Sophomore Year

Throughout that semester of
literature, you sat beside me
when my eyes seldom stayed
on Mr. Bruce, our eccentric
professor, or on the selected
poems and stories we read.

You were thin and tall with
dark hair and subtle curves.
Your eyes were bright
dashes of green and gold.

At your desk, in black shades
of ink, you sketched pictures
of flowers and insects, rather
than taking notes on Frost,
O’Connor, and Poe, or
taking any notice of me.

I was tall and stout with
short hair and a round face.
My brown eyes were hidden
behind thick prescription glass.

During one lecture, towards
the end of the semester, I
looked out the window, to
watch the wind blow the
leaves on the trees, and
observe the rain falling down.

I must have become lost in
the world outside for when I
returned to the lecture and my
notebook, something happened.

A small sketch of a stemmed
Tulip and Bumble-Bee was right
in front of me, sitting on top
of my notebook. Eventually you
turned and smiled, then cupped
your hand and whispered in my ear.

Fast Food Time Travel - A Story Near Truth

Tonight, during a long layover in Los Angeles, California, I walked from my Hilton Hotel room to a Taco Bell restaurant. My stomach was growling as I crossed several large intersections and city blocks, moving along a familiar path of sidewalk. Grey clouds moved overhead amidst a blue sky, and a light wind whipped up around me. I carried a paperback novel underneath my armpit, wedged between my bicep and the side of my body. I passed Carl’s Jr., Spot Parking, Denny’s, Thrifty Rent-A- Car, and a Westin Hotel before arriving at my fast food destination. The walk took no longer than ten minutes.

I waited my turn in line and thought about what I wanted to eat. When the mustached man behind the counter said, “next,” I moved towards the cash register, smiled, and placed my order: one Double-Decker Taco, one Bean and Cheese Burrito (no onions), one Soft Taco, one Tostada, and a small drink. While waiting for my receipt, I asked the mustached man how he was doing. And even though I didn’t get much of a response, I was glad that I asked. He handed me my receipt with my order number on it and said, “next.” I moved out of line and grabbed a stack of napkins, a spork, and few mild-sauces at the condiment station. Then I filled my small cup with unsweetened iced-tea and found a corner table to sit at.

I was a few pages into my chapter when a young woman called, “order two-zero-seven.” I slid a bookmark in-between two pages to hold my spot, and walked to the counter to retrieve a purple tray of food; my tacos and burritos were wrapped individually in thin, yellow and green and purple colored wax-paper. I returned to my corner table and started eating, using my right hand to hold my food, and my left hand to hold open my book so that I could read. I stayed this way for quite some time, occasionally setting the book down to apply some mild-sauce or wipe my mouth and beard with a napkin. The book and food consumed every bit of my attention.

Ten or fifteen minutes must have passed before I noticed him, about four tables in front of me. He looked well into his sixties, with white hair and age spots on his cheeks. Like me, his purple tray was directly in front of him and he was using his right hand to eat, and his left hand to hold open his book so that he could read. That’s when I had an out of body experience. Suddenly, I was no longer sitting at a corner table, nor was I young and bearded. I had been transported across the room in some kind of momentary time travel.

My face became clean shaven, but more importantly, my skin was soft, wrinkled, and tired. I put down my burrito and rubbed the side of my face, feeling the change. I studied the cover of the book in my left hand, never having heard of the title or author before. But my old skin and the change of literature did not seem to bother me, nor did my new seating arrangement. In fact, I felt a pure sense of gladness to be so much older, with the years having passed by in a flash, if only for this reason: there I was, still reading and eating at the same time, perfectly pleased at being alone, living, even at a fast food restaurant in a rundown part of Los Angeles, California – that was my first thought in the time travel from young to old.

My second thought as an old man was similar, and it was this subsequent thought that ultimately transported me back in time to being young and bearded, once again. Try and stay with me.

So there I was eating and reading, well into my sixties. My book and food had been consuming every bit of my attention for what must have been ten or fifteen minutes. That’s when I looked up and noticed him sitting at a corner table. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with a full beard and brown hair. Like me, his purple tray was directly in front of him and he was using his right hand to eat, and his left hand to hold open his book so that he could read. That’s when I had another out of body experience. Suddenly, I was no longer sitting at my table, nor was I old and wrinkled. I had been transported across the room in some kind of momentary time travel.

