I was invited to a get-together at a five-star restaurant, which I attended with great anticipation. I took my time selecting the perfect outfit for the occasion and felt stunning when I arrived.

Upon reaching the venue, I started to feel shy and wondered if I had overdressed. Nervousness crept in just as a fine gentleman approached me, offering to walk me to the table. It seemed like he sensed my discomfort—such an angel.

It felt like something out of a novel. My imagination was standing right in front of me, and for a moment, it seemed like I had stepped into a dream, teleported into a book. There he stood, his eyes as captivating as the ocean. As I walked closer, my heartbeat quickened. He smiled warmly, and those eyes—oh, those eyes! My face betrayed me, and I felt the unmistakable heat of a blush creeping up my cheeks. Why do I always blush so easily? I thought.

There we were, face to face. A nervous "Hi" escaped my lips. He extended his hand toward me, and I took it, allowing him to lead me to my seat. After a while, we found ourselves deep in conversation, forgetting we were at a get-together . He was everything I imagined in a man, knowing exactly what to say—just like my imaginary boyfriend. Can he read my mind? I wondered. Every word he spoke made my stomach flutter and my heart race. Mind (My inner self), where are you?

I told him how much I love the ocean and how I’ve always dreamed of running along the cold sand at the beach, with different scenarios playing out in my head. To my surprise, he responded, "Okay, let's do it."

"Do what?" I asked, confused.

"Run on the beach," he replied.

Still unsure of what was happening, I agreed. He then led me outside the restaurant, which happened to have a beach and a hotel nearby. We walked toward the beach, and he helped me take off my heels—a gesture I found so manly. Next, he pulled a camera from his bag, having mentioned earlier that he had a passion for photography.

He handed me an AirPod and played Lana Del Rey’s "Red Dress." Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said, "Bring your imagination to life." Normally, I wouldn’t have fallen for such words, but I guess the alcohol had kicked in. Before I knew it, I was running along the beach, freeing myself from all my thoughts, bringing my imagination to life. He was there, recording me with his camera.

I must say, it was the best night of my life. I couldn’t have asked for more. Afterward, he escorted me to my hotel room, where we said our goodnights. We never exchanged numbers, and by the next morning, he was gone. I never saw him again.

Though I never got to know his name, I had always remembered his as Jay.

Auroras

September 23, 2024

At the intellectual depth of a modest bird bath

“A pretty show”

As discussed in physics classes

Solar particles interacting with nitrogen and oxygen

Emitting blue to purple light for the former

And red to green for the latter

So pedestrian!

Auroras deserve better

Neither a portent for calamities yet unannounced

Nor a harbinger for benign events to follow

Auroras warrant a poetic moniker

A kaleidoscope of wonder

From a gambol of matter

An unbridled imagination manifesting itself as only it could

Much more elusive than clouds

Auroras display only in inhospitable climes

Thus the audience pays the price for the journey

And pays again during the production

So dear the entrance fee

Auroras raise expectations

To levels only auroras can exceed

Beguile, bewitch, bedazzle,

Befuddle, beckon, and bewilder

These words barely begin

The majesty of those enthralling

And those enthralled

Become spellbound,

Enchanted, enraptured, enslaved, and engaged

Every performance is unique

Every performance is SRO

Auroras are the real reason photography was invented

Stories become legendary

And bucket lists are rewritten

Desire a peek in all definitions sans furtive

Live long enough to inspire others to do the same

The kid next door and his little brother put up a lemonade stand on the sidewalk beside our street. It is not a busy neighborhood, so at the same time that I appreciated the boys’ entrepreneurial spirits I also doubted the possibility of their success, yet being the typical American suckers for consumables Pooky-Bear, General Sherman and I ventured over to check it out.

Being a man, and therefore logically brained, the first thing I noticed about the colorfully magic-markered “Lemonade” sign taped to the folding card table was that, while it proudly proclaimed “Fresh, Cold Lemonade” and in smaller print “we accept Venmo,” there was no price written on it? Before I could ask about it though Pooky-Bear, being a woman with other, more important concerns, was already bent over the table examining the pitcher whilst debating the nutritional aspects of the lemonade with the kid.

”Did you squeeze it, or is it frozen?” She asked him, in what to me sounded like a childishly condescending voice

”I don’t know. Mom made it.”

”Well, did she add sugar?”

