buddy, boy, and girl

We had been sitting side by side on weathered stones, beside a washed up fish skeleton from the passing river, for what we were hypothesizing was anywhere from an eternity to no time at all. A rainbow colored petroleum membrane lapped atop the waves that broke at our feet, as a soda bottle followed a gaggle of geese downstream.

"[Words mean nothing]," she said again and again. I must have looked at 800,000 of hers that day. We planned to stay until deaf and blind, until we could stand atop the tower of Babel. I told her B.C. was a close destination. But, in my seventh postcard I apologized that we would never make it.

a manager/cashier, a madcap and a maniac

Three senior employees of my usual Walgreens have got to be raising an eyebrow to me each time I step in for a miscellaneous whatnot. The highlight of last year's summer was my successful, though temporary, escape from incarceration in Milwaukee Behavioral Health Complex. I had acquired cigarettes through charm and persistence on the ten-mile barefoot walk from the suburbs to Milwaukee's downtown. However, if I were to make it through dawn, I'd need a pack of my own. Luckily, my roommate (who had intercepted me very close to Milwaukee's downtown) and my mother drove me a few blocks to Walgreens, where I could purchase some.

With the money my mother and roommate gave me, I entered a crowded Walgreens. I hadn't a driver's license on me, since it might have seemed obvious I was packing up to leave had I requested my wallet from a nurse before heading outside the ward for a break.

I lay the five dollar bill on the counter and requested No. 27s. Predictably, I was carded. "Keep it." I said, shoved the bill toward the balding cashier and walked out. A similar scene followed, in which I attempted to use a college ID. I was again rejected. The man made ten dollars in tips that night. I'm not quite sure why I threw money at the man. But, if he really thought I was younger than 18 at 25, he must have liked my fresh face and felt a responsibility to preserve it.

Not an hour ago, I entered Walgreens to see the same female cashier, security guard, and manager working as were the night of the preceding. The store had a similar level of bustle, but my mind a lower level of buzzing. Soon, though, I began to hear the lights buzz; the line was held up.

It seemed a man, who looked to be a weathered thirty-two, was being turned away from the purchase of cigarettes. This was not because he did not possess ID, or that his graying hair appeared fake to the manager manning the cash register. It was because his driver's license claimed he was eighteen years of age.

As the smokes-less joker chuckled with his friends outside, the manager very grimly instructed the security guard to 'get right on him--get right up on him next time he comes in.' The security guard nodded and frowned in agreement. I was next in line.

I requested a pack of my usual brand of ready-rolls, and indicated I'd be paying with a debit card. Of course, I was carded. Having had recently misplaced and replaced my driver's license, I was able to display two identical forms of ID for the manager. Once he had read, reread and compared the birthdate information as is adequate for legal verification, I received my pack and a receipt. "I appreciate it," I said.

the god poem
by george k. george

I prayed to God for real the other night
I used a computer and a blank screen
I asked if it was okay to pray in lowercase
I said I hoped it was alright that I smoked during the prayer

I prayed for understanding
And I got some
But, He later told me that while praying I have done worse than smoke
Since, we haven't shut up since being born

© 2005 g.k.g.

finding an outlet

As if to mock the situation, the lady from Wisconsin Energies used the electric doorbell before requesting to be led to the main power switches in the basement. My question regarding the functionality of telephones in a building without power was answered as she slid apartment four's switch into the locked "OFF" position. She replied that I'd need a wall phone in order to resolve the amount past due. I wondered if a wall phone could be made from my computer, which has a modem card. Many more brief contemplations such as these were to follow.

I passed by the silent refrigerator as I led the WE woman toward the door. Before sending her off to continue casting her small shadow over the city, I offered her a bite to eat from the stock of doomed perishables. The fridge's contents would keep for a day if the door was kept closed, she advised me. I'm sure I could have tapped into an extensive survival guide had I asked more questions. Much of it may have resembled that which is writ in the guide to Y2K I've preserved from five years ago.

The battery clock did not yet say three-thirty, so I'd need to wait until I could conduct the business of payment negotiation in the Brady Street Pharmacy, possibly with the use of my usual waitress' cellphone. To pass the time I could update my open source software's project site--no, no. I'd think of maybe scribbling down some lyrics, then of a song by a band in my record collection, then of making a mix tape for my girlfriend--ah, damn. The inspiration for these things were accompanied by a twitch, before resuming my slouched brooding on the sofa.

