A New Record

This was my submission for Writers Weekly Fall 24 Hour Short Story Contest:

A New Record

It was time to go.

The move would provide a fresh start in the quaint, middle-of-nowhere out in Butler County. The nearest city, Cedar Falls, was half an hour away and a far cry from being considered a booming metropolis. It was time for the city boy, Avery Barnes, to escape to the country. The big cities had way too many temptations, too many old demons, too much for him to handle. At that point in his life, moving would be the best thing to do.

Molly Schnaebel grew up in Butler County. She was a beautiful, well-liked woman in her mid-twenties. The little farm community that she called home near the edge of New Hartford, Iowa was the perfect place to raise a family.

Molly’s husband worked for the railroad. Late one night, when she was nearing the end of her third trimester with their daughter, she received a telephone call. Her husband, Ray Schnaebel, had an accident at work. By sunrise, she had become a widow.

Avery encountered his next-door neighbor a few times and he could tell that she did not like him. She was a single mother and, at first, he figured she was just stressed. He knew that infants were a handful. On several occasions he would be sitting on his porch when she drove up to her house and he’d offer to help carry groceries or get the door for her. He constantly offered to help around the house, run errands, and even to babysit sweet, little Julia a few times, but Molly would just give him a strange look and hurry up her front steps.

That wasn’t the only time he got strange looks. Eventually, everyone in town began pointing and whispering as he walked past.

When Ray died, the town rallied around Molly. She and Julia were brought to every church function, farmer’s market, and charity 5K that the town put together. They embraced the young widow. They listened to her. They looked out for her. They helped her raise Baby Julia. They were a tight-knit town of good folks that would do anything for those girls. And that’s why they snubbed Avery Barnes.

After months of cold shoulders, whispers, and odd glances, Avery became a shut-in and began collecting new hobbies. He desperately needed distraction. He wanted to be anonymous, not vilified. Alone in his old farmhouse, he started researching various arts and crafts in order to keep his idle hands busy.

Avery was the type of guy that would start up a project and quit halfway through. Anytime he became marginally good at one thing, he moved on to something else - a byproduct of perpetual loneliness. He couldn’t share his work with anybody. No one was there to say, ‘Wow, that looks great,” or “How did you do that?”

His house became a graveyard of nearly finished model planes and cars, half-empty jars of acrylic paint, paintbrushes, canvases, and used how-to books on just about everything. Each morning he would kick his way through various projects as he crossed the living room to the kitchen.

Feeling the need for fresh air, Avery tried on an outdoor hobby: Gardening. He had a large lot behind his house and plenty of room to grow whatever he wanted. The county held a big Fall Festival every year that included the crowning of a “Pumpkin King,” an honor bestowed upon the man that produced the largest pumpkin of the season. Avery Barnes vowed to be that man. He was determined to pass that familiar point of mediocrity. He was determined to show them all up with a new record.

His moment was so close, he could taste it. Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured him a Pumpkin King coronation the following weekend. His chest puffed with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of the townspeople, especially Molly, who always looked through him, not at him.

A cold wind blew as he admired his prize specimen under a darkening, autumn sky. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he instinctively turned his head toward the sound of a crying baby. Near the back of his field, under the old Maple, Molly Schnaebel was shielding a bundle from the wind and staring. Avery waved, “hello,” but she quickly turned and waved her free hand off to her left – as if she was signaling someone out of sight. Naively, he ignored the odd gesture and returned his focus to the patch. He smiled as he proudly looked down at his massive, prize-worthy pumpkin.

Thunder clapped loudly nearby, a distinct whiz sound came from behind, and his knees instantly weakened. Julia cried in the distance as Avery fell to the ground and watched the red splatter hit his last, unfinished project.

Everyone in town knew. Molly had told all of them. She said he seemed overly eager to “help” and the way he looked at Julia made her uneasy. She had a sneaking suspicion that plugging that city boy’s name into the appropriate online search field would generate a glaring red square right over his house on the website map. She was right.

Maybe it happened when he was a kid. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as the horrible things she imagined while rocking Julia to sleep night after night. Either way, Avery’s name was on the list. Molly had already lost a husband and she was not going to let anything happen to her daughter. The townspeople knew what to do. Molly belonged there and he didn’t. They were a tight-knit group that took care of their own. He wasn’t welcome and he’d ignored the many hints he’d been given.

