The Big Man Named Jacko Said

Well, I have a lot to write about, but I'm not going to quite yet. I've got this kickass book that I'm addicted to and don't have time to read while at work, so I'm going to get lost in it.

This weekend was fun though. It rained, but honestly, it made everything a lot more exciting. Who knew that I'd be a camper...

We Had Been Fourteen Together, He and I

Well, I must say goodbye for the weekend. I am going boating and camping with the boyfriend, his parents, his aunt and uncle, and his brother. I'll say I'm excited.

My parents, meanwhile, are vacationing in Hawaii, celebrating their 30th anniversary (they were high school sweethearts...cute, right?). But I've included two pictures below - my two favorites so far. Enjoy, and if a pack of wild coyotes, a bear or killer mosquitoes don't kill me, I"ll be writing again soon.

I Told You I'd Move It As Soon As Al Can Help Me

So, I've been slacking on writing the past few days. I've been spending all my free time drinking, playing Wii and reading The Lovely Bones, which is actually a good book, despite its weirdness.

Speaking of weird, had a weird email conversation with my supervisor (who actually turns out to be the CFO/COO, which can be interesting at times) that I'm not sure I should have had.

From the beginning: it turns out that on the fourth floor of my office building there's this Otis Spunkmeyer shop thing and if you go up and ask for cookies you can get a baker's dozen for $5. So me and this guy went up to order some, which was a completely awkward, long story in itself, so I'll just skip it. So I got the cookies and I had some extra after sharing with my department, so I went to the CFO/COO and asked if he wanted one (he didn't, because he recently entered a Most Healthiest CFO contest and they told him he was obese, haha).

This is where the emails begin.

CFO Man: "Thta was sweet - I just try to stay away from cookies and stuff...getting old is tough. :-)"

(Aside: This isn't the first time I got an email like this from him. I like to bake, and in April I gave him a blueberry bread loaf and there was a similar email. Two days later I was hired full-time. I call it my miracle bread loaf recipe.)

After thinking it over, I decided to respond. Nothing wrong with a friendly email with the second-highest employee in a multi-million dollary company - maybe he'll see that I'm actually a cool person and not one of the egotistical fuck-everything employees.

Response: "No worries, I didn't bake them. If I had baked them and you refused, then we'd have an issue. :)"

I strongly debated the smiley face. But, I didn't want him thinking that I was serious. He's a busy man, and I thought maybe he didn't have time to look for my humor.

CFO Man: "I ate your blueberry loaf-thingy like it was the first food I'd eaten in years! Besides, though I'm no ninja like C.P., I can take you."

(FYI: C.P. is the coworker who does karate stuff and likes to make it known that he's good at it.)

My Response: "Ha! I think you're underestimating me and overestimating C.P."

The "Ha" and exclamation mark were tough decisions, as well. But I didn't want him thinking I was talking badly about my coworker.

CFO Man: "LOL - he can break boards, man -- you bake loafs...LOL."

Slightly disturbed by my boss using a pop-culture acronym and assuming I can't match up with my coworker (I can with my gun, at least), I figured I'd play the age card.

My Response: "Fine, fine, you're right. I've never broken a board without my car. But I don't think an old guy like you can break boards either. :)"

Again, the smiley face was a tough one. My boss is very short, and has a slight Napoleon complex. Calling him old, I wasn't sure how well that'd go over. Apparently, he likes humor.

CFO Man: "LOL -- funny young lady...go back to your easy-bake-oven, and if you're too young to know what that is...there's always Google."

My Response: "Oh I totally had an easy-bake-oven. And I'm surprised you even know what Google is. You're doing really well in keeping up with technology for someone your age."

CFO Man: "LOL -- literally - that was pretty good..."

I'm not sure why he put "literally." I guess it's not too relevant. But I didn't respond and got back to work for a bit. Then I got an internal call - from my CFO.

I can't quote it exactly, but basically, it went like this: "I just wanted you to know that I had some comebacks for that, like something about bending you over my knee, but I didn't think it was appropriate to put it in writing."

What. The fuck. Not wanting to piss him off, I do what I always do when I'm uncomfortable: Laugh. "Haha, oh okay."

"I just want you to remember that!" he said with a laugh.

"Oh okay, I'll remember...haha..."

Looking back at it, I shouldn't have responded. This is a road I don't want to travel.

I left the office at 5 with L.H., my coworker, and we have to pass his office to get to the elevator. The CFO's small girl, I think she might be 3, from a ex-marriage was running around the hallway.

"Bye Easy Bake!" Yeah, the CFO has a new nickname for me now. L.H. asked what that was about, and I said it was just because I bake things.

"It's because you're easy, isn't it?" She joked. I know her, so I know when she's joking. But I hope the CFO and everyone else in the office knows that I'm not exactly the type to sleep my way up, not like the CFO's current girlfriend, who still works for the office, yet no one ever seems to see there.

Sigh. I must admit, I felt like a great Bridget Jones. I only wish I could have my ciggies...

She Liked To Hire Limousines

After writing my intensely depressing last post, I did something I haven't done in a long time: picked up a book. I ended up picking up The Lovely Bones, a book my mother, sister, aunt and grandmother have all been recommending for some time. I figured it would be a good escape from the usual true crime novels I read that keep me up at night.

