Gage Creed died, I can't tell you how hard I cried (even harder than when we lost Wolf in The Talisman).  I can still remember.  I was alone in my room, lying on my bed.  Hoping my mom didn't hear me.  I didn't want her to know much it hurt me when her little girl died.  She had Mommy things to worry about.  I could toughen up.  I had Stephen King.  Besides, when Gage came back, he was different.  He was fucked.  And then it hit me.  You can never change the past.  You can only live.

My Stephen King collection is vast.  I have every hardcover and multiple copies of all his paperbacks.  I have a sealed copy of My Pretty Pony - a massive red tome given as a gift by the store manager at the local Waldenbooks.  I have near mint original paperback copies of The Running Man and The Long Walk (I even have an Italian print of this one!).  I have copies of Stephen King's original screenplay adaptations of The Stand and Pet Sematary smuggled by a friend of mine out of Laurel Entertainment in the mid-'80's.  I have all the print copies of Stephen King's official newsletter, Castle Rock.  T-shirts, posters, bookmarks.  The list is endless.

After I read Pet Sematary (autocorrect hates this fucking word), I wrote Stephen King a letter and asked about The Dark Tower, included in the novel's list of his works.  In this era before the Internet, I had no contact information, so I sent my letter off to his publisher, Doubleday.  It took 9 months to get his response!  He explained how to contact Don Grant and order my copy.  I have the whole limited edition series, of course.  I followed with an inquiry to his PO Box in Maine about a sold-out luncheon he planned to attend in Phoenix where I lived at the time.  He replied in two weeks with a Three Stooges postcard, telling me I should try to get in as a waiter.  Perfect.  

We corresponded for a couple more years until the Mets beat the Red Sox in the 1986 World Series.  He sent me a form letter, explaining how if he spent all his time answering letters, he wouldn't have time to write his books.  He'd become a brand name.  Of course, I understood.  Typed separately on the form letter was some personal advice he gave me.  I'll keep those words to myself.

Someone once asked me why I'm such a big Elvis Presley fan.  I told her that every time I hear his voice it feels like someone is telling me, "I love you."  Every time I read Stephen King, it's like having someone hold my hand in the dark.

New York Sports

I've been a New York sports fan my whole life.  I have my dad to thank for this.  I don't think his father was as interested in sports (except for professional wrestling), but I'm glad he is.  The Mets and the Giants are his two favorite teams, but he'll also pull for the Jets, the Rangers, the Islanders, the Knicks, and the Nets.  Anybody but the Yankees.  He hates them.  He's an old Brooklyn Dodgers fan, so I don't blame him.  The longer I live away from New York, the easier it is for me to like the Yankees because they're usually the only New York team that wins.  They give us what little bragging rights we have.  Let's face it.  It sucks to be a New York sports fan.  Our teams get the most amount of attention and have the highest expectations, but always seem to fail.  And, of course, my two favorite teams are the Mets and the Jets.  The two worst.

Since the NFL draft is tonight, I'll start with the Jets.  There isn't much to say, really.  The best thing about being a Jets fan (since Joe Namath) is that the Giants beat the Patriots twice in the Super Bowl.  How sad and pathetic is that?  Our biggest thrill in the last 45 years has been watching our crosstown rivals beat our arch-nemesis.  Here I'll say it - draft a fucking quarterback worth a damn!  Mark Sanchez wasn't the answer (although I believe the loudmouth, foot-sniffing Rex Ryan ruined his career), and neither is Geno Smith.  For the love of God, no.  Not Geno.  If Marcus Mariota is available and the Jets pass him up, I'll ... I'll ... I'll do the same thing I do every year.  Pay a million bucks for Sunday Ticket so I can shout and curse at the TV (like my dad taught me) while watching them lose.  After all, we're the team that passed up Dan Marino for Kenny O'Brien.  At least we had the Sack Exchange.  At least we had that.

Then there's the Mets.  They've won the World Series twice.  I was only a few months old the first time, so I can't remember that magical year; however, their great players lasted for a few years (took us back in 1973), and I still remember Tom Seaver's tearful goodbye to the city.

Their '86 team was a different story, however.  I was 17 years-old.  I watched every single game that season.  We lived in Phoenix by then, and my dad installed a gigantic satellite dish in the backyard for the sole purpose of watching New York sports on television.  I'm not talking about one of those dinky dishes you see today in suburbia attached to the roofs of houses like Mickey Mouse ears, either.  I'm talking about fucking NASA satellites, the kind that search for extra-terrestrial life in the universe.