The following weekend, after the men of the town loaded it onto a pickup truck and delivered it to the large, commercial scale at the Fall Festival, Butler County crowned its first ever, “Pumpkin Queen.” Molly Schnaebel’s pumpkin, the largest in county history, weighed over seven hundred pounds.

Hiatus

It happened again. It happens all the time. Another band, disbanded. Its unclear if this is truly permanent or if the members are taking time to reevaluate their intentions, motives, and musical directions. Sometimes we need time off just to breathe, evaluate, and grow. I'm told that is when great things really have the potential to begin happening: during the breaks in the continuity of a work, series, or action. Either way, the band and I are in a temporary void of time and space waiting to see what happens.

I was in a band that was signed once. We were a three-piece band - guitar, bass, and drums - and were constructing a bright future ahead. The three of us formed when I was still pretty young, but things seemed to take off rather quickly. I got the impression that people were weirded out by the fact that we got a record deal so soon. They weren't jealous, per se, but a lot of them said we were way too young to know what we were getting into. "Getting signed changes bands," is what they would tell me before I jumped into the contract.

Within a year of being signed and embarking on our first tour, the bass player and I started seeing things differently. "Seeing things differently" is putting it mildly. More accurately, our band imploded. I just couldn't play or sing those songs in that band anymore, none of us could. The two of us began to fight all the time. It had to be tough on our drummer. The poor guy had nothing to do with it. The bass player and I just weren't feeling what we were writing and had grown tired of the music we performed night after night. It wasn't solely the bassist's fault, as people I know tend to say in my defense, we were both to blame. We had practiced and written together for a little over four years prior to being signed, but for some reason the spark just wasn't there anymore. It couldn't be forced for the wrong reasons anymore. The lawyers were summoned and all the paperwork was drawn up correctly, and we moved on in our own directions. Funny enough, the two of them were picked up by another singer songwriter and re-signed less than a year later while I was struggling to cultivate my solo act. It hurt, but I was glad that they were happy. Splitting up was the best thing to do - in the long run. From that point on I vowed to play alone and only entertain the thought of being in a band again if I was approached by the right people. I would be picky and critical, not settling for anything less than a group that I could play with into my golden years.

A little over eight months ago I saw a flyer in a local mom and pop record store. The wrinkled piece of paper stapled to the wall said, "Guitarist/Singer wanted to front four-piece band." I read on and liked their influences and the direction that they would be going. I was a little hesitant because the bass player was headstrong and seemed to be the one in charge - like my previous band experience. She and I were actually friends a few years back while I was soloing in dive bars and playing open mics.We kept in touch, somewhat, over the years but I never had any intention of playing with her because she had a full band at the time and I was still reeling from my band splitting. The truth was that I was already familiar with all of the players in her group. She had told me about them in the past, but we had never formally been introduced. They had history. In fact, they were almost signed and ready to take off when tensions flared between the band's two principal members - you guessed it - the singer and the bass player. Their then singer/guitarist began to act unappreciative and even bothered by the drummer and bassist's presence. She tried to put up with it as long as she could and push the band forward because of the years they put in together, but she was just too unhappy and could not continue like that. They all left him. It was almost the same as my situation, but not quite. The band broke up, but the second guitarist and keyboard player still jam with the booted guitarist/singer on the weekends.

Given all this drama in their history and all the baggage in mine, I was hesitant to jump into a project like this. They had been screwed over before and the bassist made it clear to me that they wanted someone that was in it for the long haul. They were not looking to be a backing group for some prima donna front man that would jump ship after playing a few gigs and gaining notoriety in the local scene. They were a package deal and needed someone to commit. I was thrown by the bassists directness, but also intrigued and charmed by the fact that she didn't hold anything back. She knew what she wanted the project to be and, if I was serious enough, we could take over the world.

The two of us jammed alone at first and I was floored by the intensity of our music. I couldn't believe how synchronized we were. We fit so naturally that I would have been crazy not to do everything I could to join her. If I improvised a riff, she would be right there with me and vice-versa. We read each other's movements almost telepathically and constantly created melodies that had the potential to break hearts and move mountains. A lot of times, these jam sessions were completely without spoken words. It was the music that told the stories. Don't get me wrong, we talked and laughed and had a good time frequently, but when we played; we played. It was perfect. It was what I had been holding out for all that time. I wasn't settling. This was it.