As it turns out, it's a fiction crime novel. It tells the story of a girl, 14, who is raped and murdered, and she watches her family from her heaven. Sounds lame, which is why I've put it off for a while, but the writing is very compelling. And hey, they're making a movie out it.

But in all seriousness, I don't think I can finish this. Maybe it's because of this guy's powerful piece or because of my past (and let's face it, everyone has something), but I feel like I have to tell the story of this girl I was assigned to write about at one point, another story I never finished.

I've wanted to be a journalist for a long time (surprise! I didn't always want to work for a blood-sucking law office) but hadn't found my niche. My first story in high school was about the opening of new trailers, my first story in college was about the opening of a student-run art gallery, and my first freelance story was about a murder. That murder story got me hooked, for some crazy twisted reason, and ever since I've been reading true crime stories and novels and working to write a few of my own.

My third true crime story is the unfinished one. I don't think I can get past it, and this may signal the end of my short, insufficient and insignificant stent as a true crime writer. It was about a 23-year-old university student who spent a few nights alone at her apartment while her roommates were out of town. A 25-year-old man from down the street got in her apartment through her window, tied her up, had his way then wrapped a wire or a rope around her throat and twisted it until she died.

The cop I was interviewing was telling me all the details as if he were reciting the alphabet. I wanted all of the details. I asked for them. But for some reason I didn't expect him to tell me. The two stories I'd written before, the cops and deputies and the other stars refused to answer, telling me it was part of the investigation, and they couldn't release that information.

So for this guy to actually be telling me information was big to me. I didn't even hear it as he was telling me, just writing. But when I thought he was done and was preparing to ask the next generic question, I noticed he had paused and was looking out of his window. Pauses are golden in interviews - your person pauses, you don't say anything, just pretend to keep writing, and he'll feel obligated to keep going.

Looking back on it now, I kind of wish he hadn't. He gave this little "what a disgusting waste" chuckle and leaned back in his chair. He asked me if I wanted to know the worst part. A journalist never, ever says no to the worst part. He kept looking out the window as he said they had to ask the maintenance guy to open the apartment, because no one had heard from her and family and friends were concerned. When they opened the door there was this smell, and he said he knew she was dead. He said they walked into the back bedroom and they saw her. I won't forget that the cop's face got this expression I can't even describe, but I kept writing on my notepad, intent on not missing a word. He said that she was nailed to the wall with more than a dozen nails. He said she was most likely dead from strangulation before she was nailed, but that if she wasn't, she surely bled to death.

This is the shit I think about every night waiting to fall asleep. I've never told anyone that part of the story before, there's no way I could say it out loud, at least not sober. This is the reason I have 14 weapons around my 600-foot apartment and am constantly looking for bigger, better ones. Sometimes I think I'm just waiting for my turn. Sometimes I think it would be better if the waiting just ended. Other times I just feel like giving everything up and taking care of it myself.

Right now I just feel like some rum. And a little George Carlin.

I've Spent A Lifetime Preparing For A Lifetime

Maybe this is the plan I'm supposed to hang onto.

One of my favorite movies: Little Black Book. It's so painful but so refreshing. I've been thinking a lot about the boyfriend and I. I think he deserves better. I think he deserves someone just as smart as he is, who will find discussions about the methods of cutting down trees interesting, someone who doesn't mind camping, or who doesn't mind staying at home on the weekends and playing video games or watching movies, someone who doesn't like all the cities he hates, and someone who doesn't care that he doesn't like to talk on the phone.

I think that I would feel so refreshed, so much happier, if I worked harder towards what I want instead of compromising because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. And I don't. Want to hurt anyone's feelings, I mean. He's the best guy I've met and I don't want him to hurt. But god, am I really this willing to settle? Is he?

Let the river run.

He's Trying To Style My Hair

I've made it my goal to watch every single episode of "Sex and the City" so I can finally watch the movie. I'm only halfway through season 2, but I absolutely love it. It's great to see people whose lives are humorously more twisted than mine. Oh Aiden...

A woman was fired from work today. It was the second this week. The turnover at this place is frightening, so I'm spending as much time working as I am trying not to step on people's toes. Oh, and I'm going golfing tomorrow with two or three coworkers. We're practicing for the big firm golf outing in July. It will be...interesting, I think. I'm not that good at it. I got a C in class. But hey, at least it's not as bad as my F in tennis, haha.

A poster said if I want to go to Africa, I should go. I wish that I were awesome enough to do that. But, I'm not. One of my biggest fears is losing someone I love, which is going to happen, over and over. I'm lucky enough to have a great family and great friends, and I want to spend as much time with them as I can before one of us dies. That sounds bad. But, I don't want to run off somewhere and have something happen, and then know that I wasn't there to help/stop it. Maybe I'll go for retirement.

In other news, this video made me laugh.

In more news, I just changed my driver's license address so I can get a CCW. This was on my receipt:

Thank you for making an Online Duplicate Driver License or ID Card Request

Please note: This confirmation is a purchase receipt, it is not a license to drive.

