Requiem for A King

Joshua Stracener passed away, I'm unsure of a graceful way to begin an online Eulogy, but at least you have an idea of what you're about to read.

“...Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone.” - Red (Stephen King) ‘The Shawshank Redemption'

I didn’t know what to make of the guy the first time I met him, the armor a social outcast wears is often thick, and mine was fortified to the hilt. Here was a guy who on outward appearances had no business burning his time inside a mall arcade, he was friendly, outgoing, attractive (I’m a dude…I can still say that) and certainly had enough outside interests that immediate suspicion was heaped upon what walked, talked and quacked like a tourist.

Several hours later both our palms were bloody and blistered from bumping the Gold Mine for a few extra tokens and Street Fighter Alpha 2 was huddled in the corner crying for a break from the onslaught. Julie (the manager at the time) was not amused at the antics and kicked us both out after we set off the mine alarm for what was most certainly a double digit number on the night. Suddenly this picture of preppie perfection joined in with me as we unleashed a torrent of curse words and creative euphemisms. Preconceived notions were now destroyed, and it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

In the cannon of arcade lore Julie hired Chelsea, who then ascended to the throne and brought aboard SteveDave and Karla. As they headed out to pasture the leap was made and in an act that was both inspired and insane Chelsea brought aboard a regular and Josh was the first chosen to serve as Number 2. This was the beginning of a golden age within the hallowed halls of the East Hills Shopping Center, Josh worked the 36 hour a week shift with nary a complaint and soon the inmates took hold of the asylum with smashing success.

Marvel Super Heroes, Samurai Showdown 2, NBA Hangtime, Star Wars Pinball, Bust A Move, the list went on and on and so did the fun. The 9 p.m. closing time was soon disavowed, for the select few the clock now tolled at 11 and thus a lifestyle was born. After a year at the helm Josh stepped down to the occasional part-time duty, Jeremy was next to wield the matrix of leadership and after him it passed to me, Josh served as mentor and emergency backup (like the time I was in jail when I was supposed to be at work.)

But it wasn’t just the games, in your teens and twenties a summer evening holds the promise of eternity and a family was born within the walls of that “family fun center.” Hunan’s for dinner, movie night at the Plaza 8 with Ray sneaking all our candy in under his buff bod and spiffy track suit, road trips to Metro North, cruisin’ down The Belt, Playstation at whichever house was available. Josh was a guy that was always down for good times.

Let the record now show that the only reason he gave up the sweetest 36 hours a man will ever work is because he had a hobby, and that hobby was a doozy. Chrome wheels, sweet spoilers, a system that goes boom, in all it was a damn shame that The Fast and the Furious came along when it did because Josh was about 5 years ahead of the curve. Grinding away at the factory Josh procured and tricked out a chariot of mythic proportions. But soon that myth wasn't enough and he locked his eyes on a fierce yellow Mustang we would all learn to envy. At first of course, we all thought him crazy to spend such money on a car, such cash on a sound system. Then one day we were both working a Friday morning when Josh told me to bring a CD out to the car and see what I’d been missing. The only disc on hand was a copy of The Smashing Pumpkins ‘Adore’ that was on loan from The Mosh King, so as Chelsea came in from her weekly two day bender at the casino we happily skipped out into an early afternoon sun and fired up The Mustang.

I’ve never heard sound so pure, heretofore unknown aspects of the titular track 'Adore' now floated inside my ears while Josh sat next to me with a beatific glow that the Dalai Lama would be jealous of. I knew he was a gamer, I knew he was a hard worker, I knew he was a good friend and better boyfriend (I don’t PERSONALLY know that last bit, but I saw him put more effort into fleeting dames than I ever have) but to see the satisfaction he held by simply knowing that I too could hear the difference I now knew he was also an artist.

It’s said that we all suffer for our art, and Josh suffered the sling and arrows out outrageous theft more times than I can count. It seemed like every few months he’d come into the arcade with a cloud above his head and once it was drug out of him you’d find out that once again someone had jacked his car and stolen his equipment. There were more plans to catch these crooks than plots against The Roadrunner, but time and again his Coyotesque plans fell apart as his system disappeared into the night. One time, honest to God, someone used a disc sander to get through his car door and open it up, you just can’t plan to foil such tactics.

