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When Jack exited the freeway, he could just make out the figure on the end of the long off-ramp. There was a line of cars waiting at the light as he watched the round, thirty something man in shorts holding his little sign. Homeless, no doubt. Shiftless, lazy, no way to tell, he thought. Jack shifted his attention as he drove past, to the sign which said only one word, “Help.”

He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought. If he needs something, he should be more to the point, “Will work for food,” that’s a standard. “Homeless, God Bless,” at least that appeals to Christians. Who identifies with just, “Help?”

For the first few mornings, Jack was lucky, never winding up at the intersection (in front of the homeless man) at the red light, until, eventually, it happened. The man was only a few feet from him, but it felt much further. From his car window the man looked like a little picture, just a face really. That’s all Jack allowed himself to see. The image burned on the side of his head, as he waited for the light to change, and the little sign wrote it’s letters across his mind... HELP.

He didn’t look homeless, Jack thought. His clothes were clean. He was well fed. That’s for sure. What was his story? Jack didn’t want to know, just get to work. After all, he had a family, a car payment, his daughter was preparing for college, and his wife was on vacation with their youngest in Vermont. So much to take care of, he thought. Life on the off ramp had its appeal. No worries, just hold up a sign.

It never occurred to him to give the man a dollar or even a smile. He was not his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Jack actually saw someone give the man money. A young woman rolled down her window and held out a bill and then the car behind her followed suit. Jack drove on through, eyes forward, with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. I guess I could help, he thought, For the Grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It made them feel better about themselves.

The next day Jack had his dollar ready on the seat next to him when he pulled up.

“God Bless you,” was all the man said, but it was enough to make Jack feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his friends, they had their opinions.

“I can’t stand them,” some said. “Leeches, freeloaders, why don’t they get a job?” Others were empathetic, but less vocal. Jack was hooked. Each day he gave the man a dollar, got his, “God Bless You,” and went on his way, until one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Jack’s wife and kids on the dash.

“Nice family,” he said. “They are lucky to have you.”

The light turned green and Jack felt a strong new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.

In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Jack’s job as a computer programmer. Jack explained how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, how his wife liked vacations. The man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way Jack felt they were good friends. He gave his dollar and the man asked nothing more from him. Jack relied on the gratitude. It was simple. An act of kindness, he thought, a good deed.

Things began to change when it occurred to Jack that he knew so little of the man and one day at the red light he asked very quickly, “What line of work were you in?”

“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.

An architect, Jack thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.

The next blow came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting to see Jack. “This is MY family,” he said. They were lovely. “We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add as Jack pulled away. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Jack wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the sand. It looked recent.

This really had Jack thinking. His compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride replaced with doubt and betrayal. We were friends, he thought. He wanted my help. His little sign said as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family? What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?

That weekend Jack turned it over and over in his mind. It had been nearly six months, and who knows how many dollars. The more he thought about the brief comments waiting for the light, the more he realized it had been a one-sided exchange. Jack had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers and joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD, all in short sentences, little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly as he passed the dollar, one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on.

All that weekend he thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back. Who was this guy? He has a lot of nerve. He’s homeless, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. I’ve helped him. He needs to know this was a sacrifice for me. My kindness, doesn’t that count for something?

Monday he would find out, once and for all.

Monday morning the cars were backed way up on the long off ramp. Jack’s heart beat faster as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was not there, but Jack parked anyway and walked across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the heat and rain, in the cold and wind.

It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car. He felt alone and nervous, somewhat disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious, bumper to bumper, speeding to catch the light, then waiting for Jack as he crossed to where the man had stood.

Empty and alone, Jack searched the desolate overpass for his friend until he saw the little sign facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help,” thickly scrawled in black magic marker, leapt out at him. Picking it up, Jack’s knees buckled slightly, his stomach growled and his nose ran in the cold morning wind. The friendless sound of the freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign, while starring at the long line of morning commuters on the off-ramp and an outstretched hand thrusting a dollar bill toward him.

Sean Reynolds

Separation

The saddest dilemma is separation, dealing with loss. Life is dynamic. A longing for peace yearns for certainty, but leads to life’s most puzzling paradox.

Separation begs connection.

Connection sustains separation.

Separation results from connection.

-Insert dogma, belief, philosophy or ultimate truth here.-

TMD

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Frame of Reference

The edges trail across my wall, black on sea-green foam; a rectangle holding the pane that holds you.

The frame insults the curve of your mouth, your smile stilled by time, your eyes staring through the moment asking, “When will we see each other again?”

The sly lines of your face oppose the rigid polka dots on your shirt. A photo refuses to describe the beauty within your smile.

A daughter so far away.

Oregon may as well be Mars tonight.

A frame carries you from the glossy world of memory. A frame that holds the photo you said caught your mood.

And my mood, when I see it, mixes with the lines and polka dots and connects the silence behind your eyes to the emptiness I feel.
A picture is only a few words uttered alone in the night, hanging over a phone, too late to pick up. It holds my words in silence until we connect again, until the highway brings us back together, until the sky brings you home.

Oregon is just a word, just a feeling, just a frame of reference holding the promise of connection that can’t replace a daughter’s touch.


—Sean Reynolds

Time

Spring is pregnant with expectation. At the winery time waits.

The winemaker surveys the vineyard and exhales, hoping the winter pruning will result in a great vintage.

Barren cane (amputated by the lopper’s blade) litters the ground under the farming wire, but the cordons shoot out more each day. The rows of Merlot and Zinfandel reanimate with fat green leaves.

Back in the cellar, he racks the Cabernet, pumping wine from barrel to tank, taking care not to suck up the dregs from the bilge. He hopes it will garner gold, or maybe this year, win Best of Show.