Again, made me laugh.

I Got A Bingo

Currently, I am laying on the boyfriend's couch. Watching him workout on his rowing machine. While the Simpsons plays (again) on the 61-inch flat screen HDTV. This isn't even intriguing after a few drinks.

Yes yes, I am up to a whopping 132 lbs. And yes, my years of smoking have significantly prevented me from any prolonged cardio. But god, you don't have to go so far as to workout in front of me to get the point across.

In other news, I made friends with the gay attorney today. So far, he's my favorite. I wish they could all be like him. Meanwhile, getting my hair done Sunday. Thinking bangs. Layers. I have layers now, but they've grown long. We'll see. Oh, and golfing Saturday. It's going to be hell.

You know, I'm sitting here listening to the boyfriend tell the story of the tree-cutter-downers for the third time today. He had a tree cut down in his backyard. And he's apparently really excited about how the people did it. The more I think about it, the more I wonder about it. Why are we together?

A friend's post made me realize that I was initially doing the chasing - hard - when we first met. He's a smart guy, smartest I've ever met, very pragmatic, funny at times, handsome. We don't have anything in common, other than a love for beer and kittens, and a kind of fondness for sex. He doesn't like to go out. He doesn't like to spend money, though he makes $30/hour and is getting a raise. Sometimes I think we'd be better friends than partners. Though I don't know if he'd want to be friends if we weren't partners. What would we do? What do we actually do now, other than watch a few shows, drink and screw? Well. I guess it doesn't matter right now. Let's just hope that he's not thinking too far ahead. Two years into a relationship and I'm not sure if we should be dating. That's a bitch.

He's talking about the tree-cutters again. Sigh.

See What I Did There

So I failed to post yesterday due to unforeseen circumstances. Translation: I didn't feel like putting down my beer.

The only real highlights since my last posts are the fun new things I get to do at my job, a decision to go to DC over the Fourth, a decision to change my mind and not go to DC over the Fourth, and a migraine.

The job thing, I now get to call potential clients. I get information from them and forward it to the appropriate people, who decide if they're worthy enough to be clients. I accidentally hung up on one lady during one particularly interesting call, and called another by the wrong name. So I'm really good at it.

The DC thing, I was going to go with my sister to DC. Then I decided not to. That's about it.

The migraine thing, is interesting. I've had them for a few years and decided to get them checked out earlier in the year. After a CT Scan and MRI, the doctor said I have a calcium deposit in my brain, but said it's nothing to worry about while handing me four separate drugs to figure out which has the least sucky side effects. Fun, right? I finally decided on one, but stopped taking it when the doctor handed me a prescription for folic acid to take with it in order to prevent birth defects in future children. So, the migraines are back. Nothing that can't disappear without a six pack.

But yeah. That's it. Off to drink. And watch Hell's Kitchen. I'm a reality show loser.

Now that the Cold War is over, it's time to fight with ourselves

So I made the drive home today after visiting my father and family for Father's Day. Along the way I was thinking of a lot of things, and I think I'm going to try to save up and treat myself to a trip once a year. With a $25K job and $900 credit card bill, it'll probably start off very small. But, I want it, so, it'll have to work out.

I've posted part two of my story below (sorry if the formatting is inconsistent - I don't care enough right now to fix it). Obviously the whole thing needs some work. But it's one of the two favorite stories I've written. Read if you'd like, otherwise stop by tomorrow night, when I'm sure I'll have some work gossip (::gasp::).

The Three Wisemen

Thomas told me everything in the letters he sent before his death. How the South African people were learning how to survive in a country ravaged by civil war and plagued by an increasing division between rich and poor – almost four in five lived in villages without running water, or access to a doctor within 50 miles.

The government was always corrupt, even from the beginning. There was always someone “for the people” who liberated the poor and took power, but inevitably turned just as corrupt or even more so than the previous ruler. Uprisings weren't uncommon, but most ended in the deaths of many civilians and few government officials.

He also wrote of the people in villages, about how they surprised him when he first arrived. They couldn't read or write in their languages, but they were by no means uneducated.

Almost two months after his death, I received a letter from a man in one of the villages who wrote that Thomas helped teach his son how to plow a field when he was injured. But the most heartwarming and heartbreaking evidence I received of his efforts was a letter in the same envelope from a woman who said she found a pad of paper in the room he lived in with my name on it. It was written five weeks before his death.

Brooklyn,
I’m okay. If you’re reading this, I’m gone, but I’m okay. Do you remember the last conversation we had? It was in the car at the airport. I told you not to worry because it’s useless. I hope you didn’t worry, because I don’t regret anything I’ve done.

The people here are wonderful. They were apprehensive at first, but once they found out that I was part of Tyd Slimhys Drie and not a threat to them but to the people that hurt them, they accepted me. I guess you’re wondering how I got involved with politics after I came here as an observer. I didn’t intend to, but I had no choice.

The ruling government here is getting more and more corrupt. Officials come door-to-door once every few months to collect taxes from the villagers – people who starve themselves to feed their children, who are themselves close to starving. A man in the village couldn’t teach his nine-year-old son how to plow because he was beaten so badly that he couldn’t stand for weeks, but they needed to plant their crops in order to survive.

