• Night Spirit

    In his native Lakota tongue, Jimmy’s last name ‘Tatonka’ meant ‘buffalo,’ but no one on the Rez ever called him that – at least not since the Kevin Costner movie ‘Dances with Wolves.’ Every time he turned around, someone called him ‘Dances with Wolves,’ or ‘Sung’manitu Tanka Ob Waci.’

    Fortunately for Jimmy, no one but his family knew how close to right they were, because Jimmy Tatonka had a secret, one he hid. Jimmy was a shape-shifter, imbued withe the spirit of the wolf, Sung’manitu, and had the tribe learned of this, he would’ve been shunned, hunted down and killed.

    While most native mythology held shape-shifters as evil-doers, their were those few who, upon learning of their gift, decided to use it for good. To that end, Jimmy wanted to become the world’s best Native American Superhero, ‘Night Spirit.’

    At one time the Lakota a had superhero, ‘Wicasa Wakan,’ the Sacred Man . Shortly after Joshua Brand, whose day job was as a U.S.  Fish and Wildlife agent, took the name ‘Stalking Wolf,’  some guy named Mike Grell outed him and ‘Stalking Wolf’ disappeared.

    After college, Jimmy Tatonka moved to the nearest large city, where he quickly found work, and settling down in a nearby apartment. During the day, he labored for the city’s health department collating water, air and soil samples, and at night he wandered the back alleys seeking law-breakers.

    One night, Jimmy finally got his chance. However, he quickly learned that crime-fighting wasn’t as easy as he’d been led to  believe as he found himself boxed into a dead-end ally.

    The mistake was his and he knew it, so now he had no choice to fight for his survival and that meant breaking the cardinal super-hero rule of no killing. “Bats would be disgusted — but then the Batman would’ve never put himself in this situation.”

    Hunkered down, the man blended with the shadows and shifted into his alter-ego. They had chased a man into the ally – not a wild animal – and Jimmy hoped he’d be able to use the advantage of surprise to get out of this predicament.

    There, ‘Night Spirit’ waited for the criminal element to approach. But they were slow in coming and then they did not come at all.

    Quietly, ‘Night Spirit’ moved along the wall, making certain to stay tucked inside the shadows. His foot falls remained silent as he tread his way towards the vacant street from which he’d recently ran.

    “Strange — where’d they go?” He took notice of the utility truck parked half-way up the street, facing the wrong direction, headlights on.

    Without warning, a loop shot over his head and around his neck. ‘Night Spirit’ found himself locked in a life-or-death struggle, unable to get away.

    He put up a fight, hoping to getting free, but the more he struggled, the tighter the loop became and soon, ‘Night Spirit’ could neither breath nor hold on to consciousness. The next thing he knew, he awoke in a cage, laying on a cold cement floor in his human-form.

    The dog-pound’s lone female attendant screamed in surprised at the sight of the naked man in the kennel. She ran to call her supervisor, who called the police.

    It was a cigar-chewing detective in a long, thread-bare raincoat who, with the promise of finding the ‘asshole that committed such an unprecedented hate-crime against an Injun,’ released Jimmy from his would-be prison. After several hours of interviews, an unknown number of photographs and a jarring medical exam, Jimmy was given a ride home.

    After closing the door behind himself, all Jimmy Tatonka could think was, “What a fucked up beginning for a super-hero.”

  • The Struggle be Real

    Year’s ago my wife and I went to the store to buy toilet paper. We stood there, debating with ourselves about what to get, fretting over the amount of money we didn’t have.
    Sounds funny, now, yet after much discussion and hemming-and-hawing, we got the most expensive four-roll of butt-wipe on the shelf. Our logic was sound and remains so today — neither of us wants to be ruled by an a–hole — even if it’s our own.
    So take my advice: get the most expensive roll you can afford. In the end you’ll be glad that you did.

