A Night of Hope - The Short Version

This was written in response to a local paper that had a 650 word limit but encouragingly called the original 3,290-word monstrosity I submitted "an interesting read".  Here's hoping.

*Edit*  It made it in!  Here's the link to the edited version; it looks like you have to subscribe to see the paper online.

Joel Osteen comes across as a regular, down to earth kinda guy. Often laughing at himself and always with a grin, he has full dark hair that never seems to move and a nice suit. His already small eyes are made to appear tiny by the huge white smile he affects. His wife and co-pastor of their Lakewood Church has long, blond hair and looks like a poster woman for the perfect Texan wife. On stage they stand with arms around each other’s waists, bathed in blue and white light from above, at the base of a gigantic on-screen cross towering over them.

Critics of Joel Osteen fault a lack of scripture and focus on sin in his sermons. I count at least fifteen quotes from the Bible but only two mentions of sin, and both were to assure us that God had already forgiven them. Instead his ministry focuses on hope and positivity, as well as “prosperity gospel” which teaches that God rewards the pious with health and wealth.

Which probably accounts for the immense popularity of Joel Osteen Ministries. The Houston-based church sees 43,500 attendees per week and his broadcasts reach over 7 million viewers in more than 100 countries weekly. It is reported that Joel Osteen himself is worth $40 million. His positive message gives hope to his followers and his religious backing provides them entry into Heaven. Sprinkle with self-empowerment, add promises of wealth and success, put it on television, and bam! (as another popular TV persona says) you’ve got a recipe for success.

The religious and secular people I speak with, however, all agree that Joel Osteen is a swindler; after people’s money by baiting them with empty promises of riches and a secured hereafter. One agnostic even went so far as to call prosperity gospel evil, but I have to disagree.

In the old days days success and wealth meant good crops or a plentiful catch, which seem perfectly acceptable to pray for. “Give us this day our daily bread,” as the Lord’s Prayer goes. Nowadays though, everything is done with money; no one raises their own crops. So if God is going to provide his children with daily bread, money is required to go out and buy it. Praying for financial success is the new praying for bountiful crops. Prosperity gospel’s promises seem no different to this heathen than the host of other claims religious people make, regardless of their theology.

I can see where Joel Osteen’s message of a paying God could rub people the wrong way, however. Recall Matthew 19:24: “Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” This is one Bible verse that needs no interpretation. Of course even those that don’t subscribe to prosperity gospel seem to ignore Matthew 19:24 and the other multiple places it appears in the Bible. We’ve all tried to make a deal with the Almighty for a raise, a good husband, to cure an illness, or just to get through the day.

The morning after “A Night of Hope” I awake in a good mood, with vague feelings of being able to start over. Start something over; I wasn’t sure what exactly. I’m in no fear of losing my atheistic integrity though. I went in with an open mind, and while my personal beliefs filtered out the theistic parts, the hopeful and inspirational portions still made it through.

Because really, if we remove the specifics from a lot of religious messages they all come down to the same things: Life is tough, bad things happen, but you can do something about it. It’ll be okay. And that’s all anyone wants, to have someone who cares tell them everything is going to be alright.

 ---

"A Night of Hope" For a Heathen

I love Christians.  Really.  Catholics are especially hot, and I’ve even dated a Mormon or two.

I grew up in the bible-belt of south-east Idaho, just three hours away from Salt Lake City, Utah.  Where we lived you were some form of Christianity (including a heavy Catholic population comprised of immigrant workers), Mormon, or non-denominational.  If you happened to be atheist or agnostic you were either quiet about it or an angry high school kid like I was.  In my tiny school full of cowboys, jocks, and preps it was unheard of to be non-religious which made the last couple years of high school very interesting at times.  This article aside, my days of arguing religion are long over.  I learned after a few years of beating my head against a brick wall that nobody wins religious debates.  I tried hard though, often.

It wasn’t always so.  While my family has always been spiritual, both parents had a distaste for organized religion.  That, and my dad worked 24/7 and my mom hated getting up early.  And being judged.  Still, I got together with the devout family a mile down the road and for a time during my childhood I got dressed up and piled into their van to sing “Jesus Loves Me” in English and Spanish.  I can’t remember how my church going days came to an end, but then came church camp.  Insert heavenly choir here.  Church camp was amazing:  Camping, s’mores, ping pong, hikes in the mountains, and the cutest non-local girls a kid from a town of a thousand could hope for.  Some of my most romantic and exciting virginal action happened at church camp.  Even when moving from curious, to agnostic, to atheist I still looked forward to camp every summer.  And not just for the girls.  Christians can be some of the coolest, nicest, most caring people in the world.  Especially at a time and place that has a high concentration of piety.

So when I received interview advice suggesting I let people know right off the bat that I was an atheist there was only a small amount of worry.  At worst I figured I get prayed at really hard.  Deflecting jokes about being stabbed by angry followers I’d reply, “Hey, that would make a great story too!”  Sadly traffic and the format of the event (I didn’t expect the entire thing to be assigned seating for some reason) prevented me from interviewing anyone besides a security guard so there were no prayer-stares or knife fights.

