The Confession

“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” Joey Maccoullah, told the elderly priest in the confessional while crossing himself reverently. “It has been several years since I confessed my sins to you and to God, though I’m certain, He knows.”

“Unburden yourself my son,” the father’s breath smelled of garlic and white wine that came from the slight opening of the partition. Since Joey was old enough, his family and friends called him Mac. He held himself with large boned, Irish stock with curly red hair that he kept covered with a baseball cap, though now he removed it prior to entering the confessional. Though he sat, his knees came well up past his lap, nearly touching his chest. He wore a flannel checkered shirt and dungarees of navy.

“My sins are many, too many to count,” Mac replied being purposefully evasive. “But dear father it’s the sin I’m about to do that will unforgiven.”

“Please, my son, bare your soul to me.” The holy father sounded impatient.

“When was the last time you saw the sun set?”

“I’m sorry? Um, I guess it’s been a while. Lately I haven’t left til very late in the evening.”

“Would you like to see the sun set, Father?”

The silence on the other side of the partition became apparent. Finally, he replied, “My son, you bewilder me. For me to forgive past transgressions, I must here your confession.”

“It’s now or never, Father.” Mac heard the priest shift about on the other side, as if the position he sat had become uncomfortable.

“At least give me one, your most urgent transgression, then I can give you solace through God, Our Holy Father.”

Lone Bouquet Outside Marshall Cemetery

The other day I drove along Melville Road outside Cheney and just outside the chain link fence of Marshall Cemetery laid a lone bouquet. I’m sure it was more than likely left behind or discarded following a service the week prior. I could tell it more than likely appeared fake.

I’m sixty-five years old now and that day is slowly creeping up on me too. It is something I both dread and of course look forward to because after all, death and taxes are inevitable. When we’re young we don’t think about death or dying. We have grown accustomed to that being something our grandparents experience. Now I am that grandparent.

I looked out at the gravestones and flat grave markers and some crosses where the eternal residents reside. How they died, what their thoughts of things passed and yet to come, where they would go in the afterlife, whether their children and children’s children will remember them, and why here of all places.

It’s not a bad place; idyllic and serene, surrounded by pine and fir trees of varying lengths and shapes, and in the warmer seasons a lush lawn of green grass covers their eternal homes. I noticed many of the headstones were in disrepair. I wondered if the cemetery association or grounds people hired to tend this place also cared for the headstones, or was it the responsibility of the surviving family members? If that responsibility did rest with the family, then that will only last as long as that family member or children there after were well enough and able enough to do that necessary chore of love for their dearly departed.

Both my parents reside at the bottom of a couple of lakes near where my sister and I live. I know both mom and dad wished to be cremated but did not elaborate on what to do with their remains. We all just assumed they preferred what we did, rather than go through the added expense of placing them in a mausoleum. After all, after we are gone, who will take the time to clean their brass plaques? Who will lay a bouquet of fake flowers in front of their vault? Who will remember them in two hundred years?

All the cemeteries I ever happened upon, be it curiosity, a service, or no reason at all, such as today, those flowers are on those graves are there for as long as the living are not also residing next to them. After that there are no more flowers. Unless one is a veteran, as I am, no flags will adorn those graves either. They will be forgotten. The headstones will slowly deteriorate and fall into disrepair. Eventually, some real estate corporation will make an offer on the land and those graves will be removed and placed somewhere else.

My love for history dates back to when I was a young boy of ten and eleven when I took my dogs for long walks to an old cemetery far away from the town of East Wenatchee. The history of pioneering families coming to that part of Washington in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries spoke volumes to my young imagination and I was hooked.

After I graduated from Washington State, I took a job working for a cemetery, getting the gravesite readied and looking appropriate. After all, death is inevitable, but no one wants to be reminded of their own mortality and doing the various maintenance and lawn care tasks required to make this final resting place look welcoming. The hardest job I ever experienced, and to this day it still makes me emotional was the day I hand dug a grave for an infant. The soil was rocky, as if God had preordained this spot where His babies would find solace forever. Everywhere else on that cemetery, the earth had little to no rocks, but not here. Not on this spot where children from after birth to ten years old rested.