After a couple of months, the bass player told me that she felt that I was a good fit and it was time for me to jam with the whole band. I went to their practice space, plugged in my guitar, and stepped up to the microphone. As we played, the bassist and drummer looked at me with a smile of approval while the other guitarist and keyboard player seemed a little unsure. Despite their uncertainty though, we all launched into song after song embracing the sounds that our effort manifested. It felt so good to be playing in a group again. I enjoyed playing as a solo for act for the past three years, but this was heaven on earth. Sure, I'd gotten into a jam session with other people here or there since the last band, but nothing as serious and promising as this appeared to be. All my concerns and hesitation about taking the leap again vanished as we played and sang into the night.

We practiced for a few weeks in their little practice space and then things became exciting, yet surprisingly comfortable. We all clicked. Sure, the guitarist and keyboard player still had their weekend jam sessions with the singer from their first band (that was never going to change), but they didn't hold anything against me. When we played, none of that previous drama mattered. It was all about the music and we appeared to be on our way. The songs were coming along and the group mindset was getting tighter and tighter.

One day, out of the blue, I got a call from a promoter/booking agent that heard my solo stuff and really wanted to set up a small mini-tour through Chicago and then in various clubs in New York. "Just for a few weeks," he said, "nothing too big. I know you are working on that band project, but this solo trip could really help you figure out what is best for you. Your experience on the road will probably benefit the band in the long run as well. Then after that, maybe you could look at something on the West Coast." He went on to explain that I would play a few small venues in each city and, in my free time, I would get to look around, network, and explore as much as I wanted. I talked to the band about it and they were all behind me. The bass player even told me that it would do me some good and that she was proud that I was willing to take on the challenge. We left things open and decided to see where things would go...

The tour went great. Both cities are truly gems of this country and I was constantly amazed throughout the journey. I met a bunch of cool people, took in a lot of art exhibitions, walked for miles in the shadows of wondrous architecture, and played some amazing shows. All the while though, I missed the band and it became clear that that was the project for me. I had struck out on my own only to find that jamming with them was what I really wanted to do with my life. It felt great to know what I wanted. I called the bassist and told her about my recent epiphany. She was really excited and couldn't wait for me to get back so we could start writing some more songs. Throughout the tour people were slapping me on the back and saying how wonderful I was, how proud they were of my solo tour, and how much they admired what I was doing. In my mind though I kept thinking, "If you like what I'm doing now, just wait until you see what my band is going to do. We're going to blow your minds. We will be seen as THE band."

The five of us jammed for a solid month when I got back from the solo trip. It was great. The music was coming along and everyday we became closer as a group. While I was away, people were beginning to talk about us. A buzz was being created and, from where I stood, we had everything we needed to be signed within the next few years. I constantly daydreamed about our future as a unit. The five of us were a well-oiled musical machine. The guitar player and keyboardist were still playing with their former singer in a side-project, but any skepticism about me and my intentions were completely gone. I had proven myself. They were completely on board with the way thing were progressing. I would never ask for them to divide loyalties or pick sides, but they made it so I never had to. It wasn't a competition with their former band mate and side project. The five of us were a good band and that was that. Things were going great and there was no doubt that they were going to get even better. Until the phone rang again.

The promoter that booked the Chicago/New York mini-tour called and said that he had booked the six week tour on the West Coast. I remembered that I had agreed to that before the last little tour and told him that I would commit to it, but this would the last time that I would hit the road by myself. Any future outings would be with the band and my solo career was done. Even though he meant it as a comfort and was telling me what I needed to hear, I felt a nervous flutter of anxiety in my stomach when he said, "You got it. No other solo tours after this. I promise."

The day before I left, I actually got into a fight with the bass player. I was running around trying to tie up loose ends before the tour and completely forgot about our practice. I messed up. She never said it outright, but it seemed to me that she thought I was going to blow off the band and pursue a perpetual solo gig. I met with her a few hours before my flight and assured her (and the drummer) that this was the longest I would be gone, but I would return and the band would be my highest priority moving forward. They both understood and threw their support behind me. The other two members were headed to practice for their side-project, but wished me well and said that they would be ready to rock when I got back.

This tour is completely different from the last. Sure, I've gotten to meet really cool people, seen and played some great shows, and walked on some of the coolest streets in California, but something has been a little off. I feel it in my bones. I had had this feeling before, but not for years and certainly not this intense...

