#this might be “Hoffman after escaping the bathroom” you know...

[minilev]

Don't... please don't tell me Costas Mandylor is playing THE serial killer

[justincaseitmatters]

Rewind: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Dr. Strangelove after 50 Years

Originally Published in KCActive.com in January 2014. On January 29, 1964, the world discovered something that Bronx-born director Stanley Kubrick had known for a few years: that the only appropriate reaction to the arms race was a dirty joke. In the five decades that have passed since then, countries that once frightened the world have fallen, alliances and rivalries have reversed, technologies have changed and Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb has become more enlightening, infuriating and, yes, hilarious with time. The Chess Master I almost feel sorry for anyone who is forced to discover this movie in a manner that's different from the way I did at age 11. For some reason, Kansas City's KCMO (now KCTV) broadcast the movie for a 10:30 p.m. showing, probably on a Saturday night. My mother, my younger brother and I congregated around the used black-and-white TV in my bedroom, knowing only that the film in question starred our favorite comedian Peter Sellers, from the Pink Panther movies, and that it might be important because the local paper said it was.   I was delighted that my bedroom had turned into a mini-theater and that we wouldn't miss any beautiful color images. Gilbert Taylor's cinematography and Ken Adam's grand sets look just fine in monochrome. Other than the fact that the movie was in black-and-white, we knew nothing about the assault that was coming our way. For most adult viewers, Dr. Strangelove states its devilishly comic intents up front. The movie's notorious opening credits by Pablo Ferro feature a phallic arm fueling a plane in mid-air as a soft instrumental track of "Try a Little Tenderness" plays in the background. As the geeky son of a Baptist deacon, these amorous aircraft completely escaped my notice.

My mother curiously remained silent, but soon the three of us were so thoroughly entertained that we stopped caring that Kubrick and co-screenwriter Terry Southern (the mind behind the kinky novels Candy, Blue Movie and The Magic Christian) were about to turn all three of us into "deviated pre-verts."

It's not surprising to learn that Kubrick once hustled chess in New York as a young man because he reveals his comic intentions gradually. During the the run up to General Jack D. Ripper's unauthorized nuclear assault upon the Soviet Union, my family and and I thought we were watching a straight nuclear war drama. It wasn't until General Ripper made the following declaration at 24 minutes into the film that we discovered that Kubrick was taking the movie into a direction all his own:

I can no longer sit back and allow Communist infiltration, Communist indoctrination, Communist subversion and the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.

Hearing deep-voiced actor Sterling Hayden utter the word "fluids" without a hint of levity in his voice sent all three of us into hysterics. From here on we knew something was up and that the footage we saw previously was laced with comic venom. We finally noticed Ripper's name and that the pilot of one of Ripper's B52s is Maj. T.J. "King" Kong (played by former rodeo clown Slim Pickens). All Too Real Dr. Strangelove is loaded with characters afflicted with gag names, and sometimes these absurd monikers aren't obvious on an initial viewing. The Soviet Ambassador is Alexi Desadesky (British actor Peter Bull), the President of the United States is Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers), and his top strategist is a former Nazi known as Dr. Strangelove (Sellers, again). While Kubrick and Southern came up with a cornucopia of silly names with sexual connotations, the scenario in Dr. Strangelove is uncomfortably realistic. As more information from the Cold War has become publicly available, the scenario Kubrick, Southern and a Welsh Royal Air Force officer Peter George (from George's 1958 novel Two Hours to Doom a.k.a. Red Alert) cooked up was far from outlandish. Throughout history wars have been started for causes as inexplicable as fluids and water fluoridation, which General Ripper believes has made him impotent. Mental illness and just plain foolishness can strike at anytime  At the beginning of Dr. Strangelove, a disclaimer informs the viewers that the U.S. Air Force has safeguards to prevent the deadly events in the film from occurring. Not really. Around the time that George was writing his thriller about facing nuclear annihilation, Daniel Ellsberg, the future leaker of The Pentagon Papers, discovered that Washington's policy toward who could launch a nuclear attack and when was a mess. In theory, only the president had authorization. Ellsberg, a recent Harvard PhD grad from  working for the RAND Corporation, recalled in his 2002 book Secrets: A Memoir of Vietnam and the Pentagon Papers:

I learned, for example, the secret that contrary to all public declarations, President Eisenhower had delegated to major theater commanders the authority to initial nuclear attacks under certain circumstances, such as outage of communications with Washington--an almost daily occurrence in those days--or presidential incapacitation   (twice suffered by President Eisenhower). This delegation was unknown to President Kennedy's assistant for national security, McGeorge Bundy--and thus to the president--in early 1961, when I briefed him on the issue. 

In other words, Gen. Ripper and his ilk had already been given a sort of green light. On both sides of the Iron Curtain, only whims of fate seem to have prevented nuclear first strikes. According to David E. Hoffman's The Dead Hand: The Untold Story of the Cold War Arms Race and its Dangerous Legacy, on September 26, 1983, Soviet Lt. Col. Stanislav Petrov received a warning on his instruments informing him the Americans had launched a missile strike on his country. His satellites told him that five missiles were on their way to Mother Russia, but there were no visual sightings to match the alarms wailing at his base. Working simply on instinct, he correctly informed his superiors that no attack was taking place and that the warning system was malfunctioning. It's a good thing he did. Doing so prevented an unprovoked Soviet first strike. Petrov's hunch saved countless lives. Sadly, he had only minutes or seconds to make his fateful decision. The Killing Joke Unfortunately, decisions like Petrov's were all too often made at the last minute and in a state of panic. This is one of the reasons Dr. Strangelove is so entertaining and why satire might be a more effective way to point out the horrors of nuclear war. George's novel is a dark thriller, and Kubrick and George initially set out to make a straightforward adaptation of the book. During pre-production, however, Kubrick noticed that some of the situations described in the book, like the President informing the Soviets how to shoot down his own planes, seemed weirdly comic. George was disappointed by Kubrick's change of heart but later wrote a novelization of the film that even included gags that Kubrick didn't film or eventually cut from the movie (like a coda where space aliens wonder how the planet they've discovered called Earth is now a radioactive graveyard). George's later writing focused on the grim potential of nuclear weapons. Sadly, his concern for the subject may have been a factor when he chose to kill himself in 1966. Strangely, in the finished movie, the humor seems to emphasize how fragile a world with nuclear weapons really is. When word of Gen. Ripper's assault reaches the Pentagon, the news arrives, not to a commander ready to deal with the crisis, but to Gen. Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) cavorting with his bikini-clad mistress (Tracy Reed). Actually, he's in the bathroom when the urgent call comes. 

Similarly, the Soviet Premier Dimitri Kissoff (who, curiously, is never seen or heard in the film) is not at his office in the Kremlin toiling to make his nation a worker's paradise. So where is he when the Soviets need his attention the most? "You would never reached him at that number," says Ambassador Desadesky. "Our Premier is a man of the people, but he is also a man, if you follow my meaning." 

I should probably add that he's also drunk. Disasters, whether natural or man made, rarely happen at moments that are convenient for us mortals. Kubrick and Southern spent a great amount of time figuring out where leaders might be and wondered what they might eat or drink during the crisis. That explains the improvised buffet table in the Pentagon's War Room. They also knew that leaders are human beings and that they are as prone to mistakes and panicking as anyone else. In most of the dramas that preceded or followed Dr. Strangelove, world leaders appear as conscientious or calm despite the heavy stakes involved. President Muffley, however, is understandably nervous and awkward in explaining the crisis to Premier Kissoff. Sellers improvised much of his dialogue, and the call between the two leaders is hysterically funny because it's impossible to think of a polite or an effective way to relay the grim message at hand.