After I’m gone, I too intend to be cremated and I wish my ashes to fly freely in the winds where I can be remembered for the words, I wrote not a gravestone for fake flowers.

Hole in a Heart

It’s the title of an Eagles song that hold meaning to me because of the loss of our mother back in 2009. It became a theme song of sorts. Last week when I got back to work from my usual two-day break, I discovered during our morning meeting that there was a sympathy card for us to sign for a fellow co-worker. Having not gotten the news I asked why. 

“Her daughter passed away,” my supervisor told me.

I personally consider this co-worker more of an acquaintance than friend. More to the point she is mostly a pain that I sometimes tolerate because to tell her how I honestly feel toward her I would be written up or terminated. But, upon hearing this news I was shocked to the core and my hyper emotion came out as a choked a sob of sadness at her loss.

To lose one’s relative is tough enough, but to lose a child, it must be the worse of all. Your child is expected to outlive you. They’re the ones who cry over your memorial or funeral, not the other way around. This really is no word to describe the person upon losing a child. Spouses become widow or widower; a child becomes an orphan.

Saturday, she had a memorial service at the Kalispel Ballroom for her daughter. I never met her, but my co-workers and I went there to ay our respects to her, our co-worker. The place naturally was packed, and we found a spot toward the back of the room. 

People, her friends and acquaintances came up to the front and delivered testimonials of her life and how she affected them, a typical service. Not more than maybe five minutes later, our co-worker, wearing a black and white dress and clutching a handkerchief came out to the hallway and we came out and greeted her. My emotions came out fully as I saw the devastated expression on her face. We all went to her and gave her a flower and cards, then we all hugged her individually. Some of us expressed heartfelt condolences and sympathy, while others, like me simply hugged her tightly and tearfully let go.

Later as I walked out to the parking garage to get into my car, that song came to mind. There truly is a hole in her heart now.

Effects

Yesterday, I had no idea what to present in my blog. Today someone, maybe more, decided to shoot firearms at people in a parade.

But, like you my loyal readers, I’m tired of reporting about mass shootings of innocent people. I mean, anymore we all have become numb to this madness. Politicians either don’t or can’t do anything about this. Obviously, they are weak old men and women who rather put out press releases and promising something must be down someday.

Anyway, my beta reader, after finishing reading a manuscript, I had written some time ago gave me a critique that gave me pause. The gist of the story is that the protagonist, a woman detective ends up being the victim of an abductor who, along with another character sexually abuses her, culminating in her eventual rescue and the demise of one of the antagonists. 

Her criticism ranged in the idea of how I treated the female detective’s adjustment following her abduction. I went into the internet archives and discovered that though I might have skimmed over the aftermath too generally, the effects as I described and what the article’s author noted were mostly the same.

Like any trauma in our lives, we must cope and learn to adjust, adapt and overcome, as my drill sergeants instilled into me at both basic and advanced training. One thing the author of this article explained was that the victim needed time to adjust to their abduction for full recovery to take place.

My protagonist by every notion and description, is strong and strong-willed who took charge and led the detective agency with a velvet glove. When I first introduced her, she was a young woman who had self-doubt issues stemming from her belief she was obese and unattractive. Her one true ability that gave her confidence was being a sure shot with a handgun. It was something her grandfather taught her, and that ability got her into the FBI and later as a private detective.

I argued that point to my beta reader that her confidence made her overcome the trauma she experienced at the hands of these men. I have since rewritten the parts of the book that she explained didn’t ring true in her mind and resent it back to her to review. Hopefully, I got it right this time.

End of an Era

There was a building years ago on East Sprague in Spokane that catered to the sex industry, calling itself Déjà vu, an adult dance club, where as my son in law described so eloquently Sunday morning was a haven for all things bad. As many of you my loyal readers know, the sex industry comes in many guises and human trafficking is all but one that I have pointed out in my writings.

Two, yet to be released manuscripts dealt with two separate but equally heinous episodes that I had my protagonists put an end to. But, this is real and what made this event so wonderful was the fact that this building won’t be torn down, but instead made into something better and more positive.

