Author: Maxwell Xavier

On Finding Love

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Sit with me in a quiet place in my soul,
shut out the world and rest.
I looked for so very long and am weary,
false starts and many deceptions.

I was always looking for you,
You without a name.
Why did you make me wait,
why all the concessions?

All the missed years, the happy times
that could have filled them.
But I shuffled the sorrow and loss,
biding my time for you.

But you were cruel and unkind,
and why must I suffer?
What debt did I owe, why,
Why must I prove my worth?

Commanding the seen and unseen,
launching my ship and more.
How do you guide those,
those unknown and foreign to you?

Everyone desired to find,
all wanting one, one wanting all.
Selfish joy, greed, and envy, hiding you.
But I was always looking for you.

But you no longer tarry.
No more misses or wrong tries.
Seven years of unending light,
to love, to live, and to marry.

I bask in the radiant sun, warm,
Pink fleshed, clear eyed,
Feeling whole with you.
Feeling whole without you.

Your quiet calm, your smile,
Greet me each day without fail.
No wrong reaches me now,
my protective balm.

Sweet nothings are nothing,
My pledge means more,
to rise and meet you
and worry together nevermore.

Take my hand, and I will take yours.
Let us be together, here, now.
A peace, a pause,
My personal and permanent vow.

Sit with me in a quiet place in my soul,
shut out the world and rest.
I was always looking for you,
I was always looking for you.

On Recovery: An Axton Village Story

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Officer Thad Wallace pulled his 1993 Toyota Tercel around the rear of the Axton Village Playhouse and Campground, put it in park, and slumped down in his seat. Weary from his new job on the police force, Wallace wasn’t excited to be here, but, since moving to Axton Village two years ago, he had fulfilled his promise to his mother to run a self-help group for recovering addicts. His mother, Bertha, had been addicted to QVC shopping and suffocated when she became trapped under her hoard of microfiber pillows. At least she went comfortably, he told himself.

He might have been a little more enthusiastic about the evening’s gathering had it been anywhere but the Axton Village Playhouse, or the AVP to locals. In Axton Village, the Playhouse was the height of culture and sophistication, and that was the problem. The Playhouse’s director, Elmore Schmidt, insisted that all productions be altered to be “relatable” to the people of Axton Village. Last season’s “42nd Street” was changed to “3rd Avenue.” The production of “Ten Little Indians” wasn’t bad, but it definitely lost something when re-titled and re-cast as “Six Insurance Salesmen and a Yogurt Shop Owner.” Two years ago, the production of “South Pacific” was simply cancelled when Mr. Schmidt couldn’t think of a suitable local body of water to serve as inspiration.

Officer Wallace got out of his car and trudged across the vast asphalt plane of the AVP parking lot towards the meeting hall. To the west, the campground extended for several miles. Axton Village’s most intrepid residents spent weekends hiking the trails, camping in the woods, and fishing in Hammer Lake. He was pretty certain the activities were all just excuses to drink Axton Ale, Axton’s finest beer, brewed locally and enjoyed by all residents 11 and up.

He jostled open the door to the meeting house and passed the wall of flyers advertising the upcoming season of plays and musicals. He noted with some interest that a season pass now allowed patrons access to the Axton Village Stockyards, where nature’s dramatics played out everyday. Whatever gets ’em in the door, he thought.

Wallace turned the corner and encountered two of the participants in his regular recovery group meetings: the Sasser sisters, Lucille and Francille. Identical twins, the Sasser sisters were stunningly beautiful, regal almost, but to the great disappointment of many men in Axton Village (and not just a few of the women at the stockyards), the Sasser sisters had eyes for only themselves. Yes, the Sasser sisters were entirely devoted to each other, not in an incestuous way, but in an odd, unhealthy, only twins would understand way. In their late 60s, the Sasser sisters had never married and had never lived apart. It was true that no one in Axton Village had ever seen the ladies apart from each other.

The Sasser sisters’ codependency was debilitating, and Wallace had come upon a prime example in the hallway. Lucille and Francille stood in front of the door to the meeting room, both looking at the door and then the other.

“After you, Lucille,” Francille invited.

“I wouldn’t dare, Francille,” Lucille responded. “You first.”

“O’ come now sister. The fairest first,” Francille countered.

“I wouldn’t dream,” was Lucille’s retort.

“Ladies,” Wallace interrupted, “how many times have we talked through this scenario?”

Officer Wallace was met with the stare of a hive mind.

“Ladies, I appreciate the fact that you want to put your sister first, but one of you must walk through the door first. It’s not a slight toward the other. It’s called ‘going into a room.'”

Lucille and Francille looked at the officer and each other and still couldn’t decide what to do.

“Well, Officer Wallace, I just can’t bare the thought of making my sister upset,” Lucille explained.

“I feel the exact same way,” Francille added, with a laugh, enjoying for the millionth time a subtle allusion to their twin-ness. The ladies joined hands and cooed at each other.

“Here, allow me,” Officer Wallace offered, as he pushed past the twins lost in their own world, open the door to the meeting room, and said, “Go in at the same time so we can get started.”

“How nice!” was the response, in unison, as Lucille and Francille grabbed their matching bags, embroidered with pictures of the other sister, and strolled into the room under the gaze of the other waiting participants.

Officer Wallace walked in and noted a pretty full house. There was Bobby Jo McCusker, recovering from an addiction to huffing Elmer’s Glue at local craft stores. A once up-and-coming feather artist, Bobby Jo’s career had gone down in flames once her fingers had become permanently fused together due to her glue-sniffing habit. Now, all Bobby Jo could do for her art was scoop feathers into nests with her fused hands. Luckily, wealthy New Yorkers still ate it up as avant-garde modern art, allowing Bobby Jo a nice, relaxed lifestyle on her chicken farm outside of town.

