Topic: Rain

"Traipsing Around in Radioactive Mud?"

With each step I took through the mud, I questioned my sanity that much more. Sure, I was wearing boots and I suppose that, in theory, they were at least somewhat waterproof, but the sound of the thick brown sludge squishing beneath my every step did not inspire confidence. It had clearly rained recently; I could tell that as soon as we climbed off of the train at what promised to be a full station but was, in reality, a single platform in the middle of a field in Charleroi, Belgium. Thankfully, as we hopped off the train and began our trek through the Belgian countryside, the sun was high in the sky and there was no longer a rain cloud in sight.

“Do we know where we’re going?” Jacob asked.

It took only a second of searching for my eyes to find the behemoth of a nuclear cooling tower hiding behind a thick collection of trees. I pointed straight ahead, and off we went, walking quickly down a path alongside the train tracks. Although Charleroi is a reasonably sized city and the train had only taken us around 10 minutes from the center of town, there was very little surrounding us. The train tracks stretched for miles through the field, and where there wasn’t field, there were trees. As we neared the cooling tower, I spotted a few additional industrial buildings and a river. We continued down the path for a while longer, until it met up with a road that appeared to lead straight to the cooling tower.

“Looks like it’s this way.” The closer we got to the tower, the larger it loomed. The pictures I had seen years before in an article for Slate couldn’t do justice to the size of this structure. It was tremendous. Huge! And we were going to climb it. Or at least that was the hope.

As we neared the tower, signs along the fence warned of danger and no trespassing, in both French and English. Still, the fence was rusty, the tower notoriously abandoned, and it wasn’t long before we came to a section where the fence was missing entirely. My heart surged. It was an easy way in and it inspired confidence; a telltale sign of a maintained structure (and likely one with active security) is a well-maintained fence. A well-maintained fence meant someone was inspecting it regularly and repairing it, while a rusted, deteriorating fence indicated few would mind our presence. Soon, we were approaching the tower and its only entrance: a small door at the top of a rusted metal staircase. And what was fixed to the door but a shiny, thick lock.

Our one general moral guideline in all of this is that we do not break and enter, so if a building is locked and secured, we just don’t go in. End of story. Cooling towers are inherently a bit different, given the general structure. And we’d come a long way, stopping only briefly in Charleroi as we journeyed between Brussels and Liege, the cooling tower our sole objective. As we surveyed the building, it was clear that the cylindrical structure rested on a concrete support with numerous holes and cutouts to allow for rapid water drainage when necessary. Perhaps there was a way up from underneath the structure, through one of the drainage holes. As we headed down a hill to investigate, I noticed a sign in French with a word that resembled 'radioactive'.

“Uhm. So. I’m pretty sure that sign said something about radioactivity,” I said, “which makes sense. This was a nuclear cooling tower.”

We continued on until we reached the underside of the structure, a labyrinth of concrete pillars, mud, and... tires. Someone had made a path two tires wide through the mud. Perfect. Balancing precariously on the outer edges of the tires, we made our way step by step, occasionally pausing to do a necessary limbo maneuver underneath a horizontal concrete slab. The corner of Jacob’s ukulele case met the thick sludge, the goo leaving a brown smear as he moved on to the next set of tires. Each time I reached a concrete limbo point, I had to swing my camera bag over the space at the top, bear hug the concrete pillar, and slowly shimmy my entire body underneath it, hoping to land squarely on the next set of tires. It was not an easy task, and it was not long before I missed a tire completely and found myself standing in the mud.

“Well, now that I’ve gotten out of the way,” I said, “Do you see any ladders? A way up? Anything that leads to the inside?”

“Nope. I mean, it may be possible to climb this wooden wall, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I think you’re probably right. I mean, how would we get down? Alright, should we get out of this mud then?”

“Yeah, let's do that.”

