Yesterday I discovered a tick on the back of my neck after pine needling the natural areas around the house. Seems early for ticks, but this is the south, so….

Because it was on the back of my neck I asked my wife, who detests and is illogically afraid of ticks, to help remove it. After a long discussion which included promises of future foot rubs, shoulder massages, and raised shopping allowances (among other things), she hesitatingly agreed, so we headed out to the back porch with a self-made tick removal kit which included tweezers, cotton balls, alcohol, and a lighter.

For my part I stood bravely ready, but she?

After many “ewwwws,” several, “ooooohs,” some anxious runnings in place along with assorted other squeamish ridiculousnesses, she finally managed to clasp the tweezers to the tick.

But this is where the real problems began, as she was afraid to pull. Not only was she afraid to pull, she was also afraid to release her clutches.

”What do you mean, you can’t let go?” I exacerbated.

”It might come after me!”

”Ahem. It already has me,” I reminded her.

”Yes, but you didn’t attack it with tweezers.”

This went on for a good ten minutes while she pincered my neck, until I finally hollered at her, ”Jesus Honey, just PULL IT OUT already.”

So she did. Or should I say she tried, as the tick was apparently very deeply embedded.

When I say it hurt, I mean it really, really hurt. It hurt like the damned blue blazes. “Shit, Babe! I hope you got it?”

”Hold still!“ She said with furrowed intensity. “Almost.”

”Almost?” I cried “Holy shit! What are you doing back there?”

“Just hold still. It’s in deep.” With that she placed her left hand on my upper back for leverage and began to pull for real.

”Shit, Shit, SHIT! Stop!” I cried out. “What the hell?”

”Stop whining, you big baby!” She was really pulling now; red-faced pulling, Michael Jordan-tongue out-to-the-side pulling.

I heard a plopping noise back there, as a cork makes from a bottle. “Aaaaggghhh! What was that?” I am afraid I was truly screaming now, my “tough guy” act coming undone.

”I think it was your tonsils, but hang on, I’ve almost got it!” She was really tugging now, both hands gripping the tweezers and grunting with each new effort, the force of each unexpected wrench jerking me bodily backward.

”Hey, yuh-yuh-yuh! Hey, yuh-yuh-yuh!” This repeated utterance along with its expected rain dance was what I was reduced to, howling it out between yanks until finally my uvula and tongue followed their tonsil friends through the tiny opening.

”I got it!” My victorious wife exclaimed whilst climbing up from her ass, where the momentum of the tick’s sudden release had dropped her, the tweezers extended at arms length both for my inspection and to keep the little bugger as far as possible from her timorous hide. “Look, I got it!”

”Ah he!“ I replied, more joyous even than her that it was over. “Geat hob, Hummy!”

Elated, she thrust the tweezers out for me to take and bounded inside, leaving the critter for me to burn and my neck to disinfect on my own, but that was fine… the ordeal was mostly done, with only figuring out how to get my parts and pieces back inside to do.

My daughter ran out to the porch then, a distressed look replacing her smile when she saw my pile of entrails lying on the floor. “Daddy! Are you ok?”

”Ay am oh-hay… hanks!”

The beaming smile returned to her pretty face. “Great! Mom said she’s got your credit card, so we’re going to lunch and to do some shopping! See ya!” Giving my cheek a peck she started back inside, her negligent foot kicking my tonsils across the rough and filthy concrete as she went.

Strangely, I was never so proud of my little woman as I was at that moment, surprised nearly as much at the physical strength she had displayed as I was at the intestinal fortitude she had manifested in overcoming her fear of creepy-crawly ticks. And as I picked up my uvula, wiping the dirt from it onto my shirt before shoving it in my mouth and working it back into place, I could hear them backing out of the driveway, already singing along to Cyndi Lauper’s, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” on the radio.

”How wheat,” I told myself lovingly, still pitifully tongue-less. “Wha a wucky mam hi am!”

There are 2 kinds of uber drivers

Talkative ones

Quiet ones

Lately I've been encountering alot of "talkative" ubers.

Don't get me wrong, I love talking to

people.

Everybody got a story that deserves

to be heard.

Even as a writer you need to listen

more to people, see more to use that

in your craft.

But alot of times I prefer if they're

quiet, So I can drown myself In my

daydreams listening to music and be

out of the place I am .

Daydreaming about being somewhere

else, with someone else, being a better

version of myself.

Thats the magic of music.

But lately I dont get that chance when

I'm In the uber. Suddenly out of

nowhere they start talking, sharing

their stories and experiences, their

regrets, and ...

