The Groove

Present Day

It is my weekend to cover first appearances at the Suwannee County Jail, for people who were arrested the day before. I am the defense attorney who stands before the judge and makes sure that their rights are protected. I review the reason for the arrest and argue against probable cause if necessary, and I also see that they are given a bond if they are entitled to one.

The judge for this weekend wants these done at 7:30 am, so I had to rise very early this morning to put on my suit and tie.

I have never been a morning person, and I never will be. It is probably one of the main reasons that I remain single. Mornings are such a war for me to get up and get my body and brain running. I do not want anyone around for that process, in my space, as it only makes it harder.

In 2004 and 2005, I lived on the beach for a year. Not once did I get up to watch the sun rise over the water.

I can tell that the chemicals in my brain function differently in those early hours, as my perception of the world and my existence are at variance, like I am in another dimension with altered rules of time and space. I have never wanted children, really, in part because I know how much more difficult the mornings will be with kids.

Also, if I have a job that I do not especially like, the bad feelings are amplified much more. I found myself in that situation a couple of times in the past few years.

But I am lucky, now. I like my job a lot. I am so much happier than I was this same time last year. My job makes mornings much more tolerable.

I also walk to work, and this helps get me right for the day.

On Friday nights, I typically go to "The Brown Lantern," a restaurant and bar in Live Oak. Recently, I was sitting at the bar talking with another attorney, and he asked me how I like Live Oak.

"I like it a lot," I answered. "Over the past 10 years or so, I've had many jobs and lived many places, but I hope I can stay here a long time."

"That's good," he said.

"I realize that I am in a groove, now," I continued. "I enjoy my job and it is not that hard for me. I hope to build a career here. If things continue like they feel right now, then five, ten, even fifteen years are going to slip past me very quickly."

"It can happen," he said...

As I sit at my desk and type this blog entry, life is great. I work hard at my job, and it is rewarding. There is free time to play in a summer softball league, work on a novel, use my back yard telescope to study the stars and planets, and watch satellite TV.

But the gnawing loneliness, ever present, seems to have intensified since I moved to Live Oak in June. I know that is not the fault of this town. The loneliness has always been there. I just notice it more now because everything else in my life is in order and running smoothly. Further, I am a seasoned veteran at fighting that battle. My hormones do not rage as strongly as they did when I was a teenager and in my 20s. Now that I am in my 30s, the realization has hit me that I may very well be alone my entire life. Some of the most important years in that regard have already passed. It is not the most pleasant thought, of course, but if that is my fate, I can handle it and still be happy.

In my last year of law school, I listened to a Florida State baseball game on the radio. They were playing at Georgia, and I heard the broadcaster describe two Georgia players going for a fly ball. They collided on the field, and one of them did not get up. After a long delay where he lay motionless in the grass, he was carried off in an ambulance. My fear for him came true- he was paralyzed from the neck down.

I think about that guy often- how young he was and is and how much was taken from him in an instant. Things like that are not supposed to happen to a 20 year old playing baseball. His daily battles are beyond fathom to me- what he must think, feel and remember each morning when he wakes up.

So I am grateful for my existence. I realize that I am not guaranteed anything going forward. But I find myself in a good spot at the present, and I am doing my best to enjoy it.

The 15-Year Throw

Present Day



Softball has been the hi-light of my life for the past few weeks.

I am sad to say that the season came to an end a few days ago, during the double elimination tournament. Our last two games were especially enjoyable for me, though, because I got to play the infield.

Growing up and playing baseball, the position I almost always handled was second base. I can remember being taught to turn the double-play. If the ball was hit to me with a runner on first, depending on how close I was to the bag, I could do a sort of side-armed, hinged pitch to the shortstop covering the bag.

I remember Tim McCarver, a former player and longtime sports commentator, once saying that he was amazed by how accurate the major league second basemen were with that type of throw. I was always pretty accurate with it as a boy, too, and it became my favorite play on the infield.

As an adult playing softball, I rarely got the chance to be at second base. Earlier this week, though, our regular second baseman pulled a muscle. The team captain asked who could fill in, and I told him that I could do the job.

That same inning, with a runner on first, a ball was hit sharply to me. I fielded it and made the sideways throw to the shortstop. It was a great sensation. The only thing that would have been better was turning the double play off of it. There were already two outs in the inning, though, so my pitch to the shortstop ended the inning and ended the game, actually.