He lets the Chardonnay rest on its lees; the yeast blooms settled in French oak. It can wait. It is still early he tells himself.

The Crush is a fresh memory, but there is time to plan for harvest. There is time.

And plenty of work to do, the White Zinfandel must be bottled. After all, it’s the biggest seller, a money maker, even though the winemaker detests it.

“A little residual sugar in the Chenin Blanc is one thing,” he says, “but 3% is for people who really don’t like wine.”

Cold stabilized, the tartrates left clinging like ice crystals to the sides of the tank, he sends it chilled through a tight filter to extract any dawdling yeast cells. Can’t have them eating all that lingering sugar. The desperate housewives want sweet wine not Cold Duck.

He would rather use his talent on the Cabernet or Chardonnay, but this is his livelihood not his art studio. Trade-offs for following his passion, he tells himself.

There will be time to blend the Meritage, time to add a little Cab Franc to soften it just a bit, time to relax with a glass of accomplishment, but not right now.

The bottling crew has arrived.

Time is money.

TMD

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Fish Story

A couple of years ago I was a staff writer for the weekly Hollywood tabloid, Entertainment Today. I wrote book and music reviews. The editor would suggest articles but it was always my choice, since I wasn’t getting paid. I did get to keep the books. Some were good, and I got press passes to clubs in Silver Lake and Hollywood like the Echo and the Troubadour. It was mostly indie music... not really shoegazer or emo stuff, more like Wilco but younger and West Coast, some of it better than others.

The Wiltern Theatre is an art deco movie palace at the intersection of Wilshire and Western in downtown Hollywood. One hot October night, I went there to do an interview with Bjorn Baillie the singer for, La Rocca an Irish rock band.

I saw the two public relations people making their way toward me on the crowded sidewalk and waved to them. At first they seemed confused. They weren’t expecting a guy in his late forties? I recognized T— from his press release photo. He introduced me to J— an attractive twenty-something woman and his partner in the small, PR firm that represents Dangerbird Records. One of their bands, The Silversun Pickups is very successful and La Rocca’s doing okay. Their music has been featured on the American teen dram, One Tree Hill.

J— smiled asking, “Are you a fishing guy?”

Now I was confused. Then I realized my shirt had hooks and trout swimming across a long sleeve ocean. I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking when I made that wardrobe selection. It’s not like the bluegill were biting on La Cienaga.

There was little chemistry among the three of us. Maybe it was the difference in age, or maybe they were nervous about the show, but they smiled when I told them that I liked the band. We walked around the block to the back of the aging theater. The sidewalk was full of busy work-a-day sorts, suits mixing with work shirts, and in the crowd I saw a slow-moving elderly couple. The old man wore a thin tie and a pale brown fedora. She had on a house dress and held his hand as they made their way. I wondered if they were remnants of the post war neighborhood; if they bought their house in the forties to be nearer downtown and just never moved out. The woman smiled as we passed, while T— and J— were talking about the Arctic Monkeys.

When we got to the stage entrance, T— called the stage manager on his cell phone and a skinny muscular man with a head-set wearing ripped jeans and a tight Misfits t-shirt came out. In fact, from then on, it seemed as if everyone was wearing jeans and t-shirts.

And then there was me in the fish shirt.

The roadie checked his list then led us backstage. On the way he looked over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow and flicked his wrist using his other hand to work an imaginary reel in a fly-casting motion. I gave him a thumbs-up, as we walked under the Klieg lights to the green room.

J— took charge of the situation. She pointed at an ice chest full of beer and fruit juice and asked me, “Do you want a water?”

I grabbed a Heineken and sat on the couch.

“Bjorn will be down after the sound check,” she said.

I thought Bjorn was a strange name for an Irishman, but I’m not a rock musician. We sat making small talk for a bit, until the door opened and a man, who looked to be in his early thirties with wiry red hair walked in. He came right over, hand stretched out, and saying, “You must be the guy from the paper. You’re a fuckin’ fisherman, are you? You want another beer?” He says to J—, “This the guy you told me about, the one that’s going to make us famous?”

The band members and their friends poured in and the intimate conversation was replaced by clinking glasses and laughter, then Bjorn pulled me into the hall and asked if I wanted to do the interview in the balcony.

T— and J— told him that they'd see him at the after party. Then, thanking me for coming, they said, “Maybe we’ll see you later,” knowing I hadn’t been invited to anything “later.”

Bjorn grabbed a couple of beers and we headed to the top of the empty theater, while the headliner took the stage for their sound check. He used a bottle opener on his key chain. “You shouldn’t ever be without a fuckin’ church key,” he told me.

I hadn’t heard the term “church key” in nearly thirty years. It’s something my old man would have said. I set my recorder on the seats between us and started asking questions. The usual ones came first. “How’s the tour been? Are you planning to release a new CD? Where do you get the inspiration for your songs?” I asked about the lyrics and he told me he had been writing songs since he was fifteen. His passion for writing had a familiar texture to it, and, for a moment, I felt as if he traveled the 6,000 miles just to chat. Like he came to America to sit on a warm L.A. night, in the purple velour of the old green balcony, and talk about the importance of creativity. If you wanted an interview to go well, that is how it would go. I asked Bjorn if he always wanted to be a singer-songwriter.

“Actually,” he said, forgetting the expletives, “I wanted to be a journalist. I took journalism in college. I came out knowing how to put together an obituary. So, I guess I could be a teacher,” he laughed so hard he coughed and then added, “At least YOU have your fishing to fall back on.”

The stage manager walked up the aisle, just as we finished the interview. Bjorn was thankful for the publicity and told me to come backstage afterward and have something to eat. I said that maybe I would see him later, but having caught my story, I pulled in my line and left after the show.

TMD
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