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Bubblegum
by michael egenolf

My name is Max, though I wouldn’t expect you to know that. Not sure there’s a soul still alive would know that. I haven’t been Max in a very long time.
I used to lie in bed at night and dream of hearing my name, like thunder from God, coming through the speakers. I’d lay there and smile. I’d hear the chants, Max, Max, Max!
Never heard it once though. Not once, in all these years.
I was eleven when it happened. That’s over a thousand and fifty full moons ago if you’re keeping score. I woke up like any other eleven year old. It was eight in the morning in the middle of July and the Mississippi sun was already scorching the devil out of the dust. And we were already on the diamond.

Billy Joe, everybody called him aces, was up to bat. Kenny No-legs reared back and threw him a spitter. Aces swung with all his might and missed the ball by a foot and a half. That was one of his better swings. The boys all blasted their cat calls. The thing about Aces is he couldn’t hit a lick, but his smile never dimmed and he kinda liked the attention.

And that’s when it happened.
Aces had swung with all his might, like he always does, but this time, the bat was no longer in his hands. It was hurtling end over end directly towards my face.

I never saw it coming.

I had a certain affinity for this new chewing stuff they were packing in with the baseball cards. I’d shove six or seven pieces at a time in my mouth and when it got nice and soft, I’d blow the biggest bubbles this side of the mighty Mississippi. That’s why I didn’t see the bat coming. The bubble coming out of my mouth was bigger’n my head.
The bat hit the bubble full on and there were two loud pops! One was the bubble bursting, and the other was my nose shattering and being rammed into my brain.

I pretty much slept the rest of the summer. Doctors said I was lucky. Had the bone fragment traveled another quarter inch, I may have been dead, not just in a coma. That huge pink balloon of deliciousness coming outta my mouth probably saved my life.
I’ve been Bubblegum ever since.

Played pro ball for almost 20 years. Had my face with my crooked nose on many baseballs cards squeezed in between many sticks of that pink delight. But every single one of them said Bubblegum. Bubblegum Magee. That’s me.

Well, I’m 99 years old. That broken nose and coma were a long, long time ago. I still get invited to speak at a sports banquet or baseball card convention now and again. I still go when I can. I’ll still sign an autograph if for some reason someone has the notion to ask for it.  I’ve had a good life. Played the game I love, made a lot of friends and a lot of good memories. Even got one of those bronze busts sitting in Canton.

I’m about to turn 100. That’s a long time to walk this mortal coil. I think it’s time to give bubblegum a rest.

“Hey Bubblegum, you’re on!”

Well, got another convention crowd to say hello to. Been a good life. I walk up to the man running the show and offer my outstretched hand. He takes it. I flash my smile, “call me Max,” I said.

And stepped through the curtain.

Scariest Day Ever!

So it’s closing in on the end of the day. Suebee is fast asleep in bed and so is Ian. I’m in the family room downstairs with the Flyers/Devils game on TV that I DVR’d earlier. All I can think of is how differently this day could have turned out and how thankful and grateful I am to be sitting here with my two loved-ones asleep upstairs.

We were supposed to be in the Poconos right now, snug in our hotel room after a fun day of snow tubing! We were supposed to be going to Crystal Cave tomorrow.

Today was St.Paddy’s with Daddy’s Day at Ian’s preschool. Such a cute event. I took off from work today to attend this event with my son, and to have a family fun outing afterward.

Ian wasn’t himself this morning. He was whiny and temperamental. He gets nervous singing in front of people and was not excited to be doing so today.

We went to the event. He didn’t leave my side the entire time.

“Its OK, BooBoo” I told him. “You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.” He got a chocolate donut. Didn’t have a bite. Wanted to go home.

As soon as we arrived home he climbed atop me in the chair and snuggled in. He still had his coat on, said he was chilly. I checked his forehead and he felt a little warm. Hmmm. Maybe he was coming down with something. Sue and I began to rethink our planned outing.

Ian got into his jammies and lay down on the couch with a blanket. He was asleep in an instant. Poor guy, we thought. Let him sleep for a few and we will check his temp.

That’s when it all began to unravel.

