Dance of the Masks preview

Dance of the Masks
By Kevin Lindsey

Mist. It always starts with mist. The world is fuzzy at the edges with the wet vapor.

Gossamer tendrils lick across the surface of the lake as he looks through the branches of a bush. It's fat green leaves brush his face as he pokes his head through a thin patch hoping to catch a glimpse of her. No word, no sound, he must be as quiet as the smoky wisps at the water's edge.

She stands alone in the water. Always the same she. Dark skin beads with water and her long chestnut hair clings to her wet body. The dripping shift she wears has turned translucent, and he can clearly see her large brown nipples standing erect against the fabric. The curve of her hips called to him. She turns her head and her dark green eyes star straight into the bush where he is hiding and he knows that the she can see him. The eyes pierce him, stir him with a small warm rush.

That's all there is to the dream. The dream never changes. He never changes. Qarl is 12 in the dream, thin as a reed, all arms and legs with an unruly mop of black hair. He is wearing nothing more than a breachclout. Yet he doesn't feel naked. He feels right.

Was it a truly a dream or a memory? Qarl doesn't know anymore. The fires of the masters had purged his memories and made him one with his masked brothers. That's what the priests of Jah'l told him and it was true. Besides his name, he did not remember anything about his life before the dance. 

The Edate scene

OK, I'll admit to this: When the dating scene runs dry and there's no real prospects on the horizon, I occasionally give Internet dating services a whirl.

I figure, if nothing else it opens you up to meeting some new people from other walks of life. I don't do it a lot or for any protracted length of time. Usually I'll give it a couple months every few years just to shake things up.

Honestly, I've generally end up with a couple dates out of the experience. Not great, but not a total waste either. Turns out I'm not exactly a super chick magnet, but I am just odd enough to get a little attention.

The women I've met from online dating sites are generally very nice people. No real magic or sparks, but then how often is that really the case? I've even kept a couple of them on as friends. I even went to the wedding of one -- as a guest. There have been very few no ways who made it through to an actual date. I can usually weed out the wackos.

I bring all this up because I recently gave eHarmony a try. And after going through the little test they give you, it's kind of obvious how it works. 1. They are really gauging how cranky you are and are looking for people who are either similarly cranky or willing to put up with your crankiness. 2. They really ratchet down the age range to within a few years of your age, but not usually above. At least, that's what they do with men.

I think that accounts for pretty much all of the success stories that they claim. You are obviously going to have more in common with someone closer to your own age and crankability.

Then they really limit the choices so you actually have to read the profile instead of just going, yup, nope, yup, nope based on photos alone.

Having said that, there's still a certain amount of looking at the photos and going yup and nope. So, I just kind of let my profile sit a week to let it marinate with the matches. I looked at some of the ones they said were my best matches and I went "Looks pretty much the same as other sites." I only really went absolutely no on one person and invariably that's the one who sent me something. I'll be nice and reply in kind and if she's a good person I'll talk to her, but I won't get her hopes up.

That's the edating life. 

Preview

A few pages from The Lonely Zombie. I have a backlog of stories to finish and post. This is the first one. Stay tuned for it.

The Lonely Zombie

By Kevin Lindsey

“Oh honey, you should have seen this guy at the bar. He was all rubbing up against me and trying to talk me into going home with him. and I wouldn’t give him shit,” Glenda purred into the phone, talking to Wendi in accounting.

As she spoke one of her  perfectly manicured hands with their glitter-speckled nails reached out to shuffle the papers on her desk  to make it look like she was actually working.

“Oh, yeah, I made him buy me drinks,” Glenda  laughed. “That’s the minimum you have to pay just to talk to me.”

She tossed her raven-colored hair from one side to the other and saw something she definitely didn’t like over the top of her cubicle. “Shit, I gotta go,” she said hanging up the phone with a quick slam.

Walking her way was her boss. He had that set, focused look on his face that accentuated his double chin. He obviously had actual work in mind for her.

Without a word he strode into her cubicle and dumped the paperwork on her desk and quickly left.

Glenda looked down and saw why he wasn’t going to chat her up like he did last night at the bar == she had to run this down to shipping.

“FUUUUUUU” she said softly to the cubicle walls and reached into her desk drawer for her air freshener.