The owner and his son, and grandson, who founded and operate Union Gospel, are the organizers of this former strip club who will make this into a house of worship, a sanctuary for women and girls, men and boys trying to escape these traffickers, and clinic to treat the abused victims through medical and psychological practices.

He went there on Saturday evening and according to him he fell to his knees feeling the holy spirit grip his heart and he openly wept for all those women and girls who allowed themselves to be bared and publicly humiliated. Later, he walked inside and began to use a sledgehammer to help destroy the dance stage where the strippers would flaunt themselves. Finally, the cross was brought in, and each man there touched it and helped lift it onto what remained of that stage. They prayed over it and blessed the new church and the new mission of this building once known for sin and immorality.

As the spokesperson stated on the Facebook page, “Yes, the stage was removed, and we are moving forward with a new day and new purpose for the building, but the last thing we want to do is have people we deeply care about think we want to hurt them.”

I’m not a religious person, but I do believe in the moral compass of life and what is right and wrong. At one point, I basically had the attitude I didn’t much care about morality because I always equated morality with conservative Christian philosophy where everything you believed that wasn’t their belief was wrong. I have lately changed to one who believes that like all things, there are many shades of gray that we are all confronted with. My belief is more rooted to my spirit and how I view the Bible in my way.

This event affected me because as many who read this know, whether Christian or whatever religion, faith or spirit your compass presides, human trafficking, sex exploitation, and sexual abuse have no rights, no more than those drug traffickers or organized crime.

This spokesperson ended by stating, “Don’t get caught up in the hate or the noise. Don’t get sidetracked from what God is really doing. He is on the move! This isn’t about us versus them. This is about Him loving all of us and wanting to set captives free…at the end of the day, these women were created by God, too. He deeply cares for them and so do we!”

What Border Crisis?

We have all seen the news reports, the images of migrants from the southern borders attempting to come into Texas, New Mexico, California, and Arizona wanting a better life than what they endured in Venezuela, Honduras, and Guatemala. Yet, though many on the Republican side demand that President Biden do something, there seems this other side that wants the chaos to continue so a certain candidate for President wins and can take credit and then asks, “what border crisis?”

If as many have stated this crisis is so critical then why is it now that Trump has told lawmakers on his side not to pursue this, though it is earmarked as a bipartisan agreement just waiting for a majority vote in both chambers of Congress and a Presidential signature? Of, course, its our national election cycle and Trump is relying heavily on chaos at the border so that he will be seen as the champion of immigration policy while Biden appears weak and ineffective.

Of course, like marketing the next great product, timing is everything. Biden should have made this deal possible last year. Then the former speaker, McCarthy, Senator Schumer, and Biden, or their surrogates could have hammered out a deal and potentially averted this potential disaster waiting to occur.

Instead, we have a demagogue who is such a narcist that he is more willing to put this country in complete disarray so he can become President for life and deal with the immigration problem his way. It is of course something that would remind everyone of Hitler’s Germany and the Jewish problem.

So long as we have these kinds of issues come where one side demands action from the other side, then turn around and do a 180 degree to say there really is not a serious problem and refuse to do what they perceived is the right thing, then our democracy truly is in peril. We cannot just sit on our hands just so someone else can take the credit because that person happens to be of the same political party demanding something be done. What border crisis, indeed.

I’m So Tired of This

I’m so tired of people. I’m sure you my loyal readers feel that way too. I’m not just talking about politicians who could care less about us, but rather things such as guns, oil, lobbyists and the corporate big wigs and shareholders. No, I’m talking about people in general who don’t listen to a word I or you say. Where having to repeat what you already told them is becoming common place anymore. Or you come on to someone who for whatever reason is upset, angry or frustrated from no fault of your own and he or she retaliates against me, or you because we just happened to be in their cross hairs.

Today I’ve had to deal with a pair of individuals who apparently had more important things on their mind than me and whatever my concern was. As I always do when talking professionally to someone, I start by introducing myself, “Hello, I’m Jerry Schellhammer, etc.…”

I shouldn’t have to repeat my name. That is a given, yet in both cases, they weren’t listening to me, but, rather, their minds were obviously focused on another issue or conversation before mine and they asked me, “Who is this?” No, their next question should have been, “How can I help you Mr. Schellhammer?” Or “What seems to be the problem?” Not. “Who is this?”

