Killer Words & Kellerweis

He might have expected it from someone in a loud Escalade. Or maybe a punk kid wearing bejeweled sunglasses and supremely gelled hair. But he heard an entitled response from a skinny twerp squinting through the sun from his bird-shit covered Honda sedan.

This weekend is the Children’s Festival in our tiny town of Edgewater; concerts and vendors entertain screaming, saliva-dripping tykes. Early in the week, we found a flyer on our doorstep, which politely informed us of certain roads that would be blocked on Saturday and Sunday. Eaton Street, our street, would be closed to through traffic, but residents would be granted entrance and exit from workers posted at the intersections.

My brother and I snuck out for a few errands—well, the first was hardly an errand. We cruised to a wine & spirits shop to fill a variety six-pack with Colorado craft brews we’ve been eager to try. But after stops at the almost-equally-hellish Walmart and Target, I steered my Civic back to the house.

Left blinker on, we whined to a stop perpendicular to Eaton Street. A nondescript middle-aged man walked a few steps to be more inline with my window.

“You can’t drive through here,” he explained.

It irked me, inexplicably. This guy—standing in the miserable heat for hours turning away shortcut seekers to protect funnel cake-eating infants—should inherently know I live on the block. (I moved here less than two months ago.) So I respond accordingly.

“2525 Eaton Street.”

That’s absolutely all I said, aggressively. Almost shouting.

“2525 EATON STREET.”

Within a millisecond, my stomach knotted as I realized, That sounded exactly like Dad.

My pops is a solid guy; intelligent, loving, wants the best for his two sons. But Chris and I don’t shy away from calling him on his occasional faux pas. Sometimes when he thinks he’s being cordial with a stranger—a waiter or mechanic, for example—he sounds, to a degree, like a douche.

Dad, gotta be more aware of your tone, we’ll suggest with a disapproving head shake.

Yet there I was, completely careless with my tone.

“Hey, we actually live just a few houses down,” would have been a much more appropriate explanation to this volunteer—volunteer!

As I turned the wheel, my eyes widened. I tried to look at this roadblock man imploringly, full of guilt.

“Thank you so much,” I said with an enthusiasm that probably made him think I was conversely rubbing his incompetence in his own face. He didn’t really give me a glance. Likely a Fuck you under his breath.

I voiced my thought to Chris.

“Did that sound like Dad?”

Him mocking me was a clear answer.

“2525 EATON STREET.”

Chris, too, went through a couple alternatives that would have been much better. Ah, I am a jerk. But aside from discussing retrospect, Chris also had a wonderful idea for right then.

“You should go give him a beer,” he said.

Brilliant. I could clear my name with a cold one; a sweaty, unpaid and unappreciated fellow couldn’t turn that down. And thankfully, he didn’t.

I shook his hand mid-apology. I told him I knew I sounded hostile, privileged. It seemed before I could fully present the Sierra Nevada Kellerweis, he snagged it from my grip.

“I have a bottle opener,” he interrupted as I started reaching into my pocket for the device. Dude was prepared.

We exchanged pleasant chit chat: how long he had to stick around, how merciless the sun was, what his favorite beer is (Odell’s 90 Shilling).

“Hey, this is a good beer,” he hollered as I was 20 steps down the sidewalk. He set it next to the curb for quick access.

“Glad you like it,” I returned. And, man, was I serious. I felt absolved. The night would have been mentally torturous otherwise.

I idolize and mimic my father in many respects, but in this way I do not. It’s possible he is truly unaware of his voice, but I take note. And as a result, I’m more critical of my own. Making others feel unequal by word (or deed) is a faulted practice.

But such a slip has a liquid fix.

Have A 10-year Seat, Mrs. Coleman

It's six blocks of death. And that's just north to south. On Google Maps, the Grim Reaper's footprint is outrageous.

Cruising in one of four lanes along Wadsworth Boulevard, any semi-attentive driver has to at least glance at Crown Hill Cemetery. The tombstone grid is endless, a visual vacuum. And maybe you could shrug off the cold, ominous rock if there wasn't always a dark-colored SUV freshly parked along the circulation artery. Its doors open —an emotional getaway —a family huddles nearby to pay respects to etched dates, the individual below. Always small children in tow, too; heightens the impact of the scene.

At 40 miles per hour, you're traveling roughly 58 feet per second. And to put Crown Hill in the rear-view mirror, that half mile will claim about 45 seconds. You're bound to contemplate dying in those clock ticks.

The walls of three mausoleum buildings, that's what I tend to scan in passing. They're all connected, thin, sitting perpendicular to 30th Avenue. The east faces almost peer over Wadsworth Boulevard, close enough that the white writings on the red hearts of giant stuffed bears leaning on the granite panels are discernible from the passenger window. Plaques mark those who are within the walls; beside them real and fake flowers act as asterisks. The glop of spent candles cascades over their stands.