Seated next to her, was Blaine Blinzon, a suntanned 40-something addicted to plastic surgery. You name it, Blaine had it snipped, tucked, buffed, smoothed, plumped, raised, lowered, lengthened, shortened, sculpted, sanded, stretched, bleached, colored, replaced, and refined. Sadly, not only did Blaine now resemble a Ken doll, he moved with the dexterity of a Ken doll.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m Officer Thad Wallace. Welcome to our weekly recovery support group meeting. Tonight, I’d like to talk about…” Officer Wallace paused, as he looked at Martha de Van de waving her hand wildly. He tried to continue, “I’d like to talk about acknowledging pain and its part in….” Now, he could not continue. Martha de Van de was waving both hands wildly and kicking her feet up alternately. “Yes, Martha?”

“Officer Wallace, I want….” Martha began.

“Martha, how do we start talking in recovery meetings?” Officer Wallace cautioned.

“I’m sorry,” Martha self-corrected. She stood and said, “Hello, my name is Martha. I am recovering from an addiction to collecting Beanie Babies.”

“Hi Martha!” the group intoned.

Martha began, “Officer Wallace, before the meeting tonight, several of us were talking, and we are tired of being treated like second-class addicts.”

“Excuse me?” Office Wallace questioned.

Martha continued, “We want to know why our addictions aren’t respected. We know they aren’t sexy like crystal meth or cocaine, but I lost everything — my husband, my home, my children, my retirement — because of my addiction to collecting Beanie Babies stuffed animals. So, why do we have to meet here at the Playhouse, when all the other addicts get to meet at the church downtown?”

Blaine Blinzon slowly and stiffly raised his hand.

“Yes, Blaine, please, go ahead,” Officer Wallace instructed.

Blaine stood gingerly. “Hewo. My nam is Blaine, and I am recoverin from an diction to pwastic surgury.”

It never ceased to amaze Officer Wallace. Blaine’s mouth barely moved, barely could move. The man was frozen in his body.

“Hi Blaine!”

“I gree with Martha.”

And, then, like always, Blaine ran out of strength to talk. It was just too much effort. Was Blaine Botoxing his tongue again? Blaine sat down. Officer Wallace wondered if his inability to talk bothered Blaine, but, of course, one could not tell by the expression on his face.

Officer Wallace looked around to lots of shaking heads, not counting Blaine’s. It seemed everyone felt aggrieved, although young Tommy Zurskle had been silent since he walked in the room and was now looking at the floor.

“Tommy, would you like to share how meeting in the playhouse and not the church makes you feel?” Officer Wallace questioned.

“I just don’t understand,” Tommy began.

“Ahh, Tommy, remember what I said to Martha.” Officer Wallace interrupted.

“Sorry. My name is Tommy, and I’m addicted to sex.”

“Hi Tommy!”

“I just don’t understand why I have to come to these meetings,” Tommy complained.

“Tommy, we’ve been over this before,” Officer Wallace started to explain.

Tommy fired back, “I’m 23, and I like sex. What is wrong with that? I just don’t understand.”

Officer Wallace paused, knowing Tommy wasn’t being fully honest with the group. Tommy Zurskle did like sex, but what he wasn’t saying was that he had been arrested numerous times hanging out at the stockyards, attempting to film animals having sex for his hornyheffers.com website.

Officer Wallace calmly responded, “Tommy, what happens in these meetings is confidential, and that confidentiality is meant to foster openness and honesty. Complete honesty. That’s how we reach and maintain recovery. Until you are ready to accept those terms, you won’t be able to move forward.”

“You mean like them?” Tommy asked, motioning to Lucille and Francille, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes.

“Lucille! Francille! Listen, there are no minor league recovery groups, okay. It’s not about where you meet. That has nothing to do with it. It’s not about the place, it’s about the meeting itself. The sharing. The learning. The communication. You’re all focusing on the wrong things.”

“I think it’s a cover up,” Martha de Van de retorted.

“Yeah!” Blaine achingly yawned.

“God, this is so stupid,” Tommy muttered.

“Okay, everybody be quiet!” cried Collin Collins, Axton Village’s district attorney, resident ballroom dance instructor, and weekend nudist. Word on the street was to avoid his Saturday classes, Officer Wallace thought. “Can we get to talking about our pain?” Collin asked.

“Yes, Collin. That’s a great idea. In the future, we can discuss meeting at a different location if it’s more convenient for folks in the group, but we aren’t changing the location out of some misplaced attempt to earn respect from the ‘cool addicts.’ Is that clear?” Officer Wallace was showing his mettle, taking charge.

Martha and Blaine sulked. Lucille and Francille weren’t paying attention, and Tommy was dreaming of goats. Bobby Jo was thinking of her chickens, looking at her fused hands, and wondering what might have been.

Officer Wallace continued, “Victoria, would you like to start? Last meeting, you were talking about your addiction to recovery support groups.”

Victoria Belcher responded, “Oh, I finished that story in another support group. I could talk about my addiction to stealing frisbees from the general store, if that would help.”

“Perfect.” Officer Wallace sat down and gave up.

On the First Scuff

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

They say the first cut is the deepest, but that’s not quite right, is it? It’s the first scuff that’s the deepest.

Last week, I notice the first scuffs on our new car. A year old, I knew it was inevitable, but, still, as I rounded the corner in the garage, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the scuffs over the rear driver-side wheel. I didn’t run into anything, so I can only surmise a rock hit the car. The damage is minimal, and you wouldn’t notice it unless I pointed it out, but, still, I know. My wonderful, beautiful new car, well, it’s not ruined, but it felt that way for a moment.