After pausing to take a few quick photos, I followed Jacob back through the rows of tires, quickly wiping my boots in the grass as soon as we emerged from beneath the tower. We made our way back through the missing fence panel and began our walk back to the train platform. It was then that we noticed a smaller, shorter (but still massive) cooling tower just down the road. It looked equally abandoned. We decided to check it out. A quick hop through a hole in the surrounding fence followed by a brief walk through the overgrown factory grounds and we made it to the tower. Although this tower was smaller, it had a metal staircase on the outside that led straight to the top. Perfect. Following Jacob, I climbed the staircase quickly, trying not to look down. When we reached the top, not only could we see miles of Belgian countryside, but also the cooling tower looming in the background. After taking a few pictures, we made our way down the staircase and began our journey back to the train platform.

“So,” I said, “Do you think that was radioactive mud?”

Topic: Rain

Author: Chris Dunn

Things are going to work out for the best! Perhaps not with all the cheery underpinnings that phrase suggests, but by and large, it is a mantra which is running constantly at the base of my personality. Okay, maybe not “for the best” in all circumstances, but in general things are going to work out for me, and I’ll be okay. I feel this with the certainty that I have when watching a movie, that say, Spiderman is going to be okay. Sure he’s screaming in pain now, but in the end…

Now since this is being written in 2018, before anyone cries, “infinity wars!” Believe me, Spiderman is going to be okay.

Sure, I’m setting myself for the king of all “Gotcha!” moments. At some point in my far and distant future, something will come careening out of the shadows, and my mind will assure me, “Oh, that looks dangerous, but don’t worry, we’ll be-” But until that unhappy day, I see no need to panic. I know, it’s weird. It even feels weird to me. Like a character protect by a very specifically worded prophecy, I feel confident in most situations. Always have.

Case in point (another story from camp):

The sky overhead was pitch black. Angry clouds blotted out the moon and the stars which just hours earlier we had marveled at around the campfire as our marshmallows toasted or burned on sharpened sticks. The wind howled like a freight train in a tunnel and blew a steady torrent of needle-like raindrops against my face, and thunder exploded instantly as lightning strokes snapped against the earth like whip cracks. No time to count the seconds, the storm was here!

It was all I could do to keep my slick hands locked with both the scout in front of me and the one behind, as we followed bobbing flashlights across the muddy lawn. It was an awkward way to walk, but the scout masters didn’t want to risk losing anyone in the chaos of the storm. It made sense. I didn’t relish the prospect of leading a dozen cub scouts – all short of high school – through a tornado-warning thunderstorm in the absolute blackness that can only be found when you venture outside the light-cocoon of the city. One lost kid would probably ruin their whole day.

Still half asleep we had dressed and donned our packing-list mandated rain ponchos, before lining up in formation to stand at attention as the wind whipped the occasional raindrop underneath our poncho hoods with alarming accuracy. The scout master shouted out the situation. Storm! Shelter! Buddy system! Lock up, stay close, and move out!

It all made sense. We couldn’t remain at the campsite in our tents. A tornado would suck us right up and deposit us in the next county. Protocol dictated we should be in a basement, or failing that, a room with no exterior windows, perhaps taking shelter inside walls of porcelain. As the scout master explained, we were on our way to do just that. It was actually pretty exciting.

First we wound our way through the forest as the sky let loose with a mighty KRACK and the rain began dropping in buckets which instantly made mockery of the flimsy yellow and orange ponchos. The ground went from packed earth to mudslide in seconds. By the time we got through the trees we were somehow muddied up to our waists. Kids are amazing that way. Soaked and filthy, we avoided the direct route through the open field and instead, snaked our way along a drainage trench. Awkward to do in our daisy chain, but at least it got some of the mud off us. It was in the trenches that I began to notice that not all my fellow scouts were handling the situation with the same detachment that I was. There were definite signs of distress on many faces and panic was in the air. I started to wonder if they knew something I didn’t. We were going to safety, right? After what seemed like hours trudging through muck and mire, we darted across a well-trimmed lawn and dove through a pair of old timey, exterior cellar doors.

