A NEW YEARS HEAVE
The clock ticks, inching closer to the end of a year only to start another one, and despite the truth that it’s just another day there’s that part of you that wants to cleanse your life palette and start anew.
What will really change? What resolution will truly last?
I contend that a New Year isn’t the time to “start” so much as it’s a time to be “finished.” A time to rid one’s self of all the things that have held you back. Consider the following…
Don’t “start” going to the gym. Just be “finished”with being out of shape and unhealthy.
You don’t have to start becoming a better significant other. Just be finished with all the ways you weren’t one.
Don’t find religion. Just stop ignoring it.
Don’t start being positive. Just be finished with accepting the negative as the only truth.
Don’t be a better person. Just be finished with being a shitty one.
I could go on but I believe the table is set. You decide what needs to come off it, but you’ll be amazed at how being “finished” with something organically becomes the “start”of something.
Have a Happy New Year’s Heave and an amazing 2024.
Thanksgetting by Dino Tripodis
Thanksgiving. A time to be thankful and appreciative of who and what we have in our lives for yet another year. It’s a time to gather with friends and family and over-indulge over food, spirits and an array of desserts.
But if the truth be told, for most of us it’s really Thanksgetting. I’ll use myself to explain and unless you’re the the ThanksGiver, you may reluctantly see my point. I’ve lost count of how many, but my sister has been at the helm for Thanksgiving for decades. Before that it was my grandmother. One would think it would’ve been my mother, but sometimes culinary gifts “skip” a generation. That’s another story.
Truth be told, Thanksgiving takes place because a small percentage of Americans take control of the day. The rest of us are Thanks-getters; maybe arriving with a token pie, bottle of wine, rolls or a side dish that more than likely the host will actually put off to the “side” with an unspoken “thanks for trying” because not only is the host at the helm, they also have a pre-determined blueprint of what should be on the table and where.
We, the Thanks-getters? Ah, we are the privileged who have been invited to partake and enjoy. We ARE thankful to say the least, but more than likely have “given” nothing or not much by comparison. So, if there’s a tradition at your holiday table, where everyone says what they’re thankful for, maybe you should be bold enough to admit to be a Thanksgetter. And hopefully…you at least brought a pie.
TOO OLD FOR NEW FRIENDS
By Dino Tripodis
I’m too old for new friends. But that ain’t so bad.
Because the friends that I have,
Are the best that I’ve had.
In times of good fortune,
In times of despair,
It’s never been questioned
As to which ones would care.
They are men of conviction,
Sometimes stubborn and raw,
But with a loyalty to one another that is something to awe,
In its faith, in its truth its a love that runs deep.
Different than some others in our lives, because each other…we keep.
For richer or poorer, in sickness and health, till death do us part, these vows of friendship…are the true amounts of wealth.
And while we’ve lost some friends along the way, who they were to us lingers and stays.
In our jokes and our stories, and our “remember that time…”
We still sip their memories , like good glasses of wine.
Our lives have had triumphs, stumbles and falls; victories and failures we’ve weathered them all.
A family if you will, that I do not take for granted,
With roots that run deep from which they were planted.
Yeah…I’m too old for new friends, but that ain’t so bad. Because the friends that I have…are the best that I’ve had. NEW YEARS LEAVE
It’s time to try leave it all behind, isn’t it?
Leave the angst and the turmoil.
The divisiveness.
Shed the ambivalence and the apathy.
Time to find our empathy again.
Work to find happiness in the same life thats burdened and harangued us this year.
Get reacquainted with joy.
Laugh again and often.
Find some love. Some simple, pure neglected love that never asked to be ignored or turned away from. But we did.
Time to let compassion replace our complacency.
Let open eyes that we allowed to go blind regain their vision and perspective.
And most importantly, let’s see it all with some sobering realism.
I’m not idyllic. I’m far from naive.
This all can’t happen on a first day of a new year and be miraculously fixed. I’ve lived long enough to know better.
But on a last day...we can try to leave behind what’s been wrong and start again somehow, right?
May this New Year be the start of something that brings you the best and gives you the strength to deal with the worst.
SPIT BALLIN’
What do you do when you’re two creative people in the midst of a pandemic and you can’t do what you love to do? You find a way to do it! John Whitney and yours truly had the equipment and had built up enough creative angst to do “something” rather than sit and bemoan the situation. But what? It would have to be safe distanced, stay in a social bubble they were comfortable with and be shot in one day. Frustration set in. We couldn’t think of anything. How could two creative, established, “been there, done that” filmmakers NOT come up with a tangible idea? And then the question became the answer and SPIT BALLIN’ took on a life of its own.