We’ve all been there. If not with a car, after buying a great new pair of shoes. They look so clean and snazzy on your feet. The gleaming white, the spotless sole, the vibrant colors. And, then, after a trudge through the mall food court, you spot the black streak down the corner of the toe box. In that moment, something inside you dies.

Your love is never the same, is it? The funny thing is, it’s something of a relief when the first bump, the first scratch, the first scuff happens. You can finally exhale, no longer protecting its flawlessness. You can relax. It’s as if you achieve a healthy equilibrium, a healthy perspective on something that is, ultimately, not important. But, until that first scuff, all bets are off on rationality. We are the guardians of the unblemished.

We treat people the same way. As parents, we protect children from any and all harms. We know it’s a losing battle, but that doesn’t stop us from going above and beyond (and beyond that) to insulate little Timmy from all the ills of the world, physical, mental, and emotional. As neurotic as we are at keeping our kids unblemished, we oddly value adults that have been around the block a few times. That have a few scuffs and scrapes. We call it life experience. Wisdom.

I’ve never considered my shoes or car wise, but I have noticed that, once broken in, once stripped of the veneer of perfection, I actually enjoy them more. These things wear into a level of comfort, of ease that brings me happiness and satisfaction. You learn the feel of the car, and you love the feel of the shoe. Not perfect, but just right.

It’s a good reminder that, sometimes, the mistakes people make, the flaws they exhibit, well, that’s just their journey to wisdom. Their journey to being, feeling, and doing good.

On Little Susie Prikster

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Little Susie Prikster skipped down the sidewalk, dress billowing, curls bobbing, and smile beaming.

“Kitty cats and pretty hats, up in a tree, baby dolls and bouncy balls, all there for me, ” she sang. A nine year old full of energy, Susie twirled as her curls unfurled, the sun shining just for her. “Hi Ms. Langham! It’s a beautiful day. My mommy says hello!” She just kept on skipping and hopping and jumping. “Hello Mr. Schmidt. Your garden is so pretty.” Little Susie Prikster beamed happiness everywhere she went. “Kitty cats and pretty hats, up in a tree, baby dolls and bouncy balls, all there for me.”

After much skipping and jumping and bouncing and, of course, singing, Little Susie Prikster arrived at the object of her sun-beamed journey: the Axton Village General Store. She knew she was in the right place because there was the giant one-ton axe in front. No one in Axton Village could miss it; it was the symbol of their community. It was on the flag, the village stationary, and all the road signs. When people thought about heavy, useless tools, they thought Axton Village!

Susie paused in front of the giant axe for just a moment, swaying back and forth as she clutched the two dollars her mother had given her for a candy bar on account of her being such a good, wonderful, special little girl. She kept on humming, “Kitty cats and pretty hats…” She knew in her heart that this would be the best candy bar ever!

Little Susie Prikster danced into the store, and she was greeted by Saul Gregory, store proprietor and local frisbee champion. Townsfolk thought it was years of practice that allowed Saul to throw a frisbee farther than anyone in the tristate area, but most people neglected his ample waist size and resulting low center of gravity as key assets in his talents. When he wasn’t throwing a frisbee, Saul collected buttons from vintage clothing, but this was a minor hobby not relevant to our story.

‘Well, if it isn’t Little Susie Prikster! I must be living right to have this little beam of sunshine bounce into my store.”

“Hi Mr. Gregory,” Susie sang. “The axe out front looks better than it has in a long time. Have you been polishing it?”

“Well, Susie, how kind of you to notice. How can I help you on this fine day?”

“My mommy gave me two dollars because I’ve been so good. She said I can buy a candy bar for myself. And, Mr. Gregory, I have been good. Honest. I helped my grandma clean her house, I helped the teachers at school get the chalk out of the erasers, and I always feed Goliath, our toy poodle.”

“Well, Susie, it does sound like you have been very good. You mommy must be really proud. Our candy bars are over there on Aisle…,” Mr. Gregory began to explain, but he stopped mid-sentence when he heard the front door of the store swing open violently. As the door bounced off the wall behind it with a thud, the air in the store sucked out and in came town drunk Billy Jack McCusker. Six feet tall and 150 pounds soaking wet, Billy Jack had shoulder-length hair, patches of hair around his face that some people referred to as a beard, an earring with a long feather on it, and ratty clothing that had not known soap in many a fortnight.

“Billy Jack! What are you doing being so rough with my front door!” Mr. Gregory exclaimed. Billy Jack loped through the aisles up to the counter where Mr. Gregory and Susie stood. He wrinkled his skinny nose and rolled his tongue around his mouth as if he couldn’t get a foul taste out. Shoulders hunched forward, hands jammed in his dirty pockets, Billy Jack McCusker was a sight to behold. Little Susie Prikster recognized Billy Jack from her skipping and hopping forays around town, but such a smelly, dirty presence did not invade Little Susie Prikster’s world of sunshine, goodness, kitty cats, and pretty hats.

Billy Jack stopped ten feet from Mr. Gregory and Susie. He didn’t say a word but just stared at them, snarling.

“Billy Jack, now what is wrong? How come you are coming into my store with this foul air about you. Did you see Little Susie here?”

“Shut up, old man,” Billy Jack ordered as he, with surprising speed, drew a gun from his pocket and pointed it right at Mr. Gregory.

“What?” Mr. Gregory explained as his mind took in the unexplainable scene. “Billy Jack, what are you doing? Why? Put that gun away.” Mr. Gregory took a step toward Susie, intending to put himself between the gun and Susie.

