Freedom in Honduras (1993)

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I’m in the back of the ‘71 Toyota Hilux, she’s sputtering up a muddy road, we are sweating, all 21 of us crammed together in compressed open air body odor. The chicken has just escaped the brown withered hands of the woman across from me, as she desperately clutches six other cluckers. We are doing about 20 going uphill, the chicken is on the metal edge about to jump to certain freedom and probably certain death. Por favor, ayuda! She calls out. I’m her last chance. I haven’t held a bird since I was six when my parents bought me a parakeet that I named Tweety (yes, highly original), but I don’t hesitate, lunge out to grab the poor bird by the neck. One motion, quick swing, and before the bird knows it, she is back with the others. The woman shares a toothless grin with me, her gringo hero of the moment.

This is every day in Honduras. If I don’t get a ride, I walk, I sing Jimmy Cliff to myself, I wait at crossroads, I throw rocks, I eat peanut butter, I walk, I sweat, I get picked up, I work for my ride, move wood, move rocks, move tiles, rides aren’t always free, but I’m free. No one is forcing me to do any of this. I have a vague schedule checking up on public health volunteers. Sometimes I show up in the middle of the night, soaked from thunderstorms, not a soul ever knows where I am, not even me. My bed is on my back, a Go Kot, I can assemble it in 4 minutes, can sleep anywhere, and do, on floors, in sheds, with fleas, near dogs, under farting people in hammocks, all true. By the end of summer, I’ve lost twenty pounds, light, agile, free.

30 Years Ago

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i fled the west village & my soho writer girlfriend, escaped, not so much the place or the person, but rather my futon (not really mine), my part-time bookstore job, my raisin bagel with a hard boiled egg breakfasts, i was done, with having no money, done with the cacophony of 2am drunken shouts rising from west 4th street below, as i tried to dream about characters in an isaac bashevis singer novel, done with the flood of tourists who swarmed sidewalks every weekend, so i got on a train to dc, new york city chapter closed.

Maine March Golfing

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the course is empty, except for large patches of slick glistening ice/snow, alone in gray wind, 7-iron in hand shivering, this is not my sport, but colby college requires me to take a wellness credit, i’m not well, double bogeyed the last hole, but no one is watching, then, on the horizon i see his steel shopping cart, like a wheeled sled, he pushes it through the freezing brownish/green fairway, pragmatic mainer, who needs a golf bag in march?

Capitalist Reborn

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Can two San Francisco teachers (husband & wife) raise two children, pay a mortgage, property taxes, & save money for college? Um, no. Would I love to live a life of teaching, meditation, contemplation, & poetry writing? Sure. Can I afford to not be a capitalist? No. Therefore, I’ve gone back to the summer of 1991, when I was a baseball card hustler, hitting up leads, buying & selling cards wherever I could. After that humid teenage July, I never aspired to join the “rat race,” never had an interest in entrepreneurship or corporate America. My junior year of college, I even did a finance internship in Santiago, Chile, just to make sure that I truly hated international business. But the world turns, idealism dies, & it turns out that my love of baseball history & a mildly photographic memory can create profit. So Adam Smith, I’m back.

Playing Centipede

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I recently went to the Musee Mecanique in San Francisco with my son. The place is built for nostalgia. Everyone I knew in the 1980’s had at least one video arcade game where they could dominate. After spending many quarters up and down the Rehoboth Beach Boardwalk, Centipede became my game (along with Galaga/Galaxian & Zaxxon). You see the DAN in the photo? The kid can still do his thing!