On The Ride Home

I was half an hour late getting my son to his mom’s. It was around noon; I was supposed to be there then. I find it hard to hurry when I have to do that; but it was raining when we got to the parking lot so we ran to the car.

I held his hand more than usual on the way.

The rain stopped when I got there for a moment; I hugged him outside her house. Told him I loved him, missed him already. Told him I’d see him on Sunday. That shit never gets easy.

I headed back the way I came: through the city. It started to rain again - hard. I adjusted the wipers almost to the highest speed. The Drive soundtrack was playing on my stereo: favorite movie, favorite theme song.



I’m a good driver. I see everything: potholes that could cause sudden hydroplane if you hit them wrong, stupid drivers who think they are Vin Diesel on their way back to their desk-jobs, debris. I was driving down a busy two-lane road that connected the west end with the city when I saw them: a mother and her three kids, one in a stroller. They were running while the rain poured down.

“Give them a ride,” I thought.




I didn’t slow down. There were wannabe Fast ‘n’ Furiouses behind me and it didn’t seem safe. I thought about how weird it would be for some random guy to pull over and try to give them a ride in his car.

I passed a turnaround, and then another one. “I don’t need to,” I thought, “I can just go home.”

But at the same time, my nerves were shooting through my body: “Gotta turn around; gotta go back.”

When I got to the next light I took a right, fast. There was nobody on the side streets. I went quick but safely, my foot over the brake. I knew those streets well.



I didn’t see them when I got back. The rain was still coming down hard and it blocked my vision. Then I saw them: they were huddled under a tree in the park, a hundred feet from the road. I pulled into the left lane to the curb and put my hazards on.

I rolled down my window.

“You need a ride?” I yelled to the mother. I got out of my car.

She said some street name that they were trying to get to and I said I could get them there, though I didn’t know where it was. The three girls lined up on the curb in front of a giant puddle. Traffic had stopped in the left lane. No one was honking their horns either: they knew what I was doing.

I had my Batman sweatshirt on. The youngest girl must have been two or three, the oldest couldn’t have been more than 6. I picked them up, one by one, while standing in the puddle, and put them in the back seat. I took the stroller from the mother and put it in the trunk. They all were wet. I could tell the mother was embarrassed. They were poor, very poor. She smelled bad; they all smelled bad, like they never took a bath and everyone they lived with smoked.

I turned off the hazards and pulled out from blocking the lane, carefully.

The music changed to “Where’s The Deluxe Model?”




I punched the address she had said into my GPS. God knows how many people I had driven in this car at night.

I could tell they were a little scared, the kids: a strange man picking them up.



“I’m Joe,” I said, “You guys like gum?” It was all I had. My son likes it. I passed it to their mom. I could hear the happy sound of wrappers crinkling. One of the little girls passed it back to me.




The GPS said 4 minutes, which was probably 5 times as long walking. Their mom said something about how they had to change their clothes when they got back.

I let them out. They all said "thank you." I said “don’t worry ‘bout it.” There was a time I didn’t have a car.

I drove back to Liverpool. Felt like I was floating over the road. Sun came out for a second on the way back.

Afternoon

I get up late on Mondays. I get my son Sunday through Tuesday and every other Wednesday, and while he’s gone I put in about 50 hours at two jobs in three days. It pays the bills but it catches up with me every Monday morning.


It’s worth it, though.


We go on “bentures” half the week together. Yesterday we went to a film shoot I was in and I took him to the movies after. He’s really my best friend.

Mondays I wake up with Harrison sleeping next to me. He arrives at some point of the night, most every night, half the time without me remembering exactly when. We have three or four long, most one-sided conversations before 10 AM, myself horizontal the whole time, my eyes half shut.


He’s five now, but smarter than many kids twice his age, I feel. The things he knows, the imagination on this kid. He is so my son.