We show up at the Norfolk Scope Arena about fifteen minutes before the event is set to begin.  Hanging out by the literally blue-watered fountain while my photographer (read: girlfriend) snaps some pictures I begin to take in the crowd.  Everyone is dressed in nice clothes, whether it’s shorts and flip-flops or the more popular jeans and a golf shirt.  A few men are wearing suits and look like ministers themselves.  A large woman in a grey jogging outfit with pink stripes walks by hefting a well-worn bible and I notice about one in every five people are as well.  Everyone seems financially comfortable to well-off and I’m seeing a lot of big housewife asses.  At 7:30 the line on our side of the Scope is wrapped around the squat rectangular fountain and car traffic is still backed up on the surrounding streets.  I hear a few mellow complaints but the line is moving quickly and people are smiling in high spirits.  You can tell everyone is expecting a good old fashioned time, like this is a Neil Diamond concert or something.

Entering the building I wonder not for the first time if there will be popcorn.  The concession stands are up and running, selling $4 waters and $6 hot dogs.  And event staffer helps us find our sections and by providence we’re on the isle.  As my photographer snaps away and I start up my voice recorder and take notes I experience a feeling of paranoia, like everyone can tell we’re non-believers, like they can smell it on us.  When the announcer asks everyone to stand I feel a palpable wave of peer pressure for just a moment but stay seated.  Luckily the lady next to me stays in her seat as well so our infiltration feels less obvious.  The seats around us are already filled and most of the Scope seems that way, too.  Later a security guard tells us that the event sold out so they added more seats, only to have those sell out as well.  A sort of opening act is underway and the man mentions the t-shirts, books, and CDs that are available for purchase.  A pair of women behind us comment, not without bitterness, that the shirts are $25 a pop.  We see the t-shirts as we walk around during one of the blaring musical numbers.  They have slogans like, “Hope Is Alive”, “I Can Do All Things!”, and “More Than A Conqueror”.  The one shirt I do see with obvious religious text simply has the bible citation in tiny letters below the huge text.  The shirts are inspirational but not blatantly Christian.

Which is much like the Joel Osteen Ministry itself.  His Lakewood Church is non-denominational and based out of Texas, which happens to boast the largest congregation in America.  It used to be a sports arena and, just like the t-shirts, is absent of religious symbols like alters or even a cross.  During the multiple sermons punctuated by energetic musical performances I keep a tally of how often he mentions sin and quotes from the bible.  Critics of Joel Osteen say that both are lacking from his sermons and from the videos available on JoelOsteen.com I can see what they mean.  Tonight I count about fifteen scripture references but only two mentions of sin.  And both were in a positive manner as in, “...by standing up tonight all your sins have been forgiven...” and, “God isn’t mad at you, he’s already forgiven your sins...”  Now, I haven’t been to church in some years but apparently fifteen bible verses isn’t enough.  To his critics it seems like Joel Osteen’s cardinal sin is being too positive.  Well that and spreading “prosperity gospel”, which teaches that God rewards the pious with health, wealth, and happiness.

Which may very well account for his immense popularity.  His physical church in Houston averages 43,500 attendees per week and his media broadcasts reach over seven million viewers weekly in more than one hundred countries.  It’s reported that Joel Osteen is personally worth $40 million.  One of the questions I had for my possible interviewees was, “Why Joel Osteen?”  During my research and after the night’s event the question seemed unnecessary; even this heathen can understand his allure:  He has a plan for happiness and success (a plan that is apparently working out very well for him) as well as for getting into heaven.  Not only will God take care of you in this life, this relationship, this economy, but once your time here is done you’ll be taken care of in Heaven forever and ever amen.  You’re set in both realms, the earthly and the spiritual.  I don't know about you, but I find that a much more attractive offer than wanting in this (very real) life to possibly secure happiness in another existence that no living person has ever seen.  Even for the faithful that must be a hard wafer to swallow at times.

The religious and secular friends I spoke with all see Joel Osteen as a swindler, only after people’s money by baiting them with empty promises of wealth and success, and that prosperity gospel in general is wrong.  I disagree, at least on the latter point.  In the old days success and wealth meant good crops, a plentiful catch, or however people fed themselves and had goods to trade.  “Give us today our daily bread”, as the Lord’s Prayer goes.  Nowadays though everything is done with money.  No one raises their own food or uses the barter system to take care of their earthly needs.  So if God is going to make sure His people are secure and have their daily bread that necessitates money to go and buy some.  Praying for financial success is the new praying for bountiful harvests.  I may be playing devil’s advocate here, but I have no problem with prosperity gospel.  It seems no different to me than the host of other claims religious people make on a daily basis, regardless of their gospel.

However I can see how it would be a very slippery and dangerous slope.  Jesus taught to be generous and humble, which you could do with millions I suppose, but it’s difficult and rare.  Remember the cup that Indiana Jones chooses in Last Crusade?  It’s a plain wooden goblet (although the inside does appear to be lined with gold.  Metaphor?) and it’s the first image I see any time I think about Jesus.  I get the impression of a relaxed and groovy guy wandering about and helping people; and I think this image of a simple, thrifty Jesus is more in line with his teachings than some of what Joel Osteen is saying.

