I'm growing this plant on my kitchen windowsill. Right above the big alabaster double-sinks, on the 80-year old wood ledge at the base of the sinlge plateglass windows. It gets cold in the kitchen during the winter, but the sun that beams through on that side of the house keeps the plant well.

I was sitting in the breakfast nook this morning, enjoying my 6am cup of coffee and relishing in that intense light that slides through during the early winter hours. Just basking, sipping, gearing up - when I heard the sound. It was loud, but clear and crisp. Almost like the world smallest firecracker had gone off in my inner ear. The tiniest assault rifle had been fired from withing my cochlea.

I looked up and noticed that a tiny shard of the clay pot holding my plant had splintered off into the sink. It clattered against the ceramic surface. I slid my glance back up to the pot, and I could actually see the roots pushing out on the potter. The stone was swelling, flexing on all sides. Jesus.

With a periceing crackle the potter finally shattered into countless micropebbles, red and burning, raining down on the room. Fire was literally falling from the ceiling in my kitchen, as was potting soil and the occasional leaf or root. I hid under the table and shut my eyes.

This isn't happening.

This isn't happening.

So there I am, sitting head to head with the steadiest hand north of Reykjavik. I'm a little nervous becuase this guy's known world 'round. And I'm a lot nervous because I've got the small stack in a head to head game. Not good. But I can see his tells; the long-john wearing freak. Every time he bluffs he pulls at his stupid white beard. The only thing is, every time I get a good hand he backs out.

I'll have you know, I'm seasoned. I play poker like I'm sleeping off a hangover; so I find it hard to believe that this fat red bitch, for all his jolly grandeur, can possibly be reading me. I mean, we're talking about a fucking slob who probably works a day a year; and is, as we speak, drunker than shit. Fucking slurping at the tit of welfare.

I just can't figure it out. How is this sloppily drunk a-hole figuring out my bluffs? I mean, we're playing in his damn barn for chrissakes! His wife has been asleep for three hours, and the only witnesses to this embarassing asswhooping are a few bales of hay and a bunch of fucking rei-

Reindeer.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. And that red-nosed henchman of his, Rudy, is standing right behind me. These bastards were working the whole damn night! I'm pissed now, but every good player knows you never let 'em know you've got their tell.

I decide to play the next hand blind; because I'll be goddamned if they're gonna hem me up again with this crappy road game they've got going. Old Man Christmas doubles the ante after I check. I can see in his eyes that Rudolph ain't giving him shit. Which is good. I lay my face down on the table and peek at my cards. Flop aces.

I call, knowing Rudy ain't seeing shit of my hand, but also knowing he's the kind of lackey that fears his boss enough to act like he's in the know. Father Christmas calls me all in. I pause, make a fake look at the cards, fiddle with some chips. And that's when I set the hook: I beg him to throw me a house line to cover his bet, and I'll call him all in; the Great White North motherfuck!

He glances at his elf, then looks at me. 'Cept I know he ain't looking at me, because he's looking behind me to see what kinda nod Rudy's gonna give him about my hand. Like I said, that antler-festooned freak didn't see shit about my cards, but he sure doesn't want to fire up the bossman. Santa allows the house line and I pull him in. The community drops.

9.

Ace.

Jack.

I give a forlorn look and Santa grins behind his beard menacingly. My betting betrays the pocket pair, and my current look fools that fat Norweigan bastard into thinking I've lost it all to possible pair of Jacks. What he doesn't know won't - oh wait, yeah. He's all in. Maybe I will give him a sting; except I've nothing else to bet.

Mmm...maybe I do.

"So, you fat red bastard. I'm throwing in that prized red-nosed reindeer of yours."
"HA! But it's mine, you fool!"
"Yeah, but you two've been playing a road game on me all night. And probably been doing the same to others for countless years. He's mine to bet, or I spill the beans and every bankroller from here to Key West is going to be looking for your fat sleigh-riding ass."
Shock. Timidty. Silence. Rudy finally saunters from behind me for the first time all night. Santa's been called out to the front yard and he's got no cover.
"Fine," he says. "Lay it down. Your flop pair was worthless from the start."
Rudy snorts and sits in the hay, as the dealer drops the last two cards.

Jack. My heart throbs. I'm in it now if that sorry nothern fuck has one.

Ace. My heart stops. I know I've won but I continue to stare at the Jack in disbelief.

"HO, HO!" howls the nordic fucker. "You couldn't cover my three of a kind; you little punk!" He's pactically hopping, the big bastard. I just keep staring. I'm actually relishing his foolish posture. Then he leans into my face.
"Well, how does it feel; ye spunky rapscallion?" and laughs.
Personally, I hate it when he talks like that. Like being older than god's shit gives somebody the right to speak like some kind of fucking Hollywood pirate.

"I tell ya, it doesn't make me feel to bad," I say as I flip over my pocket rockets; "You fucking artic prick. Now I'm taking this measly pot home, and you're prized reindeer. Merry Fucking Christmas, eh? I hope that crapbox of yours has foglights, because I think it might be time for a good old fashioned reindeer roast. Oh, and might I get some lessons on driving this red-nosed freak back to my place? I'd hate to damage the goods before I had time to tender them up."

Yeah, and that's the story of the time I sat with the best and walked away. Hey, that bitch had it comin' to him a long time. Cocky fucker.

I bend myself back into reality as the ebb of my past tugs at my knees, shins, ankles, and away. I can practically feel the salt on my lips, the seabreeze on my face and the sand between my toes as the memory tsunami pulls back into the ocean.

