Sad Poems reflect on the darker, sadder side of life. These expertly crafted verses cut to the poignant truths of love, loss, hope, fear, desire, struggle and other human conditions.

The following nuggets of sublime writesmanship are inspired by the pathos of living and working in the Orient. While not a bildungsroman, they have no shortage of spiritual development or awesomeness.

To read my original Sad Poems, click on this link.

A well worn wool cap
Grey cloth against patchy grey hair
Golden brown folds of sun chapped skin
Eyes as anuses upon a wrinkled canvas of stoic emotion
The old man sits on a wooden chair with red padded seat
The ground dusty from construction
He wears slippers, though he is outside
He has a container of well-steeped tea sitting beside him
His look is neither of boredom nor joy
It’s inscrutable
An expression as timeless as the sun that warms him
I wish I knew how to ask him if there was a public bathroom nearby.

The Little Ones

No greater joy than a child’s embrace
A small little mouth giving a kiss to your face.
The innocence and wonder
The energy and spunk
No one I was arrested for writing this junk.

The Okay Wall

There is a wall between us.
It is made of stone and hostility.
I attack it with swords and spears
But it withstands my ability.
I’m not a Manchurian.
You’re not a Ming.
Why would you ever build such a thing.
Walls can be great
Walls can be tall
But holding back my love
They are certain to fall.

The Man and the Moon (Dave Don’t Know)

Glowing orb upon the negative sky
Reflecting the hope of the day into my gloomy eyes
For millennia you have watched over the earth
When amoebae became bigger amoebae and dinosaurs ruled the roost.
I am but a speck in your memory,
A selfish little fellow urinating on his neighbor’s roses because of some remarks the neighbor shouldn’t have made about someone else’s roses.
Petty concerns these are to you, oh wise one.
But you don’t have to roll your eyes at me
I’m not worthless.
My roses are pretty awesome.
Dave don’t know.
Dave don’t know.

The Marks I Bare

A belly grown plump and healthy like a steamed dumpling
Tired, bloated hawthorn berries for eyes.
These are the marks I bare.

Willy Can You Hear Me?

Will can you hear me?
Oh Willy can you hear me?
Can you hear the sound of my heart being ripped out from behind my ample breasts when you didn’t return my text message?
It was a simple question.
Just eleven characters via overpriced cellular transmission.
DO U MISS ME?

Clam

I’m in emotional pain right now.
Also, I’m a clam.

Dingdongdeadendrelationship

I needed you to cheer me up when I was blue
I needed you to tie my shoe
I needed you to cut me down
I needed you to build me up

I’ve been with you for far too much time
and all you did was borrow my love and DVDs
I made your bed, and cared for your dead.
I lost my mind time after time
I was head over heals.
You used me and abused me
Never returned Free Willy.
But that’s okay.
We’re through.

I needed you to realize I don’t need you.

To Not Have and to Not Hold

The inky blackness surrounds me
I’m getting so old
All alone in the pit
With no one to hold

Nik: Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to chat with me today, Mario Lopez.

Mario: No problem, man.

Nik: So what’s on your mind these days?

Mario: Not much. I just wrapped filming The Dog Who Saved Christmas, so I’m taking some time to myself.

Nik: Care to share anything juicy on the new movie?

Mario: Well, its got a really strong cast: Dean Cain, Elisa Donovan, Adrienne Barbeau, Tino Struckmann—it was a great group to work with. Michael Feifer’s vision for the whole thing was really inspiring. Trust me, he makes sure that you really root for everyone, especially the dog that saves Christmas.

Nik: It says that you play “Zeus” in movie. Is this the same Zeus that punished Hera by having her hung upside down from the sky when she attempted to drown Heracles in a storm?

Mario: Um, I don’t think so. I play Zeus, the dog.

Nik: Did you know that Zeus the god’s favorite tree was an oak? For him it was a symbol of strength. What is your favorite tree, Mario Lopez?

Mario: I’ve never really thought of that before…I guess it would be a palm tree.

Nik: Do you think you like palm trees so much because you were born in San Diego? They must have a lot of them down there, even though they’re not native.

Mario: Haha, maybe so!

Nik: So… “Lopez” is a Mexican last name?

Mario: Yes. Both of my parents are from Culiacán, Mexico.

Nik: Are you by chance related to George Lopez?

Mario: No, but I do have an uncle named George!

Nik: Is he funny at all?

Mario: Well to us he is. Not as funny as the comedian though.

Nik: I don’t actually care for George Lopez’s style of humor very much. I’m more of a Demetri Martin or Patton Oswalt type of guy.

Mario: Never heard of them.

Nik: So Mario, what are your thoughts on the Afghanistan conflict? The situation over there is looking worse even after years of our involvement.

Mario: True. The number of insurgent attacks is up. We’re sending over more troops. The Taliban is a very aggressive enemy, and it’s proving difficult to stop their momentum and focus on protecting and safeguarding the Afghan civilians.

Nik: Do you think the country is at risk of becoming a “failed state” as some fear?

Mario: Well, it’s definitely possible. Afghanistan is burdened by increased Taliban violence, growing illegal drug production, and fragile state institutions. The international forces within Afghanistan have not been able to hold territory they have cleared because of the lack of troops. The mission is hampered by a lack of agreement on objectives, a lack of resources, lack of coordination, too much focus on the central government at the expense of local and provincial governments, and too much focus on Afghanistan instead of the region.

Nik: Do you think you have so much interest in the military because your father was a Major in the army? Do you remember when you almost had to move away from Bayside because he was going to get stationed somewhere else? It must have been tough having to move around some much as a child.

Mario: That wasn’t my real dad.

Nik: I don’t remember reading about you being adopted.

Mario: “Martin Slater” was just a character.

Nik: He sure was! Speaking of characters, what ever happened to Screech? Do you ever keep up with your old pals from Bayside?

Mario: Not really. I spoke to Mark Paul a few years ago at some fundraiser.

Nik: Who?

Mario: Zack Morris.

Nik: Did he still have that enormous cell phone, or has he finally gotten one of those hip new Razrs everyone is talking about?

Mario: I don’t know, man. I didn’t see his phone.

Nik: No worries. So Mario, one of the things that has been your claim to fame over the years is your chiseled physique. Any tips on how you stay in such great shape?

Mario: No secret really, just a good diet, exercise, and lifting weights.

Nik: There’s not some kind of wonder pill that you take so you can eat whatever you like and not exercise?

Mario: Nope. That kind of pill doesn’t exist.

Nik: Crap.

Mario: For me, staying in such good shape is part of my livelihood. Unfortunately it’s not just enough to be a good actor, you have to look good too. I think of it like a job requirement.

Nik: Kind of like having to do time sheets?

Mario: Yes.

Nik: I think I’d rather do time sheets than exercise.

Mario: Not me. I love to exercise.

Nik: Good for you. So you’re sure a person like you isn’t just lucky and has good genes, making it unfairly easy for him to get ripped muscles and tight abs?

Mario: Maybe genes are a part of it, but I think a good body is possible for anyone. They just have to make it a goal.

Nik: I guess so. So what do you enjoy more: dancing with the stars or hosting shows like Miss Teen USA?