A short film about two screenwriters who are creatively “blocked” soars to absurd and ridiculous heights when they take a simple premise and turn it into something completely outrageous. Coming along for the ride was the always incredible Ralph Scott as the other frustrated screenwriter along with Dino Tripodis (me) as his equally frustrated partner. Add the directing, shooting, and editing of the amazing John Whitney, along with some creative assistance from Chip Kocel, SPIT BALLIN’ offers up a small bit of comic relief during a time when we all could use a laugh or two.
Some people do jigsaw puzzles. We make movies. Enjoy.
A MONTH OF MOM
84 year-old women do stupid shit in the dark. That’s a fact; not a rude or blatant indictment on elderly women and it’s backed up with truth. Because the woman in question happens to be my mother, look at what follows as a “blog of love” as opposed to verbal elder abuse.
A couple of months ago, my mother who currently resides in Palm Harbor, Florida took it upon herself to take out the trash at 9:30 p.m. to a dimly lit dumpster area whereupon she turned the wrong way, fell and laid next to said trash dumpster for approximately forty minutes before someone heard her crying out in pain. Once taken to the emergency room it was determined that she fractured her hip and would need surgery and all the fun rehabilitation that goes along with it. Like I said…84 year old women do stupid shit in the dark.
Let’s cut to present day, shall we? After moving in with my mother for six weeks, my sister asked if I could do the same: drive down to Florida and stay with mom for a month to help in her post recovery and give her (my sister) a break. Being what I consider to be a decent brother and even a better son, eight days ago I started the 14 hour drive from Columbus, Ohio to Palm Harbor, Florida in the midst of Covid-19, and headed to the current epicenter of the pandemic in order to take care of mom for a month.
Before moving on, let’s look at some facts…My mother is 84. I am 61. I haven't lived with my mother for a month or longer since I was 18 years of age. Got it? Ok…
Upon arrival, before a proper hello, my mother said, “The first thing I want you do is take off those clothes and take a shower. I don’t know where you’ve been or who you’ve been in contact with on your drive down here.” Despite being extremely cautious and socially aware the entire way, I chose not to argue with mom and instead let her assume that I touched everything and everybody on the drive down, while allowing a hoard of Coronavirus infected people cough all over me while in Georgia. No offense to Georgia, but you ARE a long-ass state to drive through while en route to Florida and one talkative guy at a PILOT station did get a little too close.
So, eight days later here’s where we are…I am taking care of my mother. I am at her beck and call for whatever she needs. I make her meals. I refill her water cup. I make sure she does her “walker laps” every hour and a half. I help get her to bed at night. I get up with her in the middle of the night if she needs any help getting to the bathroom. I do NOT bathe her. Thank God, there is someone who comes and does that regularly. I mean if push came to shove, I would, but the therapy bill for me personally months later would be enormous. Basically I do everything my sister did for the last month and a half but complain about it more.
But it’s our mom. It’s a month out of an entire life. A small frame in huge picture window that has been our mother and all she’s done for us through the years. Raised us. Shaped us. Not always correctly, but what parent does? She did do something right. She raised two kids who give a shit about people and how fortunate that those “people” include moms. Granted, one is way better at it and the other one writes a smarmy blog about it, but the love and sentiment is the same: we both think mom has got a few more miles in her, be it with or without a walker. So long as she stops doing stupid shit in the dark.
It Ain’t Whiskey by Dino Tripodis
It ain’t whiskey. Call it soul juice or conscious wine.
But it ain’t whiskey.
It’s a silent debater that starts and ends objections,
And if invited promises fitful sleep if staying the night.
It warms the blood, but chills the logic.
It’s a pain soother, but at the same time a pain enabler.
But it ain’t whiskey.
It shouts. It cries. It whispers and sometimes…it chuckles.
At the obvious left unattended.
But it ain’t whiskey.
It understands misfortunes. Celebrates occasions.
Confuses the issues. Clarifies ignored truths.
The last drop of it can be a period at the end of a chapter,
Or part of a sentence that needs to be continued.
But it ain’t whiskey.
You think it calls out to you, but no…
It’s simply been waiting .
And when its emptied, its work is done.
So now it’s nothing. Or maybe it was everything.
But it ain’t whiskey.
