A breeze from the south

Friday, May 22, 2009, 9:03am
Steve's house

Chris calling, my cell phone says.

This is bad. Chris never calls my cell, especially in the morning. Something is wrong. And if something is wrong, it's probably about dad.

I've been meaning to call my father for a while. It's been a week or so since I've spoken with him, and I've been worried since Greg told me dad was complaining of shortness of breath a few days ago. And of course, Dad has been getting dialysis three times a week for three and a half years, and he had heart surgery, and he takes 100 different kinds of pills...

I hit SEND on my phone. "Hello. Hello?" No one's there.

I'll call dad. That's what I'll do. I'll call him, and he'll pick up, with his usual "HEEE-llo", and I'll laugh a little, and realize I was worrying over nothing. I'll call him, and we'll have a nice chat.

Chris calling, says the phone again.

"Steve, it's Chris. I've got some bad news. About dad."

Please don't let him be dead. Please just let him be in the hospital again. I'll go visit him with Tim and the baby, and we'll nurse him back to health. He'll beat the odds, surprise the doctors and walk out of there on his own in a few weeks, just like he did last time.

Just please, please, don't let him be dead.

**********

Gardenview Estates Senior Living Community, late afternoon

Dad and I sit on a farmer's porch in wicker lawn chairs. The sun burns from a flawless sky, as blue as a Navy man's jacket. Each time the heat gets uncomfortable, a gentle breeze blows in, as if God has installed a giant thermostat just for us.

I turn to face dad and he's already looking at me, his eyebrows lifted a little, his mouth closed tightly.

"So... I guess this is it, kid," he says, finally.

"It can't be, Dad. It can't be. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Yeahh, ya do," he says, turning his head away from me. "You're a grown person. You don't need me as a father anymore. You need me as a friend. People lose friends all the time."

"You make it sound so trivial. You're my father!"

"Are you really gonna miss our bi-monthly phone conversations that much?" He grins.

"Come on. I have a new baby, you know. And a wife. And a job. I get busy."

His mouth spreads into a wide smile, a contented smile, as if I were Frank Sinatra singing a beautiful tune.

"See? See?? You're busy living your life," he says. "All fathers go eventually. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"But there are so many things I should have said. And I should have spent more time with you. I feel horrible."

He listens patiently, his eyes locked on me. "What do you want to say, Steve? That you love me? That you appreciate everything I did for you? That you'll never forget me?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"And you didn't think I knew all that already?"

"It wouldn't have hurt to say it."

"Maybe not. But that's not how it was with us. It was assumed," he shrugs.

We both stare at the Tigerlillies in the flower beds near our feet. "That mulch is fresh. Can you smell it? I used to love that smell," he says.

"Dad, what happened?"

"To me?"

"No. To Al Pacino. Of course to you!"

"Well, first my parents had sex," he says, gesturing with his hand. "Then, about nine months later, I came down the birth canal..."

"Dad."

His smile fades. "It was quick, Steve. Don't worry about the details."

"I need to know, dad."

"Why?" he asks, squinting at me.

"So my imagination won't run away with me."

He breathes deeply, running his thumb and forefinger across the collar of his white undershirt. It occurs to me that this is hard for him, despite everything.

"I got up, got dressed, and went out to the car to go to dialysis. I was due there at 6am. I felt funny. Lightheaded, like.

"I got in the car, closed the door, and when I went to put the key in the ignition..."

"That was it?"

"Everything went white. Not black. It was white everywhere I could see."

He pauses again, staring into the sky. "I took a deep breath. I had to force it. My whole body was shutting off. For a second I could see again. I was parked facing the building and I could see the window to an office. It was Carole's office, the one who does the marketing. Carole wasn't there, of course. It was early..."

"And then what?"

"And den, nuttin'!" He says summarily. "Everything really did go black after that."

"Did it hurt?"

He shrugs. "Just for a second. It was very fast."

It's easier for me to breathe now that I know the details. I'll never get over it, but now I don't have to wonder what it was like for him.

"Did you see the tunnel and the light?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Your mother was there. And my mother and father. Your mother had a drink in her hand."

"What?!"

He throws his head back and laughs, a little too hard for the joke. Gradually, silence descends again.

"Don't be mad at your mother, Steve."

"I'm not."

I turn to look at him. "I hadn't seen you in a couple of months. I feel very bad about that," I say, finally.

"You know that CD stand in my apartment? The wooden one?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I had all my CDs and DVDs on there. I used it every day. Before that, I had them piled up on the... on the windowsill next to my chair."

"I know, Dad. I built that stand for you."

"Of course you did! That's my point! You did something that made me happy every day. And you fixed my computer, you set up my Facebook profile picture, you married Tim..."

The laugh again. This time I join him.

"She's my favorite daughter-in-law. Don't tell the other two. I love her just as if she was my own daughter."

"She loves you too, Dad." God dammit. How am I going to tell her?

"Yeah, that's not gonna be easy," he says. Holy shit. Did he read my mind?

"I didn't say that out loud, did I, Dad?"

"Nope. I know things now. I hear things."

He sighs a little. "I would have liked you to be here more. But you were two hours away. We talked on the phone sometimes, and that was nice. It's not like I was totally bored around here. And you just had a baby...That baby of yours," he smiles, his voice trailing off.

"She comes here on April first, you leave six weeks later. That wasn't a coincidence, was it?"

"No. I had something to live for. Someone I wanted to see. I was ready after that."

"But you were so healthy!"

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh really?" he says, sarcastically. "Take a look at all the meds I was taking sometime, Steve.

"I could've died three years ago, the first time I got sick. It wasn't my time. Now it is."

"But what if you collapsed 90 seconds earlier? What if you were in the main lobby instead of your car? Maybe someone would have seen you! They could have called someone--"

"Steve," he interrupts. "What if your brother was an hour later coming to my house three years ago? I was saved that day because I got lucky. And I got lucky during rehab, when I got a bad infection and almost died. How much luck can one guy have?"

"I wanted another five years. Or more," I say.

"Five years? Yeah, sure," he says, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Five more years on dialysis? Do you have any idea how hard dialysis is on the body?"

"Not exactly."

He shakes his head. "My body was getting tired. I could feel it. I knew it."

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"About what? I got three and a half years. Three and a half years!!" he shouts. "I visited family, I went to the casinos, I even found some fun things to do with the old geezers around here! I played Bingo and Pinochle, I sang in the choir--remember?!"

