Ophelia by: Sandra Haubein, Acrylic on canvas, 2015.
Elbows, Elbows, Knees and Feet. Arms Over Your Head, the Marks on Your Belly by: Texas L. Cook
My mouth tastes like the metal of a coin
My tongue follows the etching of a dead man, someone time has not forgotten.
It tastes like the blood I spilt from falling as a child on hot cement,
always falling over and dropping things, “a bull” my mother said, “A bull in a goddamn china shop”
I never knew what that meant.
The grass was always dead, the sun beat down on it so hard that it lost its color, turned brown
The heat was too thick, made me feel like an animal, the sweat stinging my eyes and my skin turning bright red
Home was morning time, chirping feathers very loud
and
home was when Sam would walk me home two doors down
and
Home was where the clouds were green, trees all around us, we could hardly see the sky,
and
home was so funny with “remember that time?”
and “how could I forget?”
Clumsiness crashed down on me, I have so many scars,
of course I remember.
“That pond we went swimming in every day?”
Yes!
We were not allowed in there. “And when the cops came by, and we ran!” Yes! I still haven’t told my mother.
Thinking back like this makes me feel strange. And now my mouth tastes like blood. I cannot figure out why. Impermanence. But I remember And my skin does too.
Pianist at the River by Martina Petrovic, photograph, 2011.
Future by: Brittany Zambrano
As you highlight the phrase, I strike my yellow lighter
and flame up the head.
It burns all the way, as the yellow ink bleeds
through the page.
We are both fighters, holding tight to our future.
A yellow marker between your silk finger tips,
And a mellow bud between my stilled, chapped lips.
You race to reach the end, as I inhale
“straight and fast.”
Breaking Through by: Julie Wells, mixed media, 2015.
Buenos Tiempos Vienen by: Franklin Posh
My beautiful baby girl. My beautiful, suffering
baby girl who, when you asked me to stay,
spoke the words as if it was all you’d ever wanted;
as if it would have been enough to keep me.
My tender one, my doe-eyed, puddle-eyed,
starry-eyed organic madness. Your heart is
so full of chaos that I’m drawn to you; I am
in love with you and I tell everyone about you.
The people at work and the grocer and the ones who live
in the apartment next to me that I drink with on Friday
and the trashman and my parole officer and your mother—
who won’t let me see you anymore because I wasn’t being
gentle. I’m sorry that I sometimes get carried away.
I swear I would never do anything to hurt you.
I talk about you all day long, about when you were
just a baby, and how I cried watching Momma give birth
to you: that shock of chestnut-brown hair that stuck up from your cabeza
and your squishy flesh, like over-ripe mangos; and your
pursed, mumbling lips, pink and pulpy like two tiny wedges of grapefruit.
I asked Momma to pick you up and feed you, but she was upset so she
yanked you out of the crib. Your head jerked back,
your little body flailed like a sheet on a clothesline in the wind,
and then I had to punish her for hurting you.
I’m sorry you had to watch.
Mi cielo, mi vida. Momma and I have put so much chaos in
your precious little heart—big enough to hold all the ugliness
of the world and still it’s overflowing with tenderness.
I swear sometimes being human feels like
one hand trying to stop the other from strangling yourself to death.
We were all sitting in Hammy’s barn the next night waiting for Uncle Peppercorn and Gravy Boat to arrive. I was telling the group about my talk with Carl over checking the frequency Boutwell used when the two newbies arrived. I finished that Carl agreed to spy on Boutwell for us, and then told our two newcomers to have a seat. As soon as they sat down, McStone put a Marley-sized joint in Peppercorn’s lap and informed him that this was the initiation. Peppercorn looked around suspiciously and said that that’s all well and good, but you can’t put a joint this size in someone’s lap without offering a flame of some sort. McStone slapped his forehead, reached into his pocket and pulled out his butane. With the peace offering well stoked, I went about the task of bringing the two up to speed on our affairs. When I was finished, they both just sat there pie-eyed, wearing a smile that couldn’t be slapped off their faces. Gravy stood up, regarded everyone and started clapping. He said he was amazed that seven stoners could pull this off. He was sure that the two churches were engaged in a sinners-be-damned battle. Peppercorn added that he thought Painter Joe was behind this. I said that Joe had a hand in some of it, but we were the ones who took the initiative. I asked if they would love to be a fellow Bastard and help us in our last phase of this. They looked at each other, nodded their heads to the right and to the left, raised their eyebrows, turned back to the group and said yes. We all shook hands with each other and finished off McStone’s hog leg of a joint while going over the plans of our last and final message.
The next day I stopped by Carl’s and asked how fast he could get a couple of boxes of letter tiles for our coup de grâce. He said he would have them by the next day since he already ordered them for us. I told him Schindler would be proud. He asked what the last message would be, and I gave him an overview of the plans. He said if we pull this off without getting caught, each one of us could adorn his wall with a female of our choice. I said I would leave the decorations to the boob aficionado, and told him I would be back in twenty-four hours to grab the tiles.
The next day Enema and I arrived at Hammy’s barn with three boxes of letter tiles. The gang was all excited that we could put our plans into motion. Enema got up and called our last meeting to order. “Fellow Bastards, and Basterdette,” started Enema. “We have arrived at the final stage of this mission, and we would like to take this time to acknowledge our newest members, Uncle Peppercorn and Gravy Boat. Stand up and take a bow. Great, now sit the fuck down and shut up.” Enema began walking back and forth with his hands behind his waist, imitating an evil Matlock. “This,” he continued, “will be our most dangerous mission, and we are running a tremendous risk of apprehension, but I have confidence we can pull this shit off. We will separate into three teams. Gravy, Peppercorn, and Pokers will be team Anal Polyps. Hammy, Vowels, and McStone will be team Kotex. Scratch, Spoons and I will be team Yeast Infection. Team Polyp will attack the Lutheran marquee. Team Kotex will take on the Methodist marquee while Yeast Infection will work on the pizza marquee. Each team will have to be vigilant in providing their own lookout for traffic. Teams Kotex and Polyp will be within a block of each other on Main Street, so you can have a lookout face north and a lookout face south. I’ll let each team decide that for themselves. Team Yeast will keep a solid eye on the north end of town while we work. Once teams Kotex and Polyp are finished you all need to fan out and become our scouts for team Yeast, since their message is by far the longest. Any questions? We need to arrive behind Carl’s station tonight at two armed with your letter tiles. I will now turn it over to Scratch.”
