The JackB

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx

Red Dress Club

Love Burns

by 27 Comments

Eyes close, lips brush…time stops. Eyes open…empty room…Empty heart. Hope that echoes of the past become reality of the future. #loveburns

You are out there in the dark. Somewhere in a different place than I you stand in your kitchen cooking dinner or maybe you are sitting at your desk working. It doesn’t really matter because it is not my dinner that you are cooking and not our home that you are returning to. The life we once planned on sharing together is not the life that we have today.

I know how that sounds and I know how much you hate to hear it. We are so very similar and so very different in how we handle and and respond to some things. When the heat comes down you do all that you can to stay busy. It is easier to keep running than to focus on things that you feel like you cannot fix. But that is not me, that is not who I am.

Blame it on being male or being a dreamer. Blame it upon a desire to be your hero because you know that is part of what I have always wanted to be for you. Best friend, partner, lover and hero.Those are things to be especially proud of and I would wear that badge without regret for eternity.

We complement each other in so many ways and always have. There is a balance that is established between us, an equilibrium that works to our advantage. It is part of what makes us so formidable and not just a tragic love story that never was and never could be. I know what The Circumstances of Astrology are and I know why you said what you said.

There has never been a time or moment that you weren’t there. Only moments of ignorance and lack of awareness. You weren’t on my radar or a gleam in my eyes. Perhaps you were a dream that I never wanted to believe in. A dream because I didn’t believe that someone like you was out there.

It is funny in an odd sort of way. I can hear you telling me that you’ll never forgive me for not finding you sooner. I can hear you calling my name, asking why I am silent. I tell you that I don’t share my thoughts easily. I live in a world of silence because I choose to be silent. I tell you that I am shy and you laugh.

You don’t believe me. You don’t understand how very different you are. You don’t know how many complained about my unwillingness to share. You don’t know how very silent I can be. You don’t know because I gave you that key. You don’t know because you have always seen what others couldn’t. You don’t know because I celebrated being able to be so free and so open with someone.

But it is a two way street. When my door opened wide so did yours. I don’t share your grace. I don’t walk, I lumber. And so I lumbered on in and made myself at home. Home, that is what we were for each other. A refuge and a sanctuary that provided incredible amounts of strength. An indefatigable team who was naturally able to heal each other and who could do it still…

“So I would choose to be with you
That’s if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break”
And So it Goes– Billy Joel

*****

This was a post about heartbreak for the Write On Edge writers community. I am not sure if this hit the mark for me. I got a late start on it and never quite found the rhythm I was looking for but part of the reason I participate is for the practice.  The goal is to get better and the only way to do that is to practice. Anyhoo, if you are interested in reading past prompts you can find a list below:

Lesson Learned

by 10 Comments

When someone punches you in the head you don’t expect to hear “You can’t screw an old head on young shoulders.”  Yet the first two or three times he hit me that is exactly what I heard my father say. Dad wasn’t there for the fight, but I had heard him say it so many times it wasn’t hard to imagine him saying it again. It sort of surprised me to hear that. I don’t know what I expected but it was different than that.

I don’t know, maybe I thought that it would be similar to the Batman show from the 1960s. You know the one with Adam West where every blow was accompanied by an animated “pow” or “oomph.” It is kind of silly to read those words because that wasn’t the first time that I had been hit. Well, that is not entirely true. It was the first time that I had been hit with boxing gloves every other time had been with a fist or foot.

This time was different. I was twenty years-old and standing in the center of a boxing ring. Young, dumb and stupid Jack had agreed to spar with a guy who was my height but no where close to my weight. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. I had been spending hours in the gym each day and my body showed it. I had taken the swimmers body I had in high school and carved it up in ways that would have made Michelangelo jealous.

So when the guy at school asked me if I was interested in checking out his boxing regimen I said sure. I had heard that boxers had a decent training routine and figured that it might be fun to try it out.

Just before I stepped in the ring one of the guys there asked me if I was certain of what I was doing. I nodded my head and smiled. He looked at me and suggested that I wipe the smile off of my face before the other guy saw it. I told him that maybe he should tell the skinny guy to watch out because I really was much bigger.

In between rounds I leaned against the ropes and tried to figure out how to catch him in a corner. I knew that if I landed one solid shot I would be good. Moments later he danced around and sent a glancing blow off of my body and I thought, “Lesson Learned.”

This post was based upon a prompt from The Red Dress Club.

If you are interested in reading past submissions you can find a list of them below:

 

A Whiter Shade Of Pale

by 22 Comments

Love and Hate

This is the kind of post that really should be told in person. There are stories and then there are STORIES about moments in which my face turned a whiter shade of pale. Some of them are tales that I tell with great joy and gusto because age has given me the ability to engage in self deprecation. There is a real art to it and it is a useful skill that many have turned to their advantage.