While on the road, I constantly checked in with band to let them know that, while I was having fun and trying to squeeze all I could out of the tour, they were on my mind and I would be back before they knew it. I overdid it. In my zeal to confirm my intentions of returning and continuing with the band, I ended up coming off as needy and clingy. I had become the prima donna front man that they were avoiding. They probably thought that I expected them to drop what they were doing every time I called. They might have thought I was under the impression that they were waiting by the phone the whole time I was on the road. That wasn't what I was thinking at all. I was just worried about the band's future because of the fight and meeting we had when I left. At one point, I let my insecurities and anxiety get the best of me, and I convinced myself that they got a new singer or reformed with their original line up. I called, emailed, and sent text messages all the time - non-stop; too much. Eventually, after being bothered by the barrage of correspondence, the bass player grew detached and cold. Clearly something was up.

One night a couple weeks ago I received an email that changed everything, The tour, the band, our plans, everything. The message basically said that the band talked it over and came to the conclusion that we all needed a break. More specifically, they needed a break from me. It wasn't anything I did or didn't do, they just had to focus on their own issues. It was time to focus on separate projects. I should focus on my solo stuff and they would work on the things that they had written while I was gone. It turned out that the bass player had some songs she had written and was taking over the singing duties in my absence. She had written a bunch of stuff in between me and the last guitar player/singer, but had never gotten to try any of it out with the band before I arrived. With me being gone, she was able to rediscover those songs and really get a chance to flesh them out. She had never given herself time to run through them in between this band and her last. It turned out that they were pretty good and deserved a little more attention.

She made it clear that the decision wasn't anything against me. They all made sure to tell me how great a musician I was and how it was hard for them to come to that conclusion etc... Despite the comforting words and their attempts at long distance consolation, I was hurt. I hurt really fucking badly. This time was way harder than the last. At least in my last band, the feeling was mutual. We quit because none of us had anything left to give. This time I couldn't have my way because they were never given a chance to breath, evaluate, or grow after their last band broke up. Despite my seemingly terminal sadness, I understood. We have to give ourselves time between projects. If you have been in a band for a long time, that process can take a while. And, unlike me, they never had that time. Hell, I still had lyrics and songs about the break up of MY last band and that was years ago. Sometimes we need to exorcise those demons and redefine ourselves before we can move on to the next thing. This decision appeared to be an attempt to do just that. A chance for them to figure themselves out before taking anyone else on. I couldn't have my way and it hurt, but I definitely understood.

The night before last, I was sitting in the back of a club after a show avoiding everybody when I wrote my "poor me" thoughts on a napkin - well, more like eight napkins. Although it had been almost two weeks since the email, I was in a spiral of self pity and despair and needed to purge myself of my thoughts. It was just a rant about how I was feeling and I didn't think I would put it anywhere, but sharing it in this capacity may serve as a form of therapy or future inspiration moving forward...

My head is about to explode.

Everyone says to stop what you are doing, be still, relax, or, my favorite, “Don’t think about it.” Are you kidding me? Humans are rebellious by nature. Would it be better for them to tell me to keep thinking about it and not function like a regular person? Maybe. At least then my natural instinct to rebel and go against the grain would protect me from the slothful waste of space that I have become over the last couple of weeks.

Sure, I’ve gone for walks that have lasted hours, played shows, taken lots of pictures, and written a bunch of things, but my mind seems to be doing all of that on autopilot. A detached numbness has taken over my senses that I can’t quite explain. Take my vision, for example, its like I’m looking through an opaque filter of reality that doesn’t quite allow the complete vibrancy of everything around me to penetrate my retinas. Why?

I shouldn’t be this affected. I shouldn’t feel so far down. In fact, I should be ecstatic about this turn of events. I’m twenty-eight years old and I am free to do whatever I want. I am bound by nothing – literally. No bills, no house, no family, no obligation whatsoever. I have a degree, a good resume, a little musical talent, and a recent set of travel adventures under my belt that many people will never get a chance to experience. I can literally go anywhere in the world. Well, almost anywhere. I realize that complaining about this set of circumstances is a laughable offense considering all the true hurt and loss in the world. Many people have way harder things to deal with than not getting their way. I know that I have a good thing going on my own and I am grateful. I really am. But, I just can’t help myself. Despite a high level of independence and a seemingly open ticket to the world, I can only focus on the one place I cannot be.