“Stop. Stop right there. Do. Not. Move. You are going to go over to that cash register, and you are going to empty it. I want everything you have, old man. I want it wrapped up in a paper bag. Throw in a donut while you’re at it. I’m leaving this town, and you’re gonna help. Hear me? No funny stuff. Now move!”

“Okay, Billy Jack, okay. No need to shout. How about you put that gun down? I’ll be happy to help you,” Mr. Gregory croaked out, as he looked down the barrel of Billy Jack’s gun. As frightened as he was, he did take a little pride that his homemade donuts had made an impression on even Billy Jack.

“This gun is gonna stay right on you the whole time, old man. Now move!”

“Okay, okay. I hear you. First, though, can we let Little Susie go. This is between you and me. She’s a little girl Billy Jack. Please? You don’t want to hurt her.”

“I’m not going to hurt a little girl. Now stop stalling and fill up a bag with your cash, and now I want two donuts,” Billy Jack countered. His eyes were spacey and he breathed heavily, but his arm and the gun never wavered. It wasn’t clear if the drool in the corner of his mouth reflected his perpetual drunkenness or the imminent arrival of some of Axton’s finest donuts. One could not begrudge Billy Jack the latter, for they, like Mr. Gregory’s frisbee abilities, were unparalleled in the tri-state area.

Relieved that Billy Jack had no intention of hurting Susie, Mr. Gregory stepped away from her and moved toward the register. “It’s okay, Susie. I’m right here. I want you to look at me, okay Susie? Just keep looking at me. It’s going to be okay,” Mr. Gregory promised.

“No, it’s not going to be okay, Mr. Gregory,” Susie protested. “Billy Jack McCusker,” Susie’s curls whipping around a half second after her head, “My mommy says you are mean and she is right! You are not nice! I don’t like meanies.”

“Now, Susie, sweetie, just keep looking at me, okay. No need to talk to Mr. McCusker.” Mr. Gregory pressed the button to open the cash register, and it sprang open with high pitched ding. As he reached down to grab a paper bag for the cash, he pushed the silent alarm. With any luck, Officers Smith and Wallace would arrive in a few minutes.

“Put it all in, old man. I want every…Ouch!!” Billy Jack cried, as he began hopping on one leg. Mr. Gregory looked up to see Little Susie Prikster standing just two feet away. Her shiny black patent leather shoe had landed a kick square into Billy Jack’s shin.

“You should be ashamed,” Susie yelled with all the rage and power a nine year old girl in a sun dress and pig tails can muster.

“Owwwww!! Why did you do that,” Billy Jack cried as he continued to hop and dance.

“We are nice and kind and honest here in Axton Village. This is not good behavior!” Little Susie Prikster instructed, her arms akimbo, her gaze boring an intense beam of judgment right through Billy Jack. A nine year old pillar of morality.

Saul Gregory watched the surreal scene, his hand frozen at the bottom of the paper bag. The donuts were in, but he hadn’t emptied anything from the register. Luckily, Susie’s kick to the shin had distracted Billy Jack, and, now, Saul heard the police sirens.

Billy Jack finally stood up straight, his feather earring still swinging in and out of his stringy long hair. He looked at Susie, then at Mr. Gregory, then at the paper bag, and, then, at the ceiling, as he finally clued in to the sounds of the police sirens closing in. Billy Jack pocketed the gun, ran to the counter as best he could with one throbbing leg, grabbed the bag, and ran out of the store, carefully avoiding Little Susie Prikster’s surprisingly sharp patent leather shoes.

And, like that, he was gone. It was over. Mr. Gregory stood, with the register still full and open, and just stared at Susie. Susie smiled and proclaimed, “What a meanie!”

“Are you okay, Susie?” Mr. Gregory asked.

Officer Smith burst into the store. “Saul, you okay? Wallace is chasing Billy Jack. We saw him running down the block. We got backup coming.”

“Right behind you, Bob,” Mr. Gregory yelled, as he ran to the front. “That drunk’s got two donuts that belong to me and I want ’em back!” He grabbed a frisbee as he ran out the door, knowing he could down a man at 20 yards with a flick of his powerful wrist.

Officer Smith and Mr. Gregory ran down the block, leaving Little Susie Prikster in the store all by herself. She looked around and started to twirl. Her dress rising and falling to her beat. She skipped down the first aisle, skated down the next, and hopped like a bunny rabbit down the aisle after that. Then, she stopped and smiled. And then she smiled even more. She went to the candy aisle and slipped two candy bars into her dress pocket. Then, she danced up to the register, climbed up on Mr. Gregory’s stool, took one hundred dollars and put it with the two dollars already in her pocket, and jumped down. Another hop, a twirl, a skip, and then a bow.

She laughed and sang and twirled and skipped all the way home. Her blond curls waving in the wind. “Kitty cats and pretty hats, up in a tree, baby dolls and bouncy balls, all there for me.”

On a Letter to Your Pain

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

How long will you hold on to the hurt?

The years stretched by, and the hurts mounted up. Piled up, acquiring their own gravity, their own orbit. Hurts of omission and commission. Subtle and grotesque, battering and bruising. But you were good. You kept quiet. The smiles hiding the gnawing pain inside. You smoothed things over.  Didn’t talk about it. Composure over chaos. Choosing the unreal over the real. Telling yourself that your strength allowed you to take the pain without complaint.

The pain feels so good, so comfortable now. An old, awful friend. Almost powerful, but still a lameness, a brokenness. A ready excuse for all future hurts; it’s always been this way and will forever more. You set it aside, ignore it, pretend it’s not there. Give it its space, its due, its terrible respect.

