Tag: life

NEW ESSAY: Insomniac

Hello, Friends – – –

Just letting you know about my new humorous essay, “Insomniac,” which was just published in Cutleaf. It’s all about the quest for a good night’s sleep. I hope you enjoy it!

Insomniac

Cheers – – –

Rolli

Buy me a coffee

You Can Tell An Ostrich Anything

When Dad died, I talked to an ostrich.

In the waiting room, an ostrich sat down.

“Who let this ostrich in?” I asked.

The janitor stared at me.

The ostrich stared at me.

The surgeon walked into the room. He tore off his white mask and put on a serious one.

“You don’t even have to say it,” I said.

The ostrich put his wing around me.

*

We didn’t have the greatest relationship, Dad and I. We didn’t talk. He treated me like shit. I loved him. I realized that after.

When he got sick, I walked closer to him, sat closer. We still didn’t talk, but…

Then he died.

*

“I could really use a friend,” I said in a letter. I mailed a copy of it to everyone I could think of.

No one got back to me.

One afternoon, there was a knock on the door.

I stepped out of bed. And got dressed.

I opened the door…

It was the ostrich.

He sat down on the sofa.

“I’ll make some coffee,” I said.

*

“I don’t remember Dad ever playing with me. He was always too old. Even when he wasn’t. He loved me. He never said it. I said it a lot when I was a kid, but I didn’t mean it. Not really.”

You can tell an ostrich anything.

*

I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t open my eyes. I kept falling asleep. I kept dreaming.

I dreamed I was the last person on Earth. I felt so homesick. Even though I was home.

I crawled into bed — in my dream. I lay there.

Something touched my hair. Something tousled it. Like Dad used to.

I woke up.

I looked over.

There was something on the pillow next to me.

An ostrich feather.

*

One morning…

I looked out the window.

The sky was blue. I hadn’t noticed that. Not for months.

I made breakfast.

I swept the floor.

As I opened the front door, I saw something. The shadow of the ostrich. On the lawn.

Just the shadow.

Then it was gone.

Rolli’s latest book is Plumstuff. Buy him a coffee.

I Couldn’t Get Out of Bed, So I Went for a Walk

“You wanna buy a knife?” asked a voice.

Illustration by Rolli

I couldn’t get out of bed, so I went for a walk.

There weren’t many people in Emergency. An old woman kept rubbing her breast. A sunburned man staggered up to the desk and asked the triage nurse out on a date. She pressed a red button and he vanished. I looked at the button and thought, I could use one of those.

“Have you been drinking?” the nurse asked me.

I was having trouble putting the failure of my life into words.

“Take a seat,” she said at last.

I waited two hours, three hours. The room really filled up.

I hadn’t realized I was wearing mismatched shoes.

After four hours, I got up.

“What are you doing later?” another drunk asked the nurse as I walked out the door.

There’s a beautiful park across from my apartment that’s used mostly for selling drugs and sex. One sex worker pretends to talk on the pay phone in the middle of the park, all day. If a man approaches her, she hangs up. I’ve hardly ever gone past when she wasn’t on the phone.

I walk in the park when I’m depressed because I don’t care about the danger.

“You wanna buy a knife?” asked a voice.

I looked up. A young guy was holding out a hunting knife.

“Okay,” I said.

I pulled out my wallet. The young guy grabbed my wallet and took off.

The sex worker was watching me. I walked up to her. She hung up the phone.

“Did you see that?” I asked her.

She thought for a long time.

“No,” she said.

She picked the receiver back up.

“I love you too, Mom,” I heard her say as I walked away.

The funny thing about depression is that you forget everything that ever mattered to you. Work. Hobbies. Friends. Sex. They all float away from you like helium balloons. For a while, you wonder where they’re going and when they’ll ever come down. Then you just don’t care.

I guess it isn’t that funny.

I couldn’t afford a psychiatrist. A friend recommended a drop-in center where you could talk to volunteers. They weren’t qualified but they were good listeners.