On Sunday afternoon, while I was at work, I came upon a situation. The security guard at the casino I work at informed me as he stepped outside the rest room, I was about to go to clean that I needed to see something first. Now this particular restroom was recently renovated with new faucets, toilets, and urinals. It’s state-of-the-art stuff, something to be proud of. 

I walked inside and low and behold one of our wonderful guests decided that we made him spend all his hard-earned money gambling and rewarded us by defecating in one of the urinals. All it did for me is reinforce my opinion that humankind is made up of ignorant pigs who don’t deserve a nice place to come and entertain themselves.

Needless-to-say, I’m really, really tired of this; lack of respect, lack of empathy, lack of common curtesy and sense that has seemingly plagued this country these last few years. It’s not just the politicians I’m tired of, it’s people who generally come across as having their own personal agenda and to hell with everyone else. They feel like they’re entitled and how dare I even acknowledge them unless I’m groveling at their feet. If you want to make America great again, start with acting like you actually give a crap about anyone beside yourselves.

My First Review of a “Masterpiece”

Sometime back just before Christmas I saw an article about Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. The article made me curious about what exactly made this book so great. I remember my college professors pushing “masterpieces” down our collective throats. Most, such as Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, were indeed great books worth reading and I was dismayed that libraries wanted this book banned because certain words were used so freely.

So, I began reading this book from my Kindle. I had to weed through a personal critique of a reviewer, Karl Shapiro was his name; he was all agog about Henry Miller’s prose and style. I honestly was not impressed by this reviewer who I began to suspect might had some illusions of romance in his praises of Henry Miller.

Ayn Rand also put in her two bucks worth telling us how great a writer Henry Miller was and how he realistically portrayed his experiences in Paris in the 1930s. So, my judgement was already soiled by these two prologues prior to actually reading the story and making my own judgements.

So, I began reading of this starving writer who described Paris, its life, and lifestyles as “the Paris of Maugham, Gauguin, Paris of George Moore.” Then he shares the realities that is Paris or was Paris in 1934. It is a Paris of filthy streets in the dead of night, of prostitutes, pimps, and thieves. As he explained his experiences, there he sees no difference from New York City where he escaped to find his artistic self.

While I agreed with Ayn Rand on his descriptive realities of the least savory aspects of Paris, I can also see why many bookstores and libraries refused to display this book on their shelves. It is for all intents and purposes a treatise of immorality and obscenity. While Miller does not expand on his sexual escapades by showing his descriptions for all to read, by early twentieth century standards, it is easy to see why many people felt offended by this book.

There are episodes of insight that he placed in that caused me to think and wonder, humorous incidents such as the Indian émigré who mistakenly used the Bodet as a toilet.

For the most part Miller’s experiences while insightful and profane, is not I think worthy of greatness. There was more telling the reader rather than describing or showing. I read better masterpieces by Hemingway—For Whom the Bell Tolls, Fitzgerald—The Great Gatsby, or Mark Twain—Huck Finn. Those books are timeless, relevant today as when they were written. Tropic of Cancer does not rate in that category. It is neither timeless nor relevant in today’s society. Certainly, there are still women and men working the streets of Paris, or any other city in the world, struggling writers trying to make a living as best he or she can, and friends or pretend friends who take advantage of one’s charity or circumstance to advance themselves to make them look good.

I don’t know how Tropic of Capricorn rates in comparison seeing I never read that book either, but if it is anything like the book I just read, I probably won’t read that either. I wasn’t as impressed by his word craft as I was with those other three writers and their books I described above.

A Knight Crime

Johnny Knight had a serious drug habit. A habit so bad it cost him his acting career. Twelve years after he starred in a successful television comedy, he presumably had his life turned around. The bad drugs took its toll on his health. The youthful features of his early acting career were replaced by more grown-up lines on his face, around his blue eyes and upon his brow. His once clean-shaven face now sported a trimmed beard, blondish, gray.

