A three-legged dog was hitchhiking on the southbound Dan Ryan this morning, and since I know a thing or two about bad breaks, I stopped and gave the poor fella a ride. He jumped right up on the passenger seat, never once letting on he had a handicap, other than needing me to open and shut the door for him (his front right leg was the one missing, in case you’re wondering). My only request was, “If you gotta go, let me know, and I’ll pull over.”
In His Last Will and Testament, John Hughes Leaves Specific Instructions for a Breakfast Club Sequel
The obvious choice is to set the reunion movie at the kids’ high school reunion. Why else would these five people get together again so many years later? There would be believability issues with at least two of the characters returning, but if we assume that Bender marries Claire, and we do assume this, she would talk him into going, pretty much insist. There could be an early scene where he argues about wearing a tie, about taking off his shades, about wanting to go to a reunion when nobody else liked him, anyway. Andrew would go—jocks always do—and Brian would show up, a huge success financially, a trophy wife on his arm (I’d call Diane Lane, or, if you could swing it, throw money at Nicole Kidman). Allison would be the real wildcard, because really, what does she grow up to be? What I suggest with her, and everyone, is to go the irony route. Ally is a chatty radio advice host. Claire is overweight and on welfare. Andrew gets picked on at work, a la the hairy guy he tormented in the locker room. Five new cliques to use as the tagline: the sad housewife, the failure, the divorcee, the midlife crisis, the heart attack waiting to happen. The real key, though, is to get them all in the library, and for some reason, make it so they can’t leave. It wouldn’t be a stretch for this high school to have alarmed doors, not since Columbine, so maybe they could take a walk, or maybe they could all make a series of wrong turns. Then when they try to leave, the door is armed and they’re stuck. That’s when it would all come out, how their seemingly perfect lives are not so perfect, how the faces they put on aren’t who they really are. There would be dramatic monologues. There would be tears. Tempers would rise, spurring at least two fights. Somebody would kiss someone—Brian and Allison jump out at me—and it’s logical to have at least one of them divorced and another with cancer, whatever cancer needs the publicity, something we could give 1 percent of the box to. And of course there’d be music, a mix of the original songs and what the kids like today, something new in the opening credits, Simple Minds at the climax, a remix pumping through the speakers as our five heroes gallop through the hallways, evading responsibility, working together as a team, just trying to find their way back home.
Jane Addams Leaves Hull-House for 5 Bedrooms and 3.5 Baths in Lush Suburban New Lenox
If there’s one thing I’m tired of, it’s other people’s problems. This one’s husband didn’t come home last night. This one’s husband drinks too much. This one’s husband ________. Enough already. When is someone going to ask me what’s wrong? Inquire about my feelings? I’ve made my own bed, I know, but there’s only so much you can take before it gets to you, before you just have to get out. On the other hand, here’s some things I’ll never get tired of: cathedral ceilings. Cherry hardwood floors. French double doors. Bay windows. My own bathroom, a step-in spa off in the corner. Walk-in closets the size of three bus stops. Sleeping in a quiet room, on a bed, all by myself. It wasn’t too hard to convince myself I’d earned this, ten times over. At least. And besides, how long could it be before one of the 40-something trophy wives from up the block knocks on my door, asks me over for coffee, and like I had a sign on my forehead, tells me she’s alone in the world, explains why she always wears sunglasses, even at night. Even indoors.
Speaking at the Calumet City Chamber of Commerce Annual Luncheon, Gary Dotson Tells Tale of Inspiration and Longing
A three-legged dog was hitchhiking on the southbound Dan Ryan this morning, and since I know a thing or two about bad breaks, I stopped and gave the poor fella a ride. He jumped right up on the passenger seat, never once letting on he had a handicap, other than needing me to open and shut the door for him (his front right leg was the one missing, in case you’re wondering). My only request was, “If you gotta go, let me know, and I’ll pull over.” The three-legged dog said nothing, and we were on our way. Right about the split off to the Skyway, I asked my new friend if I could practice my speech, told him how I was invited to come down and talk to you all here today. Since he offered no objections, I ripped into her. That speech, one I knew well enough to recite in my sleep, told another story, that of a man, true in his heart, true to his friends and family, to God and country. I think most of you know what happened to this man, despite his chaste heart, all the trials he endured, the hardships, and his hard-fought vindication. It’s an old story, one I’m sure you’re familiar with, and I don’t think I’ll repeat it to you here today. But none of you, I’m guessing, know the story of this three-legged hitchhiking dog. So anyway, after I get done practicing my speech, I ask this dog if he’s at all inspired by my words, if he thinks my story will make an impression on you fine businessmen who have so graciously invited me to your fabulous soiree. Nothing. My new friend once again sat still, not saying a word, staring out the open window, the breeze blowing through his muzzle like the Holy Spirit Himself was passing through his head. Getting the message pretty quick, I drove on in silence, not even listening to the radio, all the way to the exit to your fine city, assuming my new friend was not impressed. I got to wondering if perhaps I should telephone you nice people and cancel. After all, if I can’t impress a three-legged hitchhiking dog, then how would you folks gonna react? However, there is a happy ending. When we reached stoplight at the end of the highway interchange, the three-legged hitchhiking dog turned to me, licked me on the cheek, then leapt out the open window, taking off like a bitch in heat. I called after him, again convinced I’d done something to offend him, but soon saw what he was after: a stray cat out on the sidewalk, strutting her stuff like she owned the place. I won’t describe here what the dog did to that cat when he caught up to it, but I think you get the picture. In any case, what I’d like to express to you folks today is a simple lesson, one I hope you’ll all take to heart. And that lesson is, when you’ve lost the means to unlock the door, find the open window and dive on through.