”I don’t know. Mom made it.”

My wife’s face corkscrewed at this unacceptable answer. ”You should find out. Your customer’s will want to know.”

The kid was growing discouraged. ”Do you want some or not?”

Pook remained undecided. “I don’t see any ice. Do you have ice? I like ice in mine.”

The kid just looked at her with his mouth open, so I took it as my opportunity. “There’s no price on the sign. How much is it?”

He gave me the same astounded look. “It’s whatever you want to pay.”

”Great, but I don’t know what Venmo is. Do you take cash?”

The kid shrugged. “I guess.”

”Those the cups?” I asked.

The kid held one up. It was so small it could have been a Solo shot glass. “Yea.”

Hiding my own childish disappointment in the small size, I gestured for two. “I remember back when I was a kid I branched out at my lemonade stand, you know; cookies, candy, Kool-aid? Not everyone wants just lemonade.“

”You bought it.”

”Yea, well I guess I’m a sucker.”

”There’s lots of suckers.” He was smiling at me as he measured out our two tiny shots.

I laughed along about the “suckers” comment at the same time I was laying my five-spot on the table. He wasn’t wrong. I mean, if the “My Pillow” guy can make it?

“Thanks!“ the kid eagerly pocketed the cash. “But what about Billy?”

Billy was gazing up at me through sad, round, little kid eyes.

”I think five is plenty for two shot-glasses half full of canned lemonade. You guys can split it.”

Now both kids had sad eyes, which pissed Pook off. “Just give them some more, you tight-wad!”

Grumbling, I laid another five on the table. “This stand is nothing but a rip-off!”

”Shut up,” she cautioned, “and come on.” As she walked away Pook poured her cup out onto my lawn.

”Hey! That’s a five dollar shot of lemonade you just pitched onto a thousand dollar lawn!”

”Too much sugar and no ice.”

From behind me the kid yelled, “Thanks y’all! And come again!” Followed by the hurtful, souring twist of, “Suckers!”

Not being sure if my own face-twisting was caused by the lemonade or the shouted words, I went ahead and poured mine out alongside Pooks‘, no longer wanting it. “No wonder the schools are medicating young boys these days.”

”Yea, well, he’ll probably grow up to be just like you.”

On second thought, maybe the little rug-rat wasn’t so bad after all. Besides, it was about time for school to start back up anyways, ha-ha!

How, when Gods are so scarce, is there an Angel in every whorehouse?

It was not in her head. She was different than the other girls, and those differences kept her feeling like an outsider. Angel was always surprised and a tad apprehensive when chosen, which was a major difference in itself, as the others vied to be chosen, making themselves comparably “bigger” everywhere that bigness mattered in mad attempts at being picked; bigger boobs, bigger hair, bigger lips, bigger personalities, while Angel remained small, girlishly-figured (flat as a board, a carpenter would call it), and meek from the facts of it. Yet she was chosen, and frequently. In fact, the other girls would not have believed it to learn that Angel was the fourth highest earner of the sixteen of them. Yet it shouldn’t have surprised them. They, better than anyone else, understood the sheer number of pervs out there, and how many of those pervs desired youthfulness in a lover. With most of Angel’s customers it was the more youthful the better. Child-like was even preferable, which was poor Angel’s lot, her appearance being small, round-eyed, and submissive. And none of the girls would have guessed it, not even Angel herself, but Angel’s lack of desire to be chosen was actually an added temptation for the sordid sort she attracted.

Like the other cathouse professionals Angel had learned to discern those customers who were likely to choose her within minutes of them walking into the brothel’s front room, where the scantily clad girls awaited to serve them drinks, and to seduce them (and their billfolds) for the night. It wasn’t so much the pervs’ looks that gave them away to her, it was more how they acted. Some customers walked in like they owned the place, appearing immediately at ease. They were the regulars; the senior fraternity brothers from the downtown university, the half-sober vocational workers who didn’t want to go home to their nagging, never in-the-mood wives, and finally the hurried, desperate to be discreet professional-types… but none of those “normal” kinds, ever seemed to be looking for Angel.

Of all the names to choose from, for a job like hers.