I mopped up the rest of the meeting with words of affirmation on the job each and every one of us had done so far. I told the gang that there was no way we were going to fail that night. I told everyone that Carl would be driving around town starting at two to help us out in our cause. Carl was using the subterfuge of distributing printed coupons for tire balancing. I told the group that we needed to get Carl a gift for the help and hard work he hadprovided for us. Everyone agreed that a pile of busty magazines would be in order to give to Carl as a thank you. I asked if anyone had any questions before I adjourned the meeting, and McStone asked if he was to be sober tonight. I said I preferred it that way, but he was able to make his own decisions on that issue. With everything covered, I closed the meeting and said I would see them at two behind Carl’s.
We all arrived behind Carl’s station at the precise time. As we were double checking the equipment, we saw Carl drive by and I felt some relief. As each team was setting to depart, Enema spotted Painter Joe walking toward us. “Holy Fuckola,” muttered Enema. We all turned around and saw Painter. He asked if he and his boys could be of some help to us. I told Joe that if he wanted to help us, he could send his boys out around the town to be our scouts for us. Joe said that since they were telepathically linked that would be no problem. Enema said that was some happy horseshit, but I nudged him to be quiet. I told Joe he could come with us to the pizza joint where he could be our lookout, and if he caught word from his boys, to pass on what they saw. He agreed and I said that we would give him five bucks for his efforts. Painter smiled and said that would buy a feast for him and the boys. We all looked at one another and I had a suspicion that one of Painter’s boys crashed our meeting. I told everyone to hit their marks and get busy.
When my team, team Yeast Infection, arrived at the pizza joint, Painter sat down and stared in the north singing “The Pusher” by Steppenwolf, while Spoons, Enema, and I went to work. “God Damn! The Pusher Man! I’ve seen a lot of people walking around with tombstones in their eyes.” Then Painter would mouth the guitar solo. I figure if Painter was comfortable enough to sing, then we could be at ease in our work, plus I knew the song and started singing along. Ten minutes into our job and Painter’s second song of “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum, Team Kotex reported that they had completed their mission. “Going up to the spirit in the sky,” sang Painter. “When I die and they lay to me to rest, gonna go to the place that’s the best.” Team Polyp radioed that they were done, as well. Enema told them all to fan out and keep their eyes open for headlights. All of a sudden, Painter got up and sauntered over to me and said that Simon told him that no one was close to town in any direction. We were free and clear to finish up without concern. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ten dollarbill and handed it to Painter, telling him thank you. He took the money, shook my hand and said it was a pleasure to be a part of our team. Enema told Painter that for a crazy fucker he sure did know a shit ton of information about this town. Painter replied that it’s easy to gather information when no one pays any attention to you. Painter walked away singing “Blinded By The Light” by Manfred Man. I could still see Painter walking off with his voice ringing in my ears singing, “Little early birdie came by in his curly whirly, and asked me if I needed a ride.”Fifteen minutes later, we were all behind Carl’s station with our mission complete and Enema was still humming Painter’s departing tune. I told everyone that we would meet back at Hammy’s tomorrow at two in the afternoon. We all shook hands and McStone said that he would have a surprise for everyone tomorrow and that we should come prepared with adequate beverages to combat cotton mouth.
The next morning I awoke around nine and frantically dressed myself so I could walk through town to see our handy work in the sunlight. As I walked out my back door I saw Enema sitting on my porch swing humming “Blinded by the Light.” He stopped and said, “Bout fucking time, sleepy head. I was beginning to think you were too chicken shit to come out this morning. We have pissed this town off my friend, and you need to see what’s going on.” I told him to quit flapping his mouth so we could check it out. As we turned on Main Street, I could see that there was a crowd in front of both churches. Each side was yelling back and forth at each other, but no one was trying to cross the street. As Enema and I reached the Lutheran grounds, Pastor Freed was walking out of the building trying to regain some order amongst his congregation. Behind the angry people sat the marquee with the words, “God Scorns Methodists”. We could hear taunts being hurled back and forth in language unbecoming to people who called themselves Christians. We kept walking to get a clearer picture of the Methodist reactions, and they were just as agitated and riled up, speaking the same language. Pastor Weiricht was failing in his appeals for reason. “God Loathes Lutherans,” was displayed on their marquee. As we passed the Methodist church, Uncle Peppercorn and Gravy Boat were driving by us in Peppercorn’s truck. We heard the squeal of tires from a hard brake, saw the reverse lights shine and watched the truck back up toward us. Gravy said that the police scanner reported a small disturbance at the pizza joint. Enema and I hopped in the back of the truck, and Peppercorn drove off to the north side of town. Two minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot and Sherriff Boutwell was in front of the marquee asking if anyone knew anything about this message, “Nowhere In Genesis Does It Say God Created Religion. God Cares Not For A Man-made Institution. The Sheep Cannot Run The Farm.” No one could provide an answer, except for Painter Joe. “I believe that message is for the entire town, sheriff,” answered Joe. “I don’t know who done it, but I do know that whoever did is right in what they are saying. Isn’t that right, boys?”
That answer wasn’t good enough for Sherriff Boutwell, but he knew when he was licked. He said that he wanted this shit taken down and if this happened again, the bastards would go to jail and rot. Gravy said Boutwell sounded like a third grade school girl pouting about her pigtail being pulled. I agreed, as Boutwell slammed his car door and drove off toward to churches, unaware of what was happening there. Enema said we should tail Boutwell to watch his reaction. I said that wasn’t necessary. We had already shown our faces, and ifwe followed, that would leave an impression on Boutwell. He wasn’t the world’s greatest detective by any stretch, but seeing our faces again might raise unwanted suspicion. Enema said I was right, and he hated when my reasoning overpowered his lust for chaos. We all got back in the truck, and Peppercorn took us home.
We celebrated that afternoon at Hammy’s barn. The party favors were provided by McStone and he had a buffet of herb that would rival Jamaica. We agreed to stay a group as the Small Town Bastards and from time to time we would cause some upheaval, but nothing on a scale as large as the first. I wish I could tell you that we were able to help our little town shed some of its close minded banalities. In a small town, things revert back to what’s deemed normal within two weeks. I no longer live in that quaint sanctuary, but four of the nine Bastards still reside there. Every now and then our antics come up in conversation, but no one ever found out who chased out Mr. Newlove and Mr. Riegel, or who was a thorn to Sherriff Boutwell one summer twenty three years ago. That’s my story, like it or not.