I get out of bed four or five times, to change him, get him breakfast, get snacks, and help him set up his toys or whatever he wants to do. I have this supernatural ability to be completely aware of what he is doing at all times, even while laying down in the other room. It’s a single parent thing: a sixth sense that is a combination of all the senses.


He comes over to hug me every so often and tell me what he’s doing. He’s so proud, it’s so cute. I ask him what he wants to do today. He says, “I don’t know.” I tell him “I just wanna be with you.” He says the same.

We are alone together.


Later on we will leave the apartment and do something fun.

He goes back to the living room. Certain moments of my life run through my head, back and forth, and intertwine. This lasts for an indefinite amount of time.


I clear the notifications on my phone (and in my head) and put on some jazz. When I finally get up and make my bed, the words “this is what depression looks like” run so hard through my mind they come out my mouth in a whisper.

I put on my robe and turn off the A/C.


I put on hot water for tea and start making some health food shit in the blender.


He is perched on the edge of the couch watching cartoons; not sitting, his butt is on the very edge, his leg holding himself up from a coffee table. He’s smiling and laughing at the skit.

I look at him for a long moment, then I go over and hug him and bury my nose in his long “I don’t want a haircut” hair. I tell him that he’s so smart and he’s my good boy and that I love him more than anything, just in case he didn’t know.

 

Rain

Went for a run on the parkway, mostly because I knew not many people would be there. There were the LARPers by the parking lot, the seniors playing bocce as I warmed up, the skateboarder I triumphantly passed before my knee went to shit, the one or two romantic couples walking closely in their early stages, the one or two not-so-romantic walking far away from each other in their later stages; the Middle Eastern lady and her daughter with their shawls, the one or two dog walkers. A storm was coming.


(Photo by Sheirel Mordaunt)


Huge dark grey clouds, like titans, loomed over the edge of the lake as I passed by the road markers I had flown over when I ran this for the Marines. I knew every bench, and the ones I had sat on with her.

Suddenly it came - all at once - like someone had opened a bay door in the raincloud above. There was no invitational sprinkle, it just dumped. In moments the road was a river that ran through my socks. I felt a rush of adrenaline from whatever song played next in my headphones and from the lightning I could see hit not so far behind me.

Visibility lowered to a few paces in front of me. Scared 20-something girl joggers hid hugging tree trunks. I stared at them as I passed by as if to say, “go- lightning is coming-“ which they heard, trailing behind me as I ran towards the finish. There was nothing more I could do for them.

I crossed the zero-mile mark, watched by the bocce players hiding under an awning, and I began to walk, unflinching as kids that had escaped the playground stared from their parents’ cars, as the water came down like a power hose.

It couldn’t phase me; because after all, I had been through so much worse.

Snow

By Joe Cunningham

I had a strange dream the night before last.


For some time now, I’ve been only having two recurring “nightmares,” one might say. A psychologist would tell me I have post-traumatic stress. I would not disagree.


The first dream consists of being trapped in the seminary I was in for seven years. Again. It’s a mental prison. The doors are always open. One can, very easily walk off the lawn to the world outside.


But you can’t. I cannot explain this to someone who has not experienced it. There are no invisible electric fences involved. It is a prison of the mind. One feels so compelled to stay there, one would, actually, murder his own son, if he had one; or in effect, murder the possibility of one, just to stay.


When I have this dream, I forget I have a son, in the real world. I am afraid of nothing, except losing my son. I can tell you this is the most terrifying nightmare I can ever have. When I wake up, every time, I am shaking.

The second dream is like it, but in a different sphere. The form of it changes, but the essence always remains the same. I am usually somewhere familiar. Somewhere that means a great deal to me. Usually in present times. And then she is there: maybe in passing or as confrontational as we will ever get. She is sad. She feels, it is so strong I can feel it too. She knows I love her and she, though cares about me deeply, does not love me too, not like I do.

There are never any words; just this, telepathic understanding.