It was then that I became involved with Tyd Slimhys Drie, an organization that helps and protects the villagers from those ruling them. We decided to fight because someone has to stand up for what’s right, to be a voice for these people without one. I’m protected by those within Tyd Slimhys Drie, we protect each other. But one by one we’re being targeted by the government, something we suspected would happen. We’re putting all our efforts into getting done what we can with the time we have.

I hope you understand, Brooklyn, that I had to put my safety in jeopardy to try and protect the people who have never had any. This is what Dad would have wanted. I have no regrets.

Don’t worry, Brooklyn.

Thomas

#

Addae was the first person I met in South Africa. A close friend of Thomas’, he met me at the airport with a smile and a hug.

“Thomas always talked about you,” he said.

“You speak English?” I asked, a little taken aback that I wouldn’t need to practice my Swahili just yet.

“Yes,” he smiled. “Most of the Three Wisemen do.” When he said the Three Wisemen, a man passing by looked at him curiously, but continued on his way. “Come, we have a long drive.”

On the way to the village, Addae and I spoke about the Three Wisemen.

“Why is it called the Three Wisemen if there are more than three of you?” I asked.

“It began as three, many years ago. It was an underground organization that helped fight poverty by taking from others more rich.”

“Steal from the rich and give to the poor?” I asked with a smile.

“Yes,” he said, not catching or understanding my allusion. “Then, when more joined, the name continued because if the government found out and killed three, they would think the Three Wisemen were gone and stop cautioning.” He paused. “Now, that has changed.”

I nodded and looked out of the window at the rocks and dirt that seamed to stretch for miles.

“Thomas was a good man,” Addae said.

I nodded. “He was.”

“Do you know what we called him?” he asked. I shook my head. “Yafeu. It means ‘bold’ in English.”

I laughed. “Before this, I never would had thought that name suited him.”

“When you get to the village, you will see the differences he still makes.”

I smiled, telling myself not to worry.

#

Children were waiting with smiles as we drove into the village, and waved as we drove slowly by. Addae stopped the car in front of a small wooden building.

“This was where Thomas was,” he said, opening the car door and stepping out.

My heart pounded as I opened the door and followed the steps Thomas took months before. We walked into the building, one room with several colorful blankets in one corner and children’s pictures made with clay sitting on the ground next to the walls. It was simple, what Thomas would have liked.

“The children drew pictures for him a lot of times and he always kept them,” Addae said. I could picture Thomas sitting on the ground with the blankets, laughing with Addae and smiling at children’s pictures. I knew he was happy here.

We heard a child’s hastened footsteps and a small girl ran inside.

“Hulle geskikt/They're coming,”she said quickly.

“Hierheen hulle/Are they here?” Addae asked.

She nodded and ran back towards the center of the village.

“You must come with me but not speak a word,” he said with a different tone.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“No time for explaining,” he said, turning to leave. I followed.

Several cars were coming towards the village, clouds of dust in the air behind them. The villagers were lining up in front of their houses, the men and women holding coins in their hands and looking anxiously towards the cars.

When the cars stopped on the outskirts of the village, several men got out and began walking towards the villagers. They were wearing all red except for black boots. One was holding something that was gleaming in the sunlight.

They stopped in front of one family. One of the men in red held out a bag and a man in the family dropped coins into it, and at the leading man’s nod, the villagers hurried back into their house.

They continued down the line and reached me and Addae, who dropped four coins into the bag. The man in charge hesitated. I felt him looking at me but I was too afraid to look back. After several moments, he nodded, and Addae grabbed my arm and pulled me back into Thomas’ home. We watched the men continue down the line from the slits in the wood, the villagers putting money into the bag family by family.

With only three families left, the tax collector stopped in front of a family of six – a father, mother, and four children. The father dropped several coins into the bag. I heard the man in charge say something to the man, whose face was written with fear and who replied by opening his hands and shaking his head. The tax collector said something else, louder this time.

“No, no,” Addae said.

“What’s happening?” I whispered.

“He doesn’t have enough to pay.”

I watched, though desperately wanting not to, as the man in charge continued to yell at the villager, who kept shaking his head with palms to the sky.

The man in charge turned and looked at the other villagers, who were looking down at the ground, tightly clutching their coins. The man began to reach for the gun glinting in the sunlight, and the villager dropped to his knees and spoke quickly, desperately.

Addae moved quickly. “Noot gaan betaal vir hy/No, I will pay for him,” he said, walking quickly but cautiously towards the men. “Bekom geld vir hy/I have money for him.”

The man in charge turned and looked, watching with a blank face as Addea approached with coins in hand. Addae dropped the coins in and backed away slowly, waiting for the man’s reaction. The man in charge stared, menacingly, at Addae as he walked back to Thomas’ room. When he got inside he stood beside me, both of us watching intently to see what would happen.

The man in charge turned back to the villager, still on his knees. He said something and the villager stood up. The man grabbed his gun and pointed it at the man, whose face seemed covered with defeat. The man cocked it.