WHAT IF by Dino Tripodis
I’m going to be sixty-one years old this April. I’ve never questioned my mortality up till now. I mean, yeah…I know that my time is limited given my bad habits, my excessive behaviors and regular sessions of denial, but I’ve never believed that something out of my control would “take me out.” That thought process has changed a bit in the last month.
When the Coronavirus came into our world initially, I wrote it off like a lot of us had: “It’s the flu. 60,000 people died from it last year. I got my flu shot. I’m good.” No, I’m not. None of us are.
In my lifetime, I’ve never experienced something that has changed the fabric and lifestyle of an entire country. I’ve never thought twice about walking into a grocery store and maintaining a “safe distance” from fellow shoppers. I’ve never religiously sprayed hand sanitizer on myself after picking up the mail, and never have I been so conscious about NOT shaking someone’s hand, or chastising myself for touching my OWN face.
Too much? Some would say yes and some would say not nearly enough given the current circumstances. I’m not entirely sure where I’m at all the time with this pandemic. But I do know this: I’m hounded by the “what if?”
What would happen if I got the virus and died? Died before I finished out a life I still have scheduled in my heart and mind. What if I wasn't around to see my daughter accomplish all the great things I know she will eventually triumph over and succeed with? What if I left the people I love with an unanticipated ache? What if I died before finishing my last chapters in life with the marks I still want to make and gifts I want to leave behind? I’m not done! What if I died before my soon-to-be 84 year old mother? That would “ironically” kill her.
I say, no. I refuse. I wont live in fear, but I also won't move forward in ignorance. I will do what I’m supposed to do to get through this. When I look at life as a whole, I see this as a small, dirty window. Life has a lot of dirty windows along the way. Granted, this one is a tad on the grimy side, but it will be cleaned and when it is…what you see will be far brighter.
BEARING WITNESS by Dino Tripodis
When I get called to come out at night it’s usually not for a very good reason. Someone is either in trouble, a jam or in need of a solution that apparently only I can remedy. That’s no ones fault but my own. I’ve earned the reputation and its served me well. And why not? Doing and taking care of the shit no one else wants to be bothered with serves a certain niche in a society where hands need to be clean and reputations can’t afford to be sullied.
Usually the calls come in after midnight, because as the old saying goes, “Nothing good happens after midnight” and its true. The longer a night goes the riper the opportunities become to find yourself in compromising situations that you might’ve avoided had you wrapped things up at a decent time and while in a smarter frame of mind. Fortunately for me, people are stupid and never as smart as they think they are, and so, I capitalize on their limitations.
But this call had me out at 9:30 on a Tuesday night, and I already knew what I was going to be walking into. There wasn’t anything to fix. The damage had already been done and there was absolutely nothing in my skill set that could change the outcome.
I had to go downtown. It was raining; that hard rain that the wipers can’t keep up with and the only thing worse than the rain is the other idiots driving in it. The drive was slow but I honestly wasn’t in a hurry to get where I was going. In fact, part of me thought that if I didn’t show, the outcome would be different but I knew that wasn’t true and a promise is a promise even when those promises kill a small piece of you in the process of keeping them.
While driving I kept thinking how all of this could've been avoided or at least delayed for a while longer. Certain things could've been put into place. Smarter choices could've been made. Simple lifestyle changes may have altered the course and made this drive unnecessary. But like I said...people are stupid, and given where things were now, Jimmy Bartolo was a fucking idiot.
Jimmy and I grew up together as kids in Pittsburgh,PA. We got in and out of more trouble than any two kids should have; shoplifting from the five and dimes, running number errands for some of the local bookies and spent more time in detention than out of it.
Right around the eighth grade, Jimmy moved. His old man got a job in Long Island and Jimmy became a New Yorker. After the move, he’d still come visit in the summers for weeks at a time and we stayed close till he turned eighteen and joined the Navy. He made it a career for decade or so, but stayed behind the scenes as a mechanic, so when he got out he’d have a trade. Civilian life didn't work out so well for Jimmy. He got married, had a couple of kids and when his wife left him for some “douche bag singer” as he put it, he looked me up and found me in my current profession and asked if he could work with me.
Most of the work I do, I do alone as discretion becomes less than discreet when there are more people involved, but through the years there were times when I needed a trusted hand in certain matters and Jimmy was as loyal and trustworthy as they came. He never hesitated or questioned a job or its outcome. Much like me, he had the ability to isolate and compartmentalize situations and see them to their needed resolve. Thats not something you teach. Thats just something you are. And through the years we both had our fair share of bloodied hands that also broke bread together in the aftermath of work well done. Those dinner conversations “after” were some of my favorites. They were never about the job. Food, I think is what gave Jimmy pause to remember things and occasionally he would share those thoughts.