No, the ones who picked Angel were the neurotic, weaselly ones, their eyes darting this way and that. That was how she could tell them, by their eyes. Her customers always seemed unsettled, and not with the nervous kind of jitters that a brothel can give someone who seldom frequents one, either. Theirs was not just a nervousness gained through lack of situational confidence. No, it was way worse than that. It was a nervous born from ineptitude maybe… or worse, from some prevailing odium which followed them around like that cartoon character with the dark cloud always above him. Nevertheless, these were not cartoon characters. Far from it. Her customers did not come to the brothel looking for a good time. These people, men and women, came with a different purpose; for the chance to be alone (if only for a short while) with someone whom they could control, someone they could dominate, someone they could show the very opposite of a good time. And Angel had the look they sought; that callow, guileless look these insecure types craved. Poor little Angel’s diminutiveness made her ripe for domination.

And it was not just men. Angel attracted women too; couples, lesbians, or sometimes even lesbian couples. Always the hard core lesbians. The “butch” ones. The cropped haired, masculine ones, and the ones who had begun “the change”. The scarred and breast-less ones who sought out a paid professional, as professionals lacked the option to back out after being introduced to said lesbian’s clinically contrived attempts at manliness.

Poor little Angel humored them all, best she could. After all, she was one of them; those diffident, nervous types. She understood them. There was empathy for them inside her, even as they hurt her. It was somehow in her heart to help them. Wasn’t she as meek and misunderstood as they were? Wasn’t she also bullied and looked down upon? Wasn’t she the eternal subject of humiliation, degradation, and lewdness? By God, didn’t she allow the most disdainful of them to have their ways with her, so long as it did not become too violent? Angel was so used to being pounded on from behind for long stretches by strangers with no interest in ejaculation that she had grown to expect it, and of having her tiny bottom slapped pink by a calloused, masculine hand as she was pounded, or worse, being sprayed in a golden shower afterward. But, “it was ok,” Angel always reminded herself while catching her breath, and while cleaning herself up, and while counting her money at the end of the night. It did not hurt that bad, nor for that long, and it was a kind of therapy she was supplying to them, the saddest and most destitute of people, was it not? It made Angel feel better when she applied a virtuous spin to it all. “It is not only profitable work,“ is what she often told herself after a bad night, “it is good work.”

Now then, with this dismal setting properly set our story may begin. Having read to this point you will not fail to understand Angel’s happy surprise at the prospective client who walked in early in the evening on this particular night and bee-lined straight for her. The woman was not at all Angel’s “type”. She was neither shifty, nor weaselly. Rather, this woman approached Angel’s corner table with a warm, friendly smile. She was singularly attractive, not young, but not old either. The woman’s make-up was as light as her perfume was. Her hair was pulled back and uncolored. Her clothing was of good quality, and was conservative in style. She had the refined look of a professional type, of a doctor maybe, and would have looked comfortable in a lab coat. And the woman’s demeanor was spot-on for her appearance with her naturally inquisitive eyes, and her shoulders confidently set, so much so that Angel’s hopes for the night actually rose. Surely such a woman as this had not come to her with degradative aims?

Angel’s instincts were only partially wrong.

”Hello! Angel, isn’t it?”

”Yes. Have we met?” Having chosen it herself, and having been decently raised, the name still left her a little uncomfortable to use. “Of course, Angel isn’t my ‘real’ name.”

The woman did not mean to cut, but her words were sharp, nevertheless. “I should think not.” The glimmer in the woman’s eyes vanished for just a tick, then was back, although stiffer. “No, we have not met. I am Beverly Vypont. I have a proposition for you. Do you mind if I sit?”

Curious, but also stung, Angel remained negligent with her invitation, exhaling a pointed and impolite stream of smoke in the woman’s direction while gesturing towards the seat opposite her own.

Beverly Vypont waited patiently for the smoke to clear before slipping properly into the offered chair. “I came by this afternoon and spoke with Carmen, your manager. She described you to me, suggested that I look for you.”

”Oh, how nice of her.” There was no emotion in Angel’s voice. Carmen had “recommended” her to this woman? So… this would likely be bad after all.

”May I explain my situation?”

”Sure. Why not?” Angel snuffed out her cigarette, the better to listen.

The woman paused, scanning the table as if for a drink. Catching the clue, Angel rose. She was, after all, a servant, if a barely dressed one. “What can I get you?”