It was probably the first time in 15 years that I had made that throw in an organized softball or baseball game.

Here is a link to a second baseman in the major leagues performing the throw that I am talking about:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNJXas_9sr4

Based on how well I played second, I got moved to shortstop for our last game, as our three best players could not make it. Though we lost the game pretty handily, being the center of the action on the infield, as shortstops almost always are, was also extremely enjoyable for me. I can not remember ever being assigned to play shortstop in an actual game before.

After the game, most of the team went to Dairy Queen. They asked if I would be interested in playing next year, to which I responded, "If I am invited, I will definitely play."

"You're invited," came the chorus.

As I am about 10 years older than the next oldest guy on the team, it was a great feeling. In my head, I am the same age as these guys.

Live Oak Lightning

Present Day

My quality of life is as good right now as it has been since I was a student... If I could figure out a way to make money as a student, that is probably what I would be for the rest of my years.

As I am not smart enough to be paid to go to school, though, I am fortunate to have found a good job in Suwannee County, Florida.

Living here has been very pleasant, thus far. It is the small town experience, and after some stints in big cities where the cost of living is high, traffic is stressful and dangerous, hordes of people are always trying to do the exact same thing that you are doing, and you sort of feel invisible, I welcome living in a small town.

One of my favorite things is playing in a softball league. I was able to make connections quickly after moving here and got on a team in less than a month after becoming a resident.

The only way for an adult male to play softball around here is in the church league. One of the local Baptist churches was good enough to add me to their team roster as a non-member.

A couple of nights ago, we played a triple-header.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky turned to a dark blue, storm clouds formed on the horizon. Streaks of lightning soon followed, though they were far enough off that we kept on playing.

After one particularly wicked streak across the sky, one of our best players, sitting in the dugout, yelled, "It's all right. I'm just going to hang on to this metal fence."

I played in the outfield for most of the three games. It was relaxing and beautiful to watch the streaks of lightning circle us on the horizon, against a deep, dark blue sky.

It was one of those moments when I really appreciated being alive and free on the face of the earth.

The California Postal Exams

Spring, 2006.

I enjoy living in Las Vegas, but the pay structure at the car dealership is like no other job that I have ever held. I am compensated 100 percent on commission. So, even if I have a good month, it is hard for me to relax or go out and have a good time because I do not know how much money I will make the following month. I might need to save what I can, in case my sales drop off.

What would be great is a sales job that gives me a solid base salary, and then the opportunity to earn a healthy bonus based on commission. Those kinds of jobs are hard to find, though, especially with my lack of experience. Also, I am writing screenplays and trying to get an agent out here on the West Coast, so I want a job that will give me the free time to do that. To be a good salesman, you really need to be putting in 12 hour days.

For whatever reason, the U.S. Postal Service comes to mind. That looks like a good government job. You just walk around outside, going house to house delivering letters.

I have inquired at the Las Vegas Post Office numerous times about openings- to the point where they have told me to quit asking. So the next best place is California.

The way to gain full time employment with the Post Office is to look on line for where they are giving the postal exam. You take the test with a bunch of other people at that location, and then based on your score you are placed on a list to be interviewed. The test is not even offered unless the Post Office is looking to hire people for that location.

There are two spots in California right now- Bakersfield and Oxnard, and I have registered to take the test for both.

The Bakersfield test is first, and it is given early in the morning. So I need to make the four hour drive the night before and stay in a hotel.

The ride across the Mojave desert is beautiful. As I leave Las Vegas, I begin to go up in elevation. Soon I see Joshua Trees sprawling across the desert floor.

I stop in Barstow, California and eat at a nice, small Italian Restaurant. There would be nothing to this town if it was not the convergence of Interstate 15 and Interstate 40. Barstow is actually where I-40 West ends. I-40 West begins in Wilmington, North Carolina, where I was born.

After eating at the Italian Restaurant, I drive on Highway 58 toward Bakersfield. Now, instead of Joshua Trees, numerous oil well pumps cover the ground. I have never seen anything like it, nor have I ever seen such enormous fields of oranges and other fruits that I do not have time to stop and identify.