Mario: I like them both. They are both great challenges in their own ways.

Nik: Did you get to go back stage during the Miss Teen USA shows? Anywhere near the dressing rooms or anything?

Mario: The dressing rooms were in a totally different area than my lounge.

Nik: I see. So, I’ve read on the internet that you admit to enjoying an occasional cigar?

Mario: Yes.

Nik: Did you, Dick Clark, and Danny Bonaduce ever smoke cigars together while working on The Better Half?

Mario: The Other Half, you mean?

Nik: Oops, yes. When you guys were working on that show, did you know about The View at all? To me it seemed like such a blatant rip.

Mario: Well, why not? Every network was try to cash in on that format back then. Our show was a unique peek into the minds, mentalities, and secrets of men for the benefit of women. Too bad it wasn’t the hit we hoped for.

Nik: I can’t begin to see why, you guys had such chemistry up there. Much more so than those rich, whiny old hens on The View.

Mario: Haha, Totally. But you can’t fight ratings.

Nik: You sure can’t. Well Mario Lopez, it has been great talking to you today. Any closing words?

Mario: This holiday, be sure to check out The Dog Who Saved Christmas.

Nik: Thanks again. Be sure to check out Mario Lopez this holiday in The Dog Who Saved Christmas.

Mario Lopez is a television star known for his role as A.C. Slater on Saved By The Bell, as well as a popular prime time television host.

Nik Daum is eating a candy bar.

Nik: Thanks for sitting with me today, Steve Jobs. Nice shirt. Do you mind if I just call you Steve?

Steve Jobs: Yes.

Nik: Meaning, yes I can call you that? Or yes, you mind that I call you that?

Steve Jobs: The second.

Nik: No worries. So Steve Jobs, a lot has been happening in the personal computer world since you founded Apple in the 70s. What do you think has been the biggest recent advance? Second Life? Powerful smart phones?

Steve Jobs: The Internet.

Nik: Yeah, the Internet is an amazing development. I think back to when I first got online back in the graphical BBS days. I didn’t have a Mac back then, I’m a little scared to admit. You probably didn’t have to deal with all the complications of winsock and modem drivers, but to me I felt like I was learning the handshake to a secret society. I used to spend forever online. Luckily, my father was smart enough to subscribe to unlimited dial-up. I had a friend that paid by the minute. Did you ever have to do that?

Steve Jobs: No.

Nik: According to my friend it sucked. He had a big thing for Teri Hatcher and had to wait forever to download photos of her, racking up the bill. Haha, “racking.” That was unitentional. Anyway, he’d share the pics with me on 3.5 floppies, along with shareware games. She was pretty hot in that Superman show.

Steve Jobs: I disagree.

Nik: Fair enough. To me it wasn’t so much her appearance, but more her strength and allure. I can’t remember if her and Superman ever were a couple or not, I’m pretty sure they were by the end of the show. There was a certain hokeyness to it all of course, but the Superman universe has always been that way. I was always more of a Batman fan anyway. It’s funny, because I’m scared of bats in real life. Maybe that’s why it’s so powerful to me, the black suit strikes at a guttural level. Much like one of the Dark Knight’s punches.

Steve Jobs: {coughs}

Nik: Sorry, I’m getting off track. Speaking of the internet, what are some of your favorite websites? I like Facebook and celebrity gossip sites.

Steve Jobs: Those sites are a waste of time. For me, it’s the idea of the web that I find fascinating. One, it’s ubiquitous. And anything that’s ubiquitous gets interesting. Two, I don’t think anyone will figure out a way to own it. There’s going to be a lot more innovation, and that will create a place where there isn’t this dark cloud of dominance.

Nik: Are you worried about dominance? Is it because Mac desktops have such a small market share compared to say Microsoft?

Steve Jobs: The desktop computer industry is dead. Innovation has virtually ceased. Microsoft may dominate, but that’s not where the exciting things are happening these days. Apple has an exciting platform in the iPhone. Devices like that won’t ever make desktops useless, but for many people they will be good enough to be their only computing device.

Nik: Do you hope to dominate the mobile space like Microsoft dominates the desktop space? Won’t that make you the “Microsoft” of mobile?

Steve Jobs: Domination discourages innovation. But yes, we hope to be successful in that area.

Nik: So basically, Apple wants to be Microsoft?

Steve Jobs: That’s not what I’m saying.

Nik: What about Google then?

Steve Jobs: Google has been phenomenally successful, but we operate in different spaces.

Nik: Except the cell phone operating systems space?

Steve Jobs: Well yes, but remember that Google positions Android as an open platform. iPhone OS is indissolubly tied to our hardware so that we can offer the consumer the best experience.

Nik: Can you elaborate on what you mean by “indissolubly”?

Steve Jobs: I mean that the iPhone is the sum of its hardware and software.

Nik: Yes, but what does “indissolubly” mean?

Steve Jobs: It means lasting, or unable to be destroyed.

Nik: Kind of like the word “inseparable”?

Steve Jobs: Yes.

Nik: Okay, I get it now. So Steve Jobs, what search engine do you use most. Google?

Steve Jobs: Yes.

Nik: Do you use an iPhone?

Steve Jobs: Of course.

Nik: Do you search Google on your iPhone?

Steve Jobs: Yes.

Nik: I do too. Here, let me google your name right now… The first result is for your Wikipedia entry. Wouldn’t you say Wikipedia is like the iMac of online encyclopedias?

Steve Jobs: What are you talking about?

Nik: Meaning that the iMac reinvigorated the world of online encyclopedias. It was the first to bring together good design, reasonable price, and a legion of peer edited entries on any subject. Even subjects traditional encyclopedias would be unwilling to cover. Did you know there is an entry on the game Rex Nebular and the Intergalactic Gender-Bender? Britannica certainly won’t devote an entry to a lesser-known adventure game with a few boobs in it.

Steve Jobs: Well, the iMac certainly received considerable critical acclaim and helped bring Apple out of its slump. I don’t think your analogy makes sense though. I’m assuming you mean that the iMac revolutionized desktops much as Wikipedia revolutionized encyclopedias.

Nik: That’s not what I meant at all.

Steve Jobs: {coughs}

Nik: So, Steve Jobs, all of my readers are dying to know what the next big Apple product is going to be. There are a lot of rumors about a revolutionary tablet device floating around these days. Is this your “one more thing”?

Steve Jobs: I won’t talk about unreleased products.

Nik: Fair enough, but can you at least tell us the screen size? A lot of people wonder what the market is for a device that’s basically a scaled up iTouch.

Steve Jobs: It’s “iPod Touch.”

Nik: Well Steve Jobs, it’s been a great visit. Any parting words?

Steve Jobs: No.

Steve Jobs is co-founder and CEO of Apple Inc. and former CEO of Pixar Animation Studios.

Nik Daum has accomplished nothing with his life.

Earlier this Wednesday morning I was bicycling to work, lost amongst my own thoughts and the chaotic weaving of the rickshaws and automobile taxis when I noticed the city getting darker. It was quite a perplexing sight to see a city, which under usual circumstances would be in daylight, suddenly become night. It was as if some celestial body was blocking the rays of the sun!

