Six minutes
The street that I live on
Is at the top of a long steep hill, surrounded by redwoods and madrones, we live in a cul de sac with two other neighbor families, six dogs, a fig tree, some cats, blackberry and raspberry rows, my two brothers and another family of five and one of four. Yes, it’s a busy cul de sac especially when my parents entertain. They like to throw parties at the house on top of the hill, mom will make endless hors d’oevres while constantly sipping her stoli martini while dad stands on the deck, meaty hand wrapped around a rocks glass full of gin, telling stories and poking the coals of the BBQ. Sometimes cars would be lined out the driveway forcing people exit in reverse order in which they came, leaving hangers on like mr. McGill fumbling for his keys, three sheets to the wind but driving home in the days before MADD was a presence.
Three minutes
On the day I was born
It was raining cats and dogs. The electricity had gone out on Oak Knoll, the wind was screaming and branches were strewn across our empty road. Of course my dad was in an airplane flying from Palm Springs to San Francisco. Of course he quit sucking on his unfiltered camels today. Of course the little Cessna he was flying caught on fire. Of course Fresno would have to do. Of course there were no rental cars but a long distance trucker making his last stop before heading north. Of course my dad made it.
Fifteen minutes
Everyone knew him as
A tinkerer, a fiddler, a noodler, someone unable to keep his hands, feet or mind still. It’s chaotic controlled energy that possesses him and it’s the closest thing to electricity I have ever seen. Even asleep, which is only rumored, his eyelids flutter, his muscles twitch, and nonsense drifts from his mouth in incomplete sentences. He has a dog that is unlike him in every way, a big lazy st. Bernard named Benson that gets tired just watching the man. Some days are spent in the garage among the dozen or so half finished projects…the lawnmower/pruner hybrid, the three wheeled bike with built in GPS, the table with six legs. Its all part of the plan, he says. The garage is his sanctuary, the place to come and drink Pabst from the self made kegerator and smoke Marlboros while letting the wonder of his mind loose on the future. Picking up a wrench, dragging on his cig, and knocking out a beat on an empty 55 gallon barrel, the sound echoes around the shop without direction. He stops and goes to the table saw, looks at it disapprovingly and moves on. This is how the day goes, moving from one thing to another with no purpose and a complete lack of intensity. He picks up a guitar nestled in the middle of a stack of tires, plugs in the amp at his feet and rips off a few Jimmy Page power chords, feeling the sound reverberate through his body. Benson watches impassively. The cigarette gets snubbed out in a BigGulp, hissing violently before becoming history.
Seven minutes
At the red light
She shook with almost uncontrollable fury. Tears fought each other to be the first down her cheeks but the swipe of an angry hand erased any notion that he would get the satisfaction of seeing her cry. It was an ugly two minute fight, a Mike Tyson affair with a left cross followed by the right hook. He was sleeping with her and she caught them in her bed, with her sheets, and her pillows. He was on top of her when he said “ wait babe I can explain.” She had finally let herself go, let herself fall in love with him only to be trampled on once again. She thought about moving to Baghdad where the only thing that could hurt her was sniper fire and bombs.
