AM and CS: Winding Down?

CS: Saturday, March 24
As with the week before we cleaned the Worship Church. Saturday's Community Service day yeilded no new experience, except for conversation. Toilet and floors can only be cleaned so many ways. The weather was sunny and warm, highs in the fifties according to the morning news. 7:58 am, Carl joined the work crew that gathered in front for the Broadway Junction station.

B---, the contractor from Bayridge flagged me down and gave me a friendly smile through his crooked teeth, "Hey", he nodded, drank his coffee and winked. He has a tattoo of his ex-wife and four kids on his back. A little short-sided considering he's divorced and re-married since. He lives near V----- but tries not to make a direct association because, shhhh "V-----'s a wife beater". More than being the cliche of an Italian A-cut work shirt, V----- talks way too much, and Irish and Italians don't get along by nature.

B--- shook his head at S---, the young white kid from Sheepshead Bay, and continued. "You know about poppie seeds? That's all b--- s---! You gotta eat a whole bag of that s--- to get on their radar. That stupid S.O.B. thought he could get one on the judge. Boom! Nine more months of Community Service for him." B--- was referring to random drug testing on Probation Report day. Someone in court failed a drug test and claimed it was his morning bagel.

"How about, pot, what if you were in the same room with a pot smoker." I asked. "You don't smoke?" I nodded no and pointed at my cigarette. "Well don't worry about it then, you gotta try to suck it in real hard for it to show up." "What if it's in your hair?" asked S---. "Wash it then! This isn't CSI, they're not gonna spend that kind of money on you unless you're on parole." B--- laughed at us, I guess in so many ways we are that naive. "How often do you get drug tested?" I aksed "When ever they want." The van pulled up, B--- finished his cigarette and crossed the street.

IC: Wednesday, March 22
Mr. L---- wanted to know what Carl thought of Monday night's Anger Mangement speaker on March 19. Carl said he was riveted by what he heard. Mz. N---- was a batterred woman who lead a life of drugs. She is now a self-made woman who went from being a drug addict, to becoming the head of a 501c3 for a battered woman. The "empress" who has risen from the ashes of a former life, told her personal story starting with her third divorce.

A heated conversation ignited the most volitile people in the group. A young man, R-- said that she left a good man and that he was really a functioning drug addict. He gave an example of his work mate who's been doing coke for years and always seems fine. She called him just another drug addict. His tone took a harsh turn, it would seem that R-- was talking about himself.

R-- said it was the black woman's role to keep her black man going. Mz. N----- sat straight up, took a deep breath and shook her long braids.

"If a man is putting that poison in his body, he doesn't repsect himself. That means he's disrespecting me. I am an empress and I need a king not a fool!"
"You telling me that You give up on him for that, every brother's on something? You're giving up on yourself then! You're goon awake up old and lonely!"
"I wake up every morning thanking God I saved myself! Let him rot!"

I nearly dropped my fruit cup, I was amazed and horrified at what I heard. This went on for some time, then Mr. L---- mediated it back down to a conversation and not a role-playing grudge match. But then another man spoke up, "That's why I don't date the black women, they always take us there." Then the conversation heated back up to a full boil. The meeting went into overtime. I found it disturbing to find out what some of these men really thought of women. Some of their comments made the Taliban look like a bowling league. And yes, most of these men are very verrrrrry angry. Oi, what a night.

At around 8:10 pm, Mz. N----- wanted to end the meeting with a prayer for peace, she wanted all of us to hold hands. I looked over at L---- with a strained look, shook my head, and mouth "no". He laughed covering his mouth. The group looked like a broken fence bowed in prayer. When we dispursed I handed the two Iwata's to L----. He was very excited, he now had the Cadilac of airbrushes. He took them out from their cases and held them carefully as if they were kittens. Again he said "I got no money." I told him to forget about the money. In a pretend whisper I said "But my empress wants you to make her a T-shirt that says 'Insane Cake Possie'."

Oola is an aspring baker with much talent. Carl ate about a third of her carrot cake for lunch once and went into a sugar coma. He couldn't stop at one bite.

CS: Saturday, March 18
Carl discovered that the Haitian crewmate's gold teeth were actually removable caps. They fell from his mouth as he mopped the "goodness" from the basement. He caught them with the grace and stealthiness of a ninja, not missing a sweep. At days end, Mr. B----- did personal interviews with each crew member to determine their total hours and term of probation.

"I was given 70 hours, 3 years of probation, and 12 weeks of Anger Management." Mr. B----- let out a whew sound and shook his head. "It'll all be over soon, son" he said. But will it? At this point I've missed instructor training at the Children's Garden, which means I won't be teaching this Spring. This is the first season that I will have missed in the eight years I've taught horticulture. Wow, that and not seeing my father while he was alive stings. Instead of training my apprentice and creating projects for kids I've been painting rooms, moving junk, and picking chicken bones and glass from bushes.

AM: Friday, March 17, Field Trip
Mr. L---- was out of town on vacation but we were assigned a group field trip. I got to the Anger Management office on time at 3:00 pm, but I was the only one there. The substitute councilor, Mr. M---- told me to take a seat in the lobby, I closed my eyes and took a nap. I awoke to find Mr. R------ sitting next to me. He's the older Haitian gentleman from our Monday night meetings. He uncrossed his leg and waved his cane. "Hello young sir, you look tired." I told him I was just resting my eyes, but he pointed out I was snoring. The other guy named L----, showed up, he talked about how he nearly clocked a punk on the bus on the way here.

Other than the usual allergies, Carl has breathing problems from a baseball accident. Oola says he has sleep apnea. Young Carl got slugged in the face when Leilani Shelton, the reformed Druish girl, finally hit the ball and with all her girlish enthusiasm threw the bat into the air. Carl saw stars then passed out from the pain.

Destination: "Slavery In New York" at the New York Historical Soceity. On the subway ride, I learned more about Mr. R-----. I always wondered what this older gentleman was doing with this group. But what I learned shocked me.

He told me his son came home bloody and beaten one day. He said it was over an iPod. Mr. R------ said to him "I never gave an iPod, where did you get this money?" His son confessed his involvment with a gang. Mr. R------ went to his school and reported his son's injuries and placed an inquirey. But instead, his 16 year old son lied about the gang beating and said he was beaten by his father. If he revealing his gang involvement, he would've put himself in mortal danger. That weekend the police showed up at 4:00 am and arrested Mr. R------ and placed his son in Child Custody Services (CCS). He was put away in Rikers till Tuesday afternoon and charged with endangering the wellfare of a child and domestic violence. His son was placed in foster care.

Mr. R------ reached into his jacket and unfolded a very worn piece of paper. I could barely make out the Kings County court seal. He showed me that the judge threw the case out after the course of a year. Of course the DA still insisted that this man who walks with a cane had violently attacked his child and should be punished. He now has to deal with CCS, and his son will not be home until after he has completed Anger Management, even though the case was thrown out. Mr. R------ caught the lone tear that ran from his eye and placed the court document back in his pocket.

Carl patted him on the hand and said "We don't have long, he'll be home with you soon." Carl wondered if he even belived himself, the court system seems to be a beast unknown to most men. Although he didn't recognise the DA's name, Carl wished her cancer. Not very usefull for a fifth level Cleric, one usually needs a first and last name and some hair according to the D and D players guide.

We entered through door that was labeled "Start", and walked through a very well designed multi-media exhibit. Although it was facsinating to see how New York was a Dutch slave trading post, I felt I was missing its depth (Carl is not black). I walked beside Mr. R------ through the tour as if I were walking with my father. I read to him when he couldn;t make out the signage. As we collected at the end of the exhibit, I asked him what he thought. With his thick Haitian accent he said "Its very interesting, but its for the white people. It makes them feel bad about the slavery. It makes black men feel ashamed."

Epilogue
On Saturdays I wear the worst clothes I own to do what has been mandated by court. Every week I wonder if I look as akward as I feel. As a joke Oola bought me a hair net and a stocking cap to complete my outfit: cafeteria chic? I've been told it will be over soon. My probation will span three years. Guess I'll write a book someday.

Scores on the board:
6 - 4 = 2 IC sessions
12 - 10 = 2 AM session
70 - 64 = 6 Community Service hours left... or maybe not

Another Probation Report Day

"Road to Riches" "Money, Power, Respect", "Criminal", "Get rich or die trying", "Ready to Die", "AmeriKKa's most WANTED", "Don't watch me, watch TV". These were not the new lobby signs at the probation office. These snappy phrases were printed on the jacket of the man that signed in before Carl. He put on his matching cap as he took a seat.

The female guard made me walk through the metal detector three times, I had an extra pack of cigarettes in my side pocket it turns out. She made a "tsk" sound each time that I walked through. She always makes that face; it's as if she draws her eyebrows on unevenly every morning around the large mole on her forehead. Her eyebrows tumble around on her face like two carp fighting over a peice of corn. Maybe this is a new occupational hazard: Shifty Eyebrow Syndrome.

My PO, Mr. L---, called me in. "How's the jet lag coming along, Carl?" he asked. I told him I think I've settled on Pacific Standard Time. He laughed, and said "Now you're three hours behind." He told me that his trip to China offset his sleep for about a month. That seems about right. Ver Klempt himself is still in Shanghai, he'll soon return to King County. He'll be going through the lag himself. He might bring back third world snacks with names like Monkeypaw Jerked Meat or Jellyfish Health Leather. I noticed the neighborhood blog has learned about our covert operation.