”Whiskey. Neat. Thank you.” Beverly Vypont watched Angel circle the bar, liking what she saw. This girl Angel was just as Carmen had described her, youthful and pretty if a bit sharp featured. The girl wore nothing but a very short, scarlet negligee. The legs sticking out from below it were thin, pale, and a bit knock-kneed, but that was alright. It would not matter. Willingness was the key, and Carmen had hinted that this girl would brave just about anything. The whiskey Angel brought back was cheap, biting harshly at Beverly’s tongue, much as this mission did, but that did not matter, either.

”Now then. What is it you want from me?” Angel’s half-smile did not reach her eyes.

Right to the point, Beverly thought. Fair enough. “I need a woman for my son.”

Angel laughed dismissively. Usually it was the father with such a proposition, not the mother. “Why not just bring him in then, Lady. We’ve all done that trick here.”

Beverly Vypont was not laughing. “It is not that simple.”

Of course not. Angel cursed her bad luck. It was never that simple, not for her. “All right then, spit it out already. Why isn’t it that simple?”

Beverly Vypont’s eyes leveled on Angel’s own, looking through them into her very soul, striking Anne’s callous indignity a shameful hammer blow when she said it. “My son is dying.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Anne would have dropped her head into her hands were this Vypont woman not holding her hypnotized with her eyes. Could she never just get a “normal” guy?

“Dying can mean a lot things? What do you mean when you say it?”

”He is bedridden now, under hospice care. He has weeks, at most.”

”Well, how do you intend to get him here then?”

”I’m not. You will have to come with me. Carmen said it would be ok.”

Angel somewhat controlled her belligerence. “Carmen said? Screw Carmen, I’m not leaving here and going God knows where with some deranged woman who wants me to fuck her dying son!”

”I’ll pay you $100,000.”

Angel had been leaning forward over the table, the better to hear the woman’s whispered tones, but she sagged back now, her determination to say “no” whooshing out of her like air from a poorly patched tire. “$100,000? Jesus! Lady, are you batshit crazy? What do you expect me to do with him for that kind of money?” Her nosed curled with displeasure at the very thought of it.

Beverly Vypont refused to let this whore’s vile words rile her. ”I don’t know, honestly. I know he can get an erection, but I don’t know if he can feel anything… you know… down there. But he asked me for this, for a woman, and at this point I will give him whatever I can.”

Angel reached again for her cigarette pack. “What is wrong with him?”

”ALS. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. It’s a…”

”I know what ALS is. I’m not stupid.”

”Of course not. I did not mean to imply…”

”Whatever. Forget it. Fucking Carmen…. why me?” That last part was not intended to be spoken out loud, though it was.

”You don’t have to, you know? I can ask someone else.”

”For 100 grand? Not on your life! I’d blow a grizzly bear for 100 grand! I’ll do it, but sheeesh… it’s messed up, Lady.”

Beverly Vypont missed the attempted humor. Her reply was tight-lipped, and was spoken with a raised eyebrow. “You are talking about my child, ‘Lady’. And believe me, his life is much more messed-up than yours.”

”Oh! Yea. Sorry... though I kind of doubt that last bit is true.”

Having witnessed the worsts of God and man an Angel treads fearlessly forth, for in the darkest of pits goodness doth dwell, waiting to be awakened.

Beverly Vypont opened the door and waited, making way for a hesitant Angel to enter first. It was too large a room for a bedroom, though there was a bed in its center; the hospital type of bed with a button to raise its patient to a sitting position, and then to lower them again for sleeping. The bed was currently partially raised. The room was dark but for the soft, bluish glow of an electronic halo which encircled the headboard while somehow reaching without diminishment into the furthest corners of the room through air already weighted with the sickly odors of antiseptics, the odors and lights tangling together with the sounds of sucking oxygen and the consistently quiet beep of a heartbeat monitor. These were, Angel instinctively knew, the sights, smells, and sounds of an approaching death so close by as to leave her reverently docile.

”Christian? This is Angel.” There was obvious emotion in Beverly Vypont’s voice, enough to pull at Angel’s own heartstrings, dragging her into a fervent state as well. “She’s come for you.” The woman’s voice literally broke with that said. She backed quickly out of the doorway then, pulling it to behind her, leaving Angel practically alone in a room filled with fears.