But you know.

You hate its cancerous torment.

You are an expert cataloguer of pain, of misdeeds, of hurt. They are a currency for you, a system of exchange filling your mental coffer. You know the balance and anticipate future deposits. Withdrawals are never allowed. A tormented usury.

No one ever told you the secret that there aren’t boogeymen. There aren’t monsters. Just the prisons we construct in our hearts. Beautiful, horrific prisons, trapping parts of ourselves, cleaving them off. An amputation. A condemnation of our own doing. Prisons of pain. We can leave any time, but choose not to. We take solace in the confinement. Maybe even revel in it. Share it. Bare it for all to see. Or keep it hidden, a private stash to be uncovered alone. Take it out, marvel in its potent ugliness, and hide it again. Hide it again. Hide it again.

All your joy, all your happiness is muted by this yoke. Rubbed out, erased. Such a heavy mass; nothing escapes from it for long. Or so it seems. You will always snap back to it. At the end of days, you will stare at it. Alone. It has held off all others, all light, all good. It has consumed you.

Replaced you.

It is heavy and black, but not infinitely so. You can sense the light bending around its periphery. Small, dim, but there. Traveling millions of miles in your soul. No amount of pain, no hurt can extinguish it. It never leaves you. It is always there, a companion just like your pain. It does not have a voice, it does not call out. You cannot listen for it. But you can sense it. And you can follow it. Follow it against the awful pull of the pile of hurts. It is not slowed by tears, anger, or sadness.

It is beauty. It is grace. It is all these things, and more. It is forgiveness. For you and others. But mainly for you. It can tear down the prison, the confinement, the isolation. The cleaved can be made whole. The darkness lifted, the pain abated. The years of hurts slipping through your fingers into the beyond, blessedly out of reach.

How long will you hold on to the hurt?

On A Lost Son

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Officers Smith and Wallace walked up to the small white cottage on Morning Lane. The house was in a beautiful disrepair. The porch chairs were chipping paint, and the flower bed that wrapped around the front and side of the house was overgrown, but in a romantic form of neglect. The mailbox bore a brass #73 and showed wear from daily openings and closings over the decades.

Officer Smith knocked on the door and peered into the large square window in front of him. Blocked by drapes, the sunlight rendered the curtains almost transparent. He peered in as far as possible, but no forms moved. Officer Wallace stood behind him, glancing around the porch. Old flower pots, coiled hose, several newspapers. Office Wallace had started on the force just two months ago, and did not want to miss any detail that could be a clue in the case, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what the case was. He had been assigned to work with Officer Smith just this week, and Smith had not shared anything about this visit with Ms. Langham other than the fact that her son was missing.

Officer Smith knocked again, waiting patiently, and, after a few moments, even Officer Wallace could see forms undulate in the light behind the curtain. Ms. Langham slowly opened the door and peered out. Upon recognizing Officer Smith, she smiled slightly, exhaled, and opened the door.

“Officer Smith, thank you so much for coming. Oh my goodness, I have been worried sick. Please, please, come in.” She stepped back and swung the door open widely. Officer Wallace saw a pleasant but sad woman. Weary, middle age. Graying hair, but still stylishly kept. She wore black slacks and a basic white blouse. She wore no jewelry or adornment, save for a silver locket around her neck. She was thin and almost as transparent as the curtain hanging on her door.

“Hello, Ms. Langham,” Officer Smith said, “I am very sorry we have to see each other under these circumstances.” Ms. Langham listened carefully and nodded, carefully marking the officer’s words. “This is my new partner Officer Wallace. He joined the force recently, and I know he will be of great help with this case,” Officer Smith promised. Officer Wallace appreciated the vote of confidence, but still felt left out of what exactly was going on.

“Officers, please sit down.” Ms. Langham led the policemen through the small entryway and into the living room of the cottage. Officer Wallace noted the museum-like feel of the home. Perfectly in place, but perfectly inert. The room was simple: a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. The coffee table was barren except for a Sports Illustrated magazine that was painfully out of place. Officer Wallace noted the issue was at least ten years old, if not older. Ms. Langham sat down in a well-worn chair and pulled a shaw over her lap.

On the large wall behind the couch, a collage of photos of a young man. Dozens of photos, large and small, showing the boy as an infant, a toddler, a child, and then a teenager. Birthday parties, baptisms, vacations, the pictures told a life story. Underneath this story, the officers sat.

Officer Smith began, “Now, Ms. Langham, we received your call at the station. I understand your son is missing. What’s your son’s name?”

“William,” she said quietly but with a practiced cadence. “William Henry Langham. My Henry. Oh please, Officer Smith, you have to help me. I am absolutely beside myself. What can I do? How can we get him home?”

“I understand Ms. Langham. We are here to help.”

“Oh good. I just don’t know what to do. That’s why I called.”

“Now, Ms. Langham,” Officer Smith began again, “does Henry go to the local high school?”

“Yes. He’s a junior. On the football team. He plays defense. I can never remember the position names. I just love watching him play. I never miss a game.” Officer Wallace noticed she began to cry but seemed unaware of the tear running down her wrinkled cheek. “There’s a picture of him above you on that wall. There, to the left. Yes, there it is. Do you see it? There he is. He is so proud of that jersey. Will that help you find him? Oh my god, I can’t believe he is missing.”

“It will Ms. Langham,” Officer Smith promised. “Now, can you tell me who the last person to see Henry was?”