At this point in time, I no longer get up at 4:00 am looking for dinner, but I still have to take a late afternoon nap. Mr. L--- looked over my record and told me I was almost done with Anger Mangement. "Graduation Day, April 10" I said. I didn't make a crack about the diploma with the unhappy face seal. He is a nice man, but he is still "the man". Community Service is reaching it's end too, ETA three weekends. Soon I'll start teaching gardening to children in spring, my real community service job.

I posed two probation-related situations to Mr. L---. I have to plan for my father's death anniversary next year. I still miss him and think of him often. I also have a potential shot at becoming a spokesman for a series of craft DVDs (keyword is potential). He said as long as I can give him a scheduled date, neither would be a problem.

NOTE: Next Probation Report day March 28. Mid-afternoon home visit this week Thursday, March 16.

AM: Not An Angry Word Said

I took the elevator with L----, the young Puerto Rican guy with four kids. There were only five of us waiting in front of the group room, one other guy was in Individual Council. They sat around talking, I ate my soup. Well, despite making it there on time, the substitute Anger Management councilor sent us home. He said "Just sign in and go, I don't know where you're at with the program but you get credit for showing up." He left the room to look for the sign in sheet.

L---- said he was looking for a good airbrush. I told him I have two Iwata's that I don't use anymore, they just need new needles. I noticed that all eyes turned to us when I said needles. To clarify, I said he can purchase the AIRBRUSH NEEDLES at Pearl Paint for about $25 each. He said he'd like to buy the Iwatas from me but he was flat broke. He already has a dual action Badger and a 70 ppi compressor, but needs something finer for detail work.

Carl knows detail work, he went to a four year art college. He once airbrushed H.R. Geiger's Necronomicon and Frank Frazetta's Berserker onto the side of a van. It was described as a "bitchin" ride.

Since he hasn't been able to work, he's been airbrushing T-shirts and jackets for money. I don't like getting involved with anyone in the groups on a personal basis, but I do know he's been strapped for cash. I told him I'll bring it next week, he can take a look for himself. I'd rather just give it to him. I'm not a big fan of prison craft but maybe i'l ask him for a T-shirt.

We sat around and joked for about 30 minutes, then we all signed in and left. Reminder: We are meeting on Friday at the AM office at 3:00 pm. We will be going to an exhibit: "The History of Slavery in America".

Epilogue
Seems most of the guys have four or five kids with two or three different women. With exception for the MTA, a felony rap sheet will render anyone unemployable with most companies, despite rehab and training. On the other end of the spectrum, having a lot of experience can also render a seasoned pro unemployable in this day and age. I always wonder if the world will right itself. Politics and all, it is now upside down.

CS: Forgotten Garbage

It was 6:30 am, Carl dug through his laundry pile (the cleaner one) for work clothes. He woke Oola up showing her a bandana in one hand and a ski cap in the other. "El Bandito or Skater Dude, which one do you like?" She laughed. On Community Service days Carl wears clothes that he will eventually throw out. His usual CS ensemble, makes him look like a mismatched migrant worker.

Saturday, March 11
I arrived in East New York at 7:50 am and joined a group of 12 crew members that stood by the news stand. "Mr. Lee! One, two, three! Look it's Mr. Lee!" sang the Haitian man with the golden teeth. I rolled my eyes at him and unwrapped my bacon and egg sandwich. I offerred the other half to anyone who was hungry. Two people looked out for the CS van. V----, is a new crew member from Bensonhurst, "ex-wife trouble" he said. He was given 100 hours of CS. He asked me why I was stuck in CS. Not an unusual question, no one expects a Cleric to do Community Service. But I declined to answer, legal council has advised me against such discussion.

A grey, not blue, van pulled up, its windows were spray painted black. Are we seeing the affects of city cut-backs? As we filed in Mr. B----- took head count and announced that he'd need some strong men, he counted off ten and sent the rest home. V---- asked Mr. B----- where we were going. "S.I., baby" Someone in the back said "No s--t, my grandfather's f----n' burried there." Why should that be a surpirse. Everything in New York is burried on Staten Island: cars, medical waste, industrial debrit, the remains of the 911, and people.

We drove from East New York through Sheepshead Bay past Bayridge and over the Verrazzano Bridge. We wove in and out small streets and highways until we reached our destination: The Alzheimer's Foundation of Staten Island. The ranch style building was painted peptic-pink, dotted with shrub planted in-memorium. Ironically the plaques read "In Loving Memory of (name here)". We parked by a commercial moving truck, bright yellow and large. Mr. B----- said "Step out and chill for a bit, I'll be right back." We all waited in front of the truck smoking, V---- said "Crap! We gotta fill thing up?" he drives a truck for a living.

Mr. B----- and two men stepped out and looked us over. They conferred with each other jesturing with their hands. Mr. B----- shook his head "no" a few times. He walked towards us still shaking his head. "Alright gentlemen, today we have to unload five rooms of stuff and load it into this truck, carefully." Before we enterred the facility, the pungent smell of retirement home seemed to warn us of thigns to come. Five rooms were packed with furniture, bags and boxes. The hallways were cluterred with paintings, dishes, toys and loose pairs of shoes.

While loading the dolly, some artifacts would peak out from a box or bag: Snoopy snowcone maker, brightly colored sweaters, knit hats, wigs, old records, books and the like. Everthing was covered in a layer of dust and mold. We had our work cut out for us. Without much commotion, we formed two groups and moved everything from rooms to truck. We packed everything carefully until the truck was at capacity, large furniture at the back, crates, bags and boxes up front. Quality workmanship I'd say.

The truck driver locked up and told us to follow him. We trailed behind in the van for about four miles through the densely populated latino and black neighborhoods of Staten Island. The truck stopped in front of the Alzheimer's Foundation Thirft Shop. It made a three point turn and backed into the side garage's metal grate. A loud scraping sound echoed down the street. Everyone in the van yelled "Oh man!" and put their hands over their ears. We parked and got out of the van.

Mr. B----- was approached by typical denizens of the Thrift Shop world: Two very overweight women in their 60s, clad in tights and oversized sweaters, both in bad need of cut and color. Again Mr. B----- shook his head no, they looked us over with disdain and walked away stomping. "Who was that?" asked Goldie. Mr. B----- replied cracking a smile, "Those are the strippers I got for you today." "Oh man, you could lose your wallet in one of their folds!" yelled one of the crew. Mr. B----- continued "They want us to go back and unload the rest of the house, I told 'em no. You're here to serve probation, not to work till you drop." Mr. B----- is a good man.

Again we formed two teams and unloaded the truck with care. The two women made snarky comments about breaking things. We ignored them and continued to stack furniture to the back of the garage and bags and boxes to the front. When we finished, the truck pulled out and drove away. V---- asked one of the women for the bathroom, when he returned he reported "That b---h thinks we're trash, you should've seen the look she gave me." It's much worse when white people look down on other white people. Black folks expect it. Mr. B----- told us to wait by the van while he signed release papers. H-----, our West Texas boy said "I'll be back, I'm going to the store." Mr. B----- yelled "H-----, chill man, you can't be black and running down a street on Staten Island. You're on probation, remember?" S.I. is the one borough that scares me. Not for the crime, but for the fact that the townies and the cops don't like the darkies.

Epilogue
At our days end we stopped for pizza before we headed back to Brooklyn. Staten Island does have good pie. Over pizza I learned that of each crew member averages of 300 to 70 hours of CS work. The misdeanmor pleas range from weapon's and drug possession to theft. Seems that Anger Managment is standard court mandation for everyone on this crew, whether they need it or not. I have to say that so far everyone on the crew has been hard working and pretty decent.

Tonight I have Anger Management, Councilor L---- called me last week to say he made a mistake. Another councilor will take his place tonight so we must show up.

Tomorrow morning I have Probation Report Day with PO L---. V---- said that he has to report at 210 Jerolamon Street, "That's were you go when they really hate you." he said. I report to 345 Adams. I gather it's less heinious place.

I can still smell the musky odor of the Alzheimer's Foundation that settled into my work clothes. It's a dirty mix of sweaty body odor, pee, old food and carpet freshener. It's a very sad disturbing smell.

Scores on the Board:
70 - 48 = 22 Community Service hours left to serve

AM: Far and Away

Busy weekend. Gobarth was roasted on Friday, not becuase it was a death ritual for Clerics, but because he had turned 35. The Master of Ceremonies, an elvin Presley impersonator, lead personal jabs at Gobarth's character. Luckily Gobarth had a surplus of hit points and sustained minimal damage. Ver Klempt and Natzzo were seated at the deus and joined in the roasting. Ms. Vickers, Klem Matoh and Karl hid among the audeince. Actually Karl hid behind Oola when the MC started mocking their adventures. He said that the D&D adventures made Knit Night at the Dark Tower look like "Fight Club". Karl later said that he was protecting Oola from behind by "shadowing" her under his cloak. A good time was had but the collateral damage to the roasters and roastee was apparent at Olla's Oscar party the following Sunday. They blamed it on bad mead from Friday.