And even though I understand this dream more than I have ever understood any, it never gets any easier. I think this dream is only slightly less painful than the first dream; but I would not classify it as a nightmare. It is something beautiful. But it’s an ending I keep living over and over and over.


I have these dreams every night that I can remember. Sometimes both in the same night. Sometimes they alternate. Sometimes they mesh together.


Two nights ago I did not.


I was standing in a snow covered field. It was dusk or dawn, I do not know. I suppose it matters.

Lawrence was there. Lawrence Gabriel, the Native American boxer who I contacted to write a book about after he got shot saving the patrons of a bar on the West Side of this city I live in. She is Native American.


Note that.


I couldn’t see him. But I was trying to get into someplace in front of me, when I was stopped by the natives there. Like it was a place only they could be, not white men.


After meeting Lawrence for coffee that fateful day, I began my research on him, his culture, his life, his sport, his everything. It became my life and it became overwhelming for me. Like a chore at times. I paused the project, the way one wishes you can do to a giant of a term paper in college.


But I had already gone so far, our lives had intertwined so much, I ended up having a significant role in the book I was going to write.

We see each other rarely now, because of me. I changed the book to be about me with the subplot to be about him, as a contrast of our lives, one symbolizing the other, and so forth. Typical writer shit. Earlier in my life, in the seminary I was trained to renounce all things: to be detached from all things.


I have been unable to hold onto any friend or family member or significant other since. Except my son.


Recently Lawrence and I reconnected, even if it was only for a moment, even if it was on Facebook Messenger and then after, without talking about the heavy stuff, for a second in real life. In passing.


In the dream, it was only a moment, but the natives changed their mind and I passed through the blockade into native land, where I felt white men had never been. There was Lawrence sitting in the snow, the sky purple and orange, saying to them, as if I had passed some great test, and as if the words had been stuck in time, he said-


“He can come in.” 

sharp objects

by joe cunningham

i walk in my sleep.

last night i woke up on that dock.

i only have two dreams:

when i was tortured before you,

and after.

no one understands.

i would like to say i’m doing better.

i know i’ll never be able to speak to you again,

but if you ever see me in your dreams,

i want you to know i understand.

i know now i will never be okay.

i am okay with that.

i did something for you you will never know about.

it’s not your fault.

it’s not your fault.

it’s not your fault.

your face.

god, i miss you.

couldn’t light a match,

woke up on train tracks.

the train never came.

 

Amanda Stewart

Author’s Note: This is a strange post; strange even for me.

Some weeks ago, I was offered a job to write an independent investigative column. I thought it was a good idea, so I wrote a demo article for it. Today I decided not to do it, for a lot of reasons, but I liked what I wrote a little, which is rare for a writer; so I thought I’d publish it anyway on my own blog.

The heart of it will always be true - the hero thing: because that is who I am.

After about a year of research, I also started writing my film today. I feel better writing that. That will do a lot of what I planned on trying to do with this; but I still wanted to share it because “there’s somethin’ there.”

------------------------------

Expense account item 2: one tall English Breakfast tea. (Item one was coffee.) I learned to drink this stuff in Dublin. (I lived there for two years.) That’s the real religion over there- tea.

It’s a crisp fall day, even though it’s still technically summer: 75 degrees and sunny, but with the kind of cool breeze that is unique unto fall and makes it by far my favorite season of the year.

Today is also the first day of a new chapter in my life. I will explain.

The Boulevard Is Not That Bad

It was the summer of 2015. I was running on John Glenn Boulevard, near where I lived then, as I often did, when I came across what looked like the contents of a purse that had been strewn over the side of the shoulder, probably the night before judging by how those things closest to traffic had been shattered.

There was makeup and whatnot, but what was most peculiar to me as I leaned over the mess was a cell phone: still partially charged, and on the lock screen image was a young girl, early twenties, with what looked like a sister or a friend in the backdrop. She was somewhat attractive and looked like the kind of girl who was down for anything, which is what I assumed was going on before losing her purse.