I arrive in Bakersfield in the late afternoon and check into a room at a Motel 6. There is an IHOP restaurant across the parking lot from the hotel. As the sun sets, I go here to eat dinner. Almost everyone else in the restaurant looks to be a truck driver.

That night in my hotel room, I get ready to take a shower. I've brought my own bar of Dove soap. As I walk across the carpet to the bathroom and shower, I accidentally drop the bar on the floor. When I pick it up, I notice that tiny green leaves are sticking to the soap, and I have to assume it is marijuana.

After taking my shower, I spread out on one of the two beds in the room. I do not stay there for long, though, as I see a large crack in the ceiling above me. Water is dripping from it right onto the bed. Fortunately, the other bed does not have this problem, and I get a pretty good night's sleep.

The test itself seems to be pretty easy, based on other tests I have taken in high school and college, and I honestly do not have many specific memories of it.

***

A few weeks later is the Oxnard test.

I repeat the drive across the desert, only I stay on I-15 in Barstow across the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Coming down the west side of the mountains, I encounter one of the most beautiful things that I have ever seen in nature. Still high in elevation, below me are miles and miles of orange groves. The green plants stretch as far as I can see. In the distance is Los Angeles, a relatively small space on the horizon, shrouded in smog.

I drive through Los Angeles, specifically Burbank, and I have to smile as I pass by exits for various movie studios. This is the place where I want to be.

Oxnard itself is a beautiful little coastal town, though I can tell it must be very expensive to live here. But I manage to find another cheap hotel for the night.

After taking the test the following morning, I decide to drive the two or three miles to the ocean, as I have never seen the Pacific before.

When I find the beach, I take off my shoes and walk in the water. Out in the ocean, a couple of mountainous pieces of land jut from the water. They are big enough for multiple houses, if one actually wanted to build there.

I pull out my cell phone and place a call to my brother back in North Carolina.

"Hey Adam, guess where I am?"

"Where?" he asks.

"I am standing in the Pacific Ocean."

Adam thinks that is pretty cool.

I continue talking. "My fourth grade teacher told me that in California, you can stand in the Pacific Ocean and behind you see snow on the mountains. You know what? She was right. I am standing in the ocean, and behind me are the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I can see snow on the tops of some of them."

My Favorite Doughnut

Late 1970s/ Early 1980s. Wilmington, North Carolina.



One of my earliest memories is riding in the back seat of my parents' car, a tan late 70s model Ford Fairmont.

My seat was always behind mom, or the right side passenger. My younger brother, Adam, sat behind dad. We were small enough that both my brother and I liked to rock back and forth, bouncing against the rear seat. These were the days before back seats had shoulder strap seat belts. Truthfully, I do not even remember wearing a seat belt in the back seat until I was a few years older, though Mom and Dad may have buckled us up.

Adam and I could hit the back of the seat as hard as we wanted with no harm done to either us or the leather interior- we were both that small.

I also remember Dad driving us to a Krispy Creme Doughnut shop some evenings after Sunday night church services. A cream filled doughnut is my first memory of tasting something sweet. Cream filled doughnuts from Krispy Creme remain my favorite, though I try not to order them often, so that I can keep the taste special for me. When I bite into one or even just smell it, I can see in my mind the fluorescent lit green and white shop set against the dark sky of a Wilmington night, and I remember riding in that Ford car, rocking and bouncing against the back seat.

My First Night in Vegas

May 2003.

The excitement is just too much. I can not sleep. There is no point in lying awake in bed at my apartment in Wilmington, North Carolina.

So I get up, shower, put my suitcase in my pickup truck and drive out to the airport around four in the morning.

Hardly anyone is there, and during the hours before boarding the plane, I do manage to drift in and out of sleep in the uncomfortable airport chairs.

I have been out west once before. When I was in college, I was part of a group that the school sent to Reno, Nevada. So the desert is not entirely new to me, but like everything else in Vegas, it will be fascinating. I have been looking forward to this vacation for weeks.

After landing at McCarran International Airport, I drive my rental car to the hotel/casino, the Jackie Gaughan Plaza. As I take the elevator up from the parking garage to the casino floor, an old man rides with me.

"Is this your first time to Vegas?" he asks.

"Yes, it is," I answer.

"You're going to love it," he says.

I smile and agree.