“Oh, yes,” she said with authority. “Me. I made him breakfast. His favorite: eggs and bacon. I gave him a big hug and off to school he went. I yelled out to him ‘I love you’ as he went out the front door. I always did that. Every day. ‘I love you!” Every day. I never missed a day. Never missed a day for my Henry.” Officer Wallace watched Officer Smith take careful notes, and he noticed Ms. Langham had tears running down both cheeks now.

“I know this must be very hard for you, Ms. Langham,” Officer Wallace said, trying to provide comfort. It would be his first missing persons case, and he needed to get as much information from her as possible. He knew a calm witness was a good witness.

“Ms. Langham,” Officer Smith said, cutting Officer Wallace off before he could continue, “Do you know of any reason why Henry would go away? Has he ever runaway before?”

“Henry? My Henry? Why, no. Oh no, he wouldn’t do that. Oh no. He knew he was loved. Oh, officer, I can promise you that. Every day, like I said. Every day. My Henry knew he was loved. He knew he was loved. So loved.” Officer Wallace watched Ms. Langham adjust the shaw on her lap. “Henry has never done anything like that. He loved me too. It’s just us, but it’s enough. Oh no, he would not run away.”

Officer Wallace noted the cracks in the paint on the ceiling. He sat up straight and cleared his throat.

“Now, Ms. Langham,” Officer Smith inserted, “that’s all very clear. Thank you, that is very helpful. You know, we see a fair amount of these missing persons cases, and we always have to rule out the runaway angle. And, a lot of time, that’s what we are dealing with. Problems at home, problems at school, and, poof, Johnny’s out the door! Please don’t take any offense.”

“That’s alright, officer. I know you are just doing your job,” Ms. Langham said meekly, her voice growing a little weaker.

“Now, Henry didn’t have any trouble with anyone, did he?” Officer Smith continued.

“No, no, none at all,” Ms. Langham said, stronger. “Henry gets along famously with everyone. Oh, everyone loves Henry. Everyone. I mean, I don’t know that Henry likes his football coach, Coach Tompkins, too much, but I think that’s just because he’s mean to the boys. All the boys. Just plain mean. Making them work so hard. I mean, I’m sorry. Umm. No, I don’t know anyone that Henry has any problems with.”

“Okay, I’ve got that down,” Officer Smith said, as he began to cough, placing his thick hand to his ruddy face.

“Oh, I am so sorry, how rude of me,” Ms. Langham pleaded, “Let me get you gentlemen something to drink.” Ms. Langham placed the shaw over the chair, rose, and slowly walked into the kitchen.

Officer Wallace watch her the entire way and listened carefully, waiting for just the right moment. “Bob,” Wallace whispered, “about the coach…” Officer Smith started coughing again, holding up his hand. Wallace stopped, perplexed. He heard Ms. Langham pouring the drinks. The light cut into the room at severe angles, and, as Ms. Langham emerged from the kitchen with the drinks on a tray, she cut across the light, breaking the line of light from the outside to the interior wall. The light refracted in the glasses, almost blinding Officer Wallace as he sat on the couch, under the pictures, in front of the Sports Illustrated magazine.

“Thank you very much, mam,” Officer Smith said as he sat the glass back down on the tray on the coffee table, “I certainly needed that.” Officer Wallace smiled but did not take his drink.

“Officer Smith, I am so worried about my Henry. I am sick. Please help me. Please help me find him,” Ms. Langham pleaded. She had started to cry again. The room was still, as if her tears sucked all of the little oxygen out of it. No one moved for several hours, or so it seemed.

“Ms. Langham, Officer Wallace and I know how terribly painful and sad this is. What you’ve been able to give us thus far will be of a tremendous help.”

“And,” Officer Wallace began.

“And,” Officer Smith interrupted, “my partner here will be a wonderful asset. We are going to take this information back to the station, review it, and start our search.”

Officer Wallace looked at Officer Smith, wondering where all the rest was.

“I cannot tell you how relieved and happy I am that you two can help me. Oh, I am so worried,” Ms. Langham said, as her face froze, then wrinkled into an ugly contortion. The tears did not escape unnoticed now. They ran from her, streaking down her face, her shoulders convulsing up and down as she sobbed. “Please, please, please,” she pleaded.

Officer Smith rose from the couch and walked the few feet to Ms. Langham. He moved the shaw ever so slightly up her legs. “Now, Ms. Langham, you have given us such wonderful information. We are here. We know how agonizing this is, but you don’t have to go through this alone. We will be searching for Henry. I will not rest. You have my word.”

Ms. Langham sat up, exhaled, and caught her breath. Officer Wallace searched her face. Moments earlier, it was if the dam had breached, the pain uncorked. Now, Ms. Langham halted the flood. She wiped her face with the back of her hands. “Thank you.”

“I will be in touch with you very soon. You have my number, I know. Officer Wallace and I will be looking for Henry.”

Officer Smith stood up from crouching next to her chair, looked at Officer Wallace, and walked toward the front door. Officer Wallace, spinning and off balance in his head, stood up slowly, saying, “Thank you, Ms. Langham. We’ll be in touch soon.”

Ms. Langham looked at Officer Wallace and then turned her face staring out the side window.

Officer Smith walked to the door, opened it, and motioned with his thick hand for Wallace to exit first. Officer Wallace took a last few steps in the house, noting the high school jacket hanging on the hook by the door, the two umbrellas leaning in the corner. He stepped onto the porch and waited for Officer Smith to follow. Officer Smith carefully and slowly closed the front door. Without looking at Wallace, he turned and walked down the front path.

“Bob,” Officer Wallace said in a muted voice as he caught back up to his mentor, “one thing.”

“In the car,” Smith replied.

