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Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

My Father's Bartenders

The girls who poured my father’s gin-and-tonics were slim, brown-eyed beauties, quick to wipe up his spills, freshen his drinks, and smile at his wisecracks. They looked nothing like him, and they asked for nothing from him. Maria worked in the city bar, where my father drank in the afternoons, and Debbie worked in the suburban bar, where my father drank in the evenings.

Fiction

Blue Flamingo Looks At Red Water

That bus is going to slam into my daughter. In my stop-action memory, everything lies bare a grace note before the accident. The school bus grinds forward stupidly, a yellow hippo. Henry is at the crosswalk, waiting for me as I turn the corner. He is not holding Mary’s hand.

Fiction

Lost In The War Of The Beautiful Lads

Three kids in a pickup truck. In a field. And Corrie in the middle. Her head on a shoulder. Another leaning against her. The three of them like a trio of knocked-over pins. One window shattered. Glass on their laps. An empty open CD case on Garrett’s knee. Corrie’s hand clutching a wilted moss rose so tightly the woody stem had split, leaving a thin gash across her tender palm.

Fiction

Tully

She’d been giggling and nervously trying to act her way through a mixer with boys from a slightly classier school when she spied a long-legged, outrageously long-haired, odd bird looking lost by the corner of a table. Feeling suddenly responsible for playing hostess, she approached the stranger boldly as he pulled out a pipe from a deep coat pocket and began fooling around with it in the manner of a total novice. She was fond of his ungainliness already.

The Sun Interview

Judaism’s Mystical Heart

An Interview With Dovid Din

Judaism is very concerned with the natural rhythms of things . . . like crying children, and the pulse of family life. It insists on family life, and is very cautious of the ascetic or celibate life — which may be an important route, but it’s not real.

Fiction

News From El Corizon: In The Composing Room

Now leo says that of course we will get together again. He calls me on the telephone from seven-eleven parking lots long-distance and says that he loves me and he sends me a hundred dollars a month to keep his name on the mailbox, he in fact spends great parts of his poet-in-the-schools money to drive from galveston to dallas for weekends of love-making and whispered reassurances and barbequed chicken crowded around the little kitchen table with me and the three kids like he is simply a commuting husband and this family is really his.

The Sun Interview

Living With The Dying

An Interview With Frank Ostaseski

Finally, you understand that he’s frightened at that particular moment, really frightened. He doesn’t want to talk about it and he doesn’t want to process it in some way; he just wants to be numb. . . . What business do I have to try to get him to pay attention to his death?

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Sharing History, With Rufus

The first time I saw Rufus was in 1967 when she was just a puppy. She was actually just a dark waggle on the end of a leash in the hands of my friend Jerry. He and his new girlfriend, Dolores, were walking Rufus, their new pal, around the quad at Wake Forest. I don’t remember how they acquired Rufus but it had something to do with getting stoned.

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Ward

Each day began with the entrance of the nurse, Madame Charoing, at exactly six, turning on the lights with a quiet, but determined, Bonjour messieurs,” which meant, “All right, gentlemen, it is time to get those bowels moving. Those of you who are immobile have ten minutes before I return to collect the bedpans and urinals. If they are not full, they will not be collected until the next shift, which means they will sit, stinking up the ward, until four.”