But Josh never let it get him down for long; he just went back to work and planned the bigger and better system he’d be getting in the next few weeks or so. The girlfriend that became my wife went on double dates with him and his girlfriend; she snickered as he explained the special foam he had installed to keep the side panels from vibrating off. Halfway to Barry Road she nudged me in the side and confirmed that, yes indeed, the bass went boom and his shit did rock tasty hard.

A guy who should have been a frat boy douche was instead the most undercover brother of all the geeks. His Magic Cards flopped with a vengeance, his Pokémon were not to be trifled with, if Josh was done wrong by missing out on the Car Mod craze it was an outright sin he didn’t get to cash his early 20’s in during the recent ‘Geek Chic’ era. To boot he will always remain the one who worked the ‘Khaki and Polo’ uniform of the Fun Factory better than all the rest. Jeremy, no matter how good those khaki’s made his ass look, was second best in this regard.

Now by happenstance I found out the other day that he was possibly hurt in a wreck, I found his sister and she confirmed the news. It’s hard to get a hold of a family when states and sometimes continents now separate them, but the call went out, and all have bowed their heads in honor.

When you’re in love there’s nothing to do, there’s only to be. Josh was a man of his time, and he lived in the moment with an eye to the future. His love was unconditional, he simply gave it away, no matter how poorly it was sometimes used. It never got him down for long when someone treated him poorly, and about the only ways to really get under his skin was to tell him his sister was hot or act real confused when you had to spell his last name. But I’m not one to fault a brother protecting his little sister, or the passion of proper spelling.

Nowadays friendships like this don’t bloom, the arcade is gone and ‘gamer pals’ are often separated by miles….if not entire states. People that are tossed into one another either drift apart or band together, he was a cornerstone within our clan of electric brothers. To say he was young is an understatement, to know him and say ‘the best was yet to come’ is the understatement of a lifetime.

I remember back in high school a funeral for a friend. Her name was Gina Dugan, and much like Josh she was a friend to those she loved, not those that society dictated were of the appropriate social level. At the funeral a member of our group (probably the one closest to her from amongst our rabble) made a simple remark that I hadn’t understood for over 15 years now. “People I care about aren’t supposed to die.” It struck me as odd to say such a thing, having buried my own sister and attended more funerals than I care to count I see what he meant that day.

These people aren’t supposed to die, the band plays on and why can’t they? They become part of your world, as vital as the air you breathe and water you drink. Every time I walked into the mall over the years one of the thoughts that popped into my head was “Hey, maybe I’ll run into Stracener today.” Even after the arcade was gone this glimmer of youth still burbled up.

One time, about a year back, he was there, walking down the aisle. We talked, we laughed, suddenly it was yesterday that we were free and today was less than a worry in his eyes and my mind. It doesn’t matter if we hadn’t kept in touch as much as we’d liked over the years, because we didn’t end up in this dance by accident or force. We choose the world we build, and those we choose to build it with matters more than co-workers we force ourselves to identify with later in life or passing obstacles that distract from the simple lesson of love that Josh taught with his every action.

For the rest of my day’s I’ll leave a quarter on the cabinet glass if I have it, it really is a small amount of joy to give in honor of one who gave me so much of the same. For well over a decade we laughed, we cried and sometimes we even raged both inside and outside of that arcade.

Now there’s one less shade in my box of crayons, one less happy coincidence that may occur when I step out my door and I can’t be sure of how to color my world when there’s another thing missing from the drawing. Those double dates at Barry Road helped pave the way for my wife and I to grow together, in kind the family I now love was built on the backs of the family that loved me. There’s a closing moment I’ll throw out here, but trust me when I say there’s a lifetime of moments worth remembering with him. It may seem trivial, but I’ve come to see that those are the moments that matter the most.

It’s also important to remember here just how far apart the soon to be mentioned Drug Store and Arcade were within this mall…exact opposite ends, as far apart as they could be.

INT: A Shopping Mall, Two Males (Jeremy and Josh) are walking out of an Osco Drug store with candy bars and soda pop. The two males overhear a faint voice coming from across the fountain court and seemingly out of nowhere.