Then I'm shoved ahead by the throngs trying to cross the street. A mass of corporate assholes so involved in their own career paths that they wouldn't even recognize their own suite-mate if they shouldered them out of the way in the crosswalk. God, I hate the city; but it's the only place I can be myself without having to 'fess up to being myself. My shoes are getting scuffed now, as I'm frog-marched across the street by an army of salesmen, brokers, traders, and other human diseases.

I'm practically shoved into the pretzel cart on the opposing corner as a tide of business people rush past. Literally, I can hardly move amongst the force of the several hundred brushed wool trench coats and Totes umbrellas that whisk past me.

I begin to suffocate. I'm going to be trampled to death here on this pretzel cart. I fold over and my chest presses against the corrugated aluminum surface as the pretzeleer(?) runs to escape the swelling rush-hour storm surge of Wall Street dicks making their Friday escape. The reek of steamed pork leavings fills my nostrils as my face is shoved into the piping hot water of the chafing dish that holds the weiners. Both hands grapple frantically for leverage but only find themselves in condiment trays or against the slick aluminum of the cart.

I'm drowning in the most disgusting sea of processed meat and sauerkraut one could imagine. It burns. And as much as I try, I can do nothing to improve the situation.

My lungs begin to burn, I can hardly feel my hands.

I'm passing out.

I leave the bar and, stepping into the tea-colored cascade of evening sunlight that's spilling over the highrises across the street, adjust my sunglasses and begin walking the block south. I notice how my neatly polished shoes seem to leave ripples in the cracked and creased concrete sidewalk upon which they tread. Shiny black, almost wet-looking, breaking up the hard textured surface of the grey sidewalk. The more I concentrate on them, the more I fall into myself. It's happening; the memory tsunami.
---
I'm 13 years old again; full of energy and ready to expend it all as quick as possible. Surrounded by tall pines and a gently glowing fire, Luke asks me if I want to "Be a part of the group, man!" Yeah, hell yeah; I nod and follow him into the dark beyond the shed. Just as I pass the shadow cast by the structure I'm set upon by fists, kneecaps, and elbows that seemed to spring from the darkness itself. An unidentifiable force pushes me into the dampening grass, and I feel the weight of several people on my chest as punches and boot heels rain down on my shoulders, back, and buttocks. Then silence.

I lay for a second, just trying to put myself in a place where I can sleep through whatever comes next. Then Gary thrusts an open palm in mine "Get up dude, you're in!" I'm confused, In? In what? I brush off the pine needles and grass stuck to my shirt and jeans. Luke and the guys are standing around, smiling, laughing; Hahahaha, you did good man. You're in!

Heh. Yeah, cool. Sup fellas, yeah.

Alright dude, now it's your turn.

"My turn?"

Yeah, you have to go find someone now. Bring 'em back.

I'm not proud that it didn't occur to me that I'd been almost instantly co-opted by greed. I was happy to be part of the power elite. Who wouldn't be right? Hell yeah I'll go get someone. We'll jump 'em in; and they'll get it too, just like I did. And they'll be grateful.

I picked the wrong kid.

My face contorts in regret as the tsunami tide rushes back out to sea and leaves a trail of scattered flash memories stacked on top of each other. These horrible things are left to roast in the harsh, noon sun that is hindsight. I drag myself out of the detritus that is my past and convince myself that 1994 doesn't exist anymore.

I found myself sitting alone at the bar in a dimly lit dive off the alley between 41st and Washington. It was one of those places shoe-horned amongst taller, more modern buildings; and I got the distinct impression that there were sections of the place that hadn't seen sunlight since the Roosevelt administration. It must've been early evening, because the only light coming through the front windows was that odd orange color, and it fell at a steep enough angle that I could watch the cigarrette smoke twirl and billow in the air. I looked down at my empty highball glass, my hands, examined the bleach white cuffs, pressed and starchy, poking out underneath the grey herringbone wool of my jacket sleeves. My cologne was beginning to fade, and I could feel my skin abrsorbing the smells of the bar. Smoke, stale beer, spilled whiskey, that stagnant moist tinge that hangs in still places.

"Another?"

I'm reeled out of my daze by the bartender. "Mm-ph," I barely mumble with a nod of my head. She pulls the Dalwhinnie down off the shelf and pours me two thick fingers. Twenty-nine years of peat, spring water, and oak barrel aging begin wafting around me. I pick up the small, gently sweating pitcher of ice water to my right and tenderly introduce a few drops, watching the alcohol and water dance around each other in the highball glass. Raising the drink to my lips, I savor the experience with my eyes closed as layer after layer washes over me. Mmm, quittin' time never tasted so good.

I spend about thirty minutes sitting in this empty dark dugout that passes for a bar, taking in the tired parade of commuters walking, riding, driving or biking down the street outside. The regular sounds of city transit buses push through the front wall of the bar in a muffled cadence, the occasional frustrated peal of a car horn, fragments of conversations held waiting for the 'WALK' light; and keeping time for them all is the rhythmic chorus of a homeless man begging for change.

Silently, my mind wanders. Seeing, hearing, wondering; but never interacting. Simply absorbing and coallating, organizing these shards of the human experience in an effort to...to do who knows what. Make a collage I guess. I swallow the last stringent dram from my glass, fish a few spare dollars from my coat pocket and place them on the bar. It's time to get going.