Needless to say, Smash Mouth was not the proper score for such a moment. I quickly pressed the advance button on my music device. All that glitters as gold was bought a new life by the honest melodies of Everclear.

I stopped my conveyance and looked skyward. It had begun to rain. A single drop of water hit my cornea in a shocking manner. I lowered my head, raised the sleeve of my shirt, and applied adequate cloth to my eye in order to dry it.

With my eye sufficiently dry, I look again at the still darkening sky. By some twist of the odds, another hefty water drop hit my eye again. I repeated the early process of cloth to eye and decided then that it would be unwise for me to tempt fate thrice.

By now the anachronistic twilight had deepened into night. The polluted haze of the distance faded, and the street around me began to disappear. The ground grew dim and the trees black, as did the old lady sitting in a chair picking her nose and the man spitting in the gutter. Fears and fatigue grew upon me.

The street after it had turned to night.

I do not know how long I stood in the darkness.

Suddenly, I was roused by a soft hand touching my face. Starting up in the darkness I snatched at my M16 with attached combat flashlight. Flipping the switch, I saw three stooping creatures similar to the ones I had seen in the daylight, hastily retreating before the light. Living, as they did, in what appeared to me impenetrable darkness, their eyes were abnormally slanted and sensitive. I have no doubt they could see me in that rayless obscurity, and they did not seem to have any fear of me apart from the light. But, so soon as I pressed the trigger and fired six clips of rifled bullets into the air in order to see them, they fled incontinently, vanishing into dark alleys and convenience stores, from which their eyes glared at me in the strangest fashion. I set my M16 on a nearby curb and sat down on the curb nearby the M16. My plan was to stay perfectly still. Maybe then these creatures would forget of my existence.

Looking into the darkness while sitting perfectly still and hoping the creatures wouldn’t find me.

I was afraid of course, uncertain how to navigate to my office through what could have been millions of these creatures. J. had put this into my head by some at first incomprehensible remarks about the Anachronistic Night. At the time, it was a very difficult problem to guess what the Anachronistic Night meant. J. often gave me odd menacing prophecies before I left for work. That morning, I assumed that her recent warning was of the same league as “don’t eat steamed buns while biking” or “make sure a bus doesn’t hit you because you’re listening to The Backstreet Boys.”

Unfortunately, her prediction had come true. It was morning, and yet it was night. The moon was nowhere to be seen. I began to understand by slight degree the reason to fear a moonless night, especially one that happened during the day. Who knew what those creatures were up to, much less their intentions with me. To steady my nerves, I reached through the darkness for my trusted automatic assault rifle. It was nowhere to be found!

A cold sweat washed over me like warm sweat. My stomach was hit with a nervous emptiness as my bowels dropped to the street. One of the creatures had taken my firearm!

Oh wait, no, there it is.

But my quickly found relief turned to even more quickly found despair as I realized that I had expended all my shells mere minutes earlier during my panic in the dark. Drats to the impulsiveness of youth and optimism towards ammunition supply! I threw my firearm into the darkness and it skittered down the street with a hopeless clatter.

My empty firearm resting on the street, useless.

And now I was to see the most weird and wonderful thing, I think, of all that I beheld in that Anachronistic Night. The whole street was as bright as day with the reflections of the sun. In the centre was a bus, surrounded by gridlocked cars. Beyond this was another lane of conveyances, with yellow stripes dashed and writhing from the light, completely un-phased and traveling through the space with a sense of entitlement.

Upon the side-walk were some thirty or forty Chinamen, dazzled by the light and heat, and blundering hither and thither against each other in their bewilderment. It took a moment before the significance of these sights dawned on me. It was no longer dark. I looked at my timepiece. Six minutes had passed since nightfall.

According to the news agency the moon had passed in front of the sun, “eclipsing” it.

At the risk of disappointing the readers who may have been hoping for a more interesting tale, I fear I must agree with the assessment of the large bosomed woman on the television. But while the darkness may have only been caused by the perfect geometry of the heavens, know that I experienced the depths of hell. Part of my innocence vanished during those six minutes. And, as everybody knows now, it has never returned.

Gaylord had just walked around the corner of the garage when he was confronted by his mother.

“What were you doing back there?”

The boy had two options: tell the truth, or lie.

Behind the garage was a narrow path, an even narrower patch of grass with bushes, and a pile of logs. During the day, the heat from the sun warmed up the logs and radiated off the garage. It was a good place to pass the time. Gaylord had been eating an apple danish while watching ants swarm around fallen crumbs. The pastry was from his grandfather’s secret stash in the kitchen cabinet, behind a basket of budding sweet potatoes. This wasn’t the first time he had stolen one, and his grandfather speculated that about half his GODDAMN APPLE DANISHES ended up missing. Gaylord was skeptical of this number. Ten squashed and sorry-looking danishes lined each plastic tray. Even in a gluttonous week, he didn’t eat more than five. His grandfather was losing his mind.

“Gaylord?”

Put on the spot between the moral implications of lying and the incriminating truth, Gaylord spurted out a weird mix of the two.

“I, I was eating ants.”

Obviously Gaylord’s mother wasn’t buying it.

“Oh really? Then why did you Grandpa interrupt my work this morning with ‘WHERE ARE MY SIX GODDAMN APPLE DANISHES?’ According to him, they were all there last night, and now they’re gone. Are you sure that those ants weren’t actually puff pastries with apple topping? That would certainly taste more delicious than ants.”

“Jeez, is this guy taking inventory every hour?” Gaylord pondered. He twisted the tip of his shoe into the ground.

“Oh I agree. Ants probably, I mean do, taste horrible compared to goddamn apple danishes,” he said.

“I mean, not that I’ve had an apple danish recently. Seems that there used to be a lot around here, but someone stopped buying them.”

Gaylord’s mother rolled her eyes.

Until last year, there were plenty of danishes in the household. Gaylord feasted on them. No matter where they were hid, he seemed to have some Danish sense about finding them. She’d leave the room and come back to find the boy with a half-eaten danish in his mouth and another ready in his hand. Day and all night, this eating machine prowled. Crumbs covered the floor, apple residue clung to the doorknobs, and the cupboards looked like they’d been ransacked by the FBI.

Gaylord knew why there weren’t any more official danishes in the house. A sleepless night a year earlier, he wandering towards the kitchen in search of apple danishes. The boy stopped at the doorway; his parents were fighting. Most of their fights were related to money, but this fight was about apple danishes.

“I fear that if we cut off the supply of apple danishes completely, he’s going to wander off into the neighborhood to find some. And where do you think he’ll go? He knows that I buy them at Stensons. Can you imagine him trying to get to Stensons on foot, he’ll get run over. And I don’t want to even think about what happened in the alley!”

His mother was crying.

“It’s okay. No need to worry about that. It’ll be okay. But we don’t have the money to buy so many apple danishes. The way things are going, I don’t even know if I going to have a job next month. And even if we could afford it, it’s not healthy for him.” His father’s voice was calming but sad. He always seemed to be on the verge of losing his job.