So, I guessed I'd have to spend the day on the town, despite my productive urges. Without a twitch, I considered that perhaps someone had left a message on the electric answering machine. Indeed they hadn't, but the machine's seven-segment display was glowing red! Lifting the the cordless receiver from the electric handset, a dialtone hummed expectantly into my ear. I flicked some light switches--nothing. I fiddled with the stereo--nothing. I opened the fridge and saw darkness. One mysterious outlet in the apartment had remained live.

An extension cord was soon extended from this outlet to the surge protector in the other corner of the room. The computer booted, and the LED indicators on the stereo began to shine. I stayed glued to my little electrified corner for the rest of the day. The lesson Wisconsin Energy was trying to teach had a loophole, and I was going to ride it for riding-it's sake. There is a mild rustic feeling in huddling around a single point of 60Hz wall current. But, when I think that WE's intent is punishment by making us rough it, spite is the sentiment.

The 700 dollar back dues have now been taken care of. In an hour or two the electric doorbell plugged into the surge protector should chime of the arrival of a WE representative who will put us back on the grid. We'll be done with the thirty-six hour novelty of flipping light switches fruitlessly, drinking instant coffee, and showering in the dark. I haven't yet decided whether to leave the functional outlet obvious to the WE representative, today. He or she may need to report the cross wiring in this antiquated house, in which case the loophole may be closed upon future power revocations. Still, I'd like to know the representative's reaction to a Shockwave Flash strobe light, loud punk rock music, Home Shopping Network on the tv, a smoking toaster, and a black light upon entering the living room of a home to which he or she has come to restore power.

greasy rangoon on a day in june

Tonight, my fifty-three year-old, gold-hearted, schizophrenic friend and I made a nine o'clock sweep of the local wining-and-dining district in search of "oriental food," as my friend put it. Most notably, Milwaukee's fine food serivce drag leads down the aptly named street, Brady. The name is apt for my lack of ever having an untwisted experience while strolling its pavement.

There's not much in the way of lush foliage lining Brady street, but spring color seekers need not look far. Like any spectrum usually can, the street's eateries can be broken down to three mutually opposite theme components. These are grease and bottomless coffee; sirloin and rasperry vinagrette; and pork rinds and Budweiser. Red and green make yellow, so it may come as no surprise when your glass mug of fair trade organic Panamanian dark roast requires several cold hard quarters in pursuit of bottomlessness. Not to mention, these teahouses deal in a selection of imported and local beers that just might have something to satify the craving for raspberry vinagrette.

Somewhere in the gray band lie the Oriental Coast and the EE Sane Thai Restaurant, whose awning spans over the east sidewalk of the intersecting strip, Farwell Avenue. Gray is designated as the spectrum element of these two providers of Asian cuisine because of the neutrality toward economic and social stratification each employs in their services. The prices are only slightly above that of the greasy spoons on Brady and Farwell, and corporate domestic beer is represented as well as imports that include Far Eastern brews. Also, napkins are fan-folded in the water goblets at each table, but there's no guy in a black suit making rounds with a carved twelve-inch curry grinder.

I have received nothing but encouraging and affirming fortunes from my cookies following meals at the Oriental Coast, but my my friend and I found the restaurant to be closed on Tuesdays. It wasn't a far walk to EE Sane Thai Restaurant, but my friend is fifty-three and somewhat of an ambler. He often reminds me of his age--tonight by saying he'd meet me there, since I was already walking a good four sidewalk squares ahead of him. I replied that I thought he was doing very well for someone who was really "much, much older than fifty-three" and had undergone countless plastic surgeries to hide his identity.

He and I are starting a streak of disgruntling the waitstaff of restaurants that are closing in five minutes, but which guess it's ok. At Pizza Man last week Wednesday, it made me wonder for a moment if the waiter described the seafood pizza as "honestly... disgusting" because its preparation time was greater than that of a ham and pineapple pie. In any case, EE Sane saw nothing wrong with allowing us to order something for takeout. EE Sane has an enormous selection of dishes, but I had stared at my reflection in the Oriental Coast's darkened window still wishing for a plate of sweet and sour pork. The Thai version of the classic would do just fine, and so would an order of crab rangoon. The cashier asked how spicy I'd like the pork; I asked him what options I had. He said, from one to ten. I must have considered the fire in Pace Salsa Hot as being a ten and that in Pace Salsa Medium as being a five. What I failed to consider was that if one paints a red line from one side of a gymnasium wall to the other, that red line represents the spiciness of an habañero. That is, if another, four or five-foot line is painted where the first line starts. This line represents the spiciness of most other peppers. I wasn't taking the full spectrum into account.