The lady at the front desk looked up at me.

“There’s no one here right now,” she said. “But if you’d like to watch the video, I can put it on.”

I followed her into the Theatre. It was a closet with a television in it. She put a cassette tape into a VCR. I hadn’t seen a cassette tape or a VCR in years. I almost laughed.

“You think it’s hopeless,” said the woman on the screen. “Hopeless. But our love is brighter than a million stars, Gerome.”

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s therapeutic,” said the woman, on her way out of the Theatre.

“That night in the tower, looking down at the sea… I thought about ending it all. Then, Beverly, I remembered your loveliness.”

After a few minutes, I pressed eject. The label on the tape said:

Melodramas for Depressed Persons, Cassette One

I laughed. I felt a bit better.

It was Friday night. The bars were all busy.

Emergency was busy. The line-up flowed out the door.

“Hey buddy, can you help a guy out?” asked the drunk in front of me.

“I’m a writer,” I said.

He turned back around.

It was after midnight when I finally saw a doctor.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I tried explaining.

“Do you hear voices?”

“Just yours,” I said.

The doctor shook his head.

“Do you feel like hurting people? Or yourself?”

I didn’t at the moment.

The doctor sighed.

“Come back when you do,” he said. Then he pressed a white button on the wall and disappeared.

I looked at the button and thought, I could really use one of those.

Pills are unpredictable. Slitting your wrists is barbaric.

I jumped off a bridge.

A lot of people jump off Millennium Bridge. It’s so high that your spine shatters when you hit the water. You don’t have to worry about drowning. I thought that was a plus.

I climbed onto the cement column and looked around.

I had a lot of memories. I just couldn’t remember them.

I looked down at the water.

“What’s up?” asked the policeman. He didn’t get too close.

“I know things seem bad right now, but it’s not as bad as you think.

“Why don’t you come back down?

“Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

I smiled. Maybe I’d regret jumping to my death.

“You’ve got a lot to live for, probably.

“You want to tell me about it?

“Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

I laughed.

I jumped.

I didn’t die. I broke every vertebra, I think, and my left arm. But I paddled with my right arm long enough for the rescuers to get to me. I did it automatically, like a cat. I wasn’t thinking.

I was in the hospital for three months. Since I was there anyway, they gave me medication.

I started to laugh more. When I laughed too much, they lowered my dosage. “It takes a while to get the right balance,” the doctor said.

When they felt I was balanced enough, they gave my clothes back. And sent me home.

“This is the end,” said the woman on Cassette Two, sobbing.

“No,” said the man. “This is the beginning — of a glorious new life of love.”

I laughed. It really was therapeutic.

I was walking in the park one afternoon. Feeling a lot better. I carried a knife now for self-defence.

The sex worker was on the payphone.

I thought, Maybe I was pessimistic. Maybe it was the depression talking. That girl might really be talking to her mother. She just loves her that much.

You never know.

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I hear her say. As I walked on.

This story was first published (as “Melodramas for Depressed Persons”) in The Saturday Evening Post.

If you enjoyed this story, kindly consider buying me a coffee.

Big Gin Bottles: On Rejection

Writers aren’t like other people…

Writers aren’t like other people.

They have less money. Considerably less.

They drink more. Considerably more.

Palely haunting basements/attics as they do, they could easily be mistaken for ghosts. But writers are themselve­s haunted by one particular phantom. Its name is Rejection.

In my writing lifetime, I’ve received enough rejection letters, easily, to fashion the paper-boat twin of the RMS Titanic. I picture it filled to the brim with editors, floating noisily into icy northern waters.

I once received eleven rejection slips in a single day. What happened the rest of the day is, with a little help from gin, a mystery.

And I remember — how could I forget — the very first time my work was rejected. That first cosmic shin-kicking.

I was a longhaired eighteen-year-old, teeming with optimism.