“You know what used to piss my wife off?” he said one night with a mouthful of linguini. “She hated that I never used the salad fork. Made her nuts. Said she was embarrassed to go any place nice with me because I didn’t know how to use the right utensils. It’s a fuckin’ fork!
What’s it matter if I use the big one or the little one to eat my food? One fork. One knife. One spoon. What else do you need, right? Want me to use the little fork? Fine. How’s about I stab you in the throat with it so you shut the fuck up and let me eat in peace.
I mean, I never said that, but...I thought it. Fuck, yeah...I thought it.” And back he would go to his meal until something else popped into his head that he felt compelled to share. I never said much in return and I don’t think it mattered. I think Jimmy just liked having someone to direct his thoughts to and I was a trained listener. Put a drink and a pack of smokes in front of me and you can share your life story if you want.
“You go to the movies much, T?” he asked one other time.
“No...not much,” I said.
“I like going,” said Jimmy. “But I gotta be there for the previews, or else the whole
experience is ruined for me.”
“Why? They got nothing to do with what you came to watch,”I replied.
“I like to see what’s coming up, and I get my snacks all organized, too. I eat the
Goobers during the previews, and then I crack open the Milk Duds and toss ‘em into the popcorn right before the main attraction. But if I miss the previews then the whole system is out of whack. And another thing...why they always pushing the big popcorn on me? I’m one guy at a 90 minute movie. You want me to get the big one because then I can get free refills? Again, I’m one guy. You know what I’m gonna do next time, T? I’m gonna get the big one and take the fucking tub home with me and the next time I go, I’m bringing the empty tub back and sayin’ “free refill please.” What are they gonna do? Theres no sign that says the refills gotta be on that day, right? I think I got ‘em on a technicality, T. Anyway, we should go to the movies sometime, y’know?”
Jimmy and I never went to the movies. Aside from the work we did together and drinks and meals afterwards, we didn’t socialize much on purpose anymore. The job and our dinners seemed time enough. Additional socializing didn’t seem necessary, but now I found myself wishing that we had. That’s how regret works. It shows up when its too late to do anything about it.
The rain had subsided a bit as I pulled into the parking lot. I parked the car, emptied my pockets of anything that would trigger the metal detector I’d have to go through and locked my gun in the glove compartment. I didn’t need a piece for this. Jimmy might have. He hated hospitals. We both did.
If we ever got hurt on the job; shot, stabbed, a cracked rib on the bad side of a fight, we never went to a hospital. We had people in our pocket and places that we could go to if we needed patched up. Good doctors and nurses who made bad decisions in life that we fixed for them and then were reminded of their mistakes whenever they got a call from us, knowing they had no choice in the matter but to pay the eternal debt. At least until we were dead. Sometimes I’d actually see that look in their eyes.
“Don’t fuck up on purpose and try and kill me,” I’d say. “That ain’t gonna get you out of this.” Some would respond with a nervous laugh and make a joke about their Hippocratic Oath. Others would just stare back blank, wondering how I knew what they were thinking.
This time around it was out of Jimmy’s hands. He had a heart attack. He managed to dial 911, but not before calling me to tell me he thought he was having one and stupidly check in.
“T, I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said. “Call 911,” I said. “Why the hell you callin’ me?” “So, go to the hospital, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “For this...go to the hospital.”
Two heart stents later, Jimmy was on the mend and scheduled to get out two days after that procedure.
“I got a second chance,” he said to me. “I gotta be honest...that scared the fuck out of me, T. I gotta change some shit.”
I don't know what kind of change that would've been for Jimmy. His body was a temple that nobody worshipped. He ate to excess, drank till he was drunk and smoked during all of it. I wasn’t that much different except for the fact that I worked out on a fairly regular basis and actually got check ups to stay on top of anything that might’ve been going the wrong direction. The last doctor Jimmy might have seen was probably a pediatrician.
I’ve lost count of the guys that hoped for a second chance and never got it. It was always something they wanted once they realized their first shot at life wasn’t going to play out as expected. Jimmy never thought about having a heart attack, and when he did that’s when he started looking at second chance scenarios. When the unexpected things in life grab you by the balls and squeeze...that’s when you start to reconsider your options.
