Missed encounters (Amos 2:6)

“Could Those Who Make Your Shoes Afford Them?” asks Miguel De La Torre at Ethics Daily.

I get to buy hiking shoes because the poor of the earth make them for me at slave wages. My riches are directly connected to their poverty.

That will get some people’s hackles up. They’ll respond defensively, as though De La Torre is suggesting that this connection must be simple and causal — as though he is saying that their poverty must be a direct consequence of our riches.

Set that aside for the moment. Don’t worry here about cause and effect, just appreciate that the connection is undeniable. They make the shoes. We wear the shoes. From their hands to our feet.

That’s a connection. It’s almost an intimate connection.

And it means we can’t disconnect ourselves from the haunting question in the title of De La Torre’s essay: “Can those who make our shoes afford to buy them?” 

Or our jeans, our shirts, ties, socks, suits, sweaters or underwear? What about our cars? Our appliances? Our coffee?

Please don’t hear these questions as an accusation. If we think of it that way, we’ll wind up with the defensive distractions of abstractions, or with the resentment that comes from inescapable guilt.

So let’s consider this not as an accusation but as an aspiration.

Think of it this way: I want those who make my shoes to be able to afford shoes. Don’t you want that, too?

Of course, this isn’t just a selfless, warm-fuzzy bit of Kumbaya generosity or altruism. There’s self-interest here as well. 

We should want the people who make the things we buy to be able to afford those same things because if they can afford that, then they can also afford to buy the goods or services we provide. 

When the poor of the earth are only paid, as De La Torre says, “slave wages,” then we’re all missing out on people who might otherwise have been our customers.

This is part of what I imagine a better world looks like. The people who make the things I buy can afford to buy the things I make. Those who make my shoes can afford to buy them.

That’s the world I want to live in. These are the encounters and connections that I want to make.

N.

Hot, sweaty and secreting antigens (Turn left at the olfactory)

I was just powering down from an intense run. You looked me over pretty extensively and then asked if I work out this intensely all the time, especially in this heat.

I had just lifted a hefty sum from a dealer who works for a man I aim to put a hurting on. So I was winded to be sure. Also weighted down with a gym bag full of cash.

“I’ve been known to push the limits.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to order, so you can cut me in line, if you want.” Your body language was inviting even though you left little room for me to get by you. You were in decent shape and your fingers played with your mouth as you spoke. 

“Thanks.” To the girl at the counter I requested “an instant vigor smoothie... ”

As I walked past you took a deep, inhale of my scent and seemed to be cherishing it while I made my transaction.

“...with the immune enhancer please.”

Turning quickly as to startle but not scare I asked, “Ever hear of Claus Wedekind?” Smiling to show some play.

“Who? um, no!...” The smile was returned.

“Famous researcher. So in 95’ he published the results of what is now known as the “Sweaty T-shirt Experiment”. He asked women to sniff T-shirts men had been wearing for a few days, with no perfumes, soaps, or showers. He found, and subsequent research has confirmed, that most of the women were attracted to the scent of men whose major histocompatibility complex, the MHC, differed from her own.”

“Interesting. We ladies love us some MHC.” Less fingers by your mouth this time but more tongue. And a cute smirk. Your eyes never left mine.

I moved slightly closer. “True dat. Makes genetic sense because the MHC indicates the range of immunity to various pathogens. Without realizing it, you are preferring men who will be a benefit to your future offspring just by their scent.” Deep pull on the smoothie for effect.

“Moms know best.” The girl at the counter was asking for your order but you weren’t even listening.

Nor was I as a tinted 2012 Infiniti QX rolled to a stop outside. The windows of Smoothie King rattling from the bass in the audio system as it crept out of sight.

“The problem is that women taking birth control pills don’t seem to show the same responsiveness to these male scent cues. Quite random actually. And years later when they come off them to drop some kids, they no longer want the man they have. Guess you could say he don’t smell right anymore.”

“You don’t say...Guess that explains why you don’t have a ring eh Doctor...hey...Where you going?”

I wish I could of stayed. But putting you in danger I could not do. I lost someone like you once because I was reckless. Had to go though enjoyed the banter.

Still, If your reading this, we can chat...

N.

Tight genes (learning to fly)

So I carry the gene. 

If you carry it as well than like me, you are 8x more likely to commit aggravated assault, 10x more likely to commit murder and 13x more likely to commit armed robbery and 40x more likely to commit sexual assault. 

The overwhelming majority of prisoners carry this gene, as do 98.4% of those on death row. Clearly I’m strongly predisposed toward a...different type of behavior.

Deep in my molecular blueprint - a series of alien code penned in invisibly small strings of acids determined this. I never had a say.