Keith Hernandez was (and will always be) my favorite player.  I can't tell you how excited I was when he appeared on my favorite show, Seinfeld, a few years later.  But we also had (I'll go around the horn with Bob Murphy's voice playing in my head) Wally Backman, Rafael Santana, Ray Knight, Mookie Wilson, Lenny Dykstra, Darryl Strawberry, Gary Carter, and Dwight Gooden.  What a lineup!  If I'd managed that team, I would've won several championships.  Davey Johnson - what a worthless piece of shit he was!  Couldn't control his own team.  And damn his fucking platoon system.  I could strike out Tim Teufel right now.

By the way, I feel the same way about the 1990's Atlanta Braves and the worst manager of all-time - Bobby Cox.  Who the hell has Greg Maddux, Tommy Glavine, and John Smoltz on the mound for all those years and walks away with only one ring?  Terrible.  And they weren't even snorting cocaine (that I know of).  At least that gave Davey Johnson some sort of excuse, as pitiful as it may be.

Back to the Mets.  Everybody remembers the Billy Buckner error, as well they should.  But that entire season was pure magic.  Dare I say, amazin'?  You win 108 games in the MLB, and you're doing something special.  No doubt.  But it's been all down hill from there.  Even their most recent 11-game win streak was tough to get jazzed about.  I know they're doomed to fail.  They're losers.  That's what they do best.  Sure, pitching wins championships (they have that), but you need offense to make it to the playoffs (they don't have that).  They'll sputter and cough like the dying engine of my old '79 Nova.  They always do.  That's why it sucks to be their fan.  I can hear my uncle (a huge Boston sports fan, but I still love him) telling me, "Forget the Mets, Tommy.  Forget the Mets."  But I can't.  Loyalty is our most important quality.  I'm an Italian from Brooklyn, after all.  My great-grandmother cooked meals for Al Capone!  What do you expect?

Queensboro - The First Chapter

I'm excited to announce that my second novel Queensboro will be available through CreateSpace and Amazon.com in a few short weeks.  Queensboro is the follow-up to Crow Creek, a novel I wrote roughly 18 months ago after I dreamed of a young mother being buried alive in a sinkhole.  That first book tackled heavy issues, including the loss of a child, religious hypocrisy, marital infidelity, and fracking.  I'm pleased with Crow Creek.  I received solid reviews and made a few dollars along the way.  Queensboro isn't exactly a sequel.  Sure, some of the same characters show up.  Sheriff Gleason and Black Jesus are there.  Where would Crow Creek be without them?  But I had a different story to tell this time.  I wrote about health care corruption, gentrification, racial discrimination, police brutality, and feminism.  I masked these issues behind acid-dripping death worms and some of the best villains I've ever crafted.  I thought it might be nice to share the first chapter with my readers.  You can learn more about me by visiting my website www.tsdrago.com. 

Amanda

 

Amanda Simmons didn’t leave Jacobs Court after lunch the day she freed Grayson Helms from his scaffold.  The Red Queen was too excited about the next morning’s Sector Six dispersal to account for which of her executives returned to Carolina EnTech for afternoon meetings anyhow.

Amanda had moved to North Carolina for all the right reasons.  The mild climate (the Pacific Northwest was dreary even for her tastes).  College sports, especially basketball.  Low taxes, thanks to the conservatives in office.  Affordable real estate.  Warm people.  Good Christians with strong family values and dedicated support for private schools, free enterprise, and small government.  So trusting.  She could probably stay the rest of her life.

She crept into the triklinion, the red python birthmark warming the back of her neck.  Grayson was one of the early donors, if not the first, so they kept his bed on the third subfloor.  The dining room was quiet, except for the buzzing machines, and sterile.  Amanda punched a few buttons to override the system and silence the alarms.  She couldn’t take any chances.  There were enough lab assistants and sentries to cause a stir, even though many of them weren’t on the feed.

Grayson lay naked and prostrate on the scaffold, his cock shriveled to a useless nub.  Amanda found the human body repulsive and tossed a flimsy gown over him so she didn’t have to see any more than she needed.

When she unscrewed the first conduit, the fitting hissed.  The connections hadn’t been lubricated for a while.  Grayson didn’t move his eyeless totem-pole face, but Amanda knew life existed somewhere inside.  Had to.  The drainers couldn’t survive without fresh blood.