The officers arrived at the car, and, as he got in, Officer Wallace looked back at the cottage. The light was now overhead, crashing down on the roof with a visible force, breaking evenly over the small home and scattering around the yard. No light reached the porch, though. Sealed off. He wondered if, somehow, Ms. Langham had the power to cut off that light too.

“Bob,” Officer Wallace began again as he fastened his seatbelt, “Coach Tompkins has not coached at the high school in almost twenty years.”

“I know,” Officer Smith said, as he started the car.

“And you didn’t ask her how long her son has been missing,” Officer Wallace added.

“He’s not missing,” Officer Smith responded, putting the car in drive and pressing the accelerator.

*********************

Ms. Langham sat in her chair and watched the light dance around the outside of the cottage. She dried her tears, tucked her feet under her legs, and held onto the locket on her chest.

On A Trip to the Clinic

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Obese and pregnant,
hobbled and old,
parents and child,
meek and bold.

To the clinic they come,
hurting most are.
Scrapes and scuffs and cuts,
All the future scars.

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

Crinkle the paper,
hop on up.
Look over here,
pee in the cup.

Cough right here,
turn this way,
Wiggle your toes,
how much do you weigh?

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

Feeling sorta sad?
Been kinda blue?
You can smile lots more
Or pills take a few.

Needles and pricks,
topical and optical,
sign this consent,
been anywhere tropical?

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

X-rays and eye charts,
and an MRI,
Could be anything probably,
but maybe just pink eye.

Here’s your script,
written all for you.
Hurry along now,
You’ll be as good as new.

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

Almost done at last,
ready to start your day.
Just stand in line some more,
with your co-pay.

It’s all over now,
you’ll be better soon.
Back to feeling good,
probably before noon.

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
And an old bed pan.

On Mountains and Molehills

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Duke University assigned Alison Bechdel’s 2006 graphic memoir “Fun Home” to its incoming freshmen as a summer reading assignment this year. The summer reading assignment is a standard way colleges prepare their students for reading books they care nothing about. I remember being assigned a book before my freshman year; I remember going to a professor’s house to discuss the book; I remember how forced it felt; but I could not name the book if my life depended on it. Essentially, it’s an exercise where everyone gets to feel intellectual without actually being intellectual.

This all would have passed with nothing more than lots of annoyed, bored freshmen but for a Facebook posting by incoming class member Brian Grasso. Mr. Grasso objected to what he deemed graphic depictions of sexuality (women masturbating and women performing oral sex on one another) in the book, and he refused to read it. It’s unclear how Mr. Grasso learned of the images without reading it, but he labeled it immoral, distinguishing lascivious texts from lascivious images. His social media post caused quite the kerfuffle among other incoming freshmen, and, before you know it, the “controversy” had been picked up by major news outlets, bloggers, and those on any and every possible side this story could have. I now happily stoke the fire.

Let me recap this story for you: A college assigned a book to its freshman class. A student objected, calling the book immoral. That’s it.

Let’s set aside the obvious fact that Mr. Grasso, admittedly very young, has not yet grasped that the college experience revolves around exposure to new ideas one had not considered or had previously discounted. Let’s also set aside the fact that it’s difficult to credit a critic who has not read a book but is ready to deem it immoral. It’s always that way, though, isn’t it? Let’s also set aside the very fruitful area of examination of why Mr. Grasso felt the need to publicize his objections, instead of privately expressing them to faculty or staff at Duke. Mr. Grasso says he posted his objections on Facebook “to comfort those with similar beliefs.” Bless his heart.

Of all the myriad threads of this non-story one can tug on, let’s tug on its elemental nature as a non-story. Is this another internet dust-up forgotten as quickly as it roared to life? Will we all be back to cute cat videos soon? Let’s hope so, but it doesn’t change the fact that it became a story. One snot-nosed kid’s objection to a summer reading assignment. Sure, most of us are drawn to the silly, entitled rationale put forward by Mr. Grasso, including his belief that his professors should warn him of titillating material not because he might consider it offensive or discomforting, but because he considers it immoral, but like rubber-necking on the highway, it just slows down progress for the rest of us.

An unfortunate byproduct of the attention heaped upon Mr. Grasso and his ilk is not a reexamination of their intellectually stunted approach to education, but, rather, it is the further calcification of their closed-mindedness towards those ideas and images they label immoral. And now, surely, Mr. Grasso has friends. He’ll be lauded for his courage, his values. There will be other Mr. Grassos. Over time, if successful, we can whittle down the approved college level reading list to the Bible. Of course, once folks get a load of Song of Solomon, the Bible’s steamy hot chapter, that will be out too. At that point, we can all sit around, look at each other, and enjoy not being offended.

If the goal is to support and advocate for the development in America’s college students an intellectual rigor unafraid to tackle any idea or image, we need to stop breathlessly fretting about one student’s objection to one assignment at one college. It’s not newsworthy. It’s not blog worthy (except for this one). Let’s have the confidence that should come from the knowledge that a great education is one that asks students to examine their values, not hide behind them.

On the Boy With Three Donkeys

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

On April 1, 2010, while being driven down a beautiful dirt road in the Sacred Valley of Peru, our car came upon a young boy, no older than 10, walking three donkeys. The sky was clear, the fields all around us were green and lush, the donkeys bore woven striped blankets, and the young boy looked as if he was walking right out of a postcard.

I asked the driver to pull over, and we got out to talk to the young boy. In my best Spanish, which is not very good, we asked if we could take his picture, and he eagerly nodded his head. He showed the donkeys to us, and, after a few minutes, we departed. Before we did, I gave the boy the Peruvian equivalent of ten dollars. I knew he was poor, and I gave him the money, in part, knowing it would be a rich gift to him. His eyes widened when I handed it to him; it was obvious he did not expect any money. After all, he was simply walking down the road. I turned and left, wondering how the money would change his day.