Believe me, I do understand that it will pass and that nothing lasts forever. Some people tell me things like, “Hey, you’ve been through worse," and, "You’ll be fine.” Well, I understand and appreciate that. I do. They may even be right. The problem is with the, “been through worse,” portion of that statement. The level of difficulty one has with a situation is completely subjective. My “worst” is obviously not the same as yours or theirs. Now, that is not to say that this most recent event is my “worst,” but it is pretty damn close.

“Live and learn,” right? “Time heals all wounds?” Isn’t that what most people tell you in these situations? I believe that. I really do. I just wish my brain would accept that as the truth and speed up the process for my senses. I want to see the fullness of the colors around me and taste my food again. Maybe when I get back everything will balance itself into normalcy. Maybe at that point I can get my bearings and pick myself up before I make next move. Maybe she'll ask me for an informal jam session - like when we first started. Yeah, that sounds right. Either way, I’ll be out of this fog soon enough. Soon enough, I’ll be back on track and ready to take over the world...

Obviously, I was at the bottom looking up that night. I still feel that way now and then, throughout the day. But, hey, sometimes the greatest bands in the world aren't heard by everybody. Did I believe with all of my heart that I was done looking for bands and this one was set to "make it?" Absolutely. Am I worn down and tired from being on the road and having what feels like an infinite chasm placed between myself and my band mates? Of course. Does this mean that I will hang it up, collapse into myself and stop creating, writing, or playing music? Hell no!

The "breaks in the continuity of a work, series or action," or the times spent in between things, are what make us real: The time that could potentially bring out the best in us. The best songs and stories tend to be written after you've given your guitar, voice, or pen some time to rest. When we exercise we rip our muscles and break everything down to a crumbled pulp. The benefits are reaped in that time of rebuilding after a workout when we lie on the couch resting and recuperating. We have to give ourselves time to breathe, evaluate, and grow.

With that in mind, I will end this solo West Coast tour next week and put my guitar and pen down for a short while. I will embrace this break in the continuity of my work, series, and action because I know that one day, with or without the band that I really believe in and ache to be a part of, I will continue to make beautiful music, the colors of my world will be bright, and the food within that world will be delicious.

The 30 Day Novel

I swore when I started this blog that I would not write about writing. In my mind, short stories about authors with writers' block, struggling playwrights, and the plight of fighting to create the great American novel are played out and to be avoided at all costs. How boring and self absorbed is that? How many times has that been done and how could I possibly come up with a fresh take on those old cliches. A person that loves to write telling a story or giving some sort of commentary on the craft of which he is just barely scraping the surface - give me a break. That is not my goal in posting this entry about writing - although it is about writing. With that in mind, I'd like to (somewhat hypocritically) share a writing-centric blog post with you. So, without further ado, I give you my plan for a future writing project.

If you have been following my entries, here or elsewhere, then chances are that you are already aware of my current status as a jobless and, technically, homeless traveller. It has been quite a fulfilling experience to explore different cities while working on improving my writing and storytelling abilities. I have to face facts though. At some point, I am going to have to find home and settle into a regular life. I'll have to go to school, and/or get a job, move into my own place again, pay bills, blah, blah, blah... Those are just realities of life that everyone has to deal with and I am no exception. However, it is not time to do that just yet.

Going against conventional wisdom and falling directly in line with my recharged passion for writing, I have decided to sign up for National Write a Novel Month. Yes, you read that correctly. It is exactly what you think it is: A finished novel in thirty days. According to the website, the goal is to crank out a full length novel of at least 50,000 words within the month of November. My last blog, a travel memoir that will be turned into a book eventually, is over 53,000. Since I have a natural penchant for long-winded-ness, the word count of this endeavor does not concern me. The fact that it will most likely be a terribly weak story because of the time frame, however, terrifies me. But, that's the point; to generate as much material as possible within a short window.

I have been writing non-stop for the last few months and I think this challenge will be a fun and fulfilling exercise of creative stress. I am very fortunate to have supportive friends and family that have expressed their willingness to spare a couch or a bed until school, or other writing opportunities spring up in January. So, will I have to surrender this vagabond, beard-growing existence of creativity and exploration? Sure, but not until after I have a novel under my belt.