Wheel of Light by: Morgan Utesch, Photograph, 2015.
Small Town Bastards [cont…] by: Jason Woods
At eight in the morning, Enema crashed through my bedroom door declaring that I get my ass out of bed and go with him to the scene of the crime. I had barely opened my eyes when he asked what I was waiting for. He said I had better start getting excited because the whole state of Northwest Ohio was en mass and at the Methodist church. Knowing that Enema was studious in the art of hyperbole, I said that I had to at least brush my teeth. He commented that my breath raced through the air like a dozen roses crammed up a fat Milwaukee meat-packer’s ass. I gave a chuckle and headed for the bathroom to add some mint to my exhale.
We arrived at the scene in ten minutes, and I realized that Enema was legit about his calculation of the crowd. Our plans had provided for a gathering to arise from our messages, but we did not factor in the possibility of a news van equipped with live feed from Lima, Ohio, a news reporter from the Findlay Courier newspaper, or Sherriff Boutwell with three deputies to be on the scene, along with what looked like every member of our little community. Proof that when a wolf is slayed, the sheep marvel at how uncanny the sheep’s clothing fit cozy around the wolf. Pastor Weiricht was sedentary on the steps to the church’s front doors next to the Lutheran Pastor, Pastor Freed. They both wore exasperated expressions that pulled at their shoulders. To the right of the pastors sat the marquee, unadulterated from the previous night. Mr Riegel goes to Fort Wayne, to see the Swinging Dale’s strip, but never the dames. He’s preached against such acts, but his lust for men are the facts. The only difference between him and Newlove are the toys with which they play.
Enema tapped my shoulder and nodded to the news van as the reporter and her cameraman headed to the front of the church. She situated herself in a manner that ensured that the marquee was just to the left of her in full view. Once in place, the camera man gave the finger count. As she began her coverage, Painter Joe walked out of the crowd and sauntered up to the marquee, performed a flawless about face and yelled, “This town has been put on notice!” The reporter stopped and spun around to see who was disturbing her live feed. The cameraman remained steady. “You people,” continued Painter, “have fallen prey to wolves. Wolves that have preached the truth and lived a lie.” Painter snapped his head left and said, “Shut up Andy, I’m doing the preaching!! Mr. Newlove and Mr. Riegel are the first Philistines to be slayed with a stone. Yes Bart, I said Philistine, now spread the fuck out and quit with the interruptions! To the rest of the sheep in this town, you had better learn real quick who your shepherd is. If there are any more wolves left, just know that the Ultimate Shepherd will strike you down like the last two.” Two of Sherriff Boutwell’s deputies tranquilly grabbed Painter Joe and escorted him to a patrol car. Painter said that if he was detained that Simon, James, Andrew, Levi, Philip and Bart were to go with him. Sherriff Boutwell, who was well versed in Joe’s condition, assured Joe that the boys would be in good hands.
The news reporter turned back to her cameraman and finished her live lead. Enema turned to look at me and whispered that Painter Joe inadvertently admitted guilt for the message. I replied that Joe would not be taken to county jail. Boutwell would let Joe go once things settle down. Just then Pastor Freed got up and addressed the crowd. “The Riegel family,” he started, “is to be shown the proper respect, and their privacy for the time being should be paramount. There is no reason why we should be standing here. I encourage all of you to go home and carry on about your day as normal as possible. I know everyone is concerned for the Riegel family and, in due time, we can help. Until then, please exercise wisdom in this matter. On behalf of Pastor Weiricht and myself, we thank you for understanding.” With that being said, Pastor Freed walked over to all the news reporters and calmly asked them to go back to their offices. His calm demeanor proved valuable as the news teams loaded up and drove out of town. As the crowd, dispersed Sherriff Boutwell opened the patrol car and let Painter Joe and his gang go free. I could see that Boutwell was talking to Joe, but I was too far away to hear the conversation. Painter Joe just shrugged his shoulders with his palms facing up and walked away.
Enema and I decided that we needed to round up the gang and meet at Hammy’s house later in the day. We had to stay away from Carl’s for a couple of days. Enema said that he would notify everyone, and that he would also stop by Carl’s to let him know that in a couple of days we would get in touch with him. As I walked to my house I wondered how we were going to pull off our final message. I was out of letter tiles, except for the z’s and q’s, and both churches would be vigilant in monitoring their marquees.
We all arrived at Hammy’s house and went straight to his barn. Once we were all settled Enema began by informing us of his brief conversation with Carl. Carl wasn’t big on material at the time, since the dust was still blowing in the wind from the proceedings of the day, but Enema reassured us all that Carl was keeping his ears open to any and all personal dissemination that filtered his way. I took over the meeting by addressing the fact that we needed to send one last message to the town, and in order to do that we needed more letter tiles because the last message cleaned me out. We would need Carl’s help with procuring more letters in some untraceable manner. The last thing we needed to do was start a trail that could be followed to anyone linked in this fiasco. Spoons brought up the point that our fountain of luck using the church marquees had been drained. Everyone shook their heads in agreement. After today, the town would be keeping an eye on the church for further monkeyshines. Hammy added that Sherriff Boutwell, or one of his deputies, would be patrolling our town regularly for a while, and we had to lay low. We all nodded in agreement.
Pokers added that we could use the Shittiest Pizza Joint marquee. It was at the north end of town, the parking lot lights turn off when the joint is closed, and everyone would be watching the churches for activity. We all just looked at one another for a short time before Enema said that was a bastard of an idea. Hammy reiterated that we should wait a week or two for things to calm down. He was right. The town was strung so tight that any vibration would snap the line, and hell would crash down upon this half-of-a-horse town. I said it may take longer depending on how fast Carl could get those letter tiles in. We left Hammy’s with the agreement to meet in three days back at the barn to go over our next, and final, phase. I reminded them that the last stage is the most delicate of all. This is when things go all fucko and solid teams start to crack. Everyone agreed that we would remain solid and see this through.
The next day I grabbed the circadian issue of the Findlay Courier to discover we made the front page. It had a circulation of fifty-five thousand, so the front page was rather meaningless outside of our county. In bold letters the headlines read, “Religious Leaders Under Attack.” I felt the title lacked a certain luster needed to seize attention, but then again, I wasn’t the chief editor of a small town paper. The article danced on the issue of our messages and the decomposing of society that verbally tarred and feathered their pious leaders. It delivered like an editorial high on sentiments, but depleted of facts. The article did have our marquee scrawlings in print, which I thought was a glorious idea and one I wish I had thought of at the commencement of our plans. Vowel’s peculiar use of the English language would be immortalized throughout Northwest Ohio. Good for him. I put the paper down and decided my first act of the day would be to pay a visit to Carl to see what the new addition to his wall would be.