Kubrick's willingness to embrace panic eventually influenced more mainstream nuclear thrillers. In an interview I conducted with director Phil Alden Robinson for NitrateOnline.com over his 2002 adaptation of the late Tom Clancy's The Sum of All Fears, he readily acknowledged how Kubrick's comedy affected his own, more serious movie:

Kubrick is the best who ever lived. I have to believe that's what goes on behind closed doors. Once in a while, the President's emotions must get the best of him. Clancy once said, "If you put the leaders of a country in a room and tell them the decisions they make might lead to blowing up the world, only a sociopath would not have an emotional reaction." The most reasonable people in the world, by virtue of their reason, are going to be emotional and distraught and kind of at wit's end at some point.

Why I Still Love the Bomb As I've grown older Dr. Strangelove has become less of a movie to more and more of an old friend. Yes, it's odd that this cynical, fatalistic movie has such a fond spot in my heart. It's no spoiler to reveal that all of the human machinations in the movie fail to stop a nuclear Armageddon. It's also hard to think of a more clever or even nourishing film. Every time I come back to I learn new things. I spot gags that I missed when I saw the movie earlier. Kubrick consulted over 50 books during the making of Dr. Strangelove, and his attention to detail only shows up on repeated viewings. A friend of mine politely told me that Kubrick's movies like Lolita, A Clockwork Orange and 2001: A Space Odyssey are an acquired taste, but those of us who have   picked up an appetite continuously love coming back to his films, waiting for new treasures hidden in their frames. One aspect that does hit me from watching the movie again and again is that Kubrick, contrary to what his detractors have contended, actually could create sympathetic and completely human characters. Kubrick skillfully manipulates the audience into liking the crew on Maj. Kong's B52. When a Russian missile stalks the plane, Kubrick wants viewers to feel for the crew. Unlike their commander, Gen. Ripper, their intents are not tainted by his madness. For the sake of the story, it would be best if the missile sent them to a fiery grave. Nonetheless, watching the crew trying to stay in the air is nail biting. Unlike his make believe characters, Kubrick understands that real people are the casualties of war. Gen. Turgidson is little better than Gen. Ripper because he has no sense of proportion or consequence. He suggests that proceeding with Gen. Ripper's strike would be worth it, even if millions die. "I didn't say we wouldn't get our hair mussed," he says. Curiously, time has actually made Dr. Strangelove funnier. When I've discussed the movie with younger people, they've told me that the reasons we and the Soviets looked at each other with dread now seem remote and ridiculous. They're fully aware that the world is still a dangerous place, but they understandably think that fluoridation is not good reason to risk the lives of troops. Kubrick was only 32 when he made Dr. Strangelove, but he wound up making something that continues to enrich our lives long after his death in 1999. Through his love song to the bomb, he's revealed how far we as human beings have to grow to become responsible stewards of the technology we have. It's doubtful he could have conveyed this message so eloquently with a straight face.  

[trentjmahoneyuwrfeng200-blog]

Turning Air Into Gold

“Turning Air Into Gold.”

                                                                                   By Trent J. Mahoney

 “Was he your brother?”

           It’s such a simple question; until only recently, I would have been able to produce a simple answer. Truthfully, that was the same question that had crossed my mind more than once this year. But now things were much different, it would be a travesty to plead ignorance and believe that they weren’t. How did it ever come to this? Christ, the first time I ever met him feels like only last week to me.

           I can remember everything about that day, as if it were the most important day of my life.

Thunder split the sky; rain water poured down the street, and gushed into a nearby sewer drain like it too was trying to escape this dreaded town. I jumped over the turbulent gutter river, and ran to the front doors of the high school. Upon entering, to my joyous surprise, the high school lobby was as silent as the grave; a much-welcomed noise when compared to the typical high pitched hum of gossip and rumors. Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice a figure, a divine figure, Jessie Staple’s figure. She had been my deepest desire, ever since I first laid eyes on her when I arrived in that shit-hole town, more commonly referred to as “Greenwood.” I did my best to look appealing; struggling to form a tremulous fabricated smile, and exhibit a pathetic wave. Unfortunately, Jessie had already spotted me and consequently made the deliberate motion to not look at me.