VOICE: ……buuuulllllllllllllllllshittttttttttttttttttt……

JEREMY: (turning to Josh) Someone just beat Stracener.

Bullshit of the highest degree if you ask me, nobody beats the King of The Mallrats.

A Beehive grows on The Southside.

Even little Bees dream big dreams and here at Hyde Park in Saint Joseph the grandest of aspirations is playing out above the heads of local park enthusiasts as a humble family of honeybees try to stake their claim in the new world.

Pablo came to this strange and wondrous place with a noble goal, to raise a hive that would dwarf the ones in his homeland and give his wife Juanita a lifestyle she could grow accustomed to.
“I come here, and I see things not as they are, but as they may become.” A small breeze sends his antennae into a sort of slow motion dance as he balances himself with a deft maneuver of the wings. “In my country, a man, he sees the hive that is his home but he knows that can never be the hive he will raise his family in.”

Overcrowding is but one of the many perils that Pablo fled from upon a warm spring breeze. It was April, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow hung heavy in the air like a pollinated perfume that the hard working father of four thousand could no longer ignore. His voice begins to crack as he shares the details of his escape, in his land a worker who abandons the hive faces much worse than the slings and arrows of outrageous hornets.

“They don’t just tell us, they show us.” His eyes grow heavy with dew that trickles down his fuzzy cheek as he recounts the fate that befell his own father. “They found him in the night, pocketing pollen that was meant to sustain us when we broke for the border at dawn. They brought him before the entire colony, ripped his stinger from his chest and made us, his family; watch him bleed out on the hive floor.”

The stakes were clearly known that early morning that Pablo and Juanita gathered up their dreams and dashed through a break in the border patrol. Wings buzzing a frantic jungle beat, the two star crossed lovers were three meadows away before the reality of what they had done began to sink in.

“For Pablo this was an easy thing, his family was gone, and he had no real standing within the colony.” Juanita is a striking beauty, even at this age, and the miles placed on her body from birthing an entire colony show only in the worry lines that criss-cross her face in a patchwork dance of the damned. “But me, I had a father still, a mother still, and many sisters and brothers. But Pablo, he was right, our land was no place to begin a new colony."

These days Juanita barely even bothers rubbing a marigold across her chest before heading out, she instead does her best to tally how many of the brood will be following her as she begins the morning duties.

“In our country I would have many workers to help with the harvest, but here we are still building our colony, so instead the children and I handle morning duties while Pablo and some of the boys stand vigilant at our borders.”

Recent wasp incursions have left things on high alert, and while homeland security is more of an issue here than in their homeland there are other hazards that Pablo is glad to have left behind.
“You look up into the sky here and you see so very few obstructions, and most of those are green. I smell strange smells on the air but they hold none of the metallic taste we grew to loathe. My ears, they hear true without the towers that came to our land.”

You can see him glance about at this point, as if he still fears that one day the towers will come to this land as well, bringing with them the damning shrieks that led so many of his co-worker astray. Cell phones, a boon to the humans who so readily consume his day’s labors, bee scientists believe they sing the siren song of death to the hard working honey makers of the land.
“You would hear them, first in the distance but then suddenly all throughout your body. I saw many of my brothers, their wings would drop, their heads would sway, then you watch them drift aimlessly off, those that came back to the hive would bring the sickness, the guards would block their entrance and then pile their bodies high at the base of our tree.”

Here though the air sings clean, and a day’s work stays within the family. Despite the hardships Pablo and Juanita both know this was for the best.

“We may work hard, but here we are free, and there are many trees.” Juanita’s chest begins to swell with pride as she oversees her children completing the morning labors. “Here I know that there are places for our children, and one day they will birth their own colonies, and find their own trees to call home. Perhaps then the many colonies may become.”

In the grand dreams of a mother the future is bright, and full of promise. While not sharing wholeheartedly in his wife’s optimism Pablo can feel the warmth of a light at the end of the tunnel as well.

“Here it is hard, but it is an honest hard. Back home the hard felt empty, as we knew our work only benefited others, here my family can grow strong and I can know as only a man knows that what I have done is right.”