  • Purpose

    “When I was a kid, my mom told me that was my special purpose…” – Navin, ‘The Jerk.’
    We all have purpose: to become a personal friend of God, after all He and Adam walked around Eden talking about dogs, women and apple pie recipes; treat everyone with the same love and respect we expect for ourselves – which means we need to love ourselves too; and to have strength in the face of adversity and the courage to carry on no matter what life throws at us.
    As for the ‘dogs, women and apple pie recipes,’ — I made that part up…

  • Remembering Elvis

    Anyone old enough has heard the question: “Where were you when Elvis died?”
    I clearly recall where I was and what I was doing.
    Other things remembered include Elvis Presley’s birth year: 1935, two years after my dad’s.
    Elvis sang about staying ‘off my blue suede shoes.’
    Two years before Elvis died, we bought dad a gag-gift for his 42nd birthday – a pair of orange suede shoes.
    Like me, Elvis was born a twin and like me, his twin Jessie, didn’t survive.
    Finally, my wife saw him in concert – and I’m still jealous.
    The King is dead — long live the King!

  • Inside or Out

    As I stood at the sink washing a pan that was left to soak overnight, I noticed that it was far cleaner on the outside than the inside where our meals are cooked. So instead of a cursory scrubbing, I put some elbow-grease into it and did my best to shine it up.
    And as I built up suds and sweat, splashing around in the hot water, it came to me that most pan’s are like this one and that most people are like this pan. We’re scrubbed spotless on the outside while internally and eternally — we’re never as clean as we ought to be.

  • Inside the White Light

    “Maybe I should have waited after all.” Walking home in a thunderstorm was not Wilson’s idea of fun.

    The thunderstorm wasn’t the only thing on his mind; the memory of his brother’s death eight years before boiled in his brain all day — and now all he wanted to do was get home and have a stiff drink or two. But before Wilson could take another step, a bright explosion of light blinded him.

    Once Wilson’s vision returned, he discovered he was on the ground. His ear’s rang and he shook vigorously as his nerves misfired. When he was able to get to his feet, Wilson patted at his arms and legs, looking for possible burns.

    “Holy shit, are you okay?” Wilson jumped and turned around as a middle-aged man holding a selfie-stick with a cellphone on it’s end, came running towards him.

    “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

    “I thought you were a goner. I’m pretty sure you were directly under that bolt of lightning.”

    He quickly looked Wilson over, also finding nothing to show that he’d been struck by the lightening bolt. “So, where’s your friend?”

    “Who?”

    “Your friend?”

    “What friend?”

    “There was somebody standing right next to you. I think I might’ve gotten it on my camera.”

    The man furiously fingered his cellphone. “Here, look.”

    The man had taken a photo mid-strike, overexposed and filled with very little other than white. “I really can’t see anything.”

    “Look, you’re both right there.”

    Taking the cellphone from the man, Wilson looked closer. There were two people in the frame, both surrounded by the white light of the lightening bolt.  Goose bumps formed on Wilson’s arms and the hair stood up on his neck.

    “I’m surprised you’re not dead.”

    Wilson didn’t reply. Instead, he turned and began running; Wilson had to get home and drink the memory of his long-dead brother out of his head.

  • On Writing

    Writing is perhaps the lowest profession available to mankind. It causes the writer to not only examine the people, the place, the things around him, but it also forces the writer into self-examination each time he or she picks up the craft.
    There is nothing like crawling around in the mud with yourself to learn that all human’s are, by their very nature of being born, dirty. The writer, on the otherhand, not only crawls in the mud, but eats the dirt so as to bring its grit and flavor to life on the page.

  • There was a Time

    I’m old enough to recall using a rotary dial telephone, recording songs from a transistor radio onto a tape recorder – using cassette tapes, playing records on a mono three-speed portable record player, watching black and white television on a cathode ray tube TV and only three channels with aluminum foil on the rabbit ears and no remote controller, Instamatic and Polaroid cameras, a manual typewriter and driving a vehicle with a high/low headlight beam button on the floor, a three-speed transmission or anti-lock brakes. We didn’t have power steering, seat belts, answering machines, microwaves, video tape cassette recorders or the need for surge-protectors — but we did do a lot of playing outside — nearly everyday.
    Lord, thanks for being so good to me…

  • The Census Taker

    Paved in area’s while covered in gravel in others,  the road made for a less than smooth drive as Tad crossed Death Valley towards U.S. 395. It was a trip he’d made on several occasions while visiting friends in Victorville and Barstow.