Despite them, and with only the briefest hesitation, Angel tip-toed ever so slowly to the bed’s side. She had to see, didn’t she? What it was she was in for? He was truly little more than a boy. His head did not turn toward her as Angel came into his vision, though his eyes looked side-wise at her with something akin to terror in them. Angel understood that. She was afraid too. How to begin? What to do? How to do it? What if she hurt him, or unplugged something important? Hell, he might not even want her.

Angel started with the obvious. “Hi?”

He held a blow tube between his clenched lips. Her eyes followed its meandering tube down to a box that was connected by wire to another box which was in turn connected to an IV bag whose tube ran back down and into his arm. Rather than trying to reply around the blow tube the boy closed his eyes for a long second before reopening them, making Angel immediately aware that this was how he communicated, with his eyes. “Would you like to be friends, Christian?”

Angel was not sure how to feel when the eyes slowly closed and reopened. Part of her was repulsed, but a larger part was already reaching for the soul inside the boy’s emaciated shell. She could see it in there, hiding behind his silence, a young man as desperate to love as she was to be loved. “Good” she said. And she meant it. “I would like that, too.” Her smile wasn’t forced anymore. There was a chair beside the bed, so Angel removed her overcoat and draped it over the chair’s back, leaving herself in the same skimpy, silky red negligee she’d been wearing before, when Beverly Vypont had first approached her in the brothel. While beside the chair she sat down and removed the ridiculously tall shoes she’d put on for the ride over... anything to appear taller. Returning to the bedside she decided to make things easy. With either hand she pushed at the strings holding the “nightie” to her shoulders, letting it slide off and around her ankles so that she stood naked before him. She was pleased to see that Christian’s eyes widened again, but not with fear this time. They fell to her breasts, which was the only part of her he could actually see for the bed’s height. She giggled as his face actually blushed when he looked back up at her, his shame obvious in them.

”It’s ok to look,” she assured him.

And to show it was ok, she looked down too. It was her turn to be embarrassed. They were so small. Why in God’s name had the mother chosen her for this? Any of the other girls would have been better for this boy, though even as he looked there was a rustle of movement from under the bedsheets. They were apparently big enough. “Are they all right? They aren’t very big.”

The boys’ eyes closed and then re-opened, remaining on her body. She reached for his hand, finding it twisted, its fingers curled up tight as a rubber band, the arm it extended from pale, emaciated and weak. It was nothing for her to pick the hand up, as there was literally no opposing force, neither muscular nor gravitational. The hand was cold, so she gathered it up in both of her own, warming it, massaging it futilely in an attempt to relax what could not be relaxed. “You are so cold. Would you mind if I warmed you?”

The eyes closed and opened once more.

Letting go of the hand, she reached for his blankets, pulling slowly at them, respecting his shame and distrust. His body was wasted away, his ribs pushing birdlike against pale skin, their cage protruding overtop a starved abdomen, but there was nothing shrunken about one part of him. In fact, that part, being non-muscular, stood tall, swollen and purple with life. Ignoring it, Angel climbed in beside him, pulling the covers back over them both. “Is this ok?”

The boy’s muscles might be atrophied and weak, but there was nothing wrong with his skin, which thrilled at her warmth, and at the softness of her skin against his own. His eyes closed for a longer moment this time, and then reluctantly re-opened in acknowledgement. Angel rolled onto her side, so that she could see him better, and he her. She slid one knee forward until it rested gently atop his thigh. She had been with many people, and she was finding this one not so different after all. She could please him. It would be good work to please him. Who had she ever pleased who needed it more than this boy? She placed her hand on his chest, and was gratified to see his eyes close as her hand began to rub, massaging its warmth into him.

”You like that, don’t you?” There was no response from him, but she was not fooled. She correctly suspected that he had never been touched in this way. After a moment she allowed her hand to slide down to his stomach, and her thigh to slide up his until it touched his nether region, pulling an audible moan from the poor boy, followed by a puff into the tube in his mouth, which brought a beep from the box attached to the IV stand. This was going much easier than she could have expected. She blew lightly into his ear then, causing another moan, and another puff, and another beep. She whispered into his ear then, that thing every man wants to hear from a woman, “You are very big down there.” She wondered what it must feel like to hear that, and to be unable to respond? To be unable to reach for the woman who said it, unable to climb atop her at her invitation, unable to take her in any way that a man might take a woman.