Carl was working on an old Corvair that belonged to Mr. Cable when I walked in. Carl told me to grab his set of wrenches and lend him a hand. As I assisted in his surgery Carl told me that a town meeting at the Lutheran church would take place later that night to deliberate Mr. Riegel and his standing. He said that everyone in town was trying to figure out who put those messages up, and how they knew such sensitive information. Some people figured Painter Joe was the culprit, but they also knew Joe had no formal education beyond sixth grade. Carl said there was even talk of it coming from an outside source, someone from a neighboring town with a grudge against our quaint village. We both knew how absurd these rumors were, but Carl said he was enjoying listening to everyone’s ideas about the messages. I told Carl that I would be at the town meeting, and I would take notes for him since he would still be at the station. He thanked me and said the only person out and about the town tonight would be Painter Joe and his Silent Six. I told Carl he should have some hot water and ketchup ready in case they strolled past, but he said the last thing he wanted was to have Painter hanging out at his station yelling at discrete disciples all night long. We both laughed and I said goodbye to Carl.
Enema and I arrived at the Lutheran church to absorb the meeting, and the place was spilling over with people. I had never spent much time in that building, but I had also never seen it that crowded. All the pews were densely packed, and people were standing in the wings. Some of the folks brought their own chairs. Enema said that if a fire broke out we would all be ashes and the only people left to repopulate this town would be a boob crazed man and a half-wit with six invisible friends. Not a reassuring thought. Pastor Freed walked up to the pulpit and announced that the meeting would begin. My attention was distracted by the stained glass windows on both sides of the sanctuary. Each one was a picture of the twelve apostles. I quickly tapped Enema and told him I knew where Painter Joe’s friends came from. Joe thinks that his group is half of the disciples pictured around this building. I went through the names and pointed out who was roaming with Painter. In a way, it made sense to me, especially after his monologue the other day that went over live television. Enema told me to focus my attention on the meeting and stop worrying about Painter Joe.
In the meeting, Mr. Riegel had admitted to his affairs in Fort Wayne and that he would no longer be a leader in the congregation. Enema said that Mr. Riegel had plagiarized a page from Jimmy Swaggart’s playbook on tearful remorse. The votes were cast, and it was decided that Mr. Riegel was to officially step down from his one Sunday a month lecture, and his name would be taken off the elders list. The congregation agreed that Mr. Riegel could stay at the church as long as he wanted to, but his leadership roles were at an end. Mrs. Riegel and her two children sat quietly in the front row. She was asked if she would like to address the town, and she declined. The meeting lasted a total of one hour, and it was then adjourned with everyone silently filing out of the building. Two weeks after the meeting, Mr and Mrs. Riegel filed for divorce on account of infidelity, and Mrs. Riegel was granted damn near everything. Mrs. Riegel remained in our little town and remarried a wonderful man, while her husband moved away and never returned. I’d like to think Mr. Riegel found happiness in his life afterwards, but I’ll never know.
The next day, all of us gathered at Hammy’s barn to christen McStone’s Jedi bong. McStone packed it full of his Obi-Weed-Kenobi, and on every toke the bong made the sound of a light saber slashing through the air. Enema said that this shit made your eyes hemorrhage and your mouth feel like stale crackers. It was high octane ganja, and McStone was beaming with pride. When Vowels finished his coughing fit, he said he had the perfect idea for our last message. It was a grandiose idea, and after listening to it, I brought Vowels back to reality by reminding him that we were a group of seven. His idea called for a militia of bastards, and we couldn’t afford to bring anyone else into our group. Pokers said that he knew two people he trusted enough to help us. I asked who they were, and Hammy answered with Uncle Peppercorn and his nephew Gravy Boat. Gravy Boat is the small town, token, fat kid. He never leaves home without a salami sandwich tucked into his back pocket. Uncle Peppercorn is really Gravy’s uncle, but the oddness is that Gravy is one year older than his uncle. A faulty condom is where Peppercorn’s parents place the blame. No one is sure how Uncle Peppercorn got his name, but it is a damned good name.
Enema said we could trust both of them, and Spoons agreed. I still thought we were way too baked to make a solid resolution on this, and that we had better think it over until tomorrow. Vowels reminded us that it was McStone’s Amelia Bedelia stash that instigated this whole mess in the first place. McStone added he missed that stash. I was stumped and out of rebuttals. I told Pokers he and Hammy would be in charge of asking Gravy and his uncle if they would like to play along with us. Pokers said he would, and added that Uncle Peppercorn had a police scanner in his truck, and that could come in handy for us. This was sounding more and more like a good idea. I told the group that Boutwell talks to Carl every now and then, and maybe Carl could find out what frequency Boutwell runs his radio on. I grabbed the Jedi bong and Vowel’s butane lighter, and told everyone that tomorrow night we’d add to our numbers and go over Vowel’s idea to make sure we could pull off the last bastardly message. I’m sure some funny shit took place that night, but the force of Obi-Weed-Kenobi knocked my memory loose of the rest of that evening.
Fabric of Our Fathers by: Al Nash, Acrylic on hardboard, 2011.
Small Town Bastards [cont…] by: Jason Woods
Carl’s intelligence on the fall out yielded an excellent crop. All the Methodists were completely convinced that someone from the Lutheran congregation put that message on the marquee. Some names were tossed about, but Pastor Weiricht said that proof was the appropriate ingredient to allegations, and since proof was the one thing that was missing, all allegations had to be shelved. Pastor Weiricht did ask Carl to keep his eyes and ears alert for any information that might come about in the next month. Carl reported that he agreed to the pastor’s appeal. I thanked Carl for his labor and told him that next week we would be concentrating on the Lutherans. Carl couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. I assured him that it would be classic.