On the day Jimmy was supposed to get out of the hospital he had another massive coronary. This one worst than the last. It was like the stents put in him two day prior were just for show, and upon further examination it was determined that the heart damage was caused by neglecting to treat a severe case of diabetes that apparently Jimmy had for years and did nothing about, and then everything inside of him started to go to shit.
I only knew all of this because I got a call from one his daughter’s. Maybe Jimmy knew something was up or maybe he was just playing it safe, but apparently he gave them my number in the event anything went wrong.
“My father said to call you if anything like this happened,” she said. “Something about you keeping your promise.”
I thought it was stupid at the time Jimmy brought it up. Just more of his babbling over dinner that he wanted out there and noted.
“Let me ask you something, T, and I’m being serious here.”
“Ok.”
“If there ever comes a time that I’m on the ropes and can’t be saved. If I’m shot,
stabbed...whatever, and there ain’t no coming back from it...finish it. Put me down. I don’t wanna suffer.”
“What, like a dog? What the fuck is the matter with you? You're Old Yeller now?”
“I’m serious. I mean...be sure, dammit, but yeah...I don’t wanna deal with that shit.” “But you want me to,” I said. “Jesus...when do you think of this stuff?”
“I think about a lot of stuff,” Jimmy said quietly. “I just like get it out there when I can. So,
you’ll do it, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “In fact, why I don’t I just kill you now. End MY suffering.”
“No, not now,” Jimmy laughed. I wanna get dessert. But promise me, ok?”
“Yeah, “ I said. “I promise.”
When I got to Jimmy’s floor at the hospital, who I assumed were his daughters were
sitting in some chairs in the waiting area. Next to them was a priest. Never a good sign. The last pictures I had seen of the girls were graduation photos that Jimmy showed off with pride. The girls were two years apart and had grown into beautiful young women since high school, but we had never met. What looked to be the oldest stood up to greet me.
“Are you, Mr. Thompson? I’m Elizabeth...Jimmy’s daughter. This is my sister, Teresa.” The younger one stood up as well and shook my hand.
“Yeah, but call me Frank,” I said. I’m sorry about your pops, girls.” They both gave that silent thank-you-and-don’t-know-what-to-say nod.
“Apparently we were on his emergency call list in the event something like this would happen,” Elizabeth stated. “But we haven't heard from him since our birthdays last year, so quite frankly we were surprised to get the call. And then he was so adamant about getting you here, we thought that call would’ve been yours.”
“He called me when he had the first heart attack and after they put the stents in, but when it all went took a turn...”
“Right,” said Elizabeth. “I understand. We’re family. In name anyway. Of course we should've gotten the call,” as if she was trying to convince herself.
“He sounded good when I talked to him. He was ready to get out of here. What the hell happened? I asked. “Did somebody fuck up?”
“My father fucked up with the way he took care of himself,” said Elizabeth. “Like I told you on the phone, after the first heart attack and the stents were put in, he had another one, more massive than the first. They put him into an induced coma while trying to figure out what happened. He was breathing on his own eventually at one point, and they ran more tests. The issue wasn’t so much the valves and arteries as it was the actual heart. It sustained a lot of damage. I’m sure the diabetes he ignored didn't help matters. Over the course of an evening he sustained another ten shocks to the heart and more during surgery the next morning.”
“They had to do chest compressions while he was on the table,” as Teresa spoke for the first time.
“Yes, they did,” Elizabeth nodded. “And then placed him and the heart on ventilators. Once they started the surgery, they saw the extensive damage and switched gears. It was supposed to be a procedure to assist in cardiac circulation for a failing heart, but once they saw how bad everything was, they went with a different tact, which was only temporary to see how he reacted to it. Then his lungs and kidneys started to fail. They started to do an endoscopy to figure out some hows and whys, and during that procedure he had a stroke. There’s probably a dozen other things, but it doesn’t matter. We’re here now and the only thing keeping my father alive are the machines they have him hooked up to.” She paused. “I can’t imagine he’d be too pleased with himself right now.”
“No...probably not,” I replied.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Teresa chimed again. “He told us to call you if things went badly and to wait, Mr. Thompson. So, what are we waiting for?”
I didn’t answer Teresa. I didn’t know how to answer, Teresa. What was I supposed to say? I promised your father if he was dying that I’d kill him and put him out of his misery? I imagined that Jimmy wanted me to be there to make sure they pulled the plug on him. That there were no last minute, life preserving efforts to keep Jimmy alive in theory but dead in a life he’d want no part of.