But oh, the molded-plastic chairs with their cold metal legs. They're always empty and innocent, but I see literal and symbolic occupants.

Inevitably, exhausted bodies slumped in the seats, filling the tissues they snagged from the end table inside the building doors. Remnants of dusty footprints suggest visitors step-stooled and reached to drop carnations into vases. Other I-miss-you furry animals in their too-cheery poses before wind tossed them on the concrete.

Then I finally passed under the ominous gates, parked and strolled up to the names.

There sat Rachel Coleman, the chair acting as her afterlife waiting room. She was born in 1918 and died...well, not yet. But there she is, next to her husband, Gus, who passed in 2000. "Together forever" divides the two. How does Rachel, who's somewhere in Denver (or far beyond), feel about having her final resting place not only predetermined but collecting dust in anticipation? It's like a storage space you've rented, but the contents are eventual, and the contents are you.

But what perspective prevails: the morbidity of a rectangular prism eager to slap your name out front, or the endearment of life partners situated for an eternal spoon?

The expanse of Crown Hill tends to wrench my gut. Its reach grows like weeds, always reminding me of our transience, the daily obituaries. Hell, a couple hundred milliseconds is the difference between braking in time and crunching the vehicle stopped in front of you. I could be toast just by looking at that cemetery instead of the road.

Yet I've got to appreciate Gus and Rachel Coleman —and surely numerous other pairs —for highlighting that dreary landscape with a bit of love, of life.

Chew That Butylated Hydroxytoluene

Softball. The recreational men’s-style softball where bellies far outnumber granite biceps. Not the most demanding of sports, but the dry Colorado air is merciless. Even climbing the bleachers as a spectator can turn your saliva into taffy.

I sprinted around the bases several times in our 17-7 victory (domination), and I desperately needed to wash my cheeks of their cotton lining. The community Miller Lite sufficed for others; biceps deflating before my eyes.

A left onto 26th and I whipped an immediate right into glowing 7-Eleven.

My default since mowing lawns as a young teen was Gatorade, the Fierce Grape variety. Only Fierce Grape.

Second in the checkout line, I held the purple stuff in my hand. Then I saw a gal juggling three Arizona iced teas in her arms. Twenty-three ounces for a slim 99 cents. I stared at her torso for too long; she likely mistook it for a boob gaze. Her economics convinced me.

“That’s brilliant,” I said to her, though I didn’t mean her jugs.

I forfeited my spot, retrieved an Arizona Southern-Style Sweet and hopped back in the line, which hadn’t moved.

The gentleman at the front wanted three packs of specially-priced cigarettes, but the sale wasn’t ringing up to his liking. A dollar came off the first pack, not the second. The cashier said that’s not how it worked.

Try it again Black Lungs demanded.

Again it failed. The smoker, irritated, continued to push the matter. The gas station had turned into a bazaar, and this dude was essentially bargaining to make his death more affordable.

As the two clawed at their impasse, I sighed and began scanning the eat-me-while-you-wait-for-douchebags-to-checkout items next to the register.

Hot dogs sweated and rolled. The tips of neglected taquitos charred. The cheese of two remaining slices of pizza resembled congealed tapioca pudding.

And before I could reach the stacks of candy, there was the motherload: nine varieties of beef jerky. You lift the plastic cover and use tongs to retrieve the various salt sticks. Stay with the original flavor or leave your comfort zone for pepper, teriyaki, and so on.

The sign should have read Don’t forget your diarrhea – trigger it nine ways!

My last-second grabs at stores never include dried meats. More common is a pack of Extra spearmint, which I suppose could extinguish jerky death breath.

The gum has a pleasant kick and, according to the packaging, helps fight cavities. It yields bubbles, and bubbles are simple, awesome entertainment. A decent $1 spent at the final moment. But ultimately gum is fleeting. The flavor drops like an anvil and you’re left chewing on this little joyous nugget of the past. You thought it would accompany you longer, be more steadfast.

During the final weeks of college, mysterious forces tweaked my path so it collided with a handful of unexplored friendships. I might have known names, but the characters were only notions. Suddenly I held the paints for the canvases, and I crafted more complete pictures of these people. My assumptions were both confirmed and disproved, all in enjoyable manners.

I had my existing pocket of pals; these new drafts – or maybe they picked me – warped that familiar circle. The oblong shape was quite refreshing.

I learned to cook new meals, cataloged workout ideas from a beast (who I nicknamed Brisket for his bull-like chest), exchanged many gigabytes of music, snagged a free (and good) haircut, and couldn’t turn down a LeBomb James shot at the bar:

“The 'LeBomb James' requires a shot of Crown Royal (for King James), some Red Bull and three packs of Splenda. Drop the shot of Crown in the Red Bull, chug it, dump Splenda in your hands, and 'baby powder throw' it into the air like LBJ.”