I put down my burrito and rubbed the side of my face, feeling the change. I kept rubbing my face, stroking the long whiskers above my lip, under my jaw, and around my cheeks. I felt a great sense of joy to be young again, to be me again, knowing that there was still so much time, if only for this reason: there seemed to be dozens of life-changing decisions waiting to be made, countless experiences within reach, and an immeasurable amount of road left to travel – all of this, right in front of me.

The old man and I looked at one another in real time and smiled. We were both alone and doing the exact same thing in a Taco Bell restaurant in Los Angeles, California, and this connected something deep within me. Our burritos were in our right hands, and our books were in our left hands.

You see, I was both young and old tonight. And I found wonder and perspective in the time travel.

Kelly & Sergio's Big Day

On November 21, 2009 my sister married a man in a church. The man was Sergio Adrian Arispe and the church was in Pleasanton, California. Several hundred people gathered under one roof to celebrate and partake in Kelly and Sergio’s lives. As everyone watched my sister and Sergio interact with the pastor, one could not help but notice the beautiful wooden cross behind them, hanging on the wall. The cross represented Kelly and Sergio’s faith in Christ and symbolized their chosen stronghold for the future. I was up there on the stage beside them, dressed in a tuxedo, standing with the other groomsmen. My sister looked beautiful in her pearl white dress and Sergio looked handsome in his Tuxedo and white tie; their faces seemed to glow as they faced one another and read their vows aloud. My sister took on the Arispe surname before she and Sergio kissed and walked down the center aisle as husband and wife. I watched my sister and new brother walk through the crowd, hand in hand, taking the first steps of a long journey together. This all happened on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

*I was not able to take many pictures of the wedding ceremony because of the fact that I was in the wedding; however, I managed to take some pre-ceremony shots of the groomsmen while we all waited to take individual pictures with Sergio, and I took the pictures in a uniform stlye. I also got some shots after the wedding. I used my Canon EOS-1n 35mm camera and a roll of Ilford Delta 400 B&W film. My favorite pictures follow these words.

Epic Adventure at Lost Lake

I was looking out the window, lost in my thoughts, when the Boeing 737 slammed down on the wet runway. The force of the impact grabbed hold of my attention, reminding me of the adventure I was soon to begin. Two hours prior I had been in sunny California, enjoying the warmth of a July morning, before arriving in Portland’s cloud-covered summer weather.

Abe and Bryan were waiting for me at the Arrivals sector of the Portland airport. After dropping my pack in the trunk of Abe’s 4-Runner, I joined my two buddies in the car, and then we were off towards the north side of Mt. Hood. But first we stopped off at a grocery store and loaded up on food for our hike to Lost Lake: Powerbars, fruit-snacks, bottles of water, a six-pack of hot dogs, and one large bottle of beer (I already had the coffee in my backpack, ground, and packed with biodegradable filters and a single-brew-cup). Then we became entangled in the small highways, switching back and forth in the green countryside, passing through small towns, and making our way into the national forest.

Upon entering the camping area of Lost Lake, we walked inside a general store to purchase a parking permit, grab a map, and find out where the trail started. A haggard looking man directed our attention, pointing out the window behind us, towards some of the largest clouds I have ever seen (his beard was brown with specks of gray and, for a reason unbeknownst to Abe or Bryan or me, dry-blood was spread out across his left forearm and part of his white shirt sleeve – a lot of blood).

“That’s where you’re going,” he told us.

“That’s where we’re going?” we asked, somewhat stunned. It was hard to imagine a mountain, let alone a hiking trail, behind the foreboding clouds.

“Yep,” he said, still pointing. “It’s been raining two days straight. The storm just let up a couple hours ago. It’s real wet out there.”

Abe and Bryan and I looked at one another, studied one another. We had been concerned about the weather on the drive, noticing the sinister clouds in the distance, yet we told ourselves that the journey would be an adventure, a story to tell and laugh at later, nothing less. And besides, we had reassured one another, it was July, the middle of summer, and the weather had to clear up. But standing inside the store, with the cold mountain air and the ominous clouds just outside, we all, I think, started to realize just what kind of adventure we were about to begin.

We hopped back in the car with a photo-copied map and a parking permit, and then Abe drove us to where we imagined the trail head might be. Because the map was extremely limited in its detail, it took us nearly a half-hour to find the trail head.

