Trodden Down

Well 3:30 comes and I can't sleep
Just another dance all alone in the deep
With a woman I don't know
Guess I'll reap what I sow

Now my friend Jack Daniels has a shot for me
And I'll chase it down with a beer or three
While I sit in a room where I can't see

Yeah, I know...

Now it could be God but it could be him
Yeah it's hard to tell when the light is dim
Like a Sunday morn without no hymn
It feels cold

It's not what I planned when I signed on the line
I'm a man nearly right nearly half the time
But the boss don't care about my feeble mind
He says "Grow...grow...grow...grow!"

Trodden down, rocks, thorns and weeds
These are the obstacles for the seeds
Though you're never alone with the one who feeds your soul

Trodden down, rocks, thorns and weeds
These are the things that kill the seeds
No you're never alone with the one who feeds on your soul

Old travel slides make it all so clear
Through the images from another year
And the mellow word from another beer
I've gone cold

Like the windblown snow from my mind's frontier
I gotta shovel fast to get outta' here
Don't think I'm gonna last another year
It's so cold, cold, cold, cold

Trodden down, rocks, thorns and weeds
These are the obstacles for the seeds
Though you're never alone with the one who feeds your soul

Trodden down, rocks, thorns and weeds
These are the things that kill the seeds
No you're never alone with the one who feeds on your soul

Scripts at night help me get to sleep
Coffee in the day helps my mind to keep
Me just moving on up that slope
So rough and steep

I'm not gonna earn my pay today
I'm gonna sit there and think about yesterdays
And all the friends who have helped me along the way
As I go

Now my sock's on fire cuz the heater's close
I best stop 'fore they say it was an overdose
I know they'll blame the Jack before my morning toast
Yeah I know, know, know, know...

Trodden down, rocks, thorns and weeds
These are the parables of the seeds
But you're never alone with the one who feeds your soul

Trodden down, rocks, thorns and weeds
These are the parables of the seeds
No you're never alone with the one who feeds your soul

Ambushed

I just went to the doctor for my annual physical. They tend to be nice visits, these physicals, at least in my memory. There's more chatting than usual, more time set aside for real sit-downs with the harried HMO shamans. Mine is an attractive, pleasant, middle-aged woman with a bubbly name to match her personality. She's watched over me for many years now, trying futilely, it seems, to figure out what's wrong. I think we both know it's all in my head but we play this little game periodically and then go about our business for another year, or until there's a new outcropping of oddity.

I was really looking forward to this particular physical. We had fasting blood work to review, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the hard evidence would finally show itself, the proof that I'm not just imagining the aches, pains, fatigue, and sleeplessness. The doctor's assistant smiled and led me back to the examination room, recording my height and weight along the way. Holding steady. That's good. Nice and easy, just the way I like it. She hands me a robe and tells me to put it on while I wait for the doctor. It crosses my mind to put it on over my clothes because this is just a physical, after all, but the doctor's helper helps dispel that assumption: "Down to your underwear." Ooookay. Yes. Alllrighhtty. Wasn't expecting this, thought she was just gonna take my blood pressure, listen to my breathing, and chat with me. Nice and easy. I start going through the mental checklist. First on the list, of course, is underwear. Is it clean? Yes. Good, thank God. Okay, ears. Have I cleaned them lately? Ehh, not sure, but shouldn't be too bad. Fingernails? Check. Uh-oh, socks. Are these the holey ones? Look down. Outstanding, not brand new but reasonably fresh. Nice. Get to preserve my dignity. Crap, what about toe jam? I've been meaning to clean those nails and now look where I'm at. Maybe she'll forget. I'll leave my socks on. Yeah, she'll probably forget. Nothing going on down there anyway.