"Yes. I hope you handed out cotton balls."

"No, I stood in the back," he smiles. The comeback was quick, so quick that he was obviously anticipating my wisecrack.

"I had fun," he says. "I was very lucky."

"It just feels weird," I say. "It feels... wrong. What if they put men on Mars someday? You won't see that!"

"I've seen wars, I've seen peace, I've seen good presidents and bad presidents. I saw 9/11, I saw Pearl Harbor. I saw men on the moon. But best of all, I was in the room when each one of you kids were born and I was there to watch you grow up. You boys all turned out very well. You I wasn't sure about for a while," he says, and though he smiles wickedly, his eyes are very sad.

"I know I didn't always make it easy. I'm sorry--"

"Ah, Jesus. What is this, Ghost Whisperer now?" he smiles. "Seriously, I'm so proud of you, the beautiful girl you married, and your little daughter. You take care of that little girl. Treasure her every single day. Treasure both of them!" he says, his face going steely.

"I will. I do. I promise, Dad."

"Good."

The sun has set a little. A breeze kicks up, and suddenly I smell Lilacs. I had forgotten they grow them here.

"I feel like there's a million things to say, but I can't even think of one. Dad, do you... have any..."

He looks at me. "Do I have any what?"

"Any, I don't know, words of wisdom?"

He rolls his eyes. "Holy Christ! What am I, a fortune cookie?"

"Well, you know, any advice? Anything?"

"Don't act like you're trying to solve a mystery. I already told you everything you need to know. You already know it. It's your wife and daughter. That's it. Everything else is secondary."

"I know."

"Then why do you work so much?"

"Uh, I..."

"Stumped by an apparition. That's pretty weak, Steve," he says, shaking his head. "Do me a favor. Don't tell me you know. Just do what you're supposed to do. When things get hard someday, and they will get hard, and you and Tim are fighting, and you are feeling like you want to give up, that is when you have to remember it. When you have problems, work on them. Don't walk away. Stay there, even when it's hard. You got it?" he says, his eyes locked on mine.

"I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise, Dad." I say, my throat tightening, my voice sinking to a whisper.

The breeze gets stronger. A tuft of dad's wispy hair stands straight up for a moment before flopping back down.

"A breeze from the south," he says. "It always blows from the south in the afternoon. I'm gonna miss that. I'm gonna miss a lot of things," he says, and his eyes have gone misty too. He turns quickly away from me.

The breeze subsides and the porch goes almost completely silent. A bird sings, but it's far, far away and I can barely hear it.

Dad stands up, his wicker chair creaking slightly. "Gotta go inside. It's dinner time. These old fogies eat pretty early."

"Can I come, Dad?"

He shakes his head.

"Please?"

He takes a step towards me and rubs the back of my head with his big right hand. He used to do that years ago, when I would come home and complain of a lousy day at school.

"You wouldn't like the food anyway," he laughs, and turns toward the entrance. He takes a few steps and then turns back to me. "I want you to know I love you very much," he says, and I can barely see him through my tears.

"I love you too, Dad."

"See? We can say it after all!" he smiles, and as he walks toward the door, he seems younger somehow, his back straighter, his step lighter.

"Dad? Dad! Don't go yet!"

The bird sings again, closer now. I turn to look at him.

He sits on a branch, the upper part of his body a brilliant yellow, the rest a deep black. Chirrrp chirp chirp, he says, just three short syllables.

Chirrrp, chirp chirp.


This is all happening too quickly. I need to see my dad one more time, need to cast my eyes on him once more, even if it's just to watch him walk away.

I turn quickly to see him, but I'm all alone.

It's a Girl

Ivie Felicia Caruso
4/1/2009 3 lbs, 9 oz
20 inches long

She's very very tiny, but she's hanging in there.

I am so happy.

What Mom Left Behind

I submitted this a while back to fieldreport.com... check it out...
-Stevo

=========================================================

It's fascinating to read a love letter long after a breakup, or to hold the boutonniere from my prom tuxedo in my hand 15 years after I wore it. I stash mementos like these in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet and look at them sometimes; they make my history seem more real.

Buried in the box, under an old deck of playing cards and my first camera, is a black silk scarf that my mother used to wear in her hair. It's a relic of the 70's, full of trippy, swirling designs; I remember staring at it, mesmerized, when I was four.

Silk was new to me. Whenever mom wore the scarf, I would climb on the couch and reach for it, delighting in its smoothness as I rolled it back and forth between my fingers. "Steve!" she would giggle.

But my mother was hardly the Carol Brady you are probably imagining. When I was ten or so, she began a long battle with alcoholism, and though some part of her still cared about her family, her true love was the nasty stuff in those fancy bottles.

Mom loved Southern Comfort. She was obsessed with it. Like a clingy girlfriend, she constantly kept a bottle close by her side, and stacked cases of it in our storage room as if our house were a prohibition-era speakeasy. SoCo was her lover, her priest, her therapist; it preoccupied her enough to forget my birthdays and to mortify me by staggering into the middle of the street in her ratty bathrobe, puffing on a clove cigarette, shrieking at me to come home for dinner.

The liquor made her unpredictable. Sometimes I would break a glass or a dinner plate, and she'd just smile warmly as she swept up the mess; other times, I'd drop a fork on the floor during dinner and she'd rip out a clump of my hair. Dad stuck up for me when he was home, but he worked 12-hour shifts at a factory, and most nights he came home after I had gone to bed.

She got worse. By the time I was 11, I dreaded holidays and family get-togethers. For some unfortunate reason, my seat at the table was right next to mom's, and it was guaranteed that, at some point during dinner, she would find a reason to crack me across the mouth in front of my aunts and uncles.

She beat me, and my two brothers. She called us every name on the bathroom wall, smacked us with wooden spoons, clawed us with her fingernails, and then kicked us when we covered our faces and dropped to the floor in the fetal position.

One day, when I was 12, mom told us that she was leaving for a while. We pleaded tearfully for her not to go, but she didn't listen. She had to be alone for a while, she said. Yeah, I cried too, but I remember how quiet the house got after the door closed behind her. A week later, I was thrilled to be rid of her.

She came home from time to time, usually to borrow money from dad. If he could spare it, he would surreptitiously hand her a folded-up wad of bills and make her swear that she wouldn't spend it on booze, a promise they both knew she wasn't going to keep.