I could just be thinking of Matthew 19:24 though:  “Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”  (Thanks, Kids In The Hall)  Now they aren’t coming right out and saying it, but aren’t they heavily implying that it’s impossible to go to heaven if you’re rich?  This seems to be the main point of friction between “regular” and prosperity gospel.  Of course even those that don’t subscribe to Joel Osteen’s particular brand of Christianity seem to ignore Matthew 19:24 and the other multiple places it appears in the bible.  People may complain that Joel Osteen teaches God will give you health and wealth for being a good follower but lay and ordained Christians of every denomination pray for that raise, a good husband, a new car, to beat an illness, to get through the day.  We’ve all tried to make a deal with the Almighty for something we really want.  If God has control over every detail of our lives I’d definitely want Him to include my finances and health in His plan.

Joel Osteen himself comes across as funny and charismatic, often laughing at himself and always, always, always with a grin.  The one time I saw anything but a smile on his face is when he briefly broke down crying on stage.  My research had warned me about this and I saved a space to tally the amount of times he cried, but it only happened the one time.  His huge, white grin makes his already small eyes look tiny and he has dark full hair that doesn’t seem to move.  His wife and co-pastor Victoria has long blond hair, blue eyes, and looks like the poster woman for the perfect Texan wife.  They stand together onstage, bathed in blue and white light from above, at the base of a huge onscreen cross towering above them.  As I watch them on the distant stage or the gigantic media screens I can’t help but think of The Fellowship of the Sun, the fictional church bent on purging the world of vampires in the True Blood universe and how Joel and Victoria have to be the basis for the husband and wife characters that preside over it.  They have Texan accents and chime in here and there on each other’s stories, and when Joel covers his face to cry she rubs his back.  Each of them have books and CDs of their own for sale and Victoria does children’s literature.  Early in the night Joel recounts the story of how they met and how glad he was when he found out she was already a good Christian girl.  He jokes that it saved him the trouble of having to convert her and the whole place comes alive with laughter.

Joel’s mother makes an appearance to testify that God saved her life and gave her the strength to survive terminal liver cancer when doctors didn’t know what to do and gave up.  Shortly after that a woman from the choir takes center stage and tells a similar story about a (implied non-Christian) doctor that refused to operate on her massive goiters when they didn’t know what was causing it.  (I began to sense a pattern but luckily those were the only testimonies I saw that night.)  Through her tears, the woman explained, she still felt that God had a plan for her, and she was able to find a calm, professional, Christian doctor on the Internet who’d done goiter operations in third-world countries and through God’s power she was healed.  Not only that, but she didn’t even lose her singing range as the callous secular doctors had cautioned may happen.  She exclaimed to applause, “With men it may be impossible, but with God all things are possible!”

I can’t help but recall a time when I provided tech support to a Christian architect that used painfully old and personalized drafting software.  One day he had majorly screwed something up and unless I got it back to normal he was seriously fudged, to put it politely.  After some tense trial and error (with him pacing behind me or watching over my shoulder) I fixed it and he clapped me on the back excitedly exclaiming, “Thank you Jesus!”  I smiled ruefully and thought, “No, thank me!”  Over the applause the woman continued, “God had pre-picked a surgeon for me!”  Call me cynical but God also “pre-picked” the goiters and the resultant stress of losing what I assume to be her profession and her passion.  Continuing my cynicism I have to point out that the Internet where she found the doctor, the science behind the medical training he received, the successful operation, etc: all made possible by man.  Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.

She segued seamlessly into a song and we used the opportunity to walk around a bit and look for potential interview subjects.  Sadly the music was too loud to really talk to anyone hanging around outside.  Walking the circumference of the Scope we noted that the t-shirt stands were shut down and the food vendors were following suit.  The outdoor smoking area was only occupied by one or two people and a tall man wearing red, white, and blue carried a fussing baby around with a bemused look on his face.  The security guard we talked to told us the concerts and even the hockey events they host are all calm, but in comparison this was dead.  He’s quick to say he’s not bored though; the Scope is his home away from home, especially during hockey season.  Curious, I ask him what events are the craziest and ironically he says The Jonas Brothers were the worst.  He’s worked Warped Tours, Carnivals of Mayhem, etc, but nothing compares to the high-pitched squeal of teenage girls.  He won’t be forgetting his ear plugs for the upcoming Justin Bieber concert.

We head back in through a different section to get a new vantage point and my photographer leaves me to boldly try to get closer to the stage.  At one point Joel asks all the military people to stand up and I’m surprised at their low numbers.  Even when he augments this with the families of those who proudly serve it’s still less than I’d expect.  During the last sermon and blessing I notice that a lot of the event staff are standing in the back.  I catch one woman falling asleep on her feet so I’m not sure if they’re present for inspiration or to get a jump on tear-down.

The final sermon is composed of blessings and advice from Joel, the first and most surprising of which is for everyone to find a local bible-based church to join, gushing that there are some great ones in the area.  They’re glad if people like watching them on TV but to really develop a local church is needed, he explains.  As he says this an abortive applause is heard and dies out in about three claps.  He warns us about friends that will pull us away from the Lord, and if you love ‘em and don’t want to leave ‘em, “take ‘em to church!”  He tells us all our sins are washed away, forget the past, and don’t let people throw your mistakes in your face and make you negative.  His final word of advice is to talk to God everyday, like you’re talking to a good friend.  Then he began to bless us.  I can’t ever recall being blessed before so my ears perked up at this.  “Everyone under the sound of [his] voice” became blessed with all manner of positive things:  Creativity, good choices, courage, success, health, wealth, promotion, and long life.  Joel broke all curses and negativity, personal and familial, and asked everyone that had been blessed to shout “Amen!”  I was tempted, I really was.