I grab an old copy of Southern Living and hop up onto the exam table. Yummmm, there's no cooking like southern cooking. Look at those beau... "Hey Dwight, how's it going!" Ahh, that's more like it. A friendly visit, then back home to the kids. One of the first things she does is remove my socks and carefully examine my feet. I cringe and try to look away. Then she shoves the little headlight thing in my ears: "You have a little wax buildup going on. There are some over-the-counter products that work well for that." Translation: Ever hear of a Q-tip? Use one, honey. Okay, my bust, but I can handle that. I have small orifices anyway, prob'ly haven't grossed anybody out yet. Then she tells me to lay back and drop 'em, but by now I'm expecting the hernia check, so no biggie there either. Here's where it gets dicey: I'm expecting to pull up and re-group when she tells me just to roll over on my left side. Well, that's odd, I thought, but I do have scoliosis so maybe she's going to check my back. She smiles and starts asking me about my future, what I want to do in the years ahead with Jennifer, my wife. I always get a little dreamy-eyed when that topic comes up because Jen and I have been raising five children for the last 21 years and we're both looking forward to wonderful new vistas someday. As I face the blank wall and picture New Mexico I hear squishing sounds but I'm not putting two and two together yet. I feel her lift my right loaf and tell me to relax, but that's like when you bring your dog to the vet and they lift the dog's downward-curled tail in order to check its backside. You know what's coming but the dog doesn't, and you can't help but feel bad for him, ya know? Aay yay yay, next thing I know my sanctum is being violated and all I can think about is long, sharp fingernails. Yeah, she's wearing gloves, but man, ever see cat's claws go through leather furniture? It goes on for what feels like days though I'm sure it was only hours, and then the sudden rush of liberation. It's nice to be free but when she hands me a large package of moist towlettes I feel dirty, used, like a skanky, back-seat cheerleader after the "big game's" done. She tells me I'm fine and then moves off to another patient. Or lunch, maybe, who knows. I hope not. But as I dress in muted shame I know there's something I'm supposed to make of this but I just can't put my finger on it, if you will.

Days go by in turmoil as I search for meaning. I can't look at my wife or kids. I sleep in a narrow slot on the floor by the side of the bed, curled up with the dog next to the baseboard radiator in dreamless, restless sleep. And then it comes, as awakenings often do, in a brilliant flash of insight from beyond my own understanding. Joe Biden is preparing to take the oath of office. I rush back to the office television to catch a glimpse of this momentous moment in U.S. history. Just as I scuttle into the doorway the camera flicks over to catch Dick Cheney in the last moments of his regency being pushed out of the Capitol rotunda in a wheelchair, looking every bit the part of Dr. Strangelove. Don't you see it? The anal-ogy is beautiful: eight years ago we dreamt of a kinder, gentler America and a more "dignified" American president. And while we were dreaming, the smirking man in the ^%$#*$&% wheelchair rammed it up our #%&$* and then rushed out to do other things as we lay on our stained bedsheets wondering what the hell just happened!

Yes, now you see it. Glad I could be of ass-istance...

Waiting For The Other Shoe

I've spent most of my half-life so far waiting for the other shoe to drop. God's shoe. From high, high above, crashing down on my head with every warning imaginable. It will be a boot, likely. Hard and heavy, like a motorcycle boot. But there are other options, other shoes to drop, I suppose. God's probably got a whole closet full, like some rich, suburban housewife all jammed up with emotional issues: the red pumps of war, the green flats of greed, the brown oxfords of disease, and of course the big black boots of "You're screwed." I'm afraid of all of them, to be honest. Jen says I'm crazy, that life is good. I decide to test her. I trudge down the hall to my room, dripping January's slush on the white carpet. Taking one boot off, I set it by the edge of the bed and lay down, one boot off and one boot on, thinking about shoes, and God, and how I hate winter. Then I take the sole remaining boot off and dangle it over the side of the bed. It feels as if I hold the power of the entire world, all the destinies of men and shoes, between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. I wonder what will happen if I drop it, if the other shoe finally drops, the "47 years of dreading" wet winter boot. This must be like what Robert Oppenheimer felt as he prepared to light the fuse on the first atomic bomb. Would the fission run endlessly until it consumed the whole world? Was this the ultimate size 12 black biker's boot of "You're Screwed" that was about to go off? Back then there were lots of people who needed to be killed in a hurry, so Bob closed his eyes, pinched up his face, turned his head, and lit the match, hoping for the best. It all worked out okay, except for the citizens of Hiroshima. For them this really WAS the big black boot of "You're Screwed." As I pondered this horror, lost deep in thought, gravity completed its unseen work and the boot fell to earth. I went cold and fetal, waiting for the blast wave and the mushroom cloud that was sure to follow. Instead, the boot just clunked onto my carpet and fell over on its side, unmoving, like a pulled, dead leather turtle.

I guess my wife was right. Life must be good...