To his credit, dad never complained. He never decried the injustice of his wife simply erasing herself from our lives, leaving him with all the responsibility. He never complained about money, though in retrospect I have no idea how he kept us fed and clothed on the salary he was making. My brothers and I never wanted for anything; we had bikes and videogames, just like the other kids. Dad could have used that money to go on dates, or for guys' nights out. But he sacrificed those things so my brothers and I could be happy, and I love him for that.

Dad never divorced mom. Though she had been out of the house for years, he left her on his health insurance, and always referred to her as his "wife", graciously making excuses when people asked where she was.

I'm supposed to say that I outgrew my mother's influence as I became a man, but I didn't. I grew up fearing for my personal safety, largely keeping quiet in case some random word sent mom over the edge. The best way for me to get by was to silently observe my surroundings, cautiously avoiding trouble, trusting no one but myself. For a long time, that's how I lived my life.

My grandmother used to say, "You can't make good cookies with a bad cookie cutter." I built relationships with women the only way I knew how, trusting them inch by inch, suspicious of every promise, doubtful of their affections.

Getting a girl to date me was a thrill. Getting her to have sex with me was a bigger thrill. But what satisfied me most of all was walking away from her. I got what I wanted, and left. And why not? She was going to do it to me if I stuck around, right?

It was something of a rite of passage the first time my mother asked me for money. My heart swelled with pride; now I held the power, and could deny it to her if I wished.

I had dreamed of this moment for a long time, the confrontation in which I would dump a truckload of my suffering back on her. In my fantasies, I screamed in her face like an angry baseball manager, barraging her with accusations for which she could manage no reply. Of course, I would not attack her physically, but if she dared take a swing at me, I would catch her scrawny little arm and snap it like a toothpick.

In the end, I only told her no, that we both knew what the money was for, and that I refused to contribute to the destruction of her body. "It's already destroyed," she replied.

She would come by my college apartment every few weeks to wash my dishes and do my laundry, and once I was good and buttered up, she'd ask for cash again, "so I can buy something to eat".

Despite how it sounds, mom wasn't homeless, and she wasn't starving. She bounced from one friend or relative's couch to another, sponging off them for as long as they would let her.

I wanted to help her, but instead of giving her cash to drink away, I took her shopping. Smart, right?

I thought so too, until a neighbor saw mom at the grocery store, returning a big pile of food. She left with a nice wad of cash, I am sure, and it's no mystery what she did with it.

I screamed at mom for that, swore at her, completely lost my temper, like she did to me. And she shriveled in terror, curling into a little ball, just like I used to. Was that what I used to look like?

It felt good to unload on mom, but only briefly. Despite the history between us, revenge seemed wrong. I wanted to be happy, and normal. I didn't want to be filled with the horrible hate that she was.

After I graduated from college and got my MBA, mom didn't come around much. She came to see me one Christmas, drunk at 10am, and empty-handed because she was "in between jobs". I had a gift for her, though—a framed picture of her three sons. Even mom wouldn't be able to get cash for that!

On September 23, 2004, mom suffered a severe stroke and never regained consciousness. She died with her three sons, two daughters-in-law, and husband standing around her hospital bed. She was 56 years old.

It was sad to see mom in her coffin, but in a way it helped me. She was finally free of her addiction, and she looked at peace, far from the monster she had become.

I have a great job now, and I married a beautiful girl named Tim last fall. Later this year, we're going to try for a baby. It's been a long road for me, but I've finally forgiven mom. I can't tell you exactly how I did it, because it was really just a million little steps, with plenty of wrong ones thrown in. If you're in the situation I was, the worst and only mistake you can make is giving up.

When I think of mom now, I don't think of the sad, hopeless drunk that she turned into; I think back to when I was a little boy, when mom would ask me what I did in Kindergarten that day, then pick me up so she could look in my eyes as I answered.

But I didn't want to talk about Kindergarten. I didn't want to go to school at all. I just wanted to stay with mom forever, playing with her black silk scarf.

Tricks and Treats

Dear readers: Here is a little something I wrote recently. No, it didn't actually happen, and yes, I know it's not Halloween. Enjoy anyway.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@

I hate parties.

It annoys me to stand in a cramped, hot, loud apartment or house for hours, listening to some tool brag about his car or repeat what he heard Rush Limbaugh say that day.

It's painful to watch a drunk guy hit on a girl awkwardly and strike out, only to brag the next day that he fucked her.

I never had much luck with women at parties. Every single guy is trying to get laid, and unless you're the tallest, loudest, or richest, there's a chance you'll walk out alone, no matter how good your game is.

The sorority down the street hosts a Halloween party every year, and Marissa really wants to go. I'm dreading it. I begged her not to go, told her that we'd go to whatever restaurant she wanted for dinner instead, but she refused. I resisted until she called me "strange".

I should have stood my ground and boycotted the party. That would have been the manly thing to do. And I really meant to, but then I pictured her at the party, alone, strutting around in some sexy costume (catwoman? naughty nurse? French maid?), with six dozen muscled fraternity guys wearing Eddie Bauer polos and deep tans, tripping over each other to throw some stupidass pickup line at her. Yeah, those guys are idiots. But the joke is on me, because when a guy looks like that, girls are so busy staring that they don't even hear them.

I pace around my apartment for an extra half hour, intentionally making myself late. Yes, I'm only going to this party out of insecurity, but Marissa doesn't need to know that.

"Steeeve!" She squeals, rushing up to hug me. She's wearing a baggy set of blue hospital scrubs--a medical professional, yes, but far from the sexy costume I was afraid of. Maybe this party won't be so bad after all.

"There's another Jason here," she laughs. "Good thing I recognized your shoes".

My costume was easy. I merely slapped on a flannel shirt, jeans, hiking boots, and a goalie mask, and voila!--instant big-screen mass murderer.

The room fills gradually, until there's barely space to walk. It's dark, except for orange lights and flickering strobes. Music blares deafeningly from two huge speakers at the front of the room, and vampires, pirates, and dead presidents dance as if they were on fire.

I can actually feel the bass thumping in my throat, like a second heartbeat. I would love to step outside and get some air.

"Hey, Marissa, how would you feel about--"

She doesn't hear me. She's too busy twirling her black hair and talking to some dude with an axe buried in his head.

The axe doesn't hide his beefy shoulders or his lumberjack jaw. I can't hear what he's saying, but from his cocky smile and Marissa's giggle, he just made a joke.

Oh, how impressive! Studly boy made a funny! Probably some crack about how he put his weight belt on backwards.

"Steve, this is my friend Lorne. We used to go out."

I extend my hand and he pretends not to see it. "I'm gonna borrow your girlfriend. Don't worry, I'll have her back by morning." She chuckles again as he pulls her out to the dance floor.

This sucks. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

John F. Kennedy taps my shoulder. "Hey, Steve!"

"Who's that?"

"It's me, Greg. From Lit class!"

"Nice mask, bro."

Greg looks out on the dance floor. "Who's the dude dancing with your girlfriend?"

"Her friend."

"I hate that!"

I don't like it, either, but I can't keep her locked down. These are the dating years, the years where we do all the wild shit that we won't have the time or energy for when we're 30. All the good stories start out with, "This one time, in college..." not, "Last night, after I put the kids to bed..."

I guess Marissa is living out her story right now. Lorne is just a bit out of her reach, just as she was out of mine. She loves his attention, sucks it down like fancy champagne, but no matter how much she drinks, her insecurity is never satisfied. It doesn't matter that I am here, that I care for her, that we've been together for over two months; I don't look like a J. Crew model, and I'll never be featured in somebody's beefcake calendar. I don't come from a rich family. I'm not a "catch". Lorne is all those things, and he's probably never had to work for any of it. She wants his affection, needs it deeply, and I am nothing more than an obstacle in her way.

"Hey. Hey! Are you listening to me? She's looking at you," Greg says.

"Who?"

"You have nice eyes," a female voice says from behind me.

I turn around, and the first thing I notice is the crushed velvet of her bodice, so smooth that it might have been pulled from a jeweler's case. Her puffy sleeves are covered in multi-colored squares, and her silk skirt ends somewhere around mid-thigh--where her gartered black stockings take over.

As sexy as she is, I can't stop looking at her face--or at least the part I can see. I marvel at her taut, angular jaw, her thick lips covered in red "fuck me" lipstick, her long neck--but the rest of her face is hidden, covered by a black mask.

I lean in closer to see her eyes, squinting to make them out in the flickering light: Deep blue, just like denim, though her pupils are so huge I can barely tell. They're too big, even for such a dark room.

"Are you staring at me?"

"Are you smoking tonight?" I like to answer a question with a question. Yep, I'm sure she's high.

"Mm-hmm. I wouldn't mind having some more, though. Whaddya got?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

"I'm Ashley."

I smile and nod. I've been shit on enough by girls tonight. This one is all mine. I don't care how hot she is; I'm going to make her work for everything she gets. I'll even make her beg me to tell her my name.

She pulls me out to the dance floor. She turns her back to me, her shoulder blades against my chest, grabbing two handfuls of her blonde hair as her black-skirted ass sways in perfect time with the beat. Every pair of male eyes within 10 feet turns to gawk.

Her skirt flips up, and I break a piece of ice between my teeth as I glimpse a flash of naked white thigh above her garter.

The dance floor is hotter than the rest of the room. I dance until my legs ache and sweat beads up on the inside of my mask, but as long as there's no sign of Marissa, I'm staying right here.

But there is a sign of her. She's still dancing with Lorne. His axe is askew, slipping down his sweaty forehead; a dark stain covers most of his chest. He's got his hand on the small of her back. He probably let it slip there nonchalantly, as if he wasn't even thinking about it, but I'm sure it's a carefully choreographed first step. Dude thinks he's going to screw my girlfriend!

He doesn't care that she's got a boyfriend. To him, I am just some loser, an unworthy opponent for him to humiliate. And Marissa is so googly-eyed over him that she'll overlook every single reason why she shouldn't be doing this. She'll forget every five-hour conversation we've ever had, every time I've comforted her, every time I've put her happiness ahead of my own. She'll throw all that away to satisfy Lorne's ego, and all I can do is stand by and watch.

Marissa stops dancing and grabs my shoulder. "Who the hell are you dancing with?" she shouts, and I can tell she's yelling despite the music.

I want to lash out at her, to tell her I'm pulling the exact same shit she is, that I can give as good as I get. But as soon as I start in on her I won't be able to stop; the floodgates will open and I'll dump out every ounce of frustration I've been accumulating, right here on the dance floor. I'll embarrass her, or frustrate her, or look like a pussy--all of which would help Lorne's odds of getting what he wants.

"That's my friend Ashley," I say, careful to use the same words she did. "We used to go out."

Of course, we never went out. But it was too tempting to pass up.

Marissa stares at me for what seems like an hour, searching my mask as if it contains an explanation of what just happened. She wasn't expecting this from me, didn't know I could be a worthy adversary. She underestimated me, and, in the space of an hour, I've intrigued her more than a thousand stuffed animals ever could.

Lorne pulls her away and she turns her back to me, dancing again.

"Who was that?" Ashley coos into my ear. I smell the alcohol on her breath, peach schnapps I think, and it occurs to me that I wouldn't have a turd's chance with this chick if she were sober.

"Some girl who's less hot than you," I hear myself say, and I feel my mouth slide into the same wry smile that I saw on Lorne earlier.

She throws her head back and laughs entirely too loud for the joke, then leans back in to me, her hands on my shoulders, her waist bumping mine.

"Let's go for a walk," she says, and pulls me away by the hand before I can answer.

She pushes open a narrow side door, and we instinctively shade our eyes against the harsh light of the hallway. "Ruth is out tonight. Because of the party."

"Who?"

"Ruth. The house mom. I'm the sergeant-at-arms here, so I have a key to her room."

My cock goes stiff. She wants to have sex! Why else would she be sneaking me off to some secluded room in the house? I was hoping for a walk and a little makeout session; looks like I was aiming low.

Ruth's bedroom is filled with old-lady knicknacks and pictures of what must be grandkids. The comforter on her bed is pulled tight, with two fluffed pillows sitting perfectly parallel to one another in front of the headboard.

She flips the light off, and I strain to see her as she reaches behind her back and unhooks her skirt.

It falls to the floor and I see her naked thighs, just like I did before, but more of them this time, much more, slowly coming into focus as my eyes adjust to the dark.