Having finally quit the rain, we huddled in corner with our troop and sounded off by name and number. Mercifully, the counts matched, and I saw the scout masters breath a collective sigh of relief. As the storm continued to rage outside, we squatted in dark with several other troops, and I listened to the howl of the wind and wondered how late it had gotten. Was this the longest I had ever been up? When will I actually get to sleep tonight?

Lightning struck and the lights went out, but we had plenty of flashlights. Several came on immediately but the sudden plunge into darkness had been the breaking point for many.  Several young boys went from quietly quivering to openly sobbing, and the scout masters began making their round offering firm assurances that we were all safe now. Nothing more to worry about. When they came to me, I remember Mr. Huber seeming surprised. “Gee, Chris, you’re taking this awfully well.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “Everything is going to be fine.” And so far, it has been.

Birth Order

Birth Order

I was raised as the first born and only girl of three children.   My mom, a middle child herself, frequently bemoaned the plight of the overlooked and forgotten middle child.  My father was an easygoing and charismatic last born.  Neither of them knew what it was like to be the oldest.  There’s been a lot of research and theorizing about how birth order affects us, and I believe most of it. 

For example, first borns are supposed to be respectful of authority and conditioned at an early age to try to please adults.  My middle brother and I took some change from the top of my mom’s dresser when he was 6 or so.  That would have made me 9 years old at the time. It was less than a dollar’s worth, but when we took it to Gil’s, the corner store, it bought us a nice stash of dum dum suckers, Lik-M-Aid (you dipped these pieces of candy in this god awful artificially colored powdery sugar substance) and Jolly Rancher hard candies.  When mom questioned where we got the cash to buy all this candy, I immediately caved and told her the truth.  My brother was livid with me.  He had kept a straight face and made up a very plausible story about finding bottles and using the recycling fees for cash.  “We were in the clear, Bridg!  Why ya have to tell her?!”  

When I was a teenager I worked at a city swimming pool and one of my jobs was to work the front desk and check people in.  Most people had season passes but many paid a cash admission-$1.25 for adults, $.75 for children.  At the end of a 12-hour day the proceeds could exceed a few hundred dollars.  I didn’t realize how loose, I mean how non-existent our accounting practices were at the pool.   I added up the money at the end of the day with little to no oversight, made out a deposit slip, and rode up to Central Trust Bank a couple blocks away with a bag containing a few hundred dollars in cash to take to the night depository.  Fortunately, I never got mugged.  But the other thing that surprised my middle brother about the whole deal was that I never took any of that money for myself, not even a penny.  I was such a goody two shoes growing up.  I never even had to stay after school ever, not once. 

First borns tend to be confident, and we like to be the center of attention. We don’t have anybody to watch, no one to compare ourselves to.   We have our parents’ undivided attention-for a time.  There is no jockeying for their affection.  I do remember being kind of ticked that my parents would wake up on a Saturday morning if my one of my younger brothers started crying.  When I was 6 or so I’d try to get mom to wake up and watch cartoons with me and make some breakfast.  She’d ignore my tapping on her bedroom door but let one of my two baby brothers so much as let out a whimper—they were 3 months old and 3 years old- and she’d bolt to their side.  I didn’t realize at the time that she had done the same for me when I was their age.  I just thought she liked them better.   So how did I respond?  I am not proud of this, but I’d try to say or do something to make one of them cry so mom would wake up.  I didn’t want to harm them, of course, just wanted the Saturday morning pop tart and Super Friends party to start.  Once I lifted my middle brother out of his bed and set him on the floor and urged him to cry.  He looked at me sleepily and blankly so I poked his arm until he let out a yelp.  Mom came running. 

For obvious reasons first borns are born leaders.  There are no older siblings to consult for advice.  We don’t get to watch anyone else screw up.  We get to learn everything the hard way.  I’ve kept that decisiveness of the first born into adulthood.  It’s served me well in the workplace and even in every day life.  If anything, I’m maybe too quick to jump to a decision.  I don’t mull things over for days and I don’t do a lot of research first.   I have no trouble delivering bad news or sharing a dissenting viewpoint.  Nothing made my beliefs about the effect of birth order on personality development grow more strongly than did the entry of my older sister into my life at age 49. 