Twenty minutes later, while he was fast asleep on the couch, he began to vomit. He was not awake.

That’s when the seizure started.

His body began to shake, his eyes opened and went really wide but he was totally unresponsive. Sue was on the phone to 911 in an instant. He was vomiting and shaking uncontrollably. His breathing became erratic. I shoved two fingers into his mouth to keep him from swallowing his tongue (I’ve since been told by the doctors never to do that) and he clamped down like a vise. A minute felt like thirty!

After what felt like an eternity, his shaking began to slow and he was more spasmodic than shaking and as the shaking slowed, the clamping of his jaw increased. I was struggling to open his mouth to make sure he could breathe and suddenly wasn’t sure I was getting my fingers out of there. I had to do something! Fast! I pulled my fingers free and tried to use both hands to open his jaw when he suddenly went limp. His eyes rolled back into his head, his head lolled to the side, his body became limp and his chest was no longer rising and falling.

My wife and I saw the same thing. Our eyes met. We were both terrified!
“This cant be happening,” I thought to myself.

I picked him up as though I were going to make a mad dash for the door while realizing in a split second the futility of that. I threw him back on the couch and began pumping his chest praying I remembered my CPR.

But he suddenly gagged and began vomiting again. I rolled him on his side and slide him to the floor. It felt like hours but help would be there in seconds.

I saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing. His heart was pounding and he was unresponsive, but he was taking in oxygen!

His tremors had ended.

He still was not conscious. His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated, but he wasn’t conscious.

My poor Ian. My pride and joy. My mini me. How can this be happening!

Police arrived and were soon followed by the ambulance. Vitals were checked and the professionals did what they were trained to do. They stabilized him and we were off to the hospital.

Febrile Seizure. It happens to children 6 and under when a fever spikes really high, really fast. He went from a “little warm” to probably 106 inside of a half hour. His fever was 104 when we got to Abington Hospital.

But he was awake and alert. He was fine.

Later that afternoon when we arrived home, it was surreal. He was sitting up watching Spongebob and saying he was hungry. I couldn’t believe what had happened just hours before. There were a few very tense minutes where my wife and I both were terrified we were losing him.

The doctor told us while its very scary to witness, the child usually isn’t in any real critical danger. I told the doctor that Ian had stopped breathing. The doctor said it was not uncommon for a child to stop breathing for a few seconds and, as he put it, reboot.

Febrile seizures happen to 1 out of every 25 children. That’s one every classroom! And they have no lasting effects, no memory of the incident and are very unlikely to ever have a recurrence.

Scariest day ever! Beware the Ides of March!

Parents, I pray you never experience this with your children. But there are a few things to keep in mind: Keep them on their side so they don’t choke on their vomit; do NOT put your fingers or anything else in their mouth – they are not likely to suffocate from swallowing their tongue; and keep them safe and ride it out. If it’s their first seizure, call 911 immediately!

So while Suebee and Ian are sleeping peacefully upstairs, I will get his next round of Advil ready.

I tell my son every day “Daddy loves you and is grateful for you.”

That was never more true than it was today.

In honor of the 18th anniversary of the day we met, here is a poem I wrote for our wedding. Love ya babe!

Through the murky depths of a sunless sea,
a bubble of life comes upon me.
Two timeless candles burn bright into one,
the glimmer of new life begun.

The river of angels, the shimmering sun,
their heavenly gift to bestow,
for love is a gift that is second to none,
and love is a river that flows.

Two children of love, to find each again,
like the joining of crystal blue streams,
to answer the heavens, to rise once again,
from the sea of waking dreams.

James Patterson, a favorite author of mine, once said people always ask him how he can write such a wonderful “black” character being a white man. Yet no one ever asked him how he could write such great serial killers, never having killed before. Funny.

Patterson writes such a great character because he lives inside that character vicariously. He doesn’t pull puppet strings to make Cross dance across the page, he sits at his computer and watches Cross do his thing. Vicariously.

I have always enjoyed placing myself into a character and letting that character speak. I love to see the world through their eyes, hear their views, taste their experiences. Live vicariously through a character if only for a few stolen moments. I have always enjoyed this glimpse into another world, and have always enjoyed stream of conscious writing through those eyes. Two of the following stories are written in this mode.