Since I assumed five would be right around medium, and Pace Medium is a bit bland, I replied that I'd like it at six. The cashier looked up with round eyes as if he were about to tell me that he hadn't heard anyone say that in a while. With the register chattering incessently and one couple after another giving their brief parting testimonials on just how really great everything was, it seems possible that our waiter might have decided to let the six, itself, explain the power of a six.

We ordered a couple of beers from the wide selection and hunched over them at the counter, each of us suckling a cigarette. I broke the silence and asked my friend if he'd like to shoot a game of pool, then feigned surprise when he told me we weren't in a bar. I shared my neurosis about the street musician who's been playing outside of Walgreens for the past few days. I'd never heard a folk singer sound so angry. And by what he was saying in an intermission that resembled a fit of some sort, I believed he was angry at me for trying to sing along the other day. I considered writing him a note telling him, in case it looked like it, I wasn't trying to ask for a cigarette with sign languange earlier, but that I wanted to know if he wanted one for later. Then, I thought I might get another intermission dedicated to me. Maybe I'd better give him a dollar, not just change, when we're walking back.

We paid the cashier an amount very typical of what might be spent on a meal of bacon cheeseburgers, fries and a couple of pints. Again, I found myself walking alone until I was reminded to slow down by a chronic, wheezing cough a few steps behind me. My recently acquired roommate sat studying in the apartment when we returned. He moved to the United States from Japan about five years ago, works at a place called China Wok, and has never had crab rangoon. EE Sane knows its rangoon. Sitting around the coffee table, my dear old friend muttered something about his disagreement with spicy food we've all heard someone about his age mutter at some point in our lives. But, he finished up just fine. It was I who said I'd finish the rest of mine when my tongue wasn't entirely covered in scar tissue. It might have been nice to chase the spice with edible salve, as the cream cheese in crab rangoon is kind of like. In the chaos of the closing restaurant, I almost think he might have asked me to pick a number between one and five. And it was evident by the contents of the brown paper sack that he heard nothing about crab rangoon.

milwaukee unincorporated

Always, I am reminded. I muddle through every day without my actions seeming my-my-how-manlike. I believe that more often I amble around the city assuming I'm seen as a kid. It's not until someone verbally reminds me that I am of adult age and appearance that its ever on my mind. I might even respond to "Hey kid!" before "Excuse me Sir!" Hearing "Sir" causes me to think of the mature-looking men for whom I have always reserved the polite address. Is that what I am, now?

Recently, I was thanked by a younger friend for treating him like a son... "Thanks, Sir!" My roommate and I were followed from a café by a young rascal requesting money, cigarettes and a fight. When I dodged his punches he claimed, "Look at this! A grown man is afraid of me... "Whatsamatta, Sir?" Then, a close friend asked me straight out if I considered myself a boy or a man. I told her, I consider myself a man as much as I consider this town of Milwaukee, Wisconsin to be a large metropolis. Brilliant, she said.

Though not the political capital of the state, Beer Capital of the nation Milwaukee, Wisconsin lies north of Chicago, Illinois on Lake Michigan, for those unsure. The city sports one tall skyscraper and has a transfixing nighttime skyline besides. You'll find museums, theatres, a rainbow of cultural cuisine and several colleges and Universities. That's enough from the brochure. Milwaukee trys very hard to be a metropolis, and by population statistics it might be there. However, the presence of big-city ambiance is debatable, intermittent really.

One example of a shortcoming in Milwaukee's attempts to pass itself off as a metropolis is the taxicab system. A visitor might see taxis roaming the streets, but there is no place to hail one. They are on an as-needed phone-call-required basis. In downtown Milwaukee, my walking companion and I were asked by a young visiting businesswoman where she could catch a cab. There was a look of indescribable confusion when we told her the situation.

There are, however, panhandlers in Milwaukee. However again, I recognize most of them now. Not more than an hour ago I was asked for some change. I replied I had none, which was the truth. The man began walking with me, which I didn't take as a threat for I knew him from countless other encounters. He then explained that he needed three-fifty so he could get a tap beer and gamble on the pool table. I would have given him the money, had I had it, regardless of this generally donation-repellant logic. I know what a few beers can do to one's luck at billiards.