You see my mom had given a baby girl up for adoption two years before I was born and a year before she met my father.  It was 1963 and nice Catholic girls didn’t become single moms.   I didn’t know about my older sister until I was 18 years old and my strong willed, outspoken and sometimes downright bossy personality was already well formed. 

My big sister found us in 2015 and she became part of our family.  She had been raised by adoptive parents as the baby of the family.  She is kind and sweet, way sweeter than I can hope to be.  She’s not terribly decisive or impulsive with her choices.  When our mom was dying the doctor entered the room where all four siblings were gathered and demanded to know which one of us was “the oldest.”  I pointed to my sister.  The doctor said there were some decisions to be made and he had found that the oldest child was usually the best person to start with.  Not surprisingly, the doc revealed that he was the first born in his family.   All three of my siblings protested and said the doctor should really be talking to me, that although my sister was officially the oldest, she doesn’t fill that role of the oldest, that first born role.  She has never acted like the “older” sister.  When we are trying to decide where to go out to eat, I usually end up making the call.  She’s just so chill and easygoing and thoughtful and kind.  I find myself emulating her, trying to be more like her.  So, I guess she is my big sister after all. 

Topic: Birth Order

Author: Chris Dunn

Kayless downed the powerful draught in a mighty swallow, choking only slightly on the bitter tang of bile which kresh always caused to rise in the back of his throat. He coughed and tried to pretend the ill omen had not occurred. This was not a time for hesitancy or doubt. The king, his father, was dead. This was a time for action. Now was the time to claim the throne which by rights should be his alone, but which due to the will of the gods, was now the glittering prize at the end of a most deadly game for he and his six brothers.

“Summon Ustiel!” Kayless ordered. He replaced the goblet on the tray, as the servant hurried to see to the command. The demon sorcerer would know how to proceed. The king had been in failing health for some time, and Ustiel likely has a variety of plots and plans already in place, simply awaiting this day to put them into motion. Kayless held no illusions. When he came to power, it would largely be due to his good choice of advisor.

Septuplets had been a quite the strain on the kingdom Malkenri. Seven vast manor houses, spread evenly throughout the capital, had to be built – each alike in dignity and worthy of a member of the royal family. Each brother had to be attended to by an equal staff of skilled servants, advisors and tutors. Seven equal stipends… Seven matching estates… The costs had nearly beggared the kingdom and put a tremendous strain upon the mighty empire’s citizenry. But all that would soon end. Now the great Game had begun, and with its inevitable end, Malkenri would once again be united. Their vast wealth concentrated once more under a single dread hand, Malkenri could again set its focus outward, toward conquest.

Kayless pondered which kingdom he would strike first. So many upstart nations had grown bold during the two decades it had taken for he and his brothers to come to maturity and for their father to finally pass. They had mistaken Malkenri’s  distraction for weakness. He would make them rue each offense once his armies were on the march. The royal tabulators kept strict records of every payment missed and every treaty ignored, the smallest of slights. All debts would be balanced soon enough, but first the Game.

Malkenri could have but one ruler. Sartan claimed his title was truest since, by report, he was firstborn. But birth order did not decide who would rule, might alone did. If it was strength at arms, Coraman would and should be king. He had spent his time building his body and training with all manner of weapons. Kayless would need to avoid giving any obvious offense which Coraman could use as cause for a dueling challenge. Belinine and Taggit would most likely take each other out of the running before the Game had reached its first year. They had long been at each other’s throats over a dispute concerning their bordering estates. Ustiel had warned that their enmity might be a ruse, but Kayless felt certain the fire was genuine. Dovamor would likely fall easily as well. He had wasted his time studying the black arts himself, failing to realize that they would take at least fifty years to master. He was barely a fledgling sorcerer and would be no match for one of Ustiel’s power.