Sunday, February 5
I checked in on my mother on Sunday at 4:30 am EST. It was evening on Ladrone, Tara and her daughter were over for dinner, Ralph just walked in from work. My mother complained about bills and how slow everything was taking to process my father's paperwork. I took her kvetching as a healthy fighting response. I talked with all of them for about an hour. My mother has invited her friend Khar to move in since they are now both single women. Khar is Ladrone's version of Morgan Fairchild, divorced, fashion forward, and the first of my mother's friends to have had plastic surgery. She had eyelids put in. Over the years, Khar discovered the secrets of remaining eternally middle aged. I hope this is a good idea. It sounds more like a reality show called "Widow".

I tried to get back to bed, but I was already wide awake. I worked on some projects and house chores. I told Oola I'd help her with some of the Oscar party food. That evening she made a stewed lamb shank with couscous, I made a salad. Mind you, Oscar night is the gay super bowl, foraging for salad goods on this day was a task. Not a decent tomato or head of romaine to be found for miles.

Monday, February 6
I think I've recovered from the jet lag but I am a bit run down and dizzy today. There was so much to do this weekend. By around 3:10 pm I ran a temperature, was nauseus and was sweating with a stomach ache. I called councilor L---- at Anger Management and asked if I could skip tonight and make up for it on another day. He said I would have to get this pre-approved in writing from my PO, Mr. L---, just as I did with my father's funeral. In other words, he meant "No". I took some aspirin and a PB and said I'd be there. Councilor L---- reminded me that he was gone next week so I shouldn't miss tonight's lecture on AIDS, STDs and it's roots in Domenstic Violence. I dressed warmly, took Tums for good measure and caught my train.

As I pushed the elevator button at the building, D-----, yelled hold it. He jumped in and said "Hey Carl, thanks, how you doin' tonight?". Usually a genial, well spoken man, he held out his hand. I said was a little under the weather, and he withdrew and said. "Yeah I know, I woke up today and my big toe was bleeding." He made no sense to me but I smiled and nodded.

5:55 pm, I got Mr. L----'s attention, signed in took and took my usual seat by M---. He talking about how he nearly got arrested this weekend, which means he would go back to jail for a year and a half since he is already on parole.

Mr. Lamar introduced himeslf as being from an agency called FROSTD (Foundation for Research on STDs). He presented social statisitcs that show how the black community has an AIDS problem. He addressed how AIDS is spread. Shortly the conversation turned to a heated rally between blacks and and latinos. Over the course of 10 minutes it desintigrated into Haitians vs Jamaicans vs African Americans and then Puerto Ricans vs Boricurans vs Cubans, and which group does IT more with multiple partners. I glazed over and wiped the sweat from my head.

Mr. Lamar broke up the babble and asked "Do you even know what HIV stands for?" He was pointing at me. Caught off guard I said "mmm.. Immuno... Virus..." Someone else yelled out "the H is for Humano" (sounds like Cubano).

From there the topic moved to AIDS in prison and how people most comonly became infected. The answer was "Prison Tattoos"; I found that hard to believe that it wasn't prison sex. Maybe I watch way too much Public Television. He talked about the prison subculture of scaring and tattoos. I was still surprised prison sex didn't come up once. Mr. Lamar, asked "Who of us had not been to prison?" I raised my hand. Actaully, I was the only one raising my hand. He asked if I had a question. I said "No, I'm just saying that I've never been to prison." I realized that he was asking a rhetorical question.

Overall I'd say that I did learn a few new things about AIDS and HIV tonight. My awareness of STDs stopped soon after art college. The lecture ended with the topic of Domestic Violence, of course. The answer was short and simple. If one would do anything for drugs one would tend to be a more violent person. That makes sense, I guess. We didn't spend a lot of time on this part of the lecture. The evening ended with a fire drill, we filed out the door towards the stairs. Mr. L---- reminded me that I'm on the field trip list for next week, we're seeing an exhibit on the 17th on the history of slavery in America.

Epilogue
I can empathize with the group but its hard for me to relate to this topic when it is addressed from a cultural vantage point that is not mine: prison culture. But this culture is from a far away land and I am only a tourist, not a resident. I thought more about M--- nearly getting arrested. To a parolee any arrest means a year and a half in jail. He drove with a suspended license to pick up his kid, not a wise thing to do, but even the police officer didn't want to jail him for that. M--- is completing multiple DOC programs and AM. He has four kids and actually seems like a decent guy. The police officer told M--- to call some one to pick him up or drive him home and let him go with a warning.

That thought made my stomach turn even more. I stopped in a small diner for the remedy, chicken soup and gingerale, on my way to the train. I figured I should eat while I had a little appetite.

Scores on the Board:
12 - 8 = 4 AM sessions
Note: No Am next week, double session this month, graduation day on April 10

CS: A Fresh Coat of Paint

By 8:00 am a full van of people waiting for stragglers, it was 28 degrees outside. The crew members with cars parked in tandem behind the blue CS van. By 8:30 a Cuban woman in her early fifties knocked on Mr. B-----'s window. She unfolded a piece of paper with the Kings County court seal. Someone said "Who brought their mom?" It was too cold and early for dry humor, no one laughed. Mr. B----- told her she had the wrong work day. "Ay loco, disculpe... que dia para trabajo? Ala Domingo?" she asked with her hands to her chest. She was sent home. What did pequeña abuelita do to get stuck on the Community Service crew?

Weaving through traffic we arrived at the same location as last week. As we entered teh buidling you could see that another crew had primed more coats over the light switches and sockets. Someone even painted on a window. Picking at the dried primer on the door, Mr. B----- shook his head. "Today we are working with the yellow cans, get your rollers and brushes from the box, you gotta be more careful than this."

"Mr. Lee, hey Mr. Lee start on this side of the room." Mr. B----- tapped me on the shoulder. "I'm not Mr. Lee, I'm Carl." I replied as I filled my pan.

"Then who's Mr. Lee?"
"Probably the same guy named Mr. Chen?"
"Oh no man, no, I didn't mean to call you Mr. Lee like that, Carl. So who's this Mr. Chen?"
"He might be a Chinese guy, I'll ask Mr. Lee."
"So you're not Lee or Chen, then?"
"Neine! Mr. B-----, are you giving my wokr hours to some Korean guy?"

Carl is sometimes mistaken for Korean or Chinese, but never German. The men in the front room laughed out loud.

I grinned and laughed. I told him I was I just bustin' his chops. I don't think they expect humor from a Cleric. The guy cutting around the basebaord asked "So what are you?" "A former Druid from Middle Earth... now a fourth level Cleric ." I replied.

I asked about my CS hours. Mr. B----- said I'd know when it was over, I'd be notified (by mail?). I told him I started with January 7 work crew. He said I'd only have four or five weekends left. The crew traded cutting and rolling. This year's Institutional Yellow is last year's Safflower. The room looked like we were all standing in a large omelette, it made me a bit hungry. I thought about getting a sandwich and coffee on the way home. My appetite was finally returning to Eastern Standard Time. Another coat of paint and two cigarette breaks later we were done.

So who is Mr. Chen?

Scores on the Board:
70 - 40 = 30 Community Service hours

IC: On Borrowed Fumes

On Tuesday morning, February 28, I had my report day with my PO. The woman at the desk yelled "Sign in here!" and made a tsk sound. Sometimes she isn't that pleasant. At around 9:20 am, Mr. L--- entered the lobby, looked around and called me from the sign in sheet. "Carl?" He quizzed. He said he didn't recognize me at first. It wasn't my tan, it my the cleric robe. "Winter wear, fourth level Cleric." I said. I followed him down the hallway.

He asked how everything went. I said "As good as family and funerals could possibly go." I gave him my round trip itinerary and my father's death certificate to copy. I didn't ask about going back to Middle Earth for the death anniversary. I was still a bit sensitive about the situation at hand. Instead we talked about how long the flight was and how long I might be jet-lagged. Our meeting was short, my next report day is March 14. He informed me that now that we are passed the first month, I will report to him only twice a month with one home visit. By June I'll just walk in to scan my hand for next two and half years. I supppose I should celebrate that milestone by cleaning my apartment. Maybe it's the jet lag, but it all felt the same to me. I scratched my chin and realized I hadn't shaved. What the hell did I look like?

Wednesday, March 1: I C
9:05 am, I was late for my Anger Management, Individual Council. Still lagged, I slept through my alarm clock. I ran to the phone to call AM Councilor, Mr. L----. "I'm leaving now! I'll be there in about 25 minutes!" he told me to calm down, he's not going anywhere. I threw on a sweater, made sure I was wearing matching shoes and bolted down the stairs to the subway. Then I ran back upstairs because I left my wallet and then ran back down to the subway again. The mouthwash was still burning my gums. What a bad time to quit smoking. I felt like I brushed my mouth with a pack of Kools. I never know what to say at these IC sessions. Maybe it's his job, but Mr. L---- always ends each meeting by saying "Well, you're here for a reason." I've learned to just nod and take my mind elsewhere, ala "Brazil".

But on this day a little light peeked into Mr. L----'s cubicle. He wanted to know how I felt about my father passing away. Instead I said it was rediculous that I would have had a harder time seeing him alive than dead by way to the court system. I said I was angry about that. So there, I finally I gave him what he wanted, an admission of anger. Instead of saying "You see!" he said "Carl, you know I can't see you getting into a bar fight."