And just maybe these folks filed a slim insight or two from me. Possibly a smile or a “knowledge bomb” as my former roommate proclaimed with an exploding fist. To have enough value to even be a thread in that fine cloth is flattering.

But alas, the growing goodwill was cauterized days after graduation, an untimely cap upon that which was nowhere close to overflowing. I had to move west, had to take out that shiny foil and regretfully crumple up that delicious gum. I’d like to say I only clipped it to the edge of my cup, waiting to chomp once more after a few sips of something else. But I haven’t a clue when I’ll again see those charmers. Would a reunion even have the duration for it all to re-flourish?

I’ll stay in touch with some, lose it with others; that two-way street that can be tough to navigate. Still, those relationships aren’t as dispensable as they seem framed here. Not at all. They enlightened, among other things, my rolodex of food, exercise, humor and tunes – the fundamental gears that propel me.

I suppose the LeBomb James is the oil that keeps them rotating smoothly. Whiskey isn’t atop my list, though. I’ll chase it with a stick of Extra.

Graduation: A heavy metal soundtrack

I spaced them evenly on the wood-and-metal coffee table my roommate crafted earlier in the year:

_The old key to the apartment - the locks were changed days before my departure
_The key to my individual room
_The key to the mailbox

(That poor table, once sleek, had been scuffed to hell by sweating Pabst Blue Ribbons and myriad egg sandwich spills. My bad.)

With the roomie at the beach for a post-grad bash, I had to leave the functioning apartment key for him to find upon returning. I twisted – shuuunk – the deadbolt slot for the last time. We had a narrow garden adjacent to the door, and I slipped the fourth key under a perimeter rock.

Days earlier I handed over to my boss the key to the campus gym where I’d worked the entirety of my scholastic tenure.

Glancing down, my key ring suddenly looked emaciated: the keys to my Civic and my hometown house. Two keys. Pitiful. The carrying device appeared futile.

And with a move to Denver approaching in two days, I’d forfeit the need for the house key.

With only the ability to start a car engine, I recognized an era had ended. It wasn’t the lump-in-the-throat hugs goodbye to friends or the last look at a barren bedroom that communicated college’s finality. Rather a blue karabiner I clipped to my right belt loop every single day jabbed my stomach.

This is no longer your place it yelled from my hip. (Though I’m a subpar dancer, at least my waist has wisdom.)

We’re a rather material-oriented generation. And I like to consider myself not preoccupied with things, but alas a lack of things – or access to those things, I suppose – convinced me of my transience.

My strides around Virginia Tech were complemented by the jingle of metal, of establishment. The keys sang of my kitchen were my chef roommate could enlighten my elemental diet; my bedroom where I’d crank out articles for the school paper; my mailbox where I’d drool over the latest Esquire cover, at which point I’d race back to said bedroom while undressing to – not really. Cough.

After five years and two majors, I always told myself I’d have a good-riddance attitude after walking across the stage in a trash-bag gown. And fuck that hat; I look awful in hats.

As that day approached, people asked if I was sad to leave, what I would miss. I callously suggested nothing came to mind. I’m old, it’s time to go is the nonchalant aura I tried to convey.

I maintained that empty facade pretty well until I abandoned (essentially) five keys. Those five keys capped those five years. A shit-ton happened in those more than 1,500 days.

I traveled Europe, had my heart rattled by romance and tragedy (often synonymous), switched entirely the course of my career, and survived a horrid period of wearing high-water jeans. (Granted I now rock the skinny variety. Whatever.)

Woven into the threads of those, and so many more, experiences were countless individuals who inevitably tweaked my person to who it is now. Different shades of outlook, humor, back-patting and even cruelty kneaded a malleable young adult. And man I’m indebted to that blanket of influences. Yeah, some of them sucked at the time, so fuck you and thank you.

But what a critical duration that has ultimately led me to a solid kick-start professional internship in Colorado. I’ve moved in with my older brother while I find my footing. And what awaited me on my new bedroom desk? A key.

The muted sway of my steps has melody once more, however faint at the moment. The tune will find volume in time, but I learned that old song so well that I won’t ever forget its rhythm.

I’ll miss things. It’ll be contextual, like it has been several times already in the one week since I left the East Coast: snagging a certain coffee drink per the introduction by a friend; conversely sipping a certain alcoholic drink to honor the many, uh, cost-conscious evenings in Blacksburg bars; riding my bicycle to my brother’s design office – Tech’s architecture and design school was the prior default destination.

My bachelor’s is ingrained in most everything I do. Yet the catalog of keys and the resulting playlist will only evolve as the calendar flips.

I’ll anticipate the shuffle mode – arguably life’s only playback – landing on a memory. This is one hell of a classic track.

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