And that was it, correct? Kayless counted them off and laughed at himself. Hathsin! He had nearly forgotten Hathsin. But no one would blame him. The fool had wasted his fortune on frivolous parties and sport. Days spent riding and hunting with sycophants and lesser nobles, and nights spent in deep debauchery with a scandalous parade of lovers. He had openly claimed that he had no interest in the throne, if it meant abandoning his lifestyle. Ustiel counseled that at least two of his brothers would move on Hathsin estate at the outset of the Game, and claimed it was a weak move. Seeking to claim an easy victory and expand their holdings, those involved would butt heads strongly and become easy pickings for those, like himself, with the wisdom to avoid the low hanging fruit.

Where was Ustiel? A queasy feeling gripped Kayless’s stomach. The sorcerers quarters weren’t that far from his own. The man should have arrived by now. Rather than summon another servant to gather him, Kayless set off on his own. As he moved through the quite halls of his manse, Kayless tried to reason what might have delayed his man. Surely, Ustiel had heard report of the King’s death. Perhaps he was simply gathering his demon-infused weapons and donning his armor. That was likely it. And it was simple nervous energy causing his heart to flutter.

Kayless gripped the knob of Ustiel’s door tightly to arrest a sudden tremble in his fingers. Inside the sorcerer lay sprawled in blood. His eyes staring vacantly at the nearby suit of ebony plate. A demon bound in physical form, the suit would turn away any blade not of similar origin, but its power was useless if one wasn’t wearing it. Looking at his dead advisor, the one who was going to lead him to victory, Kayless was suddenly terrified. How would he compete now? He would need to rethink his entire strategy. A wave of nausea washed over him and Kayless emptied his stomach’s contents on the floor. The drink burned even hotter on its return. The strength fled his body, and Kayless sagged against the doorframe, easing himself slowly to floor.

Something was very wrong! His legs were cold and his face was burning hot. He couldn’t stop his heart from racing. He cast about desperately looking for help. There! In the corner of the room, the serving girl he had sent to summon Ustiel. Using only his eyes, he pleaded for help. His voice had fled with his strength. Her hiding spot discovered, the girl stepped over to him. She held a knife in her hands, but a brief inspection of Kayless showed she did not need it. As she stepped over his paralyzed, dying body and raced down the hall, Kayless finally realized. The Game was begun, and he had already lost.

Topic: Space

"Keep Moving"

I am clumsy. While I understand that I have a working body and I can generally make it move in the ways that I want it to, it would be a vast exaggeration to say that I have mastered coordination. At best, I stumbled through a beginner's course in maneuverability and have been crashing my way through life ever since, somehow managing to stay upright (at least most of the time).

As a kid, I can remember almost training for my future as a clumsy adult. My normal state of walking around included two untied shoes and a thick chapter book parked an inch from my nose. Somehow, my peripheral vision could keep track of any approaching objects - including my rebellious shoelaces - while my eyes scanned the pages. As long as I didn't think about it too much, the two abilities worked concurrently and I could open doors and avoid obstacles all without looking up from my book. One summer, I even mastered the art of rollerblading while reading. There was a definite trick to it: my mind could not pay attention to what my body was doing. If I stopped moving for even a second to think about what my arms or legs were doing, I wiped out.

This practice carried into adulthood and I rarely questioned it. Maybe I should have. All I know is that by the time I hit 25, I knew I could stay upright while running down a flight of stairs without paying attention to what my feet were doing, but sports were still out of the question. They just required too much coordination.

That Valentine's Day, I had convinced Jacob to take me to St. Louis to peruse the array of abandoned buildings the city had to offer. After exploring Six Flags New Orleans together nearly half a year prior, I was eager to continue our conquests in new territory. First stop? The Armour Meat Packing Plant in East St. Louis. Abandoned since 1959, Armour was once home to 4500 employees spread across several factory buildings, each with its own distinct machinery. The most infamous building included an old engine room, which housed the large machines once used to power the entire plant. I had found pictures of the engines online and I was eager to see them in person.