I turned and closed my eyes, but Addae grabbed me and said in a hushed whisper, “No, look! Look what is happening here!”

The man held the gun to the villager’s face, whose eyes were squeezed closed, speaking in a low but forceful voice, and pulled the trigger. The villager fell to the ground, his wife screaming and covering her eyes, as the children looked down at their father's bloody body.

The man in charge put the gun back in its holder, straightened his red jacket, and walked to the next family. The two remaining families each put the coins in the bag and rushed back inside.

The men walked slowly back towards their cars, kicking over several buckets of water on the way. The man in charge pulled his gun and pointed it to where Addae and I were waiting. I was too afraid to breathe.

“Next time,” he said to Addae, “you pay for three.” The men got back into their cars and drove away, leaving dust clouds behind them.

Once they were out of sight, Addae and the other villagers raced to the dead villager’s family. The women comforted the now-widow and children while the men said prayer's over the dead man's body.

I stood in Thomas’ home, watching from the slits in the wood, the surreality of my arrival replaced with the brutal reality of South Africa.

#

When Addae returned from his Tyd Slimhys Drie meeting, I was still in shock from the villager’s death, a light one I was told, from the day before. I declined to attend the meeting, choosing instead to stay in Thomas’ room and try to picture how he reacted to tax collections such as those.

I tried not to worry, and I read his letter several times, but I couldn’t help myself. For the first time, I felt what it was like to be truly helpless.

Addae told me the Three Wisemen had made a decision, a necessary one, but also one that would have grave consequences.

“We are going to kill an official, Antobam Mantey, who had a part in your brother’s murder,” he said.

A chill went through my spine. “He killed Thomas?” I asked.

“He was one of the men who did,” Addae said. “There were two. Several other members have killed the first man, but we are going to kill Antobam Mantey tonight.”

“Tonight?” I asked. He nodded. I was alarmed, not used to hearing murder spoken about so directly or seriously. “Is there anything we can do besides kill him?”

Addae looked at me, a serious expression on his face. “Your brother was the same way,” he said. “He never could understand that here, in South Africa, you kill them or they kill you.” He paused. “If there was another way, we would take it. We never want to be killers. But if we don’t, if we let them live, we all die.”

I looked down and pictured Thomas having the same conversation in this same spot. “Did Thomas ever kill anybody, Addae?” I asked, not sure if I wanted the answer.

Addae smiled. “No. And you don’t have to either.”

I was relived, both because I didn’t have to live through something like that and because Thomas never did. But I did want to put a face to one of the men who killed my brother, whether the Three Wisemen killed him or not.

#

I waited beside the car in the city, in the dark, while Addae and the Three Wisemen executed their plan. I wasn’t sure what the plan was, just that Addae was going to come get me before they killed him. While I was waiting, I looked at the stars above the city, the cool wind blowing softly on my face. There were so many, more than I’d ever seen before.

My stargazing was interrupted by Addae approaching, and he motioned for me to follow. We walked into an empty building, down a flight of stairs to where the Three Wisemen were waiting. Antobam Mantey was surrounded by six men, guns pointed at him from six directions.

It was the first time I truly felt hatred for another human being. I looked around at the Three Wisemen, the men Thomas loved as a second family, who protected him, who he protected. I never felt more in connection with Thomas than when I was in the circle with those men, his brothers.

I looked at him restrained, his power taken away from him, picturing Thomas looking at the same, hate-covered face.

“Maak jou praat Engels/Do you speak English?” I asked him.

“Ja,” he said, sneering.

“My brother was Yafeu,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected it to be.

He smiled. “You come for revenge?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. That's their job,” I said, nodding towards the men.

His smile slowly faded. “Then you will die just like he did. It’s vrugteloos, useless. You can't win.”

I stared into his eyes, feeling as if Thomas were beside me.

“This fight is not useless. You can steal the money from all the villagers and you can kill the helpless but they’ll never stop fighting. People will always fight you, not because we hate you, but because somebody has to stand up for what’s right. Because whenever the people don’t have a voice someone will give them one.”

His face changed; his expression of hatred now mirrored mine. I looked at him for a few moments longer, then turned and walked back up the stairs. I felt tears fall that I didn’t know formed as a single gunshot echoed through the stairwell.

A perfect shot.

#

I sat kneeling next to Addae’s body, thinking of Thomas and the Three Wisemen and my parents and everything leading up to this moment. I closed my eyes, but opened them quickly, because I needed to see what was happening here.

“I’m okay, Thomas,” I whispered to myself. “I won’t worry.”

#

The next few hours were a blur. I stood with the other villagers and watched as Addae's body was burned. Some of the villagers said prayers in their languages, others watched, the sorrow etched on their faces matching mine.

Several men placed empty glass bottles onto the limbs of a tree outside of where Addae stayed.

“They catch evil spirits,” a man behind me said. I turned, and saw one of the men from Tyd Slimhys Drie. “The broken mirror in front of the door, it will show the reflection of his spirit when he is ready to show himself.” I watched in silence as the men who placed the bottles on the tree broke a mirror and dropped the pieces in front of Addae's door.

One of the women in the village brought a chicken to the men. One of the men held the chicken tightly, said a prayer in his language and stabbed it with a knife.