Was this a test?? Did he actaully read that mountain of crap that is my court case? Am I no longer just an angry case number?

"I don't think you belong in this program."
"Oh please, don't make me start a new program over, we only have 5 weeks left."
"I'm not gonna do that. I just can't see you starting a fight."

He wanted to know what happenned to me that night. I told him about being harassed over my seat and my freind's seat and how it lead to a scuffle, "No punches were thrown." He nodded as he listened.

"I'm broke, I spent thousands on legal fees. I've lost two major clients with court dates shuffling around. But wasn't that the court's stragey? Bleed me?" I blathered on about why I took a plea with my hands talking, Bill Clinton style. But I left out the part about wishing cancer every morning on that crack-whore complainant, her gay-boyfriend witness, the judge, and the DA. I told him about Dark Tower, it's just a nice old tavern with opera on Thurday nights. I said "It's not like the bar scene from Serpico." He laughed he said he knew the tavern well.
"Isn't it rediculous, to take a plea I have to admit to something I didn't do, and take a convenient punishment. Now I can't use any of my witnesses or evidence in Civil Court. They got me good, didn't they. My reason for being here states: Mandated by Court, not Shot a Man in the Eye over Crack." I wiped the white spittle from the corners of my mouth and sat back down. I didn't realize I was standing. He said he'd never seen my so animated.

Mr. L---- asked if I could share this with the group, I said I can't while I have a Civil Case pending, statute of three years from filing date. Legal Council has advised me as such. He said the guys can benefit from hearing my story, a lot of them took Felony Pleas becuase they had no choice. He explained that M-------- was falsley accused of beating his wife, but he had to take a plea so that his kids would not be taken away by the state. Ouch! I declined again.

He reminded me that I have to participate with the group somehow, I still have to fulfill this criterium. It's my missing quad on his angry grid. I said I'm open to suggestion but I have legal limits as to what I can share with anyone.

Epilogue
It's best that the Criminal Court system isn't responsible for cancer research. They would glady find the wrong cause just to say that research was completed with satisfaction. They'd arrest the wrong symptom, jail it and let the real diseases run free. The way my case was handled was more like origami. It was folded and twisted into something with triangular wings and a tail, and the court held it up proudly called it a crane.

I'm surprised about this week's IC session, but I did pose a rhetorical question to Councilor L----. "When the judge finds out that I'm not pathologically angry and I'm not a drug addict, what will he do with this information?" He replied "Don't know, that's up to the courts." I'm out of gas. I could be angrier but I'd need to do this on borrowed fumes.

* Sleepless at the Dark Tower

In one of my jet lagged stupers, I wandered over the Dark Tower for a drink to trick myself into sleeping. It was around 3:00 am, the silhouttes of a couple danced by the jukebox. The tavern keeper was trying to set a new record for 48 hours of non-stop drinking. He waved at me and said "Cleric!" and then rested his head back down near his glass. There seated in the middle of the bar were Ver Klempt and Klem Matoh, they were counting gold coins. Gobarth got their attention for me. They saw me and lifted their glasses. From the loot and their boyish grins I gathered that the last adventure was successful. Not like that time I was killed by giant ants. Sheeesh. I inquired about the last adventure in Kings County.

Ver Klempt's eyes grew wide with excitement and smoothed out a well worn map. He demonstrated the secret location with the point of his dagger.
"Klem Matoh put dozens of Orcs to sleep and magically blasted slavers with numerous his magic missiles at the mouth of the cave. Over here, Gorbath magically jumped a deep chasm, crushing the Orc shaman and smiting the assassins that prowled us. From here, Vickers beheaded Cave Ogres and dispatched countless Orcs, slavers, and giant trolls! From behind her Ah Ro Ghant wielded his Sword of Sharpness and severed Apsi limbs and Orc appendages galore. Natzzo caught arrows in mid-flight, using his sweet bow skills to our advantage. Then from above, Klem Matoh's psuedo dragon, Shmaug, stung a large Apsis in the back of the head exploding it with its sweet poisoned stinger."

With his arms waving wildly he jumped from his seat. Gold coins and jewels spilled from his thieving sleeves bouncing on the floor. "And then finally I, Ver Klempt the Theif, turned invisible and stabbed the Orc chief through his chest. Just look at all this loot we won! If you only you were there, Carl!" The bar keep raised his head and screamed "I'm rich!" at the cash register, then put his head back down.

Wiping the spray of beer from my face with my sleeve I said "Yes if I'd only been there I might have silenced and counteracted the spells from evil magicians, or at least brought bar peanuts along with me." I brandished a freshly opened can of nuts, we all partook in snacking. "So I heard Vickers is mad at you, Ver Klempt." Gobarth held a finger to his lips, pantomiming a shush sound.

"Well, she got her hit points mixed up again. You know how she get's with a few drinks in her. Somehow she had hundreds HP more. I called her stupid and she got up in my face and yelled at me, grabbed her coat and sword, and then left." said the theif. "You also thumped her on the head with a pencil, V." added Gobarth. "Yep, but was just for dramatic effect. What's her problem?" Ver Klempt resumed his seat.

"Are we getting a new adventure togehter soon?" I asked. "Dunno yet, I'm leaving for Shanghai on Saturday." said Verklempt. "I hear the food's good." Gobarth added as he licked the salt from the bottom of the tin and the lid.

I missed the gang. I missed Brooklyn. Mainland news is hard to come by on the other side of the world. People there worry about Avian Flu and Korean/Chinese politics more than, Orcs, treasure or Dick Cheney shooting a man in the face. At around 4:00 the bar keep locked the door and shut off the Bud light in the window. It made a loud zap sound. I don't recall how much longer I stayed but as I walked back home the sun began to rise.

Sleepwalking in Anger

Carl didn't sleep much on the long flight back to New York from Middle Earth. From Ladrone, to Honolulu until Houston he was wedged bewteen a very large man from Montana and the plane window. A pleasant enough man, but much too big for his seat. His right often side slipped over the arm rest onto Carl's side. Recorded reminders of airline safety, staying buckled and adjusting to current time zones were constant. The Houston flight was turbulant and late. Oola was there to great him at Newark Liberty, Carl was grateful, he was so sleep deprived from the 20 hour flight that he would have rode the airport monorail in circles. He gave her a few gifts, a clock shaped like a plumeria and neclace made from ratsnake bones. "Unusual" she said. The sun rose twice as the plane crossed the international date line. Carl would "gain" a day back, it was now Friday, February 24... again. Although Carl adjusted his watch from Middle Earth Standard Time to Eastern Standard Time, recovering from jet lag will be an endevered adjument in these next coming days.

Community Service: Saturday. Feb. 25
It was Community Service Saturday. Carl caught his train to East New York. It was 28 degrees that morning, a complete shock after sweating in hot tropical Ladronean weather. Oola was a little peeved at Carl, she said he pushed her out of bed... TWICE. (Again, sorry sorry sorry) Carl rememered dreaming about making flour tortillas, swimming with sharks, and riding a mantaray... but not the movie "Fight Club". When he got to the Broadyway Junction station the blue van was at capacity, he rode with H-----, one of new the guys that drove to East New York that morning. The probation motorcade of four cars tail-gated the blue van in and out of the traffic until they reached their destination in lower Manhattan. H-----'s driving made Carl think he was in the "Scared Straight" program. H----- is from West Texas.

Through a jet lagged fog a deep voice called out. "Hey Mr. Chen. Mr. Chen! Yo, you're steeping on the paint roller!" It was Mr. B----- and he was talking to Carl. Carl motioned a demonstrative hand to his chest "Me? It's Carl, my name is Carl. I left you a message two weeks ago when my father passed away." "Alright Mr. Chen, I got you logged down for that." Carl Wondered if Mr. B----- gave some other guy named Chen some time off. Depending on the degree of his tan, Carl has been mistaken for Thai, Loatian, or Central American.

I was so sleepy that I must have primed the same corners at least twice. A friend later asked if I should have gone to Community Service at all. I replied that I don't need to be conscious to provide the quality of work that CS needs. Despite my careful trim work, a guy with a roller just plowed over the sockets and switches. After going through most of Kings County court buildings, I now know why they are so badly painted. Mr B----- told me to slow down and leave some work for the next crew. Go figure.

When I got home I went through my luggage and sorted laundry, I made a few calls. I unpacked some of my father's personal affects and looked them over more closely. My father's traditional formal shirts are made from piña fiber. The spider lace is very detailed, hand stitched with delicate rice, leaf and palm patterns on the sleeves and chest. They have to be handwashed and lightly starched. Some of them need a little repair. When I soaked them in cold soapy water, it was as if my father walked in the room. I could smell his cologne over the mothballs and tapioca starch. It would take a few more soakings to remove dirt and fragrance. It made me sad. I plan to save these for my nephews, they don't fit me really.

I unpacked his table lighter, my mother gave it to me the morning I left. My father was a smoker before my parents married. It was made by Ronson Crown Company in Newark, NJ... ah, the golden age of smoking paraphernalia. It is tarnished but I remember it looked so important on the side table on majong night. But back then Newark, NJ seemed mysterious and exotic too.

It was now 4:00 am. When sleep was caught up with me, I put on my fathers ring and went to bed.