I piloted our conversation to his knowledge of Painter Joe. Carl said all he knew was that Painter Joe liked to storm into McDonald’s with his noiseless entourage, order a cup of hot water, pilfer ketchup packets from the condiment bar, and then proceed to make Tomato Soup from said components. I expressed revulsion with my face and asked if he’d ever chatted with Painter. Carl said once he had to tell Painter that Simon, James, Andrew, Levi, Philip and Bart were not really behind him, and that started Painter into an appalling harangue about how his friends are as sick as shit that they are overlooked. I laughed and told Carl that I encountered Andy, which caused Carl to rub his head and squint his face in skepticism. I assured him that I was speaking the truth and he shrugged it off saying that I had too much of McStone’s leafy treats leaving me cerebrally challenged. As I walked home from Carl’s boobatorium, I decided that I needed to have a little chat with Painter Joe.
A couple of days after my debriefing with Carl, Enema and I were rambling down Main Street discussing what our next message to the town would be. Enema said that Vowels’ ideas so far equaled a bucket of lemur piss, and the rest of the gangs performance didn’t even measure up to Vowels’ ideas. Sensing Enema’s stress, I reassured him that I had an idea that would ignite their creativity, but it involved Painter Joe. “Holy shit Scratch,” exclaimed Enema. “That fucking shithouse rat and his sidekick turds will cultivate our next message?” I reminded him that Painter knew about Newlove’s affair before anyone else did, and his main turd Andy passed that info along, so what else could Painter and his lackeys know? “Well shit,” Enema said as he kicked a rock, “no one else has anything to offer up on the Lutherans, but fuck man, Painter Joe as our last resort?” I reiterated that Painter was not a last resort, but an option worth checking out and that mollified Enema, but I could tell had his reservations.
As luck would have it, Painter Joe was at Carl’s station walking around the pumps looking at the ground. I told Enema to go inside and have him and Carl watch, and, if anything seemed wrong, to come outside and rescue me. Enema wished me luck and went inside. I slowly approached Painter, who was looking at the ground. I asked Painter what he was looking for. Painter said that Bart had dropped fifty cents and that they needed it for McDonald’s. I told Painter to wait where he was and went inside to get fifty cents from Carl. Carl handed me two quarters with a raised eyebrow and I walked back out to Painter and his crew. I told Painter that I had two quarters for him if he could tell me something. He told his boys to spread the fuck out so he could talk to me. Apparently they complied, because I had his full attention. I asked how he knew about Mr. Newlove’s affair. He said Andy saw Newlove driving his maid deep into the couch cushions with her clothes in a wad and her feet up in the air. I asked what else Andy knew about this town. Painter looked around and called Andy front and center and asked him what he could pass along in order to get their soup. I requested that Painter translate what Andy said, Painter cocked his head and said “sure,” but insisted that Andy spoke English. I started to feel like an ass and turned to gaze into Carl’s shop to make sure my back was being covered. Enema and Carl twirled their index finger around their ear and crossed their eyes; I had my answer. Painter said that Andy knew about Mr. Riegel and his trips to Fort Wayne, Indiana to the male strip bars. I asked for clarification, was Andy saying Mrs. Riegel went to the male strip clubs? Painter stressed that Andy said Mr. Riegel liked to watch the boys strip and that after the club he goes to an adult bookstore to meet other men.
I was floored! Mr. Riegel was at one time an elder in the Lutheran church and has two kids. Mr. Riegel was also known as the leading crusader against homosexuals in the county; he preached on the perils of such acts one Sunday a month. I asked Painter if Mrs. Riegel knew about this. He said that she’s as blind as a mole in daylight and her husband’s trips were cloaked around business. I told Painter to wait one minute and ran back inside the station. I told Carl that I needed four more quarters to give to Painter Joe, and Carl just looked at me. I pointed at him and told him that the extra dollar was needed and I would explain in a couple of minutes. He opened his register and handed me the quarters. I walked back out to Joe and handed him the six quarters I had and thanked him and Andy for the information. He took the money and looked me dead in the eye and asked if I was the one who put that message about Newlove on the Lutheran sign. I told him no, knowing that he didn’t believe me. “Simon says you are dishonest,” Joe said. “He knows it was you and your outspoken pal that’s inside observing us. Philip was inside and eavesdropped on the both of them and told Simon that Carl’s in on it to.” I had no reply. Painter Joe stuck out his hand and said that his boys are grateful for the money. He said now they all can eat and that my secret is safe with them, and he offered up his amenities whenever I required them. I shook his hand as he finished up by saying that he never enjoyed Mr. Riegel. I told Joe that I appreciated his silence in this matter. He said it was his desire to proclaim the wolves amid the herd.
I watched Joe walk away telling his boys that this town is ripe for an awakening and that they had better be sharp, no more fucking around. I shook my head and wondered how in the hell Joe was able to discern the town’s skeletons. I went inside and told Enema and Carl what Joe and his boys told me, and they were dumbfounded. Their silence quickly turned into disbelief. I reminded them about Newlove dipping his wick in his maid and that Joe knew and it turned out to be true. Carl said that we knew what our message was to be about and the gang better get working on it. I slowed Carl down and made sure both he and Enema listened carefully. I explained that we were not going to be attacking Mr. Riegel on his sexual preference. “It’s not about who he sleeps with.“ We were going to expose his affair against his wife, his family and his congregation. We were also going to bring to light that Mr. Riegel had been at the pulpit on Sunday mornings preaching against homosexuals with scathing tirades of hell and damnation. We were going to approach this in the exact same manner as we did Mr. Newlove. Both Carl and Enema agreed that the real issue is the double standard Mr. Riegel was living. I told Enema to round everyone up for a meeting the next night at Carl’s to explain the situation and make arrangements on phase two of our mission.
The gang was ready for the meeting and arrived promptly to go over the next phase. I called the meeting to order and quickly handed it over to Enema for the debriefing. “All right,” said Enema. “We have our next mission. Scratch found a wealth of information from a very unlikely, and somewhat alarming, source about a certain man in the Lutheran congregation. It seems that Mr. Riegel is not a man of his Sunday speeches. Now, I for one could care less what his perversion is, but we all know that this town is scared of anything that sits outside their prescribed normality, and this, my friends, will scare the living shit out of them. This is no different than Mr. Newlove’s affair or his bigotry. This town has heard Mr. Riegel give Sunday talks about the perils of homosexual lust and that those who practice such lewd acts are dammed to hell. I guess ol’ Riegel’s practices are not akin to his teachings. Mr. Riegel has been taking trips to Fort Wayne, Indiana, where he spends time and money at a strip club. It just so happens to be a male strip club. Then, he will close off the evening by visiting an adult bookstore to meet and hook-up with other men. To make this clear, we are not attacking Mr Riegel because of his sexual preference. If the man wants to bang a watermelon, who are we to condemn. We are attacking his duplicity. We would not be discussing this matter if all of Mr. Riegel’s topics on Sundays focused on God’s love, but all he preaches is God’s anger directed towards a certain group of individuals. I expect that this proclamation of ours will generate the biggest shit storm this town has seen since Devo Dan caused Alexander’s manure truck to overturn in front of Linda’s Dusty Pantry, spilling two tons of shit along Main Street.” Enema began pacing the floor with his hands clasped together. “This,” he continued, “will take place just like that last operation, everyone will be at their same spots. I figure the town will be a little more aware this time so our eyes and ears must be in tune and alert. We cannot afford any fuckups at this stage. Our asses are hanging out on a thin wire and prudence is our highest commodity. I now ask that Scratch take over as chairman of this meeting.”