In that moment Angel understood the mother, why she would go so far to give her son this, this… most beautiful of things… for this was, in it’s very essence, love... the joining of two into one. And in this moment Angel found herself loving the boy, her heart swelling for him and his condition, her throat choking for him, and her tears welling for him, almost as though he were her own. And in this moment, alone together in this room of death, and in this bed of love, wasn’t he was hers and no one else’s? And wasn’t she his, and wouldn’t she forever be his? Unabashedly then she went for it, going down and taking him into her mouth. If she would be the only lover the boy ever knew, then she would be a proper one! Through her tongue, and through her lips she felt the pulse of life in him, and she smelled the familiar smells of man and woman, and she heard both his puffing and the beeping of the infernal box through her own blood-stoppered ears, and as she felt his weakened body stiffen to climax she pulled away and climbed atop him, sliding herself onto him with her own audible moan. He felt good inside her, normal. Emaciated he might be, but he was a man, she was a woman, and they were meant to be this way together... only it was at that very moment that realization struck her.

Opening her eyes, she watched with an increasing curiosity as he puffed into the tube, inhaling through distended nostrils, exhaling through tightened lips. Like before, her eyes followed the tube down and around to the little white box which emanated its annoying beep with each of his breaths. Continuing on, she saw where the IV entered the box, and where it exited on the bottom side. And closer to his arm, with each puff of his mouth, and each beep of the box, she watched as liquid was pushed through the needle in his arm, into his veins, into his blood. His eyes were closed now, his body relaxed, the heart monitor sluggish for a moment before suddenly turning frantic. Oh, shit!

“Christian?”

Nothing. No movement. No tenseness, and only a limpness inside her. “Christian? Are you there? Open your eyes if you can hear me, Christian?” Despairingly she leapt, more than climbed, from the bed. What had she done? What had they made her do? What had they done to her? To him? On trembling legs she begged, “Christian? Please Christian, answer me?” And then more urgently, “I need you to answer me, Christian!”

Nothing. She screamed then, Angel did. She screamed, and she cried, standing naked and alone beside him, but the boy never woke, and the mother never heeded her calls, and God, as ever, ignored her, He having new and more important matters to address, and new souls to welcome…

She had chosen poorly, Angel had, both in name and profession. This loving humans is no easy task.

Instructions: Open on your 25th birthday - please recycle the wrapping paper mindfully.

Contents:

One mirror - which allows you to see yourself as you truly are. With every flaw and blessing clearly shown - to motivate you to always evolve and understand who you are and how you are. It will be painful to look into the mirror - but all growth is accompanied by pain and struggle.

One healthy dose of self-confidence - perhaps not everyone needs this, but for those who did not grow up in homes where they were made to feel safe and where their voice mattered, here is a nice dollop of self-confidence. It's a quiet dose, that just allows you to listen to your inner voice more, that has the ability to make you believe you are worthy of being treated well. That gives you the confidence to take that risk, pursue that dream, make that art, take that trip, ask that cute person out.

One never-ending gratitude journal - Your life is a gift, this day is a gift. The air you breathe is a gift. This journal is a gentle reminder to acknowledge these gifts each and every day. A life focused more on appreciating what you do have, than what you don't, will be a life filled with contentment, happiness and joy. It will also help you to take care of the things you do have, the pets, the people, the house, the car.

One healthy dose of compassion - for yourself, your parents, the postman, the bus driver and everyone in this world. Because everyone is going through something, everyone has pain - and when we take a step back and realise a bad day doesn't equate to a bad person, and that behaviour is never personal, we gain a much more holistic appreciation of life. Even animals get grumpy sometimes. Not every day can be a great day, some days will be miserable. On those days, you need radical self-compassion and to make sure your bad mood isn't thrown in the faces of other people. Spread joy, not misery.

One pair of rose-tinted glasses - to help you see the beauty in the small things. The delicate petals of a flower, the relaxing hum of a bee, the vibrant colours of the sunrise and sunset. That delicious crunchy apple. Really taste it, really revel in the beauty of the world. There is so much and often we don't even see it.

One letter: Dear 25-year old, welcome to a quarter of a century. You probably feel old today, but I promise you that life stretches before you like a giant, unexplored forest and there are so many directions in which you can venture. Tread lightly on the earth, for she is delicate and sensitive. Listen to the whispers of your heart. It's never too late to start over, to make amends, to evolve and be a better person. Mistakes are part of life, they are part of growing. Embrace your mistakes, learn from them - they are part of the process. Remember the conversation never ends, as long as both people are still talking. If there are misunderstandings, just talk it out until you find common ground. Don't be afraid to be bad at something, it's the first step to becoming good at it - if you can learn to enjoy the process of learning, then you can learn anything. Be kind to yourself, you are becoming.