Bryan and I became hostage passengers while Abe drove us through one-way dirt roads that were both narrow and uneven, having enormous mud puddles sewn into the paths, and tree limbs dragging across all sides of his car. The scratching sound made Bryan and I cringe, though we laughed in unison because of Abe’s wild mountain-man spirit, and the way he was using his vehicle, like it were a machete, to cut through the forest. But the one-way roads often led to dead-ends, which forced Abe to return the same way back before searching out new roads. Already it seemed that the three of us were having a blast, laughing, and feeling like the adventure was well under way, though we had yet to find the trail and change out of our city clothes. But eventually Abe spotted a wooden sign set back from the road, and he parked just beside it.

As we opened the doors and exited Abe’s car, a steady buzzing sound lifted from the forest. Before we could even define what the buzzing was, mosquitoes swarmed us from head to toe, attacking us with militant force. Just our luck, we told one another, thinking we must have parked next to a cesspool (it was too foggy then to tell, but we would later see it upon hiking back to the car – that giant, stagnant pond, the very breeding ground for the winged beasts, just a couple hundred feet from the trail head). We decided to change into our hiking clothes rather quickly, in order to get away from all the hungry suckers. But changing clothes in the mud took some time, packing too, especially when defending our flesh with the constant waving of our hands. Eventually we made it to the trail, fleeing the army of mosquitoes.

Abe led the way with Bryan in the middle and me in tow. Our hiking boots were laced-up tight and our backpacks were fastened around our shoulders, waists, and chests. Even though the air was cold, our foreheads began to glisten with sweat.

After two hours of hiking through constant haze, the trail seemed to be ours alone. We hiked and talked loudly to each another, catching up on the details of one another’s lives. We communicated with ease, listening just as easily, while focusing on the trail ahead. It was male bonding at its finest (how girls would love to eve’s drop during such moments as these). We decided to take our first break after a good amount of conversing.

That’s when I pulled a handful of fruit snacks from my backpack. Abe and Bryan were somewhat hesitant in taking a pouch, looking at me funny, as if the snack were out of place; however, I reassured them that they would be missing out. They obliged my request and peeled the silver, sparkling pouches open, eating the orange, blue, yellow, red, and green gummies, one at a time. They wound up liking the snacks so much that they asked for another pouch before resuming the hike.

The hike continued in this fashion until we crossed over onto the Pacific Crest Trail and encountered several Americore volunteers who were dressed in full, rubber raingear (the group of volunteers had been busy clearing and repairing parts of the trail for nearly a week, operating like a nomadic tribe). They seemed almost as surprised to see us as we did them. We exchanged pleasantries with some of the volunteers, though it appeared they had just finished eating a community dinner, and that most of the crew, all 15 or 20 of them, had retired to the dry interiors of their tents, scattered along the trail.

It took another hour of hiking before we found a place to call home for the night. We hiked just off the PCT, through wet, overgrown vegetation. Somehow we stumbled into a flat portion of land with a rock fire-pit in place. The area was nestled atop a peak, so our map told us, which overlooked the Lost Lake Valley. But the crummy weather hid what I imagined to be a beautiful sunset: a canvas of color reflecting over a black, shimmering lake. Yet finding the campground could not have come at a better time, and we were so thankful just to have found it. We dropped our backpacks and admired the ideal camping location in the final moments of visible light. Our shoes and socks and pants were soaking wet.

Abe was soon busy with his hatchet, using his headlamp to search for dry wood. Bryan took the second shift with the hatchet and headlamp, and I took the third. The work was slow going in the black of night, especially when maneuvering around the soaked vegetation which surrounded our camp site. It was crucial that we build a fire; first to warm ourselves; and secondly, to cook dinner. But the building of a fire proved difficult, even after collecting a great deal of wood from the innards of dead, rotted stumps.

We stacked all of our efforts beside the fire pit – the big pieces to burn, and the small strips to use as kindling. Fat drops of water seemed to fall in constant intervals from the large trees above and around our campsite. And being that our campsite was on the peak of a mountain, exposed and elevated thousands of feet above Lost Lake, wind blew on us from all directions with surprising force. Needless to say, it took some time to get the fire going.

After the fire became self sufficient, we huddled around the orange flame and tried to warm ourselves. We stood there with steam lifting from our pants and talked about everything that had happened throughout the day.

In order to cook dinner, we poked twigs into our hotdogs before holding and spinning them over the open flame. The trick was to cook the dog slowly, at a good distance from the shifting heat. However, we were too hungry and impatient to wait forever, causing the skin of the hot dogs to blister before the meat could fully cook. But I guess that made little difference. We split our large bottle of Fat Tire ale, pouring the amber liquid evenly into our tin mugs. Then we made a proper toast and clinked our mugs together. It didn’t matter that the beer was warm or that the meat was undercooked, not at all. After finishing the first round of dogs, we cooked and ate another before feeling exhausted enough to roll our sleeping bags out. That’s when things became interesting.

There were a few problems – hiccups you might say – we had been expecting ever since arriving at the general store. Because we had been planning on perfect summer weather, we had not packed for the wet ground, the cold air, and the fat, falling drops of water from tree tops. Actually, between the three of us, we had just three sleeping bags, two sleeping mats (I was the one without a mat), and one 8’ by 10’ semi-waterproof tarp (semi, as we would soon realize). That was it, all we had. We had planned on sleeping in the summer night, flat on our backs, with nothing to obstruct the view of the stars above. So we did what anyone would do in our situation: we improvised.

We decided to fold the 8’ by 10’ tarp in half like a taco, positioning the open side – the top – beside the fire; that way we would be protected from the wet ground, the constant wind, and the falling drops. Great idea, right? There was still one problem though. When we folded the tarp in half, it meant that we would have to sleep incredibly close to one another. Not quite spooning, but extremely close to it. This seemed to be the best option though, and it’s what we ended up doing. Yet, after nearly 45 minutes of this predicament, Abe and Bryan could no longer handle the taco, and they woke me up to brainstorm a new idea (I had fallen asleep, quite happily, because I was at the top end of the taco, warm beside the fire).

It was soon decided that the taco wasn’t necessarily the problem, but that the taco was simply too small. Bryan and Abe decided to only use their mats to protect them from the wet ground while still using the tarp to cover the tops of their bodies. I would be the only one who still needed tarp on both sides. And so we redesigned the taco accordingly. I moved to the butt of the taco, away from the fire, and the now longer top stretched comfortably across the three of us. Soon we all fell fast asleep. Little did we know that the sleep would not, could not, last. At least for some of us.

I must have woken up three hours later to find Bryan awake beside me. We laughed at how miserable we felt for it seemed that we were both freezing. The bottoms of our sleeping bags had become wet, and the tarp, just inches above our faces, seemed to be dripping water on our skin and sleeping bags. Yet Abe seemed to be sound asleep, snoring beside the embers of the fire. Bryan and I laughed at this. We continued to fall in and out of sleep during the next several hours.

When we were both awake again, I remember telling Bryan how frozen I was, mostly because my socks had been too wet to wear inside my sleeping bag (as it turned out, the extra pair of socks I’d packed had mysteriously disappeared from my backpack. I would never, much to my dismay, find the socks, though I looked extensively for them). My naked feet were chattering and draining the heat from my body. It was hard to fall back asleep without much, if any, body heat. But somehow I managed to rest once more before waking up, low and behold, to the sunshine.

Because Bryan and Abe were asleep, I was the first to see the switch in the weather. There were no more clouds, just remnants of fog. The sun was starting to make its way over our campsite, up on the peak above Lost Lake. The air was still incredibly cold, but the sun promised warmth and good views for the day ahead. I lay there in my wet sleeping bag, shivering and smiling, excited for my friends to wake up beside me. For a while though the view was mine alone; I used this time to think about my life in California, suddenly far removed from the peak above Lost Lake.

After having missed the sun’s presence so much the previous day, it became apparent to me then just how much I had taken its power for granted. It also became apparent to me just how much I had missed Abe’s and Bryan’s friendship, having grown close to them in college and the town of Newberg, myself – one year later – living 650 miles south of their worlds. But the connection between these realizations did not make me sad or wistful for things to return to the way they had once been. It just made me thankful to be in their presence, aware that circumstances had changed in the year since college and would surely continue to change throughout the rest of our lives. Maybe that’s what made the hike, the very coming together, all the more remarkable? It represented something deeper.

After Bryan woke up beside me, we shared a kind of reverence for the sun. We talked and watched a world of color grow beneath our peak. Surely we were seeing things that had not existed, hidden by the haze, the previous day. One of us decided to wake Abe from his slumber when our bellies growled and moaned for breakfast. Abe seemed to wake from a peaceful sleep that Bryan and I could not fathom. As soon as he became fully coherent, Abe layered up and started another fire for the three of us.

The sun and fire warmed our skin as we waited for a pot of water to boil. I remember that Abe and I were barefoot, drying our socks on large rocks beside the flame. After the water boiled, I started making coffee for the three of us with my single-cup-brewer. Five minutes later we stood around the fire, enjoying a wonderful breakfast. We ate fruit snacks and power bars, washing everything down with Indonesian coffee (we all agreed that coffee was an essential part of camping, a must). The hot liquid warmed the very core of our bodies, something the sun and fire had been incapable of doing. Then Abe’s sock caught on fire. He tried to save it of course, but there was no hope. We all laughed at his sock burning, even Abe (like me, Abe did not have a pair of extra socks). Besides packing and cleaning the campsite, this last event concluded our time on the peak.

Abe led the way – wearing just one sock – with Bryan in the middle and me in tow. Our hiking boots were laced-up tight and our backpacks were fastened around our shoulders, waists, and chests. The air felt warm as we descended the mountain, causing our foreheads to bead with sweat.

The hike back down was beautiful, revealing everything we had missed on the way up, especially Lost Lake. We stopped only twice on the way down, once to take a picture, and the second time to eat the last of the fruit snacks. Then, all too fast, we were back in the car. Seeing as we carried a new stench along with us, the windows stayed down for a good portion of the drive to Newberg. Our bodies were sore and tired.

The adventure came to a close when we arrived in the town of Newberg, the home of both Bryan and Abe. We exited the car a little stiff from the two hour drive, but managed to walk into a local Mexican restaurant for something to eat. Bryan’s wife Leah met us for lunch, happy to see her husband and hear about our excursion. By the time the food arrived at our table, we had already shared most of our adventure with Leah, our captive listener. She laughed with us as we recounted all the details of our 24-hour, 14 mile hike. And then, after we finished eating and telling our stories, Leah said something I have yet to forget.

“That just doesn’t sound like fun to me,” she said.

And in many ways Leah was right. The actual hike had been somewhat miserable, especially when remembering the mosquitoes, the taco, and nearly freezing up on the peak. But the adventure had little to do with the actual hike; rather, it had been about something deeper: our friendship. Leah clearly understood this, though she had a hard time getting past the ways in which we subjected ourselves, willingly, to the unpleasant conditions of the hike. But the obstacles were, in my opinion, the perfect ingredients for a memorable story.

1983 - A Story Near Truth

Richie smoked menthol cigarettes throughout the interview. A cup of water, which he used as an ashtray, sat between my résumé and his paperwork. We were outside, sitting at a small metal table, in front of the bagel shop. While asking me questions, Richie tapped his cigarettes over the cup, and each time he did so, I could hear faint sizzle sounds. I loved the way his cigarettes smelled, like they were full of mint. Richie asked a lot of questions. He would listen to my responses and look straight into my eyes as if he were searching for something hidden. Richie appeared to be in his early thirties. He was small framed, dark skinned, and very likeable. I answered his questions the best way I knew how, trying to be personable. But he must have sensed my nervousness, it being my first interview and all. Because of its newness, the whole process felt slightly awkward and clumsy, yet I remember feeling proud that I was officially venturing into the work force for the first time.

“So you’re sixteen, right?” We were getting towards the end of the interview, I thought. Just as I was about to tell him that I was fifteen, he said: “Because you have to be sixteen to work here. It’s bagel shop policy and California state law.” But I knew that my friend Greg was even younger than me; he already worked at the bagel shop and was the one to get me the interview with Richie. Never having been one to lie, I started to get nervous while Richie waited for my response. My youthful integrity was at stake, yet Richie seemed to already know the truth.

“What’s your date of birth,” he asked, killing the silence. And so I told him the day in December, the year 1984. It was the truth. He wrote down the date on his paperwork just as I’d told him, except for the year, which he changed to 1983. He looked up at me and grinned. It was the kind of grin that follows the telling of a dirty joke. “Look things over, and if all your information is correct, sign and date here.” He slid the paperwork across the table and pointed to where I needed to mark. Then he got up from the table and walked into the bagel shop. He hadn’t completely let me off the hook. By signing the paper, we would both be held accountable for the lie.

A few minutes later, Richie returned to the table with several items in his hands. “Did everything look okay?” I shook my head in agreement and handed him the paperwork. “Great,” he said. “You’ll start training on Monday. What time can you get here after school?” I thought about it for a few seconds and told him that I could be there at three-thirty. “Okay then, I’ll mark you down for Monday at three-thirty.” Then he handed me a maroon shirt, a blue apron, and a black mesh hat. “This is what you’ll wear to work. The hat is optional, just make sure that you wear long pants and closed toed shoes. No sandals.” I said thank you and told him how excited I was. He went back inside after shaking my hand, and I placed the shirt, apron, and hat in my backpack, on top of all my notebooks and folders, with the utmost care. Then I put my helmet on, unlocked my bike, and headed home as fast as I could.

I peddled hard and thought about my new job at the bagel shop. I thought about my first pay check and how much money I’d make, wondering what I would spend it on? I thought about how I would surprise my parents with the news. I wanted to tell them about everything that happened during the interview, everything except lying about my age, of course. I knew my dad would ask logistical questions, like how much I was to get paid per hour. My mom would ask different questions, like if I was allowed to bring leftover food home, after my shift. I thought about these things for a while, until I remembered what was inside of my backpack. All of a sudden, a new found pride began to swell inside my chest, just thinking of it. I couldn’t wait to get home; I was dying to try on my new uniform and see my reflection in the mirror – so I peddled faster.

Kel & Serg

My sister Kelly is getting married in November! I was super excited when she and Sergio asked me to take their engagement pictures. I drove north to UC Davis for the shoot, just outside of Sacramento, California, where Kel & Serg are currently working on their Ph D’s. It was fun to take pictures of them in the area where they first met, and where they will spend the first years of their marriage. Most of the pictures were taken at a farm, on the UC Davis campus, where Sergio spends a lot of his time working and practicing his knowledge of animal science. We waited for the best possible light to take the pictures, just before sunset. I shot all the pictures with available light, using a 35mm film camera, 50mm lens, and two rolls of film. I was glad to be able to take pictures of Kelly and Sergio, knowing that later in life, they’ll be able to look back at these pictures and remember the early season of their relationship. Below are some of my favorite shots.

First Lines of a War Story

That gray piece of steel carried me away in my nineteenth year. I stood tall and proud on the deck of the U.S.S. New Mexico in a uniform that smelled of detergent and starch and watched the world of my youth fade in the distance much quicker than I ever thought it could. Everything became blue from the deck of that ship. So blue, in fact, that it became impossible to tell where the ocean ended and the sky began. In the weeks that followed I would arrive in France and, somehow, unbeknownst to me, survive one year, nine months, and seventeen days on the battlefields. Another gray piece of steel then carried me back home in my twenty-first year, an altered man.

Roller Rink

“My life is a sham.” I say this aloud and let the truth slap my face. A pause follows before I say it again, only louder. I aim these words towards my mirrored reflection which hangs, like a sad picture, above the employee restroom sink. It has taken thirty minutes of standing in front of this mirror for me to realize the truth, come to terms with it, and ultimately speak it. To calm my nerves, I grab a cigarette from the pack of smokes rolled in my shirt sleeve and light it with a match, take a long drag, and let the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling deeply. I continue to stare at my reflection in this fashion, smoking, until my cigarette shrinks to a nub and burns the tips of my fingers.

It’s then that I glance at my wrist watch, realizing I have but a few minutes to ready myself. I pull the single faucet handle towards my body and let the cold water run on full blast. The cigarette butt and ashes disappear down the drain while I wash my face and wet my hair. Afterwards, I dry my face with stiff paper towels, then grab a flat comb from the back pocket of my leather pants, slick back my hair, and straighten my mustache. Although my appearance has improved, I still feel hollow. But there’s no more time to think about these things. It’s Friday night and my shift at the Velvet Skate is about to begin.

After unlocking the restroom door, I skate towards Dory, Pat, and Eli, my faithful employees, all whom appear concerned when I meet them in front of the concession stand.

“Hey guys, how’re we looking?” I ask, a little too cheerful. “Are we all set to kick off the night?” They seem surprised by my phony enthusiasm, almost shocked. I continue to talk about the progression of the night in this tone, trying to hide my true mood from them, but they seem to realize something is off.

“Boss,” Dory cuts in. “Is everything alright?” She looks at me with concerned eyes; her dark pupils appear magnified by the thick rimmed glasses which rest on her nose. “You disappeared for over half an hour in the restroom. We came to check on you and heard you talking in there, kind of yelling. You sounded pretty upset.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about all that. Everything is fine though, really.” I say, and pause. “But you’re mistaken if you thought I was talking to myself. Crazy people do that sort of thing. I was actually on the phone with an old friend. We were arguing about something, someone, from the past. I’d rather not get into the details of the conversation, but there you have it.“

“Are you sure Boss?” Pat asks. He looks at me, confused – unbelieving.

“Yeah,” Eli chimes in. “You can talk to us if you want.”

These are the last people I would ever talk to about anything remotely serious. “I’m fine,” I say, with a big phony smile. “Really, I’m fine. I mean it. Thanks for checking though. It’s nice to know that if something were ever wrong – though nothing is – that I could talk to you guys about it. Thanks, really. That means a lot. But I promise everything’s fine.” What a lie. I make sure and look sincere as I talk. “I feel great.” What an even bigger lie. “This is going to be a great night, right? I can feel it!” This is hands down the biggest lie yet. I can’t feel anything except the weight of these fabrications. I hate my job. I wish I were living someone else’s life.

“Okay,” Dory says. “But I’m here if you need to talk about something.”

“Me too,” Pat says.

“Yeah,” Eli says, nodding his head. I assume this gesture is his way of informing me that he’s also available to confide in.

“Thanks guys, honestly, but everything is alright.” To make sure the conversation comes to a close, I study my wrist watch and inform the team that it’s almost seven. “Is everyone ready?” I ask.

“Concession stand’s all ready Boss,” Dory says. She looks straight at me and waits for my approval. I can see the slimy hotdogs spinning on the grill behind her, and I can hear the popcorn machine busy at work.

“Everything looks great Dory,” I say.

“The rental booth is all set. Skates are clean, tuned, and ready to go Boss.” Pat says.

“Great. Thanks Pat.” I wait for Eli to speak next, but he doesn’t. He just stands there beside Pat and Dory, looking down at his skates. “And how are you looking Eli?” I ask.

“My booth is all set,” Eli informs me. “The tickets are printed and the cash register is accounted for. I’m already to go when you give me the green light.” He says all this while still looking down.

“Great! Wonderful!” I say with excitement, like I actually care. “Let’s have a quick uniform check, and then we’ll get into position.

Suddenly Dory, Pat, and Eli stand tall in their uniforms. I look them over from top to bottom. We are all wearing the same ridiculous outfit: purple roller skates, black leather pants, and a velvet collared shirt that perfectly matches our skates. Dory’s added purple eyeliner and silver hoop earrings to her uniform, as well as purple nail polish and clear lip gloss. God love her anyways. She loves her job. Pat’s greasy brown hair is back in a ponytail and Eli’s beard appears brushed and kempt, otherwise they look like me, and add nothing to the uniform.

“Everyone looks great.” I say. But actually, we look like a bunch of clowns. “We’re all ready then. Everyone take your position.” And just like that, my faithful employees heed my call and skate towards their stations. Dory’s already behind the counter of the concession stand, arranging candy boxes and other things. Pat is giving the skates their final spray of Odor-Free in the rental booth, and Eli has disappeared to his ticket counter to begin checking people in.

I skate from the concession stand to the center of the rink, where a walled island protrudes from the wooden floor. This is my station, or rather my prison. I open the trick door to the MC Booth, climb a few stairs in my skates, and get into position. The first things I do are shut off the house lights and bring the purple mood lighting up to its maximum level. The entire facility is transformed in a matter of moments. The disco ball which hangs above the island, above my head, is turned on next, and soon the whole rink moves in circles of little white lights. I wait for the first teeny-boppers to enter the rink before I start the music. This will be my last moment of peace for the remainder of the night; I cherish the silence, closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and dreaming of life far from this roller rink. The moment is short lived though. People begin to pour in through the double doors, just past Eli’s ticket booth. With regret, I drop the needle of my record player on a worn album, and another chaotic night begins. I look back at my wrist watch: only five hours left until my shift ends, until we close the doors at midnight.