“That is to release the powers of the spirit world,” he whispered.

The woman who handed the men the chicken walked towards me with a clay bowl in her hands. She gestured for me to take it from her. When I took it from her hands, she pointed towards the door.

“You break it. It releases his spirit, and he can go to glory,” the man behind me said.

I walked towards Addae's door, the bowl held tightly in my hands. I thought about Thomas, about my father, about how this dreadful place took the people I love away from me.

I closed my eyes and lifted the bowl above my head.

The conversation I had with Thomas before he left for this place echoed in my mind: “I feel like lately, I can't hold on anymore, you know? I'm trying so hard to make myself believe that I'm still living in that time when nothing mattered and no one cared about anything enough to make a big deal out of it.”

I opened my eyes and dropped the bowl, the pieces scattering on top of the mirror and dirt below.

I finally understood what my mom already knew: this place, it takes the human out of you.

# # #

Yeah, you can't forget that face

I've been thinking of what a fellow blogger is planning, of traveling and writing and living. An unexplained dream of mine has been to travel to South Africa. I've spoken with a relative who works in the government, and am discussing with him how to best go about this. Whether it will happen or not, I don't know.

But even thinking of it has renewed my passion for it. In one of my fiction writing classes, my professor told us to think of something we're passionate about it and create a story about it. I don't usually post things I write, for several reasons, but I don't think I have much to lose. Plus, this will help ensure I don't lose it, as I'm in between moves and lots of other stuff...

It is quite long, I'm not expecting anyone to really read it. But, it's my blog, so get over it. :) I'm posting part one, with the hopes of editing and posting part two later.

The Three Wisemen

Addae wasn’t even five feet away from me when he was killed. We were walking along the dirt road leading to the village when a bullet hit him from behind. It was what they would call a perfect shot.

I watched from the corner of my eye as the bullet hit, as it jolted him slightly, and as he fell forward. I watched straight on as his body hit the dirt and gravel, the blood spreading from his neck to the back of his cloth shirt, the red slowly creeping its way through each fiber.
It took me a moment to react, to bend down and turn over my friend’s dead body to grab the pistol he kept in his jacket pocket.

When it was cocked and pointed to where the shot came from, I was too startled to shoot. There was a child, a boy of not even 10, standing stiff with a pistol pointed at the space Addae occupied moments before. He was staring at the body on the ground, several tears leaving trails on his face, the pistol beginning to tremble in his shaking hand.

“Wat jou/Who are you?” I couldn’t bring my voice to rise above a whisper.

He didn’t move. His eyes darted quickly towards mine.

We each stood, staring, breathing.

“Wat jou?”

He exhaled sharply, and shook as if a chill went through his body.

“Hy seer wees broer my/He killed my brother,” he answered quickly.

I shook my head. “Wat broer julle/Who is your brother?”

“Antobam Mantey.”

I felt a shock in my body that left me speechless. My eyes watered as I saw Antobam’s face, marked with desperation, his eyes nearly pleading while he was restrained in the middle of a circle of men, guns pointed at him from every direction.

The boy dropped his arm to his side, shifting as if he had been standing in that same position for hours. He looked at Addae’s body, then put his gun into the space between his pants and hip. He sniffed and wiped his face clean.

“Nee me jou gaan/You won't kill me?” I asked, still pointing the pistol at him.

“Noot. Soek hy beseer omdat hy wees broer my/No. I killed him because he killed my brother.” He looked once more at Addae’s body, then turned to walk back to his village.

I dropped the pistol to my side and knelt next to Addae, my tears dropping, leaving small, encompassing circles on his dirt-covered face.

#

I remember when my mother lost it. Thomas and I were walking with her in the graveyard, past tombstones with rocks on the tops and some with flowers – dead and alive – sitting on the only thing separating loved ones from lost ones.

It's one of the earliest memories I have. I remember standing behind my mother and seeing her slow down and stiffly, almost bitterly, walk up to one of the tombstones. My brother grabbed my arm and told me to stand still and be quiet. It wasn't often that he was serious, so I listened.

I watched as my mother knelt down on her knees, empty handed, in front of my father's grave. I twirled the yellow dandelion, one I had found while walking between the graves, in my fingers.

And then, I could faintly hear my mother speak.

“I waited,” she sighed, “like you told me to. I waited for you to come home. But I knew, Josh, I knew the day you left that you wouldn't be coming back.” She traced his etched name on the tombstone with her right hand, her left palm pressing gently into the soil.

“I wanted to tell you to stop saying you would be coming back. I wanted to say there's no point in us deceiving each other just because neither of us wanted to be alone. But I didn't.” She paused, then sat back on her heels, folding her hands in her lap.

“I've been living without you. It was easier dealing with it, the closure, when it finally came.” She stopped, and brought her right hand up to tuck strands of her blond hair behind her ear.

“I'm so selfish,” she almost scoffed, “because all I can think about is the love I can't have...all I think about is how you let me down. You could have been so much more...you could have changed the world. I've lost everything that means anything, because you had to chase some cause that wasn't even yours to begin with.” She paused. “Things should have been different,” she said, shaking her head.