Approximately twenty-five years earlier, I sat anxiously in Ms. Laney’s third grade classroom. It was the day before Christmas break, and I was excited because our classroom Christmas party was about to begin. I don’t know if schools still allow gift exchanges at holiday time, but this was a true school year highlight in my day. Christmas was a week off, but this really kicked off the gift giving season or, in my case, the gift receiving season.

At the time of the party, we randomly drew names for the classmate that would receive the gift we had brought. I’m sure my parents had prepared me with an appropriate gift, but I can’t recall what it was. Again, my mind was on the gift receiving, not the gift giving. Once we had the name of our classmate, we took turns getting out of our seats and delivering our gift. Never was better attention paid in that classroom; we were at DEFCON 1.

It was in that context that I saw Willie ambling up to my desk with a gift. Willie was mentally challenged, poor, and usually dirty. He was overweight and wore ill-fitting clothing most days. Even at eight years old, I knew Willie was different and lived a very different life than me. At that age, you have no concept of money, but you have a concept of want, of poverty, and I knew that Willie lived in that. My selfish childish mind was immediately deflated, knowing I would not be opening the fun, amazing gift I had been hoping for. I don’t know how well I hid my disappointment, but I’m sure I made every effort to do so. I was always a good little boy in that way.

When I opened Willie’s gift, it was a blue and orange plastic toy car. It was old and used, and I could see the dirt on the wheels. I heard the squeals of the other students, lots of murmurs and chatter. The clickety-clack of new wonders against desktops. I could see GI Joes, Hot Wheels cars, yo-yos, Slinkys, and every other variety of fun one can imagine all around me. I sat and held the car in my hands, the gift wrap separating my hands from the dirty car. I never took the car out of the paper. I placed it on my desk and just sat as the party swirled around me. I didn’t look at Willie. I didn’t look at Ms. Laney. I just sat there. I’m sure my brain could not make sense of the juxtaposition between my hopes and my reality.

It’s tempting to romanticize the situation. To conclude that Willie’s family could not afford a gift and tried to make the best of a bad situation. Maybe Willie had given up one of the few toys he had. Maybe. Perhaps even probably. Just as those important considerations didn’t immediately resonate with me in 1984, I imagine the nuances of the exchange didn’t resonate with Willie either.

I’m not sure my gift to the boy with three donkeys was any more right, any more admirable. Was it just a big ego trip for me, parting with a paltry sum to me so I could enjoy the look of wonder from someone for whom the amount was not paltry? There’s something slightly gross about the encounter in hindsight. In the moment, I thought it was a kind gesture; now, I’m not so sure. Did I treat the boy humanely, or was he simply, to me, a prop in a story from my holiday in Peru?

It seems that why you do something should be at least as important as what you do. I gave ten dollars to a boy with three donkeys, but I cannot answer, with any great certainty, why I did it. At least I cannot produce an honest, fully realized answer I am happy with. Willie gave me a gift, and he did so with no motive other than class participation. I assume my gift of ten dollars was more favorably received than Willie’s old car, but whether the gift was better given is less clear. Maybe even doubtful.

I think about Willie from time to time. I wonder what happened to him, where his life took him. I’m sure he never considers our third grade Christmas party, but I do. And, maybe, one day, when I untangle the riddle of why I gave ten dollars to a boy with three donkeys, Willie’s gift will turn out to be one of the best gifts I ever received.

On Party People

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

One of the best and worst aspects of getting older is those moments where your self-knowledge crystallizes into permanency. The tumblers of your inner-self fall into place, and you find yourself untethered from the exhausting search for self-identity. I’ve had a few of those moments, and I’d like to talk about one: I am not a party person.

You’ve met party people. Maybe you’re a party person. Party people always know the hottest new restaurant, the craziest new club, the most thrilling new art exhibit. And, they have lots of friends. I mean lots of friends. Their social media cup runneth over, and, for them, this is right and fitting. Friday and Saturday nights, as well every other night for that matter, the agenda is full. The invitations never end. The posts and pics attest to a life lived at a level of exhuberance befitting an epic poem. The fun never, ever, ever stops.

I find this all utterly exhausting.

Most evenings, as I head home, I smile knowing that the rest of my day will be spent in the company of one — my husband — and consist of dinner, good conversation, a book or entertaining television program, and a restful slumber. Peace and wonderful quiet. If this is boring, I must confess my guilt. My guilt without remorse. This is enough for me. This makes me happy, even more so knowing hubby feels the exact same way.

Parties suffer from their artificial nature. When you get a party invitation, what it’s basically saying is: come to this place at this time, and you will experience positive emotions! Well, what if my emotions don’t like being bossed around? What if my emotions can’t be bought so easily? Maybe you have to take my emotions out to dinner first. It’s really pretty pushy when you think about it. Hey, come over here, stuff some tiny food in your pie hole, engage in awkward conversation with people you barely know about things you barely care about, and have an absolute blast!

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating just a bit. I’ve gone to some fun parties, and I admit it. Still, in a world that’s more complex by the day, that continually invents new ways to be ever-more connected to people you barely know, I think it’s important to make a stand for quiet nights reading by the fire. For nights curled up in a blanket watching a great movie. For simply being still. For reflecting. For enjoying calm and peace.

It’s not a sexy social media moment. You don’t need any hors d’oeuvres or booze. You don’t have to RSVP. No one will be talking about it next week at work. But it is worth celebrating…all by your self.