At first I'd get slightly annoyed, In my

head I'd be like "please, 5 more

minutes until I get to home, I wanna

listen to some music man..."

But now everythings changed.

First of all, I'm honored that people

see me as a guy who would listen and

care for what their saying. Thats an

honor I will keep forever.

What if their stories, their experiences

are a message coming from the

universe to guide me?

What if these are gods guidences that

are coming my way?

It's funny...

One time I was very upset with a

situation at my work and I was burnt

out. Then I got an uber, and he

started talking about life

And how we have to enjoy the

moments.

I talked with him all the way home

and smiled. Not only because he was a

kind and hardworking man

But because he told me something

that I needed to hear.

From thay day forward, I listen more.

Why daydream when you can

experience life through others words?

Fear isn't the enemy of respect.

It's got an uncanniness to it, but it's place where old and young have met.

Where a child might touch a stove,

Hot to fingers and palms, but a venture that might prove bold.

Ignorance is the enemy,

The enemy of life.

It is the thoughtless action which breeds uncentered takes,

Where a youth might be careless,

Might- pick up a gun.

To rob someone for what isn't theirs.

What never should.

And should they find out, what those actions might do,

a gun in the hand might come to undo.

Fear isn't the enemy,

but rather the company of respect.

It's the thing that makes playing with knives,

a dangerous game of suspect.

Suspicion of what could be,

would be or never should be known to be seen.

It's a place where there's no takebacks, no matter what you might mean.

Because what fear brings, is a consciousness of limits.

Without fear to faithfully guide, respect of live might not be in mind.

When i look fear in the eyes,does the transparent pain let in the darkness?Or do I lift the blinds to let in the light?

They say the eyes are the

windows to the soul!

When you catch your reflection in a window,are your eyes glaring back at you?Are you the mannequin in the window dressed to kill?

Still,still,still,plastic grin.

Like a cracked smile on a porcelain dolls lip.

Run,run,run,mascara red as bloody sin.

Fear on display in the monsters closet,behind the wardrobe of crafted masks of obscurity.

A room of mirrors cracking, a sinister echo cutting as sharded glass.

As i stare beyond the kaleidoscope of

splintered madness.

A summer night begins to muscle its way into the neighborhood.

This is usually the time for people to party or just visit. Anything to prolong the day. But this dusk accompanies fear that is already well-entrenched here, courtesy of a recent rash of break-ins and robberies. And everyone on the Elm Place cul-de-sac disappears into their homes.

Everyone except Joe.

He stands like a defiant sentinel in front of his open gas grill on the driveway.

Bratwursts sizzle. Joe turns the three links over with a tong. He unfolds a lawn chair—and stops.

Joe feels someone is watching him, but he is afraid to look up. Or move. He feels goosebumps and tingling on the back of his neck. His heart races. A foul odor finds his nostrils, overcoming the meaty smell from the grill. One thought seizes his brain: I should have gone inside.

“Please, mister.”

The shaky voice from the sidewalk reaches Joe’s ears, but he still cannot move.

“Please,” the voice comes again. “Can I have just a half of one of your hot dogs?”

Joe squeezes his eyes shut and opens them. He slowly turns to the sidewalk.

An unkempt man with straggly hair and a shopping cart is looking at Joe. His faded shirt and jeans are dirty and ripped.

Joe straightens up and takes a deep breath. He unfolds another lawn chair and places it next to his own. Somehow, he summons the words, “Won’t you join me?”

The man from the sidewalk smiles. And sits on the chair.

Joe puts two paper plates on a grill extension. He places one brat on one plate, another on the other plate, and cuts the last sausage link in two and distributes the halves to both plates.

Joe no longer feels the goosebumps. His heartbeat is back to normal.

And the foul odor, meaty aroma, and pungent scent of fear are overcome by the sweet smell of empathy.

I didn't truly know what alone felt like

Until I had no one to come home to

Her collar hung on my wall planner,

taunting me with the lack of a body attached to it.

The "I love you" as I walk out the door

escaping my lips to an empty room.

The smell of her dissipating day by day

as air fresheners slowly overwhelm the apartment.

An empty room.

Empty room.

Empty.

You always know this day will come,

but never expect it to arrive so soon.

The tears don't stop,

they run

on and on and on and on.

The empty bed

The empty couch

the empty kennel

the empty collar.

You're never ready,

but the day does come.

She does leave.

Now, whether we face the day or lay in bed forever,

that's determined day by day.

There's no one to turn to,

no one to sleep with

no fur to cry into after a bad day.

And eventually this may pass,

or the pain will get smaller

as the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades go on

but that doesn't change the hesitation I have

anytime I open my apartment door.