He took a new drug, prescribed by his doctor to counteract the addictive drugs he was entrapped by called buprenorphine. Whenever he had an urge, he took this. His doctor also prescribed ketamine. This evening these were in the back of his mind. He just finished talking to his friend who he costarred in that TV series that seemed a lifetime ago.

“How are you doing?” She asked with genuine concerned in her tone.

“Ninety days of being clean and sober,” Johnny announced with pride.

“You have to know how proud I am of you, Johhny!”

“Lilly, you know that that is one of the seven deadly sins, don’t you?”

“Oh, stop it. You used to be so amoral. Now look at you, talking about committing sin and all of that nonsense.”

Her New England dialect came out at that point, which made him laugh. “Yes, I have changed. Look, I will have to have lunch with you next week. I might be getting a role on a new TV series. Dan, my agent. I think you met him at one of those parties that eventually turned into a drug induced orgy. You remember him?”

“I can’t say as I have, but that is wonderful news. I’ll keep all my fingers and toes crossed for you.”

“You do that. Oh, look I got another call coming in. I’ll talk with you next week. Lunch at Cecconis?”

“You buying?” Lilian Campbell asked sharply.

“Well…McDonalds then?”

“Whatever! Go ahead and make reservations. Love you bye.”

She hung up on him before he could reply with one of his famous come backers, he used all the time on that series they starred in.

“Hello?” Johnny answered.

“It’s me. I need to see you.” His voice sounded familiar, but he had to ask anyway.

“Who is this?”

“Look, I need to talk to you. It’s a really big favor. I can meet you at your place say in about an hour?”

Johnny imagined him looking at his Rolex submariner. He wasn’t above the over dramatic himself as he whispered covertly, “Eight o’clock this evening at the hot tub. Bring your swimsuit.” He quickly disconnected the call. “What a hypocrite!”

Johnny made himself a nonalcoholic cocktail, relaxing at his jacuzzi. Malcolm his personal attendant came outside on the deck and announced, “You got a visitor, Johnny.” His demeanor appeared as straight as George Burns to Gracie or Dean Martin to Jerry Lewis. He rarely caught Malcom with a smile. At best he made a smirking grin that appeared full of irony. In walked a man dragged out to appear like Marilyn Monroe.

“Is it eight already?” Johnny asked as he dunked his head under the water for five seconds and popped his head back out. His face had flushed to a reddish color from the heat of the bubbling water.

“Actually, it’s closer to nine,” the visitor replied, pulling out a cigarette from a pack inside his clutch.

Johnny gave him a disapproving stare. “What’s with the get up?”

“I’m doing a play ‘Some Like It Hot.’

“Nice dress. You got white panties on too?”

“Maybe. Look, I need a super big favor from you.”

“Depends; you know I would do almost anything for you, so long as money isn’t involved.”

The Monroe look-a-like casted his eyes down. “There is a problem. I need ten thousand…”

Ten thousand what? Dollars? I told you no. I’m not a bank. Go sell your watch or whatever if you need money.”

“Johnny, please. There’re people, bad people that I owe and they’re willing to hurt me, if not kill me. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t really important.”

“You are a lousy actor. No and that’s final. Malcom show him out the door!”

Tears began cascading down his face, besmirching the makeup and mascara, making him look clownish. Malcom politely, yet forcefully took his elbow and led him away. A moment later, Malcom appeared with that still sober expression. “Your friend is gone, Johnny.”

“Hey, take the rest of the night off. I’m going to go straight to bed here in a little bit anyway.”

“As you wish. Good evening, sir.”

Ten minutes later, he pulled himself from the hot tub and dried himself off. He heard something inside and stopped. “Malcom? Is that you?” He looked about curious to what made that sudden noise, like a slip on the floor. He approached the back deck entrance, not quite reaching the threshold. “Oh, what are you doing here?”

That was the last thing he remembered then the room, the deck and the dark night seemed to merged into a kaleidoscope of strange images, and finally a numbing blackness entered his consciousness. He vaguely heard the person, a man rambling and ranting at him in a crazy, delusional sort of way.

“You couldn’t just let it be, could you? No, you couldn’t help your old buddy out, no that was beneath you, wasn’t it?”