As a single drop of nectar trickles past the borders of their oaken home he offers up a small taste of their labors as an invisible light known only as pride beams forth.
“For where else can sacrifice taste so sweet?”

This aint a Love Song

Taking pictures at Lake Contrary....found this poor guy....can't help but wonder what led him to his fate:


It was a Friday night like any other for our intrepid hero Ricky the Raccoon. After a long day of stealin' the farmers corn and playing mind games on the local dogs he was ready to cut loose with some much needed debauchery. On a night like this only one place would do, The Lake Club Bar and Grill.

Things were starting off well enough, he'd put a fiver in the jukebox and with some good tunes at his back he was well on his way to scoring an invite home with Pearl the Possum and her cousin Rayanne the Riverat. Ricky had heard some things about these girls, and if half of what he'd heard was true than a new litter of garbage thieves would soon be on their way. Sure, he knew the rat was supposedly claimed by JimBob the Bobcat, the token "Biggest Man in Town," but there's no way that guy would find out about it since he worked the overnight shift snatching chickens from the farmers coop.

One drink led to another, and another, a small squadron of Geese made their way across the room as Ricky made plans to bed not one but two townies tonight. They were coy at first, but soon the liquor had its way and they were giggling like a pair of schoolgirls watching a health class video designed to steer them away from this exact situation. Rickys friend Jackson the Jackalope tried to pull him away, he shared a story he'd heard about some beavers who tried to run a tag team on those girls only to turn up as slippers on the farmers wife. Ricky would have none of it, tonight was his night and no hick with a night job was gonna spoil his fun.

Two hours later Ricky was living that dream inside the rats humble home when the door burst open and JimBob came screaming into the room. Ricky made off like a bandit in the night, and as the cool air coasted over his tail he hazarded a look over his shoulder then breathed the breath of a free man when he realized that JimBob was nowhere to be seen. Counting himself lucky he crawled into his tree knot and let the evening fade away as sleep came upon him.

The harsh glare of daylight came crashing into his abode a scant few hours later. Ricky picked himself up and muttered a curse towards the heavens as he clocked in for another long day of corn thievin' and dog messin'. But something wasn't right as he took stock of his haul at the end of the day, the other raccoons had been aloof and silent much of the day, and now here came the boss with one of those looks across his face.

It was a few hours later, as the sun itself was calling it a day, and Ricky was showing up for mandatory overtime. Upon arrival the first thing Ricky noticed was that none of the other raccoons were here, in fact there wasn't another living soul for miles it seemed. Then, out of the darkness, his boss came scampering up as JimBob lumbered behind him.

"Hard times Ricky...hard times...in this economy I didn't have a choice."

His boss was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, only JimBob remained, and as his paw moved silently down the barrel of a .22 his mouth parted into a cruel and toothy sneer.

"I don't like no dirty animals touchin' my things."

A muffled pop, the stench of sulfur, a flash of light faded across the field as Ricky dropped to the ground, JimBob was nowhere to be seen. The night played on as a poor riverat found herself snared by the local Alley Cat brigade, later that same evening her cousin fell asleep in the middle of the road. The local police didn't bother to ask any questions, after all, who cares if a poor rat, a dumb possum or some stupid raccoon ends up dead in a field anyway.

Business as usual when it comes to barnyard dating.

Pizza Day!

It's scientifically proven that the human race will work harder when there's a reward involved. It's a commonly held fact that no person can resist free pizza. Put the two together and whatta' 'ya get? The Pizza Hut Book-It program!

Far back in the misty time known as "The '80's" I was a plucky 'lil learner at Lake Contrary Elementary, go Golden Bears! One golden year, I'm pretty sure it was Mrs. Lysaught in the 4th grade, a simple brown box was opened up before us. As we crowded about the box it's contents were tipped onto a table and each of us received the sweetest holographic rainbow button you ever did see!

The deal was simple, read six books a quarter and you got your very own personal pan pizza as well as six rockin' puffy stickers that you could adorn your button with. Obviously this idea is about as gold as those amazing glass tumblers they put out. But while I'm pretty sure this is a national phenomenon, let me assure you that it was made all the sweeter by the fact that our south end Pizza Hut was pretty much the classical definition of late 80's bad ass.