---

The next morning I awoke in a good mood, with vague feelings of being able to start over.  Start something over; I wasn’t sure what.

As I feed my son the first bottle of the day and inspect this curious positivity I’m in no fear of losing my atheistic integrity.  If we had attended a nihilism rally instead I would have been affected by that the next day, too.  I went in with an open mind and while my personal beliefs filtered out the theistic parts the upbeat and positive portions still got in.  Joel Osteen really does have the perfect recipe to reach and inspire people:  God will take care of your health, success, and finances in this life and lift you up to Heaven once it’s over; He is not mad at you and has already forgiven all your sins; the past doesn’t matter and don’t let anyone make you feel bad about it; the creator of the Universe will not let you fail.  Add in heavy amounts of positivity and hope, sprinkle with self-empowerment, leave out the negative bits about sin and hell, and put it on TV.  Bam!  As another popular TV persona says.  You’ve got yourself a great product.

I hadn’t been particularly inspired by the previous evening, though.  If anything I felt underwhelmed.  I suppose a part of me was expecting some over the top Christian antics like speaking in tongues (glossolalia is the scientific term) or frenzied dancing.  I barely even saw people doing that creepy arms-raised-to-God thing they show on TV and I somehow missed the few crying people as they left the venue, although my photographer spotted them.  But Joel Osteen Ministries is not one of those snake handling churches and the man himself gives the impression of being a normal, down to Earth kinda guy so it only makes sense that his followers would be regular Joes, too.  No circus for the theologically challenged, just average folks looking to be inspired.

And really, if we remove the specifics from a lot of religious teachings they all come down to the same things:  Life is tough, bad things happen, but you can do something about it.  Don’t kill people or take their things; try to be nice; and the afterlife, this life, or both will be better.  It’ll be okay.  And that’s all anyone wants, to have someone who cares tell them everything is going to be alright.

Hong Kong

There's a Chinese food restaurant in Suffolk that we've been going to for years. Jonas was being fussy and refusing to sleep so we decided to take a drive and stopped in on a whim.

K introduced me to Hong Kong (just "Hong Kong", not "Hong Kong Garden" or "Hong Kong #1") during one of my early pre-relocation visits. We ordered a bunch of the delicious food and took it back to the hotel room, eating on the wide bed and watching cable TV or a movie on my laptop. Even before we went broke and the food took on the extra flavor of decadent luxury Hong Kong has the best Chinese food we've ever tasted. It's located far enough out in Suffolk that the drive itself is a relaxing treat but not so far away as to become a pain.

Hong Kong resides in a small, sprawling shopping center consisting of a grocery store and perhaps eight other businesses. All around is green and trees, and this year I note a field of corn across the street. The cross-street is a simple two-lane road without street lights that winds into small neighborhoods and fields. The restaurant itself can house about forty people, I'd say, but I've never seen anyone eat there. It seems everyone gets their food to go. I've never even been asked if my order was dine in or carry out. The lack of sit-down customers doesn't translate into slow business though, as the cooks are always busy. People regularly come and go, collecting heavy bags of stiff brown paper full of warm food, the tops folded over and stapled neatly. It smells good in there, always.

The industrial strength carpet has remnants of blue in the mix but has taken on the dark gray of immeasurable foot traffic. Long thin rectangles of missing thread run at diagonal angles towards the front counter. Hong Kong is old and worn but clean, with well established character much like the family members who run it. The back-lit pictures of menu items above the counter seem impossibly old; faded and seemingly ageless I can imagine they've existed forever. There's a humongous photograph mural, also back-lit but not as faded, of forested cliffs and mountains from some far off Asian country, the surface of the plastic still smooth and glossy. Other ornamentation include scrolls and calendars, business licenses, the obligatory lucky waving cat, and "no smoking" signs, most of which are slightly yellowed with time.

Always behind the counter is a young Asian girl, although she's now probably in her mid-twenties. Everyone who works here is part of the same family and K went to high school with the children, whom I'm told are the only ones who speak English. She looks exactly the same as she always has, her advancing age only sensed as something coming through from behind her skin. She has perfect English and works the simple cash register with remarkable speed and accuracy, like she's been doing it for a lifetime. Her skill has the air of extreme boredom, as does the tone even I can detect as she turns to relay my order to her older family members in their native language.

After she translates my order (vegetable lo mien) she sits behind the counter. There's never any small talk or conversation beyond the borders of order placement. At first it seems like she's looking at me, her eyes moving just above it's surface, but a second later I realize there must be a computer screen crammed behind the counter. I gather she's checking Facebook or watching videos online, which would explain the slight smile in her eyes. It's the only time I've seen any change in her expression.