Johnny tried opening his eyes but all he saw was the white bathrobe lying next to the hot tub he had just emerged from. “I…what do you want?”

“You know what I want! Then you said, no!”  Johnny noticed him doing something by the outdoor bar. His back was to him. “That’s okay. You know what? We’re going to have ourselves a party, just like the old days when we had the world at our beck and call. You remember those days, don’t you Johnny? The parties, the drugs, the women. Lillian Campbell. Oh, I know those tabloid rumors were so true between you and her. She was supposed to belong to me!”

“I’m sorry,” he tried to spit out though his tongue and mouth felt as dry as dust and words came out in a nonsensical mumble or murmur. He wasn’t supposed to have known about that night of indiscretion. That night after the Emmies were handed out and their show was awarded best comedy of the season.

“It’s alright, Johnny. I forgave you years and years ago. After all we were the best of friends, then. I couldn’t blame you. Lillian was always so perfect, so pretty and so charming. After tonight she’ll come back to me, like she always has.”

“What are you, you going to do?”

He turned around. The blonde wig was gone, replaced by his thinning hair, darkened brown eyes and beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. He had in his hand a syringe with an amber looking liquid inside. His thumb pressed upon the plunger. He smiled at him. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, I only asked for that one favor and yet you said no. I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted yes. You are now mine to do as I please. The hot tub will add a flavor of intrigue too. Everyone will think you relapsed and got high, drowning in your vary hot tub.”

Johnny tried to used his diminished strength to fight him off. They struggled briefly but the syringe lodged into his thigh. The psychedelic effects took hold almost immediately. He felt as if floating on an ocean tide. The heated water added to the feelings. His left hand found something circler and springy that he grasped immediately. His mouth opened and his lungs filled with hot water. He slowly dissolved into the earth as his body relaxed and death emerged triumphant.

Moving into 2024 Whether I Want to or Not

I’m at a point in my life where I don’t relish the new year. Times past, I looked forward to the ball dropping on Times Square, not much this year. I’m deathly afraid, and this is what I feared back in 2020, that people would rather elect a tyrant into the presidency than someone who represents our common democratic traditions and values. I had a discussion with my sister concerning politics. Normally, we clash but we also see eye to eye on a number of topics. She told me, she would rather have Trump than Biden because, “Biden has dementia.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I replied sitting across from her in her dining room table. “Trump on the other hand; have you heard him speak? He’s the one with dementia or he’s completely off his rocker. He talks about Obama at his rallies as if he were still President.”

“At least Trump had a good economy,” she countered.

“No, he inherited that great economy from Obama’s eight years in office. Trump didn’t contribute at all.”

“Biden can’t put two words together!”

“Biden was born with a stuttering problem.”

“Can we change the subject?”

We can change the subject, but we can’t deny the ugly truth if Trump somehow wins the election because of distrust of one party because the current President isn’t popular for any variety of reasons, or that those people that adhere to a radically different political ideology or philosophy that counters what the majority of the voters in this country and appear more than willing to die for those beliefs.

Are we headed toward Civil War Part Two? Unlikely, but then again, who knows how radicalized these people are; the disgruntled, fringe elements out there who, more than anyone are so certain in their creed, their belief system that dwells in the back alleys of racism, Christian Identity and Christian nationalism that unlike us are more than ready to take up arms and rebel against their perceived enemies. Trump has become their voice.

On a more personal note, my marketing and writing strategies are a bit convoluted. The Nate Turner western is coming along a bit slowly, but steadily. I’m a bit in a quagmire when it comes to trying to market my books through the right people. If nothing else I’m starting to recognize a scam when I see one. I’m certain the ones that keep calling me at all hours of the day are the ones more desperate for my money than those who are genuinely interested in making me successful. I’m a bit disappointed in my publisher though. He—empirical—is not contributing at all in marketing either A Man’s Passion or I Albert Peabody. I don’t know if this is becoming a potent of things to come with this publisher or if they are just waiting for me to pick up the slack.

I’m ending this at a time when everything done for the coming year will be fruitful and our democratic ideals and principles remain firmly imbedded. Happy New Year all my loyal readers out there.