We're talking:
Frosted glass windows, the red hooker lights that hung from the ceiling with velvet ropes, throne like oaken chairs that complimented the oak and puffy-vinyl tables and those ovens that made it just a little extra crispy while also flooding a three block radius with the frenzy inducing scent of buttery crust on a busy Friday night. You even walk a corridor like hallway after you enter, only this isn't a green mile you're walking, rather the red brick road to oven baked delicious...yeah it's a pretty sweet Pizza Hut...even with all these "modern renovations" they've installed over the years.

For me, cash in was always a Friday night with my cousin Brandy. We'd pile into whatever station wagon Grandma Bett was driving at the time and go nail that golden delicious like starving heathens at the buffet of kings. Somewhere along the way they stopped giving us pizzas for reading though, and it's usually about that time that we go from a little kid nation of readers to an 'us versus them' adult philosophy regarding the value of literature.

Most schools don't even do Book-It anymore, my daughters doesn't. At the high school level we try to force kids to read with twenty minutes of punishment known as 'sustained silent reading', in which time a hostage nation of students idly thumb through whatever was at the top of the pile. Progressive learning is one thing, but didn't we already stumble upon gold with the idea of free pizza?

Even in "this economy" a personal pan pizza for every student can't cost that much. And rockin' holographic rainbow buttons are a negligible public relations expense. What if we expanded this to the adult level through a local library program? Adults read books or read books to children, they do this six times within six months and they get a free personal pan pizza.

I for one would still wear a holographic rainbow button if I had it.

Ballad of the Big Shots

When it's breakfast you go to Betty's, when it's business you come to The Spot. Both offer the amenities you'd expect from the Americana Diner experience. Only one holds a hotbed of intrigue and exposition that would put the Mos Eisley Cantina to shame.

In my youth they gathered along the front counter, silverbacks fading into the sunset. Eugene the golden gloves boxer who coulda been a contender, Merle the man who always has a plan. But the king of this court was the man who chaired a kitchen cabinet that would put Andrew Jackson's to shame, Ol' Virg.

Ol' Virg was every stereotype you'd expect to find, crotchety, chauvinistic, quick to anger and slow to calm down. Day after day he drew his morning routine to a close with stale cigarettes and bottomless cups of coffee. All the while he railed against "the city" or whatever agency he felt was currently impeding his grand designs for the south end.

Every so often he'd be on a tangent and one of his lackeys would speak out of turn, or heaven forbid the server would question his logic. Virg would storm off, swearing to never again step foot inside the establishment. Generally about a week or two later his need to hold court would overpower him and he'd be back at his station coffee in hand.

Virg doesn't make it to The Spot to talk shop anymore, he doesn't even swing by Betty's for a biscuit and gravy. A lifetime of railing against the system has left him a weakened old man unable to make the rounds. But every so often the phone rings at his house, his eyes perk up, his shoulders straighten and a cackle echoes throughout the room as he looks at the caller I.D. to see a city councilmans phone number flash across the display.

"'Bout damn time they get ahold of me, I've got some things to say!"

It is then that he rises up via telephone, the minutes bleed into an hour and for a small shining moment he's a Big Shot again. The timber returns to his tone as he offers his opinions on all manner of issue such as immigration and taxation. He's trying to set them straight, trying to show them the way, he knows that if they'd listen to him it'd all be ok.

Meanwhile at The Spot a new generation of silverbacks is growing into their own. Their roles are still undefined, a lifetime of experience and compromise has yet to harden their viewpoints and mold their interactions. But they do sip upon the coffee and contemplate ways to save their world and that's a start.

Do they know of the previous administration? Does this cabal of redneck intellect pay fealty at the altar of Rush Limbaugh as their predecessors did? Will it be flood or famine that challenges their agenda? And who shall rise above the others to assume the mantle of leadership and title of Big Shot?

In a small town diner there's plenty of time for those plot threads to play out. Because if there's one thing that's certain it's this, the band plays on, only the members change. And it's the sweet siren song of salvation that they offer up to the land they call home.