           Heartbroken and full of teenage angst, as I walked to my locker, I had made up my idiotic mind; I was going to write the most beautiful love-note that a misunderstood outsider of a teenager ever did write to the girl of his dreams. I was the teenager that thought himself much smarter and infinitely cleverer than my fellow pupils; so, it didn’t matter that I wasn’t one of the cool kid’s or even that I wasn’t that much of an athlete. Obviously, once she read the note that I had already began formulating in my horribly misguided brain, she was going to see me for who I truly was and then consequently she would fall head over heels in love with me. Once I had retrieved my thought provoking homework, a “word find” for Spanish class, I walked hastily toward the nearest exit doors, when the growing sound of laughter became wretchedly more apparent to me.

Without breaking stride for even a broken heartbeat, I peered into the hallway perpendicular to me, so that I too could observe what was evidently very comical to a modest sized gaggle of football players. They were in their “nonchalant-passive-aggressive-ridicule” formation, honking and hissing at a boy of about my height; but still worlds shorter than the testosterone gang.

“Ask him again Derek!” one underling honked to the “mother goose,” trying to repress his annoying, deep laughter.

“Alright, just so we're sure we didn’t misunderstand you ‘buddy,’ what’s your name again?” the brutish leader inquired, with a disturbingly calm demeanor.  

As I had started to avert my gaze, wanting nothing to do with the miss-fortune of a total stranger, something extraordinary caught my eye. A smile, not a “beak-ish” smile, which had been forged at the expense of another’s suffering. It was an innocent smile, like that of a child; a smile which held no lies or malice. Why is he smiling like that? I recall pondering; regrettably, the thought had come to me with a great sense of anger. Angry, as if it were the boy’s intention to make me feel rotten for caring more about my important problems, than his common high-school encounter with bullies. Disgusted with what I had seen, or perhaps with myself; I veered toward the men’s restroom which would provide me with sanctuary from the pecking of the football players, and allow me to walk home without constantly looking behind my shoulder for the ever so aggressive “flying-v” formation.  

Before I could escape to the lavatory, I heard it. A loud and triumphant yawp, as if Walt Whitman himself were making an undeniable declaration from the very rooftops of the world.

“Iam’me Haffmain!!” boomed barbarically through the corridors of Greenwood High.

The broken English sounded strangely deliberate, and though I could no longer see the boy, there was no doubt in my mind that he had spoken those words with every ounce of his heart behind them.

But the boy’s glory was short lived, as it was smothered by the thunderous cackling of the football players.

“I Amy Half-man!” a heard one jest, in what sounded to me like a “Tarzan” impersonation.

An idiotic joke. Still, it caused the entire gaggle to burst into laughter, despite the fact that the boy had clearly meant “I am me, Hoffman.”

“Alright boy’s let’s leave the little pussy to his ‘golf practice,’ lord knows he is going to need it if he ever wants to make it to the women’s PGA. Besides we gotta pick up the girls in like, fifteen.” mother goose ordered.

His acolytes adoringly giggled at what seemed to me to be a totally random and strange joke to precede a serious demand. Puzzled, I nearly had failed to notice that the “flying-v” was headed my way. I quickened my pace, and slunk into the men’s restroom like a philosopher desperately clinging to shadows cast upon a cave wall, rather than see the light of day.  

“I Amy Half-man.” Derek had repeated, pausing for a moment to laugh, and to finish constructing his next gift to mankind in the form of ingenious comedy.

“Half man, half cripple, half retard; one-hundred percent hilarious!”  Derek exclaimed with great pride.

While I was shocked that someone would even refer to anything as having three halves, the rest of Derek’s loyal gaggle found it extremely brilliant. They all continued to laugh absurdly loud for almost twenty seconds straight. I could hear them basking in their own greatness and cleverness until they exited the lobby, and I’m sure they carried on laughing long after that.

Although my hands were clean, I washed them furiously in the sink anyway just to be sure that they were indeed, absolutely clean. I exited the bathroom confident that I had done what anyone else would do, and thus rationalizing in my selfish teenage mind that I was not at any fault. As I entered the lobby, my logical thinking was shattered by the faint sound of humming. It was the boy. “Iam’me.”