As soon as the roller rink begins to fill and bustle with activity, I’ll get on the microphone and tell everyone how happy I am that they joined us, “here at the Velvet Skate.” I will continue on with a spiel that I know by heart, acting genuine and enthused all the while. I will lead a bunch of hormone-wild teenagers and their chaperones through the backwards skate, the speed skate, red light green light, and the doubles skate – to name just a few. Time will move slowly. People will come to the island, my prison, and request their favorite songs, and present “shout-out’s” to be made over the microphone. I will oblige these requests with a false demeanor. But no one will know the difference. I’m too good at what I do, and that’s what scares me the most. Sometimes I will leave the island with a wireless microphone in hand and skate with the crowd. They’ll love me and my uniform. They’ll love the lights and the music and the popcorn. For them time will move too fast, and before they know it I’ll be making my final announcement. I will say how glad I am that they came to skate with us, “here at the Velvet Skate.” I will thank them for coming and ask them come back soon. Lies. All lies. I wish they never came. I hope they stop coming.

At Night When I Sleep

There is a man in my dreams who wears a salt and pepper beard; his face is tough and worn like leather. He is sitting alone on a large bench, near the corner of a very busy street in Rome, Italy. I’m backpacking, young, and bearded, walking from the central train station with a map in hand, in search of a hostel. I notice him from afar. His face is down, legs crossed, body slouched, and his eyes are closed. He’s wearing green sweat pants, sandals, and a tomato colored polo shirt. I leave the busy foot traffic and move closer to him, pulled, lured for some unknown reason. He’s asleep in a kind of stupor, so much so that I can hear his wild and uneven breathing.

I look at my watch: almost noon. It’s the middle of summer, hot, and humid. Tourists and locals swarm the streets. I look around at all the people, but no one seems to notice this man except for me. As I watch him from just a few feet away, I myself grow increasingly tired, as if caught in a trance. I loosen my backpack in a state of weakness, slide the weight from my shoulders, and drop the pack on the cement. The map then falls through my fingers and lands beside the pack. Sweat slides down my shoulder blades from where the backpack held tight against my frame. My head starts to feel weightless as if suddenly filled with hot air, and my eyes begin to water and blur to shades of black. It’s then that I collapse and fall down on the bench in one fluid, lifeless movement, now sitting, sandwiched, beside this sleeping man. He doesn’t flinch from the collision, never once wakes from his slumber. I can barely fight the weight of my eye lids any longer – like doors they long to shut, but I struggle and look over at him one last time, almost in question.

It’s then that I notice him holding something in his grip: a green long neck with beads of sweat running down the bottle. I lick my lips twice, still fighting to stay awake, and reach for the bottle. I’m sweating from the heat and my hand slips from the glass. I’m exhausted yet I try again, this time managing a good grip, and pry it from his hands. I notice some beer splash out the top from the struggle before my eye lids flop, and everything turns black. I lift the bottle to my mouth in the darkness, half asleep, and empty the ice-cold liquid down my throat. The bottle then slips from my hand, and I hear it shatter on the cement before giving into the trance and falling into a state of unconsciousness.

Much later, in the middle of the night, I awake on the very same park bench, alone, wearing green sweat pants, sandals, and a tomato colored polo shirt. The man is gone, and so are my backpack, map, and the clothes that I was wearing. I get up from the bench in a state of confusion and panic, then hear something crunch under my feet. I look down and find bits of green glass scattered beneath me.

Wedding Film

A few months back I returned to shooting film; I sold my Digital SLR and bought a professional grade 35mm camera and a few rolls of film. Although film processing has become much less convenient than digital formatting, I was excited to move away from pixels and return to grain. Without the option to preview and delete pictures, I understood that my new camera would force me to realize my surroundings, and shoot a great deal tighter. Shortly after purchasing the camera, I was invited to a close family friend’s wedding in the vineyards of St. Helena – an extension of the Napa Valley. The wedding seemed to be the perfect opportunity to become acquainted with my new camera, and I promised Heather – the bride – that I would take a roll or two for her at the wedding. The wedding ceremony and reception were both very intimate, relaxed, and a lot of fun. The weather turned out to be perfect, and St. Helena couldn’t have been any prettier. I was so happy to watch Heather and her husband Gabe enjoy their day. I really had fun shooting, and the process helped me return to the world of film in a dramatic way. Below are a few of my favorite shots.

Top Ten

I traveled Europe for a bit - from the end of July to mid December, 2008. Below are my Top Ten favorite pictures from my Journey. I took over a thousand pictures.

Bonus