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The saloon doors swung open. The place was quiet as a church. The spurs of the gentleman who barged in clanked and echoed throughout the establishment. He moved the stool to my left and leaned on the bar with his left elbow so he could face me. He reached across me, grabbed my cup, took a sip, and immediately spat the contents back in my face.

“Now, you have to excuse my manners. I’m usually a man of respect and etiquette, but you have to take part of the blame for what just happened.”

I held my tongue and pulled out my handkerchief from my jetted pocket.

“Do you know why we have doors such as those over yonder to enter a saloon and facilities alike?”

I’m not sure why these kinds of folk always have a story.

“Well, other than the obvious avoidance of an obstruction due to frequent visitation, it provides optimal ventilation on hot summer days—which, in fact, happens to be an apt description of this day. And you decided to take it upon yourself to disrespect such fine ingenuity with… with a glass of coffee?!”

Completely dumbfounded at this individual’s indignance, I finally decided to look over, as this tangent seemed destined to escalate into something physical. As we made eye contact, a voice interjected.

“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but… uh… I offered him the joe, sir.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes. It’s known around these parts as the Sanderson’s Joe. An heirloom recipe from my great-grandmother.”

“Thank you for the backstory.”

We maintained eye contact during this interaction, which turned this altercation into entertainment. The frustration building inside Outlaw #1 because Ensemble #3 has stolen the show.

“And it’s a cup… a cup of joe. For respect and etiquette purposes, of course, sir. This is an art, and referring to it as a glass of coffee disrespects the craft… sir.”

Ensemble #3 has earned a standing ovation—from me, at the very least.

Hello, hello, hello, my caffeine addicts. Sorry for the elongated intro. I usually like to keep it short and sweet, but I got carried away. Considering I didn’t publish an early November newsletter, I assume you were itching for your fix, so I added a little extra.

But before we get to the featured piece, here is, of course, some poetry.

Surround Sound

Is the only way to watch a movie,
to get lost in a world that is not your own.

Surround sound is the only way to listen to music,
adding a soundtrack to everyday activities.

Losing yourself to find yourself,
somewhere,
is the only way to write.

Surrounding yourself
with sounds
keeps the enemies at bay.

Surrounding yourself
with camo,
crossing enemy lines undetected.

I’m bringing home a story
to plug into
surround sound.

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My own thoughts work against me at times; I become overstimulated with words, sounds, and images. Then I plug into an album, a playlist, or the same song on a loop, and my thoughts slow, and the story becomes clear.

One Page Story

This continuation is brought to you by popular demand (a singular friend commented “more”)—which I may have instigated. Nevertheless, it is here, and I hope you enjoy.

If you missed part one, you can find it HERE.

International Suspension - Part II

International suspension was a void filled with outcasts and missing parents. I was neither, yet I found myself with this bunch a lot—maybe I need to do some self-reflection. I saw Steven the most; he was generally a good kid, just a pothead. He wasn’t disruptive, just didn’t have much ambition, to put it modestly. The teachers didn’t know how to punish him, so off to the void he was sent. I would say he was the most similar to me, although his parents were never home (which I overheard through conversations), so I assumed there were some parental issues. Also, I’m not a pothead.

Ricky was the loudest. Although he was annoying, he made things interesting. Teachers were left clueless on how to handle him during IS, as there were no further repercussions other than external suspension, which he secretly wanted. The conversations usually went like this:

“RICKY!”

“Yesss, Mr. Golferrr?”

Our teacher most days was Mr. Golfern. Calling him Mr. Golfer became a running joke that never seemed funny to me, but how angry it made him was unquestionably hilarious. He was a pale man who could not hide his emotions and would get as red as a tomato at his angriest. This particular incident put him at Pepto Bismol.

“If you don’t sit down, you’re going to be in serious trouble!” He chose not to address the Mr. Golfer name-mocking—picking his battles with tactical precision, showing his expertise in dealing with kids of the void.

“What are you gonna do, send me to I.S.? This man doesn’t think I swear,” equally talking to himself and to the class.

“I mean it!”

“Okay, I’m just a growing boy. Sometimes I just need to stretch my legs. I swear this system is just trying to stunt the growth of the youth…”

He continued his soliloquy, trailing off until he was a mumble in the distance. He spoke as though the ideal scenario would be for him to get sent home, but he enjoyed the company; being around his peers was not the hellhole he claimed it to be.

Kids of the void express themselves differently, and teachers like Mr. Golfern pick up on this. His threats were never real; he just gave enough pushback so that Ricky didn’t feel pitied, and Ricky always stopped whatever he was doing once Mr. Golfern said, “I mean it.” The silent conversation they had was truly poetic.

What did I just read?

Part one was an intro to the world; part two gets to know the characters a little more. Ethan is more than just observant of the physical space, but observant and wise to the psychological space. It makes you wonder how a kid so young could be so perceptive. He tries to separate himself from this ragtag bunch—but is he so different?

A Note

Thank you for reading. Time is valuable, and you spent some of yours with me, so I thank you.

If you enjoyed, don’t forget to share!

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What Now?

Follow along for the ride! My goal is to build my community so that when my bigger projects are complete, I have a family to share them with. So, subscribe and share! And if you couldn’t care less, thank you for reading this far.

Most appreciative,
Poor Joe