As a Milwaukeean that uses almost strictly pedestrian transportation, I am immersed in the neighborhoods of the city daily. Like many cities, there are ghettos in the archaic definition of the word. National Avenue on the south side is teeming with hispanic restaurants and plastered with billboards bearing messages only in Spanish. Another area that could be considered an ethnic "ghetto" is my own neighborhood. It contains several Italian delis as well as fine dining establishments. At the Brady Street Pharmacy's attached coffee shop conversations in Italian can be overheard on any day. The modern definition of a ghetto does not escape Milwaukee either. However, I have never felt a need to be nervous while traversing these areas on foot. Am I oblivious to the risk, or is Milwaukee nearly as safe as a town with a fraction of the population?

As mentioned, Milwaukee is a town of colleges. Among the many students to be seen, and among the young populous in general, there are the punks, hippies, hipsters, fashion deviants, poets... artists, really. The coffee shop storefronts are made beautiful by these individuals. In the more aged generations, however, eccentricity is harder to find. Longtime adults in this city seem to have taken on a homogeneous lifestyle reminiscent of that in the small town from which I hail. I will not rule out the factor of my having grown up in a small town around the turn of the century. Perhaps MTV, the Internet and various franchises are resposible for allowing city culture to seep into rural America. But, that's another essay.

Milwaukee possesses the ability to virtually instantly gratify a whim, as most large cities do. Twenty-four hour restaurants abound, and most are within walking distance. It occurred to a girl with whom I had been wandering aimlessly around downtown for several consecutive days that "Milwaukeetalkie" has a certain ring to it. I then elaborated on the new word, separating it into "Meal, walkie, talkie," which is exactly what downtown Milwaukee is good for.

I imagine that while living in any neighborhood in any city one might notice a thing like when a stranger gets a haircut, but the presence of strangers--people who don't even know anyone you know--is a refreshing fact after leaving a tiny town. This next story might not have ever worked out had it occurred in my town of ten thousand. While in a mild state of psychotic mania I began to believe a girl who had gone away for the summer would suddenly appear in Milwaukee. I had ditched my glasses early in the madness, and many strangers' faces appeared familiar. Standing on the steps of my apartment house, a beautiful girl walked by in a group of her friends. Not looking entirely unlike the girl for whom I was fruitlessly searching, I asked, "Hey, do I know you?" She froze and said, "I don't know, do you?" "No," I said, "I know you from a distance." A pair of pink striped panties showed up on my doorstep the next day. Encounters with strangers, even if they last only seconds, can leave a feeling to savor for a lifetime.

The summer in which the previous story occurred, I succeeded in escaping the psychiatric ward in which I was kept. I headed for home. Undoubtedly, it was the atmosphere shifts experienced in walking twenty miles through the neighborhoods of Milwaukee that made the city seem as though it were the balanced regeneration of civilization after the nuclear war I believed had occurred. Milwaukee is riding the line of metropolis status in my mind. Often, I'll be caught up in how much of a disparity there is between how a situation goes down here as compared to in my hometown. Often still, I'll wonder when I stepped into the wormhole back to my hometown. If Milwaukee had an singular mind it might be as confused about its metropolitan status as I am about my status as a man.

beach short

He staggered through the bushes onto the beach, his eyes rolled back and mouth horribly agape. Dropping to his knees before the waves, he clenched his fists and teeth and shook his arms in the air. For a moment his neck sagged to one side, bowing to the ocean. Then, in a culmination of despair he screamed at the water, "I crawled out of you, now tell me what I should do!"

humming eighty venus

To collect the anxieties with the hopefulness in one corner of the mind long enough to neutralize them into comfortable boredom with which one can do something.

korean missile turns out to be space junk returning to earth

While recently enjoying a Denver sandwich on rye at the counter of my most haunted dining establishment, the music that oozed just over the audible limen was suddenly interrupted. First, a shrill tone that lasted a second or two came from the hidden speakers. A few bursts of coarse buzzing followed. The emergency broadcast system was performing a test, or was it?

I let my mind wander over how people in the restaurant may have reacted if the EBS had a cataclysmic bulletin to deliver. I imagined people gasping, panicking, praying, and diving under tables. But, the message went on to relieve the minds of all listeners that this was, assuredly, only a test. I think so, that is. Positive the EBS bulletin was just doing its usual thing, my attention strayed from it.

The opening dischorded melody of these radio and television broadcast tests is instantly recognizable to any American. It's probably never caused alarm in anyone. But, what does an actual emergency broadcast sound like? If they plan to use the same set of tones and buzzes, it's as if these tests we've been hearing are saying, "National emergency! Just kidding!"

Assume the same sound effects are used for all ESB breaks. If there ever is an actual emergency, or even just a phony one, during every test thereafter people will be diving under tables and accepting Christ as their savior.