Sitting at one of the identical Formica tables I realize I don't have my pen on me for the first time in lord knows how long. I tell the girl I'll be right back and head out to the car to see what I can find. I pull a green notebook from between the driver seat and center console and ask K for the pen she always keeps in her wallet, but apparently Jonas has misplaced it. The urge to write get stronger with every obstacle. I know if I had a notebook and pen on me I wouldn't want to write as badly. I find a carpenter's pencil among the crap in the console and head back inside. The huge graphite notes I scribble while discreetly taking in the details of my surroundings feel like a scratch over a very needy itch, the kind that gives so much relief it's worth having the itch there in the first place.

Soon my own brown paper bag is ready and I cradle it warm against my chest as I walk out, nodding my thank yous and finishing a sentence in two-line-tall letters. I can't wait to get home and dig in to both of these.

Spasm

It feels like I've been sick forever. I know it's only been about two weeks, but good god. Even objectively that sounds like a long time. Sickness, like hangovers, has a way of slowing time down. Days last forever, movies take longer, things are more drawn out. If I hit it just right it's actually enjoyable. It forces me to take my time, move with more forethought, slow down. Sadly that stage has made up the minority of my infirmity.

I developed this cough. A persistent dry cough with nothing coming up, even though morning glances in the mirror show busted blood veins in my eyes. It didn't even feel like there was anything to cough up. I dealt with it, thinking it was the weather or letting the hookah get too hot. It subtly progressed to a state in which I could not breathe without constant conscious effort. It reached the tipping point one night when laying in bed I couldn't catch my breath, no matter what position I lay in or how hard I made myself cough to clear out whatever was in there. So I went to the ER.

I put on jeans and my work shirt from the day, and took a book. I've been in ER waiting rooms before and they are long and boring. Even if you're bleeding and limping. Even past Midnight. The unaffected nurse took down my name and social security number and provided me with a wrist band, all without looking at me. I sat down near a TV playing some new show with Jason Lee and cracked open Running With Scissors, noting I was the only white guy in a room of about twenty. Scratch that, an oddly aged mother/son duo emerged from possibly the same bathroom. Glancing down at my book I noted dried baby food stains on my shirt. I had no idea how long they'd been there.

Soon I had my preliminary checkup with a nurse who took my blood pressure and asked about allergies, medications, and my favorite: pain level. Scale of one to ten. Even when I had a broken hand, sprained wrist, and swollen useless knee I still said "six". Tonight I said no pain. I always wonder if the higher the reported pain level the faster you get in to see the doctor.

Not long after that (the show didn't even end) and elderly woman in a beefy looking wheelchair (which had the look of being hospital provided) and I were called to head back. Perhaps breathing problems hold precedence over other maladies as I was called up before 98% of my fellow sufferers. I held the door open for the nurse and woman as we left the waiting area and I was shown to a room near the reception desk. The woman told me to put on the green gown squarely folded on the bed, adding that I could keep my pants on. Which I appreciated as I never know what to take off in these situations. Like with a masseuse, does "get undressed" mean undies too? I know it's safer to just leave them on but a part of me still doesn't want to be seen as an idiot. Like the masseuse is going to go, "Oh man, look at this retard. He left his underpants on! No happy ending for this guy, haha!"

A professional looking nurse with straw-colored hair came in and listened to my chest in multiple locations, front and back. She asked how long it's been going on, if I'm coughing anything up, if I smoke, etc. She tells me I'm going to get a chest X-ray. A young, tall fellow in green scrubs comes to get me for the X-ray and is nice enough to tie my gown for me in the back. Tricky things. As we walk towards the X-ray machine he asks me how long it's been going on, if I'm coughing anything up, if I smoke, etc. I answer again that I smoke a hookah but not cigarettes. He reacts like I'm trying to defend smoking pencil shavings in lieu of regular tobacco, which annoys me. I get two X-rays, front and side. I have to grab a bar above my head for the side shot and coupled with the open gown it makes me feel like a woman getting a breast exam.

Then I'm sent back to the cold room where the full-on doctor (who is a very handsome, short woman with full brown hair, green eyes, and freckles) listens to my chest in multiple locations, front and back, and asks how long the cough has been going on, if I'm coughing anything up, and if I smoke, etc. I am extremely patient and thankful to all hospital staff but I still notice things like being asked the same set of questions three times.

She says that she definitely hears some crackling in my lungs and hooks me up to a socket coming straight out of the wall. I have done this before but the implications of breathing gas out of a wall socket are not lost on me. It's like my respiratory system has expanded to include the innumerable pipes and gaskets in the walls and ceilings that make a thing like this possible, like my lungs are now a part of this building's structure, and visa versa.

The gas is basically the same stuff you find in an inhaler, but you get a constant stream of it and breathe deeply for some minutes instead of taking a couple of quick hits. The pretty doctor tells me to relax and breathe through the misting contraption and she'll be back in about ten minutes. I try to read but holding the hard plastic device in my mouth and keeping a book in a comfortable line of sight is tricky. So I watch a horrible, horrible movie on USA or TBS with Wesley Snipes and some Latina stripper. Truly terrible stuff. It's literally the worst part of my night.