But there are other tales that I do not tell because they still pierce the thick skin that I have developed. These are moments that are only examined in quiet solitude and spoken about in a hushed whisper because sometimes in the quiet of the moment…it burns.

It feels foolish to admit this and say that some things still hurt. I am not sure why. I can’t say if it is because I am male and I don’t think that I should admit such things or if there is something else that lies beneath the surface. So I sit here at the computer trying to decipher the mystery of the moment while simultaneously searching for the proper moment to make mention of.  I explore the dark corners of my mind and dust off the cabinets that contain the chaos of the past and dare myself to go deeper.

In person it would be easier because the words that were spoken would die off in hushed whisper and the echoes would be brief. These words on this page don’t disappear and the echoes continue to bounce off of the canyons of cyberspace for eternity or however long this blog and all that record its words shall last.

It brings us to the moment where I can no longer try to deftly weave my way through the woods. Questions have been asked and answers must be given so here you shall find a few words that you can do as you see fit with.

The year is 1982.I am 13 years-old and in a Hebrew school play. They have adapted South Pacific to tell the story of a Jewish holiday. It is the standard fare of they tried to kill us, they lost, we won, let’s eat. I have a big role, but it is not the lead. Two weeks or so before the  big opening the kid who does have the lead drops out and the director asks if anyone can step in and take over. I don’t think twice and offer my services.

I am not fazed by the idea of having to sing in front of the school and parents. The joy of being 13 is that I don’t ever consider the possibility that things could go badly. I never worry about my voice cracking at odd times and places.  I never wonder what I will do when the entire audience roars with laughter because my singing is funny to them.

Nor do I consider that many of the students go to junior high with me and that they will gleefully tell the tale of how Jack can’t sing…for all of the Spring semester. 

This was a post for The Red Dress Club about embarrassment. I wouldn’t call it my finest work, but writing requires practice and this serves that purpose.

If you are interested in reading past submissions you can find a list of them below:

An Unfulfilled Promise

by 10 Comments

You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life–whether good or bad.  What does it say?  How does it affect you or your character?  What is done with it?

 

Hawkeye: “No, you submit, do you hear? You be strong, you survive… You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.“ Last Of The Mohicans

If you had seen his face you wouldn’t have known that the ghosts of his past had woken from their slumber and begun to rattle their chains.

They were supposed to be nothing more than words on a page, just a simple movie quote that Johnny had once shared with her many years before. They weren’t supposed to tear the scab off of a wound that had never healed. They weren’t supposed to stop him in his tracks and make him remember things best let forgotten, but they did.

They did because they were more than just words. It was a promise to someone who had long since left his life and a symbol of what he was willing to do for her.  It shouldn’t have hurt to read them, but it did. It did for a thousand different reasons not the least of which was the memory of how something beautiful had been broken. It did because he had meant it.

These were not words that he took lightly. He remembered the day that he had written the letter that contained those words and the thousand that came after them. She had read it twice and called him in tears demanding to know what it meant. He remembered it all and how she begged him not to give up because they still loved each other and he hadn’t.

That letter wasn’t supposed to be taken that way. He wasn’t trying to push her away. All he had wanted to do was be her hero but circumstances had come between them and he felt like she needed to take care of the things that only she could. It broke his heart to write it but it was also supposed to be comforting to her. It was supposed to be reassuring- something that she could hold onto when things got tough.

Neither one of them could have predicted just how tough it would become. They never believed that they could be ripped apart and forced to live separate lives. Yet that was what had happened and the world had not come to a screeching halt. The sun hadn’t exploded nor had the earth begun to spin backwards.

*****

Sometimes he wondered if the universe really did send messages and or signs to people. He had been searching his files for business purposes and it had just popped up as part of the search results. Since so much time had passed he hadn’t thought twice about opening it. It was supposed to be fun. His intention was to glance at it and resume working but good intentions often go astray.

So he found himself remembering what was and wondering about what could have been. In the silent of the night he had sent her his blessing and asked the heavens to carry her in the arms of the angel.  It wasn’t easy to walk away but he had cloaked himself in hope and faith that the future would be better.

And now years later he discovered to his chagrin that some flames are never completely extinguished. The real question was whether to try and quench the flames or follow the path that his heart was constructing for him.

If you are interested in reading past submissions you can find a list of them below:

Dancing Didn’t Make Him Charming

by 17 Comments

This is based upon the following prompt from The Red Dress Club
This week we asked you to write a prompt inspired by this sentence: The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.

You won’t ever mistake me for Baryshnikov. Grace and I are distant cousins who get along on a basic level, but can’t seem to get beyond that. I didn’t want to go to the bar because I don’t dance. That is not entirely true- I am comfortable “slow dancing.”