Half came from my mother, Leiriope and the other half from her rapist. A man I only knew as Cephisus. Once a powerful river city politician but no longer.

All in all I have a 828% higher chance of committing a violent crime. Thanks sperm and egg. Well done.

Now, here I sit. Casing my next target. My journal full of what to you might be random facts. But to me is a luminously lovely micro universe of detail and connectedness. The difference could mean 8-14 months in a 5x7, so I tend to be thorough. Don’t worry, as I’m after the crime lord and mountain goat called Pan. Before I kill him, he needs to pay. So I bleed him slowly by hitting his businesses. 

I learned from the best and also the worst. Learning what not to do is as important as what to do.

All ages have informed me. Take Colton. He taught me how to blend two distinct universes into one seamless racket.  And he was 17 years old. He liked to to fly and so he used your stolen identity to buy flight DVD’s and then broke in to take them once delivered. He studied with intense focus and eventually he stole and flew (and crashed) several small aircraft as well as luxury boats in the pacific northwest. 

Really gave the police fits up there. Made national news for awhile with his antics. Still a hero of mine. The boy Colton Harris-Moore. Dillinger of the modern depression and fellow gene carrier. 

He ditched a car in Bloomington, IN and then stole a Cessna Corvallis from Monroe county airport. They finally caught him in the Bahamas and really only because he grounded his speed boat on a sand dune. Know your surroundings.

    Heard they shot up the engines real good as they feared, and rightly so his ability to evade. You may know him as the barefoot bandit.

In the end, it’s all about style. With the right genes, some style and a little luck, why theres no telling how far you can go. But without style, flair, audacity...well, its just a missed encounter.

By the way, as to the dangerous set of genes I speak of, you may have heard of them. They are the Y chromosome. About half the population has them. And they are called males.

N.

Light it up (Pole position)

Saw you in the window reflection. Did you see me? I was the guy who ran into a light pole.

Yes, as we walked passed each other on the street... I was with the soon to be ex and couldn't stare at you directly but I made you out clearly in the window reflection and couldn't take my eyes off you.
I stared at you intensely to convey the cosmic connection between us. Did you feel it too? Of course you did. You were so hot.

I mean like, sweaty hot. It's like Africa hot in case you haven't noticed but that's ok. It just means scantier clothes and more skin.
I don't recall your outfit but I know I looked good. I even winked at my own reflection.

I did get several stitches, not that you asked, so you had quite an impact on me. Really had me seeing stars.

Not sure why you didn't visit me in the ER...though I'm sure you are seeking me out.

I was going to just ditch my girl right there and say hi, exchange digits and make plans to move in but, well, the light pole and all...

N.

Livin' La Vida Loca (On the floor)

I’m almost positive that drinking before hand was bad mojo but when the ‘new’ chic in the back row passed out I knew I was meant to be here. I was made for such a time as this. I started mouth to mouth immediately.

You said that I shouldn’t be using my tongue during CPR and that my hand was on her breasts. That maybe I should back away.

Once, while in boot camp, our drill instructors thought it would be funny if they made a guy hump the full size, first aid doll. Which, he did...for an hour. I couldn’t see it but I could hear the bunk squeaking and the instructors yelling at him to “give it to her harder”.

So, yea, I know how to do CPR thank you very much.

You also questioned my credentials as a visiting instructor from Ecuador. I’m often mistaken as a latino of some variety and in this case I just failed to disabuse the person of the notion at the front door. !Me quiero a mi mismo!

But clearly you were into me as you kept digging.

“How long have you been doing Zumba?” You asked kneeling next to me.

What the fuck is Zumba? I was following the females in for the sole purpose of lifting some purses when I almost got caught reaching into one. The rest, is destino. I also couldn’t seem to stop playing with the still unconscious woman’s large breasts. So I managed to answer with: “Since the revolution, of course”.

“This is my second year and I’ve never seen you here before...And you had us dancing to death metal?!?” 

You had that uppity, white girl oppressed look on your face. Like the look they have when you tell them sorry, this gas station doesn’t carry Creme Brûlée. Difficult crossword puzzles, in-grown hairs, and declining stock portfolios — it's hard out here for skinny, blond, Caucasians. 

“South of Heaven by Slayer is a classic. A middle aged white women pretending to dance like J-Lo should remember her roots.”

“Why are you removing her bra?” 

“It’s restricting her breathing...”

“I’m calling the cops...”

I needed a distraction. 

“I noted earlier that you kept bending over directly in front of me causing a dance party in my pants. Did you want the ‘beto’ fat burner inside you as well?”

“What? Excuse me??”