About ten minutes later the gas stops and I'm just breathing air through a weird tube, so I stop using it and resume my reading. An hour after that I see the professional nurse walk by on the way to somewhere, catch sight of me out of the corner of her eye (but not look right at me, the mark of a true pro), stop, and head back in another direction. Yep, I had been forgotten about. The doctor returns, says she doesn't think it's an infection but a bronchospasm and that she's sending me home with an inhaler and some cough suppression medication, and then I'm all set.

Over an hour later the professional nurse returns with my medicine and has me demonstrate that I know how to use the little clear tube they give out with the asthma inhaler. Spritz, inhale, 1 2 3 4 5, exhale. Good, and again. She explains that the pharmacy didn't deliver the goods because they weren't sure what room to deliver it to even though she called down three times to check on it. I tell her it's no problem and completely mean it. I got like a hundred pages of reading done.

On the way out the parking garage charges me $5. $5 at the rate $1 per hour. Yeah, it's almost six in the morning. I wonder if I could have maybe gotten my ticket validated or something, but it seems cheap to ask about that kinda thing in the ER.

I can feel the inhaler running low and my cough medicine (which are tiny, round, clear, bubble bath bead looking things) is all but used up and just today is the first day I wasn't dependent upon them. I even started calling the inhaler my "pacifier" by mistake. I'm finally able to cough some things up and sleep through the night without getting out of bed to take my hacking and wheezing to the far end of the apartment. Which is awesome because a bloke like me revels in his beauty sleep.

And wellness can't some soon enough. I have a desperately neglected hookah that needs some making up to.

Baby, Baby

My son finishes his bottle and turns towards me, putting his arms up around my neck. His eyes are already half-closed and I can feel the quiet in his body. He is ready for bed. We've had a long couple of days, weeks, months together, and it feels like we've reached some new plateau of mutual understanding. Like some major things have just ratcheted into place for both of us.

My son, my beautiful, intelligent, playful son is in my arms, one soft arm around my neck, one in between my body and arm. It's always thus. I'm holding him in a sling made from both forearms, rocking gently and bouncing from time to time. A burp escapes his body and I can hear from where it starts in his little stomach, up through his torso and out over my shoulder. I whisper and pat his back.

I turn to look at the clock now to see when I'll lay him down. 10:08. Two minutes. I always go by the clock so I won't rush it. Time is so subjective when you're waiting for it to pass. Tonight I have the presence to enjoy the two minutes instead of check the clock every ten seconds.

Suddenly it occurs to me, concrete and real, that I won't be able to do this much longer. Already he's a year old, so big and tall and growing all the time at an incredible rate. Physical attributes aside, how much longer will he even want to be held? One year old seems like the perfect age. He's perfect right here, right now. I want to stop his aging, keep him one forever. It'd be wonderful. He can walk, he's learning sign language so fast, he eats and sleeps pretty well, we have a system down. I could handle an eternal one year old.

I wonder briefly if there are any vampires in town, but the thought of feeding a baby blood puts me off. I don't want him to get any older. I hug his huge, tiny body against mine, press my face into the crook of his sleeping neck. My eyes begin to water. It feels like he will be leaving me soon, breaking up with me, moving away. It's too much. Is this what my dad went through? I want to hold and cuddle and sleep with him forever. But he'll get big and greasy, angry and too old for me. It's the tragedy every parent experiences; we all come to it on our own, it's never mentioned in Sex Ed or in any of the brochures.

10:10 clicks into place. I hug him tightly, lay him down in his newly-lowered crib, pull a thin blanket over his legs. I rub his head and stomach and tell him I love him. This time out of the many others feels more articulated, less rehearsed. You don't know what you got 'till you know it'll be gone.

Taco Bell and Tunnels

The baby starts to make small frustrated noises. The man is asleep in the bed a foot away. He snaps awake and looks at the clock. Thirty minutes. He has only slept thirty minutes. His alarm has a little over three minutes left until it would have woken him.

The man gets up, making shushing noises, and looks into the crib. The baby is laying on his side jerking his head and arms as he glances around wearing a displeased and confused look. His face is already reddening. The man picks a yellow and white pacifier off the starred bed sheet and places it back in the baby's mouth. For a moment the noise stops and the baby is calm again. The man can smell the not-altogether unpleasant smell of a wet diaper as his hand nearly envelopes the baby's warm torso and gently rocks him. The baby is young enough yet that only one of his wastes actually smells bad.

The man caresses the baby's head of perfectly soft skin and light hair back to front back to front. The baby's breathing slows, the pacifier moves in it's tiny way that no machine or computer animation could ever match. The man likes to watch it.

The baby's eyes pop open, the pacifier falls out of his mouth and he begins to cry again. The man fusses with him, running through a quick list of fixes. Nothing works. He picks the baby up, holding him against his chest, the small warm head in the crook of his neck. He places the pacifier back in the baby's mouth and begins to rock him up and down, shushing in time. He places his hand on the baby's back, thumb keeping the pacifier in place, index along the side of his head, fingers across his neck. This usually calms him.

The man rocks the baby up and down up and down up and down, stepping from one foot to the other. He goes out into the hall where the light is more dim and it's a bit cooler. Once in a while the baby starts awake like he just remembered something he had to do. The man tries to keep the baby's head on his chest but he knows that being too forceful will make things worse. He lets the baby look around then gently lays his head back down. There is a clock on the floor. The man passes seven full minutes this way.