Got enough grace and rhythm not to step on her feet but speed it up and I worry about looking like I am having a seizure. Given the choice I wouldn’t have gone tonight, but the girls have pushed me.

The two of them swear that I won’t be uncomfortable and that I’ll have a good time. When I try to back out they tell me that I have a better chance of meeting someone. They claim that women will be attracted to a man who is with two women.

I tell them that the three of us should stay in and see what happens. Lisa hits me in the head with a pillow and Julie slugs me in the arm. I shrug my shoulders and say that I guess I am going.

They have already picked out my “outfit- a pair of black Justin “cowboy” boots, 501s and a green t-shirt are what I am supposed to wear. I roll my eyes at them and say that this is what I would have chosen anyway.

It is not an exaggeration. I really would have picked those things, but they insist on having final say and I just don’t care so I let them.

Just before we leave they give me specific instructions on what to do when men approach. Lisa tells me that I am not paying attention and I tell her she is right. I don’t need a playbook. I have a million sisters and know exactly what to do.

Apparently that is what makes them nervous. Lisa says that I am not to get too aggressive and Julie nods her head. I tell them that I don’t know what the hell that means and get yelled at. They tell me that the last time we did this I picked a fight with two of the guys buying them drinks. This time I am supposed to look for a sign.

I tell Lisa that if she holds up two fingers I’ll steal home and if Julie holds up one I’ll swing away. Neither of them smiles and I know that I am one ‘cute boy’ away from irritating them. But I have given my word to go so we head out.

Two or three beers after our arrival the girls decide that I cannot people watch any longer. They tell me that I’m required to dance. It is the height of the line dancing craze & I tell them that I am unwilling to do it.

They say no problem and tell me that I am going to learn how to “two-step.” They give me a quick demo and then take positions in front of and behind me. Between shoulder and hand squeezes I figure out what to do and when.

I feel a bit like a kid who just learned how to ride a bike and I dance with them and a dozen other women. It is a blast.

Later on I’ll ask them to help me meet someone and find out that sometimes hitting a bar with two women isn’t always a great way to meet other women.

It seems that this “configuration” has given them the impression that I am gay. And here I thought that being able to “two step” made me charming…..

If you are interested in reading past posts try one of these:

The Mistress of Tongue

by 25 Comments

The story below is based upon the following prompt from The Red Dress Club:

This week’s prompt was about affection. We asked you to write how the show of affection played a part in your memory.

You were to choose a time when either the abundance or lack of affection and take us to that moment.

It is the Spring of 1988 and I am a 19 year-old freshman in college enjoying all of the freedom and benefits that university life has to offer. My initial plan to spend the year in Israel has been scrapped and I am pleasantly surprised by how much fun I am having.

There is a girl in my political science class that intrigues me. I have spent more than a few minutes trying to stare at her without getting caught. She has long black hair and dark eyes. It is quite warm in spring so I am treated to lots of sun dresses and or shorts. Some days I make a point to sit just behind her and to the side. From there I am able to drink deeply in the dreams I have of her. She has a lot of attention from men so I don’t want to be like everyone else- I need to figure an angle that will make her notice me.

Little do I know that tripping over my own two feet will be enough to catch her eye.

Class has just ended and we’re heading out of class to wherever we need to be. She is standing in front of me and my eyes are drawn downwards. I am walking but not watching where I am going and somehow I end up sprawled in the hallway. Don’t know if I grunted, screamed or if she heard the soft thud my head made when it smacked the ground. What I do know is that I find her standing over me. She wants to know if I am ok. I mumble something at her and stand up. We talk for a moment. I attempt to be cool and fail miserably at it.

But the fall has broken the ice and we start to have conversations. I am ecstatic about it and work hard to say just enough not to sound like a fool.  A few weeks pass and I gather the courage to ask her out. She takes me with her to a party at her friend’s apartment and we grab a few drinks. I am more than pleased that she laughs at my jokes. She flips her hair and touches my arm throughout the night and I begin to think that maybe lady luck is with me.

A short time later we’re at her apartment. I try to figure out how to kiss her without looking foolish. I think to myself that Jewish kids don’t have patron saints, but if I did it would be great for our Lady of Getting Lucky tonight to put a good word in for me. My silent prayer is answered and she invites me in.

Moments later her arms are wrapped around me and I am trying to hide my response. Can’t give away all my secrets so quickly. A few soft kisses lead to her neck and I feel her melt. She grabs my face in her hands and I prepare to enter heaven when I receive a sudden and rude shock.

Her tongue is everywhere and not in a good way. Apparently, my dream date has graduated from the St. Bernard School of Open Mouth Kissing. I stand there in shock trying to figure out if she thinks that my face is made of chocolate or peanut butter. Remember, I am 19 and the boys have told me that we want a woman who is a master with her tongue, but this isn’t what they were talking about…now is it.

If you are interested in reading past posts try one of these: