THE MANY MOONS

Copyright © 2017 Michael Ferrence

Chapter 1

It came to me as a melody in a dream. D.U.O. Do unto others. I grew up going to church, but I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in God. I never intended to call the restaurant something biblical, or preachy, or philosophical, it hadn’t even crossed my mind. But I’d spent months jotting down names and none were good enough so when my grandpa, my dad’s dad, walked through the door as a young man with a full head of hair and a beard he’d never worn when he was alive, and began singing those words with me in an unforgettable string of notes, I decided on D.U.O., without any further thought. Because of my reluctance to being tied so closely to something so famously pious, I’ve since assigned multiple meanings to the acronym- Alyssa and I are a duo; with the restaurant and the band, Gene and I are a duo; I’m a musician and you’ve got two-part harmonies and duets and duos in music; it’s a stretch, but cooking something two-ways can technically be thought of as a duo, so there’s a culinary spin as well. D.U.O. is duplicitous; it’s whatever you want it to be. The way we’ve been killing it, I could have named the place Shit For Brains and it wouldn’t matter.

Gene and I took everything to the extreme. We took farm to table, fresh and local and turned it on its head, took it to a whole new level, set the rulebook on fire and threw it out the goddamn window. We sourced everything from Brewerytown. In a 3-story house at the end of a row on Cabot St., between 30th and 31st, D.U.O. fused modern technique and technology with culinary minimalism. Gene, a cook for most of his life, is now the forager. Most recently, I worked as a therapist, specializing in CBT, stuck in a world increasingly addicted to quick fixes, biopharmaceutical treatments to issues that can only be resolved over time, through hard work, by deliberately reshaping the mind. Now I’m a self-taught chef and owner of one of the best restaurants in the country. We came from nowhere, were nothing, and through food, by doing whatever the hell we wanted, we got high-end diners seeking a remarkably sophisticated experience to fall head over heels for hyperlocal, indigenous, urban ingredients.

I knew nothing. I was a nobody. A nothing. Not anymore.

But this is a relatively newly held position, a perception only recently derived. I haven’t always felt this way, and neither have they. In the beginning, it was slow going, very slow, for months, no one showed up, and I wasn’t sure we’d even make it.

Anthony “Big Dut” Dutten was elected as the 98th Mayor of Philadelphia in November 2007. I’ve seen him nearly every Sunday since, while running. Same place, same time, every time, right at the intersection of Reservoir Drive and Mt. Pleasant in Fairmount Park. For the first 9 weeks, in passing, we exchanged hellos, waves, and fists in the air, the one week I yelled his name, another he asked me mine, the following, after seeing him on the news bash a bunch of “shitheads and morons” for shooting into a car full of children, I shouted best mayor in the world.

When I saw him again on week 10, I wasn’t surprised.

On alternating Sundays, he ran without an entourage, and this week was no different.

As I approached, I watched the entire scene unravel. A lanky guy with a black ski mask jumped a fence and blindsided Dutten, tackling him to the ground. I began sprinting toward them. The guy pointed a black plastic bag, something you’d get at a corner store, at the Mayor as he slid backwards on his ass, scrambling to get away, to get out of there with his life. With about 50 yards to go, I jumped into the grass to quiet my steps. The guy was shouting incoherently, swinging the bag above his head like a madman, jabbing the mayor in the belly, holding it to Dutten’s forehead, then his own, then back to Dutten’s. “If you’re going to do this, do it.” Said Dutten. “Make it happen. Make it happen!”

I grabbed a branch lying beneath a tree, and without slowing, with both hands, wound up, and snapped it over the guy’s back, knocking him to the ground.

Dutten, a massive man, crawled to his feet, stood tall, wiped his bald head with his right hand, and momentarily took off after his attacker, who had already escaped into the woods.

The broken handle of a hammer lied in the grass as the empty bag fluttered away.

“That mother… He’s done. I’ll rip him apart.

I didn’t know it at the time, it took a while to figure out, for him to confide in me, but immediately following the attack, Dutten snapped, “became someone else” as he said, initiating and perpetuating one of the most, if not THE most notorious crime sprees the city has ever known. And outside of his inner circle, nobody knows he’s behind it but me. I’ve questioned how much they even know, but he keeps me guessing, always deflecting, says it doesn’t matter who else knows. He’s probably right. For a guy with no criminal record, no prior documentation of mental illness, no history of violence, and what he describes as “a fairly typical upbringing for a guy my age”, Dutten is a monster. His enthusiasm for violence is boundless. I don’t know how he hasn’t been caught. I’ve been saying for years that it’s just a matter of time.

As Mayor, he is meticulous, a perfectionist, he out works, out talks, and outdoes everyone. He’s obsessively prepared, deliberate in every action and reaction, demanding but fair, he is well-liked with a sky high approval rating not for what he says but for what he does; the city of Philadelphia has never been in a better position. He’s brilliant. He seems to know not only what everyone wants, but also what everyone needs and how to get it done. He doesn’t take shit from anyone, is a man of the people, is connected to union leaders, activists, lobbyists, politicos, business men and women, celebrities and other heavy-hitters, and he is one with the common man, the lesser-knowns and nobodies. It’s a complicated, interconnected circuit of decisions, relationships, behaviors and actions, none of which could be attributed to just one person but hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people pulling in a similar direction, but under Dutten’s watch, the economy is surging, environmental conditions have improved dramatically, education- perhaps the most challenging, critical area of all to get right- has at worst been stabilized and at best caused us to radically rethink our view of intelligence, and even factoring in his ‘sporadic violent outbursts’ as he refers to it, violent crime is way down.

When compared to his professional behavior, Dutten’s approach to revenge is diametrically opposed. He is a madman. He is singular. He does not think. He does not feel. He does not premeditate. He simply explodes. As a result, I have diagnosed him with Intermittent Explosive Disorder, categorized in the DSM-V under the umbrella, “Disruptive, Impulse Control, and Conduct” disorders. Dutten originally disagreed with my clinical diagnosis, saying he doesn’t meet the criteria, that his actions do not cause impairment in occupational or interpersonal functioning. “Look at me. Look at this city. Does any of this seem impaired to you? Huh?” He pointed to his head with the index and middle fingers on his right hand then out the front window of D.U.O. with his left. Yes, it does. I said. I told him if he wants to stay out of prison, if he wants to live, he should listen to everything I say.

Over the course of 8 days following the attack, Dutten was responsible for taking out 30-some people, indiscriminately pummeling all kinds of unsavory characters, “pieces of garbage, scumbags that at one time or another had it out for me in some way, some shape or form, many of em’ still do, guys who want me gone, who fought dirty against me, against us, our movement.” He said. “We can’t keep taking 5 steps forward and 4 steps back, you know? We have to move forward continuously. We have to change history. It doesn’t work if we go backwards. We’re running out of time.” I agreed with the sentiment, in this case our ideals aligned, but he was full of shit; he either wouldn’t admit it or truly didn’t get it yet, so he dragged a couple homeless guys all over the park in front of the Free Library and tossed them over the embankment onto 676. He unhinged the jaws of a few longtime defense attorneys, caved in the right orbital and broke the hands of union boss Dave Doherty, put a 4-pack of soda lobbyists through the front window of a popular Center City steakhouse, pummeled real estate mogul Ari Flatbush inside a descending elevator in a parking garage in Rittenhouse, cracked the ribs of award-winning chef, Maxwell Solomonoff, and from behind, kicked a 67 year old City Hall custodian in the ass, bouncing him down a flight of stairs. He said there was a good reason for everything he did. I didn’t believe him. I told him his reasoning was flawed, that he was not well, and that even though his disorder was eliciting his maladaptive behavior, what he was doing was fundamentally wrong. It was illegal. I knew that simply telling him this wouldn’t be enough to change him, that he would have to discover this for himself, but the nature of his actions were so extreme I really didn’t know what else to do. The situation was far more complex than any I had ever experienced, far more than I’d expected, and I was doing all I could to keep it from becoming personal.

The perceived random acts of violence were all over the news and no one knew what to make of it. People started freaking out, but Dutten, our Mayor, was there to assure us that everything would be all right, not to worry.

D.U.O. benefited because it was Dutten’s home base throughout the spree, he dined with us every night we were open- Thursday, Friday, and Saturday- and media coverage portrayed me as having saved his life, and suddenly, we were on the map. It was all we needed and we never looked back.

Everything is done in-house. We do gastronomical variations of greens, fruits, roots, trees, shoots, fungi, beans, nuts, seeds, herbs, flowers, birds, and various rodents- raccoons, squirrels, snakes, possums, and whatever else we could get our hands on. Sounds too out-there to work, I know, but it works to perfection. If I’ve learned anything since starting this, it’s that anything, absolutely anything, goes.

The clientele is as eclectic as the food is diverse. They come from all over the city, from all walks of life, and they make the place move.

As always, on Thursday morning, Gene rushed in carrying a wooden crate overflowing with freshly harvested ingredients and dumped it out on the stainless steel kitchen counter.

An hour and a half later, after thoroughly dissecting the collection, I said, OK, here we go, we’ll do a 6 course tasting tonight. What do you think of this?

Rainbow Trout and Cabbage

Mushroom Paste, Onion, and Lavender

Steamed Turtle and Egg Yolk Sauce

Raw Ants with Ginger and Coconut

Rosebay and Leek

Dried Boneset Flower Ice Cream

“Goddamnit!” He said, smiling. “Hell yeah! Let’s go.”

I put on the debut album of The Remains, cranked the volume, and we went to work.

It got immeasurably worse. The beatings were nothing compared to what would come. Dutten began erasing anyone and everyone who posed a threat, removing every fiber of their being. At first I only knew that it was happening and that he was solely responsible, unsure of how he did it, where he put the bodies, how he determined who had to go, how he remained free from incrimination, how he was able to lead a double life, appear so with it while inside he was someone else entirely, what the hell would happen next? Though I’d dealt with extremely violent clients in the past, it was never anything like this. It was never so ruthless, so vicious, so widespread and far-reaching, an issue of public health. I was never so enmeshed. Dutten trusted me because I saved his life. For my own psychological and ethical well-being, I was obligated to act. I had two choices: I could go to the police and turn him in, tell them everything I knew, wear a wire, work with them on a confession, which would be enough to put him away forever, out of my life, off the streets OR I could help him. I could help him change. I could work with him, become something better, someone new. Make him whole again. Fix this.

I didn’t see any of it coming. Of all the possible outcomes, mass annihilation and hysteria wasn’t something I’d projected. After I saved him, I thought about it a lot, whether or not I should sever ties immediately, right then and there, or see what happened, how it all played out. Before I could decide, he befriended me. He made the choice before I did. I hesitated. Maybe that was my mistake, maybe not. Either way, I am not morally, ethically, or legally compromised. I am not his accomplice. I have done nothing wrong, have nothing to do with his actions. How could I have predicted his complete mental breakdown and insane, incomprehensible future behaviors? It defies rational thought. I never envisioned a scenario where he would detach emotionally and evaporate morally, and kill. Erase. I’ve now considered every perspective, every potential response, every plausible consequence, and I feel no responsibility for him, have taken no ownership, nor will I. This is not on me. Yet still I must choose: I can either turn on him or help him. Where is the greater good, with Dutten imprisoned or dead, or rehabilitated and reformed?

If I work with Dutten, if I help him, he poses no threat to me, or anyone I care about. I’m not even worried about that, never have been. I just don’t see it going that way. He’s on his own hyper-focused, delusional plane. He has terroristic tunnel vision. If I help him, this can stop. If I don’t, if I turn him in, will it ever end? No matter what, lives are lost, nobody gets to come back from this, we don’t get to turn back the clock. There is really only one option here, and it’s clear as day.

As soon as the butter and oil began to shimmer, I dropped in a handful of slivered onions. The technique has changed, the ingredients have improved, but the experience is the same as it’s always been. I took a sip of my beer, pulled the pierogis from the boiling water just as they began to float, and one-by-one placed them gently on a tray. I’ve found it takes a minimum of 45 minutes to properly caramelize onions. I’ve researched and experimented with various methods over the years, widely accepted shortcuts, none of which resulted in better flavor or texture than the right balance of fat with the precise cut with the perfect temperature with a good pan and a modicum of patience. Set everything up for success and get out of the way.

Dutten showed up just as I placed the first batch of 5 potato filled pouches into the screaming pan.

A minute and a half per side. I said. Any more and they’re too crispy, any less and they’re chewy. 3 minutes altogether and they’re as good as it gets.

“How are you?” He said. “Good to see you.”

Doing well. Have a seat. It’ll be ready soon.

It had been 4 years since Dutten erased anyone, 7 since I’d started cognitive behavioral therapy. CBT is based on the cognitive model- the way that an individual perceives a situation is more closely connected to his reaction to the situation than the situation itself. In reconstituting Dutten, I borrowed from several psychotherapeutic modalities: positive psychology, compassion focused therapy, Gestalt, mindfulness, acceptance and commitment therapy, motivational interviewing, dialectical behavior therapy, interpersonal psychotherapy, solution focused therapy, and psychodynamic psychotherapy. No pharmaceuticals. I have found no scientific evidence that drugs cure unhelpful cognition, mood, functioning, or behavior. In my experience, we have absolutely no clue exactly what these drugs are doing to people. We like to think we know, and the overabundant prescription of drugs for the purpose of mental health remediation would indicate otherwise, but there is no telling, no definitive way to scientifically, reliably identify what effect this is having on a person’s physical and mental state. Dutten and I met several times per week, at my office, in the dining room of D.U.O., and worked tirelessly to turn things around. No shortcuts. This work takes time. And on this night, we would not work, we would celebrate how far we’d come.

“Comfort food at its finest.” He said, pointing to the spread. “Not what you’re used to serving here.”

Not at all. But still so damn good.

We talked a lot about how far he’d come, how far we’d both come. He said I saved his life more than once, and that he would always owe me, that he would always consider me a friend.

You don’t owe me anything. Think of me however you’d like, I’m just happy I could help. This wasn’t easy. And, obviously, I couldn’t have done it alone.

CHAPTER 2

I just miss seeing her things lying around- shoes lying crooked along the wall, jeans on the floor, underwear turned inside-out and tangled in the sheets, earrings atop the night stand, a toothbrush still wet with saliva, a cereal bowl in the sink, a purse on the sofa… A faint trace of perfume on her jacket… Her reflection in the mirror. I keep reliving our last conversation, replaying it over and over, thinking there’s something I could have said or done to make her change her mind. Her absence has left an enormous void, once filled with the many moons of my imagination…

“Shut the hell up and play already!”

“Nobody gives a shit!”

“We came to hear some rock!”

“Play something!”

“Let’s go!”

“Stop!”

“Enough!”

“We can’t take it anymore!”

I quit talking and we all stood there in near silence for a few seconds before I counted us in. I pulled my guitar firmly against my chest, gave the volume knob a quarter turn, strummed the opening chords to the recently released ‘When We All Went Away’, and watched as the sound tore a hole right through the place. Even with everything on my mind, all that I was going through, I was immediately locked in, transported somewhere else, and we played even better than we had two nights earlier, the day before Alyssa pulled the plug.

“Dude, Jack, what was that many moons of your imagination shit? You hung us out to dry up there.” Said Chris, our bassist and occasional drummer.

You could have started the song if I was going on too long. That’s on you. Click the sticks next time.

“There won’t be many more next times if you don’t pull it together. I get that you’re in a bad spot right now, but this can’t keep happening.”

It won’t, I said.

It didn’t. It took a few months, but I realized that girls come and go, relationships will too, but good relationships will last. They won’t end. As much as I thought everything between Alyssa and I was perfect, once she was gone, and I was still able to continue doing all the things I enjoyed, once I started feeling less shitty, and eventually happier without her than I was with her, I understood that we were both better off.

In December, a little more than 3 months after I almost put the crowd to sleep and nearly blew any chance of The Moonwings blowing up, we had grown so much that we were able to land a headlining show at a much bigger place, a brand new venue in Brewerytown called The Fender, a retrofitted former auto showroom over on 33rd Street, just a few doors down from John Coltrane’s old house. Eight songs into a planned 18 song set, with 1,200 people stomping and swaying and singing along, as our momentum swelled, all at once the windows burst, the power cut out, and everything went black.

Four American flags sewn together with 200 black squares where the stars once sparkled. It had become their symbol, their mark, their calling card. The Rhinos MO- make a grand entrance, blow the top off the place, turn the lights out, scare the hell out of people, traumatize, minimize casualties, “move the cause”, as they put it. We’d spoken out against them a lot lately at our shows, in interviews, and on our podcast, ‘Please Stop Talking’.

The Rhinos had become exceedingly organized and aggressive in both recruiting and in their attacks. They’d gone from 2 members to a reported 14,000 in under a year, from propaganda to a hostage situation to these huge spectacles.

By the time the lights went on, about 95% of the crowd had dispersed, either scattering out the back onto the railroad tracks or careening through the front door and as far away as possible.

Those of us that remained were left picking up the pieces.

When I got back to my place a few hours later Alyssa was waiting for me. She said she was so glad to see me, that she was worried something terrible had happened to me, that she’d missed me. I said she shouldn’t worry about me, that she didn’t have to come, but it was good to see her. She looked great. She spent the night, but it wasn’t until morning that we had each other.

We stayed in bed all day. I thought a lot about how grateful I was to be alive and well, to have friends and family whom I cared for and who cared for me, to be a white male in America, to feel generally safe despite the looming threat of potentially widespread hell. I talked about how much I wanted the best for everyone, everywhere. Things don’t have to be this way, I said. War. Violence. Crime. Pollution. Hate. Corruption. It’s unnecessary. We don’t have to gut the planet of all its resources. We could live more sustainably so that our generation and future generations could enjoy life. If we could all just change a little bit, just control ourselves a little, things could be so much better.

“People are really messed up.” She said. “It’s sad. It’s scary. But the good news is…” She thought my beliefs, our beliefs, weren’t that far off from what The Rhinos believed. She was probably right. Our behaviors, I said, the way we go about trying to change things, the way we treat people, our actions, that’s what’s so different, not our beliefs.

I had no idea where that left us and still wasn’t sure what The Rhinos were even trying to accomplish, other than make a name for themselves. They weren’t anarchists or completely anti-government. They weren’t militant, they weren’t terribly violent- not yet, at least- but without question they were a threat, they were terrorists, and they needed to be stopped. The difficulty in defeating The Rhinos was their simultaneous popularity and anonymity. Aside from a few members who’d been caught, nobody knew who the people behind the movement were and no one was talking.

After we finished school, along with getting day jobs, Gene, Will, Chris, and I decided to focus on The Moonwings. We moved into a house a few blocks away from The Fender, our home base for in-town shows. The owner, a former gold medal Olympic rower turned urban developer, helped us build a recording studio upstairs. We released 3 albums in just over a year, one or two songs at a time every few weeks, with somewhere between 25,000 and 30,000 downloads combined. Our songs got better and better. Will, who along with switching over from guitar to keys, started designing these really cool, interactive video backdrops, and we began live-streaming our shows. We still played small-to-midsize clubs, but they sold-out out every time.

The Rhinos last attack was knocking the hands off the Rocky statue and draping the Square Starred Banner over his shoulders. Just about everyone thought this was a sign of weakness, evidence they were slowing down, that they’d lost focus, “hokey as shit” as Will put it. Aside from a recent city-wide barrage of flyers promising, ‘SOON’, for months they had been relatively quiet.

They’re done, I said. They’ve tried to erode trust in the process, in our way of life, and they’ve failed. We’re stronger now than we were before they began. Yeah, there are definitely things that need to change in this country- inequality, environmental stuff, education, health care, crime, violence- but the United States, even with our flaws, is still one of the greatest places to be.

The crowd erupted, and we jumped right into our 35th and final song of the night, our last Philly show before heading out West for a month.

‘SOON’ followed us to Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Sacramento, LA, San Diego, Vegas, Dallas, Houston, Austin, Denver, back to LA, and back home.

We’re trying to silence these maniacs and instead we’ve given them a microphone, I said. Maybe we should just play music and shut our mouths.

“No way, man. Not now.” Said Gene. “Why? Because they dropped off some flyers on our tour?”

Yeah, man. Exactly. They’re following us! We’ve become the focus. This isn’t what we wanted. They’re dangerous. This isn’t a goddamn joke.

“What did you expect?”

Not this. This is outta control. We’re in over our heads.

“Too late now.” He said.

We took some time off from recording and playing shows, but kept a strong presence by streaming our practices and songwriting sessions. I moved in with Alyssa over on 26th and Brown, not far from The Fender and the guys. Three weeks later she told me she was pregnant. Four months after that, in front of a few friends, our parents, and our brothers and sisters, we got married on Lemon Hill in Fairmount Park. We honeymooned in Honduras for a week, then I left with The Moonwings for our first European tour.

Time was still but we went on anyway.

My voice, and only my voice, soared through the air, with each new note, each singular sound turning a packed Independence Mall on its head. We didn’t always play it that way, where everything other than my voice cuts out. Normally, it was all of us, every instrument as loud as possible, but for a show like this, it had to be special.

You always had a way to make us believe in anything.

And then, just as he had planned…

A massive explosion severed Chestnut Street.

Black smoke, a rogue wave, disappeared the entire lawn.

The Rhinos poured in from every direction. It was impossible to tell us from them and them from us.

I leapt from the stage and took off toward the center of the field, climbed onto the soundboard, scanned the entire area for Alyssa and Michael, and started yelling their names.

Chris was on stage, playing the drums as though we were all still there, pounding out a powerful, mid-tempo rock beat atop the deafening feedback we’d left behind. Chris, get the fuck outta of there! I yelled. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe any of it.

Police and other first responders rolled in, but held their ground.

What the fuck is going on? Do something!

Another explosion, this time a smaller one, blew off part of the stage, silenced Chris, and sent thousands of people into absolute pandemonium.

Most ran away, some stayed to fight, but with seemingly effortless grace The Rhinos kicked their ass. No more improvised explosives, no more flair, no more pageantry, and no more messages, just a flat-out, lopsided beatdown.

Police started moving in, and now all I could hear were all of the footsteps marching together as one.

I jumped into the crowd and frenetically searched for them. Somebody punched me in the face as they ran by, but by the time I could react they were gone.

As suddenly as it began, it would end.

Alyssa grabbed me on the shoulder, hugged me, and handed me Michael. I kissed them both on the forehead, first her and then him.

Are you OK?

“This is crazy.” She cried. “Why is this happening? What are they doing?”

ARE YOU OK? I yelled. Are you all right?

“Yes. We’re OK. What is this?”

Come on. We have to move. Get the fuck outta here. Let’s go.

I held Michael in my right arm and led Alyssa by the hand back toward the stage, the quickest way out, and what appeared to be the path of no resistance.

We made it across the street and stopped for a moment, a breath, a glimpse.

Look at this. I said. Look!

Behind us, the iconic banner appeared on the backdrop in all its newfound glory.

And then…

Ray Benson grabbed the mike, held it up to his mouth, and smiled.

What the fuck?

The Rhinos stood a hundred rows deep, cheering.

What the hell is he doing? No. I handed Michael to Alyssa, let go of her hand, and walked into the street. No. No. This isn’t happening. Ray is a fuckin Rhino? He’s a Rhino?

“Jack, stay here. Don’t leave us. Please.”

This is un-fucking-believably insane. This isn’t happening. Can you believe this? What is he doing?

“Jack. Please. Come back. We have to go. This isn’t safe. Please. Jack. Come back.”

I did.

I took her hand and as we ran away, I looked back.

Ray raised his hand and waved. “Thank you all for coming.”

CHAPTER 3

You just never know what anyone is thinking. Judge a book by its cover, don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’ll never get it right, there’s just no telling what’s inside someone’s head, inside his thoughts, the deepest, darkest parts of his mind, in his soul. Jesus Christ, there’s no telling what’s in the brightest, sharpest, healthiest parts of his mind. It’s impossible to tell so there is only one choice- do what you think is right and…

“Wait, dude.” Said Gene. “You gathered all this from…”

Yeah man. You didn’t see that dude?

“Yeah, I saw him. But…”

You see a normal looking, old, Italian guy driving a nice car on a Thursday morning, not going too fast, window down, looked happy, he’s not driving like a mad man, all signs point to a normal, regular guy…

“Yeah, and…”

He was wearing a gigantic live parrot on his shoulder! What the hell? You saw it. What is he thinking? He has to be out of his mind, right?

The semester had just ended, so I was off for the summer, having just completed my 4th year as Professor of Educational Psychology at Temple. It was a big year for me professionally, 3 of my articles were published in 3 separate scholarly journals: Applied Cognitive Research in K-4 Classrooms; Viable Alternatives to Standardized Assessment for Assessing Emerging Literacy Skills; and Psychology of Inclusive Teaching.

Gene had just begun bartending at a great rock club in Fishtown, between that and Eugene’s he hardly had any time off. He hadn’t worked the night before so managed to get out of bed before 1 p.m. We were going to grab breakfast at a great little diner called Regina’s on Callowhill Street, before going to a Phillies day game. We hadn’t hung out this early in the morning in years, since we were kids, when we’d get up at 4 a.m. before our shifts at Santucci’s to play 9 innings of one-on-one baseball at FDR Park. Before modern day fantasy baseball, before either of us even had functioning personal computers, one of us would buy the most recent edition of Baseball Weekly where inside they dedicated about 20 pages listing every roster player from every Major League team. Each player was prescribed a value, a number, for example- $240,000 for Andy Van Slyke, $600,000 for Jay Buhner, $1,700,000 for Barry Bonds, $550,000 for Charles Nagy. Given a specified dollar amount, a payroll, Gene and I would draft and assemble a team, designate starters, bench players, starting pitchers and relievers, and manage the team, basically pretend we were the players while pitching and hitting against one another as the sun came up. Gene would usually win, his overall record was 44–18, but they were almost always close games. The only way I won was when I played perfectly, managing to get the leg positioning and swing on my Will Clark impersonation just right, hitting homers with runners on when Sammy Sosa or Ken Griffey Jr. were up to bat, throwing my Tim Wakefield knuckle ball or my John Smoltz fastball just right so that Bobby Bonilla or Ricky Henderson or Brady Anderson or Cal Ripken weren’t able to get the job done.

Gene’s dad once took us to a Phillies game. We took a roundabout way of getting to South Philadelphia from South Philadelphia. It took us 4 and a half hours when it should have taken about 8 minutes, but we’d left so early that we had time to take in the end of batting practice. J.T. Snow had just finished signing autographs when Will Clark walked by. I yelled to him asking for his signature on my glove. He said, “What’s your name?”

Jack.

“Who’s your favorite player, Jack?”

Barry Bonds.

“Then go ask him for his autograph.” He spit a bunch of seeds toward us and walked away.

I got upset, for a second, until Gene’s dad called Will Clark an asshole. I started laughing, Gene yelled, “Sign this, sir” while pointing to his ass, but Clark kept walking and didn’t look back.

Humans now have an 8 second attention span, I said. Can you believe that? 8 seconds.

Dude, hang on. This is the game right here.

Runners on first and second, 2 outs, top of the 9th, 2–1 Phillies.

A double ripped to center field tied the game.

This is terrible, I said. And we sat quietly for a few minutes thinking of what might have been.

“What a waste.” Said Gene.

Totally.

Would have been nice to see Nola get the win here. He pitched well and it was cool they actually scored on Fernandez. The guy has been unhittable. Unreal.

The 5 of us sat without saying much into the top of the 11th when a Peralta homer put the Marlins ahead. Next batter, I think it was Yelich, a guy who’d recently been featured in a leaked home video in which he allegedly indulged in the dirtiest of deeds with his lady friend (his face was buried in her bottom, and he has since denied it was him in the clip), turned on an off-speed pitch and drove it our way. My brother-in-law Tony, tipsy from a few strong beers, his depth perception out of whack, lunged from his seat in the second row in right center field at a ball that was 4 feet short of the wall. I tried to catch him, as did his brother, Dom, as did 2 approximately 12-year old girls in the front row, but his weight and enthusiasm, his pure, unbridled determination for the ball, carried him over the railing and onto the warning track below, saved from what would have surely been a fractured everything by the diving Peter Bourne.

As they lied there in a heap, Yelich rounded the bases, the ball embedded in Tony’s belly or beneath Bourne, somewhere in the wreckage, security arrived within seconds, cops filled the outfield, and whatever was left of the remaining 9,000-some crowd stood staring, taking video, snapping pictures, laughing, yelling, throwing anything they could find. One dude was so pumped up he accidentally flung his phone from his left hand rather than the empty plastic cup in his right. He kept screaming for someone to throw it back up, but in the commotion nobody answered, so he climbed over the railing to get it himself, only as he dangled he realized just how far of a drop it was, I’m assuming, and had second thoughts, perhaps a first thought. So now he’s struggling to pull himself back up, but was unable due to his sheer size, about 280 I’d guess, and no one seemed very interested in risking permanent spinal injury to help yank him back up. I looked at Dom, sort of asking if we should do something, but before we had a chance to act, we were taken away by the cops, escorted into the underbelly of the ballpark, questioned, and released.

Tony showed up about an hour later, after a thorough review of video, an intense search of his person, questioning, and a determination that his case was indeed an accident, that he was harmless and had not intended to enter the field of play.

We missed the end of the game, Phillies came back and won, he said, as though nothing crazy had just happened. 5–4 on a pinch-hit, two-run, Howard homer. He still has it, he said.

No he doesn’t.

We couldn’t stop talking about what Tony had done. The walk out of the park, to the subway, while waiting for the train to leave, and for the entire ride, we went on and on about it, laughing a lot, until a couple guys started arguing, another dude ran through the car screaming something about how he hopes to God something or other happens to all of us, before opening the doors of the car and climbing into the car in front.

What the hell is wrong with people? I said.

It’s not like he’s going to get anywhere sooner, said Tony, my father-in-law.

Gene sat with his head down, squeezed between two obese, obliterated college kids, and didn’t say a word.

A kid dressed in a filthy, oversized tie-dye T-shirt, and apparently nothing else, entered the car from the other end, yelling indiscernibly, then stopping dead center with his hands out, begging for cash.

I didn’t pay attention to a word of it, I looked away, and when the train stopped at Spring Garden, I stood up, and we walked out.

CHAPTER 4

This guy has gotten so bad, it’s beyond comprehension. I knew it would be bad, anyone with an IQ above single digits could tell you that, but this is just unbelievable. I texted.

“I know. His first album was great. Everything since has been terrible. Every single song is just some basic, lazy, forgettable chord progression with rambling, bad stream of conscious lyrics.” Said Gene.

I’m talking about Clump you idiot!

“…”

What the hell are you talking about?

“…”

Forget it.

“Huh?” He was joking.

Just stop, dude. I’m serious. It’s so bad. The guy is terrible. Flint just stepped down as National Security Advisor. Once they uncover how deeply Clump has been involved in this North Korea shit, he’ll be gone too.

“I don’t know, man.”

Clump knew about this all along! He’s right there with Flint. They’re all in it together! Once it’s completely discovered, it’s over, he’s gone.

I sat quietly at my desk. It was 9 in the morning. I’d just finished off a bowl of yogurt with blackberries. I’d eaten an omelet with cheddar and spinach at home and rode by bike in along Schuylkill Banks. My hands were still thawing out. The kids had just been admitted. I heard them entering classrooms in the hallway. I had a meeting first period but the parent had yet to arrive.

“This is insane. It’s scary. These guys want to silence the media, control everything we hear. Divide the country. Banner wants to see America disintegrate. He wants us to fail.”

And it’s actually exactly what you’d expect to happen. Clump has no clue, surrounded himself with people who have no business being in the position they now hold, and he’s showing us all why this has never happened before. It doesn’t work. He’s done. He’ll be gone by the end of the year.

Alyssa had given me a Valentine’s Day card, hidden inside my laptop. I found it once I got to work. We didn’t typically exchange gifts or cards on Valentine’s Day, we thought it was too corporate, or forced. We talked about how some people only tell each other I Love You once per year. We were different. We told each other all the time, and we meant it. We didn’t need to be told what to say and when to say it. I re-read the card, a small white square with hearts and two octopuses kissing. I WANT TO SMOOCH YOUR FACE, was printed on the inside. She wrote, “Happy Valentine’s Day”. She put a little heart over the i. “I love you so much. You are the most loving, sweet, fun husband in the whole world. XOXO.” More hand drawn hearts. “Alyssa”

I smiled and put the card away. I thought that maybe we should start celebrating Valentine’s Day. Just because it’s a commercial holiday doesn’t mean we can’t take part. It made me really happy to get that card. I have to stop and get her something on my way home, I thought.

“Yup. You can’t run a country like a business.” He said. “At least not one of Clump’s businesses.” He said, adding. “It’s a joke.”

I asked him about his weekend plans, and he said he was leaving the wife and kids at home and going to the Rock Hall in Cleveland.

The Democrats better pounce on this and take him out. Go for it!

I had 14 more minutes until I had to teach a class. Fleeting moments are often some of the most precious, I thought.

The media is onto this, too. They’re reasserting themselves.

Finally.

They know if they don’t, they’re in danger of getting wiped out, becoming a joke.

Obsolete.

They’re doing a much better job now.

They’re reporting all the lies and all the deception and wrongdoing, all his incompetent day-to-day behavior, and everything else and they’re doing it objectively, and they’re not going to stop.

Imagine that nightmare, getting all of our news from the President!

This isn’t North Korea!

7 more minutes. The fleeting moment is feeling less sweet as a slight sense of unease settles in, reminding me of how much I’d rather being doing something else. Maybe unease isn’t the right word. Disappointment. Nostalgia. Longing. Hope? Reality? Whatever, it’ll pass. It actually hasn’t been too bad lately. Kids have been OK. Principal isn’t on my back. Colleagues are pretty nice.

People are protesting peaceably.

It’s the beginning of the end for this administration.

It’s one fuck up after the next.

Things are going to be all right. Better than before.

“I don’t know, man. But I hope so.”

You’re not the only one.

CHAPTER 5

In order for mankind to continue we must procreate, but by doing so we’re destroying mankind.

“Dude, that’s kind of heavy for a kid’s birthday party.”

Whatever. Who cares where we are? Somehow I never saw it so simply or broke it down so concisely or whatever, but the other day I was walking to work and I just thought of it. People are so messed up. Not all of us, you and I are fucking geniuses, but probably more than half of us. Not in the U.S., here there’s probably way more good than bad, but worldwide that number goes way the hell down. It’s like, from the beginning of time, we’ve been making all the wrong choices, and now it’s finally catching up to us. Didn’t have to be this way.

“Pretty much sums it up.”

Do you ever think about this shit?

“Yeah. All the time. But I try not to.”

Why?

“Because. What the hell am I going to do about it?”

Change it.

“What I think or what I want isn’t going to change the way the world works.”

You never know. One thought leads to the next. Just as the horrible behavior and the horrible way of thinking are contagious, the good thoughts could be as well. If enough people hear them, maybe they’d start to think this way too.

You just control what you can control and good things will catch on. I know this. I believe this. I feel like I’ve always known this. But still, it’s a continuous process of figuring it out, little by little, bit by bit, holding onto the stuff that makes sense, the good stuff, whatever works, truth I guess you can call it, and pretty much ignoring everything else, all while basically relearning everything you’ve ever known or thought you knew.

Gene Ringgold was a cook. He worked 6 days a week, around 14 hours a day, at a little diner in South Philly called Eugene’s. He’d been there since he was a kid, started out washing dishes, bussing tables, worked there throughout middle school and high school, saving for college, spending most of his extra money on CDs and punk rock shows. He paid his way through college at Temple, and nearly graduated with a physics degree after 3 and a half years. Then he stopped going to class and withdrew from the university, just 11 credits short of a degree. He returned to the diner for what he said would be one last summer before graduation. He never left. He said he’d stay at the diner until he figured out exactly what he wanted to do. He’s now 30-some years old and, without any real plan, without intent, without action. He is locked into his daily routine and most often, it works for him. He seems relatively happy. Happy enough. I guess. I don’t know. My wife, Alyssa, thinks he’s in a bad spot. I just don’t see it, really. He’s bright, and thoughtful, a very talented guy, he’s in a relationship, I think things are good there, he has friends, has a good job. Since his younger days as co-founder of our punk band Black Butterflies, he’d been an outside the box thinker and a do-it-yourselfer, and because he’d been at the diner so long, his mind was absolutely free to go elsewhere while his body was on repeat so he was constantly thinking things through. Overthinking.

He played guitar constantly, deliberately, with purpose, always with a purpose, always learning- a new technique, a classic move- endlessly adjusting, perfecting an unforgettable riff, crafting a progression, a bridge, and with great exactness, obsessively, documenting nearly all of his progress, the ups and downs, the failures and epiphanies and every note in between, either as a simple cassette voice recording at first, then for a few years with an old point and shoot, eventually with his phone’s camera, or what has become the new norm, in the recording studio in his attic where he had the most control and therefore the highest quality, lasting document as a result, he’d said. Because the diner did so well, he was often interviewed, or on TV, he was always out in the dining room talking to customers and friends. I found this somewhat strange, as I’d always thought of him as shy, a man of very few words, not anti-social, definitely a friendly guy, but certainly not a talker. At times, at work, with friends and regulars, he gave the impression of someone with both a huge personality, all while remaining occasionally aloof, comfortable with a group, but preferring to be all alone. Over the years, he developed a sort of cult following, and somewhat of a hero-status among his foodie followers. His plan was to use that notoriety to launch his music, but he never went for it, wouldn’t pull the trigger. He just kept everything, all that incredible, lovable rock music, locked up on hard drives where no one could hear.

I was Gene’s neighbor as a kid, we went to school together for a few years in junior high, and was the original bass player in Black Butterflies, for about 3 weeks until I was replaced by an actual bass player. Coolest job I’d ever had. I’d worked in many fields over the years: sales, e-commerce, brand operations, content and creative, food service, hospitality, entertainment, music, mental health, marketing, and education. Other than bass player for Black Butterflies, I hated every single job I’d ever had. OK, perhaps hate is a bit strong in describing my feelings; strongly dislike, waste of time, mind numbing, disconsolate, forgettable might be better, but my current job was definitely the best job I’d had since the Butterflies. It’s not that education is consistently fulfilling or rewarding or inspiring or enjoyable in any way, I believe it can be, but that seems to be the exception to the rule, but no one was on my back, I could get in and out without having to deal with much shit from anyone, the hours were good, it paid well enough, I’d become exceptionally adept at not letting the actions and words of others- kids, colleagues, parents, administrators- get to me. At times I even felt like I was making a slight difference in their lives, actual improvement, so I did what I was supposed to do, got my work done in its entirety and on time, and accepted my position as best I could. In addition to multiple, actual professional career changes, I’d tried so many times over the years to make the move into something I’d completely enjoy, not just something that paid the bills or was tolerable or just bearable enough. I considered, toyed with and attempted, being a musician- I’d written 100 or so really good songs over the years but didn’t play nearly enough shows; an entrepreneur- looked into launching a band management company, restaurant, newsmagazine, and opening a music venue; and a writer- 8 novels, 14 novellas, 312 short stories, and 96 episodes of a TV show; but nothing ever materialized, I wasn’t successful, couldn’t make it work, couldn’t find a way to make it happen, so for the comfort of the life I’d come to know, I stopped trying. There’s this balance of doing what you want so you feel you’re spending your limited time wisely, and having a job that pays you enough to enjoy the free time when you have it. I’m trying to find that. Right now, I don’t have much of a choice. I don’t know what else to do.

Gene’s son James had just turned 6. My son Michael would be 2 in 2 months. There were 8 other kids at the party between the ages of 1 and 11.

I guess it’s just where we’re at in life, man, our kids have so much in front of them, you know? I said. It makes me think about how things could be different, way better than we’ve ever had it. Way better than it is.

“I do ,too. Just not sure what we could do. I hear you. I’m not being defeatist. But… Nothing’s going to change. It’s always been this way. Why would anything change? If anything it’ll get worse.”

I don’t know, man. I can’t let myself think that way or believe that. I think it’ll be all right. I just want these guys to have a good life, look at them- they know nothing but good, only ever have fun, have experienced nothing but happiness and love, and that’s how I wish it could stay, with that mindset, the ideas that could spring from that, the goodness that could spread from being that happy, that unaware of all the stuff we know now as adults. Think of what the world could be like if it just had billions of happy, well adjusted, respectful, kind, secure, confident, good people. I really don’t think it has to be this way. I’m convinced. I just want these guys to have a shot at living an amazing life, forever, you know?

CHAPTER 6

It was two doors down from Eugene’s. I’d passed the place hundreds of times. Just the other day. I had no idea. No one did. There were tons of places like it in town- abandoned, boarded up, ignored, forgotten. They go unnoticed. Blend in.

Until this.

What a fucking nightmare.

A purely evil, maniacal son of a bitch, Shawn Hunsinger, a 25-year old aspiring drug kingpin, a Northeast Philly guy, and overall sadistic devil, was housing 6 kids and 8 women- all recently kidnapped from Camden, Baltimore, and Mt. Pocono. They belonged to him. If they weren’t already, they would soon be addicted to his very own brand of crankcokeheroinmeth, some pharmaceutical concoction he’d experimented with in and out of lockup since he was 12, and perfected only 44 days earlier. If they weren’t already, the women would soon be pregnant, either by Hunsinger or to the highest bidder. They would be chained in the soundproof basement until they were trained to behave. He had finally found a home and he was starting an experiment, a family, a business, an empire, and nobody had any idea. He told no one. He left no trace. He was anonymous. He was meticulous and methodical in his planning and preparation, like all the greats, evil or good. His plans were ongoing and endless. A lie had been given life. Lives were forever changed.

But it all ended when, in the middle of the night, responding to ongoing and seemingly endless complaints about excessive, live music blaring from one of the basements- Gene and I had been recording for almost 10 hours in the basement of Eugene’s- police began pounding on doors up and down the block. Looking for the source, for a link, for a way to make it stop. An officer accidentally put the back end of his flashlight through Hunsinger’s window, opening a hole just large enough to allow a faint scream to trickle out.

CHAPTER 7

No one is quite sure how we’ve gotten here, how we’ve come so far from where we were, from where we should be, but for a change there is almost universal agreement on one thing: this is manmade. We caused this. It is not some random event. It’s not inexplicable. It is not God. It wasn’t caused by just one thing- some genetic anomaly, a predisposition, pharmaceuticals, illicit drug use, lead poisoning, vaccines, air pollution, industrial farming, hazardous water, or whatever. It was caused by us, by humans, by an infinite, complicated conglomeration of piss poor decision making and behavior. Over a period of time this shit just adds up and it’s nearly impossible to turn it around. We’re trying now, but no one seems to know where to start.

The vast majority of people, experts and non-experts, agree that Devolution, as it’s called, is human caused and human cured. What we can’t agree upon is how to fix it. A problem within a catastrophic problem. One of the reasons we’re in this place to begin with.

It has yet to be determined when, precisely, this all began, but the prevailing belief, the most widely accepted theory, and the one that makes the most sense, is that it wasn’t all that long ago. This didn’t take millions of years to unravel. It’s taken only a few decades. They’re thinking the 1940s. At the time the incidence of reported cases of mental retardation, emotional disturbance, learning disabilities, the first cases of Autism Spectrum Disorder and Asperger’s began to increase exponentially. Soon after it was ADD/ADHD, ODD, Intellectual Disability, Bipolar, Depression, Anxiety Disorder, Mood Disorder, PTSD and hundreds of other labels for what was- at its core- essentially the same thing. People were fucking losing it, and though it appeared in many different ways, presented in many forms, it all originated in the same place, the mind. It wasn’t until the 2000s that clinicians, scientists, and educators began speaking out about over diagnosis and misdiagnosis. There couldn’t possibly be something clinically abnormal about 24% of the population, but that’s what the numbers showed. That’s what the media reported. That’s what society believed.

But it wasn’t true.

It was far worse. And it looked like nothing we’d ever seen before. And we had to make it stop. But no one knew how. It had become more of an immediate danger that climate change so as our sea levels spiked so did the incidence of Devolution. Not even the smartest, brightest minds were prepared to handle this. I always thought that even though things were awfully bad in so many places around the world and that, at times, the future looked pretty grim, that when we needed to, when we needed a fix for climate change or terrorism or domestic violence, I mean when it had almost reached the point of no return, that we would come together, and someone, somewhere, or all of use everywhere, would be able to fix the problem before it was too late. For over a decade, we couldn’t agree that the numbers were actually increasing at a rate we could never project. By the time there was agreement, 46% of the population had Devolved and what had begun, or appeared to begin, as a home grown problem, was now a worldwide emergency.

But we still don’t act that way.

In many ways, life hasn’t changed one bit.

What choice do we have?

CHAPTER 8

The lawns of nearly every home we passed were covered in them.

This is god damn disgusting. I said. Unbelievable. What. Is. Happening here?

“It’s awful. What the heck are we going to do?” Said Alyssa.

Vote Clump signs. Everywhere.

It’s crazy how different things are here as compared to cities. I almost forgot that people think this way. Everyone in Philly knows this guy has no clue. He’s racist. He’s unequipped. He’s…

“A sexist, absolutely horrible moron.”

I was initially hesitant to bring it up, we only saw my parents a few times a year and I didn’t want to argue. But I have to say something, I said. I have to ask if they’re voting for this lunatic. Maybe I can convince them not to.

I waited for the best time, didn’t want to say anything when we first arrived, my parents, brother, and sister and her kids were too excited to see Michael, who’d just turned two, as they’d only ever seen him 2 or 3 times. I thought about squeezing it in while my parents showed me around their new place, over lunch at their favorite pizza place, Georgio’s, afterwards at the community park, but I finally pulled the trigger back at their apartment as my mom chopped watermelon for the kids.

So, we saw a ton of Clump signs on our way in. Please tell me you guys aren’t voting for that bigot, liar, piece of shit, failed businessman.

Not the most tactful approach given all the time I’d had to prepare, but I thought that starting by emphatically and clearly pointing out the Republican candidate for President’s greatest weaknesses, though they were many, I’d be able to sway my parent’s decision right away by evoking an appropriate emotional response.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Said my dad, unusually quiet.

I interpreted the timid response as pro-Clump. Oh no. Jesus Christ. This can’t be happening.

Mom, you’re gonna vote for Hillary, right?

Her entire face instantly turned red as her mouth twisted and began to open.

Say something, quick. Fix this, I thought.

The first woman president! Wouldn’t that be cool? I said. You have to go for her!

Bad idea. Terrible approach. Wrong thing to say.

“I would never vote for her just because she’s a woman! And I won’t vote for her. She’s a murderer!”

What?

Alyssa left the room.

Who did she murder? Mom. Where did you hear that?

She said Hillary killed millions of people in Syria. She was pissed. I said I didn’t know all the details, but was sure Hillary wasn’t directly responsible for anyone’s death, and it certainly wasn’t millions of people. My dad remained tight-lipped.

While vastly different in our current lifestyles- my siblings and parents either never attended or never graduated college, lived in small towns, didn’t have a diverse group of friends, hadn’t traveled much, and had always lived paycheck to paycheck while Alyssa and I had graduate degrees, good paying jobs, a large, diverse group of friends, lived in Philadelphia, had done a fair amount of traveling- all of us still had core beliefs that aligned, this I’d always believed. The difference in life experience had begun to outweigh the biological similarities and our feelings and beliefs on this subject and many more could not be more disjointed. I believed my family was good people. But if they could vote for Clump, if they agreed with him- on even one issue- how could they be? I thought.

My mom yelled, asking if I thought Obamo had done a good job over the last 8 years. I said I thought he did. I mentioned keeping the USA safe from terror attacks in his time as president, bringing the economy out of recession, making improvements in education- for teachers and students- taking steps to improve the environment, and health care. She laughed and said, “Of course you do.”

I said they probably didn’t like Obamo because he was black and both my mom and dad took offense to that. I said Hillary wasn’t perfect, but the ideals of the Democratic Party aligned more closely with mine so although it wasn’t my first choice I would be voting for her.

As we talked, things calmed down a bit and I began to see that we actually agreed on most everything. I just couldn’t understand how we disagreed on the candidates. I pointed out that Clump and the Republicans would do nothing to help people in their position.

“I don’t know what to do.” Said my dad. “I really don’t. What do any of them do for me? I don’t have health insurance. Really. What do any of them do?”

Maybe it would be best if you didn’t vote at all in this one, I said, immediately regretting the suggestion. No, I mean. You have to vote. You should vote. But… You can’t vote for Clump. You can’t. This guy is dangerous.

“I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know.”

“What about the transgender thing?” Said my sister Annie.

She explained how she didn’t want a transgender person using the same bathroom as her children. I said it wasn’t even an issue, that it was the least of their concerns, and said I didn’t understand the logic. I gave an example of how anyone, anywhere could dress as whatever he or she liked and do whatever he or she wanted in the bathroom, but that by discriminating or profiling a person based on a personal decision or because of they way they were born is wrong. I said it made no sense. I said it doesn’t matter what anyone does as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else, that Republicans are making issues out of non-issues, creating problems where they don’t exist, to distract people from legitimate, important, serious issues that concern everyone, not just a small population of people.

“What about abortions, Jack?” Said my dad. “Hillary said she’s OK with pulling a baby out days before birth…”

Holy shit. Guys, that’s not true. You think she’d actually believe that? Where are you getting this information? Talk radio? Is that it? Social media? You think a woman who has fought her entire life to help others would say or think or support something like that? Nobody thinks that’s OK.

“I don’t know. I just don’t.”

The conversation stopped abruptly as Annie’s son accidentally knocked a chair down the steps.

As we drove out of town, we passed sign after sign after sign. I said that it can’t happen. There is no way he could win. People in cities would turn out and vote, there are more good people than bad, even in small towns. There has to be.

“I hope you’re right.” Said Alyssa.

Look at that! I said, pointing at a kid spray painting on a huge sign hung to the wall of a crumbling garage.

TAKE A DUMP ON CLUMP.

That kid’s a genius. We laughed. Maybe I’m right. Maybe it’ll be OK. Alyssa looked back at Michael who was looking out the window and softly singing a song. I turned up the music a bit, put my hand on Alyssa’s thigh, and stepped on the gas.

CHAPTER 9

You don’t have enough points, sir.

“They’re called spikes, you moron.”

I had never been to a punk rock show before, but I’d listened to it for months. I watched videos, practiced all the dance moves I thought were cool- the windmill, the gorilla, penny-picking, spin kicks, two step, cartwheel, pogoing, and stage diving from my porch onto Ray and his brothers, sometimes the sidewalk. I even practiced standing along the wall, protecting my face with an outstretched arm and genitals with my hand all while staying focused on bopping my head and, most importantly not looking like I didn’t belong, like I hadn’t done the moves before, plenty of times, at tons of shows.

I was joking when I told Danny Dust, the drummer from Dust Particles, that his mohawk didn’t have enough points. I knew what they were called. Prior to cutting them the evening before Ray and I left for the fest, I had four towering spikes of my own. I didn’t normally have spikes, I was just messing around when I sculpted those, but my hair was long, way past my shoulders. Now, my head was shaved, not down to the skin, just a short buzz. I ended up doing it myself because when I went to the salon inside Walmart and asked the woman to give me the closest thing to George Clooney she could handle, the spikes, I figured, threw her off and I ended up looking more like George Clowney, I said. I had also been hoping to grow a chin strap beard, but it just wouldn’t connect yet. Ray, Gene and I had been playing as The Marauders, but recently started a new band named Throttle. Ray’s older brother Ronny had a bass so he joined without anyone’s permission. We were glad he did. He was an incredibly fast player and he seemed to never make mistakes. And somehow he got us an opening slot on the last day of the fest. We’d written at least 20 songs, but only had 4 that we thought were good enough to play out. They totaled 8 minutes, 38 seconds. We planned to use the remaining 11 and a half minutes of allotted time dancing and slamming stuff with a backdrop of voluminous, swirling feedback.

Dust Particles was a metal band from Wilmington, Delaware who’d recently gotten really big in the underground punk and hardcore scene, so much that they were headlining Gravity Fest in Syracuse, NY after just 6 months of playing together. Everyone in attendance looked forward to just about every band over the course of the 3 day festival. It was exceedingly fun and exciting seeing new bands and meeting people, but no one could stop talking, or thinking about The Particles.

For almost the entire weekend, Ray and I had been hanging around with 2 girls we’d met on Day 1. Mara and Melissa were also in a band, but hadn’t played many shows yet. We said they should come to visit us sometime and play a show together in Philly and they said they were from Philly. On Sunday, the 4 of us arrived 3 hours before doors opened to get as close to the stage as we could. We stood side-by-side-by-side-by-side, pressed firmly against the stage.

This is awesome. I said, rubbing my head and smiling with my mouth closed.

“So cool.” Said Mara. She kissed my cheek. “I hope they play all night.”

They didn’t play all night. 3 songs in to what had been a short but dynamic set, Danny Dust’s 20 year old heart couldn’t take it anymore. His band was straightedge and believed he was too. Turned out Danny had become hooked on…

“Anything he could get his hands on.” His girlfriend later said in an interview with a local paper.

It took Ray many months to shake the image of Danny’s body practically exploding on the drum set. It took him even longer to erase Melissa from his mind. He wanted to stay in touch, but once we left Syracuse she wanted nothing to do with him. I actually lucked out and missed it. Mara and I had gotten pushed way off to the side and couldn’t see a thing. We stayed together for almost 2 years. We promised to stay in touch when we went away to school, but it just didn’t happen. Sometimes, even when something seems perfect, when you’re so sure of it, you find out you were wrong, that it wasn’t what you thought it was. If you don’t let that keep you down for too long, don’t let it define you, if you somehow position it in the right light, you’ll find that there is a fine line between everything and nothing.

CHAPTER 10

I am nothing. I know nothing. I am no one. Those were my thoughts just one day before everything changed. I’m a musician who has never been heard, an underachieving educator who was always left wanting more, a forward thinking, anti-establishment, bored-to-death therapist with a debatable track record, but I am a good, honest man, and a dedicated, loving husband and father. I’ve been writing music and playing shows for over 30 years and I’ll never stop. I hold graduate degrees in education and psychology, taught at an urban elementary school for 5 years, served as principal for 4 years, and worked as an adjunct professor at Temple for 2 years. I worked with at-risk youth and in private practice, all while feverishly writing and recording music and trying to get people to listen to it. No one ever did. I’ve never truly enjoyed a job, and music was always my only way out. Only as much as I loved it and as good as the music was, with all that I tried and everything I put into getting it out there, it never was.

In the grand scheme of things, I was nothing. I was no one. But that didn’t mean I was hopeless, and it didn’t mean I wasn’t hours away from the start of becoming something. Recently, I had spent so much time thinking of a plan rather than actually seeing one through. For the previous 3 years, I had worked out detailed plan after detailed plan, all of them solid, sound blueprints, perfectly capable of taking me to where I wanted to be- had I acted on any of them. Three years. I spent three goddamn years thinking this stuff through, waiting for the right time, the right moment, the immaculate idea, one that would hit me so hard I couldn’t mistake it for anything other than THE ANSWER, something that was a sure thing, a lock, an idea for the ages, something to propel me from nothing to something, from no one to someone.

The entire time I was consciously aware that I needed to do something, I wrote it down a thousand times as a reminder- GET GOING, GET IT OUT THERE, GO- and I thought about it every single day. I knew that in order to become something, to make an impact, I would need to act. I knew this. The problem was that by thinking and writing and planning and concocting I thought I WAS acting. I thought that everything I had done, all the time I had put in had somehow earned me the right to be someone, to be recognized, to be well respected and appreciated, to earn a good living doing something I cared about and felt good about, something I truly enjoyed, but thoughts aren’t actions they are only thoughts, and although they can be compelling and take you to places you’ve never been, and without those thoughts there could be no action, the thoughts alone are worth very little without a soul mate.

I have no definitive explanation as to why I realized I needed to truly act, to actually do something; maybe it’s just a cumulative effect of thought, maybe it’s the aggregate of repeated, sustained infinitesimal action. Most likely, like almost everything else, it’s a combination of both, of everything I had ever experienced. Everything I had ever done- everything I’d ever sensed and perceived- from the seemingly minute to the spectacular- from the everyday to the extraordinary- each step I’d taken, every blink, every word ever spoken and never spoken, every thought, every encounter, every relationship, each individual breath, all my friends, everywhere I’d ever been, all my dreams, all that I’d ever seen and heard and felt, all the noise I’d made- the good, bad, and in-between- all the smells and tastes, every kiss, every song, everything I’d eaten, the delectable and disgusting, each and every last morsel of all there ever was and everything that had ever happened to me contributed to who I’d become in some very meaningful way.

Whatever the exact cause may be, it happened and I went with it and now the one thing I had always wanted, the one thing I had been missing in an otherwise happy life, was not only a job I enjoyed but the attainment of joy from doing for a living what I have always entirely enjoyed.

The most complimentary thing I could say is that for one reason or another, I have tolerated, disliked, or despised every job I have ever had were I wasn’t working for myself, doing what I wanted how I wanted. As a teen, I worked for some asshole who owned a pizza shop, I cleaned up in the back where they mass manufactured dough. From there I went on to a few fast food restaurants, working solely for the purpose of buying music, going out to eat, and going to shows. I worked as a telemarketer over the summer during high school and that gave me invaluable insight into just how low a career could go. I stayed in town and worked as a bartender in Kensington following graduation from undergraduate school where- based on the recommendation of a professor who I had met for only 10 minutes- I earned a degree in education.

My dream probably wasn’t much different from anyone else who’d ever dreamt. To be something of which I was proud. To be happy doing what I loved. But my approach was most certainly different, my process was unique, my experiences and personality resulted in an outcome that could be mine alone, so the end result was very special, at least it felt that way to me.

I grew up eating ham and cheese sandwiches, pizza, chicken patties, snack foods, soda, candy, fast food, processed meals of every variety- cold cuts, ramen noodles, TV dinners, canned soup, stew, and pasta- all the shit most Americans my age grew up on, but I also had a lot of healthful, more powerful, pure food experiences: wild blueberries, wild mushrooms, home cooked soups, stuffed peppers, and Slovakian standards like halushki, halupki, pierogis, and polichinki. Once I left home for good, everything changed, I had more and more of the good stuff and less and less of the garbage, not just food related experiences, my life in general followed that same line.

Not classically trained, in fact not trained at all, I was entirely self-taught- an autodidact- I learned everything by simply doing, through meticulous repetition, exacting effort, continuous observation, experimentation, exploration, patience, and persistence.

I had written thousands of recipes and iteration after iteration of the perfect menu and I tested and retested every one down to each specific ingredient. I researched the city and even the suburbs for the ideal location. I identified several that either had everything I wanted or could be built to my exact specifications. Then I chose one that had everything, another subterranean expanse, only this time in the wasteland that was the stretch of Market Street from City Hall to 6th Street.

In retrospect, I guess there could be several very poetic, romantic reasons I named the restaurant Moonwings- its connection to music and the monumental role it plays in our lives, it’s relation to space, to time, to introspection, to ideas and action, to creativity, to the beauty of life in its simplest form, a tribute to Alyssa, who I’d loved for all my life, forever and always, for whom I’d written so many songs, and had spent more time dreaming about than any other subject, and for Michael who’s favorite band had always been The Moonwings, the friendships and experiences and joy that playing with The Moonwings brought to my life, but when I opened I needed something to put on the sign and I just really liked the way it sounded. I initially thought about calling the place Hazleton, even though that’d been done before, I figured it didn’t matter that the restaurant Gene and I ran into the ground was of the same name. I was fond of my childhood and how growing up in Hazleton shaped me, and for everything that Hazleton imparted on me. Hazleton had become a place nobody wanted to be and I guess I thought it would still be nice to have a Hazleton that someone actually wanted to visit, but after a day or two of kicking that idea around, I went with Moonwings. It was perfect. An immaculate idea. It represented everything that had happened since childhood, and everything that will happen moving forward. Every stage of our development is critical, all of it is important, with variables too numerous to list and too complicated to precisely account for, everything we do, everything that happens, every word, every thought, every act, every step of the way, everything matters, and we only get one goddamn shot, and I wanted something that reflected the future rather than the past. And it sounded much fucking better, was way more memorable, and looked incredibly cool in black, iron letters hanging on the front door.

Within 2 years of opening Moonwings, I was responsible for bringing Michelin to Philadelphia, awarded with 2 stars for the excellent, detour worthy cuisine, as well as being ranked the 8th best restaurant in the world.

Moonwings became an extension of me, of my personality, my self, my musical interests, my ideas, my story, my experiences, my thoughts, my beliefs, my mind, my vision, and my dreams, things that had always played a significant part in my life became essential ingredients in the food, feel, look, vibe, ambience, mood, and spirit at Moonwings. It wasn’t always easy, especially at first when I had to convince myself on a daily basis to forget about all the preconceived notions of what a restaurant was and could be, and to write my own definition. I held nothing back. I was at a point in my life where I was perfectly comfortable, I was confident in what I was doing, I was ready, and I truly did not care what anyone else thought. I was impelled to make the food and experience at Moonwings like nothing else.

Holding nothing back on its own wasn’t enough. I didn’t want to just have some quirky place with pretty good food. I wanted to have the best place with the best food. As prepared as I was to just let it rip, and as much of a hit as Moonwings was from the get-go, I soon found I needed to get much better. I needed to refine my cooking, my technique wasn’t where it should have been, I needed to incorporate more flavorful, fresher ingredients, I needed to make the place look cooler. The experience had to be more memorable. The more I did and the better the place became, the less I knew, the further away from my ideal I became… The more I loved it, the more everyone loved it.

Over time, after hundreds of reinventions, I threw convention entirely out the window. The music became a counterpart to the food, a focal point. I started writing and recording entire albums for dinner service, music that would catapult the experience, gritty punk stuff with a slightly polished, modern twist. Three chord rockers with a more melodic vocal, catchy bridges, riff-heavy intros and outtros, rocking experimental stuff that paired seamlessly and effortlessly with the singular menu. Local, seasonal, Pennsylvanian, all that stuff, of course, there was no other way to do it, but it had to be more than that. The food had to look different, feel different, come from a different place, and taste different than it ever had before. It had to present itself in just the right way, express itself at just the right time, the ultimate texture and temperature and sound, the absolute height of deliciousness. When the drums crashed or when the guitar solo ripped, when the lights dimmed or when they went out entirely, everything had to happen in the right way at the right time, intelligently aligned so that when consumed, the most pure, flawless, most delectable, imaginative, inspirational, undeniably memorable version was had.

The menu changed often, but not so much as to disallow continuity and comfort, tradition, and exactness of execution. The menu had to evolve naturally, logically, without being forced to do so. When I let go of everything, was no longer reticent, while simultaneously and unconditionally giving it my all, I hit my stride, was locked in, unparalleled, controlled by my interconnected, synchronous, amplified dreams, and I never ever looked back. This took about 6 relentless months, some of the best of my life. Everything mattered. Everyone ever involved in my life played a part, but nothing and no one mattered more than every single thought and every solitary act I chose to make. What started as a 10 course, 4 hour tasting menu has gradually become 18 courses in 40 minutes. It’s near perfect, but will take years to get to where I want to go and by the time I get there who knows where we’ll be?

Poached Lobster with Clams and Beans

Mackerel, Pig, and Saffron

Eel

Aged Beef with Eggplant and Amaranth

Honey and Lavender Glazed Duck with Summer Berries

Pasta With Onion

Seasonal Herbs and Fresh Asparagus With Whipped Cream

Wild Sea Bass with Seaweed and Root Vegetable Puree

Mortadella Sandwich

10 Ages of Parmigiano Reggiano

Vegetable Platter

Steamed King Crab and Egg Yolk Sauce

The remaining 6 dishes were improvisational, two of which were dessert, varied from day to day, based on whatever I’m thinking at the moment.

I try not to overthink this, to go with the first impression, the first iteration, and adjust accordingly from there. Otherwise, if I kept thinking it through, I’d go nowhere.

The simplest solution turned out to be the only solution, the decision that would set me down a path of no return, that changed my life forever.

8 small spots along a metallic countertop in the heart and soul of Philadelphia. And what a goddamn hit.

CHAPTER 11

To say it was heartbreaking, a total shock, completely unexpected and out of the goddamn blue, would be an understatement equally as dramatic and inexplicable as the decision and the act itself. To think about it is one thing, a harmless thought, an invisible idea, a forgotten dream, but to act, for once, to be impulsive, to give the heart what it wants, to appease the mind, not to second guess or think twice, was more enlivening than anything I ever could have imagined. I knew it would break their hearts. It wouldn’t be easy. I knew I would struggle. I knew everything would change. But I didn’t let myself think any deeper than that. To think deeper might instill a shred of reluctance, I might end up walking into work rather than into the train station. I might force myself to endure another wasted day, so I thought no further, walked by the front door of my school, and into Suburban Station where I threw my house and car keys in the trash, dropped my book bag on a bench, and boarded a train to the airport, bought a one-way ticket to Seattle for no reason in particular, and after a short layover in Denver, arrived with nothing but one credit card with an $8,000 limit and my driver’s license.

I had always been a good man. Really. There were no signs, no red flags, no predisposition. Honestly. I just made a decision. I embraced a desire, gave life to an idea. I’d been a good friend, I cared about those closest to me. I’ve treated people well. I’ve been a terrific father and husband. Nothing snapped. I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t ruthless. I wasn’t acting irrationally or without reason, at least I didn’t see it that way. I saw the harm I’d cause by leaving far less than what would come if I’d stayed. I left behind a beautiful wife and a young son. They were my entire life and I loved them truly with everything that I was. I’d often spoke of the upward trajectory my life had taken- from jobless with no drive not so long ago to employed but with no passion shortly thereafter, to successful educator, self-made entrepreneur, respected professional, beloved father and husband today- and how it coincided identically with the day Alyssa and I had met. We are perfect because of you, I told her that morning, the day after her 33rd birthday, the last thing I’d say to her.

Although this sounds a bit like an obituary, it felt more like a rebirth. It was exhilarating. Endlessly hopeful. It was another fresh start. A blank slate. A chance to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted with whomever I wanted. I was happy with the life I’d created but I wanted… Something… Else. Just to try something else. Be somewhere else. With someone else. With no one. Like it used to be.

I was unaware that deep in my subconscious, fighting its way into my thoughts from where it had been nestled so comfortably at the base of my brain, sleeping peacefully, dreaming of its own birth, its chance to leave everything behind, its blank slate, its anonymous awakening, was a sound bit of reason compelling enough to make me stay.

CHAPTER 12

I feel at home here, relaxed and ecstatic at the same time. It’s late, about quarter after 12. I’m buzzed from a few beers. The electric portion of practice is over, the tour starts in 3 weeks, a Thursday night in Brooklyn, and I can’t wait. At the same time, I’m more content than ever to just be. Behind the drums, the snare still rattling, my ears ringing, my mind drifting from song to song, idea to idea, place to place, from one conversation to the next.

This is great. Finally doing what we’d always said we’d do, and what we’d work at for so long. I said.

Gene began showing us a new song, a little more intricate than the simpler stuff I’d been writing, something we’d hoped to be able to get down and debut at the show in LA, a week after Brooklyn. The sound from the very first song we played continues to ring throughout the room. My ears hum a song all their own now, a mishmash of everything we’d previously played. The cymbals are just as loud now as they were then. My legs are sore, not from being overworked, but from sitting for so long. Gene is hunched over his guitar, the volume down low, trying to find something he likes for the verse. He’s picking out notes from a bar chord, in G, and then strumming down strokes on D. It sounds pretty damn close to perfect already and we tell him that. Because we’re trying to keep it down, I’m playing with brushes, though I’d much prefer sticks. I try 6 or 7 different beats, looking for the right sound, the right fit, something that won’t overwhelm the easygoing guitar and groovier, free-flowing bass. After a few run-throughs, I find what I’ve been looking for and the guys let me know, not with words, but in their actions, their playing, it all comes together and locks in.

It doesn’t take long for an idea to become something. It takes only action. This song was nothing 10 minutes ago and now it is something we will never forget. We’ve spent time together. We’ll remember one another. We’ll grow together. Over time, we’ll change. We’ll evolve, individually and collectively, without effort. Just by being together.

Not just the guys and I, not just the song, and not only the music, but everything, everyone, all of us.

As I’m thinking this, drifting off a bit further while the guys work out a few dissonant notes, I think of another song I’d be working on and play a few beats while humming the chorus. They can’t hear me and soon I’ll stop. Another sip of my beer and then back to it.

I’ve never been happier, more hopeful. I forgot how great these moments can be, how it seems like they come from nowhere, how I never know how long they’ll stay, how I forget about them while they’re away, how a part of me will never forget.

CHAPTER 13

Ten minutes into dinner and I knew I’d made a mistake. I should have never gone. I was reluctant to begin with. I knew better, but for a change, let emotion speak louder than rationale. I liked her 6 years ago, in college, but so much had changed since then. I would have done just about anything for the chance to spend time alone with Renee Harris, to go on a date with her, to have her attention, to talk all night, to kiss her, to wake up together, but not anymore. I was totally disinterested. I just didn’t care. Bored out of my mind. I carried on, as I normally would, rather charming, very friendly and polite, funny as ever, I asked her many questions about how she’d been, about work, about her family, what she did for fun these days, whether or not she still went to shows, and she said she had, but just not as much as she used to. She told me everything was good, didn’t complain much, she said she’d promised herself she wouldn’t complain much. Now it seemed Renee was more interested in me than she’d ever been. A few years older, a few more failed relationships, her friends were all in serious relationships, married, some had kids, she was ready. I was not. The timing, in a completely new way, was once again off.

When we met in college, she was a junior and I was a freshman. I was immediately and completely enamored. Renee was in love too… With her longtime boyfriend Gordon. From the day we met until the day she graduated, though all along I was also envisioning a future with many other women, I wouldn’t let go of the idea of being with Renee. She was smart, also an education major, and tutored me once a week. I was bright, capable, never needed tutoring. I just needed her.

Now that I finally had her, or at least had a chance to have her, I no longer wanted her. Knowing this made me want to run. Just get up, say goodbye, and walk out. I didn’t want to waste my time, or hers. I didn’t want to stick around in any relationship if it wasn’t going precisely how I’d expected. Over the last few years, rather than be alone, or in relationships that lasted only minutes, a night, a month or two at most, I stayed together with someone, with something, that never stood a chance, never should have been. I shouldn’t have done that, but I thought maybe one of these times I’d be wrong, that things would work out, that if I just gave it some more time, it would turn into something beautiful, blissful, true, something I never could have imagined and sure as hell wouldn’t have experienced if I kept walking away so soon. It was always something. She said the wrong thing, liked bands I didn’t like, didn’t have cool friends, had lame parents, didn’t dress sexy enough, dressed too sexy, was too serious, too goofy, too clinging, too distant. Nothing was ever perfect, no one ever came close to checking all the boxes on my long list of the ideal girl. I was well aware of my own misgivings and shortcomings, and often was on the receiving end of bad news, a break-up when I least expected it. Yet each time I told myself the next time could be different, could be the one. And prior to meeting up with Renee, before I’d sat down with her, I thought the same thing about her and I. Maybe this was it.

But it doesn’t work that way. These things shouldn’t be forced. They can’t be. Truth is truth. There’s no way around it.

We ate at her favorite Indian place, Sitar, in Lodi, New Jersey. I thought the food was mostly bland, not very fresh, nothing special, nothing compared to some of the Indian I’d had in Philly, but I didn’t mention that, didn’t want to hurt her feelings, didn’t want to complain. I ate everything on my plate, and some of hers. We each had 4 glasses of wine and 2 bottles of beer before heading back to her place. Until 1 a.m. we sat on the couch talking and drinking and listening to music. At that point, all inhibition had been drowned, I’d forgotten all about not wanting to be there, started thinking maybe we were supposed to be together, that we were a good fit. She really seemed to like me, to want something more. That made me create from thin air and respond to something that wasn’t actually there. I wanted to make a move, to at least experience something I once only dreamt of doing, but remained reluctant. I was all over the place. One second we were lovers, the next nothing at all. I knew she wanted me. I wasn’t so sure she was into me. I wanted her. I wasn’t sure I was into her, didn’t want to get together then never talk again, didn’t want to get together and have to stay, didn’t want it to become something or mean more than it had. I didn’t want to think anymore. The more we drank the more she withdrew, and the more I wanted her.

Renee said she’d be right back, got up, and went to the bathroom. For 20 minutes I waited for her to return. I walked to the bathroom door to see if she was all right and to let her know I’d decided to split. Without saying a word I stood there. I never knocked. I didn’t know what to say, how to explain I’d had enough and wanted to go. I felt bad. I tiptoed into the kitchen, chugged 2 glasses of water, walked down the hallway, passed the silent bathroom, and walked out.

My keys, I thought, as I neared my car.

Precisely as I reopened the apartment door, Renee opened the bathroom door, completely nude. Holy shit. She met me in front of the couch. Nothing that had ever happened before mattered. Everything I’d thought about her, about us, about love, my mixed feelings, my uncertainty, my hesitation, it all vanished, who fucking cares, it all went away, like it had never existed. We had just met.

At 8 a.m., while she slept, I kissed her on the side of her head, quietly gathered my clothes, dressed in the hallway, drank from the bathroom faucet, grabbed my keys from the coffee table, and left.

CHAPTER 14

I lucked out having a friend who had lots of guitars. Gene’s dad used to play and had accumulated 16 electrics, good guitars too, not no-name, generic knock-offs, and they were all in fantastic shape, mostly Fenders and Gibsons. There were a few others, but none I can remember. Gene said I could have any one I wanted, that he talked to his dad, in fact his dad had suggested it. Insisted. I didn’t know much about which one sounded the best or played the best, so I just picked the one I thought looked the coolest- a maroon Gibson SG. Prior to getting my own, the only thing I thought about guitar was that I wished I could play, but figured it would be too hard to learn.

But something had recently changed. Not only had I seen friends learn to play relatively easily so, by relation, I had confidence I could play, there was now also a reason to play.

Tara McCovey.

I got the guitar in the beginning of May when I was a junior in high school. Gene wrote out a few chords for me, just the basic open chords- A, E, D, G, C, Am, and Em- and I played them all day long, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 hours a day. Eventually I got the hang of it and started writing songs, super simple stuff. I wrote lyrics about science and current events, books and wild animals, planets and space, the past, present, and future, my parents and siblings and friends, our beginning and end, origination and extinction, nightmares and dreams, TV shows and movies, right and wrong, good and evil, girls and girls and girls and girls, or whatever else I thought of at the time. I played without an amp for the first 6 months. I had a job at a BBQ place, but typically blew all my money. My dad had a side job cleaning a church. For some reason the church had a Wurlitzer piano and an old Orange amp in one of the closets. My dad uncovered it one morning while looking for an extra wet mop and bucket. He asked the priest who it belonged to and the priest said you. He gave me the amp and sold the Wurlitzer for $40. It was worth about $300. He bought my mom a carton of cigarettes and a scratch off lottery ticket, got himself a few magazines- Rolling Stone, Billboard, and Spin- and ordered all of us pizza and antipasto.

I thought I loved playing guitar. Getting an amp changed everything for me. I never put it down. The house shook from morning to night. My sisters hated it, but my parents never said a word.

I learned zero songs. I didn’t have time. I was busy writing my own. I wanted to write as many as I could before my first show. I also needed a band so I mentioned it to my buddies. Ray Benson bought some used drums, Jason Murray got a bass, and they piled all their gear into my bedroom. We spent 4 months perfecting the songs, then I spent 3 additional weeks calling around trying to find a place to play.

We played our very first show as The Marauders in an abandoned and gutted house turned DIY music venue on Lancaster Ave in West Philly called Stalag 26. We played exactly how we’d practiced and the 61 people in attendance seemed to truly enjoy our style of poppy punk rock, Buddy Holly meets The Misfits meets Rush. Ray loved Rush so to the best of his ability, the drums mirrored Neal Peart. We all brought something unique to the table, but that drumming really did set us apart. Turned out Tara liked drummers more than guitarists, but I soon found there were plenty of other reasons to keep going.

CHAPTER 15

Ray’s curse was a blessing. At age 4 he was forced into competitive diving, both springboard and platform, by his morbidly obese, hypercritical father, a hypocritical born again Christian who could do no wrong, an aquatic enthusiast, who in his own, brief diving career was never able to taste the level of success he obsessed over in his son. It wasn’t all bad. Ray enjoyed the physical act of diving, of soaring into the air, then purposefully if not precisely plummeting freely into his shimmering, crystalline target below. Aside from his relentless father, who at first was encouraging and supportive, but quickly turned into a demanding drill sergeant, Ray had to deal with an uncorrectable hitch, an imperceptible, perpetually imperfect hitch in his launch. No matter how much he practiced over the course of 14 years, despite being a truly gifted diver with seemingly limitless potential, despite exceptional coaching, they could not right his wrong, they didn’t even come close, so even with apparently flawless, textbook mechanics, his launch was hitched and his landing off, by the most minuscule of margins, yet enough of a difference to make all the difference. He was consistent and exact but, at the highest level, could never solidly stick the prototypical landing. The one place they did not look was inside. Ray had a genetic abnormality, an ever-so-slightly bowed femur coupled with a patella that was atypically thin. This never led to any pain, looked normal, felt normal, never obstructed his gait in any way, never impeded his running, never caused him to fatigue early or more frequently than someone without this unseen impediment. The only negative impact it could have could only present itself in the art of diving. Seen as a failure by his father, believed to his core that he was, indeed, a failure, an incapable loser, a nothing, a nobody, with no hope; at 8:45 a.m. on a Friday morning, the same time his training began every day since he was a kid, 2 years after he’d given up on his dream, a week before leaving town for our first ever headlining tour, from a quiet overpass on 676, high atop a busy morning commute, Ray took what he thought was one last dive. Forward flying somersault.

As he plunged toward his new target, he felt no different from any other dive he’d ever made, it felt perfect, as always. He was overwhelmed with the same confidence as always, sure of himself that he’d done exactly what he’d set out to do. Everything changed when he nailed the feet-first landing in the back of a speeding black pickup truck.

The entire event was recorded, in hi-definition, slow motion brilliance by onlooker, artist, and budding documentarian, 19-year old Toshihiro Akamatsu, who’d seen the spectacle unfolding as he skateboarded across an adjacent bridge.

The dive gave new meaning to the term viral. It went supersonic, surpassing 114,000,000 YouTube views in a week. Ray soon became what no one knew we needed or wanted, a modern day Evil Knievel, a stuntman, an actor, a diver, replicating the feat time and time again from new heights all over the world, ever evolving and adapting his gift, his curse, he and Akamatsu ostensibly invented a new genre of film making, death defying stunts with a human element, pairing a reality-based backstory with unbelievable athleticism and endless adventure. They captured lightning in a camera, unearthed beauty and sadness and hope and fear and excitement and shared it with the world.

CHAPTER 16

50 states. 50 plots. 1 shot.

Without any knowledge of any of the other acts set to be perpetrated, carried out, at the exact same instant, the precise moment in time, in another state, by 50 terrorists, all for the same evil cause, due to the same lack of reason, because of unjust hate, 50 unassuming, extraordinary, brave citizens made a split-second snap judgment and acted without reservation… And it’s the only reason we’re all still here.

Jonathan Malone, an illustrator of fantasy novels, shot Abd Aziz Abwa in the neck at a crowded mall in Providence, Rhode Island.

Mark Piper, a chiropractor, shot Kurt Hamlin in the heart on a busy street in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Dave Ford, a mechanic, shot Daniel Andrea in the forehead outside a Starbucks in Montgomery, Alabama.

Jesse Norman, an unemployed former car salesman, shot Leroy Hoffman in the temple at a bus stop in Columbia, South Carolina.

One of only 3 women shooters, Brandy Konstantino, a hair stylist, shot Joan Chesimaro in the teeth outside a school in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Jeff Baker, a dentist, shot John Brown in the head at a packed park in Salem, Oregon.

Garrett Wentz, a snowboarder, shot Ibrahim Yahil Yacuob in the middle of his forehead outside a restaurant in Denver, Colorado.

Jeremy Parks, a Google executive, shot Insilon Hapilon in the chest in Sacramento, California.

There are 42 more examples, all as random as the others, all mutually unexplainable, all equally as vital as the next in disrupting- flat out halting- the most thorough, most destructive plot in our history.

Without them, we are forever changed. Because of them, we are forever changed.

The FBI and CIA, Homeland Security, as impressive as they have all been in keeping us safe over the years, had this one wrong. With all of the sophisticated technology and intelligence, as spot-on as they’ve been in curbing these types of attacks, they’re so often taken for granted you’d think they could never miss. But, this time, it was a simple, yet nearly devastating oversight. They had the dates wrong. They knew it was going to happen. They knew everything. They knew whom. They knew how. They THOUGHT they knew when. They were wrong. But because of the 50 men and women who took a shot when they had nothing else to go on but instinct, we have won, for at least one more day.

CHAPTER 17

I don’t get how some of these restaurants, even the very good ones- with the freshest, local food, out of this world menus, the best execution from competent if not cutting edge chefs and culinary technicians, the coolest design, a great vibe, spot-on, knowledgeable staff, a reputation for doing it right, in the right location, with cool music- how even with all that intact a place could go under, but then counterintuitively, contrary to anything you’ve come to know as someone in the industry, a place like Orangensaft can blow up and become a mainstay.

Gene said that maybe the places you think have it all actually don’t. One of the owners are dicks, one of those key elements you thought they had were lacking or missing, maybe the place was inconsistent, maybe…

I said I understood if that were the case, and how that probably is the case a lot of the time, one or more of those key elements are off, but I told him that Eugene’s has it all, for sure, and yet he still thinks it’ll be gone in less than a year. Orangensaft definitely didn’t have it all, it made no sense, yet from the moment the all-over-the-place BYO opened in a former hair salon in West Oak Lane, it had been a hit, packed every night, nearly impossible to get a seat without knowing someone. The food was excellent, always, and maybe that’s really all that mattered.

It has to be more than just the food, said Gene. It has to be. “These guys are up to something.”

Like what? I said. They’re not up to anything, dude. Stop. Maybe it’s some it factor, something unpredictable that causes a place like that to explode, to take off like this. What else could it be?

“If we knew, if anyone knew, you could just replicate that.” He said. “The unknown, sometimes, when all other things are equal, is what sets something apart.”

Yeah, I said, but Orangensaft defies all odds. Inarguably a terrible location. It’s an awful neighborhood way outside the city. The chefs are solid, but have a nontraditional background, they were painters or something who only started to dabble in cooking in their 30s or something, they don’t have a reputation in the industry, they play the same Orange Juice album on a loop, man.

“What’s that all about?”

No idea. I like the album, but after a few times through I’m ready to snap.

“They’re brainwashing you.”

To do what? Leave?

We laughed then poured two more beers.

This will be it for me, I said. I don’t want to feel like garbage in the morning.

“You say that every time we drink.”

I mean it.

After 4 more beers and plenty of time to let my thoughts unwind and go in whichever direction they chose, when Gene returned from the bathroom after 20 minutes, I told him that I’d figured it out. I had a plan to save Eugene’s. They key is do whatever the hell you want. I said. Make it work. There are no rules. You’ve been holding back, you’ve gotten predictable, too comfortable- with both food and the vibe- you’ve let the place go, man. You aren’t trying anymore. You say you have a plan and ideas and that you still want to make this work, so make it work. Uncork all your ideas. Let it rip. Don’t hold back. Use your strengths. Incorporate music. Get experimental and far-out with the food, the menu, and preparation and plating, and with the décor and the overall vibe. Remake everything. Go for it. Incorporate the 20 years of sound recordings you’ve got sitting there doing nothing, make it part of the experience. You’ve got almost everything you want in a place, right now…

“Except customers.”

I laughed. That’s what I’m saying, man. It makes no sense. You have almost all the shit we always talk about, and as much as you think it’s different enough to stand out, I think you’ve been holding back. I have tons of ideas. I have a lot of experience. I’ve been in all kinds of kitchen situations, I know what works and what doesn’t. I’ve done well and I’ve failed, but I’ve learned a lot. I’m still current on what’s going on around the world with food and I know you have a good thing and can make this work. You have to reinvent. Try again. It’s not too late. I can help you. If I just…

“Hold on.” He said. He poured himself a shot. “You want one?”

No.

“I don’t know. Jack, I hear you man. I just…”

Why not? Don’t give up yet. At this point, what the hell do you have to lose?

CHAPTER 18

I love you. Jesus Christ, Alyssa, I have always loved you. I always will.

“I know you love me. I know. But at some point you stopped acting that way.”

I was born to love Alyssa. I had, as I often said and wrote and thought, always loved her. As a young boy, I’d imagined her, almost to a T, so that when we met, in graduate school, eager to finish our last few classes, intent on propelling our careers, and planning to explore the world, the timing was just right, I knew right away, she was the one I had always dreamt about. It wasn’t as immediate for Alyssa, though she had always wanted to love and to be loved, and she had an idea of the type of man she’d end up with, his height, his smile, his personality, a funny, outgoing, creative type with a bit of rebelliousness etched into the fiber of his being, a good man, smart, she hadn’t pictured me in such a detailed way. She didn’t know right away. It took her some time to fully realize how momentous our getting together had really been.

What can I do? I said. I’m sorry I didn’t give you what you needed. I’m sorry. I tried…

Slowly, not uncommonly, once we had a kid, we made less time for each other. Despite always promising to keep US, her and I, at the forefront, despite genuinely meaning it, and trying like hell every day to keep our promise to one another, in the ways that matter most to lovers- the acts of affection, the kind words out of the blue that burst from your lips because they must be heard, they must be felt, they must be devoured by the very reason for their being, those amorous acts that used to define the relationship- we grew apart. And once you begin to grow apart, like an ancient tree split down the middle, a grand canyon, an earthquake’s aftermath, you can never return to your original state of being, no matter how hard you try.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

She no longer felt love therefore she was no longer loved. She didn’t believe she was lovable, nor did she believe I could love. Once you have everything, if you veer too far, you lose it all.

I held Alyssa, like I had so many times before, after a disagreement, when she was upset, when I’d said the wrong thing, when I waited too long to make things right again, when we would celebrate, when the love we felt was so overwhelming we had to hold onto one another, when it used to bring us closer, deepen our love, our bond, our union. This time, would it be enough?

My chin rested on her head, her face buried in my chest, tears everywhere. I kissed her forehead, I apologized, I said I would be better and she said the same, I pulled her closer, our bodies fit together precisely how they always had, a perfect match, however something was missing and deep inside we feared it was lost forever.

CHAPTER 19

The smell of chlorine wafted up from my aluminum water bottle. Like never before, immediately, I was transported back to the bottom of my elementary school swimming pool. When I was 7, after the rest of my class had cleared the pool and returned to class, long after the teacher had closed her office door, I bravely, if not, idiotically, broke my grasp on the ladder inside the pool, attempting to quietly swim out to the center of the deep end where I’d earlier spotted a $20 bill flutter to the bottom. I had only one move, a modified sidestroke-doggy paddle, and it was nearly as exhausting as it was ineffective. I made it to my mark and easily spotted the $20, a blurry greenish-white smudge 6 feet below. I’d held a $20 only a few times, when my grandparents gave me cash for Christmas, and the one time my parents hit $270 bucks on the lottery. I wanted it badly. I made 4 unsuccessful attempts to reach it, my hand never getting closer than 3 feet away as my ass bobbed above the surface and I blindly waved at the cash. I couldn’t open my eyes under water, it burned, and though I’d held my breath outside the water for almost a minute once, I never had more than about 10 seconds with all the flailing. I wouldn’t give up, but my body did. I got cramps in the bottom of both feet, then in my calf, then my stomach turned as I gulped more water than I could handle. I sunk, my rear end smothering the $20.

It happened again, only this time the circumstances were entirely different. Alyssa, her sisters and their boyfriends, and I were trekking through South America, crossing a river between Guyana and Brazil, the only way across. Over the last few weeks, I’d done this dozens of times, travel by small boat, a dug out canoe sometimes with, sometimes without a motor. I was much more relaxed than I had been the first few times, but nowhere near comfortable. I saw Lucas stand on the bow the last river crossing so decided to try it, about a quarter of the way across I balanced myself on the stern. When the motor sputtered, I slipped, face planting onto the muddy wake. By the time anyone noticed I was gone, they’d nearly reached the other side. My sidestroke had improved, but it was useless 14 feet below the surface. The impact of my jaw on the water had been just so as to knock me out for a few seconds, the time it took to reach the bottom. Upon awakening I reacted appropriately, with everything I could I pushed off the riverbed. It didn’t work. I stepped on what I thought at the time was a razor sharp rock that caused a hitch in my lunge, so I rose only about 16 inches before sinking once again. My time was running out, my air was long gone, as I instinctively flailed about, I lifted my knee and with my right hand yanked the rock from the sole of my foot. Once last chance, I thought. Make it, or die. With the rock still in my hand, I launched myself toward a shred of sunlight near the surface.

Alyssa screamed as my head broke the plane. The local fisherman and river taxi operator, Miguel, along with Lucas and Andy, pulled me onboard. In my hand another treasure, not the jagged rock that nearly killed me, instead a rare Mayan knife of meteoric origins. I’d done it again, finding treasure where I should have found none.

CHAPTER 20

Out the door of my apartment building, down the street to my right. Hello to the neighbor as he walks his bike down the stairs. How’s it going? No reply. The bus I was hoping to catch blows by. Right onto 29th Street. A guy is letting his dog shit on the sidewalk. I look back to see if he picked it up and he didn’t. I have 19 minutes to get to work. It normally takes 25. I consider running, but decide to keep walking. A few blocks later I consider hopping in a cab, but decide against it. The entire walk I’m playing a drum beat with my teeth and repeating the lines to a new song over and over again. The beat builds, no longer just my mouth playing along but my hands and feet as well. A 70-some-year-old Asian dude with an 1980s black and red boom box does some type of stretching exercise on the sidewalk in front of me, and I interrupt the song I’ve been singing to curse him under my breath. Move it, man. What an asshole. My back begins to sweat so I sling my book bag over just one shoulder, my right, still achy from the day before. I didn’t sleep very well. Michael was up a few times. He’s still trying to figure it out. He’ll get it. This goddamn lady never says hello. The city looks beautiful this morning. I’m hungry, so I dig into my bag and start enjoying my lunch. It’s 7:38. I’m supposed to be there by 7:40, but I have a few extra minutes before I’m actually required to meet with anyone. There’s the guy walking his kid. Morning, I said. He nods. I try striking up a conversation about how I see him, and about 15 other people at the same time every day doing the same thing looking the same way, but the conversation goes no further than that so I say see ya and start walking faster. I’m daydreaming about the day when I don’t have to do this anymore. The walk isn’t bad, it’s easily the best part of my workday, but it is not really even part of my workday so that’s not saying much. Don’t dwell on it. It comes and goes. Some days it’s all I think about, the sense of urgency to find something else, something I enjoy, is overwhelming, not anxiety-producing or anything, that’s not how I react to it, I don’t let it get to that, but just overwhelming my thoughts and feelings. If I let it get to that, where escaping is all I’m thinking about, then it makes it even harder so every day, as I’ve done for the last 15 years, I try to put a positive spin on things, and hope that I’ll find something better soon. Most people feel the same way. Most people don’t handle defeat this well. Some don’t have to handle it at all. Some people actually enjoy this shit, or they know nothing else, want nothing else, or have what they want, or maybe it’s some other combination of factors, some other story, but in the end there’s nothing more important than what’s beneath everything, how you’re feeling. And I’m feeling really good. I am. I have a good life. It’s not that things are bad at all, of course there’s a lot to improve, a lot to learn, but things aren’t bad, it’s just I’m trying to make them even better. There are far worse professions than teacher, and far worse situations than mine. I’m just bored out of my goddamn mind. I’m sick of it. I feel like I’ve done nothing this whole time. There’s nothing more I can do. It’s a dead end. I just don’t enjoy it. It’s all relative. I know. There are 8-year old kids forced to swim to the bottom of murky lakes and rivers in Africa or something, fishing for gold. A kid wearing makeshift SCUBA, a filthy tube shoved in his mouth, risking his life for something he’ll never see, for wealth he’ll never feel, for a richer life he’ll never know. It’s not just that, not only the extreme case of the kid in Africa or wherever, it’s all over the place, even here in the United States, kids grow up deprived of the few things they truly need- basics like food and water and sleep, safety and security, love and friendship- who have no chance, they just want a hug or a kiss, to rest well, to be told and to believe that everything will be OK, to know that when they come home, home will still be there. It’s all relative. This is where I am.

CHAPTER 21

I left while it was still a nice place to live, and knowing what had become of the place, to return to try to change it, to return Hazleton to what it once was- a hardworking, blue collar, safe, welcoming, idyllic town with boundless imagination, or make it something completely and utterly new, either of which were better than its current state- I was faced with an impossible task. Hazleton was deeply flawed. Hazleton was traumatized. Hazleton was irreparably harmed. It was too late to change Hazleton. Hazleton couldn’t be changed. It couldn’t even change itself, and I should have known.

It’s not the only statistic, but it’s the most unsettling. I was aware of just 1 homicide in the 10 years I’d lived in Hazleton, from when I was born until we moved to Philly to stay with my grandparents. Hazleton, once known as Mob City, had become Murder City. I researched it. With a population of 25,000 from 2001- 2016, Hazleton averaged 140 murders per year.

Hazleton could not and would not be changed for the better, but that did not stop me from trying. My first attempt was a tryst with politics, try to change from within, with the support of its people. I ran for mayor, but was narrowly defeated by incumbent, resident racist, Louis Barata. Barata was open about his disdain for the Hispanic population that he claimed was responsible for Hazleton’s demise. He tried to have all illegal immigrants, more than 11,000 people, legally removed, however, after receiving the required votes locally, it was ruled unconstitutional. Still, Barata won, besting me by a count of 1,407 to 1,308. I didn’t stop there, would not rest, wouldn’t quit.

I grew up eating in restaurants in Hazleton, I even worked at one- my buddy Jimmy’s dad owned a hot dog shop- so I knew what Hazletonians wanted in their food. I studied in a different country every summer through college- Italy, Czech Republic, Peru, and Tokyo- and picked up jobs in kitchens along the way. Through a connection of a chef I worked under in Lima, I worked in NYC the summer after graduation, interning for Wylie Duquesne at WD 30. I developed well-rounded yet unrefined culinary skills and a knack for working in kitchens as well as a creative side that allowed me to bend-if-not-shatter the rules, techniques, and customs I’d learned along the way. I opened a wood oven pizza place called Burn on Broad St. that went under in less than a year, and then I left Hazleton for good.

Gene closed Eugene’s and together, with him running the day-to-day and me in an all-in-one advisory, consultant, research and development, public relations, industrial-organizational psychologist role, we opened Hazleton, a subterranean luncheonette on 18th Street in Rittenhouse serving experimental twists on traditional American faves. Hazleton didn’t want Hazleton, but maybe Philadelphia did.

CHAPTER 22

Immediately after class I went home and went to sleep. For a few nights I’d been having these crazy dreams, one where in the dream I’d wake up, sort of, I’d be kind of asleep, kind of awake, somewhere in between, where I’m alert enough to know I’m awake but physically, and perhaps mentally, I’m impaired. Adding a bit of terror to the experience is the presence of a person on my chest. They aren’t harming me. I’m certain there isn’t actually someone there, pressing down on me, staring at me from inches away, silently observing my hypnagogic activity, but it’s creepy as hell, and I’m not sure why it’s happening. This is something new. I hadn’t experienced this before. There was, however, a precursor: About a month before, I was at church with my dad. I don’t believe in God anymore, but he does. For a few seconds, I was afraid I’d lost my mind. I heard a voice. From the second I heard it, I knew it wasn’t actually the voice of God, I don’t believe in God, that couldn’t be, I wasn’t hearing things, wasn’t making it up, and I knew I wasn’t insane, shit like that doesn’t happen, I didn’t think there were voices in my head. I don’t even believe that happens to psychotic people in the way that most people do so there was no way it was happening to me. Nothing that bad had ever happened to me. Normal stuff, nothing serious. So what the hell was it? We only have one voice and it is our own. I think, in some instances, in rare cases, most likely due to trauma, but not always, thoughts become deeply convoluted, so much so that it becomes impossible to separate fact from fiction, the line has become so heavily blurred that truth and reason appear to be false and falsehoods feel real. Old memories are reshaped and relived as past tragedies while new ideas and experiences, even the good ones, are misinterpreted as negative and traumatic. No amount of happiness is enough to erase what has happened. One voice becomes repeatedly divided, and though it always remains only one voice, it is perceived as many. But that’s just not true. Though, for a few seconds, I didn’t have an answer for it. In that fraction of time, I had a subconscious choice to make- lose my mind or find a rational explanation for what I’d heard- a soft-spoken male voice, more than a whisper but not by much.

My subconscious chose logic. There was someone there with me. Voices don’t come out of thin air. That’s impossible. I looked, but other than my father, who stood absolutely silently directly to my right, no one was there, it was just the two of us. So who was it? Who spoke to me? What did he say and why? Again, this all happened within seconds, probably a nanosecond. The entire cognitive process took place on some other level without my fully knowing. I wasn’t sitting there thinking this through. I didn’t have time. It didn’t go that far. In retrospect, it’s all so clear.

A bead of sweat ran down my spine.

I looked around again. We were alone.

Between breaths, my dad looked at me and smiled. “You OK?” He mouthed.

I shook my head yes.

Was I OK? What the hell was happening?

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed something I had either never noticed before or had never paid attention to: a long, rectangular speaker in the back corner of the choir loft, and another directly behind me. I wasn’t inexplicably and out of the blue schizo. I heard the voice of the priest through the speakers. There was a logical explanation. I knew it. The priest was miked. What I’d heard was his amplified, hushed prayers, not the voice of God, nothing had been insanely imagined.

“I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and Earth, of all things visible and invisible.”

You’re fine. You’re OK. I thought. I exhaled. That was fucking weird.

“And in one Lord, Jesus Christ, son of God, the only begotten, born of the Father before all ages…”

I quickly lost interest in whatever the priest was mumbling, what the people were chanting, and in everything going on around me. I looked up at the ceiling, the colorful artwork inside the dome, shook my head with my eyes closed, rolling them under my eyelids, and smiled with a closed mouth, before drifting away again.

For a few nights, prior to the dreams, I began worrying I’d hear something again, another soft-spoken sentence from a nonexistent mouth. I slept with my pillow over my head. It was an illogical fear and it didn’t last long. It made no sense. I knew this. I knew why it was happening and that nothing would or could come of it, but even with knowing that, for a few nights, I remained almost intentionally irrational. It was an isolated incident that could have gone either way. Off the deep end or right down the middle where I’d always been. It’s a fine line and you have to do whatever you can to hang on.

CHAPTER 23

My eyes opened just wide enough to see the speedometer. 105 mph. Ho-ly fuck. Hold it together, man. Stay awake. You’re almost home. I let off the gas, rolled down the window, blasted the stereo, The Rolling Stones ‘Honky Tonk Woman’, and held it together long enough to take the Girard Ave. exit off 76 and park on the side of the road. Actually, what I thought was the side of the road turned out to be the sidewalk in front of the Philadelphia Zoo. That’s where I stayed, where I slept, uninterrupted for 5 and a half hours until 8 in the morning, when one of the zoo employees shook my shoulder through the open window and asked me if I was all right.

I said I’m fine, thanks.

My car had been running most of the night, but at some point I’d run out of gas. I walked a ¼ mile, back and forth three times, to the gas station, filled a beer can with regular unleaded, and dumped it in my tank. I was still drunk and struggled to fill in the blanks, when I left the bar, why I left, why I’d left without Alyssa, how I ended up in my car barreling down 76 back toward the city when my apartment was in the city just 2 blocks from the bar, how I was still alive.

It was 11:30 in the morning by the time I got to my place. I was late for work. I’d been operating a food truck in West Philly for the last year. My usual hours were from 10 until I sold out, usually about 6 hours. All I served was a mushroom sandwich- sautéed ram’s head, broccoli rabe, and sharp provolone on a roll. It didn’t pay as well as teaching, but paid significantly more than each of my last two jobs: mental health therapist at The Center for Emotional Disturbances in West Philly and freelance web editor for an educational consulting firm, but still I was barely able to pay my bills. I had a graduate degree in Educational Psychology, but couldn’t land an upper level management position in that field, and I refused to take an entry level job when I had so much experience and education in that area. With the mushroom truck I met a lot of interesting people, mostly college kids and professors, and businessmen and women, and at times, I felt like I was actually accomplishing something, working toward something, so I stayed with it. After opening the trunk, I made a decision that would create a schism, and would yield immediate, unexpected, positive consequences. I must have run over a rabbit. I guess for some reason I stopped and scraped it up and put it in my trunk next to an overnight bag I’d inexplicably packed. I could have just… Had I not been… Loaded… Mentally compromised, I would have immediately grabbed a stick and tossed the thing into the gutter, maybe stuffed it in a garbage bag or two until trash night or thrown it in a dumpster somewhere, but I was desperate, or at least I felt that way at the time, I needed to make a few hundred bucks over the next couple days to make rent, I needed more customers, maybe this would be the difference maker, I thought, the one thing I needed to separate myself from the heavy competition, to put myself on the map. Struggle gave birth to ingenuity, and without thinking too much I boiled, disembodied, and sautéed the meat in garlic and butter, packaged it in a large plastic container, and loaded my truck. I added little bits of rabbit to each sandwich. It was unreal, savory, and unusual, memorable, mysterious, and inimitable, like nothing I’d ever tasted. I’d been in a terrible spot, drunk and uncertain, tired of waiting, hopeless and ashamed, but I became elated to be alive and, despite my predicament, with each new customer, with every sandwich sold, with every positive interaction, each adrenalized response, I was more and more proud of myself, and my daring, delicious, new invention.

CHAPTER 24

I read an article about Clump, some bar owner from Chicago wrote about him, the guy called Clump supporters subhuman, said he had no idea how he was even being considered for President. Made a really good point about Clump not even having to up his game at all due to his supporters being so deeply moronic. It’s great people are speaking out about how insane this is, that this guy might become President, but it’s also terrifying that it’s even possible.

“It’s scary, man. I’ve said it all along. He’s gonna win.” Said Gene.

No way, man. He’s not gonna win. But it’s embarrassing he’s even in this thing. Has everyone lost their mind?

“He’s gonna win. I don’t want to believe it, but it’s probably gonna happen.”

No way. There has to be more good people than bad.

“It’s not as simple as good and bad people. It’s… The Republicans have done this, throughout history. It’s propaganda. It’s billionaires buying votes. It’s disenfranchising people. It’s pervasive lying and misleading and meddling. It’s not just good versus bad.”

Whatever. More people with brains than not. It’s numbers. How many people can you get out to vote? But when it boils down to it, it’s good and bad. I don’t see it as more than that. Like always, there are a million different variables. It’s impossible to account for everything. Race. Money. Power. Political affiliation. Then you factor in the actual issues: Health Care. Homeland Security. The Economy. The Environment. Education. You can’t be a good person and legitimately support this guy. Right?

I swigged my beer, wiped my mouth with my backhand, and continued. We can’t go from actually having someone who is well-respected, at least by most of the world, to a fucking loser, liar, racist, entitled, billionaire developer. Obamo is thoughtful, intelligent, cool, has the country’s best interest in mind, respects the office of the President, has studied our nation’s history, has overseen the economic recovery, we’ve been generally safe, no terrorist attacks…

“The mass murders and gun violence is worse than ever though.”

Yeah, but how is that all on him?

“How isn’t it?”

Well, even so, in general, we’ve been safer than ever.

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

It’s because all we hear about is terrible shit. There is still a lot more good than bad. There has to be.

“You know Clump would have had more money if he just would have invested his inheritance in a simple savings account? Instead he invested in whatever the hell he did and actually has significantly less now.” Gene said, wiping his forehead before wiping his hands on the front of his pants.

No way! I said. Are you serious? He’s the worst. He can’t do anything right. He can’t be trusted. I finished my beer, and walked into the kitchen. Want another?

“Yeah. Why not? I said I wasn’t going to drink tonight, but this is depressing. I need something to help me sleep.” Said Gene. “But, I think I’m coming down with something.”

Again? You have to get checked out dude.

“I need a complete DNA transfusion.”

Get some sleep. Is it work? What’s going on? Too much drinking? Not a good schedule?

“I have no idea. I’m disgusted. I’ve been sick about 20 times this year. I was blessed with the world’s weakest immune system. Pneumonia, bronchitis…”

You’re doomed. I deadpanned.

In the back of my mind I wondered what I could do to help. Did he need help? Was something wrong? Should I ask? Then I thought of another joke that never made it out of my mouth.

Gene ruminated on his inability to stay well, then as usual, put that thought in the back of his mind, and changed subjects. “Blame it on Clump.”

Let’s go play some tunes. I said.

Carrying a small cooler of beer, we walked a few blocks to Gene’s place, and directly up to his recently soundproofed attic, closed the reinforced trap door, and b-lined to our instruments.

Without saying another word, I clicked the sticks, and we blasted through a 10-song set of ripping rock songs.

As the feedback began to fade, the rumble of the bass drum rolled away, yet the cymbals continued to quake. I slurred into the microphone, Man, I hope that loser doesn’t get in.

“God bless America.” Gene said, with a cough.

CHAPTER 25

“I don’t. I don’t… I… I don’t know what to do. I guess I… Uh… I’m angry. I… I… I… Don’t know why. My mom says… She says…I… I’m depressed. I don’t… I’m not… I don’t think I am. I’m… My doctor… Thinks… Uh, I think… I… He said my… Uh… My… My, uh… My… I could be bipolar or ADHD or PTSD or something… I don’t… He thinks… Well, I… It’s probably…”

Words didn’t come out easily in Aaron’s 5th talk therapy session, but he was miles ahead of where he’d been. His thoughts weren’t abundantly clearer, his core beliefs hardly more evident than they had been prior to beginning therapy. Aaron had been getting so many mixed messages from so many different sources, he didn’t know what to make of it or what to believe. At his core, he didn’t believe or didn’t want to admit there was anything wrong. Five sessions of therapy hadn’t uncovered anything overtly significant, hadn’t provided immediate answers, and his head was swimming with feelings he had never felt, new ways of thinking, stress from school, unhappiness and tension at home, insecurity, anxiety, suggestions from his subconscious, doubt from his conscious, fear from his dreams, uncertainty from the few friends he’d confided in, and impatience and intolerance from his girlfriend. She wanted Aaron medicated, and she told him this often. She wanted her easygoing boyfriend back as soon as possible. And he wanted to be back, but felt no surer of how to get there than he had when he first started feeling this way 4 years earlier.

Aaron, you’re on the right track. You’re making progress. I want to tell you something and, if nothing else, please pay attention, just listen, and then you can decide for yourself what you think. Forget everything you’ve heard, everything you’ve been told, everything you’ve been prescribed. Forget what your mom has told you, what your doctor has diagnosed you with. Forget about everything you’ve learned about the situation you’re in. About how you’re feeling. I promise you, this type of therapy works. If you put in the time, and we work through this, and so you know, these things can take a long, long time, you’re not going to be miraculously cured overnight, but you can start feeling a whole lot better right away if you work at it. The mind is very powerful. You’re not broken. You don’t have a disorder. You don’t need medicine. Medicine will not help you. It doesn’t help anyone. It’s a quick fix. It’s easy for doctors to prescribe, and it’s easy for people to get and to take and to trick themselves into thinking it’s working, but it never works. It can’t. We have no idea what that stuff is doing to people. Psychiatry and society doesn’t look or doesn’t want to look at the origin of disorders. Instead of looking at social conditions as being the source, or origin or cause of these disorders or feelings or emotions, these different psychological states, everyone takes drugs. Drugs, at best, might calm people down, but they don’t solve anything. They make things far worse, for everyone. It’s a business. It’s a billion dollar business. Psychotropic drugs make companies filthy rich. All I’m saying is this: You’re going to be all right. If you pay attention, and that’s key, if you pay attention, and you put in the time and you work on this, you’re going to learn a lot, not only about yourself, but also about how the mind works and how to handle all kinds of situations, different psychological states, and how to come out of this in a much better spot. You have to reshape your thoughts and beliefs, your mind, retrain it, rewire it, and that starts with letting go.

I said too much. I was supposed to let him figure it out. Keep my opinions to myself. But I was new at this and I decided that he needed to hear it. The kid, like so many others I’d worked with, was a product of his environment. His parents were the source of his stress and anxiety and, though they appeared supportive, and from what I could ascertain, were genuinely trying to do the right thing, they absolutely were not. They were constantly on his case about something, about everything, always. They would not let him fucking be. Now his mind was in a constant state of widespread disarray, 16 years in the making. It wasn’t entirely his parent’s fault. Nothing ever is. And it doesn’t really matter who you blame. That doesn’t make anything better. Regardless of the root cause, whoever’s fault it was, pointing fingers will not positively change anything, won’t make Aaron suddenly feel happy. The only person who can do that now is Aaron. Ultimately, it all comes down to personal responsibility. I wanted to jumpstart his reformation, get us moving in the right direction, so I said what I said, and though it wasn’t by-the-book, it worked, it triggered something, elicited a corrective response, and almost immediately I noticed a change in Aaron.

“When will I be better?” He said. “How long will it take if I work at it every day?”

I don’t know yet. It depends. It always depends. We need to talk more. Let me ask you this, when were there other times in your life you felt this way? Think about where you were, how you felt, how those around you felt and acted, how you reacted because of it. How did you handle it if it did occur at an earlier time, back then? I attempted to begin the process of slowly peeling back the layers of his memory, of his mind, his life, to dig deeper and find the root cause of his current state, to put him in a place to discover how he’d come to be in this state, and to assist him in finding a way out.

At our next session, Aaron emphatically insisted he was not depressed, that there was nothing wrong with him. I said I agreed, you aren’t depressed and there is nothing wrong with you. But you are experiencing depression. Something is not right. But, we’re going to find out what that is and we’re going to make it right. He said he thought a lot about it, and like me, he didn’t believe in medication as a cure or solution to matters of the mind either. He said he read about Buddhism and wanted to start practicing mindfulness and meditation, and would that help. I told him it could. Aaron said before therapy, for a long time, he felt desperate. He was inclined to take the drugs. It won’t make things right, I told him. There are things you can do, things you can control- exercise, eat right, think right, that will make things right. You can control all of those. Find whatever works for you, but those things work. Start small. One thing at a time. For next session, let’s work on digging deep, thinking back to the earliest point you can remember feeling unsure or anxious or however you’d describe the way you’ve been feeling. These things take time.

It’s repetition, with a twist.

“Sad. Worried. Upset. Scared.”

OK. Write it down. Describe everything. Relive the event. Think of a way out. Write yourself out of it. Dream it up. Whatever you have to do. Come up with an alternate ending to what actually happened. However it makes sense for you. Whatever works. Try to reshape the way you were feeling then, connect to how you feel today. You see where I’m going with this? Learn from the past, from your experiences. Think it through without the emotion, take that component out, for now. Make a better choice this time, even if just a little bit, see it differently, create a different, healthier, outcome.

He nodded, said uh huh.

Aaron left and 15 minutes later Martin arrived, 5 minutes late, as usual. Martin was an 18-year-old college kid, struggling not with anger or depression or whatever Aaron was dealing with, but with a yet-to-be-labeled trauma-based disorder stemming primarily from social media acceptance and rejection, likes or lack thereof. The kid was out of his mind over loosing 40 followers and 12 friends over the last month.

What a colossal waste of time.

“What did I do wrong?” He said. “What is it about me that is so unlikeable?” He began crying. “I have lots of friends. I’m a good person. I don’t understand.”

I sat quietly, listening. I wanted to tell him he had done nothing wrong. That he was a good kid. That he had friends. That he would be OK. That it was just bullshit social media, and that it did not matter. That it wasn’t a big deal and that he’d soon realize that. I said nothing. I smiled a little. I nodded, said uh huh. I thought. I processed. I let him talk.

CHAPTER 26

“People down south,” he said, “Southerners, Virginians specifically, are sweet as pie… They’re also dumb as dirt.”

The audience ooh’d, shocked a bit by Ray’s overtness, but Ray mistakenly heard it as a boo and told them to lighten the hell up, that it was a joke. He reminded them he was a comedian, that it was his job to make fun of stuff, and that he didn’t always mean what he said. Sometimes, he said sarcastically, he just said stuff that was funny to get a rise out of fuckers.

Ray was sweating profusely, his back was soaked, his tight black T-shirt from his lower back to his shoulder blades had become several shades darker as the sweat was sopped up, a great big oval in the center. Pennsylvania summers, he said. Hotter than hell and more humid than a…

Someone yelled to finish the joke, so he did. He said Virginians are dumb as dirt. They have to be. It’s the only place in the country where the population decreases but the traffic increases. “It took me 6 and a half hours to get back from a show in Richmond last weekend. Six and a half hours,” he said, sort of yelling. “That’s unacceptable. It’s unnecessary. It’s 200 miles. It should take less than 4 hours. These people, like I said, sweet as ever, really kind, friendly people from what I experienced, they must not be able to read or, maybe they read very very veeerrrryyyy sloooowwwllly.” He dragged the words out, pretending to simultaneously steer and read a highway sign. “I couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on. There were no accidents. No work zones. No construction. Nobody was pulled over, there was nothing scenic to admire, aside from maybe 20 minutes the weather was fine, but I’m telling you we went from cruising at 80 to goddamn crawling at 5, totally out of the blue, for no reason, other than, like I said, maybe they were slow readers, they couldn’t read the exit signs quickly enough, because every time I passed one, every exit, I’d nearly stop dead. Then, after a while, after every. Single. Car. On. The. Entire. Road had the chance to read the signs, I guess, I was back to 70 or 80.”

People seemed to lose interest in his joke. It was tough to watch. Off stage he was given the signal for 1 more minute- it had been months since he’d lasted an entire set- so he transitioned into a closing joke, something about Donald Clump becoming President being the historical and cultural equivalent of a teleportation machine, transporting an entire civilization back 200 years. Actually a really funny joke, more his usual style, but the audience didn’t react.

“Ray Benson everyone.” Said the host, Jenny Teague, a 28-year old college student turned comedic actress who’d yet to tell a joke in public that got a laugh for something other than pity. In 2 months, a week after going home with Ray following a show in Rochester and staying up until 7 a.m. listening to music, writing jokes, drinking, popping Percocet, and screwing around, Jenny would blow up. Literally. On her way to a show in Richmond, her car was blindsided by a moron struggling to read an exit sign. Her car careened off a bridge and exploded on impact. Kidding. That’s a joke. Ray wrote that one. Jenny really took off after that late night session, playing bigger clubs and music festivals around the country, landing an agent and a few slots on late night, while Ray kept middling away, altering his set, his tone, his delivery, his subject matter, trying to find the right medium, the right crowd, trying to once again find his voice.

CHAPTER 27

I have been trying to come up with a cool band name for, like, 7 years, and I’m never satisfied, I said, and now that I’ve come up with this one, I have no idea how I haven’t and nobody else hasn’t already snagged it.

“And as popular as moons and wings are these days, it’s a miracle.” Said Gene, wryly.

The Moonwings. THE MOONWINGS! It’s perfect! It’s so cool.

“It sounds Twilight Zoney or something.” He said.

You idiot, who cares? Come on, you don’t like it?

“It’s cool, man. This is your obsession.” He said, laughing. “I mean, your decision.”

It’s not all up to me, I said, it’s our band.

“I know, but seriously, it doesn’t matter as much to me. I don’t care if we’re called The Dickheads. I love playing and we’re going to be legends, but you’re more into the name and all that.”

Yeah, cause I don’t want to have a lame name. We’re the greatest band ever assembled and I want a name that won’t keep us from getting as big as possible.

“Your head is already as big as possible.” Said Laura, sneaking up on us as we talked, sliding into the booth beside me.

Laura and I kissed and I put my arm around her waist. We’d been dating for almost a year.

We changed subjects, for a few minutes, and talked about class. Laura was majoring in psychology and had just finished conducting an experiment where she dropped a $10 bill on the ground outside the cafeteria and tracked whether people passed it up, picked it up and kept it, or returned it to her. “I haven’t looked at all the numbers yet, but I’d predict most people actually returned it.” She said.

So what does that mean?

“Wait, what happens if they didn’t?” Said Gene. “Did you burn through cash or just let them know you…”

“I told them to give me my freaking money back.”

We finished our slices, chugged what was left of our beers, and started walking back to Laura’s place.

“Is Angela around?” Said Gene.

“She’s still dating…”

Who cares? I said.

I was majoring in education, Gene in physics. Neither of us took school very seriously, but we were getting by just fine, on track to graduate, on time, in another year.

That would soon change.

We’re going on tour, I told Laura.

She said what do you mean and asked who was going. You don’t even have a name, she said.

Yeah we do, I said. We’re The Moonwings.

CHAPTER 28

The impact of Michael’s drum set fractured the sidewalk for 12 feet in every direction, resulting in a beautiful web of shattered concrete. Forty seconds earlier, after an 8 song set at the first and last pop-up concert at his girlfriend’s parent’s place on the 82nd floor balcony of the Comcast Center, as he did in some form or fashion at some point at just about all their shows, he finished his part on drums, hoisted and carried all the connected parts of his set- the bass drum, mounted toms, and bass drum pedal- and slammed the cluster once on the ground and once against the wall before tossing the entire thing backwards over his head and, in this case, over the railing.

At first, just about everyone screamed and broke into a panic.

“You psycho!”

“You could have killed someone.”

He didn’t kill anyone, I thought, but I didn’t say a word. Not yet.

I was fairly certain he hadn’t killed anyone. I mean, of course, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. In fact, just the opposite. They’d checked earlier to be sure the spot where he dropped the drums, and specifically the spot where they’d most likely land, was closed to the public. They closed it off, wrapping caution tape around a small courtyard just minutes before show time. One of their buddies kept watch. Anything was possible, someone really could have been killed, a worker, a trespasser, a commuter, anyone at all really, it was an insane maneuver, but it was highly unlikely, they figured, so he did it.

“What did you do?” “What were you thinking?” “What are you doing?” “What’s your problem?”

“It’s fine.” He said, standing atop the 8-inch wide railing, looking down. “See.” He pointed. “Everything is fine.”

“Holy shit.” “You’re crazy.” “That was awesome.” “What the fuck?” “One more song!” “Do it again.” “Jump!” “Get down before you kill yourself!” “You’re out of your mind!” “Unbelievable!” “Legendary!” A “Mike Controller” chant broke out. “You’re the best drummer in the world!” The rest of the band jumped on the railing with Michael. A “Controllers” chant broke out. “You guys have to leave. Now.” Said Emily. “Go.” She kissed Michael. “I’ll see you later.”

His set, a throwaway, yellow spray painted Pearl Expo set from the 80s I’d recently picked up for $130, miraculously fared much better than the sidewalk. Part of it would live to fly again. The bass drum had been obliterated, bearing the brunt of the impact, sacrificing itself for the good of the others. The toms were bent but not broken, and the pedal, once again, was miraculously unharmed.

The Controllers were easily the wildest band anyone in attendance had ever seen. They said it. And we all knew it. Definitely the best wild band anyone had ever seen. Another Philly band, The Flukes, were probably somehow crazier in terms of antics, but their music wasn’t as good or as accessible as The Controllers. They could flat out play. They wrote great tunes, and aside from bouts with temporary insanity, they connected with the audience like no other. All 4 of them were psychology majors at different schools in Philly. Luke and Joe went to Temple, Michael went to Penn, and Andy went to Drexel. They viewed their music, their albums, their shows, their stage presence, their mannerisms, the way they dressed, the way they spoke, to whom they spoke, their carefully crafted lyrics, their message, the entire experience, as an elaborate, carefully controlled, experiment. They analyzed results, and under pseudonyms published papers, they published journals, they wrote books, they wrote their own version of the DSM, called the MSD (Manual for Diagnoses and Statistics), and they were hell bent on figuring out what the hell was wrong with society and how, exactly, it could be changed.

CHAPTER 29

The Lovers, Afghanistan’s Romeo and Juliet, honor killing escapees, sensationalized in the news for their heroic rescue, brought to America after a series of controversial moves by a combination of journalists and human rights activists, an embodiment of the new American Dream, had been taken hostage. We the people had rallied around them, almost universally we’d accepted them, we’d come together. The Lovers story, their presence, had somehow transformed the American psyche at a time when we needed it the most. Gun violence has been out of hand for decades with nothing being done about it. Mass murder of innocent men, women, and children has occurred with regularity, with nothing being done to immediately eradicate the disease, no gun control measures, no assault weapons ban, nothing. People talk, they say they want to change, they say things HAVE to change, politicians say the violence has to end, that it WILL end, but it never does. And it’s not because it can’t, it’s because people in positions of power, rich men who’s only wish and only concern is to get richer, at all costs, are the ones making the final decision. Rather than the majority of Americans, who time after time unite in the aftermath of these unspeakable tragedies, having a say, and voting on instant gun regulations, getting weapons of war out of the hands of the disenfranchised, the mentally unfit, the unwell, the evildoers, it’s left in the hands of men and women who don’t give a damn and will never change. So we’re stuck. We have no choice but to shrug it off and move on. From time to time something or someone, a story, an event, comes along to at least temporarily distract us from the recurring tragedies, from the pain and anger, and that’s what we had in The Lovers. A distraction.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I have unexpected and, quite frankly, horrific news. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to have to say this…”

He paused to gather himself, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, asking, on live television, for a moment to pull it together. He took a drink of water. And then another. And then another. Shoved his hands in his hair then pushed it to the side, neatening it. Loosened his tie. Bit his lip. Rubbed his eyes. Looked into the camera, then into the lights above, then to the floor. Took deep breath after deep breath.

“Our American Dream has become a nightmare.” He said. “The Lovers have betrayed us. Our people are not safe. I’m here to tell you…”

CNN’s Harrison Faulkner swallowed his words, took 2 more deep breaths, collected his thoughts, prepared his words, sat up straight, fixed his tie, stood and tucked in his shirt, sat and then stood again, and with all the resolve he could conjure- as the world stood watching, clinging to his every word, hoping and praying for a new world- somberly described how The Lovers, were in fact, NOT taken hostage. They were not being held prisoner on a barge on the Delaware River in South Philadelphia. They were not being tortured, as we were lead to believe. They were not 2 of what was estimated to be more than 200 hostages, many of whom had already been maimed, killed, beheaded on live stream, a bullet to the forehead, throats sliced, eyes gouged out, and tossed into the unsettled Delaware River. The Lovers, however, were on the boat. They were at the helm. In charge. Of everything. In control. Of everyone. “The Lovers have betrayed us all. The Lovers… Are… Imposters. Turncoats. Monsters. Terrorists… Devils.”

An unprecedented case of betrayal. Sickening. NEVER BEFORE IN AMERICAN HISTORY. No one could ever have predicted this. Just when you think it can’t get any viler, any lower, something exceedingly incomprehensible happens. Paranoia sets in, shocking even the soundest minds. Nothing, absolutely NOTHING is sacred. Every time something like this happens, an attack, we think it can get no worse, that things will turn around, that GOOD will prevail, and each time we’re left speechless, heartbroken, angry, confused, vengeful.

They should blow up the whole goddamn boat right now.

Blow up their country, wherever the hell they’re from. End this.

If civilians had guns this would never happen.

This is why we shouldn’t let anyone else in our country.

Build a wall.

We can’t trust anyone anymore.

Civilians should never have guns.

How is this even possible?

It isn’t about guns. It’s about people. It’s about mental illness. It’s about insanity.

This never had to happen.

This could happen to anyone, at any time.

This could happen to you.

This will never happen to me.

It could have been stopped.

This is on Clump. It happened on his watch. It’s his job to keep us safe.

It’s everyone’s personal responsibility, not one man. It’s everyone, all together.

But it is one man.

It’s both.

It’s everything. It’s all connected. Everything we know.

How did we let this happen?

I can’t believe this is real.

Is it? Is this really happening?

Why?

Why do people do this? Why do they hate so much?

Religion.

Parenting.

Relationships.

Mind.

Internet.

Propaganda.

Social Media.

Antisocial Media.

It’s poisoning them. They’re sick.

They hate America.

How could they?

They hate themselves.

What’s it going to be like for our kids and their kids?

Will we even make it that far?

It’s going to be OK. We will figure this out. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but each time something happens, though it is getting worse, and though it seems it happens every day now, like there’s nothing we can do, and the heartbreak grows and we feel defeated, we are getting closer, it’s getting worse, but each time we’re getting closer. We will figure this out. We will stop them. We have to.

CHAPTER 30

“This place is slammed. It’s a zoo.” Gene texted. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

I started to reply then put my phone away.

I crossed Market Street, walked through about 40 guys waiting in line at a hot dog cart, holding my breath so I didn’t inhale from the cloud of cigarette smoke, looked over at a homeless guy sitting on a pile of flannel shirts, and thought…

“Oh shit!” Someone yelled. “Watch out!” A red haired guy with a blue tank top and baggy cargo pants tucked into his tall red socks, lied at my feet, tangled with his bike in a twisted mess. His phone sat in a puddle, water bottles fell from his bike and fanned out on the sidewalk. A plastic bag jutted out from a torn messenger bag.

“What the hell?” Yelled a construction worker from his truck. “He OK?”

“I’m fine.” He said. “That was terrible. I almost killed you.” He looked up at me.

I’m glad you didn’t. I said, walking away, as four people stood around the red-faced, wrecked biker, helping him gather his belongings.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Someone shouted from a passing car. “Get outta the road!”

I thought of telling Gene about the poor guy, how he flung himself over the handle bars, narrowly missing the curb and a possible traumatic brain injury, how he almost ran me over, would have snapped my legs in half, but before I got to the end of the block, I’d forgotten all about him.

I passed the flower shop where 10 years earlier I bought Alyssa a bouquet for no reason other than I was thinking of her and wanted to make her happy. I guess that’s the only reason I do anything, I thought. I didn’t know of any other florists back then, not like I do now, I’ve since gotten her flowers hundreds of times, maybe thousands, each time less memorable for me, I don’t remember every place and time anymore, but each time was just as important as the next. She still likes getting flowers. She likes the way they look. She likes to know I’m thinking of her, that I know what she’s thinking, what she needs. I like the way she divides them into different vases throughout the house and when some wilt, she rearranges the remainder into a new arrangement somewhere else in the house, on a windowsill, on the countertop, near the sink in the bathroom, on the dresser in our room.

I texted that I’d be there in 2 minutes. I passed Triangle, the bar where Alyssa and I went the night we got engaged. We had a bottle of wine down by the Schuylkill River before we got there, a bottle of champagne and a glass of wine each at Triangle, took a cab back to our neighborhood, then split another bottle of champagne before clumsily walking home while holding each other up.

With two blocks to go, a fountain to my right spewed fire and water as a little boy stood at its center searching blindly for pennies.

When I arrived Gene was standing outside a nondescript burrito place, but I waved him over. Let’s just go here, I told him. It’s much better. This place is awesome. The guy who owns it, Mike Solomonoff, has a bunch of other places and they’re all really good. It’ll take 5 minutes. So worth it. The line moves quickly. I said.

“What’s Dizengoff mean?”

Who knows? I said. Probably a place in Israel or a spin on his last name or something. Let’s go.

He said OK so we went in.

Gene got the hummus with beef. I got it with radish. We ate at a table outside. I hadn’t seen him in months, and only a few times in the last few years, but we remained close friends, we caught up as though we’d been getting lunch once a week.

He said he was doing well. New job. Still cooking. Still playing guitar. Still documenting everything. Things at home were OK. Fine, he said. They had plans to travel to Italy and Ireland in the summer. Kids were fine, he said. He was funnier than he’d ever been. I wasn’t sure he was doing as well as he’d put on. His hand shook as he shoveled food into his mouth. It trembled as he held the straw to his lips. I asked about it, but he changed subjects, said he was fine. Doing great. Just not sleeping much. He’d been busy. Work was insane.

Said he’d just met this guy at a warehouse in Chinatown, he was looking for new ingredients, the place was crammed so tight with boxes and crates and cigarettes and soda he couldn’t move. He had no room for his laptop, joked he had to rest it on the guy’s head just to take notes.

“Then I had to crap.” He laughed. “The bathroom was the same way. There was no room. I couldn’t fit. I had to shit side saddle!”

I told him Alyssa and I were doing well. We were great. Really. He asked if we wanted to have any more kids and I said no. I love where we’re at, but it’s best if we keep things the way they are. It’s not easy. Parenting is tough. Well, being a good parent is tough. There’s really no more important job, but your whole life changes, as you know, and as ready and prepared as you are, as we were, it’s still a huge change. It’s no longer about you. And it’s hard keeping it all together. Making everyone happy.

“Tell me about it.” He said.

Seriously. It’s wild at times. Looking back, I’m not even sure how we did it. How anyone does it. Our parents had lots of kids and were so much younger. No clue how they got through it, how any of us did.

“It was different then.”

Yeah. Totally. Completely different times and altogether different place and circumstances. Definitely a different way of life. I just want to make sure Michael has everything he needs and Alyssa and I also have everything we need. We have to have the balance or it’ll all fall apart. Of course he comes first, he’s a kid, and I’m not just talking about basic needs, although that’s the most important thing, and of course he has that, he’s so loved and safe and secure and we encourage him to be himself and try everything and do whatever he wants and it shows, you know, he’s a great kid, but I also want him to have every opportunity and go places and do things I didn’t know or do or experience until I was older. We work hard at it. I mean, it’s easy, we love each other, always have, but it’s a constant effort to make sure we’re keeping each other at the forefront. It’s important, it’s vital we don’t lose any part of ourselves. We can’t. You know? There’s a lot we want to do yet. We’re young. I still want to go places and even do the little things like playing music and writing and cooking and hanging out with friends and exercise and reading and I need to figure out my career, find something I like more where I can make more money. I can’t give up myself and what Alyssa and I have. We shouldn’t have to. We don’t have to. And we won’t. We’ve always said that. But anyway, any more kids would prevent that from happening. I’m not getting way into it, but Alyssa and I had a few… Challenging moments. Mostly, we lost touch. It’s exhausting being a good parent, especially early on when you’re still learning so much, but more than ever we’re determined to be close, to stay connected, to be better than ever. Sometimes, in the midst of stuff, even good stuff like having a kid who you love so much, you lose sight of what matters most, something you never thought possible, and I think, we were lucky, because we realized this, and instead of giving up on one another, instead of throwing it all away and starting over, and breaking up our family, we talked and changed and we stayed together, and we soon realized that things would get better if we worked at it and that working at it and getting through something together would make us closer than ever and as Michael gets older we’ll have more time for each other and it’ll get easier. It’s a lot of work staying connected with one another. You know?

“Yeah. I don’t think we do a good enough job of that. We don’t talk as much as you guys. I’m trying, I think we both do, we get along, we don’t fight much, but, I don’t know, I just don’t have much to say sometimes and neither does she and I guess we’re doing fine, but I don’t know. It’s fine. Whatever. Maybe I’ll say something.”

Well, like I said. It takes constant effort. Try talking a little more. It helps. Just get back to a good spot and keep it going in that direction.

“Maybe.”

What about you guys? More kids?

“Nah.” He said.

I told him work wasn’t that bad but could definitely be better. I have a few ideas, but I’ll save that for another time. I’ve already talked your ear off.

“Yeah, you’re not kidding.”

We laughed.

He asked if I was interested in playing music again. Getting the band going or something.

I said I was. Definitely. I’ve been dying to play. Haven’t touched the drums in a while. I want to work on another album, I have so much stuff written and I know you do too. I said. We should get it out there, it’s good, people will like it if they hear it. We can play out a little. Aim high for a change. We’ve played tons of shit holes, there are so many good venues in town we could probably play, even with zero fans.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

At the very least, if it goes absolutely nowhere, we’d get to hang out more often and play tunes.

“Always fun.”

We finished lunch and went back to work.

CHAPTER 31

“It’s tough living in a post-9/11 world. But, you know what’s even tougher? Living in a post 7-Eleven world. I can’t find one anywhere.”

Ray read his first joke from an index card. No one laughed.

“Not sure if they’re still around.” He mumbled. “It’s been really difficult for me.” Along with two people in the audience, he smiled. “I like soda.”

“You know, I’m sick and tired about hearing about how bad the state of education has become. We should be focused on how bad the state of the art is.” He looked up from his card for a second before following up with. “I’m not impressed by any of this technology.”

Two jokes in and he was bombing. It’s what he’d planned to do all along.

Why the hell would you prepare to go on stage looking as though you’re unprepared? I said. Why write jokes that you think will bomb… And bomb horribly?

To set the bar low, he said. To just get a bunch of ideas out there and see what works. So that he didn’t sit around writing and writing and writing and never actually telling jokes. What good would that do? He said. “And besides, I have nowhere else to go. Nothing else to fuckin do. I’m getting old. I’m fat. I’m basically alone. I was a temporary Internet sensation. I thought it would last forever. But I’m a fuckin idiot. That all went away because I have no idea how to control myself and no clue how to make good decisions on a regular basis. I drank too much. I smoked too much. I took too many pills. I blew my money. I overdid everything. I never went to school. I should have listened to you when we were kids. This is it now. The one thing I’ve been told I was good at, even more than diving and reality TV or whatever the fuck that was, way better than attempted suicide.” He joked, “Is being kind of funny. This is all I have left.”

Why not be yourself? I said. Just jot down jokes or put together a set of jokes you make privately, and then go public with it. Don’t overthink it or act like anyone else. Just be you. See how that goes.

He said that won’t work. He had to be different. Someone else.

So he prepared for a rough go while he worked out the kinks.

“So, Laughy’s Comedy Club, right? Why are all these places called something having to do with laughter? We get it, you’re supposed to be laughing, but it’s like calling every restaurant eat. It’s just not… It’s overkill. It’s redundant, you know? We know we’re… Couldn’t someone come up with a better name than that? Laughy’s?”

“The place is called Helium asshole!”

“I know.” He said. “I’m joking.”

“Get this guy out of here!”

“Booo!”

“Pull the plug!”

“He sucks!”

An old drunk guy threw a piece of ice at Ray, but Ray sidestepped it and told another one.

More insults. More ice. More jokes.

They went on like this together for another 8 minutes before Ray said, “Thanks so much. Specifically you, the one guy who actually laughed.” Pointing at me.

When he got back stage, the owner of Helium said Ray should wait a while before coming back, maybe polish his stuff a little more. Try a different approach.

“Fuck that.” He said.

Ray didn’t want to try a different approach so a little more than a year later he went back with the same 20-some jokes and re-told them to a new crowd, thinking maybe the jokes weren’t the problem.

With a slightly altered delivery, he no longer used index cards and his overall presence was more relaxed, less scripted, more conversational, he got a few more laughs. He went back a year or so later and did the same thing, and again got a few laughs. At his next appearance, he received what he believed was the best response yet. No heckling, no arguing, he made it through every joke without getting yanked off stage prematurely, and even added a few new ones.

“You remember we had that blizzard back in January, 24 inches in one day or whatever it was. I asked my buddy how he spent his day off. He said he was doing Donuts all day.” Ray paused, smiling. “I said, weird name, and asked him how long they’d been dating.”

CHAPTER 32

It’s all so personal, and so subjective, that’s one of the great things about music. Millions of people can love a song or an album and millions can dislike it, or hate it, or whatever. Nothing is universally beloved.

“Well, except for our stuff.” Said Gene.

Yeah, because nobody besides us has ever heard it.

“They will soon.” Said Gene. “We’re The fuckin Moonwings man. It’s gonna happen. As-yet-discovered but soon-to-blow-up rock band, out for an early morning bite to eat after an 18 hour recording session.”

I hope you’re right, but I think you’re delirious.

The other guys, Chris and Will, were sleeping back at Hazleton, luncheonette turned temporary studio. It was 6:30 a.m., a bitter cold, snowy February morning. In college, when The Moonwings first formed, I had this idea- maybe a future song or book or short story- of a band that locks themselves in a room for a weekend to record and emerges with one of the greatest albums of all time. I was young and naïve, in some ways, but as time went on, even as I’d matured, it was something that had always stayed with me, something the entire band was behind, and, in fact, the only thing we hadn’t tried. We felt we’d done everything: DIY recordings, albums, distribution, and touring, we’d hired a band manager, signed to a label, and tried out different variations of The Moonwings- The Moons, The Winged Moon, Moon Wing, Moonlet, Moons and Wings, and The Moonlight Wings- all with varying levels of absolute failure. We never believed it was due to poor craftsmanship, bad songs or anything like that. At times, each of us had quit, stepped down, or had wanted to, but all of that was temporary, and every Thursday evening for the past decade or so, we met in Stone’s living room or Gene’s attic or my basement, or Will’s art studio, or even Ray’s rural garage when we had nowhere else to go, and we wrote and recorded music. I can’t remember the last time we played out. I know we played for an audience twice in the last few years: once at Gene’s 30th birthday party and once when Ray decided to come out to the garage and tell us it was late and we had to stop playing.

“This is some of our best work.” Said Gene. “Our earlier stuff was good, but nowhere near as polished or as different or as transcendent or revolutionary as this. It’s always been good, but these songs, and this approach, are different, man. It’s not even close. All the time we’ve put in over the years has paid off. The only thing is maybe the earlier album names were catchier. I don’t even know what to call this one.”

I’m fine with just The Moonwings or calling it a number or something. Or not naming it at all. It doesn’t even matter. Nobody listens to albums anymore anyway. We can release it as an album, but I think we could also just do singles or something. There are no rules.

“Whatever. That sounds good. That’s fine.” Gene finished his coffee and put his black knit cap on. “You ready?”

We paid at the register at the counter and walked out.

I’d prefer a crushing drum beat from an actual drum set to a repetitive loop any day. And it’s cool we all sing and don’t use tons of effects or modulation or anything. So many vocals seem one-dimensional now, just high pitch, falsetto all the time and the melodies aren’t as good. This album, these songs, are so fucking good. People would love it. Think of the last few albums you’ve heard from even some of the better known rock or indie rock bands, something that we might get compared to.

“I don’t think we sound like anything else really.”

Me neither.

“Almost any band out there sounds like someone else.”

Yeah, everything goes back to The Beatles or Bowie or The Stones or The Who. Pink Floyd. It all comes from there. Nothing current is new. Some of it sounds good, but it’s been done a million times.

“Yeah, but we don’t. We don’t sound like anything else.”

There are no super cool riffs that stick with me anymore from any of these newer bands. You have about 20 killer riffs on this record. It’s awesome what you’re doing, just mixing up riffs with chugging with strumming, picking, off-time stuff, just a really nice, varied style. It takes time to develop that. There’s nothing like it.

He said thanks.

“Now, everything you hear, it’s all just blending together and I think it’s due to one guy writing every song and maybe so many young bands getting stuff out there and becoming popular due to social media or whatever, when they’re hardly even capable song writers yet.

Not everyone, he said.

No. I’m just saying, a lot of bands. I love music. I’m always looking for new stuff and I want to find the next great thing. I’m just saying there are lots of bands that don’t have songs as good as ours or at the very least we have songs just as good, equally as capable as being out there and listened to and loved and there’s no reason we can’t have that too.

“Maybe it just hasn’t been the right time and place for us, man. Maybe we’ve changed and times have changed and this is it. Maybe this time it’ll happen.”

Maybe.

“We’ll find out.” He said, unlocking the door to Hazleton. “I know one thing.” He closed the door and unzipped his coat. “There’s no reason this shouldn’t work. No reason The Moonwings shouldn’t be huge, and if we aren’t, something went wrong.” He wiped his mouth with a balled-up napkin from his coat pocket, then we woke the guys, sat down in a booth in the back of the dining room, put on our headphones, and finished the album.

CHAPTER 33

When I was younger, in my 20s and 30s, thinking about what it would be like if we ever had to leave Earth to survive, watching movies about it, at first, then reading books, and later scholarly articles, strictly scientific shit, just over 40 years ago now, when I first started hearing about the inevitability of traveling to another planet or moon or inhabiting a floating space station to sustain humankind, to prevent our extinction, it was so unfathomable, almost too much, too heavy, to terrifying to truly comprehend. I believed there was no way it would actually ever happen. I told myself it was impossible I’d be around to experience The Move, so the sense of fear, albeit powerful, was short lived, muted, and never fully expressed, scattered somewhere in the deepest part of my imagination’s imagination, in my psyche’s fearful little brother.

I thought we’d fix our environmental problems, that the greatest scientists, when we really needed it most, would solve everyone of them, one by one, in order of importance. It’s what I told myself, what I wanted to believe, that we would never have to leave Earth, the only place any of us really knew, our home, us, I thought that we, humans, as a species, would eventually turn it around, that we’d start doing the right things, behaving responsibly, that we’d save the planet, extend human life, and flourish, on Earth, the ONE PLACE in the universe with the just-right conditions for us, THE ONE PLACE capable of supporting human life, but it never happened. We failed. The Movement never caught on, and we kept on a path that was unsustainable, and the need to leave, NOW, arrived far sooner than anyone had anticipated.

The chances of being selected, hitting the lottery as most people were calling it, being one of the first 100 people to go, was something like 1 in 300-some million. I’d never played the lottery before, and like everyone, thought I had no chance. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go, but I was chosen, so I’m going.

I’ll leave behind an Earth that, to me, looks very similar to the one I’d always known. It smells the same. Feels the same. On an experiential level, it is the same as it’s always been. More than just my home, it is everything to me: my life, my wife and son, my entire existence, every part of me, resides on Earth.

But Earth is not the same and it will never be the same. At an alarming rate, it is no longer able to support life. We’ve been hearing about it for over a decade, we’ve been training for The Move, so that our bodies can handle the transition, we’ve said goodbye to our families, and we leave tomorrow. This is OUR ANSWER.

Our new home, after traveling for nearly 5 years, will be in Jupiter’s orbit on an enormous spacecraft, Juno XIV; equipped with everything we will need- the basics of water and air of course and the means to produce both so that, at least hypothetically, we never run out; a school, hospital, farm, gym, technology hub, and research facility. It’s been decades-in-the-making, nothing has been left out, everything has been accounted for, down to the genetic make-up of every Junoian.

That quelled fear I spoke about earlier, the one in my imagination’s imagination, is now a part of me. It’s real. It’s here, right here, right in my forehead, here in my stomach, and in my chest, it comes and goes, as I suspect it will for years to come, if I make it that long.

CHAPTER 34

I keep telling myself this will be the last time, this is the last time, you’re done, but it’s never the last time. It never is. And it doesn’t have to be. I suppose I can stop, I definitely can stop, I can, but I guess I just don’t want to. So, is that an addiction or is it determination? Passion? Resolve? Subversion? Rebellion? Is it all how you spin it, all how it’s perceived? If someone, anyone in a position to do something about it, to stop me, to commend me or lift me up, knew what I was doing, would they say it was addiction? Lawless? Sickness? Ingenuity? Progressive? Reformative? Is what we’re doing right or wrong or somewhere in between? Does it even matter? Would it change anything I’ve already done? Would it alter anything going forward? It depends. It all depends on how you frame it. Context. Perception. How you look at it, and from which point of view. Is it a delicacy or a disease or deliverance? I’m not hurting anyone, I never have, I never would, that’s not what I’ve ever intended. I just took an idea and ran with it and I can’t… I don’t want to let it go. It’s nothing that hasn’t been done before, at least to some degree. You hear about it happening from time to time at different places, and usually it’s much worse. It never ends well. But my situation is different. I opened an all-ages music venue called Megaphone. My original idea, something I’m sticking with despite limited success, was to book national acts for daytime shows, around noon until 1 or whatever worked with their schedule, catch them while they’re in town, offer them a different type of crowd, an opportunity to reach new fans, play a stripped down set, grow their music, but keep it simple while also giving fans a chance to see bands in a new light, under atypical conditions. Everyone wins. The space was an old bar on 17th and Fairmount Avenue, Bukowski used to frequent the place back in the 70s when he lived in Philly. I didn’t have a liquor license or anything, the previous owners sold it, in fact, I didn’t have any licenses at all, but I kept the place looking like a bar anyway, did nothing to it other than clean and paint. I gave away beer and water, which was donated. I put in a nice sound system and that was it. Minimalist but definitely a great spot to see a show. The problem was I totally got ahead of myself. I had a clear idea of what I was doing, and a meticulous plan, but the plan failed. The first band I called was the first I booked, Fruit Bats, and I thought it would always be that easy. Email the band, tell them what I was doing, and that’d be it, I’d load up the calendar, put on 3 or 4 shows per week, make enough money to get by, maybe more, meet tons of people, have fun, that would be it.

Easy.

Nope. Wrong.

I tried like hell, but was unable to book any other notable acts. I couldn’t even get anyone to reply. I started booking local bands just so I’d be able to say I was actually doing something, working toward bringing in bigger bands, getting some publicity, making connections in the industry, but nobody wanted to fucking talk to me.

I could have bailed on the whole idea early on, break the lease, close up, and move onto the next thing. But, I didn’t have to. I found another way to make it work. Or, maybe, it found me.

Gene and I started cooking for the bands, putting together a nice post-show meal, usually some kind of handmade pasta or pizza. And then a guy from the neighborhood, Clarence, walked in with a haul of Schuylkill River fish, said he purified them, soaked them for days in saltwater and baking soda, asked if we’d grill them up for him.

We did. And, with his insistence, we shared it with anyone who wanted some.

Which turned out to be just about everyone in the neighborhood.

Then, anyone who’d heard.

People loved it, started coming by at all hours looking for more. Clarence kept delivering and we kept cooking. Schuylkill River Fish Sandwiches. Three-day brined and then grilled whatever-the-fuck-it-was with Sriracha mayo on a long, sesame seed roll for $10.

After a few months we could no longer meet the demand so rather than stop, we went deeper, Gene and I started fishing as well, significantly increasing our supply. The key was keeping this an absolute secret while simultaneously spreading the word. Spreading the word turned out to be the easy part. It took care of itself. Running an illegal restaurant covertly took quite a bit of effort. We quickly learned the best approach would be to appear to be giving them away. We included the sandwich in the price of a ticket. That proved difficult when we had no shows booked but were cooking anyway. On those nights, 2–3 nights per week usually, we put on some kind of community event, spun records, The Moonwings played, we did a little bit of anything we could think of to make it work. We weren’t sure how long it would last, but knew that if we wanted to take it as far as it could go, or ideally, turn it into something else, something greater, the next thing, or maybe even somehow manage to reach a bigger musical audience because of our newfound culinary prowess, we couldn’t let down, we needed bodies in there every night, and we need to consistently deliver.

It was hard to believe this was working, and even more shocking that we hadn’t gotten caught. Megaphone had been open for almost a year and had been deemed a bust. I’d tried advertising, tried tweaking the hours, the ticket prices, I aimed low and I aimed high, I revamped my methods of outreach- calling rather than email, flyers, cards, sponsorship, I emailed band members directly rather than contacting the manager, creatively used social media, sent handwritten letters to labels and agents, I had contests, I brought in a couple different booking agencies, and nothing worked, and I doubt anything would have worked, until Clarence walked in with those succulent Schuylkill River scraps and turned the entire thing on its head.

Maybe there are other addicts, punks, like me, doing the same thing, or something similar, for the same reasons, making ends meet, maybe getting ahead, but this feels different. I truly believe this is mine, and mine alone.

The sandwiches are undeniably, uncompromisingly good. Hundreds of years of industrial waste must have imparted something desirable into these fish because people can’t seem to get enough. It’s illegal, I guess, I’m not even sure, but I’m not openly lying to anyone about it. I don’t have any secrets. No reason to tell, either. It’s more omission than deception. Whenever anyone asks what’s in it, or what kind of fish, I tell him it’s my special concoction, which it is. Sometimes I tell him the truth, but he thinks I’m joking. When Dan the Elevator Repairman asked me what kind of fish we use, I told him Schuylkill River sunnies. The guy wouldn’t stop laughing. I was dead serious.

Megaphone, this floundering music venue turned underground pop-up restaurant turned community hub turned burgeoning all-in-one enterprise has taken an inexplicable, almost too-absurd-to-be-believable new turn. We got busted by L&I. They shut us down. But, it went no further than that. No fines or anything. We got away with one. Gene knew the guy and convinced him it was a one-time thing. Rather than risk a more severe penalty, getting arrested or something, we ceased operations immediately. Fuck this, I said. It’s not worth it. What the hell were we thinking?

But it wasn’t over yet. All along, through conversation, through getting to know people, relationship building, by simply speaking and listening, being social, making connections, at first unintentionally and then deliberately, my prior history as a therapist came to be known. Customers began referring friends and family to me, so I took a step back from the music side of things to focus on this new, highly legal, very public, mental health endeavor. Upstairs, in a small spare room, what was formerly the green room, on the edge of the stage, on the back patio, at the bar, I conducted psycho-physiological therapy and research, an architect of the mind, experimenting with a broad range of modified, integrative meta-cognitive approaches- EMDR, CBT, Psychoanalysis, Behavior Modification, ABA, Music Therapy, REBT, MBCT- tailoring treatment to each individual client and his or her singular story.

CHAPTER 35

I blacked out again. Not really sure what happened from about 9 o’clock on. Not sure how I ended up in Northern Liberties when I live Brewerytown, don’t remember the name of the girl whose apartment I just left but I have scattered images of a mutual disrobing in the lobby of her place- not with the girl but with Alyssa, we couldn’t get enough of one another- some hilarious bedroom activity, and a failed dual shower, failed due to my inability to simply stand in a tiny stall, I guess. I’m roaming around looking for my car. Alyssa said I parked in this direction, toward the park, near the baseball field, near a pizza place. This hardly looks like a baseball field. It’s a mess. It’s a shame it’s not in better shape, I thought. It’s a shame I’m not in better shape, I thought. When is this gonna stop? When will I pull it together? I’ve been doing this, drinking and blacking out, since I was 15. Not all the time. Not always blacking out. Maybe not even as heavily as some of my friends, I rationalized. It was different back then. It was fun. It’s still fun. That’s not the issue, but back then I didn’t realize what I was doing to myself, how I was poisoning my body, how my behavior was often idiotic, if not flat-out dangerous. It was always a mistake but somehow I didn’t know it then. I was young, I guess. Still figuring things out. But the total loss of control has become a problem. I’m not always acting like an ass, from what I recall, when I’m annihilated, and nobody has mentioned anything to me to tell me it’s a problem or that I’ve been a maniac, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening, and even if it’s not I just don’t like feeling this way anymore, I don’t like losing it, forgetting, saying things I wouldn’t normally say, feeling sick, just because it hasn’t been a problem doesn’t mean it won’t soon become a problem. I’m just getting tired of it. That’s all. Of feeling this way. I mostly limit drinking to the weekends and don’t think I’m in trouble or that I have a problem, I’m getting better at just having a few beers, it’s just that this culture of binge drinking, of binge everything, take in as much as you can as fast as you can as often as you can, isn’t working for me. Now is the time to stop, before something bad happens or before I change my mind about it. I don’t even think anything bad will happen, I really don’t. But, still, it’s not good. Nothing good can come of it, that’s for sure.

Oh, hey. How’s it going? I said, as an old guy with heavy work gloves walked what appeared to be a rabid German shepherd. As it snarled at me, taking his owner’s grip to its limits, the rope furiously fraying, I made a joke about getting eaten alive and began jogging away. This uptick in motion caused a wave of sickness to overcome me and I fought back vomiting as best I could, covering my mouth, wrenching my neck and head toward the tree tops. I kept it down and laughed at my ridiculous situation. You have to laugh, I thought, or else it all falls apart.

I called Gene to see if he was with me when I left last night, maybe he knew where I parked, but he didn’t answer. My search weakened as I mindlessly circled the field. What the hell am I going to do? I said to myself. I sat on a bench near the street. I vomited. I never vomit. What the hell did I do? This is the worst. Fucking asshole. I slid down a few feet. I lied down on my back with my legs dangling off to the sides. Just as I began to doze, I quickly sat up. At the exact same time, Alyssa leaned in to surprise me with a kiss and our heads collided.

I forgot about my car and we took a cab back to my place.

“I’ll help you find it later, or tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 36

I walk to work every day, just under 2 miles. I leave at the same time, 7:20, the last possible second, and I see the same people in the same places at the same time every day. The guy on Ogden leaving his house, getting on his motorcycle, the woman smoking on the corner, the guy with the colorful socks riding his bike, the teenage kid walking his mom’s little dog, the girl who refuses to say hello on her squeaky 10-speed, the friendly dude with the pick up truck, the lady with the fit bit who won’t say hello unless she’s with her husband (on Tuesday and Thursday), the chain smoking older man sitting mid-sidewalk typing something on his computer, the dog walkers on Pennsylvania Avenue, the old Asian dude stretching enthusiastically as staticky music blares from his pint-sized radio, the girl with the tiny, sweater-wearing dog, the guy with the vest at the bus stop who has never once said hello, the dad pushing the bright red stroller carrying his daughter near the gold Joan of Arc statue, the 50-something woman with the off-time, off-balance stride trotting up the middle of the Parkway, the young Asian dude at the corner near the Franklin Institute who refuses to say hello. Today brought something new: displaced homeless men, only one of whom I’d seen before. It appeared the only commonality between them was homelessness, from one quick glimpse, a life’s story quickly unfolded. Right or wrong, it seemed apparent.

The first guy I saw, the one lying sideways on the bench, eyes closed, smoking three cigarettes at once, one in each hand, one between his lips, puffing away in order- right hand, left hand, mouth, right hand, left hand, mouth- really short puffs from each of his hands then a longer puff from the one in his mouth. Skinny and exhausted, weathered and worn out, this guy seemed off, like there was a mental component that quite possibly led to his situation and kept him from taking any real steps toward a better life. I stared at him as I walked by, but he didn’t look up. I was invisible and so was he.

A minute later I saw a guy, probably a bit younger, definitely more recently fed, slightly more active and less disheveled, preparing to flash a cardboard sign to drivers stopped at the light near a busy intersection on Spring Garden and the Parkway. He reminded me of the guy I’d seen every Sunday for 3 years standing outside Reading Terminal with a sign that read “JuSt Lost mY jOb. NO money. NO INsuRAncE. WIFe and KIds. PLEASE HELp. EVERy LiTtLe BiT HeLPs. GOd BLesS.” Maybe it’s living in the city, maybe it has hardened me, maybe I’ve become desensitized, but as much as I don’t want anyone in life to struggle, at some point, years ago, I stopped feeling bad for some of these guys. For most of them. For all of them. In a perfect world, they’d be well fed, hard working, healthy men contributing to society, happy, all of the things you want for anyone, but the vast majority of these guys have repeatedly made terrible choices, his behavior is the cause of his current situation, not extraneous factors beyond his control. So I got pissed when I saw him preparing to beg people for money and I didn’t believe him, so I thought of saying, I’m not giving you money. I’m on my way to work, which is what you should be doing. But I didn’t say a word and neither did he. I looked back a few times, but I just kept walking away.

The guy I’d seen before, not the one from outside Reading Terminal, but this 60-something old man, as usual, had 12 white plastic buckets aligned in rows, a rake and a stack of black draw string garbage bags as he prepared as he had for the last 9 years, to clean a city block as thoroughly as possible in one day, to make it pristine, not a wrapper, plastic bottle, cigarette butt, soda can, Styrofoam take out container, rubber band, used condom, pile of dog shit, or plastic bag in sight. He manicured the grass, pulled weeds, trimmed trees, bagged leaves, and left the place more beautiful then when he’d found it.

From across the street I watched as a guy with enormous muscles wearing a suit, carrying his jacket on his right arm, sleeves rolled, tattoos covering his forearms, black backpack stuck to his back, approached, reached into his pocket, handed the old man some cash, and walked away, as both of them cracked a smile from ear to ear.

When I got to work I told the kids, 4th graders, about what I’d seen. I liked getting their take on things. Mekhi, a talkative, funny, quirky, generally well-behaved student who reads on a kindergarten level, can’t yet identify every letter of the alphabet, doesn’t know what sound ch, th, sh, or x makes, who cannot add without using his fingers, subtract without drawing and crossing out circles, multiply, or divide, who cannot count money because he can’t remember or never knew the value of the coins or the procedures for adding 2-digit numbers, who cannot write 2 coherent sentences, who doesn’t know his shapes, and can’t tell time, turned to me and said, “Time goes fast.”

Yeah, it does Mekhi. You’re right. I smiled. But what does that have to do with… What do you mean? How is that connected to what we were talking about?

“Someone should help those guys before it’s too late.”

“People do help them, dummy.”

Please don’t call him names. Come on. That’s not how we should talk to each other. You can explain yourself. Explain what you mean. Be polite.

“Sorry. Don’t you see them getting money from people all the time and people handin out food all the time?” Said Zierah.

Why do you think someone should help them Mekhi? Maybe they don’t want help. Some people think they don’t deserve help. Some people think they should help themselves.

“We should always try to save someone’s life.” He said.

Almost all the kids I’d ever worked with, whether or not they were diagnosed with a disability, came to school with very similar social, emotional, and academic abilities and shortcomings. Similar circumstances and similar personalities. They were almost always significantly behind, not only in reading and math, but science, social studies, writing, and arts, creativity and imagination, grit, determination, and perseverance, character, language development and cognition, speech and sociability, attentiveness, lust for learning, and respect and appreciation for life, and it was no fault of their own.

Not yet, at least.

This doesn’t apply to every single kid, I’m not globalizing, some were doing very well, the exception to the rule, data supports this, but most were not. It’s not a generalization. It’s honesty. They’d been immensely deprived in all facets of life for their entire lives. They had never been consistently and appropriately exposed to the few very basic things we need to live full, happy, healthy lives. Very often, they came from highly stressful, abusive homes, which common sense tells you and research shows time and time again has long-lasting, harmful effects on development. I always said if you could take these kids away, give them a new home, because you can’t make parents do the right thing, we’ve tried and tried and will continue to, but if you could just put them in a loving, safe place, surrounded by good people, they’d be OK, they’d thrive, the few hours we got to see them in school wasn’t enough to completely turn things around for them, we were always playing catch up and that’s not enough for these kids, it’s not enough for anyone, they need more, but at the end of the day they always went back home and forgot everything they’d been told, what little they’d learned, and they relearned every wrong, but if we could change their entire environment, alter reality, create a new world, things would be so much better, I know it, I’m certain, these kids would finally be able to be kids, and by nature, would soak up every single thing, all the goodness, and knowledge and humor and joy, they had it in them, everyone of them.

For everything Mekhi didn’t know, for all the effort that had been made up to that point to help him learn and grow, even though nothing ever seemed to stick, for some reason, at that moment, something did, as he spontaneously discovered, right then, a shred of hope.

CHAPTER 37

It’s been a waste. One, disappointing, irreversible, enormous waste. There’s no other way to characterize it.

What am I doing here? I said.

Some of the kids looked at me, confused, like usual most were off in another world somewhere, probably stuck in their own heads, inattentive, disinterested, out of touch. Alone.

The only girl in the class put her head down on the desk.

A boy who the kids made fun of every day for smelling like ‘you-rin’ shuffled through his desk, flicking at pencil shavings.

Another kept his head down while the kid next to him held his desk at an angle, nearly toppling the thing over.

One kid sat with his hand raised and kept calling my name.

The rest of them sat, mostly silent.

This is, for the most part, the last 15 years of my life.

I knew something needed to change from the very first moment I stepped foot in the classroom, and I knew it every day since then, I knew it couldn’t last, that every day, every shitty day, would eventually catch up with me, turning a small problem into an insurmountable catastrophe.

I’m not being dramatic. This is what happens. Little things, when unchanged, eventually amount to something far greater and far more daunting, it never should have gotten this far.

Time got away from me. I was trying. Honestly, I tried every day to get out. I mean it. You name it, I thought of it, I did it, and I tried again.

It happens to relationships, too. I’ve seen it plenty of times. Something comes up, you make a problem out of nothing, and then it’s too late to do anything about it. Years later, it’s ruined. Everything you thought you had is broken.

I’m afraid it’s happening to my relationships now. I saw it coming, and still, it’s happened. It’s because of this day-to-day shitstorm, this relentless attack on the very fiber of my being.

Missed opportunities, too many to count.

And now… Nowhere else to go. Nothing left. No options. Every possibility is no more, they’ve vanished. And now the only thing that is certain is time. And it, too, won’t last.

I’ve tried, and through it all I’ve remained patient with you. I said. I come in here every single day trying to help you guys. But no one listens. None of you care. Right now, for example, I think one person, maybe two, has any idea what I’m talking about.

One of the boys, a kid whose endless disrespect is only outweighed by his abject failure to recognize it, laughed. When I said nothing funny was happening he said, “I didn’t laugh.”

I said you’re lying.

And another argument ensued. Me trying to convince someone who could not be convinced that something needed to change, that there was a better way to do this. That if he could just listen, change a few things, we’d be so much better off. I knew it, maybe he did too, but I was powerless. That’s how it’s always been. That’s what made it such a mind boggling, absolute failure. Nothing I could have done would have mattered. You can’t change anyone. You can only change yourself.

He got up and stood near the door, laughing, and talking to kids in the hallway. I’ve seriously said to sit down a thousand times today. I said. A thousand times. Why? Why does this happen? Why are you doing this?

Nothing makes sense. I used to be so clear headed. Why am I even saying anything? My grip on reality is fading. This toxic environment is wearing on me, changing my physical and mental make-up. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Or what long-term negative effects have already occurred. My only hope is that the damage done is reversible, that I might someday be the old me.

I never wanted this. I didn’t expect this and nothing I ever tried changed anything. Because this kind of environment is fundamentally and pervasively and contagiously toxic, and just being around it, being exposed to it, even in small bursts, is way too much to overcome. Now I’m hanging on by a thread.

I often dream about what it would be like to enjoy each day, to not have to fight through it, to not have to suck it up, deal with it, to just be able to wake up and know that what’s immediately ahead isn’t dreadful, that I might find joy.

The beast has been wounded, it’s bleeding everywhere, and it’s ruining everything in proximity. The years-old poison is seeping into my body, my life outside of here, outside these infectious walls, this prison-to-be, this pipeline, this mental institution, this forest fire, and I can’t take it much longer. None of us can.

But what am I to do?

What else is there? I’ve asked myself countless times. I’ve tried to work it out. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And nothing has worked. I haven’t even gotten close. I’ve been rejected over and over and over again. Now, it seems, there’s nothing left.

A fight broke out in the hallway and spread into our room.

In the hallway, kids called each other ‘faggot’.

I said they should go to their rooms. Said they shouldn’t use hate speech. They cursed me, insulted me, and ignored me. I called the office for support and they didn’t respond.

I try to be strong, for my son, for my wife, for me, to not let it take away from what we have, but it’s not working anymore. Maybe it never has. I’m not the best dad I can be, nowhere near it. I’m not a great husband anymore, I can tell, I can see what this is doing to her. I don’t play music any more, don’t write, don’t go out much, don’t laugh that often. I can’t. I don’t have time. I’m consumed with finding a way out. There must be a way.

Everything has changed. I should have known. Should have seen this coming.

Nobody was listening to me, but I had to try, to say something, to hope, for once, it’d stick.

But, this too, missed its mark. Never even penetrated the tympanic membrane, never came close to entering anyone’s mind, they’d heard nothing, got nothing, and in return, I’d changed nothing, wasted even more time, precious seconds ticked off the clock, only now I was even more dejected than when I’d started rambling.

I know it’s generational, has always been this way, it’s learned, but that’s no excuse, it’s the cause, so how the hell do we fix it? Can we?