I got up and recapped everything Enema stated and added that I had a suspicion that this escapade would not run as smoothly as the last one. So we all needed to be on high alert. I asked Vowels if he had any ideas on what our message would be, and he stammered that the words had yet to settle in formation in his mind. I gave him two days to accomplish this task. He said he would deliver. Hammy proposed that we stake out the Methodists church the night before we attack and we all agreed that was a sage decision. I asked for any volunteers. Carl said he would; he had a lot of invoices to go through, and it would take him well into the wee hours of the night. He said he could take a stroll and canvas the place for us. We all agreed that Carl was our nocturnal eyes for this. I asked that everyone regroup again in three nights for the second phase of our operation.
I visited Carl on the morning of our planned excursion and asked if he saw anything out of the ordinary. Carl replied that all was well and the town was as silent as a mortuary. I felt a little reassured, but my anxiety was on the verge of running amok. Carl proceeded to say the stakes were mounting and that from here on out our tenuous hold on events would be wrenched from our hands. I told Carl that I felt that way as well, and that my head was on a continuous swivel, and paranoia was starting to camp out in my mind. I told Carl that I believed this was our last message to the town and he replied he thought that we had to do one more after this. He said he didn’t know what that would be, but he just knew this wasn’t our last. Now paranoia’s friend panic arrived in an RV slopping over with fear. I couldn’t wait for this to be over.
Next, I went to Vowel’s to see if he had conjured up the perfect message, and he showed me what his defunked brain produced. It was a seething dagger dripping with venom capable of character assassination in the highest form. Pushing my anxiety down, I told Vowels that he had carved a gem. As I left his house, I was struck with Carl’s words that this was not our last message. He was right. We would have to leave one more, and this would require us to procure more letter tiles. Tonight’s message would exhaust my supply. I would have to talk to Carl about this after tonight and see if he could order some for us.
Everyone arrived on time on the night of phase two. Hammy brought a small rake with him and Enema asked if that was his new comb for that bird’s nest Hammy called a hairstyle. We all laughed and Hammy said that the mulch looked soft around the marquee, and we could use it to cover our footprints. I was amazed that we never thought of that, and I was proud of Hammy for recognizing potential danger. I told Hammy that I would put in a recommendation for promotion when this night was over on account of his brilliance. Pokers reaffirmed why Hammy was his right hand man. We all gave Hammy a pat on the back before hitting our marks. I couldn’t tell if I was projecting the anxiety on the group, or if everyone was equally anxious. But the laughter and Hammy’s brilliance settled all of us down.
As Enema, Spoons, and I reached the Methodist marquee and began to arrange the letters on the ground, McStone announced over the walkie-talkies that a car was approaching from the east at a good clip. We all scrambled behind the church in the shadows waiting for the car to pass. The seconds seemed like hours before McStone said the car had passed him and would be at Part Time in about ten seconds. I could see the approaching headlights and watched the car turn north on Main Street away from our position. Enema radioed to Pokers that the car was approaching his position heading out of town. He copied and took cover. Once the car had passed he signaled that all was clear.
I walked out of the shadows with Spoons and Enema right behind, me and returned to our work. The three of us moved with an even greater purpose, and I whispered that we needed to stay calm in order to prevent any mistakes. We cannot afford to let haste be the rope that hangs us. As we were placing the last word, Hammy broke the silence that the county sheriff was approaching the south edge of town, and we had twenty seconds to move our asses away from the scene. Enema placed the last letter while Spoons raked the mulch, and I told everyone to scatter and head toward the south end of town where my house was. They were to wait behind my garage and turn off their radios. I figured running in the shadows in the direction Officer Boutwell was going would be our best bet. Hammy was waiting for us as Enema, Spoons and I arrived. Vowels was two minutes behind us, and McStone was just behind Vowels. I knew Pokers was one mile away from my house when Officer Boutwell passed Hammy and would be the last to arrive. In fact, it took Pokers ten minutes to arrive at my house. Enema asked what took him so long, and Pokers replied that walking was his best defense. He would look suspicious if he was running through the back streets of town. He said he saw Boutwell drive past the Methodist church without braking. He apparently didn’t notice the message. Pokers added that he watched the cop car drive past Part Time and head out of town after his final round of the evening. We all relaxed a little bit and decided that our night was over, and tomorrow would be a colossal day for the town. Enema said that if he could he would inspect the scene to make sure we left nothing behind in our wake. I thanked him, and everyone said goodbye. I went inside to lay down, and imagined a myriad of ways this town would respond to the memorandum we left, and none of them were good.
Mr. Scratch is my name, and this is my story. I took a twenty year vow of silence to never discuss this matter. It’s been twenty-three years now since that oath, and I feel that the time is ripe for this tale to be told. The names of the actual players have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty. Believe me, there are plenty of both in this tale.
Picture this. A small town positioned in the flatlands of Northwest Ohio with a population of 1,200, all white folk and staunch, dependable Republicans. A town divided by Main Street. By that I mean, east of Main Street is Lutheran terrain, while the west side is the Methodist congregation. The only adult unaffiliated in the religious sense is Devo Dan. Devo had himself a pious experience with LSD back in the summer of 1978, and the love affair loiters to this day. We have one stop light we named Part Time. It has all three colors, red, yellow, and green, but they only work twelve hours a day between 7a.m. and 7p.m.. In the middle of town we have a gas station dubbed Carl’s Titty Shop. The gas is cheap and the centerfold display in his shop is of magnanimous proportions. The Lutherans are relieved his station is on the west side of Main Street and the Methodists sanctioned an injunction on Carl from passing out communion on Sunday mornings until his, “filthy filth” is removed from his walls. On the north end of town, Lutheran side, we have our grocery store titled Linda’s Dusty Pantry. Linda’s a good soul, just slow on restock. Rule of thumb: always look for the expiration date carefully. Sometimes she hides it with a price sticker. Across the street from Linda’s is our pizza-joint, famous for the “Shittiest Pizza South of Canada.” The fame came from, well, I guess it’s safe to admit now that I was the one who arranged that idiom on the marquee. Which, my friends, is the genesis of this story.