The Seige is a rant through the eyes of a female who is about to have a hell day. The story was inspired by an actual event where the crush from the crowd was so devastating that a store clerk was killed in the onslaught. I began to wonder what someone was thinking as those doors were about to open. Battle is a wonderful metaphor. Then again, maybe its more truth than metaphor.

The Itch came out of a challenge from my wife’s friend, a college creative writing instructor. She would challenge me to write stories using a word she would give me as the title. These exercises gave birth to a number of stories I have included here on the blog (most notably Forgiveness Tracks, and Orgasm).  On this particular evening, she gave me the word ITCH.

So I pondered the following… who was itchy, why were they still itchy, and why couldn’t they scratch the itch.  I put myself in their mind and started writing. I had no idea where the story was going to end up. But it was fun getting there.

I hope you enjoy THE SEIGE and ITCH. I welcome all comments.

The Siege

By Michael Egenolf (9/23/03)

They are coming. The walls have started to shake with the imminent onslaught. The war is on the brink of commencement. Unanswered prayers are now forgotten. Regret seeps from the memory. The time for dread has passed. All that can be felt now is resignation. What is to be cannot be undone. Fate has dealt its hand. The final scene has been staged and we are merely players awaiting the call to action.

We are as prepared as we can realistically be, though one can never truly prepare for a battle of this magnitude. But this battle is of our own doing. And it will be waged on our terms. We stated the time and the place. We knew when they would come and we prepared, though it was impossible to know the numbers they would ascend on us with. It appears we have gravely underestimated their appetite. We can only hold them off for so long. The dam will burst and their multitudes will burst forth. The storm will begin and the thrust will be great. And it will be horrific. The savages unleashed. The devastation incomprehensible.

I look around at my compatriots, jaws set, faces grim with the reckoning of that which approaches. Brave women all, for no man would dare make this stand. This insanity is sure to bring utter devastation. Nothing can avert this catastrophic tide. Nothing will survive this destruction. Annihilation is moments away.

The time for courage has passed, for what good is courage without hope. The screaming banshees are about to be released, the fortress walls pulse with the vibrations of the faceless throng. It is almost time.

Our hearts thud in our chests like the ticking of the clock, counting down to oblivion. Utter chaos.

All hatches are battened, all lips sealed, all I’s dotted, and T’s crossed. All signs point to the battleground, our directions clear. We have stated our conditions, for which there is no returning. We are ready.

The clock ticks down… down… down…

Our breathing draws shallow, our hearts beating thickly through our veins. Our throats go dry. Tick… tick… tick…

We are women, alone, to face the enemy. We are stronger than the heartiest of men, brave in the face of hopelessness. Yet somehow, God willing, we know we will endure. This, of course, is not the first time.

There have been others. Many others. We know we will live to stand another day.

If we can just make it to noon.

The screams are louder now, closer. The air is thick with dreadful anticipation. Despair settles like a fog around us. It is time to set the torches alight. It is time to make the stand.

The fortress walls bulge under the rhythmic thrust of the invaders.   The pounding increases to critical levels. The fortress can’t hold out much longer.

The bells of doom have chimed. It has come.

The fortress has been compromised. The onslaught has begun.

God willing, if I survive the day, I swear this is the last Bridal shop Clearance sale I ever work.

If I can only make it till noon.

Slumber Party

by Michael Egenolf

An evening full of fun and games and laughs and cries of joy,

Sleeping bags and pillow fights and lots and lots of noise.

An evening that was perfectly planned with not a thing forgotten,

little girl fears are comforted by watchman made of cotton.

You’re feeling calm and having fun and playing with your toys,

but something still is missing – YOU FORGOT THE BOYS.

Bewitching hour is near at hand, emptiness fills the room,

Lights burn out and darkness falls – screams pierce the gloom.

Your blood runs cold your heart just stops – silence in the night.

You wait to hear the footsteps that justifies your fright.

Suddenly the door burst wide and back on comes the light,

but relax little girls its only Lisa’s mom coming to say goodnight.

Sweet Dreams… if you dare!