The hair is gone, now, along with the optimism. But my recollection is as sharp as ever…

*

Like most unimpressive youths with no notion of how or what to write, my first composition was a poem.

My own life, I figured, was too dull to write about (it was), and so for source material I browsed bookstores (they still had bookstores in those days) and libraries (there were still a few libraries) and even newspapers (there were two of them).

Chancing, at last, on an inspiring idea, I closed myself off from the world and labored for days on a poem that was, in my humble estimation, the best ever written.

It was a ballad. A lengthy one. About an ornery sea captain.

Hoarding brilliance is criminal — sea-captain ballads belong to us all — so I stuffed the poem into an envelope addressed to The Biggest New York City Magazine, dropped it in a mailbox, and waited.

And waited…

While I waited, I daydreamed. Mostly about the Literary World, which I envisioned as a green lawn strewn with tapas tables and who’s whos.

SCENE: A garden party. Assembled LITERATI yammer over crab puffs. Enter the AUTHOR, a gallant youth wearing a bowtie and gripping an orné cane. A hush comes over the crowd. A MONACLED MAN approaches the AUTHOR.

MONACLED MAN [Timidly.] I beg your pardon. But aren’t you the celebrated author of “The Ornery Sea-Captain?”

The AUTHOR swallows a crab puff, adjusts his bowtie, and gives his cane a flourishing twirl.

AUTHOR: [Dryly.] Yes.

The LITERATI pour forth in a din of crinoline-swish and cane-clatter, a thousand jewelled hands reaching out for the AUTHOR’S, which are full of crab puffs.

It was a glorious vision.

As the weeks of waiting became months, I revisited that fantasy again and again. Sometimes I’d be wearing a top hat, and sometimes a beret, but otherwise it played out identically. Until, one morning…

Rummaging through the day’s hamburger adverts, I discovered a letter from The Biggest New York City Magazine.

I secreted the envelope back to my suite. As the LITERATI peered over my shoulder, I tore it open. And stood there, perplexed.

The envelope contained my original poem and — not a check, but a scrap of paper with a few lines printed on it. I remember the lines verbatim not because they stung (and they did sting) but because, in the ensuing years, I’ve received identically worded notes a million additional times, at least.

Dear Author:

We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material.

Yours,

The Editors

That was it.

The MONACLED MAN lifted his chin and laughed derisively. As he and his associates polished off the crab puffs, the green lawns receded into the dusty floor of my unswept apartment.

I crumpled up the rejection slip, disheartened. Then it occurred to me — administrative glitches are inevitable — that it may have been sent in error. With renewed enthusiasm, I launched the Captain back to New York City.

The Captain sailed straight home, in record time.

At best semi-fazed, I tried my luck with The Second-Biggest New York City Magazine.

Then The Third-Biggest.

The Fourth.

And every time, the Captain faithfully returned, puffing on his corn pipe, shrugging. It was devastating.

I was — devastated.

I contemplated scaling a lighthouse and flinging myself into the sea.

I lived in the middle of the Canadian prairies.

But there are other ways of drowning oneself. As every writer knows.

I reached for the gin bottle…

*

It took me years to have a trio of critical epiphanies.

The first: “The Ornery Sea-Captain” was an atrocious poem. In fact, everything I wrote in those days was atrocious. Writing something worth reading takes years of rehearsal. I’m still working on it, actually.

The second: There really is a garden. A beautiful one, full of actual LITERATI and actual AUTHORS eating crab puffs, drinking wine and laughing uproariously. What I hadn’t noticed, though, in my youthful fantasizing, were the high walls surrounding the garden, and its oppressive iron door. Submitting one’s work — whether to a magazine or a publishing house — is like approaching that door and taking a random stab at the password. You might get it, eventually. If you’re extraordinarily lucky. And you might die trying, too.

The third realization: if you purchase the really big bottles, you can save hundreds of dollars a year on gin.