They had the drug to thank for that.

ecGEN2.

After she finished, Amanda led Grayson down the platform.  He could barely walk.  The engineers supplied enough nutrients (peripheral neuropathy was an ongoing concern) but only minimal exercise between feedings.  She held his hand as they climbed the escape stairs and left the apartment building in darkness.  His palms were cold and clammy.

Chances were Braudie Meyer would take the blame for the breach.  The Red Queen hated him and the rest of her executives.  They asked too many questions.  Amanda knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Maybe the Red Queen would point a crooked finger at another flunky.  What did it matter?  Some random employee would be held accountable.  An engineer who’d worked on the Skull Project with Grayson many moons ago, perhaps.  Amanda didn’t care.  All she wanted was a break down in the system.  A failure.  She’d been making her way through clinical laboratories for years trying to latch onto the right program.  Never used the same name or background.  Identities and résumés simple enough to falsify.  Corporate bigwigs easy to manipulate.

Once she snatched control of EnTech from the Red Queen, then she’d be free to negotiate the way she wanted.  The Red Queen had made the mistake of thinking the power resided in the drug.  The truth was that domestic and foreign defense contractors would pay stellar prices for advances in biological weaponry.  Not to mention how much Sector Six would fetch on the black market.  There were all kinds of desperate militants and underground terrorists sick enough to launch an invasion.

Amanda knew the power was in the money, but one step at a time.

First Grayson Helms.

What would happen after that?  Well, she’d just have to wait and see, wouldn’t she?

Déjà Vu All Over Again

Recurring dreams are strange.  I imagine they are the result of unresolved issues or traumatic experiences.  I have a few.  I see how they might relate to current struggles or past events.  Like most, I don't remember the precise circumstances of the dreams once I awake.  This is more true now that I'm older.  Usually, I can recall what happened just before my eyes snapped open.  I might remember some of the other players, but not always.  I don't dream often of the people I spend the most time with in waking life, so I rarely see my wife and children while asleep.  This is probably because we're very supportive of one another and don't leave personal issues unresolved.

I dream of the people I miss.  My brothers, my parents, my grandparents, close friends.  They recur.  Certain settings reappear.  I dream often of the Greek restaurant where I worked while in my 20's.  I left that place unexpectedly and can see why it shows up.  I also miss the Greeks.  I know people believe you can't die in your dreams, but I was shot to death outside the Greek restaurant once.  I walked to my pickup truck after work and a stranger pulled up on a motorcycle, leveled his firearm at my forehead, and blew me away.  The last thing I remember was collapsing to the pavement.  I saw blood pooling around my eyes as I lay on the concrete.  I never see myself from outside my body.  I dream in color.  My blood was red.

Tornadoes appear frequently in my dreams but not as often as they used to.  This is probably a recurring image for most.  Our world is turbulent.  What better metaphor than a destructive cyclone?  Our brains know what they're doing even when we don't.  This could also be inspired by my love of the movie The Wizard of Oz and my hope for happiness somewhere over the rainbow.

I chase the Devil in my dreams.  He's exactly what you would expect:  pointy black beard, scarlet skin, bent horns, shiny pitchfork.  He only lets me catch a glimpse of his face and then runs from me.  I call for him, challenge him, but he never steps up.  That's what's so frustrating.  I'd rather him kick the fuck out of me, skin me alive, burn me at the stake.  Instead, he's a coward.  I guess I shouldn't expect more.  I can't stand the pretentious or those who act tough.

I'm most scared in my dreams when I can't get the bathroom lights to turn on.  This is the closest I come to having a nightmare.  It's so fucking weird.  But I panic.  Start sweating.  Call for help.  Flick the switch multiple times.  Nothing happens.  I don't get hurt.  Don't sense any near and present danger.  I just stand there in the dark looking at myself in the mirror.  And I'm frightened.

I have two recurring dreams that are somewhat similar.  Both have to do with roads.  In one, I'm stuck in the middle of a busy street, trying to crawl across traffic, but I can't make it to either side.  I never get hit by the passing cars.  I just reach out for the people I see standing on the sidewalks but never make it to safety.  The closer I get to curbside, the slower I move and the heavier I feel.  Even as I'm dragging myself along, digging my fingers, I know I'll never make it.  I also drive on roads that don't take me where I want to go.  Again, there's no fear, no apparent danger.  I might even be enjoying myself with friends or family.  But we'll drive (usually on city highways) and never reach our destination.  We always know where we are and where we're going but can't figure out why we're lost (or why the drive won't end).  I believe I'm reaching for the past in the first and seeking a future in the second.  But here I am in both.  Stuck in the present.