He didn’t so much walk as he did hobble, his right leg had a slight limp; yet if you were to look at his body moving collectively, he seemed to have a strange spring in his step. In fact, if I had not heard him speak just moments earlier, I wouldn’t have thought he was handicap at all. As he waddled toward the exit, I continued to unravel Derek’s joke, curiously inspecting the paradox that moved before my very eyes. He wielded an old golf club, it looked like an archaic “four-iron,” something, one could safely assume hadn’t been used for its intended purpose for many decades. Despite its homely appearance, the boy showcased it proudly, leaving it slung over his shoulder like a knight who was heroically resting his blade after he had slain a terrible dragon. When he realized someone had exited the bathroom he immediately stopped, and turned his head to meet my sullen gaze. To my surprise, and undeserved relief, there was not any contempt in his eyes; I could not sense a single trace of ill-will about him. When, without any reason, an enormous grin quickly erupted across his face, and he whimsically gave me a grand wave with his arm fully extended and his hand loosely flailing in the air as if it were struggling to stay attached to his wrist. I was so in shock that all I gave back was a stare of amazement; with my jaw trying to escape my mouth because it too held much disbelief.  Then he turned to the exit; using his weapon to push open the door, the boy began to hum cheerfully again. The door shut behind him, and I instantly fell back to reality, realizing that the knucklehead was walking right into the tempest while holding a metal golf club! And though the rain had ceased, the lighting was still as violent as ever.

Before going after him, I hesitated, and questioned if the bastard had some kind of death wish, or if he actually was that clueless.

           Miraculously, Iam’me had traveled a fair distance in what I was sure was only a matter of seconds. He was under a long line of maple trees nearly one-hundred yards away from the school; the trees, as I had come to understand, effectively acted as a divider between the soccer player’s turf and the football player’s territory. I walked slowly, and menacingly toward him; like a pissed off mother straight out of hell, who was willing to traverse the expanses of the universe to ensure her bastard of a son was chastised, and corrected. A loud blast of thunder echoed through the brisk Minnesota air.

           “BWOOSH!” Iam’me imitated; while he swung his club wildly at some acorns that had fallen on the wet grass, knocking several into the soccer field. I could feel my face swelling with anger.

           “Hey kid what--”

           God had interrupted my objection with another blast of thunder.

           “BWOOM!” he yelled happily, this time whacking a family of acorns into the football field.

           “Hey you! What the hell is your problem, if football players saw you doing that you would become their bitch literally! And if they didn’t get you the lighting just might…” I reprimanded angrily, as I grabbed the club from behind him while he was mid-swing. The boy spun around excitedly, still holding the acorn launcher with one hand.

           “Ehh Doo!!”

           I became speechless and stepped back in shock, not due to amazement, but because of fear. It’s not possible… how did he know my name was Drew? I frantically thought to myself.  

           “Doo o’gay?” the psychic inquired.

           I let out a harrowing sigh of relief; Iam’me had meant “you,” there was no such thing as psychics, and most importantly I was still the master of my own future.

           “I’m fine… what are you doing?” I restated, this time with less force.

           He grinned and proclaimed “Erryting deserbs suntine.” The smile was distinctly present even as he spoke.

           The brilliance of his justification almost escaped my narrow mind, but as I watched him begin to imitate thunder again, what he was doing became very clear. He was liberating the acorns from their parent’s chocking shadows, placing them in a brave new world of possibilities, his world; because in Iam’me’s world even acorns had hopes, even acorns deserved to chase their dreams. It was like he was turning air into gold. Out of the ever-dark sepulcher that is the real, unsympathetic world; he was able to easily create light, and more amazing yet, he did it with nothing but a rusty golf club. I was about to ask Iam’me of his real name, when he produced an unbalanced golf swing, which sent a few acorns on an unintended route up into the maples.