“Your father worked for me. We grew up together as kids as well. We were close.”
“What did my father do for you?” Teresa asked. She had no idea. I’m sure neither of them did.
“I have a consulting firm,” I replied straight-faced. “And your father was one of my best trouble shooters.”
“ A trouble shooter,” said Elizabeth with a tone of skepticism. “Ok...and what was the promise?” she asked.
I modified the answer. “To make sure if something like this happened that it went like it was supposed to.” And then I lied. “I made the same deal with him for me.”
“I guess he beat you to it,” Elizabeth said solemnly.
“Yeah...I guess so.”
The priest who was sitting took the silence that followed as his cue to introduce himself. “I’m Father Michael,” he said with an outstretched hand. “I’m the hospital chaplain.”
“You Catholic, Father?” I asked.
“Protestant,” he replied. “Is that a problem?”
“Honestly, I don’t know how this works.” I said. “Whatever gets him to where he needs
to be is the thing. Guess it doesn’t matter who says the words.”
“So, we’re going with the Last Rites, the separation of soul and body?” asked the priest. “Is there something else?” I asked.
“I have prayers for healing the sick so they get better.”
“Yeah, from what I gather, thats not happening,” I said.
A doctor and what looked like some fresh-faced interns had joined us and asked if we
were ready. The girls nodded, but I asked for a minute.
“Do you think I could see him alone first for a few? Say a proper goodbye, and all?” Everybody present looked at everybody else for a silent consent, and with that I went
into the room to see Jimmy. He was wired up seven ways to Sunday and was on a ventilator, looking like a shell of the man I knew. His face looked like he was crying on the inside and his body looked frail and weak, like you could break a piece of him off if you wanted, and I asked myself: if I had a knife, would I just stick it in his failed heart and finish him like he wanted me to? Because he was exactly where he never wanted to be, and even though I was here to see the end out properly, I felt as though I was failing him in some way.
“I’m sorry, pal. I let ya down. I should’ve killed you when you brought it up,” I said, making a joke Jimmy couldn't hear. And then I squeezed his hand, but got nothing back.
A few minutes later, the girls, the priest, and the doctor entourage came in to finish things. The priest said the words which hopefully would get Jimmy a spot in Heaven. If not, I had no doubt that he would be saving a seat for me in Hell. The doctors started to shut things down, and the girls held back tears.
When they finally took him off the ventilator, Jimmy’s eyes popped wide open and he actually sat up with a gasp; one last big breath before falling back down, but not before he looked right through me with eyes that seemed to say, “Why didn’t you finish me, T?” I never felt more guilty about not killing someone.
Jimmy’s damaged heart kept beating for another twenty minutes or so after being taken off all the machines. Almost as if he was debating whether or not he was ready to go, but eventually he had no say in the matter and he was gone.
We all silently walked out of the room together, and I asked.
“Did you discuss arrangements with him? I could help with that.”
“He said he wanted to be cremated, and if we wanted to, split the ashes between Teresa
and me.” She paused and looked at me. “I suppose we could split them three ways if you like.” “If you're both okay with that, then sure. I’d like that very much,” I said.
“Can I ask you something else?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
“Was my father good at what he did for you?”
I didn’t have to lie this time. “Your old man was great at what he did. I don’t think I’d still be in business without him.”
“I’m glad,” sighed Elizabeth. “He always wanted to be good at something. Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”
“Frank,” I said. “Call me, Frank.”
“Thank you, Frank,” she replied with a touch of a smile. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me what my father really did for you, but for now...I’m just glad he found you again when he did.”
I said my goodbyes to the girls and told them to call me if they needed anything, but I knew I’d never hear from them. We were all closing this chapter in our own way and the story from here had no reason for us to see one another again.
As I left the hospital, the rain had started up again in a torrential way and made the drive back home just as slow as it was at the start. My phone went off. It was after midnight. Someone had made some bad decisions again and it was time to go back to work.
The Writer’s Truth by Dino Tripodis
I’ve written drunk,
I’ve written sober.
But mostly drunk,
Can’t recall October.
November is finished,
Give or take a day,
A good month for words?
I can’t really say.
But here comes December,
A month full of joy,
I’m sure I’ll be drinking,
So, don’t ask this boy,
What plans for the New Year,
I may have in store,
But I promise, I’ll write,
So, how bout one more...