That night in the kitchen, a plan was hatched. Gaylord heard it all. His grandfather would still get a steady supply of apple danishes. With all his medical problems, the old man needed a simple pleasure. Plus, his mother reminded, he was letting them live in the house for free. If Gaylord found this stash, which he most certainly would, his mother would secretly replace the missing danishes before anyone noticed. Gaylord’s mother hoped that the fear of getting caught would curb her son’s insatiable appetite. His mother would have to store a sizable buffer of danishes somewhere, as she didn’t have time to run to the store every day to buy more. Gaylord’s snuck back to bed as his parents rattled off possible hiding places.

“Mom, did you hear those weird sounds again last night?”

“What sounds?”

“It sounded like someone was digging a hole behind the garage.”

“It did?” His mother looked at the pathway.

“Yeah. There’s a big hole by the bushes today and the gate to the alley is broken.”

Mother and son went to investigate. Behind the bushes was a roughly dug hole. Dirt was everywhere. Beside the hole, a large tupperware container was upside down and torn open. Spilt crumbs attracted ants. The wooden gate was fine, but the metal latch had been broken off.

Gaylord’s mother looked at the hole with annoyance.

“You didn’t do this?”

Gaylord nodded no.

“Do you know what was inside that container?”

Gaylord knelt and picked up the tupperware. He sniffed it. The strongest smell was of dirt, then saliva. But there was also a faint smell of apples. Gaylord was perplexed.

“Smells like danishes. But who would bury them in the yard?”

His mother turned her attention to the gate.

“Wait here a second, I’m going to go find some screws to fix that thing.”

She went into the house and came back a few minutes later with rope. She couldn’t find any screws and the drill battery was dead. Gaylord helped her tie the gate closed. The fibers on the old rope were scratchy.

“Gaylord, will you be okay alone for a while? I need to go pick up some groceries before your dad and grandpa get home from the doctor.”

Gaylord nodded yes.

His mother ran to the house to get her car keys, backed the station wagon into the street, and waved goodbye.

All alone, Gaylord watched as the late afternoon light turned red and low. More and more of the backyard became shadow and the house started to creak as it cooled off for the night. The bushes and trees blended together into chaotic blackness. A bare bulb above the garage illuminated some putty-colored plastic trash cans. When the garbage was full, his dad would lug them to the alley.

Gaylord looked at the wooden fence. The boards were tall and tightly packed together, so it was impossible to see the alley except for looking through some of the knot holes. The lamp light in the alley was bright, and it shined through the holes likes stars in outer space.

“I could sure go for an apple danish right now,” the boy sighed.

The family used to have a lot of parties in that yard. Birthdays mainly. There were friends, pinatas, cake, lots of food and games. When he was younger, his father would rent a temperamental film projector to play movies on the side of the garage. The cartoons were a weird variety of whatever the company had, but they created vivid memories of dogs driving cars, coyotes getting injured, and other slapstick. Something about watching cartoons outside made them better.

There hadn’t been a party in a while and the yard seemed sad. His father had started repainting the garage last weekend, but hadn’t finished. Some paint cans and a screwdriver were in a pile next to the door.

Snap!

Something in the alley had stepped on a twig.

Footsteps crunched lightly on the gravel behind the wooden fence. The stars twinkled as it passed. Whatever it was moved cautiously, stopping as if spooked by its own noise. Gaylord’s heart raced. Was that old rope stronger than a metal latch?

Sneaking quietly towards the garage, he grabbed the screw driver and slipped into the darkness around the corner. The narrow space smelled strongly of dirt. It was quiet. Except something wasn’t right. Gaylord knew the gate had a big knot hole, but he couldn’t see it.

Tightening his grip on the screwdriver, he snuck as quietly as he could amongst the shadows to the fence. Someone was trying to be quiet on other side of the gate. He could hear breathing through the knot hole.

“You’ve had enough!” Gaylord screamed.

Gaylord jabbed the screwdriver through the hole with full force and it sunk into something juicy. Clear, warm liquid squirted onto his hand. Whatever was behind the gate thrashed around and the tool flailed wildly, making hollow plunks against the wood. Then it slipped through the hole and into the alley.

Gaylord stood still and listened to the interloper moan and stagger into a chain link fence. It screamed in rage and thrashed against the fence before it pulled itself up and continued down the alley. Footsteps faded into the night.

Gaylord tugged on the rope holding the gate closed. It was sturdy. He turned and ran to the house. Only the kitchen light was on. From inside, the backyard looked pitch black. Gaylord went to every room and turned on the lights, making sure that each door and window was locked. His mother still wasn’t back from the store and in the cabinet, behind the basket of sweet potatoes, there were no goddamn apple danishes.

Gaylord had a winning smile, no doubt about it. His teeth were full, straight, and solid-looking. For some reason, the boy’s permanent teeth came in early and suddenly. While Gaylord’s classmates were walking around with gap teeth and playing with the others dangling by nerves, Gaylord was well into a his new set. He never had braces, a fact that came as a shock to his childhood dentists.

But despite outward appearances, these teeth were a battleground of death, decay, and worry.

Dental hygiene was in casual regard in Gaylord’s house. His father brushed his teeth daily with such vigor that the tooth brush looked like it had been sat on. But over the years, tooth after tooth was pulled from his father’s mouth by an old Hispanic dentist named Dr. Gonzaga. This wasn’t the kind of dentist you went to for preventative care. Dr. Gonzaga was a last restort, and most likely his office was only equipped with various pliers. Thankfully, Gaylord never went to this dentist but he had clear memories of the man’s large greying mustache and forehead mole.

Gaylord’s mother had all her teeth, but some molars needed root canals due to cavities left unfilled. A few of her teeth had died already and were a darker shade. Her front teeth were getting thin at the biting edge, and had cracks running to the gums. Any hard food was bitten at a skewed angle to reduce the contact with these fragile blades. Eventually, his mother got two vibrant white crowns on her front teeth. She was able to bite through pipes, but feared that she looked a little like a rabbit.

Both parents had given up on their teeth, and rather than smiling vicariously through their son, they never really realized that proper dental care would prevent all that they had suffered.

Gaylord had a toothbrush, but he never flossed. The permanent teeth pushed out a mouthful of sorry looking baby teeth that resembled rotten kernels of corn. Soon, bacteria got to work on his new choppers.

The dentist Gaylord went to for most of his childhood worked from a flat building in a very normal looking office park. But inside, all of the dental work was performed in a sloppily build, neon-lit cave. The walls had fish tanks for windows and were stuccoed to look like stone. Doorways, light switches, and informative posters glowed under the purple light. Even without nitrous, the whole thing felt like a Flinstones drug trip.

“You have twelve cavities,” Gaylord’s dentist said without emotion.

Gaylord started crying. His mother, sitting in on a stool nearby started some math calculations and seemed on the verge of crying too.

“We only have money to fix some of them right now,” Gaylord’s mother told the dentist. “Can we schedule to fix the four most important ones first?”

Of course they could.

Gaylord and his mother walked out of the cave in silence. As she scheduled another appointment, Gaylord thumbed through the magazines in the waiting area. For a children’s dentist, the lobby didn’t have many magazines for children.

The light was harsh and the air muggy in the parking lot. The late summer sun had turned their black station wagon into a solar cooker.

