There really is an afterlife, I hope to see you all there.

Twenty bucks, the man looked down at his shoes and spit. Perfect day for flying, good weather, nice wind. Too bad it's so hot. Yeah, too bad. September'll be here soon though. The couple shifted on the balls of their feet in unison. She wiped her face underneath thick framed sunglasses and he could see her blink through the lenses. Quick and uneven. It seems a little dangerous, you know? It's so small and we don't really know, her voice trailed off. Her husband did his best, he reminded her of Marvin, how he had said that it was a good day for it. Good wind dontcha think Marvin? The pilot had wandered back into the shade, the wing of the plane cast a shadow on the grass and the back of his shoulders. He nodded and went back to staring at the runway. A plane came in from just below the clouds. Small at first, but getting closer. The woman looked at it, as if it's safe arrival would have any bearing on her decision. It bobbled a bit, seemed to slow down, and finally touched the pavement. Once, twice, and it was down. But despite the landing, she had already made up her mind. Probably as early as the idea was originally mentioned. No amount of convincing or safety demonstrations was going to get her into that plane. They made a comment about it being hot and said they'd be back, but that didn't make any sense to Marvin and he just waved them off. They were going into town and he knew that it was for good.
Probably for the best. The woman looked like the kind that once up there, wouldn't shut up. The kind that asked too many questions without listening to the answers. And that was the kind Marvin did not want to have in his plane. He unfolded his chair and sat down. A car was coming up the paved road parallel to the runway. Marvin took a drink and wiped his lips. They tasted like sweat and iced tea.

Maybe you think too much.

Call it. D's holding the radio and looking to me for a pick on what song comes next. Certain bands are cop-outs. The Beatles, the Temptations, Gordon Lightfoot. So I go with a dark horse, Tom Jones' "She's a lady". I'd come to regret it by 1:00 but at the time, it seemed like a good idea. The rules are simple, your song or band comes on and you get that three and a half minutes to bask in your telekenetic glory. Then you pick another and the game goes on. If "Cherokee People" plays we all win. It's science.
It's 5:30 now and people are shuffling into the restaraunt in their Friday best. Graduation weekend means a ton of covers and an equal amount of stress. But here I am sitting around the house reading the village voice and waiting for the phone to ring. "WHERE ARE THE OTHER PEANUT BUTTER BOMBES!?!" "WE'RE OUT OF SUGAR HALOS!" "THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT. OH GOD, THE CUSTOMERS ARE ALL DEAD. THERE ARE JUST SO MANY BODIES." But so far it's just Tom Waits that I hear, the early years, and maybe once in a while Aaron typing in the next room. I have no control, only hope. Hope, silence, and Poncho's Lament.

I will get to this eventually

Maybe things weren’t so great but they were bound to get better. They had moved into the house on South Hampton Boulevard in the Summer of 1972 when slanted roofs and lime green counter tops were acceptable, desired even. Henry was born the following spring and his arrival was signaled by a cardboard cut out of a stork and the baby’s weight and measurements drawn out in script for the entire neighborhood to see. There were pictures of it with his parents standing in the front yard holding their newest addition, their awkward bodies framed by winter’s recession and the triumph of green grass. His father had passed out cigars and was patted on the back until the skin on his shoulders grew tired. Every year on Henry’s birthday, his mother insisted on reliving the entire experience in graphic detail, hour by hour. Right around now you woke me up, and I knew that it was time. They had to give me thirty six stitches because you had such a big head. And afterwards, I was so filled with joy that I danced right there in my hospital room. The idea of his mom giving birth sickened him but he let her tell the story anyway; Even the part about the stitches. It was the least he could do.

And I'll tie a string around my finger

It's easy in August to forget about September. Fall isn't so far away and he told me that once in a while he could feel the seasons changing. I can't. The bike had erased what memories I have of a recession of heat and the replacement with cool breezes and cardigans. But he was right, there would be a change soon, and with it would come the pumpkins and the long blue jeans and a break in the weather. Autumn makes it's presence known a bit later here in the south, but it's well recieved. Neighbors hang cobwebs from their front porches and I turn a year older. Every year it's the same, a constant parade of time that brings me to the point of one more candle on my cake and one more year of lessons learned. Sometimes I like to think that I can slow it down, break down the seconds so that they tick two beats in between instead of one. But recently time has sped up, and before I know it it's last call and then a few seconds more and the sun is coming up. Yes, fall is coming and all we have to do is survive the summer.