Anger Management: Monday, February 27
I left a message on Sunday with the Anger Management counselor, Mr. L----, t oremind him who I was and that I was back in town. Otherwise I might be addressed as some other ethnicky guy. Oi vey.

While Carl was away, the group had gone to a Nets game. Carl is not a sports fan. There will be more group events ahead. An angry feild trip perhaps?

Monday was a lecture night with pizza, a man known as Malcom spoke about his travails of the system. He's been to every jail from Woodburn to Sing Sing and back. He has a total of 19 counts of felony. If this were a TV movie the description would read "One man's tale of survival in US Federal Prisons." I could see that most of he men in the group related to his story. He demonstrated how he got a job with the MTA when everyone told him to give up. I have to admit he was very inspiring. He gave solid advise on getting gettings jobs, taking tests, resources. He let them know that they have to manage their records and rap sheets closely. My feelings are little mixed that some of these men might one day be operating my train, but more power to them.

Although I'm required, I had nothing to contribute to a group discussion. Its become obvious that I've never been to jail. Mr. L---- announced that I was away becuase I recently lost my father, they group relayed their condolences. The guy with the do-rag gave me the homie salute, he pounded on his chest and made a fist. Was I in? Do I want in?

This night was a double session since Mr. L---- would be out of town second week of March. That meant that we are ahead of schedule, we are now at week 7 of 12.

Epilogue
The jet lag and the funeral have taken their toll. I have to write everything down just so I can remember what I'm doing next. I drift in and out of days and nights on a 14 hour time difference. Although I try to get to bed at a logical time, my body wants lunch at 4:00 am. I've actually seen the sun rise twice this week, which isn't bad unless it meant you haven't slept and you've watched the sky change color from your window. I've seen the Lunesta commercial so many times that I hum that sad-clown jingle in the shower. Now here's a drug company that really does its research.

So where do I buy tapioca starch for my father's shirts?

Scores on the board:
6 - 3 = 3 IC sessions
12 - 7 = 5 AM sessions
70 - 32 = 38 Community Service hours, Note: not sure about this, inquire

The End My Friend

Wednesday afternoon was the scheduled private family viewing at the funeral home. These two hours seemed longer than Carl's flight from NY. His sisters didn't want to see the body, they broke down crying. Tara said that he didn't look the same, she held on to the bench as her husband caught her. The boys weren't any better, Carl included. But Carl went up and looked long and hard. Although the make up was good, the embalming process made his father appear a bit puffy, his hollow cheeks and wrinkles had filled out. He was now an old man with young skin. The funeral director Joyce said that this particular process is for hot, humid climates. He would be burried with his toupe, his mother said otherwise people wouldn't recognize him. Carl blew his hose and said "True." She fussed with her husband's hair.

Hkorei cried the most, losing his grandfahter so suddenly was too overwhelming. At dinner he broke down crying at the table, which made the girls cry again. Carl carried him out of the restaurant and they sat among the Japanese tourists and plumeria trees while he cried himself out. Carl's mother didn't cry once. They all wondered if this was a dislpay of incredible strength or if was she that overwhelmed.

Thursday, February 16
Thursday morning arrived quickly, time just seemed to go back and forth like a baskeball game with a tied score. It felt as if there were no borders bewteen days. As they left the burial ground Vess said to her sons "You should quit smoking." Carl responed that it was a bad time to quit and took a slow long drag. All the boys smoke except for Victor. The car drove out of the cemetery avoiding a stray dog that wandered into the road.

Everyone was exhausted after the funeral, it started at 7:00 AM with a pall bearer procession, and ended at 4:00 PM with burial. Throughout the day a steady stream of people, familiar and unfamiliar, paid their respects and condolences. A few freind's asked Carl if he wanted to step out for a drink afterwards, he said it felt a bit inappropriate. One very stylish woman in her 70's introduced herself as the woman who groomed his father's hairpiece. An older family friend in her 90's approached my mother and asked who died, "hayi bihu giya enao ata'ut?". Carl replied in an ancient tongue, "Hungan Fe, fanmatai si tatan-mame. Si Leonidas hallom gi ata'ut." Her daughter quickly returned her back to her seat. It's not a pretty language, but very precise.

Then there were the priests that presided over the funeral, some of them Carl knew from when he studied as a young Cleric. They looked so noble, they were no longer the shabby boys that played late night pranks, such as hiding toads in one's bed, or smashing geckos in another's prayer books.They greeted him with his former title, "che'lu", and acknowleged Carl with a short nod as if they were still members of some secrect society. The day went long and there was just so much more to do concerning the post-mortem realities of finances, taxes, bills etc. Those don't go away after one dies.

Tuesday, February 21
We visted my father's grave. It was less difficult than I thought. Flowers from the funeral we're piled high on his freshly covered grave. The arrangement from Brooklyn was the largest. Other plots had plastic flowers. His grave looked like an exhibit bed at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, except this would be labed, "Funeral Flora". I'm sure he would have been happy that we followed burial tradition: nine days of prayer and then the burial. My brothers, family friends and I were pall bearers, my nephews tagged along in tandem.

On the day of the funeral I had to write a eulogy early in the morning. The most difficlut thing wasn't writing a eulogy at 5:00 AM, it was singing happy birthday. February 16 was also my father's birthday. This was painful. Even the funeral director, Joyce, cried. Then one lst tradition before we closed the coffin: breaking his prayer beads into three peices. Otherwise the dead will walk forever, not knowing their time had past. No one wanted to do this, but I reached in and took then from my father's hand. I was suprised how soft his skin was, cold but very soft. I held the beads up for Larry and Mara to grab, I pulled at it until it broke into three peices and then wrapped them back around my father's hand.

As I pack my bags for tomorrow's long flight I worry more for my mother. She's never done taxes. ven though Victor, Tara, their families and Ralph will still be there, the house will be emptier. We celebrated my mom's brithday early since Larry, Mara and I are leaving Ladrone before then. We've had two family meetings about all of our futures plans and family finances. I leave feeling good that those things are in some kind of order.

After one dies we're taught to look for signs that one has acknowleged their own demise, or in the native tongue, Fana'gue. It's a belief that the dead will have the last word. After the second family meeting my brother Victor, his wife Roxy, and I stood outside of their house agreeing that we'll all check up on mom. Just then a porch light that had not worked in three years turned on, grew brighter and the blew out. They took it as a sign, the light switch was in fact broken and the wires were exposed and rusted. I said that was good enough for me.

There wasn't much left to inherit from. Medical bills, loans and inhertiance tax took most of that. I took a few of my father's shirts, my mother gave me one of his rings. I also took a small link of his prayer beads that didn't make it into the coffin. I took some photos of him when he was a younger man, and handsome he was. I didn't take the pictures of my father's first wife that Larry found. Out of respect for my mother I didn't even ask. I heard she finally threw them out. My mother asked if I would be back for my father's anniversary next year. I said yes. I don't know how this works legally. I'll ask my PO, Mr. L---, when I see him next week. He seems to be a man of his word.

Eplilogue
One of the ironies of how this court system works is that it would have been more difficult to have seen my father alive than dead. To acomplish the former, I'd have to complete all court mandated programs before I could even consider making such plans. It makes me angry (should I share this in Anger Management?). But in the end it didn't matter much. At least I know those court tasks will be done in time for the death anniversary.

Home Town Tourist

On the morning news, a local enforcemnet official spoke of the many problems Middle Earth has with the "Jacuzis." If one wants to end the Japanese mafia crime wave, they must first learn to spell and then pronounce them correctly. The annual kite show eclipse all news, a car was being raffled. In other worldy news, New York and the East coast was pelted by a blizzard, the largest so far this season.

Hkai asked his uncle Carl about the weird book he found in his travel bag: the D and D players guide. He told Hkai that he was a Cleric in a secert society that battled with dragons, dangerous monsters and manlike creatures in search for treasure; this book was his survival guide. He showed Hkai his mace and helmet. Hkai nodded and left the room completely unimpressed. It's not that he didn't believe Carl, he'd heard all these stories from his grandfather. In the past Ladrone had been the battle ground for monsters, dragons, Ogres, Orcs, great warriors and the like. For centuries Ladrone was the battle ground for the Portugese, the Spanish, Japanese, the Germans and the United States.

It's hard to imagine centuries of constant battle on such a small island, but Ladrone is pocked with scars of war machines, ancient and new. The island was intact with ancient buildings until the great war, fifty years ago. The entire north of the island was destroyed, leaving only the burnt remains of streets and plazas. But from the ashes arose hotels, box stores, luxury stores (Channel, Louis Vitton), fast food joints, and tourists dressed like Rastas at the Polynesian villa.

Young military men (kids really) arrive monthly mistaking local women for "base wives". Tourists are still taught to fear the locals. Cars dodge stray dogs, drivers are unbuckled with cell phone in hand. It's a world I no longer understand.

But the occasional dragon attack reminds me that technology and tourism does not conquer all. As I drove through the south of Ladrone I was assured than some things are exactly the same. The south never changes. Southern villagers still live in stilted pala pala with children chasing chickens about. Old women sit under shaded trees chewing betel nut. People come to worship in missions that are centuries old. People are still interred in graves that face the ocean.

Southern Ladrone has survived even the worst of dragon attacks. A dragon named Pakka left Ladrone without power and water as it blew its way across the island. Shortly after a bigger dragon named Pun Sa Na destroyed 30 precent of the island leaving ladrone without power and water for six months, many people died. The buildings that stand the test to time read a history like broken rings on a tree stump. There's a Chinese restaurant that was live rock palace then an S&M club, then finally it just shut down after the roof caved in during an earthquake. There's a church that was a gas station and then a pizza place. But the constant presence of a military folk, Japanese tourist, ratsnakes and stray dogs assure me that things are somewhat the same.

Have we all landed on the wrong island or did I step out of a broken time machine? Maybe this all seems strange to me because I've become a tourist in my home town.

20 Hours Later

Leaving NY was a harried blur. Carl made his arrangements, delivered projects, put jobs on hold, let some go by the way side. He wasn't sure where he would be staying, he just packed a lot of black clothes and hopped the next available flight to Middle Earth, Ladrone colony. The NY to Tokyo direct flight was a sleepeless journey, he was feeling ill. He didn't care much for the in-flight movies or the airline food. Instead Carl practiced his spells. He cast 'Hold Person' on the elderly Japanese woman sitting next to him as he popped one of Airborne(R) cold prevention tablets in his mouth. She told Carl her entire life story... in Japanese, then went fast asleep. Not realizing they were carbonated he started to foam at the mouth as he chewed. He tried to wake the sleeping Okasan to get to the bathroom as foam ran down his chin into his shirt. His magic was good, she would not awake until they landed in Japan.

The Narita Airport was a beehive of activity, Japanese people rushing around in paper breathing filters, Australians hedging their way to the bar by terminal D50, business men from the mainland bragging about their sexcapades in Thailand. Carl walked the entire airport and found the only western style toilet. The 0-benjo was not to his liking. After finally realizing that the airport phones only operated with yen and Japanese calling cards, he found his way to the smoking section and waited for his next flight. He read the People Magazine (Nick who? Why is he so important?) and ate the loaf of cranberry bread that Olla had packed for him.

He finally arrived on Ladrone, the island colony of Middle Earth where he would be reuntied with his family. Larry, Ralph, Hkai and Hkorei where there to great him. It was now 2:00 am on Sunday. His parents have lived there since after the great war. Ladrone itself had been a great battle ground among Orc, Ogre, Hobbit and the Japanese. The island used to bear the scars of war and dragon attacks. Now it has healed over with box stores, malls, mega super markets, hotel chains ands mid-day traffic. The 20 hour flight and 14 hour time difference took its toll on Carl. He didn't sleep through the entire flight.

Today is now Wednesday, I've spent evenings at nightly prayer vigils and days going over all my fathers paperwork with the brother Larry. Each night I'm greated by people I don't entirely remember and a few schoolmates. But mostly I see freinds of my parents who pinch my face as they offer condolences and tell me "Carl, you look the same". My father left this life a bit unprepared, we made organized folders from his many boxes and bags of papers. I still have to comb over the 'out' pile before we shred everything. We don't want to give our mother an assessment until after Friday, there's just so much going on right now. I've kept her distracted by working with her on my father's memorial booklet, its a bit like working with the worst managing editor you've ever met, she pinches me when I make a typo. She liked his photo that I retouched, she said he looked so alive. I am worried about her, she hasn't cried once, yet.

Today is final family service before the funeral. This is the first time that we will see my father before we bury him tomorrow. I know this will be shock to everyone, we've only been addressing my father as a tax ID number with insurance forms up until now. I have to write the euology for this evening.

AM, I said... IC, I cried

Today is Wednesday, Feb 8. Amidst flight plans and work, I had a scheduled Anger Management meeting (Individual Counsel). Mr. L---- was 15 minutes late, he arrived at 9:15. I had waited and read all the reading material on AIDS, Hep-C and the evils of nicotine and smoking. If you arrange all the reading material properly you can say that smoking as a teen can lead to sex and drug use. Later on in life you might turn to meth or maybe ride the white horse (white, dark, which one is it?) and possbly get a fatal blood-born disease if you don't get pregnant first. All this can happen if you are trapped in a world of Domestic Violence. But there is hope: intervention and treatment.

I am Carl, third-level Cleric. My story has no real begining, but I'll try my best to explain where I am now. My phone rang again at 8:45 am on Tuesday. It was my brother Larry, he was very upset, I could hear him struggle with the words that were stuck in his throat. "Dad's finally gone, you gotta fly home as soon as you can." He sobbed uncontrollably. I was stunned. Neither of us had slept much from the day before. Maybe an hour or two here and there. We both spent most of yesterday e-mailing and calling family, taking care of business, making travel arrangements.

My father went quickly, the family decision was to relieve him from machine assistance at 8:20 pm Middle Earth Standard Time (MEST), and by 11:40 in the evening he was gone. He didn't suffer. My brother Ralph said he just faded into the Big Darkness with a smile. I was told that was actually due to rigor mortise and gas, but I'd like to think my father just felt better on his way out. He had been struggling with the ravages of cancer and all the collateral damage caused by non-chemo treatment and surgery. He dealt with a lot of bodily stress in these past few years, he would have been 187 this month. That's pretty damn good, one should be so lucky to live so long. Larry said his organs were already dying before he got to the Middle Earth ER. My father walked around with his cane on Super Bowl Sunday not knowing he was already dying. My sister-in-law, Roxy, said he argued with the medics that he didn't need to go despite his heavy, wet breathing. He collapsed upon arrival at the ER.

I wonder how much time I have on my own clock. We're all just long term renters.

I finally cashed in my flight miles to go home. It actually took me a few hours between credit card redemption and compassion fare to make formal flight plans. I leave Friday, Feb. 10 EST and arrive Feb. 12 MEST. I've never used my miles before this, in a wise yet morose way I've saved them all these years for this very instance. Home is just so far away. Larry, Mara and I are all going home. As we get older I hear this is referred to as a "family reunion": funerals. I have no idea where I will be staying when I arrive.

I am in a legal situation or as they say in Anger Mangement wolrd, "a sichu-ayshun". I made an appointment with my PO Mr. L---- yesterday at 4:00 pm to complete a report day and confirm that I can, in fact, leave New York for my father's funeral. It will take about a week to get formal court approval, but I will be attending my father's wake on Middle Earth by then. Doesn't that sound silly? Technically, I'm breakin' the law. Yesterday, PO L---, got on the phone with AM Councelor L---- for further clearance. I'll see PO L--- later today for a make-up home visit. Community Service Officer, Mr. B----- never returned my calls.

So what would happen if one person in the Criminal Court chain said "no" to my request? Well, Oola said she'd bake me a "file" cake. Oola sent me flowers on Friday because I lost another client to the sagging economy. Consolation: at least it wasn't my service or skill. I was graciously thanked for services renderred over lunch. The clay pot of Petite Jonquille make me happy. I put them in my window. I like yellow flowers. The flowers add a sweet fragrance to my apartment, which otherwise smells like cigarettes, coffee and peanut butter.

Epilogue
After the morning IC session with Councelor L----, I walked down the familiar Supreme Court plaza. I felt my knees get weak so I sat down. And then out of the blue, I started to cry. This was not a gentle "boo hoo", it was a mucus-laden, sloppy, ugly-face, "Alien 3", huge wet cry. Oddly, I wasn't sad, or regertful or drowning in self pity, etc... I think I just I reached that point of exhaustion that people talk about after making their first long distance run. I broke out my Yoko Ono size sun glasses and sat on a long bench as heavy tears ran down into my hands. I felt the puddle in my hand grow cold. It's was 22 degrees outside according to the bank clock. My scarf was soaked, but I didn't care if I looked like the crazy homeless guy sitting across from me. Though I'm not fond of public dispalys of emotion I felt a sense of satisfaction in crying.

Scores on the board:
6 - 2 = 4 IC sessions
12 - 3 = 9 AM sessions
70 - 24 = 46 Community Service hours

I've never told my family about getting arrested, getting dragged into a bar scuffle, having to take a misdemeanor plea, the whole bag of crap. I still believe that this news would have killed my father earlier if I had said any of the above. Instead he died of plain ole' death. Each of his organs quit talking to the other one. I promised my father that I would come home in the fall. I was happy that we made plans. But life has its own way of changing your dinner reservations.

*Carl, with a "C"

Karl shook the large brass di in both hands, he held it high then swung it low. "Sixteen, roll again." the dragon instructed. Karl rolled 13, 16, 14 and then 15. the dragon observed. "Not bad, not enough to be a Ranger, but enough to be a third-level Cleric. Hmmmmm." he made notes and calculated Karl's scores "You will get four level-one spells and two level-two spells... total of six... one suit of plate armor... metal helmut... chain meil optional... a mace. Now all you need is a name." "How about Carl with a 'C'?" asked Karl with a 'K'.

"Really, that's very queer, not Chuck, Charles, Carlton... Caralito?" he shook his head, no. "Have you considered a name that starts with a vowel? Options, lad..." He shook his head no again and tried on his new helmet, smelling it first, placing it backwards first and then wearing it correctly. The dragon gave him a questionable thumbs up with a scaley spur.

"If you're serious... that is who you will be... Carl with a 'C'." He put his claws to each side of his mouth and annouced. "Carl, the third-level Cleric, will be leaving on flight#9 from Newark Liberty!"