Gaylord got the four fillings eventually. But by then, he had new cavities, and some of the old ones had gotten big enough to warrant crowns. In the battle between dental care and dental problems, the problems always seemed a step ahead.

Eventually a laundry list of repairs had been made inside Gaylord’s mouth: 10 fillings, 2 crowns, and a bridge between one baby tooth that was extracted. Somehow, his parents were able to pay for everything. Things seemed to be going fine.

Then came the discounted bag of Valentine’s Day candy.

A few days after Valentine’s day, Gaylord was shopping at the grocery store with his mother. They were clearing out shelves of seasonal merchandise and had slashed prices on all the pastel colored goods. The candy and cards had the deepest discounts and there was a bag of hard sour candies that were practically being given away. Gaylord added them to the cart.

The candy was awesome. A hard, shiny shell coated a chalky and sour center. In a rush to get to the centers, Gaylord ended up chewing rather than sucking most of them. In three days, he had finished that bag of clearance candy. His molars felt tender.

One night Gaylord had a dream. He was in a warehouse talking to a group of people who had just done something to rial a gang. Suddenly, the gang crashed their cars through the wall of the warehouse. The members got out and started beating everyone up. Some people were tied, others were killed. Gaylord was wrapped up in a blanket with only his head sticking out. The leader of the gang came over and looked down at the boy.

“You guys work for us now,” he said with a sly smile. “But first we need to build some trust.”

The man took out a thick stack of laminated papers and stuck them in Gaylord’s mouth, telling him to bite down.

“I want you to guard these documents. We’ll be back for them. Oh, and don’t think about taking them out of your mouth. They’ll explode if you do.”

The gang left. Gaylord was alone in the warehouse, lying on the floor and biting down on the papers. His teeth hurt. He needed to rest his jaw…

A blinding pain woke Gaylord from his troubling dream. At first he thought that the bomb had exploded in his mouth, but it was just a tooth. One of his crowned teeth throbbed and filled his head with shooting pain.

Gaylord kept the pain a secret for a week. Then it was gone.

A while later, the boy was looking at his confusing tooth in the bathroom mirror when he noticed a pimple-like blemish on his gums. Gaylord pressed it with his fingertip. It didn’t hurt. Over the next few weeks the sore grew bigger and bigger. He tried poking it with a thumbtack, but it was surprisingly firm. He showed it to his mother and she arranged a dental visit.

These were the post cave years. Gaylord felt he was too old to be hanging out in a cave, so his family started going to a normal looking dentist office on the far north side of town. His new dentist was very friendly, and his receptionist even more so. The heavily tanned and skeletal woman seemed to care about Gaylord and she remembered all sorts of things he had told her on past visits. Maybe she kept notes like some dentists. If so, she did a good job of acting like she didn’t. The dentist had a mustache like his father’s dentist, but it was more modest. No forehead mole.

“Your tooth is dead. That bump you see is puss from the infection in the root that has spread to your jaw. It’s a pretty big infection.” Gaylord’s new dentist looked at him for confirmation.

Gross.

“You’ll need a root canal. We should be able to keep the crown, but you might need a new one. The first thing we need to do is stop the infection.”

The sore was punctured and drained, and Gaylord was prescribed antibiotics. Since he was still too young to swallow pills, the medicine was suspended in a pink, sweet fluid that tasted delicious. He took his first dose in the parking lot outside the pharmacy.

It was lunch time, so they decided to drive through a fast food place before getting on the highway. Something about the greasy smell in the parking lot put Gaylord’s stomach in knots. He moaned and his mother stopped the car so that he could open the passenger door. Heave ho, vomit across the drive-through. For some reason it seemed to be comprised of canned peaches.

The root canal went smoothly. He was pumped full of novocaine, the crown was removed, and a hole was drilled in the tooth stump down to the dead nerves. Even without sedatives, the whole process was oddly calming. The dentist had to keep reminding Gaylord to stay awake so that he’d keep his mouth open. After the variety of rasps had removed the dead nerves, the hole was brushed with some kind of harsh smelling chemical and packed with paste. The crown was reattached with temporary cement, just in case the dentist had to get back in there for something he missed. Gaylord wondered if dentists ever left each other little notes inside people’s teeth. Would his note say “Keep this kid. Money pit.”

Gaylord didn’t feel like eating for the rest of the day. His mouth was fuzzy and tasted of chemicals.

That weekend, Gaylord was eating a bagel in his room when he bit down on something hard. Thinking it was a rock in his bagel, he pulled the wad of moist bread from his mouth and flung it out the window.

Then he realized his crown was missing.

Beneath his second story bedroom window was a large bush, grass, and fallen leaves. It was winter, so everything was dry. But everything was brown too, making it harder to find a wad of beige bread. Eventually he did. The crown was swaddled in bread and lying amongst the reeds like baby Moses.

Gaylord wondered if Moses had teeth problems too. Did he ever brush his teeth? If so, did he use some kind of flayed stick? Did a pair of birds sit on his shoulder and pick his teeth clean? It seemed like after living 120 years without brushing, you’d have some pretty nasty breath. What did Mrs. Moses think about this?

But maybe with all the important stuff people were doing back then, they didn’t worry much about brushing their teeth. Good for them. Gaylord had no excuse, and this bugged him Biblically.

Growing up in America, there are a few things a child learns are his inalienable rights:

The right to believe in whatever god you want, the right to not let the Army sleep in your house, the right to not suffer from seizures, the right to be hung by a jury, the right to only un-cruel and usual punishments, and the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of owning the arms of a bear.

But there are some other implied entitlements to being an American. They might not be in the Constitution, but they make up the fabric of the child’s society. Food and cars will be plentiful. The former will come from inside air-conditioned stores, the latter from sprawling lots. School will be decent quality, boring, and free. TV will have numerous channels and be watched compulsively. People will be scared of all sorts of weird, unreasonable things. Holidays mean candy, candy, and more candy! Snow will be fun. Toy needs are insatiable. A pet of some sort, if not many, will be provided. A home may come in all shapes and sizes, but it will always have a functioning floor and ceiling.

With this last entitlement, Gaylord was gypped.

It’s not that Gaylord’s childhood home didn’t have floors and ceilings, it’s just that they didn’t always work in the intended way. Generally, a floor is for walking on AND to keep the walker on the same vertical plane they wish to walk within the structure. There are plenty of ways to change planes without a faulty floor. Some methods include stairs, fire poles, ramps, elevators, escalators, and ladders. Gaylord’s father used none of these methods.

Gaylord was in the basement checking the kittens. Calexico, the family’s calico cat, had recently birthed a healthy litter of 8. The cat had been searching for a safe place to have them for days before deciding on the basement ceiling. Above the washing machine, Calexico had jumped into a hole in the drywall and had burrowed out a little den. The whole ceiling in that area was discolored and crumbling due to a leaky tub in the bathroom above. Years of water damage had eaten through the floor and into the basement. Drywall and pink insulation hung in clumps and littered the floor. Gaylord was saddened to see a muffin sized orange lump on the ground. One of the kittens had fallen from the hole and died.