Placing the little pine tree on a string around her neck like a talisman, she got up and grabbed the paperwork.

The massive freight elevator door slammed down and the lift lurched into life, descending down into the bowels of Millhouse Paper Co. With a thud and a shudder it came to a stop at the basement floor where the shipping department was.

First the outer doors went up and then the inside metal grating flew up with a grating noise. Glenda looked out at the long corridor in front of her and she thought that she could already smell it.

The faded yellow paint of the hallway seemed greasy with years of neglect and maybe, in her mind, putrefaction. She stepped out onto the curling linoleum floor and her footsteps echoed out ahead of her.

She clutched the shipping orders close to her breasts and pulled the air freshener to her face and took a big whiff.  She jumped a little when the elevator doors closed with a grinding thud of finality behind her. As they did one of the overhead fluorescent lights that bathed the corridor with unflatteringly white light began to flicker.

“Oh great, I’m in a fucking horror film,” she whispered out loud as she headed towards the end of the hallway.

At the end of that hallway was a door with a shelf on it. It wasn’t a scary door; it was a wood door. The paint was peeling a little around the hinges and there was one more interesting thing about it – it was split in half so the upper part opened independently of the bottom half. On the backside of the door, which appeared to be the front side, since it was open, was a large sign that read “Shipping Department”.

The counter showed obvious signs of wear, but not badly so. On it were two large stamps sitting on ink pads and two wire baskets marked “in” and “out”. There was also a small bell.

Yet, as Glenda slowly approached the mostly normal door, her dread increased. She began holding out the air freshener in front of her, somehow hoping that it’s magical freshening powers could stop what was going to happen. She was sure she could smell it now. Rotten pork. That was the smell her brain told her she should expect. Her morning eggs threatened to make a return visit to her mouth, but she held it down.

It felt like time had slowed, but in truth she was just walking really slow. She reached the door just as her fear reached fever pitch. A little pee escaped her bladder’s control. She didn’t notice.

She placed the paperwork on the counter and her hand reached out to ring the bell when it happened.

A ghastly ghoul popped up from the other side of the door. Glenda screamed a little. It was like a whispered scream. She was so frightened that her vocal cords had mostly locked up.

The man-like thing was tall and very pale. The skin around its eyes was black and slightly sunken, making it look like a skull. The lips thin and colorless stretched tight over its massive teeth.

It grabbed the paperwork and with the devil’s speed grabbed the top sheets and stamped them with one stamp, then it stamped the bottom sheets with the other stamp and shoved them at Glenda.

Her startled, frightened face just looked at the skeletal hands with their ragged nails. It shoved the papers closer and she recoiled. It looked deep into her sparkling dark eyes with its slightly milky green ones and the colorless lips parted as it grimaced at her.

The teeth were large, brown and irregular. Some were jagged where they had broken. A little bit of spit began to drool down the right side of the mouth and the thing grunted at her.

Her mind began to work again and she grabbed the paperwork being offered by the dead thing.

She said a fear-filled “Thhhhhankyou,” and ran away back down the hallway. The entire ride back up to the first floor she dry heaved.

Brian the zombie stood at the counter and watched her run. He thought his smile wasn’t all that effective; he would have to work on his people skills.

Memory loss was one of the biggest problems for zombies. Sure being an animated corpse with a hankering for brains was a real bitch, but with the right training, drugs and a steady supply of animal brains it was manageable.

The biggest problem was recovering  all of the mental abilities you had when you were living. You see dying involves a certain amount of brain damage.

Brian remembered how to speak, he just couldn’t quite find the right pathway in his brain to link up the speech centers of the brain to the mouth. Brian wasn’t his real name, it was just something people called him because the only thing he could say clearly right now was “Braiiiiinnnnss.” Brian guessed that they thought it was funny to twist around brain into brian and use it as his name.

He wondered if he was that cruel to zombies when he was alive. Probably, he thought. It sounded right in his head.

Speech would come in time and with hard work, Zombie Jesus willing, he thought to himself as he sat back down at his desk in the shipping and receiving department.