We have to teach parenting, being a decent human and providing your kids with basic needs. How do we do that? Haven’t we already done enough? This comes down to individual responsibility. It’s character, grit, perseverance, stamina, love, hope, and common sense. The thing is, we’ve tried. We’re doing all this, not everywhere, but it is happening. And it’s not working. Parents aren’t doing their jobs and it’s ruining everything and now I’m trapped in a box with no way out. It shouldn’t be this way. But it is. Now what?

Overhaul education entirely so that it meets the needs of each individual student, using all that we know works in education- it’s nothing new, nothing needs to be discovered, it needs to be explicit, engaging, authentic instruction, differentiated to meet the diverse needs of diverse students in an ever changing world.

Looking back at history there is no reason to think things will change any time soon. Status quo is the way it goes. Incremental progress brought on by years and years and years of efforts followed by sweeping changes, regression, wiping away all that we’ve fought for with the flick of a wrist, the stroke of a pen.

Forget it. Forget it! It’s all been done. It’s not working. It hasn’t changed anything. What am I doing here? Wasting my time, these suggestions are terrible. Just get out man. Get out. Just go. Save yourself before it’s really too late.

This can’t go on any longer. If it won’t change, then I must.

CHAPTER 38

Are you gonna wait til the moon tips over?! Are you gonna wait til the moon tips over?! Are you gonna wait?! Are you gonna wait!? Or are you gonna run?!

I sat on the sofa and belted out the chorus of a new song I’d written only minutes earlier. Michael used a pair of my drumsticks to pound on a single tom-tom I’d given him and he sang along. Alyssa smiling audibly, recorded it on her phone.

To that point, I’d tried just about everything to get my music out there. I’m not going to list it all, trust me, I thought of everything, I’d done it all, and nothing worked. I’d written over a thousand songs over the course of 20-some years, recorded every single one, released every single one, and worked my ass off in every single possible way, to get people into it. Everyone who’d heard it seemed to like it, but it never left the room. I had failed, but I didn’t look at it as a failure, or a waste. I wasn’t sad or disappointed about it anymore. I’d grown used to rejection, to going nowhere, being no one, had accepted my position: a loving father and husband, a good man, a prolific, talented, yet utterly anonymous writer and rocker, penning unforgettable, Hall of Fame caliber rock tunes and gripping novel after novel. Page-turners. Foot-stompers. Sing-a-longs. I was living the life of a writer and rocker- day in and day out writing, getting better, knocking out hits- but I wasn’t getting paid, wasn’t getting recognition, and though I hadn’t entirely lost hope, the desire to become a famous musician and celebrated author had nearly faded, I thought about it less and less, and was actually pretty damn happy just doing what I loved, money or not, fame or not. I was doing it and that’s what mattered.

Dreams aren’t meant to be forgotten, and if we make them a reality, make them come true, they will never completely disappear; they will exist, in some form or the other, forever.

Alyssa and I are openly anti-social media. We’re not on anything, find it to be one of the gravest threats facing or society. Not even joking, barely exaggerating. We don’t believe in it, don’t use it, and speak out against it when it comes up.

It’s a waste. No point. If you want to share pics with friends, do it in person, or catch up on the phone, or via email or text, as part of a two-sided conversation. Otherwise, it’s anti-social, detrimental to mental health to sit there and stare at pics of beautiful people in beautiful places, perfectly posed, cropped and edited pictures, comparing the haves to the have-nots, “Look what I’m doing!” “Look at us!” “Look where we are!” “Look how great I look!” “Look at me…!” It messes up people’s minds. I’ve seen it happen time and time and time again.

We’re wasting our precious time. And we’ll never get it back.

And the fake news/fake friends/real lies/rumors/bullying/shit-slinging/meanness of it all, is life-altering and Earth shattering, it swayed a goddamn Presidential election for christ’s sake, and it’s growing uncontrollably, everywhere, it’s all anyone cares about and I struggle to find one good thing about it. What’s the point? I don’t even think people who use it, like it.

What’s the point in sharing a pic of a sidewalk, a tree, a packed suitcase, a glass of beer, a plate of food, a cloud, you in a dress, you on a beach, you in your car, you at the store, you, you, you, you, you, you, you? Just enjoy the moment! Honestly, think about this. What are we doing here? It’s crazy! What a monumental friggin waste. Billions of people worldwide burning hours and hours each and every day with this. It’s unreal.

And I’m not some old dude, I’m 34. I’m not out of touch. I get it. I get it, far too well. My friends use anti-social media, my parents do, my nieces and nephews, my younger brother; it’s not an age or an out of touch thing, this is a human thing, an inhuman thing, a worldwide pandemic. That’s my clinical diagnoses based on years of observation, plenty of research, real-life, every day applicable, practical research. It’s sound science. Anti-social media is a global threat.

But if it weren’t this, if it weren’t anti-social media, it would be something else, I know, there’d be some other way to do nothing and waste time and hurt people. I’m not a historian, but I’d say, with confidence, that in some form this is how it’s always been, just to a much greater scale now. Everyone is connected. EVERYONE IS NOW CONNECTED. And as a result EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING WILL BECOME DISCONNECTED.

It’s not all bad. There is, at least, one good thing to come of it. Jane sent the video to her friend who posted it somewhere and within a week, unbeknownst to me, it had been viewed by 30 million people. I had no idea until I got an email from Bill Martel at YouTube, where the video ultimately ended up, and he offered me an exclusive streaming deal, knock out a hundred more of these for $250k.

I did it. It was easy. Michael and I had been doing this for years. I’d already had over a hundred recorded. But I did a few hundred more, polished them, posted them, and click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click…

CHAPTER 39

Everything’s gonna be all right. Things take time. Enjoy the process. Practice becoming. You’re doing everything you love. The main hang up, the problem, the obstacle, has been work. Once you’re done teaching, and this monstrosity is off your back, your mind will open up and you’ll be content, happy working toward getting the writing and music stuff out there. It’s an environmental stressor, and it’s clouded your judgment and your perspective, and it’s made enjoying the process- everything that you have and all that you do that you typically adore and appreciate- extremely difficult due to the toxic nature of your day-to-day life. It makes it hard to find the light when surrounded by so much darkness, but it’s still there. It’s always been there.

Never stop dreaming. Never give up on your dreams. Always hope. Believe. You’re living the life you want. Enjoy the process of finally getting it out to people. It’s REALLY hard getting it out there. You weren’t born into wealth or fame or notoriety, you are doing this from nothing, just as the stories and songs are created, from out of nowhere, from nothing. It’s what you love and you’re doing it, and you’re healthy and you have an amazing wife and son. You live in a city you enjoy tremendously and there are no restrictions or restraints. You guys can go anywhere, and do anything. There are no rules. You know this. You’ve always known. So, stick with it. Be yourself. Return to form. You’re almost there! You ARE there.

Work has been flat-out horrible, but you made it. You’re out. You have a few days left. You’re stronger than them. You did it. The clouds are moving out. Everything is OK.

Even when you know, sometimes, in the midst of it all, you don’t know.

And you knew this all along. Despite some extremely challenging moments, where you were tested, you didn’t lose sight of what’s important, of what you believe, you didn’t, you kept fighting, and fighting, and you were hopeful, and you worked your ass off to get out and to be a good husband and father, and in the face of horrific circumstances- being disrespected, defied, insulted, ignored, threatened- despite feeling powerless, worthless, hopeless- being trapped in a trying, troublesome, traumatic situation, pure chaos, a no-win situation- you came out OK. And, deep down, you knew you would. You knew you’d make it out and you would not stop until you did. And through it all, you kept it all together. Did not disappoint your family, supported them, aside from a few minor blips, your son never knew, you kept it from him, showed him only your best side, that life is good, that you love him with everything you have, that you always will. Forever. And soon, NOW, it will be better. It’s already better. Easier. Normal. Joyful. Like it was before the clouds rolled in. Just think about that for a minute. You did it. You made it.

CHAPTER 40

Can you hold onto a dream for too long? Am I? Is that what I’m doing here? Am I out of my mind thinking this might actually still happen, that this might work?

“…”

I’ve been at it forever, almost 20 years now, and I’ve gotten nowhere. 20 years of failure.

“That’s not true, honey. You’ve played. People have heard your stuff. You…”

Thanks Julie, but I really haven’t gotten anywhere. Nobody has heard anything. I’ve gotten better and I’ve enjoyed every second, that’s the silver lining, I guess, but I’ve gone nowhere. I love you for trying to spin it that way though.

Why would this time be any different?

“Because it is different. And because you’ve put a lot of thought into it. And we’ve talked about it a lot. And it makes sense. And you’ve tried everything else. And it’s time.”

It was around 8:15. Sam had just fallen asleep. Julie and I sat whispering on the sofa in the living room. We did this a lot.

We kissed and I put my hand on her left leg, just above the knee.

We both worked as therapists, met 12 years earlier in grad school, an internship at Overbrook High, we hit it off right away, saw each other every single day, and hung around outside of work all the time. Within a few months, we were dating, loved each other and all that we had, and never once looked back.

I rested my head on the back of the sofa and Julie leaned into me, and for a few minutes, we said nothing.

Nothing has worked, and I’ve done it all, I said. Hundreds of shows all over the country, song after song after song posted all over the Internet, dozens of videos streaming everywhere I could think. Blogs, vlogs, advertising, networking, interviews, pitches, promos, propaganda. I have 21 Soundcloud listens, 4 freaking YouTube streams, 7 monthly Spotify listeners, and I’m pretty sure they’re all from me. I’m my only fan.

“I’m sorry honey.” She sat up to look at me, kissed my cheek.

Social media has been exactly what I expected: a complete fail. And it’s not self-fulfilling. I wanted it to work. I was optimistic. I believed. I tried. I really did. I was open-minded. I bought in. After 6 months of concerted effort, I have 96 followers across platforms, 90-friggin-6, none of which are actually following me, probably have no interest in me, it’s just a collection of random people from around the planet trying to do their own thing, no one’s really friends with or following or cares about anyone. It’s just a lot of sitting around, watching.

I was reluctant to begin with. I oppose most social media and generally view it as an absolute waste of time. It’s a global mental health catastrophe in the making. Knowing that, against my better judgment, in opposition to everything I believe, I still tried to make it work, and in the end I just felt really badly about myself for even being a part of it and pissing away so much precious time and effort and energy.

I guess it’s all part of the process of becoming something more.

Julie went to sleep and I stood at the kitchen counter and handwrote 4 pages of notes on all that we’d talked about, synthesizing everything we’d discussed and all I’d been thinking into 4 primary categories, potential courses of action. That night, though I hoped my subconscious would reveal a mid-slumber solution, I instead dreamt I broke my arm in a mixed martial arts match with my dad while 2 kids I hadn’t seen since elementary school looked on.

Sam woke up singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ at 5:15. Julie went to yoga. I went for a run with Sam in the stroller. Afterwards, he and I had breakfast- scrambled eggs with cheddar. I showered while he read books in his crib. Julie came home and showered, then we all went to Chinatown. We promised Sam we’d get him a lucky cat, maneki neko, and found one for $12 in the first place we checked out, this tiny square space on Arch Street overflowing with enormous boxes of shrink-wrapped stuffed animals.

I ran back to the car to pay the meter and put the cat in the trunk. I thought for a bit about what a great time we were having, but quickly my mind turned back to music. I had become obsessed with getting it out there, to everyone, TO ANYONE, it’s about all I thought of.

Sam wanted noodles, so we checked out Terakawa on 9th Street.

Outside, as we were taking pictures of Sam, an old Asian man and woman approached and began smiling and pointing and taking his picture as well. They patted him on the head, the man shook his hand and gave him a packet of some kind of yellow crackers, and the woman gave him a box of Whoppers.

We said thanks and they walked off happily, looking back often and waving.

We were first in line, we’d already decided on what to get so when the doors opened, we went right in, they seated us, and we ordered: vegetable ramen, cold sesame noodles, potato croquette, and edamame. Sam devoured it, slurping mouthfuls until his bowl was empty.

We went home and I put batteries in the cat and put it on the kitchen counter. Sam asked me to touch the sparkly part near its mouth. I said I didn’t want to get green glitter all over myself, but he asked me again so I did it. I wiped some glitter on his pants and he asked me why. I said I was just joking around and he laughed and said I was silly.

That night, after he’d gone to sleep and Julie and I had our time together on the sofa, I sat there alone, in the dark, just thinking. Before bed I brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face. I looked up and smiled. I noticed a singular speck of glitter remained on my face and that was it. I had it.

Over the next few days, I slowly morphed, became someone entirely new, my identity’s tipping point, my psyche’s antimatter. I created a one of a kind persona that gave life to my ideal vision of a rock and roller. He was everything I ever believed a rock God should be.

Think Ziggy Stardust but even lankier meets George Harrison from Sgt. Pepper’s without the corny hat meets Paul Stanley’s Starchild but with somewhat less chest hair, and with a perpetual week-old beard.

Goodbye, Michael. Hello, Multiverse.

CHAPTER 41

Right after work I drove back to my dated, sparsely furnished, very modest 3rd floor studio apartment of which I was quite proud, changed, brushed my teeth, checked my bank account, cringed, and left. I walked 3 blocks, North then West, to Star Bar, the usual Friday happy hour spot, and went in.

Alyssa was already there, along with Tara, Jill, Kim, Laura, Marnie- all colleagues from Kelley Elementary, a tight-knit city school in an almost impossible situation, just a mile away in yet-to-be gentrified, prototypically ghetto Brewerytown. Gene, Chris, Will, Mark, Ed, James, Ralphy, Bill, Peter, Tully, Alan, and Saul, all close friends or friends of friends, and all the other regulars, were there as well.

I caught up with Will, slamming 2 beers in 20 minutes, 2 more beers while talking with James and Mark, 1 more with Gene, and 4 more while pouring on the charm with Alyssa.

By 7, I’d had 10 beers, and moved onto shots and beers.

By around 9, I’d blacked out, intermittently, in waves, yet remained on my feet for another hour and a half, still drinking, joking, slurring, stumbling, and laughing. My buddies were just as torn up, if not worse off than me, or so it seemed.

I better go. Will you come with me?

“Um… I think I’ll go home tonight.” Said Alyssa.

Oh, come on. Just come with me.

“I want to. I really would. But…” She smiled and touched my face. “But not tonight. You should get some sleep.”

I turned and walked away, high-fived all my buddies, said bye to the bartender and to the girls from work, I hugged them, and to Alyssa, who stood near the door waiting for a private goodbye, without even a hint of a kiss, barely looking her way, I missed a high-five, and left.

My mind wandered as I walked away. With only one eye open partially, I dizzily zigzagged the sidewalk, spitting every few feet, stopping to piss in an alleyway. I made it home, turned on the oven, popped in a frozen pizza, and sat on the sofa with my guitar. I strummed for a few seconds before passing out. Four hours later I awoke, knees on the floor, belly on the couch cushion, face off to the side, a miraculous, drunken repositioning that saved my life. The apartment had filled with smoke and my low positioning kept me beneath the fog. I stumbled to the oven, turned it off, disposed of the charred, quarter-sized pizza, opened all the windows, chugged a glass of water, pissed, went outside, and slept in the backseat of my car until almost noon.

I called Alyssa and told her what had happened. I asked her to meet up.

I’m sorry for being an idiot. I really fucked up, I said. I had way too much to drink. I could have killed myself. I have to stop. But I’m really sorry if I was rude to you. I should have said goodbye. I should have kissed you. I’m an asshole. I was hammered, and it’s no excuse, it’s my fault, I know that, but I was disappointed you didn’t come with me and I mistreated you. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have gone home and gone to sleep, like you said. I won’t do treat you like that again. I promise.

And I kept my promise.

“I’m sorry I didn’t leave with you.” She said.

It’s OK. You were right. I’m just glad I didn’t die. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Nothing. You were drunk.” She said. “I couldn’t even imagine what I would do if you would have… If something would have happened to you.”

It won’t happen again. It’s not worth it. I’ve come too close too many times to fucking everything up. It makes no sense. It’s not how I want to be. It’s not what I’m about. It’s the dumbest fucking thing in the world. To act like that? To feel this way? To fucking die like that? For what? Fuck that. I’m not doing that again.

And I didn’t.

Alyssa and I had lunch, went for a walk around the neighborhood, went back to my place and got in bed. I said I understand why you didn’t but wish you would have come with me last night. Just gotten into bed. Wake up together. At least we’re together now. I guess it all ends up the same in the end. She said she wanted to stay, so much, that she really really liked me. It’s crazy how much. I said I feel the same about you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I have such a great time when we’re together. She said she liked me from the moment we met, from when I first said hello, smiling, wearing… I said I had on my grandfather’s dress pants from the 70s, this ridiculous black button up shirt with an embroidered green flower along the shoulder I got from a thrift store. I had a huge beard, and black leather boots. She told me she liked my sense of humor too, the way I always seemed so sincere when talking with her, the attention I gave her and only her, that I chose her over all the other girls we worked with. I said I never wanted anyone else. Only her. She liked the way I treated the kids, how I was always so calm, how hard I worked, the way I talked, the way I always touched her arm when I said goodbye, how I touched her head when we talked, because I insisted on buying her lunch, because I was so persistent with her, that I knew exactly what I wanted, because I was confident, because I opened the car door for her, because I was handsome, and honest, and made her feel like no one else ever had. I told her she was the most beautiful woman there ever was. We kissed. I said you make me want to be better. You’re so nice, but you’re also cool and stylish and different from any girl I’d ever met. I want to go places with you and have a life together. I said I hope that isn’t too much, too soon, or overwhelming or anything, but I’m not holding back. I’m saying how I feel. I’m not afraid to say it. Everything with you seems effortless. I can’t believe how happy I am, how happy you seem. This came out of the blue. She said she wasn’t expecting it either but that it’s been amazing so far. She said something else she loved about me was the music I listened to, and because I played guitar and drums, and because I was fun and happy and optimistic and because I made her feel safe, because I told off guys who talked with her when we were together, but more than anything she loved how she knew she could trust me and that what we had was real and that we felt exactly the same way about each other, and she was happier and more hopeful and excited than ever before.

CHAPTER 42

I don’t know exactly what triggered it. I’d been feeling great. Things had been going well. But, I started thinking about death. Not just thinking, but experiencing vicariously through the feelings and emotions and actions of my imagination. This doesn’t happen often. It’s actually very unusual. I’m not sure it’d ever happened before. The thing is, I wasn’t in a bad spot. That’s what made it seem like it came from out of nowhere, unrelated to any recent events or behaviors. What the hell? I’d just finished a 9-mile run, worn out but not exhausted, maybe that was it. Pushing my body to its limits conjured up some disarranged mental phenomenon. I don’t know. Michael had been up for long stretches the past few nights, I’d noticed my pupils had been constricted so maybe it was sleep deprivation. It’s possible it stemmed from a recent conversation I had with Gene whose birthday is today, about how time seems to be moving by more quickly the more accustomed to time we become. Who knows? Maybe it was simply just a thought and nothing more. Whatever the cause of this sudden swing in thinking, before I knew it, I became relatively emotional about getting old and dying, something I typically try not to think about and definitely don’t worry about. What’s the use, what good will come of it? But, for a few minutes I allowed my mind to drift and I was definitely shaken- the thought of all of this going away, of not being here anymore, the inevitability of it all. It’s going to happen one way or another, at some point, even if science finds a way to increase our lifespan while maintaining quality of life, even if you believe in God, if you pray, if you hope, if you’ve got great genes, it’s still going to happen. I don’t believe there is a God, an afterlife, so when it’s over, that’s it, it’s over. That’s an awful lot to consider, especially out of nowhere, at 6 in the morning, and in the shower, where I’m use to very little higher order thinking, not much prognosticating or philosophizing or conceptualizing, at least not on this subject, this truth. This time is usually reserved for automatic responses, reflexive thinking, stream of conscious blips, largely imperceptible brain activity, a neuron fires here and there, perhaps an occasional daydream, and not much more. Death is a powerful, visceral consideration, and an absolute certainty. The mere thought can be too much to handle, and a hell of a lot to process. For once I didn’t shake it off, I didn’t think of something else or immediately change topics, I accepted the thought for what it was, just a thought, and saw it through to the end.

This all took no longer than around 4 minutes. I thought of my mother, who was the perfect mom for me, just the right combination of hardly ever on my case and generally off my back. She loved me and let me be myself, accepted me for me, and let me figure things out. I have nothing but love and appreciation toward her. She’s now 64 years old, she’s doing just fine, but I thought of how she said she was thinking of retiring and how she didn’t want to be stuck with nothing to do because she didn’t want to get old and fall apart and die. I thought of how her mom, the antithesis of my mom in every way, died when she was 72. They’ve lead very different lives, at vastly different times, and I don’t anticipate an early exit for my mom but, you never know, death is death any way you spin it- I thought of her dying and what that would be like. What it would be like not only for her, but also for me, and for everyone she leaves behind. It’s terribly saddening and it’s scary, but it happens to us all. We have this great gift, this one shot, and that’s it.

Our mind doesn’t go on without us. Our consciousness will not continue living. It dies with us. We don’t become someone else or something else or get another chance at doing this again in some other time or place, some alternate universe or parallel reality. This is truly it. Sometimes I wish I wrong about all of this.

I thought of my death, what that would look like and feel like, how heartbreaking it would be if it happened at any other time than in 60 years at the same exact moment Alyssa also died. I thought of who I’d leave behind, how I would no longer be able to experience all of life’s greatest moments and all the simple, day-to-day joy in between. I would be without my wife and without my son and they will be without me.

It’s all so obvious, so well-known, unsurprising, human death has happened hundreds of billions of times, however, just because it happens to everyone and even though it has happened more times than we can count and will continue to do so at an alarming rate, regardless of whether there is nothing we can do about it, it’s still impossibly difficult to simply think about.

But it’s still necessary to think about.

Don’t be scared, I thought. There really isn’t anything to fear. Let it go. Hell no I don’t want to die, I want to live as long as possible as happily as possible and to make the most of every single second. When it happens it happens, you won’t miss any of this, you won’t remember it, you won’t feel anything, you won’t be terrified. You won’t be anything at all. Well, maybe you will, if you’re lucky, you might be a memory, a topic of conversation, a photo, hopefully you will have meant something to someone.

The most amazing, hopeful, beautiful thing about all of this, about life, is you just never know. Maybe you’re wrong about everything. Maybe we all are. Everything we know is dependent on our perception of reality. Our perceptions are changed by what we know, or what we think we know. Reality hasn’t changed. Time hasn’t changed. If space and time are endless, with no beginning and no end, then death cannot exist, and it is possible that we will live forever.

The door swung open.

“Daddy?”

I’ll be ready in 5 minutes, dude. I said.

“No rush, honey.” Alyssa popped her head in and gave me a kiss.

I dried off, hung up the towel, put on deodorant, brushed my teeth, pushed my hair to the side, went into the bedroom and got dressed. I’ll go get the car and pull it around so it’s not so cold when you get in, I said, walking downstairs. I’ll see you in 2 minutes. I’ll beep a couple times, OK Michael? He was showing Alyssa how he puts on his coat.

Whenever I think about the end, I also think about the beginning. As far back as my memory will take me, as far forward as my imagination will allow, every point along the way, and right back to this very moment.

I walked to the car and called Gene to wish him a happy birthday. I left a message. I drove around the block, and then down our street, where I stopped, put it in neutral, and beeped.

Out came Michael, smiling, holding Alyssa’s hand, who was also smiling. I leaned over, waved, and opened the door.