As Gaylord knelt down to inspect, he heard the shower turn off upstairs. There was only one bathroom in the house, and his father had been taking a shower. Besides checking on the kittens, the boy had also taken a leak in the bushes by the basement door. His father was humming some operatic melody. It was out of tune and muffled by the floor.

“Do kittens go to heaven?” Gaylord wondered. Obviously all dogs did, but there was no movie president for the fairer beast.

Suddenly, a burst of commotion. It was the combined noise of wood splintering, drywall busting, and a scream, all underscored by an echoing and deep metallic boom.

Gaylord swung around to see two stocky legs, in a bathrobe, standing on the washing machine. There was muffled cursing as the two legs kicked around, looking for a way up.

“Oh my,” Gaylord thought. “I hope the kittens are okay!” The boy dragged a step stool over and peered into the kitten nest. Calexico and her babies had collected themselves in the shadows and were staring with fear at the pasty pair of interlopers.

The next day, Gaylord’s father repaired the hole with a piece of plywood. Calexico moved her kittens to a safer place.

Generally, a structural failure like this would make parents step back and assess the state of their house. Would the floor break in other places unexpectedly? Would the holes in the roof eventually lead to other problems? Did our goal to keep a roof over our heads mean that it couldn’t fall in bits around and below our heads too?

But there were no sweeping changes made and the state of the ceilings got worse. There were two issues. The roof leaked and had been making the drywall fall off in the kitchen and bathroom ceilings. At their worst, the ceiling had bulged like a massive albino goiter before bursting with brown water, wet insolation bits, and mildewed drywall. The second issue involved the increasing number of rats, squirrels, raccoons, and possums living in the attic. At all hours of the day, scampering could be heard. The squirrels and rats seemed to favor the front side of the attic with its easy access to trees. The heavier rodents preferred to have their turf wars in the back.

Combine rodents with holes, and you have the stuff of nightmares.

Gaylord’s mother was using the toilet one day and looked up to see a raccoon staring down at her from the exposed rafters.

His father discovered a dead rat in one of the drinking glasses in the kitchen cabinet.

The rats and possums seemed to be sneaking into the kitchen at night to eat cat food. Going into the kitchen for water in the middle of the night it was not uncommon to see some scurrying shadow. The cats had mostly learned to coexist, a wise move considering how outnumbered they were. And for some reason, the rats liked to congregate in the ceiling above Gaylord’s bed. Going to sleep often involved blocking thoughts of a bucket of rats tumbling onto bed and eating his eyes out.

After a few months of this, it was time to fight back. If the rats were going to be annoying, Gaylord was going to be annoying. The plan was simple: put soap in the cat food and blast music into the attic.

Putting soap in the cat food was easy. For phase two, Gaylord waited until his parents were out and brought a ladder into the house. Safety glasses were put on. The hatch to the attic was removed. The beam of the flashlight failed to find any of the rodents, but they obviously used the whole attic as a toilet.

“All right, you bastards,” Gaylord mumbled. “Get ready to be annoyed.”

Gaylord plopped his small boom box onto a rafter and pointed it into the void. It was armed with a double-sided cassette that looped one of his favorite songs, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Volume was set to ten. Play.

Gaylord chimed in with vindictive glee as he closed the hatch. The music was loud but muffled.

“You bet it’s the real life, rats.

This isn’t fantasy.

You are caught in a landslide with no escape from reality.

Open your beady eyes,

and look down from the ceiling and see…me!”

Gaylord stopped pumping his fist, chuckled, and brought the ladder back outside. He hoped that the batteries would die by the time his parents came home. Hopefully the rodents would have left by them too, a steady stream of furry annoyance fleeing to anywhere the wind blows.

Gaylord was shoulder deep in the fridge, searching for snacks. Despite the appliance being nearly overflowing with food, there weren’t many edible-looking options. The back of the shelves contained jars of mysterious oily liquids and plastic sacks of squished things. These were guarded by a wall of leftovers: desiccated meatloaf, plastic containers of spoiled squash, wilting salads, plates of half fruits and vegetables, a bagel with a bite taken out of it. Jammed in front were the freshest options. But last week’s foil-wrapped enchiladas were no more appealing than a sweaty pot of meatless chili.

Today’s snack would be a handful of bacon bits and a graham cracker. Both were damp from being stored in the fridge, but it was a better option than being nibbled by the pantry’s resident cockroaches.

Gaylord dusted off a glass and poured himself some apple juice. He took a long sip and looked around the kitchen. Two beady eyes stared back. The gnome hid amongst an old upright vacuum and a stool stacked with clean towels. A tattered red cap cast a thick shadow on its haggard face and grey beard speckled with crumbs. It stood still and stared at the opposite wall. If its little chest hadn’t been breathing, it could have been mistaken for a lawn sculpture.

Gaylord looked away, and pretending not to have noticed the little man, steadied his nerves and set the glass on the counter. He downed another handful of bacon bits and closed the fridge.

The gnome was gone. Body odor and garbage smells lingered in the gnome’s hiding spot. A tattered box of single serving cereal was spilled on the floor, along with a few scattered crumbs and a pool of urine.

“That stupid idiot ruined my corn puffs!” Gaylord mumbled as he stomped off to his bedroom.

Gaylord heaved a pile of toys and drawings off his bed and looked out the window into the backyard. An overgrowth of tall, dead weeds was surrounded by scraggly trees, thorny underbrush and a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence was a thick and seemingly endless wooded area. The trees were gnarled and ugly, many of them dead-looking even past winter. Gaylord didn’t like hiking too far into the woods, but there were a few enticing spots to reach such as a makeshift appliance dump and an unused train track. There was also the door.

From the right angle in his bedroom, Gaylord could see it. About the size of a shoebox lid, the door blended in nearly perfectly to the base of the tree. It was made from the trunk, complete with wooden handle and peephole. But it was neither quaint nor well-made. The edges were roughly cut, and the handle looked like it had been part of a garden spade. Besides the door, there was no evidence of habitation. No toadstool chairs. No little smokestack or flower garden. The tree felt quiet and abandoned.

Gaylord strained his eyes, hoping that this time he catch the gnome actually going inside the tree. But it was getting too dark to see much anyway, and prime-time sitcoms were imminent. Like the night before, it would be canned laughter, a shower, and bed.

As Gaylord lied in bed, he though about the grammar rules being tested tomorrow. He was struggling to get past the pink box that focused on adverbs. There were two blond girls that had already gotten through all the lessons. He had a crush on the athletic one that always wore shorts. The other had such pale skin you could see the veins in her face.

That night, the boy dreamed of crawling through a tunnel.

Wham!

Gaylord awoke. Something had bumped into his nightstand. The lampshade bobbed. In the darkness, a little pointed hat made a break for the door, wheezing as it tripped over a pile of blocks. The gnome passed through the sliver of light and scampered down the hallway, leaving the smell of body odor and urine behind.

Without turning on the lamp, Gaylord sat up and looked out the window. Only the grass was visible under the moon. The yard was still and empty. It must have been the middle of the night. Gaylord reached for his watch. But its spot on the nightstand was empty.

“Oh come on! That watch even had a calculator on it!”