*

I’ve still never been published in The Biggest New York City Magazine. Or The Second-Biggest. Or The Third. Though I still submit to them. And they still send me Dear Author letters. With distressing regularity.

Though rejection still haunts me, I’ve grown accustomed, at last, to its rasping chains and fetid odors. Like sickness and in-laws, its visits are too numerous and always unwelcome. Rejection is part of the Cosmic Order, I suppose, and the Cosmic Order will never be fathomed by mere scribbling, tipsy mortals.

If the writer’s life sounds unenviably grim, that’s only because it is.

But consider the following, aspirers to literary greatness, before flinging yourselves

from lighthouses.

From time to time, a possibly intoxicated editor will upset the cosmic order by actually accepting one’s work. In all likelihood, this will earn one little praise, and less money. The thought of that acceptance, though, can be floated over one’s head for a time, like an umbrella, to protect one’s self-esteem from the downpour of rejections.

That isn’t much, I suppose. But it’s something.

A drop of reassurance, to a writer, goes a very long way indeed.

So does a drop of gin.

If you enjoyed this essay, kindly consider buying me a coffee.

Drunk: A Story

The saddest people in the world get together every morning. They wait in line for the liquor store to open.

Illustration by Rolli

I can’t remember why I started drinking, even. I used to be able to remember. Then I forgot.

“You should see a therapist,” Janice told me. My sister.

“It’s not that big a problem,” I said. “Not yet.”

Janice grabbed my neck.

“Just go. It worked for Dad. And for Mom. Do you want to end up like Biscuit?”

I stared at the table.

I was pretty drunk.

We finished our drinks.

On the way out, I grabbed Janice’s neck. Or I would’ve fallen down.

I apologized.

“Thanks for breakfast,” she said.

*

Mom let me taste her margaritas. Growing up. Just one sip from each one. She could knock back quite a few.

“Doesn’t that taste awful?” she always said.

I always answered, “Yes.”

“So you’ll never drink them when you’re older?”

I always said “No.” Every time.

One night, coming back from a friend’s, I found my dad lying on his back on the lawn.

I helped him up. It was minus twenty.

“You forget how cold snow gets,” he said.

I helped him to the bedroom.

Mom was lying on the bedroom floor.

Biscuit and I picked her up and lay her on the bed next to Dad.

She opened her eyes for a second.

“Don’t tell my kids I was drinking,” she whispered.

*

Dr. Hollowood looked the part. He had hardly any hair, just a few scratches on the side. And glasses.

Though his office wasn’t like I’d pictured. There were no bookshelves or sumptuous carpets. There was no couch. Just a chair.

“Why do you drink?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Try to think.”

I thought as hard as I could. I was drunk.

“What are you thinking of?”

“What was the question again?”

We talked for half an hour.

Dr. Hollowood looked at his watch.

“That’s all the time we have today. It’s my daughter’s wedding.”

I was wondering about the tux.

*

The saddest people in the world get together every morning. They wait in line for the liquor store to open.

I was waiting in line.

The woman at the front of the line kept rubbing her face.

The man behind me was vibrating.

There was a young guy sitting by the door. Behind an empty guitar case. He didn’t have a guitar. I guess he was hoping for the best.

“It’s 10:01!” said the woman at the head of the line, pounding on the glass.

The door opened.

On my way in, I tossed a quarter into the guitar case.

The guy looked up and smiled.

He still had a few good teeth.

*

Dr. Hollowood crossed his legs.

“Did you have a happy childhood?”

I knew he was going to say that.

“It was pretty happy, yeah.”

“You mentioned your parents were both alcoholics?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I was happy anyway. I was a kid. It’s strange how that works.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well… You’re unhappy as a kid. But you’ll never be that happy again.”

Dr. Hollowood touched his chin.

The door opened. A shirtless man ran into the room.

“It happened again,” he said.

*

I met Janice for lunch.

It was May 23rd. I hoped she wouldn’t remember.

“You’re looking better,” she said.

“I’ve had maybe one or two drinks,” I said proudly.