She glanced quickly back at me and Thomas, and I could see the outline of her tears on her blush-coated cheeks. She nodded, signaling that it was okay for us to start to walk towards our father's grave.

“I hope you're happier than I am,” she said, turning back. “At least you died for your cause, right? A useless cause. No point in lying about it.”

I saw her upper body move up and then down as she sighed.

“Love dies, just like everything else, Josh,” she said. “But no one will ever love me like you did.”

She stood up and swept some of the soft grass away from her knees, straightened her jacket and wiped her cheeks, her blush nearly gone. She turned around and plastered a smile on her face, her red eyes giving everything away.

“Okay Brooklyn, you can put your flower down now,” she said, almost in a whisper. I walked over to where my father was buried. I carefully stepped along the rectangle where Thomas said I could step, and gingerly dropped my flower. It hit the face of the tombstone and landed, sideways, on the grass.

I turned around, proud of my accomplishment, and saw Thomas watching from beside mother with his hands in his pockets. He had dressed in Sunday clothes – khakis and a button-up white shirt with a tie – saying he wanted to make sure Dad knew he was going to take care of things.

He nodded his head slightly and held his left hand out to me. I walked over and grabbed his hand, smiling up at my big brother.

I looked towards my mother. She had her right hand on her hip and left covering her mouth, and I could tell she had started to cry again. I figured the grass stains on her hose didn't make things any better for her.

#

My mother never quite recovered from the death of my father, or so Thomas always told me. I was too young to remember what my mother was like before my father left, to remember much of what my father was like, for that matter.

The only real images I had of my father were just that – images, pictures of him that were in dusty scrapbooks under the foyer table. Most of the pictures were of him while he was in one of the countless countries or exotic locales he visited. But the thing I always liked about his pictures was his smile – it was always, always the same.

My father was an international journalist. His passion, so I'm told, was talking to people and hearing their stories, whether heartbreaking or inspiring, and sharing them with the world.

Growing up, Thomas made sure that Dad was in my life somehow, whether it was stories or pictures, letters that Dad sent while on assignment or even clips of the stories he wrote.

My mother was exactly the opposite. She never mentioned my dad, and when she would hear Thomas telling his stories she would say, “That's enough, Thomas.” He would lean down and tell me he'd finish the story later, which he always did.

Thomas was everything to me growing up – he was my best friend, my older brother and, sometimes, my dad. He made life a little easier for my mom, but that's not to say they got along.

Bitter at being a widow, or so I assumed, my mother spent my childhood years with a renewed ambition to live for herself. She landed herself an upper level actuary position with an insurance company, meaning there was little time for me and Thomas.

In the end, though, we were fine with it.

By the time I reached college, Thomas was two years and a lifetime ahead of me. He was almost a straight A student, and with three semesters left, was on his way to graduating with honors. He was involved on campus – he was always on some intramural sports team, he was a member of both the student ambassadors and student government and, much to my mother's dismay, he was an editor for the campus daily.

It was this, his position on the University paper, that influenced one of the biggest decisions he made.

“Mom, I want to go to South Africa.” Eight consecutive words, one sentence, that would change everything in both his life and mine.

I looked at my mom over the turkey and cranberry sauce, in between the two candles and next to the table centerpiece, bracing for the unexpected.

She looked straight at him, as if staring him down, daring him to mean it. He stared straight back, and for the first time I thought my mom might lose. Then she blinked, inhaled and continued scooping sweet potatoes onto her plate.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said.

Thomas clenched his jaw and glanced quickly at me. I gave him the “I-don't-know-what-the-hell-to-do” look and reached for the gravy.

“I wrote an article about study abroad, I sent it to you,” he said. “I've got the money saved up already.”

She didn't acknowledge it. “Get your elbows off the table,” she said to me, “and put your napkin in your lap, for Christ's sake. Did I teach you nothing?”

I almost laughed at the irony.

“It would only be a semester, mostly in Johannesburg-”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she interrupted, more firmly than before.

"The program takes students every semester,” He paused. “I think this is a good opportunity for me to get out and see things outside of this country.” She didn't respond.

He sighed. “Mom, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I don't need your permission.” The last bit of his sentence almost trailed off, as if he were not quite confident enough to challenge my mother.

She cleared her throat.

“Neither did your father,” she shot back. “So go, if you don't need my permission. Go get yourself killed, but you better hope Brooklyn can afford a tombstone because I am not paying for another one.”

She placed her napkin beside her plate and stood up, walking upstairs to her bedroom. That was my mother – graceful even in anger.

I looked over at Thomas, who was leaning back in his chair, and smiled.

“South Africa?” I asked.

He looked up at me. “You're right,” he said. “That was a very stupid thing to do.” He sighed and put his napkin on the table.

“You could have at least waited until after she did the dishes,” I smiled. “Now we have to do them.” I thought I heard a small laugh.

“I guess I should go up and tell her she's right. God I hate that,” he said.

“Thomas,” I said. “She's not right.”

He shook his head. “No, it's too soon, I should have known better.”

I laughed. “It's been 15 years, Thomas. Who classifies that as soon?” He folded his hands together in his lap, looking down at them, thinking.

