"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
Helen Abigail Kroeger, 61, of 4 Lester Road, Putnam died early Friday morning at Keen Memorial Hospital in Putnam. Mrs. Kroeger had been fighting cancer for the last five years. She worked as a receptionist at the Putnam County Nuclear Power Plant from the age of twenty, leaving her position just a few months shy of her fortieth anniversary with the company. She was active in the Second Congregational Church as well as a former member of the Putnam PTA. Mrs. Kroeger is survived by her husband Murphy Reginald Kroeger, her two loving sons Shane and Ryan, and a daughter. Wake and funeral services will be held at the Trafalgar Brothers Funeral Home beginning on Sunday and concluding Monday.
“Eddie, wake up!”
Eddie Sanchez was asleep on the childhood bed of his wife Megan on the second floor of the Kroeger house. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on since the day before when the irate voice of his wife ripped him from his slumber.
“What is it?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Read this,” she said, handing him a white piece of Xerox paper.
His eyes scanned through the passage, muttering the words out loud as he went along. “…and a daughter?” he said, raising his voice once he realized why she was upset.
“Fucking unbelievable,” she raged. “It so figures that they would pull some shit like this. I have to go talk to Shane.”
“You need me to come with you?” Eddie offered.
“No. This is family business. I can handle it myself.”
Megan stormed out of the bedroom. For a minute Eddie contemplated going back to sleep. The drive had been long, followed by the shock of finding her mother already gone once they arrived. They’d set up camp at the Kroeger house, despite some hesitation on both their parts. Shane assured her that Ryan wasn’t growing marijuana in the basement anymore, which Eddie felt eased her mind a little, and Greta had offered to stay at the house to help with all the phone calls and anything else she could. It wasn’t long after they dropped their bags in her old bedroom that the two of them fell asleep.
The nap had been short and only mildly restful, lasting maybe four or five hours at best. Megan’s pillow had an amorphous damp spot on one side, suggesting she hadn’t slept quite as well as her husband. Looking outside Eddie could see that it was some time around noon, the sun at its peak. With still so much of the day left to face he needed a recharge. Looking around he found his shoes, one tipped on its side, sitting next to a hamper near the door. He slid them on and threw a hooded sweatshirt over his head before exiting the room.
Walking through the upper hall and down the stairs Eddie got a clearer look at the Kroeger home. Their arrival had been fairly hectic and stressful, the daze of sleeplessness not really allowing a chance for a good investigation of his surroundings.
The house was an average sized split-level, three bedrooms upstairs, the kitchen, living room, and dining room downstairs. At the bottom of another set of stairs was the notorious basement, which Eddie was not particularly interested in venturing down into. All the walls bore decorations, cheap paintings and family photos. There were bookcases everywhere, overflowing with dusty books, more photos, and assorted other knick knacks. Nothing was especially opulent, the theme better described as quantity over quality. But the impression it gave was of a house well lived in. It contained the artifacts of the life of a family.
Outside the front door opened onto a small wooden deck leading to the driveway. Two chairs sat in the corner near one side of the house, a railing in front dividing the end of wood and the beginning of asphalt. Eddie walked to the railing and rested his arms on the long, pressure-treated two by four. He dropped his head, allowing his neck to stretch. Then he puffed out his back, elongating his spine, working the kinks out of his flexibility. The sun poured down and he could feel its warmth on him. His sense of temperature was becoming more and more developed as time went on. The slightest change, warmer or colder, would instantly register in his body. Massachusetts was at least four or five degrees cooler than Washington and the midday intensity of the sun was a welcome gift from above.
As Eddie leaned against the railing, basking in the heat from a distant star, the door behind him opened and closed. Ryan stepped out onto the porch, a can of beer in his hand. He was stopped by the sight of Eddie standing there. “Hey, Chico,” he said.
“Eddie,” he corrected, turning his head to look at the youngest Kroeger.
“Whatever,” Ryan dismissed, taking a final sip from his can. “We’re out of beer. Gonna go down to the packy and pick some up.”
“I’ll let everyone know where you went,” Eddie offered, trying to remain civil.
Ryan stood for a moment, watching Eddie, sizing the man up. Then he let out a mocking chuckle before reaching into the leg pocket of his cargo pants and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He flipped open the box and took one of the thin white tubes between his fingers. A book of matches was tucked into the plastic surrounding the box. Ryan put the cigarette in his mouth, sparked one of the matches, cupped his hands to his face and lit the tobacco at the end. With two quick puffs he got the cigarette burning, waving the match to extinguish it. Another puff, an exhale of gray, and he pulled the stick from his mouth. “Smoke?” he said, holding out the pack for Eddie.
Eddie looked at the offer, at first thought rejecting it. He’d never smoked in his life and saw no reason to start a bad habit now. But then the sun went behind a cloud, the temperature dropped a fraction of a degree, and a chill ran down his spine. Watching Ryan hold the cigarette to his lips, the tip flaring red as he inhaled, Eddie fixated on the warmth of handheld fire. “Sure,” he said, acquiescing. He pulled a cigarette from the pack and mimicked Ryan’s ignition sequence. Once lit he could feel the heat emanating from the slow burning fire at the end of the paper roll. Bringing it to his mouth he could feel his temperature rise. A quick puff and he took it away, watching the smoke drift into the air.