           The robin was still falling to the ground when I heard Iam’me let out a terrible cry of agony; ignoring the handicap of his gimp leg, Iam’me “ran” as fast as he could to aid the creature. But it was already too late. It began to rain again. As I slowly and cautiously walked to his side I could hear him sobbing; and in-between the tears I could hear him calling out to the already dead bird. Whimpering softly to it “No” and “comb ack” like an autistic child who was learning of death for the first time. He cradled the bird gently in his hands, and remained kneeling in the mud despite the rain. I’m sure he had forgotten all about the rain and all about me as well; to Iam’me there was only the bird now. If I had not said anything, I know he would have stayed in the mud and cried until he was as dead as that bird.

           “It’s dead, there’s nothing you can do…” I said apathetically.

           He peered just over his shoulder; remembering that I existed, he yelled “DOO WRUNG” loudly as he wiped his nose with his soaked sweatshirt sleeve.

           Then he rose to his feet and started to savagely strike the ground, tears still racing down his cheeks, he ineffectively struggled to use his club as a shovel. On any other day, if someone were to tell me that you can bury a dead bird in the ground and someday it will grow into a “bird tree,” I would have laughed and called that person insane. But not that day. Logic, reason, mathematics, everything that I so fervently had put my faith into; none of it mattered to me while I was helping him “plant” the bird in the ground.

           I decided to walk him home that night; it would have felt wrong to just let Iam’me wander aimlessly in the storm for hours. Although neither of us spoke a word the entire time, it was obvious that he was glad to have someone to share the journey with. He stopped at a small dilapidated hut of a house; the front lawn was extremely overgrown, and smack dab in the middle stood a wooden sign that conveyed a macabre message. Much of the sign’s paint had washed away; still, one phrase was horribly clear in my eyes. “Foster Home.” Lightning had forked across the sky once again, as if god were trying to dramatize the horror of it all. A great amount of guilt rushed over me, it wasn’t even a month earlier that I had been complaining to my parents about how crappy our new house in the suburbs was.

           “Wat’s yoo’r name?”  Iam’me asked me in what must have been his best attempt at talking like everyone else.

           “Drew.” I stated plainly.

           “Doo” he reiterated, giggling happily to himself.

           Then he raised a fist and his golf club both high above his head; just as triumphant and cheerful as always, he proclaimed “Iam’me!!!” Then he turned away from me, and happily strode into the run-down house humming a different, but still whimsical tune.

Relieved to be alone, I walked quickly down the sidewalk; as I passed by nice house after nice house, I demanded myself to forget about Iam’me. After all, I had to write the world’s greatest love note tonight; and I had felt strongly that I had already wasted far too much time helping other people with their problems.

It hadn’t taken me very long to compose the disastrous love letter; but it had taken me almost an entire week to work up the courage to give it to her. Of course, I didn’t personally give it to her; I had decided to give it to her through the ever so romantic gesture of slipping it into her locker. Looking back at it now I find the whole locker affair quite humorous, but back then I had thought it the most dreadful thing I could ever experience. Had I noticed Jessie Staples was already in route to her locker, I would not have even attempted to shove that small book through the slits in her locker. But I didn’t, and so I did. She had walked right behind me, and watched me struggle for god knows how long. I finally realized her presence when she cleared her throat; she must have thought my pathetic struggle was not even worthy of validating with words.  However, the horror that had struck me in that moment had made even the most basic of conscious actions impossible; when I tried to turn around to meet her gaze, I gracefully tripped myself and fell flat on the hard school floor. After that I wanted nothing more than to escape; despite all my effort that would be the closest I ever got to Jessie Staples. While I rose to my feet I didn’t even dare to look at her judging figure, being so embarrassingly close. So I simply said nothing, left the note haphazardly sticking out of the locker, and walked quickly toward the lobby exit with my head down in a futile attempt to hide my shame from everything and everyone.