Happy birthday. I hope you use your gifts well.

A customer turns the corner and heads toward my sidewalk café on Oak Street.

Just a man walking a dog on a hot day. That’s what the average person might see. But my entrepreneurial mind races through the demographics and likely spending habits of this prospective customer.

Disposable income is up for males in the 35-44 age bracket, which is where I place this fellow. And when I calculate the entertainment and dining percentages, especially on a Saturday afternoon scorcher in August, I think my café is exactly where he needs to be. And, yes, he starts to reach for his back pocket.

“Hey, mister! Over here. May I pet your doggie?”

Drat, it’s my competitor! He is trying to lure MY customer to Louie’s, that new establishment across the street. Who does he think he is? Doesn’t he know that most startups are doomed to fail?

No! My customer is stopping. His dog tugs on the leash, and they start to cross the street.

But I wasn’t born yesterday. I hop on the sidewalk with my delicious product in my left hand and a doggie treat in my right.

“What an adorable Labradoodle, sir!” I coo.

The dog sees my outstretched palm and pulls MY customer back to me. The dog snatches the treat and I offer a tall cool glass of my blushing liquid refreshment, with three glistening ice cubes.

The customer licks his lips between sips. He reaches for his wallet, but I gently shake my head.

“No sir,” I say confidently. “This one is on the house.”

I know that repeat business breeds success. And this customer will be back.

He returns the empty glass and adds, “That is just the cool break I needed.”

As my customer leaves, I catch a glimpse of my glum competitor across the street.

I lean on my card table by the curb, and I pat my taped-on sign, “Carol’s Pink Lemonade.”

“Yes,” I give myself a mental attagirl, “you’ve got to get up pretty early to put one by this seven-year-old.”

A Wintery Weekend In Montie

By 3:30, the temperature were already at zero with a ten-mile an hour wind.  Traffic was slow but steady and the jail was filling with several of the homeless men and women, while others were housed at a nearby motel over the weekend and their meals comped by the city.

By five, it was almost completely dark and cars traveling were much fewer.  Going out and about on a night like tonight just didn’t appear to be the right thing to do.

This Friday night was one of those times when hot tea and hot soup seemed to be the perfect choice to take the chill out of your bones.

Other homes cranked their heaters up an extra ten degrees or plugged in an electric fireplace, or even used the real thing and dropped a log or two into an existing fire and sat close by to enjoy the natural heat that seemed to relax people and bring contentment.

But Montie itself was tucked away from the outside world that could slice right through you if you weren’t careful.  It was every bit that kind of cold.

Ed and Stevie, Ellie, and her parents, would already be set up in their hotel rooms.  Stevie would spend about two hours in one of the hotel’s meeting rooms to have a team meeting and listen to what Coach Claymoore had to say.

Baker and Leon, after eating grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and chicken-noodle soup, sat on the couch and watched a movie.  It was an older DVD, but one Leon had never seen: The Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles.  Leon laughed and laughed throughout, and surprisingly, Baker found it funny all over again, or maybe it was Leon’s laughter who had her laughing so.

Later, after Leon went to bed, she went into her bedroom, opened the bottom dresser drawer, and pulled out a white shoe box holding several important papers.  Opening it, she dropped in the small white box Satchell gave her earlier and it sat next to a pair of bronzed baby shoes and Stevie’s birth certificate.  Then her phone rang.

She dived across the bed and picked up the extension.  Two rings.  “Baker.”

“Hey, mom!”

“Hi, Stevie.  Did you guys get all settled in?”

“Yeah.  Ed’s in the shower and says hi.  We had a big team meeting tonight and dinner here was good.”

“Sounds like a fun time.”

“It would be even better if you were here.”

“I know.  I wish I could be there.  At least I can wish you much luck and good fortune over the next few days.  Leon and I will be cheering all of you on.  So will the city.”

“Mom, if we win tomorrow and Tuesday, we’ll be in the Final Four.  Do you think you might be able to come out here then and watch the game?”

“You bet-cha, Bub.  Leon and I will be there to see you win State as well.  That’s how confidant I am.”