In this corn-fed town I run around with three other slightly bemused gentlemen and one sweet gal. I’ll make quick with the introductions. Funny Vowels, a speech impaired but crafty bloke. McStone the Irish Gnome, a rotund Scottish stoner hell-bent on the perfect high. Then, there is my best friend, Public Enema. Enema is a tall drink of water born without a social filter. Whatever jumps into Enema’s head, dashes straight for his mouth. If you didn’t know him you would think this man was the poster child for all the ass-holes across this great country. And last, but not least, is Enema’s sister, Two Spoons. She garnered that name from being a vicious competitor in the card game Spoons.
I was the mastermind who forged their names out of genius, or well-timed hefty tokes from McStone’s Frodo bong. I wish to hell I could take credit for my name, but Two Spoons jazzed up the room one night declaring Mr. Scratch was my moniker since I was dealing with a severe poison ivy rash at the time. Funny Vowels added an inquisitive backstory to the name about an unfortunate professional pool player with an enigmatic penchant for seedy prostitutes, a two-fold meaning built upon poor pool-smithing and chronic VD. Vowels is a crafty gent just this side of deranged.
One summer night in June, we were all hanging out at Enema’s house just outside the town’s limits with little to do but fashion up some recreational mischief. We peddled ideas of non-descript imagination when Vowels was blinded by a stroke of ingenuity. He stammered his way through a description of how to quarry the East side of town against the West. He continued with how this town is slopping over with self-righteousness and that both the Lutherans and Methodists needed to be taught some humility It would involve the letter squares I pilfered from an out of business burger joint two towns over, the very same letters I used on the Shittiest Pizza Joint. I was enamored with the idea at once, and with nominal coaxing, the others hastily fell in line with the notion.
Two Spoons grab a pen and some paper while McStone broke out his Amelia Bedelia stash, because according to McStone, it just made you as shit-house goofy as that chick. We were hustling ideas from Bedelia while Spoons jotted down every inkling we formulated, and added a few gems herself. The group was working in fine fashion when Spoons wondered if this was too big of a job for the five of us. She proposed the prospect of inviting someone else into our fold. I said I knew the perfect person to ask, Pokers Gent. Pokers held the monthly penny poker games in his basement. He’s the silent type and only shows his emotions after the hand is played. Everyone agreed that Pokers was our man.
McStone volunteered to approach Pokers the next day to see if he would join our cause. Pokers agreed, but on one condition. We had to let his partner, Hammy Moons, join as well. Hammy Moons is the son of a pig farmer with ill-fitting jeans. Aside from that, he was a trustworthy individual that would be a huge asset to the group. McStone took it upon himself to speak for the group, called it a deal, and shook Pokers’ hand. McStone came back and informed the group we now had seven. No one had any demurrals to our expansion. Now all we needed was a place to call headquarters.
Enema figured that Carl would let us use his station as headquarters after his ejection from the Communion Plate. The next day we went to Carl’s to ask him if he would love to join our cause. Turns out that Enema was right. Carl was honored that we would call his mammary museum home before quickly apologizing to Spoons for the monthly decorations. Spoonstook it in stride by saying that she ogled her own chest from time to time. She might as well have punched Carl in the forehead. His mouth glued shut and a single bead of sweat sprinted down his brow. Things had started to line up. We had a solid core group with seedy headquarters, The Impeccable Cocktail. Now all we needed to do was to finalize how we were going to instigate our homemade brew of humility. We left Carl’s having decided that McStone would inform Pokers and Hammy to meet us in two days at headquarters so we could finalize our plan.
All were present and accounted for at Carl’s at the projected meeting time. I called our meeting to order and stated our first order of business was that our small band of misfits needed a designation. Something with wit and a pinch of charm. Vowels stuttered that our name should be The Small Town Bastards. I seconded that motion. Hell, it even pulled Carl’s attention away from his busty magazine. Not too many things are able to break Carl’s boob stupor, except a witty remark by a stuttering savant and the prospect of more boobs. The Small Town Bastards was unanimously voted into effect. The next thing we needed to deliberate was that this affair had to be initiated in secrecy. This was a volatile undertaking that required all of us to never declare it to anyone. The risk of getting into grave trouble, or probable litigation in the realm of defamation, ran high. I gave everyone a chance to back out right then, and all of us would understand and think nothing less of that person. Not a soul flinched. Everyone was devoted to the cause. With those matters settled, I tendered the floor to Enema to get to the heart of our meeting.
“Lady, gentlemen, and Carl,” started Enema, “we have our first assignment. In three nights we will focus our sights on the Methodists. Thanks to Carl’s intelligence we know that the choir director is a closet bigot. If they ain’t white they ain’t right. Mr. Newlove has a catalogue of Aryan literature that he keeps squirreled away. It’s time people knew about this man and his ideology. To inform this town we will use Scratch’s letter pieces to state Mr. Newlove’s double life on the Lutheran marquee. To pull this off we have a couple of things we need to consider. First off is the lay of the town. There are only two main roads that will have any traffic: Main Street and Main Cross. There will be a sentry posted at the north and south of Main Street as well as East and West Main Cross. Everyone will be issued a walkie-talkie set to channel fifteen. Pokers, you and Hammy will be on foot patrol on the north and south. McStone and Vowels, you have the east and west perimeters. Spoons, you will be with Scratch and I at the Lutheran marquee placing the letters. The next thing, and I can’t stress this enough, is that we have to handle the letter tiles with gloves. McStone has taken the liberty of wiping them clean of finger prints in case someone gets the idea to lift prints to find the culprits. Thank you McStone. We will start at precisely 2am. This should take, at most, thirty minutes to accomplish. We all have to be on full alert. If anyone sees an oncoming car, tell everyone. Give plenty of advanced notification so we can retreat to cover. Vowels, you whistle into the radio. Your marble-mouthed warnings will eat up precious time. With that being said, Religious Muddle is in full effect. I now turn the floor back to Scratch.”