“Don’t just puff on the fucking thing,” Ryan chided. “You’ll burn through it too fast. You need to inhale, get the shit down into your lungs.” He demonstrated by taking a long draw on his cigarette, holding the toxic fumes in for several seconds before releasing them, a look of ecstasy on his face as he enjoyed the nicotine intake.
Again Eddie tried to repeat what Ryan had done, sucking the smoke through the filter and into his mouth. Once there it seemed awkward to inhale. Instead he swallowed the smoke down, wondering if this was how it was supposed to be done. As the vapor went down it burned along his esophagus and into his lungs. He held it in for as long as he could before coughing and exhaling. Not the most pleasing experience ever, but those few seconds of warmth were worth it. Eddie took another drag.
“So you’re a superhero?” Ryan asked. Eddie shrugged with the cigarette between his lips. “What was your codename?”
“The press named me Corona,” he said, breathing out.
“Like the beer,” Ryan said, his tone turning to brutish delight. Eddie nodded. “Is that like your favorite beer?”
“Actually,” Eddie said, moving to one of the chairs and sitting down, “I’ve never had one. I don’t drink.”
“You don’t what?” Ryan echoed in disbelief.
“It didn’t used to affect me, so I never bothered.”
“You mean you can’t even get a buzz?” This was a shock to Ryan’s system. “Wow, that must suck. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t drink. I fucking love getting wasted.” More smoking as the wheels in Ryan’s brain turned slowly. He took a seat in the chair next to Eddie. “Wait, you said used to.”
“That’s right. Now that I’ve lost my powers I can get just as drunk as the next guy.”
“Lost your powers, huh? That’s harsh.” Ryan seemed disaffected by the revelation. Then his brain drew another conclusion. “Oh, I see now. You lost your powers and now you’re trying to get back with my sister. What, not a superhero anymore so you’re having trouble getting pussy?”
Eddie grimaced at the question. “Not exactly.”
Ryan took a final puff of his cigarette before flicking it onto the driveway. “Whatever, man,” he said, getting up from the chair and starting to walk away.
Almost done with his own cigarette, Eddie stopped him and stood up. As he reached into his pocket for money he said, “Hey, can you pick me up a pack of these things. Here’s a ten. You can keep the change.”
“I plan to,” Ryan informed him, like there was never any question. He made a beeline to his truck, tossing his empty beer can in a nearby trash barrel as he went. As the truck backed out of the driveway and motored down the dead-end street Eddie headed back inside, hoping other matters had been resolved.
While Eddie learned the fine art of cigarette smoking on the porch with the younger Kroeger, Megan Sanchez tracked her older brother to the sectional couch in the living room. Shane was asleep with his head tilted back, snoring lightly. It was the second time her exasperation had to wake someone up.
“Get up!” she yelled, shaking him by the shoulder.
Like a slumbering bear Shane awoke, chomping his jaw, yawning in extreme, stretching his arms wide. At first he appeared confused, forgetting where he was and who had woken him. He looked around to get his bearings. Before he could fully digest his environment he was shoved by a forceful hand.
“What?” he said, angry and bewildered.
“What is this?” a furious voice interrogated.
Shane opened his eyes to a squint, yawning again. He leaned his head in and read the first few words on the page before he recognized what it was and stopped. Relaxing back into the couch, closing his eyes to return to sleep, he said, “It’s mom’s obituary. What does it look like?”
Megan was becoming more irate by the second. She shoved him again, harder than before. “Get the fuck up!” she demanded.
“I’m starting to get pissed off,” Shane warned, sitting up, his posture becoming more defensive.
“What is this ‘and a daughter’ shit?” she asked. “You two get listed as ‘loving sons’ and I don’t even get my name in there?”
“Relax,” Shane eased, “That’s just the short version. Your name is in the longer version.”
“The longer version only goes to the Putnam Bulletin, the weekly paper. It won’t even appear until next Wednesday. This one here goes to all the local dailies and you bastards have cut me out of it.”
Shane stood up and started for the kitchen, grabbing his cane as he went. “Well you’ll have to excuse me. My mother just died. My mind is on other things than obituary billing.”
Megan followed close behind, not willing to let the conversation drop. “That’s bullshit. This is just your own little ‘fuck you’ to me and you know it.”
In the kitchen Shane was reaching into the refrigerator and taking out a carton of orange juice. He walked over to the cupboard and got a glass. As he poured himself a drink he said, sarcastically, “Look, I’m sorry you were cut out. It’s just that you haven’t been around in years, I probably just forgot your name.”
“I can’t believe you’re pulling this on a day like today.”
“I tell you what,” Shane offered, scrounging through another cupboard for a snack and finding a bag of Goldfish crackers. “You want to be in the obituary, you call the newspapers and tell them to make the change. That thing was written back when mom first got sick and none of us knew whether you’d be around for the funeral anyway.”
With that Shane took his crackers and went back to the living room. A few seconds later Megan heard the television click on and some sporting event joined in progress. She looked around the kitchen, trying to remember where everything was. In a drawer near the telephone she found the yellow pages. Flipping through, she found the category she was looking for. A number halfway down the left page was what she needed. Megan picked up the receiver and dialed the first newspaper.