Her bustier has not even hit the floor yet and she is unhooking her bra and I listen to my own heavy breath as I frantically unbutton my shirt.

This is all happening way too fast for me to think about the consequences, or to worry about the guilt that is surely going to consume me as soon as I leave here.

I am going to do this. For once, I am not going to be the victim. I will not be humiliated, will not be shown up by a girl who is supposed to be mine and some arrogant prick who thinks he's bulletproof. Today I am going to win.

My heart pounds. I can barely breathe, what with this mask on and all...

The mask! It's still on!

I reach for it. "Let's leave the masks on!" she says.

She strips off her bra and it falls silently from her hand. Her tits are bigger than they looked in her black bustier, full and ripe, and my hands go to them instinctively, squeezing and kneading them, feeling their heft, pinching her nipples.

She slips her panties off and we fall onto Ruth's bed. Her legs open and I am in between them and we are fucking, mingling our naked bodies together, finally, finally, unleashing the lust we've been building up all night.

She's moaning, softly at first, then louder. She likes this. She wants it. And I want it too, more than I thought I would. I like being on top of her, inside of her, pounding my hips against hers with all my strength, making her moan, making her big tits bounce, controlling her totally.

I can feel it building inside me, the orgasm, and I know I should pull out, that cumming inside some girl I don't know is a horrible idea, but I tell myself that it's already too late, that we aren't using protection anyway, that this doesn't make it any worse. Part of me knows that's a lie, but somehow I just don't care.

I close my eyes. The shudders consume me and I am filling her with wave upon wave of cum, my breath hot against the inside of the mask.

I'm barely off the bed and Ashley is already dressed. "Lift up your mask. Just halfway," she says. I do it.

She presses her lips to mine, moaning as her tongue slips wetly into my mouth. By the time I pull the mask back down, she's at the door.

"Wait a couple of minutes before you go back out to the party," she says.

"Ashley. Wait!"

She looks at me.

"How did you know I had nice eyes? You hadn't even seen me yet."

"Why do you care?" she asks, and before I can answer, she is gone.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008, 7:30 AM
Steve and Tim's house

"What were you doing in the shower so long, mister?"

"I always take long showers."

"You better not have been cumming in there!"

It's only been 48 hours or so, but I'm already dying. I couldn't be more spoiled if my last name were Hilton. I wake up most days with my wife on top of me, squeezing my already-hard dick between her muscled thighs. Sometimes we do it twice before I even put a foot on the floor in the morning, and if I get home early enough from work, the chances are pretty good that cuddling will lead to kissing, kissing will lead to touching, and before long, she'll be bent over the cushioned armrest, her tight ass pointed up at me, waiting for me to take her again.

On the rare days when we don't do it, I'm either not horny enough to do anything about it (yes, it happens) or I jerk off. Of course, Tim has no problem with this.

Except today.

We've been planning this forever. She's been off the pill for 6 weeks, and it's finally time to try to get pregnant. No cumming for three days, that was the rule.

"Why would you think I was cumming when today is the day?"

"The day for what?" she says, tipping her eyes up at me.

"You know," I smile.

"Say it," she whispers, touching her palm to my cheek and pressing up against me, with nothing more than her night shirt between us, her stiff nipples poking my chest.

I go as stiff as a 15-year-old having his first slow dance. Tim loves dirty talk almost as much as I do. It turns me on that she likes it.

"It's the day we can try making a baby."

"How are we gonna make the baby?" she coos, flicking her tongue against my earlobe.

The bottom drops out of my stomach. I didn't need any help getting turned on today, and she's making it ten times worse. I mean better.

"By fucking each other's brains out," I finally manage, and the night shirt is already off.

**********

Saturday, October 25

She's well over a month late. But we couldn't have gotten it on the very first try, could we? But then again, we tried a lot more than once...

She resisted taking the test for weeks. She didn't want to be disappointed if it was negative, so we waited. But if it is true, she needs to be seeing a doctor regularly.

She sits in my lap on the bed, and the minutes pass like centuries.

The clock changes.

"Go look," she says.

"Don't you want to?"

"No. You."

As I watch myself walk to the bathroom, it hits me. I have a wife! I've settled down! I haven't gone out on a Friday night in weeks, and I don't miss it. I'm not living that life anymore.

I pick up the pregnancy test and read it. I turn to face Tim. She's staring at me.

"Come here and give me a hug, mom," I say.

45 degrees and falling

Tim's mother, Diana, knows everything.

She knows how they'll cure cancer someday (high-tech blood transfusions), how to prevent kids from being abducted (by implanting GPS devices under their skin), and how to keep convicts from escaping prison (by building jails in space. Dumb idea, I know, and I'm sure Michael Scofield would find a way to break out anyhow.)

But most annoyingly of all, Diana knows how to keep mother Earth beautiful and pristine for all of eternity: By never throwing anything away. Ever.

Putting something in the garbage is painful for Diana. Every once in a while, just for laughs, I'll drop a plastic bottle in the trash while she's watching and wait for the scream. "What are you doooooing?!" she'll shout. "Recycle it!"

As for anything larger than a plastic bottle, you can forget it. If she has no room in the house for it, she'll try to sell it; if she can't sell it, she'll give it away; if she can't give it away, she'll put it on her curb with a "Free" sign on it, and leave it there for weeks until her husband threatens to divorce her.

Monday, September 8, 2008, 6:39PM
Steve and Tim's house

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to a strangely familiar red-cushioned office chair.

"It's our new chair!" Tim says, way too enthusiastically, like a kid trying to convince her mother to keep a stray dog.

It doesn't look new. And there is only one person sufficiently lacking in common decency to palm off a faded, tattered, and probably malfunctioning piece of crap like that on us.

"That's your mother's chair, isn't it?"

"It works," she says, unconvincingly. "Plus, we need a second chair, so we can sit together while you're on the computer!"

She hates it too. But she only stands up to her mother on very important matters; otherwise, fighting with her would be a full-time job. The chair is not going anywhere, so Tim must make her peace with it. She's forced to smile bravely and pretend to love it, the same way you compliment a friend's ugly baby or smelly dog.

"Watch!" she chirps, plopping down onto it.

I stare as her breasts bounce heavily. Why didn't I notice that tight T-shirt before?

She wriggles cutely into the seat, and the back rest immediately tips away from her and comes to a stop at a 45 degree angle, so that the chair looks more like a poolside lounger than a piece of office furniture.