There were a few things I hadn't counted on that day. February in the midwest is cold. It also decided to snow intermittenly, and when it wasn't snowing, it was drizzling. As I zipped my winter coat all the way to my chin, none of that mattered. We quickly followed a road around the back of the compound, keeping an eye out for the notorious security guard and his truck. After a few quick turns, the path was shrouded in bare trees just thick enough to provide cover from the highway nearby. A little while longer and we were entering the back of one of the buildings, walking into a large room with no existing roof and a wall bearing the spraypainted tag, "Destroy what destroys you."

I had read news stories about people falling down the smokestack in the middle of the compound and made sure to point that out when Jacob asked if we should look into climbing it. Although getting to the top of a smokestack would be cool, I was certain we'd be seen by security should we do that. Besides, I had an objective. I wanted to find the engine room. The smokestack was a sure sign we were heading the right direction, but where was it? I followed Jacob past a large hole, stopping for a second to peer into the basement. The basement floor appeared to be at least 15 feet away and the entire room below us was full of old heaters.

"This place is huge," I said, stopping to take a few pictures of a pile of bricks.

"I know, right? I'm going over here," Jacob said, walking to the doorway of the neighboring room. I turned to look back at the door we had stumbled into. The room itself was huge. At least 40 feet long, if not longer, with extremely tall walls. An intricate metal structure was all that remained of the roof, which had once met in a shallow point directly in the middle. It looked like plants probably grew through the room in the summertime, a few sad trees lingering in the distant corners and waiting for spring. When I turned back to Jacob, he had disappeared.

"Jake?"

"Alyssa - you've got to come in here," He bellowed from the other room. "It's so cool."

I walked quickly to the entryway to the other room, stopping just as quickly when I was met with another gaping hole in the ground. This one appeared to be at least 5 feet wide and, just like the other one, around 15 feet deep. Someone had placed a 2x4 across the hole, providing a possible path to the other side, just next to an uprooted tree. As I looked into the room, I saw Jacob climbing the ladder on the side of one of the engines. It looked amazing. I wanted in that room.

"So I'm supposed to walk across this board, huh?" I asked, loudly.

"It's not too bad. It's actually pretty sturdy. You'll be okay." Jacob said, walking my way.

Well, here goes nothing, I thought, pulling the strap of my camera bag tightly to my chest. I took one tentative step, then another, my feet pulling my body forward until I was halfway across the 2x4. How am I doing this? I thought in amazement. And then it happened. My feet froze in place, my knees locking up.

In that moment, I was keenly aware of the space between my body and the basement floor below me. While the fall alone wouldn't kill me, it would definitely hurt. It would probably break both of my legs. I was too far away from either side to comfortably reach the landings. The only way to go was forward. And the longer I stayed on that board, the greater the chance that I was going to fall.

"Don't stop!" Jacob shouted, "You have to keep moving."

"I know that," I said, "And my brain knows that. My feet are figuring it out."

I looked at the room before me and the two large, green engines that somehow still stood on the collapsing floor. And as soon as I stopped thinking about it, my feet started moving again, quickly traversing the 2x4 to the neighboring landing where Jacob was waiting with an outstretched hand.

(I'm having fun cultivating a theme with these posts so far. Let me know if that gets annoying.)

Author: Aaron Collins, Topic: Space

Outer space is really cool, my friend Marty used to say over a tall can of Milwaukee's Best Ice. He even wrote it in black sharpie accompanied by magic marker drawings of planets and stars; like a child's artwork, it was hung on the fridge with a magnet in Dan's apartment. He loved to talk about Carl Sagan and introduced me to the original Cosmos documentary series. We would sit and drink beer after beer, watching and excitedly talking about the universe. Marty would say in slurred speech: The probability of our civilization encountering another during the arch of its existence over unfathomably vast distances, is very very small.  He would then crush the empty can in his hand and place it amongst the graveyard of empties on his desk. I told him that in my last days, I wanted to be launched into space toward a black hole so that I could see if I would really be stretched out like taffy or if it would be a portal that would lead me into another world. Can you grab me another beer out of the crisper, Marty would ask. I always obliged. A quick viewing of Marty's apartment would have alarmed most sane people. There were empty cardboard boxes scattered about from his case-a-day regimen,

empty cans with cigarette ash peppered on the top, a few holes and dents in the plaster in the living room and in the bathroom, and a sink full of dishes crusted with old food, exuding a foul odor. In his freezer there were empty Sky Vodka bottles and half a box of freezer burnt chicken patties. I ignored all that as I walked to the fridge for his Milwaukee's Best Ice and whatever affordable/high alcohol craft beer I could afford. He later told me that the damage to the apartment walls were caused by him stumbling into them and in other cases punching them in some alcohol induced rage. But my own inebriated state numbed me to these facts. 