 (written for my friend Lisa in 1984)

ITCH

By

Michael Egenolf

If only I could scratch my nose. My kingdom for a good scratch. The itch is hot and burns me deeply. This constant urge. This constant yearn for relief is the only thing which I am surely certain of. That and my sentience.

But is it really enough to know that you are? Not who you are or what you are, just THAT you are?  It does not feel like enough to me. I need to know more. Not just THAT I am, but who I am. What am I doing here? How did I come to these terrible circumstances. Or are these even terrible circumstances? Did I just come into being this way? Is this how I have always been? Have I even existed before today? I must have. The only rationale I can offer to support this is my understanding of language. I do not see how I could have just come into being and possess the ability to form coherent thoughts and dialogue mentally without prior training or practice. So I have existed before this current conscious moment. Have I been here for days? Weeks? Years? Minutes?

This infernal itch. It will surely drive me mad. There must be something I can utilize to address this issue. I search my memory for a tool. “Finger” comes to mind. Though I have no recollection as to what that pertains to. But somewhere I understand that finger is to scratch. I must have a finger here somewhere.

I lie here in stasis for time uncomprehending. The moments crawl by in metered eternal clicks. Slow. Ceaseless.

Arms. What are those? Surely I have none. I cannot feel where they would be. I cannot feel how I would move them. Legs. The same. Nothing.

What am I? Am I human? I appear to be. I interact with them. At least I think I do. I understand them although I find no ability to respond. I have no voice. My eyes no longer see, if in fact, they ever have.

No hands, no feet. No limbs or extremities of any kind. At least not that I have sensory capabilities of. So what am I?

What is my function? What more could a being ask for than to understand its purpose. Am I serving some greater good? Some greater god? Or am I just … being.

Post. Scratching post. Something created into being for the purpose of a feline sating itch impulses by rhythmic friction.  Sounds delightful.

Is that what I am? Feline? No, I do not believe so. I do not believe that the feline has developed the ability for speech, or the thought process of language, at least. No. I am not a feline.

How can I be certain that I even exist. Am I just a thought pattern floating through space aimlessly?  I do not see the rationality behind this. There must be a reason. Some coherent pattern to explain my reason for being.

If only I could scratch. Yes. That must be the reason. My purpose. I am here to scratch. Or maybe I am here to be scratched. Hmm. The rub. Am I the scratcher or the scratchee? Well, this principle must be further examined. I feel the need to scratch. I must be the scratcher. However, I have no knowledgeable ability to perform said scratching. Then again, I need to be scratched. Therefore, surely I am the scratchee. But I have no knowledge of how to find this.

Maybe that is the purpose. To find the ability to scratch. To learn what it means to scratch. Or to learn what it means to be an itch?

Yes, that must be it.

Is this then failure to accomplish said goal? How long has the searching been going on? There is no possession of short-term recall abilities. There is no recording of the duration of said search up until this moment.  Has the search, in fact, been previously successful, only to have been unremembered and unrecalled moments later? Is this search doomed to recurring failure? Repetition required for each mistake, each unrecalled discovery, each endeavor re-acted upon like a stereo needle stuck in its repetitive scratched groove?

Scratched groove? Is that it? A groove? No. Most certainly not. There may be the ability as a sentient being to be… how do they say… groove-ey? But no, a groove is not what this existence is about.  No. definitely not.

At least, it is not believed to be so.

Itch!

Itch!

Over and over again. Insanity.

Or is sanity already absent? Has it ever really been there? Is sanity required for sentience? Do the insane know they exist? Does anything I do, or think, or think I do, matter in the absolute least. A thought keeps coming to the surface. “in another hundred years, who’s gonna give a crap”. I do not believe to be the elicitor of said comment. But it is comprehendible, none the less. It can be “dug”, the place where it originates from. Another attractive metaphor.

Itch.

Itch.

Ceaseless. Neverending. Unyielding. This could  go on and on. Or maybe this has been, on and on, eternal.

The search for answers goes on. One thing that can be viewed as certain is the next conscious moment experienced will bring all the same burning question again. The answer may never come… the quest for identity may never—

     “Now what does it say?”

     “G  and L still aren’t working.”