She smiles weakly and reclines against the back rest, spinning a little to face me, her knees slightly apart, hips thrust upward, her tight shirt straining against her boobs.

My cock stiffens at her suddenly suggestive posture. I love that she still turns me on so much, even after two years of dating and almost a year of marriage. I imagine myself pulling that frayed shirt over her head and feeling her nipple stiffen as I tighten my lips around it...

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are so fucking gorgeous, you know that?" I ask in a hoarse whisper.

"You're crazy," she grins, rolling her eyes.

I grab her shirt and pull it up over her head, just like I imagined. Her naked breasts stare out at me, her nipples already at firm attention. She's been thinking about this, too.

Yeah, I've seen her tits a million times, and yet, like a song that never gets old, their smooth skin and gentle, sloping curves still get me hard every time.

My heart races. I hear the soft cling-ing of my belt buckle as I pull off my creased office slacks and frantically unbutton my white Oxford shirt. I watch unblinkingly as she slips her jogging shorts over her round ass and turns her big blue eyes up at me with a sexy half-smile.

I lower myself in between her legs, my pulse pounding in my ears, and rub my cock against the smooth skin of her pussy.

There is nothing like a hairless vagina. I love the pink folds of flesh and the telltale shine of wetness that tells me she's turned on. I love how her clit swells with her arousal and the way it feels between my teeth, hard and bulletlike. Covering all that natural beauty with wiry hair is a sin. Shaving it clean is like cutting down a row of nine-foot tall shrubs and revealing a gorgeous house behind them.

I shove it into her all at once, and the pleasure rushes to my head. I watch her, soaking in every detail, her bouncing tits, her half-opened mouth, her curvy thighs pinned against my hips, the way her hair cascades gently down her shoulder, ending halfway down her chest, the graceful peaks and valleys of her nude body, as if designed by an architect.

I grab the arms of the chair for leverage and thrust my cock into her harder, so hard that she falls back against the chair with all her weight. This thing is going to break one day, I think.

"Oh God," she whispers in my ear, and I look down again, growing harder as I watch her pussy lips alternately turn inside out and disappear inside her again.

The seat back protests loudly under our combined weight, an ugly, squeaking groan that under any other circumstances would have made us stop short.

But not now.

I'm going to cum. I can feel the orgasm rising inside me, like a storm cloud waiting to explode with angry torrents of rain.

I fuck her harder, faster, listening to my own heavy breath, feeling her legs tighten around my waist and her hands squeeze my biceps. It's probably my imagination, but it almost seems like the chair is...

Crack! Thud!

The seat back breaks free of the chair and drops to the floor. Tim falls violently backwards, flailing her arms wildly for balance. The lurching of our bodies tips the chair to one side, and for an endless moment we are at a crazy angle and the room falls eerily silent before we crash to the floor in a heap, as I am bombarded by elbows and knees.

"Looks like your mother's getting her chair back," I say.

Steve's therapy, redux

Monday, July 21, 2008, 7:00pm

Dr. Debra Sussman's office

After my illustrious attempt at therapy back in the day, I never thought I would be in a shrink's office again, but here I am.

"Steve, Felicia, come on in," she smiles, as if we were her long-lost cousins.

"Please call me Tim," she says.

Debra extends her arms to hug us, but we hesitate, and she ends up patting our shoulders. It's awkward.

The room seems made for calm reflection, from the maroon couch to the soft carpet and the nondescript wallpaper; though it manages to relax me, I forget what it looks like five minutes after I leave.

"So, what's up?" Debra says, placing her hands in her lap.

"We've been fighting," Tim says.

"Really?" asks Debra, raising her eyebrows, as if she were some kind of accountant or tax adviser who couldn't possibly help us. "What'cha been fighting about?"

"I work late hours at a restaurant in downtown Boston. I barely get to see Steve at all, since he works during the day, and he's really frustrated about it. He never gets to see me, and we're newlyweds, and he feels like we should be spending a lot more time together."

"Is this correct, Steve?"

"Yeah. But she didn't mention that she has wanted a chef job for a long time. This is her lifelong dream, and it's finally coming true, and she needs me to be more understanding about that. She loves me, and enjoys our time togther, but she also needs to be happy and fulfilled careerwise, and this is the only way she sees to accomplish that right now."

Debra looks at me, then at Tim, then back at me. The room fills with silence for what feels like an hour.

"Let me tell you something," she says, matter-of-factly. "You just stated each other's points of view perfectly. Know how I know you did it perfectly?"

We look at her.

"Because you didn't interrupt each other, and you didn't correct each other. Not once. I have couples who have been coming to me for 18 months who still can't do that. You did it the first day!"

She smiles.

"Can we go now?" I ask, and we all laugh.

"Steve, did you know what the hours were when she took the job?"

"Well, yeah, but--"

"So that's a yes?"

I know where she's going. I didn't object when Tim was interviewing for the job, so I have no right to object now. But that's an oversimplification.

"And Tim, you spent a lot more time with Steve before you took this job, right?"

"Yes! But he knew that--"

"So that's a yes also," Debra says.

Good! For a minute there, I thought I was being ganged up on.

"Steve, do you want her to quit?"

"No, I just want more of her time."

"How's she supposed to do that? She works late nights!"

Umm...

"And Tim, do you want Steve to just be happy with the way things are now? Are you happy with the way things are?"

I would really love it if Tim said the right thing here. I'm not going to lie to you: It's hard feeling like I've taken a back seat to my wife's career.

"I miss him," Tim says, looking sadly at me. "I know you might not believe that, Steve, but I miss you so much."

"Me too, Tim."

"So you want me to tell you how you can spend lots of time together while you both work full time on different schedules," Debra says, looking at us.

"No, I told you we were fighting," Tim says. "The problem is the fighting. We're not communicating."

"You're communicating fine," Debra says.

"We're communicating fine today," Tim says. "At home we're screaming and swearing, and..."

"Fighting is not a bad thing, you know."

"It is when it's taking over the marriage," Tim says.

Wow. These two aren't playing around. Better just stay out of their way, for now.

"Steve, do you agree?" asks Debra.

So much for keeping my nose out of it.

"Trust me. We wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to come out here unless it was an emergency," I say. "You know, I just wish--"

They both look at me. "What?" They say in unison.

"No, it's nothing, it was just something stupid."