It is early afternoon in Las Vegas, and my hotel room window looks out onto Fremont Street. Later, I will learn why the street is covered almost its entire length by a strange steel structure. But for now, I call my parents to let them know I have arrived safely. Then I collapse on my bed and sleep for a few hours.

Again, the excitement is what wakes me up. I get ready quickly and put on what I think is a nice outfit- khaki pants and a brand new white Nike shirt with a small swoosh mark over the left chest.

Downstairs in the casino, I smile at all the slot machines, neon colors and people walking around. For my first night in Vegas, though, I want to get outside and see the sights.

A security guard stands next to a wall. I go up to him.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Yes, sir?" he answers.

"I am new to Las Vegas, and I just wanted to ask what you might recommend seeing first?"

"This is your first night here?" he asks.

"Yes, it is."

"Have you been to The Strip, yet?"

"The Strip?" I ask.

"You know what The Strip is, right?"

"No, actually I don't."

"It's where all the big casinos are, and all the big shows."

"Ah, ok. Is it right outside here?"

"No, no. You're in Old Town right now. This is Old Town Las Vegas."

"Can I walk to it, then?"

The guard smiles patiently at me.

"You're going to be walking a long way if you try to do that. There is a bus stop outside the casino. I recommend riding the bus to the strip.

"How much is it to take the bus?" I ask.

"Like two dollars," he says.

"Okay, thank you."

The guard gives me a curious look as I walk away, a look that I do not understand.

I find the bus stop, just as one is arriving. I notice a cute girl along with three of her friends walking ahead of me, and all of us run to catch the bus before it pulls away.

The girl is laughing as she boards the steps. She has a beautiful smile and laugh. She goes to the back of the bus to sit with her friends. I choose a seat more in the middle, next to a guy who looks to be about my age.

As the bus rides down the streets of Las Vegas, my head is on a swivel trying to take in as much as I can and orient myself as to where I am going.

The guy sitting beside me asks if I am new to Las Vegas, and we have a conversation about the things to do and see. We do not talk for very long, though, before he gives me what I would call a worried look.

"This is my stop," he says as the bus slows down. I move out of the way, and he promptly hops off the bus.

As the bus continues, I know that I am on the strip, now. Massive buildings that have to be the casinos are lit with millions of neon lights. It is mind blowing. I smile and look toward the back of the bus, at the cute girl to see what her reaction might be to all of this.

She immediately notices me, and a look of fear comes over her face.

This puzzles and hurts me a little. Do I scare her? Why would I be frightening to her?

I take this as my cue to get off the bus. This is where I want to be, anyway, in the middle of all this action.

Las Vegas is great at any time of the day or night, but as I hop off the bus, I now understand that the city transforms into a different thing at night, when the neon lights turn on. It truly feels like the closest thing to paradise that humans can build on earth, and it generates a sort of "high" for me.

As I walk down the street with the throngs of people, I also begin to appreciate how long The Strip is. There is no way that I will want to explore the entire length, not in one night.

I realize that I am hungry. Places to eat are everywhere. I duck into a Quiznos to get a quick sandwich. There is just too much I want to see right now to spend a lot of time eating.

As I go through the line, a Hispanic guy working behind the counter with a black baseball cap looks at me. I try to order, but he points at my shirt.

"You know your shirt is on inside out, right?"

I look down, and to my horror, I see the seams crisscrossing all over and some strings hanging loose. I reach back and feel behind my neck. Sure enough, the collar tag is sticking straight out.

Now, I understand all the strange looks from the security guard, the guy beside me on the bus, and the cute girl in the back.

"Holy smoke!" I exclaim.

The Quiznos guy begins laughing.

"You guys got a bathroom?" I ask.

He points around the corner. I go inside and fix the problem.

When I come out, I thank the Quiznos employee for telling me.

"I've talked to all these people tonight, and no one said a thing," I say. "They must have thought I was crazy."

The Quiznos guy shakes his head, smiles and looks down as he starts to prepare my sandwich.

The Day Chance Escaped

Petersburg, Virginia. The Summer of 1999.

As it is my second summer working on the cannon crew at Petersburg National Battlefield, I have been given more responsibilities. Very often, now, rather than saddling and putting the equipment on the horses in the mornings, the supervisor asks me to make the black powder rounds for the day.