Upon Rhubarb’s Death, Ribbie Laments Never Being Honest About His True Feelings
The readiest I ever felt was the day they asked us to clean out our lockers. It’d already been a couple years at that point, and I’d backed down a thousand times before. But that day, that was the day. The waiting was worse than anything that could happen, I’d convinced myself, and acknowledged we weren’t getting any younger. I dreamed of how our lives might change, the media’s response, how the brass would react to the news—would they insist upon secrecy? Then, when the decision came down, us on the other side of the ledger, my timing seemed even more perfect. Change was in the air. Transition. On our way out of the office, in the cool, dark tunnels underneath the park, I prepared myself for purging, for whatever was to follow. But it was you who made a move (it always was), stopping us mid-stride, grabbing my wrist, staring up into my eyes. I thought, for that brief moment before you spoke, you were thinking what I was, that for years, we’d been afraid of each other. We’d laugh at the time we’d wasted, move forward and never look back. But the words that came from your mouth echoed no sentiment I’d ever experienced: “Let’s call Jimmy Pearsall.” Three days later, still vomiting and smelling of Southern Comfort, I called your number, but you’d already disconnected the the line. I could have found you, asked at the stadium where they were forwarding your last check, but I didn’t. If you’d wanted that, dreamed what I dreamed, felt what I felt, you wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye. Then, or now.
Tired of the Spaceship Comparisons, The New Soldiers Field Responds to Its Critics
Captain Kirk is not the quarterback for the Chicago Bears. Neither is Luke Skywalker, Buck Rogers, or Fred freakin’ Flintstone. I do not possess the power to detach myself from the old columned foundation, turn on my thrusters, and disappear in a flash of light. Ambassadors from other planets do not convene on my concourse, and not once, in my short history, has anyone ever phoned me to pick them up and take them home. Furthermore, a funkadelic master has never lured me to Earth with his slinky rhythms, and nothing has ever, on my watch, been stuck up anyone’s ass for the advancement of intergalactic knowledge. My coworkers are not small and green, nor are they hellbent on meeting the drivers of pickup trucks returning to their trailers out in the middle of the desert. I cannot bend the laws of physics, nor can I travel through time. Warp speed is out of the question, especially with a union workforce. All of my materials can be found on our Periodic Table of the Elements, though if you’re looking to point fingers, ask the Metrodome what comprises her artificial turf. I do not shy away from black holes. Less than 3 percent of me is painted silver. The term “space-age polymers” is just an expression. On the bright side, no one is buried in my endzone, and I’m not named for a corrupt utilities broker. When it comes right down to it, you’d have to admit, you wouldn’t be asking about any of this if the boys were making a go of it, the scoreboard singing a happier song. If Butkus or the Coach were still here. Or, God rest his soul, Walter. If Brett Favre were running for his life, the microphones picking up the crack of his bones. His head bouncing off my hard earth, his mind on a brief mission to Mars.
Intrigued by Reincarnation, Skip Dillard Embraces Buddhism
When you have a next life, there’s no such thing as a one-on-one. The concept of not getting a second chance after failing on the first is so Western, it’s no wonder we’re always at war. Imagine a world where redemption is only a step off the roof away. Tripping in front of a bus would do it, too, and so would two bottles of Tylenol. A hungry bear in the woods. A lucky bolt of lightning. Colon cancer. No matter what you were guilty of, or innocent, you could start over any time you wanted. Sure, a margin of error exists. You could come back as an infectious microbe. A sickly leopard. The maggot born in the trash can behind some Chinese take-out joint. But you might get lucky, too, end up rich, a beautiful actress, married to a handsome athlete, always on the news for her charitable tendencies. You could be a famous doctor. An inventor. The first man to do something no one’s ever done before, like walk on Mars, or travel back in time. You could be the lap dog to that same beautiful actress, traveling in her purse, your picture in a thousand magazines, a kiss on the nose for every flash of the camera. Even better, you could be nobody. You could go about your business, live your life. Minor victories would go unnoticed, as would major defeats. Even if anyone turned around to look, it wouldn’t matter. Either you wouldn’t care, or you’d move on again, the next roll of the dice. If you kept shooting, sooner or later, you’d get better at it, always get something good. Money in the bank.
Michael Czyzniejewski grew up in Chicago and now lives in Ohio, where he teaches at Bowling Green State University and serves as Editor-in-Chief of Mid-American Review. Recent stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Bellingham Review, Monkeybicycle, Moon City Review, SmokeLong Quarterly and the anthologies Best of the Web 2009 and You Must Be This Tall to Ride. His debut collection, Elephants in Our Bedroom, was released by Dzanc Books in early 2009.