“Madam, I have been...‘enhancing’ the experience of women whose husbands cannot “dance’ and need to get their wiggle on for many festival moons. Perhaps a private lesson is what you seek”. The accent was spot on, I assure you.

I used the few moments that you lost your ability to speak to write on the passed out women's boobie with a sharpie. “Narcissus. Saved your life. 555...”

I also swiped a loose 20 from your purse as you lectured me in a vocal pitch that only neutered men and small lap dogs can perceive. I began to feel a tinge of sorrow for the males under your roof but, not really. 

In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful. - CS Lewis

When your done pretending to be worthy of all the privilege you were born with, hit me up.

N.

Echo fading...(Nemesis rising)

In case you didn’t know, Echo is my soul mate. She was the one. Just picking up her scent enthralls me. I can be seven ways beyond angry at her. Lord knows she pushes my buttons. But I cannot stop loving her. I gave up trying to understand her a long time ago. The best females are impossible to figure out. She is eternity wrapped in tan skin and dark hair. She snorts a little when she laughs a lot.

When the doctors told Echo that her insides were rocky ground were my seed could find no fertile ground, she was devastated. Got to be were she barely climbed out of bed. I could not console the woman who had saved my life. Colors faded and dust accumulated. 

My record prevented adoption and money kept most other options distant. The days drug on.

In my desperation I turned to someone I didn’t fully understand. The strong man. The wicked one. Boss. The overlord Pan. 

I had dealt with Pan before in my lawless youth. Survived to tell the tale and I figured that if I could just fix the problem, my Echo would be ok. For that I needed money and Pan could help me score it fast.

What I did not foresee was that Pan would desire my Echo, betray me and leave me for dead. Losing Echo to Pan was the bitter payment I received. 

Focused on myself, worried about me and seeing Echo only through my own reflection, I lost her. Thinking I was saving her I was sending her away.

Make no mistake, I still hunt the goat fucker Pan. I struck him down once already. Maybe I’ll tell some of those sordid tales one day, Missed encounters where I almost finished off the godlike avenger. That is, if we don’t kill each other first. 

Needless to say, Echo disapproved of my turning to illegal activities. I know now, too late, that she really only wanted my unconditional love. More than bearing me offspring, more than money, more than all the instruments I bought her.

Seems whenever I would win her back, something would cause me to lose her yet again. Always the wealthy and beautiful Nemesis in the shadows. 

You see, Pan unleashed the wench Nemesis to stalk my every step. She is a vengeful bitch. Never underestimate her. I have the scars to prove it. Sometimes even pretending to be Echo to lure me in. 

I trudge on. Seeing her everywhere but she is nowhere. She is the only true love I have ever known. My echo.

N.

My people is the enemy (Crooked vultures)

You knocked on my door looking for a donation and boy did you get one. You wanted to change the world, through cheerleading. How sweet. Sure, come on in...

What? No quasi-erotic car wash with mothers pimping daughters in shorts and tube tops? You said that was already tried and barely covered the cost of supplies. I suspect that most men while desiring to actually be in your car wash, also know that is what everyone knows and so they avoid the stigma, especially when alone. 

The key is to not oversell. The car wash should look like Amish families until that is, you get behind the curtain and then it’s crew: teen-bangbus washing and team: school girl-jizzhut drying. Advertising? What for? The word will spread like a 6 roper money shot. 

You cued me in early that you were aware of how silly this all was but expectations from others were high. The pressure on. The duty to self, god and country is playing a song that demands you dance (strip?).

There is always a choice however. Like now. Alone with me. Mom away topping off gas in that ridiculously huge SUV she can barely see above the steering wheel in. Dad slaving away at work with his secretary who no longer bothers putting on panties. All this for what exactly?

We talk about good questions being more important than answers. You continue to move closer, brushing your hair with your fingers, realigning your legs so that no angle is denied me. 

Forget positive thinking, try positive action. So said the guardian article I had been reading concerning addictions and self help but to no avail. My loins are on fire. 

(In narcissism believing something is preferable to doing something because the former is about you and the latter is about everyone else.)

There is a tribe in the amazon that considers marriage such a bad notion that prior to it, a girl must first experience gang bangs and sex with as many non-husbands as possible. Semen and lots of it from various men could and should ‘build’ a child or so our ancestors prior to agriculture thought. The paternal responsibility fell to the entire tribe. 