Gaylord stayed up waiting for that little kleptomaniac to return to his hideout in the woods. With heavy eyes, he tallied up all of the items the gnome had taken:

- Four, no five boxes of cereal
- Engine car of the Lego monorail
- Pair of scissors
- Leather belt
- Thumbtacks
- Bowl of chips
- Ad in a video-game magazines that featured an attractive female tennis player
- Small pack of firecrackers
- Various coins
- Unused bar of soap from a motel
- Stuffing from a bed pillows
- Handful of marbles
- Plaque off bowling trophy (though it might have just fallen off)
- Small army backpack
- And now, the calculator watch

They were a random assortment of trinkets, all small enough to fit through that little door. Why the gnome wanted them, Gaylord couldn’t guess. But he clearly imagined that somewhere inside that tree, maybe deep underground, they were getting ruined.

The following day at school, Gaylord was surrounded by gnomes. The floors, walls, shelves, snack tables, play areas and just about anywhere in that Waldorf classroom was full of them. These were just toys of course, but Gaylord eyed them cautiously. He wasn’t going to be taking any unnecessary chances with his sandwich.

Gaylord did poorly on his grammar test and missed a few easy shots in kick ball. Throughout the day, he instinctively looked at his wrist only to find a watch-shaped tan line. Both of the blondes were home with the flu. The day dragged slowly into the afternoon.

“How was your day?” Gaylord’s mom asked soon after he got in the station wagon.

“Fine, except for all the gnomes.” Gaylord mumbled grumpily.

“Oh yeah?” His mother chuckled. “What have they been up too?”

“Well most recently, one of them stole my watch.”

“That so?”

Gaylord nodded.

They were at a stoplight. A homeless man was walking amongst the cars and asking for money. A plastic bag was stuck to the underside of a bumper like an embarrassing tuft of toilet paper.

“Mom, do you think that Gramps is a gnome?”

“I don’t know. Why do you think so?”

“Ms. Stanco said that if someone’s spirit doesn’t improve in a lifetime, he comes back as a gnome.”

His mother chuckled.

“Well, that’s sure a sad fate.”

A sad meal is more than just gross food. It’s a combination of that, dreary ambience and a bad mood. Something feels “off” about the experience, almost like a waking dream. Feelings of profound sadness over the human condition season the meal. Skin crawls and feet fidget just being in the restaurant, but the eater is trapped. He did not freely enter the situation, and he is not free to leave. The plate (or sack) of nauseating metaphors is key to his freedom. Finishing it somehow unlocks the door and ends the nightmare.

I’ve had three sad meals that I can remember. The first was more than ten years ago. The last was just yesterday.

Sad Meal Number 1: August, 1996, small town on the edge of Texas

In the summer of 1996, my best friend’s father took us on a road trip to Los Angeles from Texas. Our route was leisurely, putting us smack in the middle of nowhere around dinnertime. Despite, a full day’s worth of beef jerky and gatorade packed in our bowls, everyone was starving. Unfortunately, there was no food in sight. We continued on to more of nowhere, passing cows in the darkness.

“Sometime soon I’ll eat one of you,” I muttered to them. “Sometime soon.”

After another two hours, we rolled into a small town. It was a one street affair, just a few shops along the main road. Beyond that were abandoned looking shacks and trailers. Under normal circumstances, this would be a town to drive through and forget. But our stomachs had other plans.

Next door to the gas station was a squat wooden restaurant with two cars parked in front. It was a restaurant, and it was open. It didn’t broadcast what type of food it served, it was simply Nells. The wood sign was faded, but there was no evidence of an apostrophe. Nells don’t punctuate, apparently.

Both my friend and I looked at each other nervously. But our reluctance went unnoticed by his father who had already reached the restaurant door. It opened with a ding. We followed the führer inside.

Nells was practically abandoned. I had hoped that our “city clothes” would be stared at by the locals, but there was only one person in viewing distance of the door. This lumberjack/serial killer type with too busy jamming fries in his mouth to look. Even the host didn’t bat an eye when she greeted us and led us to a dark, bloated booth in a shadowy corner near the window. Couldn’t she see my long hair, soul patch, and earring? Wasn’t I just dripping with rebellion? Didn’t I look at least a little like John Leguizamo from Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet? No? Well okay then, lady of Nells.

There were numerous signs that the meal was going to suck. The stagnant air was hazy not just from cigarettes but from acrid and moist kitchen smoke. A smell had been worn into the place: a combination of of wet rags, cigarettes, grease, burnt meat, old coffee, trucker BO, old vinyl, lacquered wood, and spray deodorizer. Dining in a cave size human armpit would have been just as appealing. I glanced at the cooking area and couldn’t see ingredients. The cook looked wild and guilty. Assuming he could read, I’m sure he would ignore the hand washing signs in the restroom.

Once we sat down, it was easier to spot the other people in the restaurant. Everyone looked sullen and unhealthy. Two large and serious were sitting silently at a booth along the opposite wall. It was unclear whether they had ordered food or finished their meal. Only two large sweating red plastic cups and a crusty bottle of ketchup were on the table. The serial killer had finished his fries and was chatting with the waitress behind the counter. There was another lone man sitting at a table by the back. His gaze was fixed at the middle of the room, though it was easy to think he was staring directly at us. The man wore a thick button down shirt that was unfastened at the top. The kinky black hairs of his chest were visible across the room. He held onto a mug of coffee that rested on the table. My friend thought he worked in the kitchen and was on a break. I wasn’t so sure.

The waitress handed us some laminated and greasy menus. They listed the heart and rectum clogging fare you’d expect from a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. If there wasn’t meat in the entree, then it must be a side dish. If there wasn’t butter and cheese in the side dish, then why would it be on the menu?

It wasn’t easy to choose. Everything looked so gosh-darn untempting! My friend’s father ordered a cheeseburger and fries, a safe bet. My friend ordered chicken-fried steak. I skimmed the menu again and found a rather surprising entry at the bottom: salad bar.

“I’ll just have the salad salad bar,” I said, trying not to alarm her.

Her look seemed to ask “Just salad?”, but she jotted down my choice, and stuck the ticket under the salt shaker.

The salad bar was housed in a sturdy plastic table with legs as thick as an elephant’s. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was stocked with some lackluster veggies: iceberg lettuce, some olives, mushrooms, slimy cucumber, some tomato, some corn. Toppings included shredded cheese, croutons, bacon bits. There were four types of dressing. A separate area contained a bucket of pasta salad and a chunky mystery goo.

I brought my salad back to the table and poked at it. The vegetables weren’t noticeably old, but something tasted off about them. I wanted more than anything to get out of that smelly restaurant, but the other’s food was slow to come and slower to eat. I watched them eat with anxiousness and disgust. I could taste my friend’s meal in my mind. It was dog food.

Everyone finally finished and we piled back into the car. My friend and I got into an argument which quickly made us forget about the horrible meal. We dozed off listening to static-filled AM radio broadcast of a baseball game. By morning, Nells would be far from us. But it wouldn’t never be forgotten.

Sad Meal Number 2: July, 2002, halfway between LA and San Francisco

In the summer of 2002, my then girlfriend, her parents, and I were driving back to San Francisco from a family reunion at a beach north of Los Angeles. There was not much in the way of scenery or food along Interstate 5, just endless hills of yellow grass, irrigated farmland, gas stations, and chain fast food.