     “I told you not to remove the ram chip before the de-bug program finished. I’m gonna                                                                                                            

       have a bitch of a time getting her up and running again”.

      “Sorry. My bad”.

      “I said it a million times ‘when a glitch happens running memory update… do not         

       remove the chips until its debugged’. Got it?”

     “Got it.”

     A metallic click snaps into place.

    “There. She’s up and running again. Let’s see how good she runs now?”

I am a she!

FORGIVENESS TRACKS

By

Michael Egenolf

©2003

   Tracks. Long, dusty, desolate. These tracks have become my friends over these many dark nights. There’s a simple order to them. Two rows of 4-gauge steel and a tie-rod every eighteen inches. Order. Simplicity. It’s like its own mini universe right there in front of you- yet goes on as far as the eye can see.

I’ve left my share of rubber behind on these tracks. Boots worn thin with the memories. Mile upon countless mile. Funny though, days become weeks yet every time I look up, the stars are all right there- present and accounted for, and they haven’t moved an inch! Humbles you, don’t you think?

There’s a real comfort here, between the rails. Like tour- guides to the soul, they show me the way around every mountain that stands before me, guiding me left and right and on into forever. They lead me to my future. To my redemption. To my salvation.

Days upon days- alone with my thoughts. I can hardly remember the feel of human contact: the sound of a laugh, a cry, the taste of a tear. My own tears never came. I wouldn’t allow myself the indulgence, the relief. Not just yet.

I miss the sun, as well. I miss its radiance on my face warming my soul. Bringing me life. I shed no tear for that loss, either.

My thoughts wander, winding in and out, up and around, through the dark tunnels of my mind. Over tall bridges that will never see a river flow beneath them. Up, around, and over goes my mind. Just like these tracks.

I wonder what is to become of me. I wonder what will happen to the tracks, but alas, I take comfort in this thought. I may end, but these tracks will go on forever. They survived this long… I’d say they were “out-of-the-woods” so to speak.

I close my eyes. Listen. Can you hear it? The cacophony of life in evidence like no where else on God’s green—

Anyway… I miss the woods, too. I can still hear it in my mind, smell it on my lips, taste it with my soul. The soft brown Earth, lush green trees. Crickets, birds, snapping twigs, scampering rabbits. Mother Nature’s Overture in the orchestra of life. Yes! Maybe I’ll miss that the most!

No. The Children.

The dear sweet children. Running, laughing, playing, crying, singing, jumping, giggling, loving unconditionally. The Earth’s nectar was its children. Bursting with life. Sustaining. Growing. Becoming.

Only sometimes the nectar turns sour. The fruit gone bad. The becoming- something altogether terrifying.

I became.

It was all so simple, so orderly, so… universal. It practically formed itself.  The seed of an idea. Self-germinating. I only gave it the slightest nudge. And sent the roller coaster of life hurtling down the tracks. But these tracks weren’t finished yet. They didn’t fade away into forever. They stopped dead in the abyss of damnation.

Why is man’s greatest accomplishment always his greatest undoing. Man sought to perfect! He sought to outperform- to make better. All for the good of man. Then, man sought to protect that knowledge from his fellow man. Then he used such knowledge to destroy his fellow man seeking that same knowledge.

I laugh. Sure, I could say, “I was acting under orders.” But who would I tell it to. Who would care.

I knew what it was capable of. I did it to see if I could, not thinking if I should.

So now I walk these tracks. On and on into forever.

The dust clouds are particularly thick today. And hot- but here’s the kicker… it’s a dry heat!

Every drop of water is gone.

My little fusion device of death. It did what they said could never be done. Does that make me a genius? Some kind of hero? My conscience can’t even begin to comprehend the enormity.

I did the test. I’m the only one who took precautions. Well, needless to say, the test was a huge success.

I killed everything.

Every molecule of Hydrogen on the planet- converted, except mine. No water. No life. Except mine.

Just these tracks. At least I know they’ll never rust.

Why no tears, you ask? Well, in another day or two I should reach the Pacific basin. Used to be the most peaceful place on Earth. I’m going to get down on my hands and knees before her and beg forgiveness.

Then I’m going to cry until I fill her back up again.

                            The End