“This understanding of how semen forms a child leads to some mighty interesting conclusions regarding "responsible" sexual behavior. Like mothers everywhere, a woman from these societies is eager to give her child every possible advantage in life. To this end, she'll typically seek out sex with an assortment of men. She'll solicit "contributions" from the best hunters, the best storytellers, the funniest, the kindest, the best-looking, the strongest and so on--in the hopes her child will literally absorb the essence of each.” - ‘Sex at Dawn’, Christopher Ryan

You however say that you want monogamy in your eventual marriage. That the thought of your lover thinking of another is just unbearable. Our thighs are now touching.

Monogamy--for you, and many others--includes not just what their partner does, but what they think as well. Good grief. The self help authors are wiping their asses with 100 dollar bills thanks to you and your idiot parents. The generation raised on television sitcoms has brought us all to the brink. Oh well. Nothing like a cliffhanger to end the season.

Needless to say, against my better intentions, current probation restrictions and most laws concerning minors, I gave you a sizable...contribution.

N.

If we let ourselves drift along the stream of history, without knowing it, we shall have chosen the power of suicide, which is at the heart of the world....in order to preserve the world, it is actually necessary that a genuine revolution take place. 

Something wicked this way cums (Cheats-a-million)

I was participating in my usual beer enhanced sports worship like a every other good and unthinking citizen of the Imperial Empire when due to shift change, you became our server. Truth is I just do it to fit in. Clearly I worship myself.

I was the handsome one eating hot wings like a wood chipper and I made the quite hilarious and original joke about boobies and hot wings. Man, I kill me.

You seemed preoccupied with some medical/political issue and asked if we heard about it. We being slightly less aggressive than threatened Congo Chimps simply mocked you until you left in a huff. If we could throw our own feces and still be allowed to stay, we would.

I however could tell by the way you rolled your eyes and adjusted your wedding ring, that you would be in my bed by sundown. Why wouldn’t you be?

Just as the military-industrial complex needs wars, the marriage-industrial complex needs adulterous couples to believe they require help from professionals. The only way to make more money would be to just fucking print it. A cash cow. 

Much like your local mega-church and the hysteria over Armageddon, gay rights and presidents who are black. Follow the money ye saints of the most high dolla-dolla bill (often called mammon; not that religious people read their own scripts...). But I digress. 

The angst on your face however spoke not to the company of morons you had to presently endure but with the moron of morons back home. Probably playing X-box this second or masturbating to facebook pics of your best friend or both.

The only reason to ask a group of mentally retarded, adult male, (barely) homo sapiens, who are ingesting beer and hot wings like tic-tacs, what they think about a political issue is because they as a test group resemble the real missing link you want to argue with.

It’s a subtle leap to then figure that while you are slaving away, probably attending school AND keeping up the chores at home (laundry, dishes, birthday cards, groceries and date nights), your lovable Orangutan husband is...well, not.

And if that’s not enough he then has to disagree with you politically. Not like he even reads or watches the news and remotely even attempts to know what he’s talking about. He just pontificates like a sudden, unsolicited fart. In fact his farts have sounded better than most of his arguments, if you could call them that.

Boy, if he didn’t have that long, curved to the right, penis and those adorable baby blues...you’d have left him 3 months ago. Your friends often ask you why. If we all only knew him like you do...

Enter the N. (Slow motion, of course with theme music...)

It’s really all over except the shouting. And shouting there will be. The last key is planting the idea, or better put the inception; your idea that maybe curved in other directions might bring different, more pleasing...outcomes.

Your ancient, hunter-gather genes kick on and start spinning like a Higgs Boson and soon the idea of ‘not the guy at homes’ semen entering you from multiple directions and positions seems a good a way as any at solving your problems. Freud called it penis envy. Your preacher calls it sin and I call it tuesday night.

Besides, you now can entertain that portion of the bookstore, thats been barred to you thus far. The marriage/just had an affair help section. You wanted to be naughty. Now your guilt can be naughty too. Go ahead, give it a try...the economy depends upon it.

N.

(The real missed connection is that this affair could actually be the beginning of a real, working-loving marriage that lasts despite the infidelity. But everyone will get hung up on the sex and it will be the end. I know...I have the book)

Waltz in Khafji (Broken)

It was regrettable really.

They told us a lie and we rushed in. Like fools in love.

Despite many liberal war movies meant to show the futile nature of war and its aftermath, I was a teen drunk off brew and I made those movies my idol. I would not heed the tears of my mother though in retrospect, they were prophetic.

It wasn't the 65 pound pack that impeded my movements but the extra ammo I was carrying for the M249 light machine gun team.
The Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) was the largest gun in our USMC platoon. And we were expecting to use it today. I was 18.

It's an odd sensation to have that-real humans, other men, are actively trying very hard to kill you. Right now.
Hard to fathom really, until the rounds start hitting objects around you as a man attempts exactly this, your death.