At the foot of the wall

I am impotent in the face of the world
Friends, family innocents and myself are subject to the whims of fate, sickness and the evil of other men.
Some turn to religion. Fine
Some turn to drugs. Fine if you want to make things worse.
I stand at the foot of the vast wall of the world, made from my own fears and anxieties. Made from those things I have no control over that weigh me down.
What I strive to find is a way past the wall.
A way to see the truth. That the world doesn't matter. Sickness doesn't matter. Pain doesn't matter. Evil doesn't matter. Good doesn't matter. All of these things are my perception of the world. All that matters is the now. All that matters is  how I perceive it all.
If the wall has weight, it is because I believe it has weight. If there seems to be no door it is because I think there is no door.
Yes, I am impotent in the face of the world. But that's just my perception.
Building a door is my goal.

What would be nice

You know what would be nice?
If one single person believed in me. That's all I'm asking for and it seems to be too much.
And yes, I believe in myself. But we all need other people to believe in us too.

Early morning annoying phone call

As a prelude, I'm notorious for not answering my phone unless I know the phone number.

7:15 a.m. Phone rings. (Riders on the Storm). I wake up, look at the number, don't recognize it. Ignore.
7:18 a.m. Text message from same number pops up on phone. "Hey, Kev. How's it going?"
(Crap, it's early for me. Who is this?)
Me: "Fine. Who is this?"
Unknown texter: "It's Xxxx. I changed my number a few months ago. I thought I gave it to you.
Me: Ah, Xxxx, I guess I forgot to write it down. (Nope. You didn't give me your number)
Xxxx: So, anyway. What's going on with you? I just wanted to check in with you.
Me: (Bullshit. You want something. Just tell me what you want.) Things are fine.
Xxxx: How's work? How's life?
Me: Busy and busier. (Works been a living nightmare for years as we cut, cut and cut. It's not like it's getting better) Everything else is going along pretty good. (Mostly true, now, let's cut to the chase) So, how are you?
Xxxx: Well, things are great. I just started doing this new thing and I was hoping ... (Me: Here it comes. Lay it on me. How can I be of limited use to you today?)
Long conversation ensues on how he's got a new direction and business and wants my advice and if I felt like it I could help him get started with contacts.
Of course this is a guy I never hear from unless he needs something, and he thinks I can help him. Otherwise he probably wouldn't take my calls.
8 a.m. Texting ends with me trying to give the least help I can and still be polite.
Ugh. Thanks for waking me up early and picking my brain for your profit while giving me nothing in return. Now, I'm up for the day.

How me and my friends led the Kansas City Royals to the World Series (A more or less true tale)

(Author's note: I have told this story many times and I may have even written it down once before, but I think it still has some legs. Since I'm writing it quick I didn't flesh it out all the way with lots of dialogue. I hope that's OK)

Hot, dry, the afternoon sun was beating a hasty retreat behind the hills as I pulled Arnold, my 1973 Buick Centurion, into the parking lot at Anaheim Stadium.

The boys in the back were getting rowdy. Jim, Joe, John and me were all itching for a good game. We could all feel the excitment of the game calling us. It was June 7, 1985 and we were all 18 and just graduated from high school. With all the hormones racing through our veins it was truly a miracle that we could sit through a nine inning baseball game.

These were the days when the Angels weren't always winners, so you could just walk up and buy a good ticket. That dusk we were all flush with cash from graduation and part time jobs. Feeling like the kings of cash, we decided we would buy field level tickets. They were probably $12, but they were expensive to us.

We fairly sprinted through the turnstiles and over to the consession stand. Each of us quickly bought our two hotdogs, package of salty nuts and a large coke. John paused at the condiment stand just long enough to completely drown his dogs and tray and the KC helmet I loaned him in mustard.

Let's just leave it at the man loves his mustard and move on, shall we?

We were in time for batting practice. This was also a time when fans could watch both teams take batting practice. They don't usually have the ballpark open that early anymore. Geeze I'm old.

After watching John's former fav Reggie Jackson pop a couple out of the park and Dick Schoefield show us why he was a career .230 hitter, the Royals took a turn with the old bats.

That's when John comes to life and informs us all that the chubby, older guy blistering the baseball around the field is none other than Steve Balboni, the Babe Ruth of the minor leagues. John's massive cranium fairly thrummed into action producing a wealth of Balboni awesomeness. He had hit over 200 homeruns in the minor leagues and had over 700 RBIs and was once a Yankees prospect. Hence the reason John cared. Did I forget to mention John was a rabid Yankees fan? Well, I didn't want you to think ill of him.