"You're allowed one hand-carry item, here's your itinerary, collect your Clerical accoutrements on your way out. You can trade that mace in later, at the next level." he handed Carl a leather sac and the updated Players Guide. "Keep these things together. I want you to spend mooooore time with the new spells, this time study them well. You can't 'turn' a giant ant 'undead'."

The dragon took Carl by the shoulders and turned him around examining the new Cleric's dress and disposition. He tucked Carl's collar back into his plate armor."You could stand to change your look a bit, but that's up to you." He pushed Karl's hair away from his face with wet lick. "Did you know that pomade tastes like Lemon-mint Ricola and cigarettes? Such a sweet face for a Cleric. Try scowling once in a while."

"Shouldn't I study this stuff before I go?" asked Carl "Cleric... the whole point of rolling is to take you to your next adventure, which does not take place here in the Big Darkness. Adventures only take place in the Other Life. You will learn everything you need as yougo." The dragon took a wiff, he could smell Carl's hesitation. "I should run through teh spells while I'm here, it should only take a few days. I'm not ready." protested Carl. The dragon poked a peep hole in the darkness and a little light leaked in. He jestured for Carl to peak into the hole, Carl obliged. "Take a peak at the Other Life, that's where you came from. Go ahead...What do you see?" asked the dragon, "Nnnnnnnn, nothing." said Carl.

"Look closer... squint... yes, yesss, how about now?" The dragon picked up it's large hind leg and cocked it back. He aimed his boney foot carefully at Carl's rear. "Still nothing" said Carl as he squinted with one eye. His new plate armor clincked and he adjsuted his helmet forward. "Keep looking... OK, now hold it!" The dragon gave him a kick so hard that Carl ripped right through the Big Dakness. Carl screamed as he flew through the deep blue space with his arms flapping about like a shiney moth. "Ahhhhhhhhh! Whyyyyy!" "It's for your own good Carl, now fly! Fly your way home Cleric, you know how! Flyyyyyy!" Voices faded as the hole in the Big Darkness closed over. Carl shot through the deep blue space like a plate covered bullet, then ripped right through the copper sunset making a loud boom, birds scaterred, then and finally he drifted into the midday squirrel grey sky of Kings County.

Carl was kicked so hard that he was flying backwards in time past yesterday. He could see all of Brooklyn below, he passed Monday's Anger Mangement session (AM#3 of 12): flying over 'the con' past 'the denial' and right onto the route to 'Domestic Violence'. He went farther, flying passed Super Bowl Sunday just stopping short of Saturday's Community Service crew, they were cleaning a church. Suddenly he he lost altitude and started to descend quickly spinnng down towards his apartment. Carl flailed his arms about and shut his eyes. Impact! With his back, he hit the dull red rug on the living room floor. Dust flew upwards and settled around him, books fell. The neighbors thumped at their ceiling with a broomstick. A dog barked throug the wall. Carl left the Big Darkness with a bang and returned to Other Life with a relatively benign thud. It was 2:20 am, Tuesday, February 7. The phone rang.

In the Other Life

Before the 20-sided di would be cast, before a decision of character would be made, something else was happening in the Other Life. Leonidas A. Carlton had fallen very ill quite suddenly on Super Bowl Sunday evening. After much stubborn protesting and arguing, he allowed himself to be taken by the medics. Shortly after that, he lay in an induced coma in the Middle Earth ER, the ICU was at capacity. His children, Victor, Tara and Ralph kept vigil through the night, along with his wife of 145 years, Vess. She complained about how cold the waiting room was and asked Ralph to go home and get her a sweater and a prayer book. It was now midnight, Middle Earth Standard Time (MEST). Leonidas had made many a valiant come-back from cancer and other great battles. Soon he would swap his clumsy wheel chair for a smooth chariot ride into the Big Darkness.

His lungs had aspirated and filled with infected liquid. As Leonidas lay there with tubes inserted in every part of his body, his organs were rapidly dying. One by one his heart, lungs, and kidneys played out of synch as if they were a drunken band in the Mummer's Parade, accordions and string instruments playing out of time in the wrong key. Then the music stopped, section by section. The only thing that was keeping him alive was his breathing tube.

At 8:20 pm MEST, the ER doctors called the family in, children, grand children, and wives. They were told that, Leonidas did not have long in this world. They had to decide to let him expire with or without assistance. They chose to take him off the machines. The grand children took it the hardest, it was very difficult to explain what they all had areed upon.

At 11:30 pm, Vess put her prayer book down, stood up from her chair, she cleared her throat and stood over her husband. She shook him by his shoulder and said "If you feel you must go, please go now." Then she kissed him. She used to say that to everyone before long road trips, but that was used in the context of going to the bathroom. She was asking her husband to move on. By 11:45 pm he was pronounced dead.

The last thing Leonidas said to his grandson Hkai was "Don't forget your lunch money, it's on the counter!" Hkai wished his grandfather had better words. His brother Hkorei creid himself to sleep. Their cousin Nkhei, said she missed Papa and refused to eat. Events in the Other Life had turned like a wicked Noreaster. Only Karl didn't know it yet.

*The Big Darkness

"The Rangers? I'm not a Hockey fan" said Karl. "What I meant by a 'Ranger' is a fighter or warrior character, not a puck wielding sports team. Are you interested? You'll get better armor class and some very sharp weapons. Do you like boots?" the dragon smiled at karl. "I don't know... what if I don't roll at all. Waht happens then" Karl querried as he paced about in the Big Darkness with the brass di in his hand. The dragon gave pause "Well! then you'll simply turn into nothing, you won't even have a name. You'll become a flavorless, scentless gas knows as whats-is-face, the former druid. You'll fade into the air. You can't afford that, you have business to mind in the Other Life. I want you to roll and move on." "Business, like what?" Karl stopped pacing and stood under the dragon's scaely chin.

The dragon cleared his throat and lowered his massive boney head down at Karl. "While you were out adventuring your father fell ill... verrrrrry ill. Leonidas is in the hospital right now in a coma. Take a look, do you see your sister, Tara?" As the dragon poked a hole in the darkenss with his spiney digit, light poured from it like a spout of bright blue water. The hole grew larger, Karl could see a familiar face, "Look, she's in the waiting room, eager for news on your father's condition. Awww, look at Ralph, he's playing with some hand held device thingy. Tsk tsk tsk. Your father is in the in Middle Earth ER unit, he looks terrible, doesn't he. So wrinkly, old and tired. He will be 187 this month... or maybe he won't be, hmm. Look at all those tubes running in and out of every part of his body, as if he were an Italian expresso machine. Tssst. Tssst. Tssst." Karl stood dumbfounded. "But I just talked with him last month... what happenned to him?" he said in disbelief.

"While you were out exploring with your friends, a lot had changed. You father has a weak heart, you knew that. He fell ill during Super Bowl Sunday. He was drowning in his own fluids. His lungs are being drained as we speak. At least he doesn't need that nasty wheel chair right now. Oh how he hates that thing! I suggest you roll now, you will stand a better chance of going home to Middle Earth, you might even get a cheap flight. There's nothing you can do for him here in the Big Darkness. You have to roll to leave here, Karl."

"Will he be alright when I get there? I have to clear everything with the court and my PO before I can go. That might take a week!" Karl asked.

The dragon cocked his head and shook it about in disbelief. "Next week?! Karl, you might be attending a funeral by then, do you have anything black to wear? A suit maybe, a smock? The time is nigh, its precious. Do you know that gathering lost time is like stuffing a quilt in the wind? Minutes run in every direction, seconds blow about in the air, days dissolve into nothing. You'll flail around trying to catch everything but only end up with a handful of feathers... Oh! what time do you have by the way?"

"I could go to jail if I leave New York without court clearance. I don't know if I can do this!" Karl declared.

Pointing his scaley finger at him, the dragon lectured at Karl harshly "There's man-made crap and there's real crap. Your father's condition is verrrrrry real! Going to jail because some idiot made you lie in court, bla bla bla, yaddy, yaddy, yaddy... now that's just SUR-real!"

With his large tail, he turned and knocked Karl over. He shook a tightly gripped fist. "I recall from your court records that the complainant's absentee witness called you a racist? You, of all people? The Druid who adventures with Clerics and Theives? Ohhh! I'm getting horse from yelling at you! And speaking of horse, didn't that horse-face complainant say you picked up a 45 pound stool and hurled it across the room at her? And then she said you lungded at her like a hungry seal, tearing off her arms?! Oh, pullllleeeeese Karl! If you at all go to jail it's for your father's sake, not for the sake of two horrible cowardly people that have learned to bend the law in their favor. Leonidas' condition is very real. That fabricated court room disaster is sssssimply sssssscience ffffffiction!" He picked Karl up from the ground and dusted him off, catching his breath from his rant he calmed down. He let out a smokey puff "You have no place in Big Darkness. Take a chance Karl, roll the di and go."

To be continued

*Roasting Karl

I could see that my comrads had gathered around a low bed of green branches and leaves, there my body lay. They assembled a stack of dry wooden logs at my feet, carefully arranged by size into a pyramid. They were preparing to cremate my mortal remains, a proper ceremony for Middle Earthers. I was layed out with my head resting on my broken sheild, my arms crossing chest over my spear. The rising sun cast warm gold over my body. Otherwise my grey waxy face seemed to blend into my salt-and-pepper beard. Have I gone that grey?