We perform four shows each day. During the first part of the show, we ride into battle and deploy a bronze Napoleon cannon, using blank shots for this demonstration. I make an aluminum foil round based on a cardboard mold, and fill the bottom of the round with the black powder. The tighter I am able to pack the foil around the powder, the louder the boom. When we fire the cannon, it never fails to set off car alarms some distance away, which in turn draws “Oohs and Ahhs” from the crowd.

For the mortar demonstration, we lob an eight pound iron ball about 300 yards down range. The ball is designed to be an exploding shell that would rain shrapnel on enemy soldiers, but we do not detonate the ball. Lately, my supervisor has told me to add a few more grains of black powder for the mortar demonstration, as for fun we are trying to hit a tree just beyond the end of the range.

When preparing the rounds, I work in an enclosed and cool room. I also have to wear fire resistant gloves and an apron, though I am quite aware that if the black powder blows up, there is no protection for my face. The gloves are pretty pointless, too, as they are too bulky and lack the fine touch for me to make a good, tight round with the aluminum foil. I usually do not wear them.

There are a total of seven of us on the cannon crew, including the supervisor who acts as the gunner, and the horse trainer, who is a female. She dresses as a male Confederate soldier for the show, complete with a wig and mustache.

Today, I am about halfway through making the rounds when I walk outside to take a break. The building where we store our gear and ammunition and where I also make the rounds is beside the corral of horses. It is tucked into a private, employees only part of the park. An asphalt road circles the building, and except for a narrow opening where the road empties out onto the main drive through the park, we are enclosed by trees.

As I walk out on the grass, to my amazement, Chance, our fastest horse, gallops past me, loose and free.

“What the he--!” I exclaim out loud.

Well behind Chance is Mark, another member of the cannon crew. Mark is a nice guy and very knowledgeable about the Civil War, but he is a fellow who is probably a bit too pudgy to look like an authentic Confederate artilleryman.

Mark is running as fast as he can, which is not very fast, behind Chance.

Chance makes a break for the clearing in the trees leading out to the wide open spaces of the park.

At that moment, Joanne, the horse trainer, comes zipping in through the same clearing on the asphalt road in her small white sports car. She has to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting Chance, but it forces Chance to circle back toward me and the building.

Joanne rolls down her window and begins shouting instructions. I cannot understand what she is saying, and no one is paying attention to her. I do remember her telling us at the beginning of the season, though, that if a horse ever got free, to not bother running behind it to try to catch it- there is no point.

Mark seems to think he can defy the odds, though, and chase down our race horse.

Chance makes a lap around the building and runs along the wooden fence of the corral.

This event has excited all of the other horses, and they have run up to the fence to watch. Hobson, probably the smartest horse we have, runs along the inside of the fence parallel to Chance on the outside, kicking up his hind legs and shouting encouragement with loud neighs.

The other guys on the crew see what is happening and try to surround Chance. He is much too fast for that, though. Joanne is out of the car trying to do the same thing. She leaves her vehicle parked in the road to block Chance’s escape out into the main part of the battlefield.

I run to the barn further back from the corral. We have hay and buckets of sweet feed there, and all the horses love the sweet feed. A mixture of corn, barley and oats, Joanne told me the horses will literally eat themselves to death on sweet feed if we left them alone with it. I grab a bucket out of the barn, hold it up in the air and call to Chance as he runs by for another lap.

Chance stops on a dime and gives me a curious look. I shake the bucket, and he knows what it is. He slowly walks up to me, and I let him begin eating out of the bucket. He calms down. Now, I have him by the nose band, and I take him to a post with a rope and attach it to the bottom of the band, like we normally do to begin fitting the horses with the gear.

Joanne seems a little surprised that this trick actually worked, or perhaps she has just never thought of it before.

We ask Mark what happened. He explains that he made the mistake of trying to open the gate to the corral and take Chance through it at the same time.

While the other horses remain calm as they walk through, Chance always gets spooked by the swinging gate.

Chance bolted on Mark and ripped free of his grip. The gate was not open quite wide enough yet, either, and Chance got a bad scrape along his rib cage as he ran through.

Later, after all our shows are done for the day, we tease Mark about how he tried to chase down the horse.

Mark smokes a cigarette. He takes a drag, and as he exhales he says quietly but most seriously, “I told you guys I could run.”

We all burst out laughing, to his confusion.