The cool March sun hung lazily in the western sky, and to my great disbelief Iam’me was playing golf with acorns under the “boarder” trees once again. I had been avoiding him for that entire week at school, because I had thought that there was no way Jessie Staples would ever date the guy who was friends with the mentally handicapped kid at school. A belief that seemed pointless after the epic tragedy that had just occurred; but still I did not want to see Iam’me, so I darted behind the nearest car in the parking lot and stayed hidden from his sight. The sun had nearly set when Iam’me finally had finished spreading acorns evenly amongst the football and soccer field. He surveyed the fields for a final moment, immensely proud of the good he had done; then he triumphantly rested the golf club on his shoulder and began his long walk home.

Just as I had arisen from my hiding place, a boisterous uproar came stomping out of high school. It was mother goose and his goslings; I had turned away and started to walk toward the soccer fields, but it was already much too late. The first peon out the doors had spotted me trying to casually escape.

“Derek! There’s that kid!! He’s headed for the soccer fields!” He snorted franticly.

Over the large squadron of geese that poured out of the door’s, I unmistakably heard mother goose demand “After him!!” Indeed, I had started to run the second I heard the first one refer to me as “that kid;” but even on my best day I wouldn’t have had a shot of escaping Derek’s minions.

I had made it just inches short of the sidewalk when I was tackled to the ground by a goose in a letterman jacket. The sidewalk ran parallel to a busy interstate, but despite the fact that I was clearly being held down by four steroid enthusiasts, not one car had stopped to object for the entire duration. The threat was short, but Derek’s message was vividly clear.            

“Stay away from Jessie, ‘Romeo;’ I own her. And if your scrawny ass ever try’s to steal what belongs to me again… I’ll force you to eat your own finger.” He said, calmly hovering inches above my own face.

He pulled his face away from mine and stood up; for a brief second, I had thought that I had gotten away with nothing but a morose warning. But when Derek had begun to laugh; I could tell by the delight in that twisted laugh, that I wasn’t going to escape the gaggle unscathed.

“But just for kicks, and to make sure you don’t forget my promise to you; I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat dirt.” He hissed calmly.

Then the rest of the mob laughed excitedly as Derek grabbed a large hunk of dry dirt and spat on it. A fifth accomplice of his then held my nose shut and forced my mouth open, leaving me totally defenseless against the germ riddled dirt-pie. Laughing joyfully at my suffering, the other remaining players without a role had joined in; imitating their leader they kicked dirt in my face and hair until they had felt like big men. Finally, god and the rest of the bullies had had their fill, and left while laughing without a sliver of regret or empathy amongst them. As I began to rid my mouth of the grotesque mix between saliva and dirt, I reluctantly picked myself up from the ground. I stared at the passing cars, as if to judge the interstate as a collective entity which was guilty of neglect. Then, much to my dismay, I spotted Iam’me staring at me with a look of great concern from across the interstate.

            “Doo!!” He cried, over the hum of the interstate.

           I had quickly turned away, afraid that if he saw me looking distressed, he would undoubtedly do something irrational; but Iam’me was graced with irrationality since the day he first arrived on this planet. The cars, with defiant horns like brass trumpets, began to complain in absolute unison. I was already furious, and he hadn’t even made it safely across half the unwelcoming gauntlet of racing metal and distorted obscenities. I clinched my eyes together tightly, momentarily accepting that there was an idiot on the interstate who was moments away from death. I waited for the inevitable “screech-crash” of death to reach my ears; when suddenly I felt a pair of arms embrace me, and two hands quickly followed, which rested at the center of my ribcage.

           “Doo o’tay?” Iam’me whispered.

           Realizing the tremendous audacity of Iam’me, who was willing to risk even life just to confirm that I was alright; I began to cry. Ashamed that I had just moments ago came to accept the death of my superior so easily; I let the tears roll down my face effortlessly to wash away the mud and dust.  For the first time in a long time, on that memorable day, I cried for nearly ten minutes in the presence of another human. All the while Iam’me sang softly to me his own rendition of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline;” a performance, which had a power to soothe that was so pure, and so effective, that I never have found a word in existence that could capture its beauty in totality.