"Say it," says Debra. "There's no judgment allowed in this room. There are no dumb statements."

"I was just gonna say, I wish we could both stay up all night and spend that time together instead of sleeping. But, I go to work in the mornings, so I have to sleep."

"Wait a minute," Debra says.

"No, I can't pull all-nighters. There's no way."

"You don't have to," she says. "Steve, what time do you get home from work?"

"I dunno. Six-thirty? Seven?"

"And what time do you get home, Tim?"

I see where she's going with this. I get home, eat something, and sleep for seven hours or so, then Tim gets home and we chill out until I go to work.

"You could just sleep when you get home!" Tim says. "Then we can spend time together!"

"I know. But that would screw up our body clocks big time, wouldn't it?"

"This is not a long-term solution, guys," Debra says. "But it sounds like you're not connecting, and you need more time together. Give this a shot. Stay up together and talk about your situation. Talk about your long-term goals as a family. Are you planning on having children?"

"Yes!" Tim says.

"You do realize it's going to get harder when you have kids, right?"

"We know," Tim says, looking at the floor.

"Spend an overnight together and talk about how you're going to fit kids into your schedules. That's your homework," Debra says.

"...I'm guessing Jay Leno is out of the question..."

Marriage was supposed to end my story.

The fancy wedding was the final scene, after which I would say, "...and we've been together ever since." I was supposed to put away my bad habits like out-of-style clothes, and lead an uneventful existence until I the day I end up stuffed into a box wearing a fancy suit. But alas, things have happened.

Tim worked hard to find her job. She networked tirelessly, chased down endless leads, and tolerated every perverted restaurant owner who refused to even consider her for a chef's position because she happens to have a vagina ("You're cute! Why don't you work for me as a hostess? You'd make good money!")

She finally found a sous chef job in downtown Boston. It was far (35 miles), the pay was less than she wanted, and of course the hours were horrible, but she was thrilled.

I was thrilled for her, too. There was joy, pure joy, in her face when she told me the news. She was going to get paid to do something she absolutely loved. I was proud that she persevered, and impressed at how ambitious she was about it all. I knew she would have to work many late nights, including lots of weekends, but we'd find a way to spend time together. We were newlyweds, right?

As it turned out, "many nights" turned out to be five or six a week, "late" meant 1:00 or 2:00 am, and "lots of weekends" translated to every weekend.

At first, I felt better with a shower of kisses, an "I'm sorry, baby" and a cowgirl-style, middle-of-the-night fuck. But it got old fast.

When I wake up for work, she's still sleeping, and when I get back, she's gone, already on her way to the restaurant. I hate coming home to an empty house, with nothing for dinner and everything in darkness. I hate going to bed alone, as if I were a single guy all over again. I got married for companionship, and it feels like I never get any. Call me spoiled, or greedy, or whatever you want, but this sucks.

Tim tries to make it up to me. She didn't dare take a weekend day off for the first six months or so, but then she managed to get a Saturday and Sunday off, and took me to a bed and breakfast in the mountains, where we turned off our cell phones and she catered to me like royalty the whole time. She cooked me everything I wanted, paraded around in sexy outfits, and sucked and fucked me as if it were my last two days on Earth. I did feel a lot better after that, but she had to work 12 days straight to make up for all the favors, and nothing truly changed afterwards.

The argument goes something like this:

"You're never home."

"You supported my career choice; now deal with it."

"I didn't know it was gonna be this bad!"

Add in a few "bitch"s, "asshole"s and "fuck you!"s, and it's more or less a weekly conversation at the Caruso household. It's interesting, in a way, how we can make the exact same points so many times without resolving anything. It occurs to me sometimes that this is how marital problems get started. But that could never happen to Tim and me.

Could it?

Tim says I need to deal with it while she builds her career, since I spent many a long week building mine, and I remind her that I wasn't married or even dating anyone at the time. Every argument has a counter argument; every jab earns a jab in return. We are both too good at arguing, too good at turning things around on each other to make any progress.

Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen if we don't find any common ground on this issue. "If you want me to quit, I'll quit," she always says, but I know she doesn't mean it. If she ever left that job because of me, I'd never hear the end of it. I wonder if we would ever split up because of this.

The arguments keep getting louder, and the problem has infected other areas of our lives. On nights when she's actually home, we usually end up going to bed mad. At a party, if one of our friends mentions working late, we glare at each other. How much worse can it get?

"Why doesn't she just quit?" my brother Chris says. "Her marriage should be more important."

"Says the guy who's fucking around with some young hottie."

Yeah, he's still boning her.

"Different!"

"What about Tim's side? She'll say that it's just her being away from home, and that's not the end of the world either."

"You see your wife two days and two nights a week. That's not enough!"

Wednesday, July 16, 2008, 5:45pm
Steve and Tim's house

I've been in Cincinnati for three days on business. I am exhausted, physically and mentally, and glad to finally be back.

"Nice of you to come home," Tim sneers as I pull my suitcase through the door.

"Wow, three whole days alone, Tim. How did you handle it?"

"You mean three days since I had to do your laundry? And a sink full of dishes?"

"I left at three AM, Tim! How the hell was I supposed to do chores?"

She jumps up from her seat at the kitchen table. She's wearing a powder blue short-sleeve T-shirt that I've always loved on her. It's a little baggier since the breast reduction, but she's still sexy as hell in it. I'm smitten by her, even as she crosses her toned arms across her chest and looks lasers at me.

"Why are you traveling so much? I hate when you're not here!"

"You do, Tim? Why? It's not like you're ever home anyway."

"Don't be sarcastic. Your chores are your responsibility, and if you don't do them, then it's more work for me!"

The anger spills over inside me. She's reaching, looking for something to rag me about, probably so I can't rag her first.

"So leave the goddamn dishes and laundry then!" I shout. "At least let me get in the door before you start pestering me. Bitch!"

"Fuck you! You are such an asshole!" she shrieks, whipping a plastic tumbler at me. It careens off my arm, leaving a mark.

I grab the tumbler and throw it back at her as hard as I can, but she's already left the room. It bounces off the wall with a hollow thwok!

I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for my racing heart to slow down. I open the paper, but I can't concentrate. I might as well be trying to read Klingon.

I look up. Tim is standing over me, her beautiful face stony with anger. Or maybe it's disappointment.