Of course, the question quickly popped to a couple lips, "If he's so awesome why has he stayed in the minor leagues that long?"

John's smile darkened and he solemnly said, "Cause he strikes out like crazy and every time someone gives him a chance in the bigs he can't hit water in a pool."

We all looked at the forelorn little guy chubbily plunking away at pitch after pitch and pity grew. We were young, but we understood that sometimes things don't work out no matter how hard you try. And before us was the never give up attitude. He was the guy who kept playing because he loved it and because he sill had hope. Hope is all you have sometimes.

That was when we decided he deserved fans. No, scratch that, not just fans, he deserved super fans. The kind who believed as hard as Balboni did that he was right for baseball. The kind who would show that man past his spring that he mattered.

We were normally loud mouths anyway at a game. My full-throated plea to Michael Jackson to "Beat that thing, Michael. OH YEAH. You better make it hurt" everytime they played "Beat it" (which was often in Anaheim in the 80s) must be a legend in the Asshole Hall of Fame.

As Balboni finished his workout we began our warm-up. The chants began with a simple B-A-L-B-ONI BALBONI BALBONI BALBONI. Loudly, continuously we chanted, sweat beading up, throats warming to the challenge.

Wait. Did he hear us? I think he did. He's looking this way from the dugout. We notice that he notices and we redouble our efforts. Our throats are ready to give him praise.

"Come on now boys, what's the best reason to go to a game?" John shouts. "To watch Balboni hit a homer that's why" we reply. "BALBOOOONNNNNIIIII BALBOOOONNNNNIII"

The first inning is over and the second starts. Balboni is at the bat. He's still kind of looking over our way from time to time with what I can only assume is a puzzled expression. Maybe he's never had SUPER FAN treatment before. Well he's getting it tonight.

Balboni squares up and Mike Witt decides that this washed up bum can't handle his heater. The pitch is away. But Witt didn't factor in the power of the SUPER FANS. Balboni smashes that ball over the left field fence. Elvis has left the building. A home run in his first at bat.

We scream BALBONI BALBONI BALBONI which just devolves into us screaming our heads off. Not always a thing you want to do in a stadium where your man is on the visiting team. But lucky for us, California is live and let live about other fans showing up to games.

Was that it? Was that all we could expect from Steve Balboni? The SUPER FANS didn't think so and we let him know. We kept up our chants and encouragements, our throats begining to protest as the game wore on.

Balboni came up to bat for the second time and we increased our volume to give the baseball some extra lift when he hit it. Witt, once again miscalculated with a fastball, and Balboni and the SUPER FANS made him pay. A quick, powerful stroke and the baseball beat a hasty retreat over the left-field fence. Another homer. And we went wild.

Honestly, by this point, we were believers. We believed that BALBONI was special. This wasn't just some whim anymore. We were truly, even if it was for just that night, his SUPER FANS.

The Steve Balboni show wasn't over that night. With one man on late in the game, the new Sultan of Swat came up for the final time and promptly hit a single to drive in the run. At this point we were croaking our approval because our voices were almost completely gone. But we were satisfied with our man. He had proven that he could play with the big boys.

You are probably asking yourself at this point, how did you guys help the Royals win the World Series?

Well, turns out that wasn't the only big night for Steve Balboni that year, it was just the start of many. He had the best year of his career and he was a key component of their World Series championship team, playing well in the field and hitting .316. And it all broke loose that night. Well, at least, that's what I like to say.

Truth is, he might have gone on to have exactly the same night and season if we hadn't been there. What I actually like to think is that maybe all he really needed was to feel like he belonged in the majors and maybe we helped him realize that. A little praise goes a long way and SUPER FAN praise goes a little longer. Maybe all we really did was distract him enough so that he didn't over-think things and that helped him perform on the field.

As I get older,  I realize more and more that showing someone that you believe in them has a lot of power. Telling someone they are doing a good job, or that they are worthwhile can really make a difference. That's the real point of the Steve Balboni story.

Some links to prove my point:
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/box-scores/boxscore.php?boxid=198506070CAL

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1985_World_Series

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Balboni