“We think we can, too.  I love you, mom.  See you soon, okay?”

“You know ….”

Hell, he did it again. Get over it, Jan.

Kyoto, Japan – 1:15 p.m.

Lee walked into an expansive waiting area. Behind a modest desk sat a thin, but attractive secretary he suspected to be in her early twenties.

“Nanika otetsudai shimashou ka?” (Can I help you?)

Lee handed her a business card he had received at the airport in Albany from a man named John Steele.

"Yes. I believe I have an appointment to see Mr. Taniko."

Lee and John struck up a conversation as he was waiting for his jet to fuel up. John learned that Lee was a recently discharged veteran and wanted to do a human-interest story. Lee said he would let him know and since he found out John Steele would also be in Japan for a cover story about foreign industrialists, and that he had a good eye for detail, Lee altered his features enough to resemble Steele while flying across the country. Without him realizing it, he was doing what Freddy did.

“Hai, sutīru-san. Chotto matte kudasai.” (Yes, Mr. Steele. Just a moment.)

Lee took a seat to the left of her desk as he watched her pick up her phone.

“Taniko-san, a John Steele from the New York Times is here to see you. Yes sir, I will tell him.” She set the phone down.

“Mr. Steele-san, he will see you in a moment.”

“Thank you. I’m impressed. Your English is exceptionally good.”

“It is because of the number of various businessmen, Taniko-san comes into contact with, my position requires me to be fluent in several languages; as also is Taniko-san.”

Her phone buzzed once. She picked it up, then set it back down again.

“You may go in, Mr. Steele-san.”

Lee stood, then opened a door she4 pointed out, and he stepped through an open archway into a brightly lit room with several glass cases surrounding the walls in Taniko's office, some of which held Japanese artifacts such as Katan swords, Toso Masuku's (painted masks), and many different cuts and styles of glass and pottery designs.

Behind his desk w2as a large painting which appeared to be an original of two feudal nations at ward hundreds of years ago. Two walls were covered with a silken coverlet with Japanese lettering inscribed. Another wall was filled with a six-foot, six-shelfed bookcase with a variety of books on mining, manufacturing, and mine construction. The remaining wall was mostly a large picture window with an excellent view of Kyoto.

Lee already knew there would be no paperwork to exclaim the hundreds of millions of dollars Taniko makes exporting drugs worldwide. That was only part of the reason he was in his office.

“Sutīru-san, yōkoso (welcome).  What is it your New York Times wish from me?  If you seek an interview, I can have Taimashi, my secretary, schedule you an appointment.  To be quite forward, I do not have time to talk with you today.”

"Actually. what I want, I don't think you want her to know about, and you will make time for me."

"I am afraid I do not understand Steele-san."

Lee reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across Taniko's desk. Taniko opened the sheet and read a portion of names listed, many whom he .recognized.

Taniko licked his lips nervously, then raised his head slowly, until his eyes were level with Lee's

"Where did you get these names?"

"Where I got them from isn't important."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want what they and others like them want. Some fine music, good drugs, and exceptionally great sex."

"You do not, as it is said, beat around a tree. Do you prefer young boys, or young girl?"

"Girls."

“When and where?”

“Tonight. I want them where you do all your filming and editing. I want what I do, on film.”

"It is expensive." "Trust me. Money isn't a problem."

Lee reached inside his coat and pulled out a thick envelope and threw it on Taniko’s desk. I'm sure you can convert that easily enough. It adds up to a hundred thousand."

Taniko relaxed and for the first time, smiled. Reaching for his pen, he grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote down his address and time. He pushed it across the desk.

"Steele-san, please, I will have dinner prepared for us at seven this evening. I would be most honored to have you as my guest."

"And the rest."

"I will have it all arranged. All you ask for is below my home."

"Then I'll see you at seven."

"Nihon wa anata o kengei suru." (Japan welcomes you.)

"Domo arigatogozaimashita." (Thank you very much.)

"Koeidesu." (It is my pleasure.)

As to Mitsu Taniko, he would have the American’s money looked over to make certain it wasn’t marked.  If all checked out, he would proceed with Steele-san’s request.

Meanwhile, he would have Taimashi call the New York Times to confirm they do have a John Steel who works for them. If any problem arose, Taniko has four men, he pays very well to dispose of his body.