I’d actually had three.

I hadn’t been that sober in a long time.

Janice looked wistful. She poked her spaghetti wistfully.

“You know, it’s been ten years.”

I knew she was going to say that.

“Hard to believe it. Ten years since — ”

“I’ve gotta go,” I said, getting up.

I grabbed my coat.

Janice touched my hand.

“Lunch is on me,” she said.

*

It was just about 10:00.

The woman at the front of the line had almost rubbed her face off.

The guy behind the guitar case was sleeping.

The door opened.

When I got to the door, I stopped.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said out loud.

I tossed two quarters into the guitar case.

The guy didn’t even wake up.

*

When I was seventeen and he was nineteen, my brother was driving us home from a party. We’d both been drinking. A car jumped over the median and hit us.

I remember … we were upside down.

I undid my seatbelt and fell down.

I undid Biscuit’s seatbelt and he fell down.

They were pretty sure his neck was already broken.

*

Dr. Hollowood and I went golfing.

The first swing, I sliced pretty bad.

Dr. Hollowood lined himself up.

“It’s a matter of confidence,” he said. “Imagine the greatest golfer in the world. You’re him — only you’re better.”

He swung.

The ball landed right on the green.

I tried it. I imagined I was the best golfer in the world. I really don’t follow golf. For some reason, I kept thinking of Jack Nicholson.

I hit the ball.

I hooked it, this time.

“Now you’re overconfident,” said Dr. Hollowood, laughing.

I lifted my club like I was going to smash it.

“You know what,” I said. “Maybe that’s it. My drinking. My confidence. I basically have zero confidence.”

“Genetics is also a strong factor,” said Dr. Hollowood.

“You’re probably right,” I said.

*

I met Janice for dinner. It was my turn to pay — usually I’d pick someplace cheap — but I was saving so much by hardly drinking that I took her to Chez Pedro.

“You look great,” said Janice.

“I’m sober,” I said. I was.

A taco shouldn’t cost $30. I ate it slowly.

Janice stared at the table.

“I’ve got some flowers in the car,” she said. “You … want to come?”

I just stared at the tablecloth. My sister stared at it, too.

“What the hell,” I said, looking up. “Let’s go.”

Janice smiled.

*

There’s a ritzy cemetery downtown, Forever Cemetery. Biscuit’s buried in the cemetery across from it.

Most of the headstones there are small and cheap. When I saw how shitty Biscuit’s looked in comparison — I’d never been there — my parents didn’t have a lot of money — I cried, just about. It was just an iron bar. The across part had dropped off.

Janice put the flowers down and cried.

I felt horrible. I needed a drink.

I hugged her.

It was bad.

It wasn’t that bad.

*

I saw Dr. Hollowood once a month. He’d recommended once a week, but that’s a lot of money.

I had an appointment. I was waiting to cross the street.

“Is my zipper open?” said the guy beside me.

It wasn’t.

He looked down.

“Is my dick out?”

I shook my head. A couple times.

The guy looked horrified.

“Then that means … I just pissed myself.”

I didn’t even laugh. It could’ve been me.

It was me. Just a few months ago.

*

I haven’t gotten drunk in a year. I haven’t had a drink in six months.

It’s not a long time.

It’s a long time.

One morning, walking past the liquor store, I was barely even tempted, I saw the guy with the case. He had a guitar now, too.

I’m not sure why. But I smiled.

A Wild Curiosity Shop: Plumstuff Reviewed in Broken Pencil

Hello, Friends – – –

Spotted a nice new review of my latest poetry/drawing collection in Broken Pencil magazine.

Review Rob Thomas call the book quirky, whimsical, playful and sardonic and likened it to a “wild curiosity shop,” which sounds about right to me 🙂

Read the full review here.

For more info on Plumstuff, check out this post:

PRESENTING: Plumstuff

Take care, friends.

Cheers – – –

Rolli

(P.S. Buy me a coffee)