We were long past due for lunch when we stopped for gas. I distinctly remember seeing some recognizable chain at that exit, but my girlfriend’s parents were set against it. Instead, we drove across the street to a burger place that looked like it had originally been a Dairy Queen. The only difference was that the shingles of the facade were painted blue instead of red.

They restaurant had hard plastic booths, veneered table tops, metal napkin dispensers and a chaotic floor of brown and orange tile. The walls were painted yellow and decorated with a few sloppily hung posters. There were no customers. Four pot-marked and pale teens were chatting at a table. They scattered to their posts as we approached the counter.

Everyone ordered the same cheeseburger combo with fries and soda. The teens clanked and fried away behind the counter and promptly brought us our red plastic baskets of food. After we took our first bites, they all moved back to the table by the window and started chatting again.

Despite our food being made to order, it was stale. The burgers were damp and heavy on the mayo. The lettuce was white, the tomatoes bland, the onions slimy. The sesame seed buns were like pimpled butts. I took a reluctant bite: tasteless. I looked over to the youth to see if they noticed my sadness over the first bite. One girl was now lying across the booth and running her hand along the ground like someone wasting time by a little stream. Then something caught her eye and she pointed to the ground. All the others followed her gaze. The conversation became more exited. Everyone seemed to be chuckling more.

I abandoned the burger. Unfortunately, the fries were greasy and flaccid. I reached for a packet of ketchup, but before I tore it open, I noticed writing. In large block letters, scrawled with ballpoint pen was the word “BUG.”

Okay…

The youth still seemed to be watching something on the floor. It was a large cockroach. Suddenly thoughts of all the bugs I couldn’t see filled my head. I imagined them festering over all the ingredients, falling into open hamburgers and fry cookers. Had the bug crawled on that packet of ketchup, or did it function more like a bug watcher’s journal? Either way, I wasn’t going to use it.

These bugs presented a conundrum. If I didn’t eat my food, it would appear rude to the girl’s parents who bought me lunch. If I told them that there was weird writing about bugs on the ketchup AND actual bugs wandering around, they would be embarrassed for suggesting the place. I decided to keep it secret.

As we sat inside that dreadful restaurant eating food with the bugs, I distracted myself with the future. I didn’t know where my career was going or if the relationship was going to work out, but at least my future meals would be bug-free.

Sad Meal Number 3: January, 2009, Nashville.

All Wendy’s aren’t created equal.

I was traveling home with my girlfriend’s parents and nieces after a colorful and noisy morning at the circus. Everyone was hungry and shellshocked. A few people wanted burgers. J. and I wanted gourmet burgers. After all, we were in downtown Nashville. But with two young kids and not knowing the city, we settled on fast food. There was momentum for the Golden Arches, but it was overridden by the elders for a trip to Wendy’s.

This Wendy’s was in a down and out industrial area near the fairgrounds. It looked fine enough on the outside…

Opening the door flooded us with a stale and smokey combination of shit, grease, and steam. We could see the air.

There were two groups of people dining. One large family of gangsters and teenage mothers was clustered around two tables. There was a shady looking guy in wife beater and bandana sleeping. Amongst the jungle of plastic plants in the conservatory-style section, were three mailmen eating burgers and playing checkers.

This time, everyone looked at us when we walked in.

We ordered our meals with difficulty. The guy behind the counter didn’t seem to understand anything we ordered. Either he didn’t know the menu or we were enunciating. Eventually, the orders went through and we sat down at a table picked by one of the nieces. It was right next to the other family.

The food was horrible to look and and horrible to eat. All of the burgers look smashed. The fries were old and cold. My drink tasted a little like soap. As I was hungry, I ate my chicken patty thing quickly. But waiting for everyone else to finish was excruciating. The mood in the restaurant was somber and sad. It carried over to our table. Everyone but the children knew that the meal wasn’t life affirming, but we kept our dissatisfaction to ourselves.

Midway through our meal, someone who had previously gone through the drive-through came inside to return four shakes. Since no one was talking, it was easy to hear her complaint.

“These shakes are weird. I want to return them.” The lady held up the tray. Four sad looking shakes were dripping all over the place.

“Our vanilla machine ain’t working so good,” the employee behind the counter explained.

“It ain’t the vanilla. I ordered chocolate. The milk just tastes bad.” She pushed the tray toward the counter, got her refund and walked out in a huff.

Everyone at our table heard this conversation but tried not to acknowledge it. If the shakes were spoiled then all sorts of nasty things could be wrong with our meal. I wish I could have been as carefree as the kid next to me eating her nuggets off the table, but I knew that we had failed. Out of all the food in this world, we had ended up there. We had all been too weak to deny this fate. Now we had unpleasant business to finish.

When I was younger, I practiced shooting baskets. Alone. To keep things from getting stale, psychic powers were attributed to the hoop. Before taking a shot, I would ask it a question about something worrying. In those innocent days, the concerns were pretty focused: Does so and so like me? Will I kiss so and so? Will I touch her boobs? If I sunk the shot, the answer was yes. If I missed, I would give myself one shot at redemption.

“Are you sure about that answer, hoop?”, I’d ask.

If I sunk the next shot, the hoop obviously wasn’t so sure and I got to reshoot. Yes, I was improving my odds at getting the answer I wanted. But if I missed the redemption shot, the answer was definite. These negative responses were proven over the course of many boob-free years.

I wish I had kept a written record of the hoop’s prophecies. I doubt any of them came true. What the hoop never told me was that even though it predicted I’d kiss so and so, that fate involved me having the courage to talk to her. Generally the people I had to ask questions about were those I had the most uncertain future with. Girls weren’t something to treat casually back then. My whole day involved getting their attention and endearing them to me. My method was vague and sweaty. Weird acts, jokes, keeping well-brushed hair, excelling in art and academics. While my contemporaries seemed to be having success just being themselves and simply talking to girls, I threw myself on the mercy of the court.

Being myself wasn’t an option back then. As middle school came to end, I started seeing more and more of my classmates holding hands. At least I had my ball.

Fortunately, the urgency of those adolescent worries are gone. I’ve held plenty of hands by now and am pretty confident about it. I looked up at the hoop. Did it notice that I had aged too? It looked back. After all these years, it was waiting for me, ready to answer my questions.

But my questions weren’t kid-stuff now. These were new, serious adult concerns. I thought for a moment as I dribbled, then cocked the hammer and asked:

“Will I marry so and so?”

Nothing but net.

“Will I have kids in the next five years?”

The ball deflected off the backboard and went in. Gulp.

“Will I still be friends with all the ol’ gang in the next ten years?”

A shoot and a miss. I saw that coming.

“Will I live to see 50.”

Miss.

“Are you sure?”

The court knows it has no risk of reprisal. By the time any of its predictions fail, it will likely have been swallowed by vines again. If not that, the sliding foundations will have collapsed the family house onto it. What was once my fortune teller would be a pile of Austin stone, insulation, wood, and rats. Hopefully my parents would have made it out in time.

That’s one of the questions I’m too afraid to ask.