I asked everyone to come back to Carl’s in three nights, at 1am, in appropriate dark attire and gloves so we could cover the plan again and pass out the obligatory equipment. I stressed the significance of secrecy again and adjourned the assembly. Carl wanted to know his role in this and I said that he was our inside man on the Methodists, our silent partner. He liked that idea and was satisfied. I added that if he got caught he would lose his business and be run out of town. He took note of my statement and said he would be the best inside man since Oskar Schindler.
The night of the first mission, everyone arrived on schedule, garbed in all black and wearing gloves, ready to achieve our first objective. We rehashed the strategy and passed out the walkie-talkies. We each checked to make sure we were all on channel fifteen and that everyone had a signal. With the equipment working and hearts racing, we hit our predestined markers. At forty minutes past two, we all reconvened at Carl’s with the message in place. Not a single car had passed through town during our excursion. McStone entreated that we go to Enema’s house for a celebratory smoke-off for a successful mission. Everyone approved and strolled in a victorious silence.
The next morning Enema and I went walking through the town to see our handiwork. As we approached the Lutheran marquee, we could see a small crowd gathered around. There, in its full glory, was Vowels’ message. “Mr. Newlove has two robes; one robe that bears a cross and a second robe for burning crosses. Look under the floorboards of his barn.” It looked better in the morning than it did at night; it was the crowd that really made the letters come to life. Questions buzzed the air like provoked hornets. Just then, Painter Joe happened to walk by. Painter Joe is our local lunatic, a full blown schizophrenic. He believes in God. It’s just that his God has no religious leanings toward any denomination. The only people Joe’s a menace to are those that only he perceives. Painter is always rambling around town telling his imperceptible entourage to spread the fuck out and shut the fuck up. I wish you could’ve had the chance to watch Painter and his concealed disciples have a knockdown, drag out fight on the school grounds. It was a pantomime of wonder. Too bad Painter lost the fight, but I’m sure he left some black eyes as well.
The crowd parted when Joe arrived. He looked at the marquee and stated, “That fucko Newlove isn’t just a racist, he’s an adulterer as well. Right Andy? Speak up Andy!” Enema asked me who Andy was. I said he’s an eyewitness to Newlove’s affair, but only Joe can see or hear Andy, and apparently Andy had been digging in the garden of rumors and pulled some weeds himself. Enema doubted Andy would hold weight in the court of public opinion. I agreed but wondered what else Painter Joe knew about this town. He might be useful to us. I shelved the idea for a while and motioned to Enema that it’s time for us to leave. We decided that talking to Carl would have to wait until tomorrow. Let him gather the town’s reaction while gassing up their vehicles. By noon our message had been removed and replaced with Ephesians 1:7, “In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace.” Not a bad follow up for damage control, but the damage had been done.
That week was a flurry of commotion. Mr. Newlove publicly acknowledged to his congregation that he had an affair, but he was adamant that he was not xenophobic. The genius said his proof was that his mistress was a Hispanic, lady that he and his wife employed to clean their house. Mrs. Newlove then stood at the pulpit and said that her husband’s affair should not warrant his removal from the church, but when you add his racist beliefs on top of the fact that his mistress was Hispanic then this dual fraud should never work in a church anywhere again. The congregation voted and the results were unanimous: Mr. Newlove was to step down as the Choir Director effective immediately. Two days after his announcement he was handed his divorce papers by Mrs. Newlove’s lawyer and high-tailed it out of town. No one knew what became of Mr. Newlove, and no one really cared either. I still wondered how Painter Joe knew about the affair. It seemed our roving lunatic was more vigilant than he was credited for.
[responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"]
Will You Love Me When I’m Old?
by: Rey T. Lataquin with notes by his daughter, L. Lourella L. Cruz
I would ask of you, my darling, a question soft and low
That gives me some heartache, as the moments come and go.
Your love I know is truthful, but the truest love grows cold;
It is this that I would ask you: “Will you love me when I’m old?”
Life’s morn will soon be waning, and its evening bells be tolled,
But my heart shall know no tint of sadness, if you’ll love me when I’m old.
Down the stream of life together, we are sailing side by side;
Hoping some bright day to anchor, safe beyond the surging tide.
Today our sky is cloudless, but the night may clouds unfold;
But, though storms may gather, will you love me when I’m old?
When my hair shall be like snow, and my eyes shall dim its glow,
I would lean upon some loved one, through the valley as I go.
I would claim of you a promise, worth to me a world of gold;
It is only this, my darling, that you’ll love me when I’m old.
When tatay[1] turned 70, he had a “wake up call” regarding his health and mortality. He became more aware of his aging body. His eyesight was dimmed with cataracts, and health issues popped one by one. His hair had been turning gray, pre–maturely, even before he turned 40, but at 70, all strands of hair were silvery white.
I believe the above reasons compelled Tatay to write the next poem, “Will You Love Me When I’m Old?” (L.L.L. Cruz)
1. “Tatay” is a Phillipino endearment, which translates to “father” in English.
Will You Love Me When I’m Old? by: Rey T. Lataquin with notes by his daughter, L. Lourella L. Cruz
I would ask of you, my darling, a question soft and low
That gives me some heartache, as the moments come and go.
Your love I know is truthful, but the truest love grows cold;
It is this that I would ask you: “Will you love me when I’m old?”
Life’s morn will soon be waning, and its evening bells be tolled,
But my heart shall know no tint of sadness, if you’ll love me when I’m old.
Down the stream of life together, we are sailing side by side;
Hoping some bright day to anchor, safe beyond the surging tide.
Today our sky is cloudless, but the night may clouds unfold;
But, though storms may gather, will you love me when I’m old?
When my hair shall be like snow, and my eyes shall dim its glow,
I would lean upon some loved one, through the valley as I go.
I would claim of you a promise, worth to me a world of gold;
It is only this, my darling, that you’ll love me when I’m old.
When tatay[1] turned 70, he had a “wake up call” regarding his health and mortality. He became more aware of his aging body. His eyesight was dimmed with cataracts, and health issues popped one by one. His hair had been turning gray, pre–maturely, even before he turned 40, but at 70, all strands of hair were silvery white.
I believe the above reasons compelled Tatay to write the next poem, “Will You Love Me When I’m Old?” (L.L.L. Cruz)
1. “Tatay” is a Phillipino endearment, which translates to “father” in English.