I called out to Ver Klempt but he couldn't hear me. He was carving something onto a plank. "Here Lies Karl, We Shall Miss Thee" it read. He lit the wooden pire and spoke. "This fine morning we pay our last respects and tip our flagons in honor of our fallen Druid, Karl."

He continued, facing the troup. "Karl, you entangled King Orcs with the best of them and with your magic, you tried to "turn into undead" every creature we encounterred... although you never really had that power and some of these creatures were actually alive. Oh Karl, If only you had read the Player Guide more thoroughly. Instead you touted that D and D for Dummies book... perhaps it was your half-Elfish nature."

"Here! Here!" they all called out.

Ah Ro Ghant spoke next. "And most importantly you were different. You defied the most bleeding-heart Druidic stereotypes by ignoring the shrill death-screams of helpless animals everywhere. Especially Louise, your mule, who died in the jaws of a two headed Elon when you sent her ahead as a "scout". For shame Karl! Your nature wasn't Elfish... you were plain SELFISH!"

"Selfish? What? Me? You ungreatful rat bastards!" I cried out in protest, but no one heared me, I was dead in that world.

Gobarth turned to the others. "Hey guys, how many Druids does it take to change a light bulb? Thirteen, one to hold the bulb, and twelve to drink enough to make the room spin.

"Karl wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box, but he sure could hold his liquor! Ever try taking his mead away when he was passed out? The grip on that Druid, sheeesh! It's like you needed the Jaws of Life to rip it from his greedy hands!" Natzzo could always beat a joke into the ground.

Klem Matoh, cleared his throat "How many Druids does it take to change another Druid's mind? Two, one to change it and one not to change it. His true neutral alignment was killing me! At least he made up his mind to die! let's roast him good boys!"

Vickers walked out with a tray of skewered meat "Gobarth, I'm starved! Get these on the fire and don't over-cook 'em like the way Karl used to do. That druid could burn water! Never hire a vegertian as the cook! Let's be done with this roast and bury him before he starts to smell."

Bury me? No! I couldn't believe what they were doing, they weren't burning my Middle-Earthly remains to be sprinkled beneath a holly bush. They were throwing me a celebrity-style "roast"! Oh, why can't these guys do anything right?!

"Mercy, Lord! "No! No! No! No!" I protested with my arms waving about. That's when I noticed something odd. My arms appeared solid but everything else was becoming more transparent. I could see Klem Matoh picking his nose right through Ms. Vickers plate armor. I looked down and I could see the tree roots and crawling worms through the rocks and soil. The morning sky was getting darker. It was as if everything else was fading but me. Soon I would be the only solid thing left.

Verklempt broke out his clip baord and read from his minutes. "Ah Ro Ghant has band practice on Sundays, Ms. Vickers and Natzzo teach on Tuesdays. Karl.. well... he had Anger Mangement on Monday evenings, but that's neither here nor there. Mondays are not good for me, I have finals. Let's explore alternative dates for future meetings, and as I mentioned last night, perhaps we can meet on Friday nights instead... anyone up for next Friday, Feb. 10? How about you Gobarth?"

Their muttering voices faded into silence. I was left alone in darkness looking down and my hands. I heard a low echoey voice saying "Life goes on, you need to keep on 'Keeping On!' " That's when I turned around and saw you there, standing behind me.

Karl turned to the Dragon. It raised it's claw under its chin in pensive observation. The dragon opened Karl's case file and took a slow long drag from its cigarette. With a raised eyebrow it blew out a few rings from one nostril.

"Wellllll, yessssss. There seems to have been a mistake with your case. We've had to re-submit your case number, seems like a few of your papers didn't get processed correctly. So, unfortunately you'll have to roll again and pick a new character. But you'll get credit though, I assure you of that. You'll start over at level three. Are you a Ranger fan?" The Dragon handed Karl a large brass 20-sided di.

To be continued

*The Night the Druid Died

Ms. Vickers protested at first, but she was outvoted. The men all agreed that spending the night in a nearby cave was a wise choice. The Werebard might return with an legion of lycanthropic lyricists to avenge the severed tail. Nothing is scarier than a rogue poetry group. So they packed their gear and walked up the hill towards the cave that Klem Matoh scouted out earlier. But before leaving they kept the fire going as a decoy. They also set up a Tiger Trap with carefully placed journals as bait. It is well known that Werebards often reappropriate unpublished material.

The cave entrance was narrow and long, as they went deeper into the cave the torch revealed a dog leg tunnel. They slowly moved forward, Ah Ro Ghant pushed ahead of the troup, Ms. Vickers just shrugged her shoulders and said "Keep going." Gobarth and Klem Matoh followed, and then Natzzo and Karl. The ceiling was low, it was covered with a powdery network of fungi and cobwebs. As they moved deeper, a warm breeze rush by and blew out the torches. Klem Matoh turned on his cell phone. In the low light he saw dime size reflections blink back at him. Then they were gone.

"You guys see that?" Ver Klempt asked. He turned on his Blackberry, bathing the walls with a bluish luminescence. Up ahead they heard dry rattling and a few clicking sounds. Ah Ro Ghant finally got the torch lit and held it high.They saw nothing. Then Ms. Vickers screamed "Ahhhh! something just bit my leg!" something scurried away beneath her, she was bleeding. Then all at once they emerged from the darkenss, two Ant Men and their giant drones. The troup had unwittingly invaded a nesting chamber.

The Ant Men stood on two legs, nearly 8 feet tall. Their chitin-armored bodies were black and shiney, their arms were covered with stiff wirey hair. "Interlopers! SEIZE THEM!" one cried. The pig-sized drones charged with their pinchers wide open grabbing at anything, even themselves. One grabbed onto Ms. Vickers sheild, she gave it a solid kick. Ver Klempt guzzled a vile of purple liquid and turned into a gas just as a drone reached for his neck. More drones poured out from the darkenss ahead. Ah Ro Ghant swung about frantically with his Sword of Sharpness cutting some of the drones in two. Klem Matoh created mirror images of himself, fooling the drones, giving just enough time for Gobarth to pull a drone off of Natzzo's back.

This was truely mahem! Long and short range weapons abounded as they defended themselves fiercely. Three drones surrounded Karl one by the arm the other by the leg. The third drone ran up the low ceiling and jumped on him, the only thing separatng him from eminent danger was his wooden sheild. He stabbed blindly with his +1 spear. More drones came from the other side of the tunnel, one grabbed Natzzo by his leg. Gobarth swung at it with his mace and tore its head from its body.

Klem Matoh shot an arrow at one of the Ant Men peircing its boney hide. It clutched its chest and fell over and Ah Ro Ghant leapt forward and cut off its head spilling hot sulfury juice from it neck. Suddenly some of the drones froze to a dead stop as if they were unplugged!

"Its the Ant Men! They control the drones' every movement!" Ms. Vickers jumped through the air and with her sword in hand sliced into the other Ant Man's back. Without further struggle it fell to the ground, Vickers deliverred another blow to the thorax, cutting it in half. The bottom half hobbled into a wall. The top half writhed in pain. Flipping itself over, it tried to pull itself back into the darkenss. Gobarth delivered the final blow with his mace, splattering the its head like a ripened plum. Sallow smelling blood bubbled on the cave floor making a hissing sound. All the drones were now frozen in various attack positions.

Everyone examined their injuries, Natzzo's side was bleeding badly, he needed the Staff of Healing. Ver Klemp materialized from his gaseous form and called out "Karl, get over here! We need your Staff!" Karl didn't reply. To the far corner of the tunnel lay a trail of wood and leather. It was Karl's wooden shield splintered into kindling. Ah Ro Ghant spotted the tip of a spear beneath a large pile of drones. He plowed through them and there below he found Karl, his body still in the pinchers of a drone. Gobarth cast his spell of "Heal Light Wounds" while Ver Klempt pried Karl's limp body from the drone's grip. Ah Ro Ghant grabbed him by his collar and slapped him across the face a few times. "Come on! Get up!" He stopped and picked the chunk of dirt that was resting on the white of Karl's left eye. Was it too late?

They stood sullenly around Karl. Natzzo sat on a toppled drone with his hand over his mouth and heaved a heavy sighed. "Wow, he just made it to fifth level, man." Ver Klempt held Karl's wrist and felt for a pulse. "Nothing... I heard a Druid can live over 200 years if he get's past sixth level. A tortoise can live for 177, you know. Karl was no boney-shelled slacker." he said with abandon. They stood silently, looking away from each other. Karl the Druid was dead.

Ms. Vickers cleared her throat "Ahhhhem. He was already low on hit points from the last adventure. You all knew that... Well, there's nothing more we can do now. Come on boys, let's divide his gear." a single tear rolled down her cheek and splashed on her boot. She handed Gobarth the Staff of Healing. "Goodbye, Druid." she said as she knelt and closed his lids over his clay-colored eyes. "Let's not waste any more time."

Epilgoue
What Crap! Is life so fragile that one's fate rests solely on the roll of a 20-sided di? Was the dragon dream a horrible harbinger of bad news? Will Karl make the evening news? Who will be at the wake? Will it be catered? Will some of Karl's gear appear on Ebay with procedes going towards Druid Disaster Relief? Who will maintain this blog?!! Log on as the adventure continues.