Is this it? Is she leaving me? Is she going to ask me to leave?

"I want us to go talk to someone," she says, finally.

Lila and me

A lot of you who contact me still ask about Lila. People in my non-blog life do the same thing. Hopefully, that means I've done a good job of describing her.

Lila and I are still friends, but we don't talk as much as we used to. Part of that is because I'm married, and doing all the things that newlyweds do. For Tim and I, a month without some kind of romantic getaway is an eternity. We're always visiting family, or eating at some new restaurant, or catching up on "our shows", and it doesn't leave much time for anyone else.

Sometimes Lila and I will text each other, or send a quick email to say hi. Occasionally, we'll talk late at night, like we used to. Beyond that, we go from one month to the next with little contact.

Lila's been with her boyfriend, Nate, for well over a year, and the more I hear about him, the more wary I get. At the beginning, he struck me as a cool, successful, well-adjusted guy and a great match for her. But as she's gotten to know him, he seems terribly insecure and needy.

The script was written long ago, and it's been played out more times than Hamlet, MacBeth, and Cats combined. Stop me if you've heard it:

Young man grows up and becomes irresistible to women. He beds one after another,
satisfying his every wildest erotic fantasy, having his way with any female within smelling distance of him. They simply can't keep away from him, and he's having the time of his life.

But there's a serious problem. With the ocean of testosterone flooding his veins, the only possible way he can quiet his voracious sexual hunger is to spray his manly fluids around like a lawn sprinkler, dousing as many women as possible. It's just a matter of biology, really: He simply can't control it!

But the women don't understand, you see. He only needs them for an hour or two, and they want more. Having experienced his rugged manliness, they fling themselves at him, clutching at his pant legs like sad children, begging him to remain in their lives, however superficially.

He could have these women any way he wanted them, of course. He could simply drop by their houses, unannounced, fuck them mercilessly, and then piss in their toilet bowls and leave without lowering the seats, and they'd be on his voice mail the next day, asking him to do it again.

But, alas, this is not how he wants it.

It would get complicated. These poor, naive girls, they simply don't understand what it is to be a man like our hero. They don't understand his need to roam the earth, fornicating with wild abandon. They would interpret his repeated conjugal visits as "love", or "commitment", or "lack of nausea", and soon after, the demands would start.

They will demand that he be exclusive. That he only date them, to the exclusion of all others, that he holster his babymaking weapon and only draw it for their benefit. Sadly, this is impossible, and our happy horndog rides off, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

You ought to know this story, since pretty much every guy between the ages of 17 and 35 has been telling it since the mid-70's. Nate is no exception.

At the beginning, Lila used to tell me about this mysterious guy who would give her a little head-nod when he walked past her at the gym. Sometimes he'd say hi. One day they were next to each other on the treadmills and he told her she had "great arms". It sounds corny, I know, but she wore tank tops every day from then on, hoping to impress him. As if she had to try.

I gotta be honest. Hearing about some young stallion macking up Lila made me jealous. I know, I know, I'm married, but I get territorial sometimes. I could see she was really intrigued with him, and it made me realize that both of us had moved on.

She would call me and wonder aloud if he noticed her, if he thought she was attractive. Was she serious?

"But I don't even shower before I go to the gym!" she said.

"Get a clue, honey. The guy is drooling over you."

She doesn't get it. Lila could go to the gym in a garbage bag, and guys would be tripping over each other to hand her a twistie-tie.

By the time he asked her out, she was about ready to rip of his Adidas sweatsuit and ride him cowgirl style on a weight bench. Call me cynical, but I wondered if this guy was a true player, or if he just lacked the balls to hit on her properly.

On Friday nights, he either played poker or went out drinking with co-workers, and every time she asked to come along, he'd give her a speech about "taking it slow". Pushing her away like that, giving her a challenge, made her want him ten times more. Guys didn't do that to Lila!

"Why won't he take me with him? Is he ashamed of me?" she would ask.

"Lila, do you seriously believe that? Really?"

"Well, why then?"

"He's either trying to play the I-don't-give-a-shit role to make you want him more, or he's afraid of falling for you. Or he's queer."

"Maybe he has another girlfriend."

"Then who needs him?"

The cool-dude routine faded away soon enough. After about a year with Lila, Nate was dropping hints about marriage. She was flattered, but she didn't encourage him, hoping he'd get the hint and slow down.

"He just asked me," she said on Thanksgiving night, and I could tell from her tone that she turned him down.

I figured he would dump her after that, but he didn't. In fact, he didn't even back off; if anything, he got worse.

After months of negotiating (or begging, depending on your point of view), he asked her again on Valentine's Day, and she said yes.

"Why can't you be happy for me?" she asked.

"Because you don't seem happy."

We fought about it, and I was secretly glad that she was unhappy, that Nate did not inhabit her the way I thought he might have. And I think Lila knew it.

A month or so later, she was calling me again, just like she used to, and she sounded sadder than ever. As part of Lila's "take it slow" requirements, they haven't set a date yet, and it's a constant source of irritation for him.

Now that they're engaged, he smothers her even more than before. He works out with her at the gym, rushing to her side any time a guy so much as says hello. If she's 15 minutes late coming home from work, he wants to know why, and he especially hates her talking to me.

She's not forbidden from calling, exactly, but I do get mysteriously cut off sometimes while talking to her. He trash-talks me constantly, asking why she wasted her time with me, and if she says anything remotely resembling a defense of our relationship, he flies off the handle. It's funny in a way: he's 30, ten years older than Lila, and yet she dominates him, like a young girl with her father wrapped around her little finger.

Even though I'd be jealous, it would still be nice to see Lila in something resembling a stable relationship.

And it would be nice to talk to her like I used to, too.

Open season

Liz Trotta, Fox News Channel, 5/25/2008: "And now we have what some are reading as a suggestion that somebody knock off Osama, uh Obama. Well, both, if we could."

Mark Madden, ESPN, 5/22/2008: "I'm very disappointed to hear that Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts is near death because of a brain tumor. I always hoped Senator Kennedy would live long enough to be assassinated. I wonder if he got a card from the Kopechnes."

Mike Huckabee, 5/16/2008: "That was Barack Obama, he just tripped off a chair, he's getting ready to speak. Somebody aimed a gun at him and he dove for the floor.”

Interesting how these "jokes" always involve extreme violence and murder. Makes you think, doesn't it...