I was in the sand with the safety off and returning fire before I heard the first cries of "contact right, contact right". I have a knack for impending doom. My M16 was singing in 3 round bursts. A symphony of lead.
I could not see my enemy and for all I know my rounds were impacting small children playing in the parlor of the building that was now smoking from the rounds penetrating every wall.
The place was Al-Khafji. A rare and soon to be famous battle of the event called Gulf war I.

I surmised that I was in decent cover but my left was exposed and I took a moment to see how I might improve that when the left flank erupted with small arms fire. The uncanny crack of the AK-47's 7.62mm round is unmistakable. I rolled into a small shed.
The radio man, Scooter, was now next to me and the radio chatter was elevated. Scooter was from Philly and we all liked to pass around the stolen picture of his mom and jerk off to it.

They were close as I could hear arabic words being called out. They were instructional in tone, not like the ones coming from the house next to us which was of men lamenting over a young lifeless female.

Scooter was in my ear. "Narcissus, drop a smoke frag, red. L.T says we got wounded. Choppers incoming"

He said something else about the left flank but I was popping off more rounds at a shadowy figure about 50 yards out. He went down. Did I hit him?

Then darkness. Followed by an explosion that seemed to come from inside my own head and vibrate outward.
My back felt moist and warm and I had the overpowering urge to just take a deep breath and have a nap. Followed by a hint of burning and then...pain.

Scooter was above me yelling but I couldn't hear anything. It was so peaceful, except for the red hot iron someone was apparently pressing into my right shoulder and neck.
The sky, normally choked with oil fire smoke, was so blue. It seemed like miles away a firefight was going on. The soft thuds of some battle raging in a bad place removed from me.

A tornado of wind. Sand in my eyes. The muffled yells of men. My chest heavy from the wind pushing down. The large helicopter now over me.

They kept talking to me, asking dumb questions as we rode thru the air, high above the ground. I just wanted to sleep. So tired. So desiring my bed back home. The smell of my mothers cooking drifting thru the house. The sun low and bright.

I smelled you before I saw you. The distinct scent of a women after months of enduring nothing but sweaty males. I thought I was dead.
"He's going into shock" you said as you looked not only into my eyes but down into my soul, which I thought no longer existed.
"He needs blood, AB negative. Severe loss, neck wound. shrapnel visible"

I have left a tornado's path of wreckage chasing and loving the nurse I knew only as 'Echo'. A women whose scent and beauty has no rival.

N.

Repeat offender (Arizona)

My name is Narcissus. You can call me N.

                   

The first time I met Echo was in a Marine Corps Medical Evac. tent outside of a shit hole border town called Al-Khafji between Kuwait and the ‘Kingdom’ of Saudi Arabia. The word Kingdom of course being a stretch.

A day I'll never forget. 

She was a Southern Indiana flower. Just a little, medical daffodil. 

I was bleeding out of my neck from the shrapnel hit and in and out of consciousness. 

But thats another story for another day. Fast forward some years...

                   

Now, prison Iife is very structured...more than most people care for.

But a spirit of camaraderie exists between the men like you find onIy in combat, maybe, or on a pro ball club in the heat of the pennant drive. It ain’t Ozzie and Harriet but sometimes its the only fam you got.

In an effort to better ourselves, we had to meet with a counselor, who tried to heIp us figure out why we were the way we were. But all we wanted was a hot roll and butter.

I tried to stand straight and fly right upon numerous releases but it wasn't easy with that son of a bitch Bush in the White House. I don't know. They said he was a decent man.

So...maybe his advisers were confused.

I can't say I was happy to be back inside, but the flood of familiar sights, sounds and faces almost made it feel like a homecomin'. Most men my age are married and raising up a family.

Well, sometimes your career's gotta come before family.

I don't know how you come down on the incarceration question, whether it's for rehabilitation or revenge, but I was beginning to think revenge is the onIy argument makes any sense. Still, I couldn't heIp thinkin' that a brighter future lay ahead. 

A future that was onIy eight to fourteen months away.

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. And, for once, they may be right.

More and more my thoughts turned to Echo and as days turned to months, I finally feIt the pain of imprisonment.

So when paroled, I dedicated every waking moment to finding and winning over the the goddess nymph, Echo. She eventually gave in.

These were the happy days, the salad days, as they say, and Echo feIt that havin' a critter was the next logical step. It was all she thought about.

Her point was that there was too much love and beauty for just the two of us. I thought that was beautiful. Every thing Echo said was music to my ears.

Echo rejoiced that my lawless years were behind me and that our chiId-rearing years lay ahead.

And then the roof caved in.

N.