“Don't always give in and don't always be sorry,” I said, “but be you. And sometimes that might mean being firm and tough, but I don't want you to ever just say things to appease anybody. You have thoughts and feelings. And I want to hear about your trip to South Africa.”

I spent the rest of the night listening to his plans, and he had many. He told me he knew he wanted to go to South Africa the day we found out Dad died. He showed me one of the letters he got from Dad while he was in South Africa that told about the assignment he was covering - “Africans in a post-Apartheid era.” It was all about the improvements, and degradations, of villages in and around the country.

We talked and hoped until almost 3 a.m., when it occurred to me that I didn't know exactly what he wanted to accomplish in Africa.I shifted on the couch towards the chair he was sitting in.

“Why do you really want to go, Thomas?” I asked. “What do you hope to get out of it?”

We sat in the dark for a few moments before he spoke.

“I feel like lately, I can't hold on anymore, you know?” he said. “I'm trying so hard to make myself believe that I'm still living in that time when nothing mattered and no one cared about anything enough to make a big deal out of it.” He paused.

“I don't understand,” I said.

“I can't explain it,” he said. “I can't explain why I want to go there and I can't explain why I'm not satisfied with being here, now. If I don't go,” he paused again. “I don't know if I could live with that feeling,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“What feeling?” I asked.

He took a breath. “The feeling of not living up to Dad's expectations, of not finishing the job he started.”

I turned back around, looking up towards the ceiling.

“It's not your job, Thomas,” I said, “unless you want it to be.” We sat in silence for several minutes; him probably thinking of Dad, me thinking of him. “How come you never talked about this before?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “I try not to think about it sometimes, because I'm terrified of going there and not being enough, of not being Dad."

We sat in silence and I eventually fell asleep on the couch, waking to find a blanket over me and the dishes clean.

Two months later I drove him to the airport – the last of his friends and family to see him alive.

“I never exactly understood your wanting to do this, and I don’t need to,” I said. “I’m glad that you’re going, because I know you’ll regret it if you didn’t.”

Thomas looked over at me and smiled. “That means a lot to me,” he said. “I just wish Mom would feel the same way.”

“Don't think about her,” I said. “She's just worried.”

His face turned serious. “Are you worried?”

“No.”

“Liar,” he said. I smiled. “You shouldn’t be worried. Worrying is a waste of time and it doesn’t solve anything - it’s useless.”

I nodded. “Well, I know you won’t be useless.”

He leaned over and gave me a hug, the water in his eyes mirroring mine.

“Be safe,” I said as he opened the door and stepped out.

“You too,” he said, leaning down so he could see me before closing the door. I waited for a few moments, watching my big brother walk into the airport to chase his dreams.

We received word three-and-a-half months later that he and three others were killed at a protest outside the courthouse where a government official was accused of killing a family of seven because they wouldn’t – couldn't – pay a useless tax. Newspaper reports said that he and the three other victims were all members of a militia deemed “The Three Wisemen.”

Pillow-Top Mattress

After reading my last post (sober, might I add), I realize it was more the alcohol talking (writing?) than me. As the commenter before pointed out, I tend to switch addictions for others - addictive personalities run in the family, I guess, as 3 out of 4 grandparents were alcoholic smokers, though neither of my parents have done either.

Most of the time, I do have a positive outlook on my life. I try to find the good things and focus on them instead of the bad things. When I say I work for Satan, I'm only half-honest. I work for corporate America, at a company full of grouchy, self-indulgents who prefer money to ethics. But, I have room to move up, as my coworkers are not as competent as they think they are (both in my department are currently planning to work from home in protest of moving into cubicles instead of living in their locked, dark offices - but this just gives me a chance to take their paychecks).

And I have a boyfriend that's nearly ready for marriage. Both good and bad. Good - I'm not alone. Bad - I'm not as committed as he thinks I am. I want to live, and he's the safe guy. But he's also a good guy, so I shouldn't complain.

Overall, my life isn't that bad. I write when it is - it's a therapy to me. So while most of my posts will most probably deal with negativity, it's most likely because I'm throwing a Rum Pity Party. But hey - don't hate on my rum.

To Begin

Most people begin new relationships by telling about themselves, describing the person he/she wants to be instead of the person he/she is. That's not going to happen here. I have too much at stake to risk losing over an expression of myself, so I will remain anonymous both to protect myself and to protect those in my life.

Now the question is, protect from what? Wouldn't you like to know. But honestly, all I want to do is protect them from me and from my inconsistent feelings and thoughts. That's what this is about - honesty. I need this.

I'm an ex-smoking alcoholic working for people who care about one thing - money. What should I expect from the American Dream, right? I wanted to be someone different. I used to be positive, dreaming of the day I would contribute to the world and, possibly, save a life. Now I sit in a cubicle, making as much as I can to pay rent and faking a smile along the way.

If you were to know me in real life, you would never believe what I'm writing. I used to want to be an actress, and I would practice crying in front of the mirror at night, perfecting my heartbroken "the world is over" act. It's not an act anymore, and I've almost perfected it.

I'm six drinks in, so I'll leave in peace.