Why I Avoid Barbed Wire

I took the Yale-Brown Obsessive Compulsive Scale and scored a 14.  That puts me in the upper-range of the mild category.  That's what I would've guessed.  I'm neurotic and have plenty of quirks but don't allow anything to impede my quality of life.  I've mentioned a few rituals before.  I avoid the number 13, take steps to make sure doors are locked, wash my hands excessively.  Nothing serious.  I don't rationalize my behaviors.  I enjoy the irrational.  That's why I write horror stories.  A recent Goodreads review criticized Crow Creek for being too far-fetched.  I completely agree.  That's what I was going for.  The implausible entertains me.  If I wanted realism, I'd write instruction manuals.

I have a few phobias.  They're hilarious.  They're part of my OCD.  Most are common.  You've probably guessed by the reference to hand-washing that I'm a germophobe.  I think the clinical term is mysophobia.  Either way, I'm not sure the diagnosis is accurate.  The fear is of being sick, not of the germs themselves.  Whatever that's called.  I'm not sure when the phobia started.  Probably as I became more aware of my own mortality.  When did that happen?  13 years-old?  Yes, I met death in 1982.  She's not pretty.  She lives in a tiny gray box.  But I've never been a sickly person.  Maybe I have hand-washing to thank for that.  Not sure.  If only they made a hand lotion that didn't leave you feeling so greasy.  I wash my hands, use hand lotion, and then use Germ-X to dry the lotion.  Seems like an extra step.  I know there are products that combine lotion and Germ-X, but they don't keep my hands from bleeding.  Either way, this phobia should explain why I avoid human contact.

I dread thunderstorms.  The lightning, that is.  I find thunder soothing because the sound lets me know that I didn't get hit.  I remember watching a storm outside my bedroom window when I was a child growing up in Brooklyn.  The rain poured in gray sheets.  Lightning cracked.  I saw the bolt hit the pavement.  I don't think I ever recovered.  The sheer power frightens me.  I've seen lightning strike three or four times on subsequent occasions.  It even hit in our yard once and killed the root systems of most of our trees.  I wonder what it's like to be struck.  Or at least I wish I could get hit once and get it over with.  Is that why some people play the lottery?  When my wife and I started dating, she discovered me cowering in a windowless hallway during a violent storm.  She still married me.

I'll keep the next one short: I loathe flying insects.  I've described bees and wasps as lightning bolts of the bug world.  Spiders don't bother me.  I can run from them.  Or stay out of their webs.  I've been chased by a horse fly.  I screamed and tripped going in the back door.  The beast flew in after me.  I covered my head with a pillow and let my wife kill it; I'm not proud.  This fear probably dates back to when I was a child playing stick ball in the street and a wasp bit my tongue.  Maybe I shouldn't have had my mouth wide open.  Or have been yelling at my big brother.

You might be surprised to learn that I get freaked out walking beside barbed-wire fences.  Or chain-link fences, if sharp metal ends poke through at the top.  I always feel like the tiny barbs are going to pluck out my eyeballs.  There was a ball field in Phoenix that I walked through on my way home from high school.  It had barbed wire fences (or dangerous eye-threatening chain-link fences).  That's probably where the phobia started.  I even get freaked out driving beside them.  And I never drive with my windows down.

I fear being eaten alive.  That's not entirely accurate.  Of being swallowed whole.  Yes, that's better.  I think it's called phagophobia.  I would do fine being killed by a pack of wild dogs or getting torn to pieces by hungry lions.  The idea of going down prostrate in a whale's mouth or being consumed by an anaconda scares the shit out of me.  The fear probably comes from Jaws.  I hate when Captain Quint gets eaten by the shark.  I just hate it.  Fucking great white.

Of course, I have other fears, but things like cancer and car wrecks don't belong on this list.  They're not phobias.  Phobias are unfounded.  Even germophobia - anyone with half a brain knows that exposure helps you build up immunity; that's why we have vaccines for Christ's sake!  Phobias are silly.  Peculiar.  But I need them in my life, like I need a good plate of spaghetti and meatballs several times a week.  They complete me.