    A full, bright moon lit the edges of the mountains and high desert fields filled with rabbit brush and sage. Tad could also make out the roadway using only the low beams on his truck as he bounced along from one surface to the next.

    As he steered around the corner one of the more winding parts of the road, he saw the lone figure of a man walking on the side of the road. Tad slowly stopped the truck and slip it into reverse.

    In no time he reached the man, who had continued to march along the roadway, “Would you like a ride?”

    The man stopped, “You know you shouldn’t pick up hitch-hikers, right?”

    “Yeah, but you are hitch-hiking and I’m simply offering you a ride.”

    “You’re right, so I accept.”

    The man, older than Tad had first believed, sat in the passenger seat and buckled the belt around his waist and shoulder. Tad also noticed the man didn’t take the time to say ‘hello’ offer his name or even shake his hand, so Tad remained quiet as the pair headed towards highway.

    After a few minutes, Tad couldn’t stand the silence, “What’s your name and why out after dark?”

    “I was wondering when you’d ask – the named Unger Stand and I’m a Census Taker.”

    “You did say ‘Unger’ and not ‘Under,’ right?”

    “Yes.”

    “That would’ve been kinda funny had your folks named you ‘Under’ but then I’m sure you thought of that before.”

    For the first time the old man looked at Tad and smiled, “I didn’t know my parents.”

    “Oh, I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

    “No worries.”

    A few minutes of awkward silence slipped between the driver and passenger, before Tad grew brave enough to ask another question: “So. You work for the federal government, huh?”

    “Sort of. Many people think it’s a part of the government, but like most agencies, it really isn’t. My turn is coming up ahead.”

    Unger pointed a well-weathered finger at the turn-off. “I live in that little cottage there, so I’ll get out now and bid you a goodnight, what is left of it, and my sincerest thank you for the ride.”

    Tad took Unger’s offered hand. While shaking it, he noticed how the old man felt chilly even though the old truck’s heater was working well.

    “I’ll wait until I see you go inside.”

    Unger nodded, turned and walked to the little house. He opened the door, looked back with a wave and shut the door behind.

    “What a weird old man,” Tad muttered as he pulled back onto the road.

    Within the hour and traveling north on 395, Tad pulled into the only gas station for miles to fuel his truck. He went in and used the facilities and bought an extra-large cup of coffee as well.

    Back onto the highway, he reached down and grabbed the cup of coffee. He noticed that though very hot, and with steam rising from it, he couldn’t feel any heat radiating from it.

    “What the hell?” he mumbled as he took a sip.

    Tad could neither smell the coffee’s aroma or taste it. In fact, the coffee seemed neither hot nor cold as he took in the liquid.

    Slowing down, he dumped the coffee out onto the roadway and chucked the cup into the bed of his truck, “Must have been a bad brew or something.”

    “Maybe some tune’s will help fight off my tired,” Tad thought as he reached for the radio.

    However, nothing came from the speakers, not even the hissing of the airwaves in their silence. He rolled the knob through both the AM and FM bands over and over. Nothing but dead-silence.

    As he continued on into the night, his fatigue grew and he had to pull off the road, “Maybe if I get out and walk around I’ll wake up – if not I can always catch a nap.”

    Tad opened his door and started to get out, but he felt very weak and wobbly as he clutched the side of the truck and stumbled around to the back of the vehicle. He complained aloud as he slid to the ground, using the passenger rear tire as an aide, “Son of a bitch…”

    He could do nothing but sit there and note how his eye-sight was now failing and the moonlit night disappeared into an abyss of endless dark. And finally, as his brain began shutting down, his last thought, “Did that old man say Census Taker or did he mean Senses Taker?”

    The following morning, state road workers found Tad unresponsive, but with a heartbeat and called 9-1-1 for help.

  • Potty Mouth

    It’s hard to take when the men simply walk away after completing their business. Sure, they did all they could for themselves, but what about me?

    It’s like I don’t even exist in their mind; always in a hurry somewhere. When they leave, there’s often a dribble here or a dribble there, perhaps a piece of paper left to float. It seems they don’t care, but I find it disgusting.

    If only I could speak instead of gurgle, I’d shout: “You need to flush your nasty turd! And damn it, put down the seat for the lady of the house!”