       Marty introduced me to one of my favorite bands. Their ambient drones swelled through the speakers and it felt like a benevolent universal presence had evoked its peace over the room, while also reminding you of the emptiness and overwhelming vastness of space. The sounds would slowly come into being out of a vacuum and gently fade away into nothingness, only for a new sound to emerge quietly after. They were guitars that sounded like starlight. And with his eyes tearing up he told me that the music would envelope him in a serene weightlessness and made him feel the power of the cosmos. As much as he insisted he was an atheist, I think he was actually in search of a higher being. 

       On nights like these, we would drink through the night and into the early morning. Marty liked hanging with me because I drank like he did; though I've always thought he drank more than me, got more drunk than me. He was the only person with whom I played a drinking game in which there were only two players. Sometimes while sitting on the couch in deep drunken discussions, he would put his arm around me. Not wanting to hurt his feelings I allowed it. I sensed that it was out of loneliness, that he longed for love and companionship.

      Then,  a blackout. Marty at some point was crawling to his bedroom on all fours mumbling to himself and occasionally yelling obscenities at me. I tried to help him to his bed but he shouted and slapped my arms away. His eyes were glazed over, blank, not seeing. He seemed to be somewhere between a dream and awake; like a child having night terror; I left him on the floor.

      After vomiting in the bathroom I would lay on the couch, spinning. Thinking about spiral galaxies, death, Marty's alcoholism coupled with his child-like wonder for the stars. I thought about my alcoholism and where this life would lead me. 

        Only a few months later I got thirty days of continuous sobriety together. I didn't hear from Marty for sometime until one night he called me, threatening to kill himself. The police officer at the scene told me he was okay and that they'd taken him to the hospital. They told him that he had the blood pressure of a fifty year old man with a history of heart problems. From what I hear he's been sober for some time, living under lock and key at his parents house in Dayton. I wonder if he still looks up at the sky, if he still seeks that connectedness with God, the Universe, and Man. If he still blacks out, stars around his head, spinning into a quasar, gathering pulsating energy and shrieking out through the blackness in hopes of reaching another soul, a better world. 

Topic: Space

Author: Chris Dunn

As I type this, sitting in a spacious house that I share with one special lady and a pair of very fortunate cats, I count myself lucky. I managed to score this space, in one of the currently thriving communities in Cincinnati, through the power of pure inertia. As the torrent of the 90s finally blew to a close, and everyone began to settle in the early 00s, I simply stayed put. One by one, all the other members of the lose affiliation known collectively as The Pit, moved out and on, settled down or drifted away. And then there was just me. Me and all this space, but it wasn’t always this way.

“Norwood?!” I remember Drew asking derisively as soon as he got me on the phone. He did not hold the neighborhood in the highest esteem and wanted to let me know what he thought of my latest housing choice. But, hey! He wasn’t in my situation. Time was tight and procrastinators don’t typically get their first choice. Norwood would do just fine, and if he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to come visit. I honestly can’t recall if he ever did stay at the “The Hotel” as we dubbed it. Just as well, it was small. Too small for guests actually.

I remember when we first looked at it, Kit and I. The Pit was being forcibly sundered. Our current landfolks at Hawaiian Terrace were restructuring to garner more financial support from the State, and we had been dubbed too well-off to remain. You’ve heard of DINKs – Dual Income, No Kids? Well our anagram would’ve been something like TIACHHs – Three Incomes and an Assorted Collection of Hippies and Hangers-on. However, it didn’t matter how they added it up, my income alone was over the cap. Finding another three bedroom townhouse with a fireplace, rec room and laundry room wasn’t feasible either. Half the crew wanted to move north to train as ninjas, and Kit and I had work here in the city, splitting up seemed like the only sensible choice.