The baby seems to be asleep. The man puts his sleeping pad in the bed and lays the baby on it. He lays down close and pulls the covers up over both of them. The AC vent is right above the bed and he doesn't want the baby to be cold. Within five seconds the baby is fussing. Within ten he is crying and will not accept the pacifier. The man knows it is pointless now.

The man picks the baby up and puts him atop his chest. He is desperate, trying anything. The baby sleeps like this on the fiance every morning. Replacing the pacifier the man rocks the baby, patting his back. It is no use. The baby is loud now. All the man wants is some more sleep for them both. The baby has only slept thirty minutes in over six hours, the man about four hours in the last twenty-four. He is always so tired.

The man suddenly flips the baby over to lay on his back and tells him to shut up, shut up. The baby continues on, unaffected. The man lifts the baby into his arms and pushes the pacifier into his crying mouth and heads for the kitchen. He starts the warmer, pours six ounces of formula into a bottle, and sets the timer. The baby is very loud now. The man rocks him vigorously trying to shush him but his voice is drown out by the wails.

The baby pushes off the man spinning his head to the left and the right looking for god knows what. His face is red and his mouth is a permanent inverted horseshoe. He keeps rejecting the pacifier and it almost falls to the floor. The man squeezes the baby tight against him, feeling the warm skin against his arms. The baby's legs are stretched straight, his head rising and falling with dangerous speed. He almost catches the man's chin with his brow bone. The man is very alone at this moment.

The man yells for the baby to be quiet. He is so frustrated his vision barely registers. All he can do is hear the crying, the crying that never ends. It's weight on the entire length of his nervous system, the wires grounding into a silent scream of his whole being. The man walks from kitchen to living room and back rocking the baby hard. The baby's cries die down a little either from tiredness or the man's attempts to calm him. The man doesn't care which. The timer goes off after six minutes of eternity.

The man and the baby sit on the red couch in front of the television. The baby is still upset. The man begins to feed him without pausing to start the movie stalled on the DVD menu. The baby accepts the bottle. The whole world goes quiet. His tiny hands flutter around the bottle, clumsily trying to hold it for himself already. The man watches as the hands explore. He leans his head down to kiss the baby and smell his skin. He runs his lips against the baby's hair. He leaves his lips pressed to the top of his head for a long time.

---

The baby pushes himself off the man's chest and burps. He lowers himself down and back up; he has spit-up on his forehead, cheeks, and chin. He smiles at the man and glances away for a moment, being coy. He coos and talks to the man in single vowels as the formula is wiped from his face. The man smiles at his son and asks him questions in an excited tone of voice, punctuating his questions by tickling his chest or dabbing at his mouth. The baby is happy, and so is the man. At this moment the man is no longer alone.

The man picks a clean Onesie with a loose neck and easily slips it over the calm face and playful arms. He lays the baby down on the red couch and puts in a new DVD with lots of color and sound. He begins to change the baby's diaper, keeping his tone and face playful. He hands the baby the bottom of his Onesie and asks him to hold it for him. The baby always helps in this way unless he's crying. The baby watches the man with a small smile. After a while he grabs the hanging end of his car seat restraint and clumsily puts it in his mouth as he watches the television.

The baby's face is calm. The man always wonders what he is thinking. The man idly thinks about the baby's future: about what his voice will sound like when he can speak, about what he'll say and ask, about the hundred things he'll want to be when he grows up. He wonders what traits of his he will inherit, like he has from his father. The father's father is his yardstick and his example. There are so many things he wishes he could simply give the baby, things that everyone must learn for themselves even if it takes a lifetime. The man wants to spare him from any pain physical or otherwise.

The man still checks on the baby in the night to see if he's breathing. He will risk the baby's cries to feel his tiny chest rise and fall with his sleeping breath, to brush a smooth arm or leg to see the baby move. He would give up limb and organ for the sake of his son. The man has loved intensely and known with finality that he would forfeit his life for another. But this goes beyond that. No words can touch it. It's in every cell and electrical impulse and thought. It is his being. This is what the entire Universe has purposed him for. It goes beyond cliche and higher thought processes. But the man knows even this is lacking. It is unnameable in the truest sense he has ever known.

The baby is lifted up and held against the man in hug that cannot yet be returned. The man hopes some part of the baby can recognize it. He places him in the seat and sweet talks him all the way to the car.

---

The baby is in his car seat behind the passenger side. Normally the baby is calmed by driving, but now he is whimpering. The man stops singing and looks for a place to put his drink. There is none. He pulls over into a parking spot parallel to the street and stretches back to find the pacifier. He places it back in the baby's mouth and contorts his arm to reach behind him and keep it in place as he drives. He strokes the baby's head and face with his fingers. He has to keep his arm there for the entire drive and his first two fingers feel as fat and as dead as a drowning victim. They drive through the night with no real destination and the baby begins to cry every time the car stops. It is a long drive.