It was the presence of the phone that disturbed me though. A thief would have kept it, taken out the memory chip, and sold it for fifty or a hundred bucks at a pawn shop. But it was there, which suggested to me some sort of physical altercation had taken place, the assailant not being interested in the value of the contents of the purse, and the texts from several friends and someone whose contact was listed as “Mom” wondering where she was seemed to confirm this suspicion.

A few feet away I found a Wegman's card with a name on it: “Amanda Stewart,” it said.

The phone was locked; otherwise I would have texted “Mom” myself to get to the bottom of things. I took it home.

After a few unsuccessful Facebook messages to every Amanda Stewart I could find in the area, I called the cops and told them the story. They said I could take it to the station nearby and have them jailbreak it and track her down. I told them I was worried Amanda was in trouble.

There was no urgency on the other end of the line. I supposed they saw this sort of thing all the time and it didn’t phase them.

It was phasing me.

I dropped the phone and the card off at the County Sherriff’s station. He took my name and number and I walked away, feeling like a Good Samaritan, but still not at peace.

About a week later it was still bothering me, so I called the sheriff to see if they had found her. The voice on the other end of the phone told me they had no record of the event at all. I asked them to double check.

Nothing; they had nothing.

I went back online and searched frantically for her, calling jobs some of the girls had listed, but no one was really allowed to give me any information, no matter how far deep into the story I got.

A year later I was running through the same place and it bothered me so much I checked again. Same thing.

Part of me thinks she’s fine: she’s home with her family or off at college enjoying a normal, young-girl-in-her-20’s life. The other part of me does not.

Sometimes I see her face when I wake up in the middle of the night. And I can’t go back to sleep when I do.

The Professor

A week ago I got an email from an ex-professor at Syracuse University who is a fan of my work: mostly because “I kill bad people” and have “an extraordinary sense of sight.” He “had an idea” he said that would be “something I would be interested in.”

“Bullshit,” I thought. I’m a writer and I don’t write other people’s shit anymore. I agreed to meet but told him I would probably say “no.”

I had to hear him out though.

He said he was putting together a new indie news site and wanted me to write an investigative column and I could write “anything I wanted” and operate autonomously.

“You’re my first pick,” he said, because I was a “great” writer and also because, “You’re not afraid,” he said.

I looked at him.

“No, I’m not,” I said.

Glen Zinszer

I used to be a journalist. Ended abruptly because it wasn’t my thing. Just because you write doesn’t mean you are good at writing everything. Just because you’re a musician doesn’t mean you can play every instrument.

I’m more of a jazz musician.

This lady contacted me about a year ago, telling me her married boyfriend, who I had written a few articles on, had stolen a million dollars from his own company and that no one believed her because they thought she was crazy.

She was def crazy, I could tell, but even crazy people tell the truth sometimes.

I took the story to my contacts at the downtown paper, and worked with John O’Brien, the seasoned investigative reporter there for the next eight months until we got him.

I remember there was a moment when I looked at John and he looked at me and we both knew he was guilty but we couldn’t prove it. We got the Board of Directors to open the bank account, find the evidence, and fire him from his own company.

And they published the story.

When that fucker found out his mistress had informed on him, he beat her half to death, almost blinding her in one eye.

It took all of me to not drive over there and do the same to him.

We turned all the evidence over to the District Attorney. Last I heard he was still free, I don’t know why, that motherfucker.

Batman

A little while ago I was in a dark place. For an artist, it is in the darkness that the most unusually beautiful things grow.

I was listening to the Allman Brothers song, driving down the infamous “13 Curves” (a haunted roadway south of where I live) when I felt it: I saw in my mind’s eye a man depressed to the point of suicide, driving in a car with the windows down, running drugs, caught up in the world of human trafficking, somehow.

It was the beginning of my current film script Midnight Rider.