Two bedrooms, the ad had clearly stated TWO bedrooms, but it failed to mention that one of those bedrooms was only set off by a sliding, slatted door only installed to up the price of the place. One of us, Kit, would have to share mental space with the common room, but it didn’t seem an insurmountable hurdle, and so many things were right about the space. It was close to both my work and Kit’s, the price was well with our shared range, it was ready now, and the landlords were a couple of LARPers who owned a partial interest in Wanna Play, our local game store. It was only going to be for a year or so… How bad could it be? We’d settle here for now and look for a more permanent solution as time allowed.

Moving in was fun. When I said the place was ready, I wasn’t being completely honest. They still had carpet to install in the main room that was also attached to the larger bedroom. However, since our stuff was being thrown out of Hawaiian Terrace, we had no choice but to pack everything we owned, Kit and I, into the smaller  bedrooms and the kitchen. All my Tetris skills and years watching my father pack 5 people’s stuff into one vacation trunk, were brought to bear, but it worked. Once the carpet was down, everything came exploding out to fill the space, and no one believed it could ever have fit. Will finds away.

Of course once everything came crashing into place, Dennis showed up on the couch. He didn’t want to go north with the Ninjas and had nowhere else to go. Neither Kit nor I had the heart to kick him to the curb, and he didn’t take up much space - giant, spindly thing that he was. So three guys in four rooms. It’s not that much of a stretch. Did I mention the place had a second story porch? Just head through Kit’s bedroom and you could step outside to smoke and listen to the Norwood’s Perpetual Dog Chorus. They’re world renowned. Oh, but only 1 bath mind you, and when I say bath, I mean bath. This place had no shower. The landlord said he was thinking about putting one in, but… you know… It was nice clawfoot tub, but you could forget about dropping in for a quick rinse and running off late to work. It was ten minutes for the water to warm up and another fifteen for the tub to fill. Oh, and make sure everybody who needed to use the facilities did so before you even got started.

Now, at this point you’re probably saying, “Gee, that sounds pretty tight.” But I’m not through, by a long shot. You see, there’s the simple fact that I am pretty awesome, and I run some of the best campaigns you’re going to find this side of gamedom. Though we had parted ways and over half the crew had settled in Fairfield, there were still games to be played. Back in those days, we gamed every chance we could get and spent our remaining free hours getting high and watching MST3K. So, rather than drive down and then home stoned each night, it made more sense to stay over. Tony, Tonya, Misty and Bobby would all pile in their van and drive to Cincinnati and stay the weekend. Saturday & Sunday at first, then they realized Tony had no work to do on Fridays, so we made them 3-day weekends. Then Monday got absorbed somehow. Before long they were all hanging out about 5 days per week on average.

Where did they all sleep? I really have no idea. Floors and couches... Kit had a large bed. It was the bathroom situation that was the worst! Then there was waking up in the middle of the night and having to climb over and around a minefield of splayed limbs on your way to take a piss… People hanging out talking loudly in the next room when you had to work in the morning… The pressure of everyone else having a good time, when you were had a work deadline and were just trying to do the responsible thing… But I never once told them, not to come. I never once tried to shoo them on their way early.

Seven people in what was essentially a large 1 bedroom apartment. It’s a good thing we were like family. I didn’t regret a minute of it, mind you. Sure it was tight, but I was glad to have the old Pit Crew back together. I was certain we were going to get kicked out at any minute for violating the lease, but all we ever heard from the landlords was newlywed screaming fits. In fact, when my old childhood home opened up as available, and I went to tell our landlord we would be moving on, he informed me they were splitting up. We haggled a bit, and he agreed to give back 50% of our deposit, even though we were technically breaking the lease. He never sent the money, but considering the wear we put on that place in five short months, he deserved it.