The man wants to bring dinner home to the fiance. He pulls into the drive-through of a fast food restaurant. The baby is finally asleep but the man eyes him warily as the car stops moving. The baby stays asleep. Fifteen minutes go by before the man even has a chance to pay. The fiance calls when he is next in line. Work is over and she is walking the short distance home since he isn't there. The man says he'll be there soon.

The man stops the car at the mouth of the tunnel. A city worker in impossibly fluorescent green coveralls with reflective strips has stopped traffic. There is one car ahead of him. He sees a tow truck enter the tunnel and thinks there has been a wreck. The baby wakes up and begins to cry. The man has read there is no scientific proof that a baby's cry changes with it's complaint, but to him this sounds like the baby doesn't like the stillness of the car. There is no where for the man to go. He is trapped.

The baby turns his head from side to side trying to get away from the pacifier. The man doesn't understand why the baby does this. He shushes him and looks towards the tunnel, helpless. Nothing is moving. He begins to rock the car seat and the baby stops fussing. After a few minutes he is quiet again as long as the seat is rocking. The man tries different positions in the front seat, always sure to keep his arm moving. Time passes and cars turn off their lights and engines. The man's entire faculty is pointed towards the baby, hyper-alert for signs of distress.

The man is able to drive through. When he removes his hand from the baby's head nothing happens and he is thankful. It has been less than six miles to his house since the drive-through but it has taken him an hour to travel the distance.

The man is able to get inside his apartment without waking the baby, carrying the car seat with the child still inside across the lawn and up the flight of stairs. No one answers when he knocks. Unlocking the door he hears the white noise of the shower. He sets the car seat down but does not remove the baby. He sits on the red couch and rests his chin on the heels of his hands. His eyes begin to water. The man takes his glasses off and cries into the darkness of his covered eyes.

---

The fiance enters the room, two colorful towels concealing her clean skin and hair. She asks the man if he is okay. He can only shrug. She comes to sit near him and he begins to cry again. He hides his eyes and can't stop the despair in his voice as he retells the horrors of the crying baby and the long drive-through line and closed tunnel. Even as he hears himself he realizes how melodramatic it sounds. How ridiculous. The man says aloud a thought he would only let himself half realize: it can't be possible for things to be like this. The fiance's hands are warm on his back and leg as she comforts him. After a time he meets her eyes and surprised to see that she has been crying as well. The man feels better.

The man cannot later recall if they let the baby sleep through the night or wake him for a last bottle and change before laying him in the dark bedroom for the only long stretch of sleep he'll have that day. The fiance and the man spend time together on the red couch watching the television and talking easily about nothing. Their legs are jumbled together as they lay at opposite ends. They are enjoying the respite of each others company. Then man's ears regularly perk up for the faint sound of the baby's cry two rooms away but he hears nothing.

The baby is laying on his side, his face serene in the low light. The man looks down on him with an expression he senses is a mix of unbearable tenderness and torture. But the baby is asleep and breathing and at this moment nothing can be wrong in the world. The man lays his hand on his son and whispers goodnight or only thinks it, he can't tell which. Two dogs, a cat, the baby, and his fiance are all bedding down in that room for the night. He lays down next to the fiance and they warm each other as they fall asleep. The man does not dream but he wakes rested the next morning.

How Was Your Weekend

Written January 24^th, 2009


"Hey Charles, how was your weekend?"

"Good, good. I went out after work on Friday (after not eating all day and biking about fifteen miles), drank a hard cider followed by approximately seven Irish Car Bombs in quick succession, and then proceeded to throw up at the table into glasses, into my lap, and onto the floor.

Afterward I stumbled outside, half blind, and proceeded to bitch about the cold while Robert supervised and used a tree to support myself until I decided to just throw up on all fours onto the grass. Then David S., K, Robert, or some combo of all three got me into David's car and I held a bag to my face until we got to my place. I don't remember any of the trip. Besides making sure I kept the plastic bag around my face at all times. Can you say you asphyxiation?

Then I was carried into my apartment by David S. and K like I was a wounded soldier and promptly found myself lying in bed without any clothes on. The lovely K had provided a bucket, water, and some Bayer. Apparently I fell asleep with a paper towel over my mouth and woke up once or twice only to throw up and go back asleep again.

Then I woke up for real, took a very slow shower, and laid back down for a while before getting up and starting a Lost marathon. That's been the routine: Taking it easy, hydrating, eating, Lost, repeat."

Friday night was a lot of fun while it lasted. I laughed a ton, saw some good people, and gave innumerable high-fives. I even got lucky and somehow skipped that stage between Fun and Puking where you feel like crap. I jumped straight to black outs and barfing. Go me! And today, besides being weak and slightly woozy in the morning, I've had no hangover. It's like I fell down this big hill and managed to miss every tree and rock and made it to the bottom with only some grass stains. Except the stains smell like the inside of my stomach.

I want to officially apologize to everyone involved for my reckless inebriation. I'm not accustomed to drinking alcohol. To that degree and intensity. I really should have eaten more, drank less, went slower, blah blah blah. I regret nothing, except possibly ruining anyone's night. It can't be super awesome to have a weirdo upchucking near you. Or in your car. Or having to carry him to his house. So for that, I'm sorry.

Now it's time for me to lay down before I go to bed. For all you lucky tossers that don't have to work tomorrow, have a good rest of the weekend.