I wrote an ad on Craigslist, asking for information regarding sex and drug trafficking. I thought my chances were slim to none getting any response.

I got responses.

I met with a couple of people who knew stuff. Cops followed me around for a while, I kid you not.

As a writer, in order to write something authentic, you have to get a little “method,” like Marlon Brando or Daniel Day-Lewis in any role.

I got connected to a lawyer out of the Midwest, a friend of a friend, and now a friend. He really has balls: he goes to Asia to bust assholes who pimp out kids.

I run in the city at night in Batman spandex. It’s more an exercise thing but I saved somebody once. I’d do it again.

I was talking to this lawyer and he was telling me the tip of the iceberg on all the shit that goes down in that world: the third world, and also under our noses. We got talking about Batman.

I am Batman.

“He knows Gotham will always be corrupt, that shit will always happen there and that he can never completely stop it,” said the lawyer.

“But what keeps driving him to go out there every night is this idea that ‘you can’t save everyone, but you can make a difference.’”

You can’t save everyone but you can make a difference.

I once worked on the film The Stoning of Soraya M., which won 2nd place in Toronto to Slumdog Millionaire and outlawed stoning in Iran.

When the professor came to me with this, I thought of that.

The Midnight Rider

I agreed to give this column a shot because after all, I was looking for true stories surrounding the fiction I would put in my movie. Why not kill two birds? Plus. I had the chance to make a difference while I did so.

Everyone has seen the haunting faces of the kids who are missing on the wall at WalMart, on the milk cartons, or in those “throw-away-almost-as-soon-as-I-get-them” things they send in the mail.

I didn’t throw it away this week. I ripped off that page that had the missing kid’s face and put it in my pocket.

“Standing by the checkout line

At the CVS, by the missing signs

She puts her quiet hand in mine,

‘Cause she’s the brightest thing I got.”

(I just went to that concert.)

Most of those kids are probably dead. The rest of them nobody cares about.

I care.

Two years ago, a high school buddy of mine was found dead in the middle of a field, empty gas cans surrounded his body, and a set of footprints led away from the corpse and off to the highway where they disappeared.

His name was John Allen. He was the happiest, most athletic kid. He was like a brother to me.

Two detectives were assigned to the case. His brother told me the autopsy revealed that he died of “natural causes” and that the family “was okay with it.”

Bullshit! I am not okay with it.

I told the professor I would take a stab at this because it was a road I was already walking down. That I literally have the scorpion jacket from Drive in the back of my car and I wear it at night when I have insomnia and walk the city.

“I don’t wear a mask,

I don’t carry a gun,

I drive.”

I can feel things as they happen, far away, kinda like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable (the greatest film in its genre); I feel things that happened in the place I am in the past, from the people they happened to, as if they are speaking to me without words. I was in the woods yesterday near where I grew up and I felt this strongly.

“I will tell your story,” I said to them, silently.

“All these moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.” - Rutger Hauer

The professor wants me to get my private eye license. I’m talking to one of those tomorrow.

I used to be an over-planner. Now I feel you can’t discredit the value of feeling out what you’re gonna do when you gotta do it. But in any case, no pun intended, I’d appreciate any thoughts, tips, stories, cases you may have that you can send to us.

I’ll make the professor sift through that shit.

I grew up on detective stories. It made me an okay writer and left an unquenched thirst in my soul for justice. This column made me feel, for the first time in a while, like I had somethin to drink.

Maybe we’ll solve a case; maybe the Bills will win a Super Bowl (my team) - who knows. I’m gonna try anyway.

I told the professor I swear a lot and to “shutthefuckup” about it. [Laughs.]

I’m sure there are some bad motherfuckers out there who are wondering “do I have to worry about this guy?”

Yeah, ya do.

That includes you - Glen Zinszer: I’m coming for you.

And Amanda Stewart: wherever you are, I will find you.

I will find you.