           From that moment on, for the rest of what remained of the ever-diminishing school year, me and Iam’me were best friends. In actuality, he may have been my only friend my entire life. However, as much as I loved Iam’me and the beautiful simplicity of his way, I had thought as a teenager that it would have never been enough for me; and so, I did what most smart people did and went to college.

           Iam’me had been shipped away to a “care home” in Chicago upon turning eighteen in the summer, while I headed to Boston in the Fall. Only god knows how sad he must have been without me or the maple trees; or really without everything that was so familiar to him, that he loved so much. I had made a conscious lie the last time I had seen him; for I had told him that I would call him as often as I found time to while I was away at school.

           The first time I had heard of Iam’me since he left for Chicago, was from a young lady who worked with death.

           She was a mortician who had called me while I was at your typical college party, she was asking for me to come verify the body of “Isaac Hoffman.” and stated coldly that I was his only listed emergency contact.  

           The people at the party may not have been able to notice. But as I drank, and stood puzzled, unraveling the mysterious request, the truth had hit me. Like a giant acorn bullet hit me right between the eyes.

           “What happened?!!?” I inquired hysterically.

           “I’m not allowed to tell you that sir… not unless your related to him… Was he your brother?” She boringly insinuated.

           “Yeah, I am his brother…” I lied after much hesitation.

           The mortician without much human emotion at all proceeded to describe to me the fate of my hero. Iam’me had found a group of homeless people and had tirelessly shuttled food and water from his home on the north end, to their slum on east Cicero St; almost a distance of twelve miles, that he traversed for nearly three days straight. He had collapsed to the ground long before he died, due to his gimp leg, but even unable to walk the mortician identified a great amount of "wear and tear" on his jeans, which according to her indicated that when he could no longer walk he had begun to crawl toward the needy homeless until he died of exhaustion. I left the party and bought the first ticket to Chicago, during the flight a million different thoughts raced through my mind; as the other passengers slept, blissfully unaware that the world had lost one of its kindest inhabitants.

           They'll be calling it suicide... What a joke, Iam'me couldn't knowingly do harm to anything or anyone, least of all himself... He didn't commit suicide; no, it was this world that killed him. It's so strange that now I can't help but think Derek had been right on one thing about Iam'me... He was one-hundred and fifty percent of a human.. fifty percent saint, fifty percent hero, fifty percent was devouted to everyone else... All while he never comprimised any aspect of who he was for second... It only makes sense that it would be inherently impossible for such a selfless individual as Iam'me to exist for long in such an unforgiving and greedy world... Damn, I wish I would have told him that... told him about how he made my world infinitely brighter just by existing..

           I land in Chicago, and walk immediately to the appropriate morgue. I looked at his cold dead body, the sight of seeing him so still and incapable of laughter makes me feel ill, and I vomit without warning all over the glassy floor of death. I gather his belongs from the mortician, including his rusty club, then quickly stop by the care home to pick up only a small box of raggy clothing. Done with business, finally I sit alone in my hotel room, the sound of honking and drunken laughter making it impossible to sleep.

           In the morning I arrive at the civil burial to see much to my amazement, an old man present, he is the only other attendant at the funeral. I walk beside him, and he friendly greets me, in response I am only able to wave. I place the golf club on the closed, homely coffin, and say good bye to the greatest person I’m sure I’ll ever know. As the workers erase all knowledge of him from the world; I suddenly am reminded of the day with the robin. As I think about planting the "bird tree" with Iam'me, the corners of my mouth start to migrate towards my ears as if driven by some irresistible force. I realize that perhaps for the first time I could remember, I was smiling uncontrollably; without an ounce of dishonesty, or any regard for who might see it.  

           "Was he your brother?" the old man asked in a raspy voice.

           I turn to get a second look at him, upon inspecting him further I deduce he is homeless; undoubtedly, he had known Iam'me.

           "Yeah... Yeah he was my brother," I responded with confidence.

           "Ha, I see the family resemblance."

           "Oh?" I question, now very intrigued.

           "Yeah." He laughs.

           "Yeah, you smile just like him."

                                     The End.