Here's a portion of the email they sent me when I signed up so you can get an idea of what I'll be doing. If you have the time or the desire to do it also, please let me know and we can compare notes as we chip away at the wonderfully insane task of writing a novel within 30 days.

Before you head off to begin training those typing fingers, we wanted to offer a few bits of advice. You'll find many great tips in the forums, and we'll be sending pep talks directly to your inbox during November. But for now, here's a quick overview of the three-and-a-half things we wish we had known for our first NaNoWriMo.

1) It's okay to not know what you're doing. Really. You've read a lot of novels, so you're completely up to the challenge of writing one. If you feel more comfortable outlining your story ahead of time, do so. But it's also fine to just wing it. Write every day, and a book-worthy story will appear, even if you're not sure what that story might be right now.

2) Do not edit as you go. Editing is for December. Think of November as an experiment in pure output. Even if it's hard at first, leave ugly prose and poorly written passages on the page to be cleaned up later. Your inner editor will be very grumpy about this, but your inner editor is a nitpicky jerk who foolishly believes that it is possible to write a brilliant first draft if you write it slowly enough. It isn't. Every book you've ever loved started out as a beautifully flawed first draft. In November, embrace imperfection and see where it takes you.

3) Tell everyone you know that you're writing a novel in November. This will pay big dividends in Week Two, when the only thing keeping you from quitting is the fear of looking pathetic in front of all the people who've had to hear about your novel for the past month. Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

3.5) There will be times you'll want to quit during November. This is okay. Everyone who wins NaNoWriMo wanted to quit at some point in November. Stick it out. See it through. Week Two can be hard. Week Three is much better. Week Four will make you want to yodel.

And we're talking the good kind of yodeling here.

With great well wishes on the noveling month ahead,

The NaNoWriMo Team

Let's do this!

Inner Piece

As of today, I have been in California for a month. A few days prior to my departure from Texas in August, I found myself in a discussion with my uncle, my mother, and her boyfriend Jules about some serious topic that needed to be changed. In order to lighten the mood and shift the tone of our late night patio conversation, I blurted out, "Favorite candy: Go!" Although I was the one that posed the topic, and was genuinely curious about everyone's choice, I can only remember my answer to the spontaneously presented inquiry. My answer? Without a doubt, the best candy known to man, hands down, unmatched and without equal comes in the orange bag with yellow writing that is filled with magical morsels of peanut butter protected by yellow, brown, and orange thin candy shells: Reese's Pieces.

Ever since I was little boy, I have been a huge fan of the candy that is often mistakenly referred to as Reese-ees Piece-ees. Many people will probably remember when they were everywhere thanks to ET and Eliott sharing them on the silver screen in the Eighties, but nowadays they seem to be less ubiquitous. My mother, who has a future gift filing system in her brain, decided to put my little patio praise session of the peanut butter treat into the folder marked with my name. The day before my trip she showed up at her house with an industrial-sized orange bag and advised me to take it with me to California. Afraid of my addictive personality and the complex I have developed about sugar-related weight gain, I asked her to keep the bag at home and put the contents in a glass jar so that handfuls of pieces could be grabbed by various house guests in the future - namely, me. I was sure that if that bag ended up in my suitcase, then all of those lovely little pieces would have been consumed in the first week of my 6-8 week sabbatical resulting in a combination of bliss and fat kid self-loathing. Mom graciously held onto the bag without being offended and I left for Laguna the next day; Reese's Piece-less.

Within the first few days, I found myself rabidly patrolling the Orange County gas stations for my favorite candy. Kicking myself as I handed over a couple dollars for a very small, 220 calorie bag of my favorite treat, I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I could have taken that huge bag and rationed out little Ziploc baggies for myself, but no, that would have been too logical. Instead I found myself spending money that I should have been saving to go toward more important things. The little bag lasted me a good two hours. I only took out two pieces at a time and held them in my mouth until the thin candy shells melted and that rich, peanut buttery goodness was set free from its sugary confinement. It took everything I had not too speed-chew the peanut butter and dump the whole bag into my mouth. I justified the caloric intake by only enjoying them while I was walking around town. Despite the fact that I was clearly taking in more calories then I was expending, the "walk while you Reese," rationale seemed to justify my indulgence. Can you imagine if I had that huge bag my Mom offered? I would have been walking all day, everyday.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. I arrived in the Koreatown area of Los Angeles to stay with my friend Matt. There are a few dollar stores and run-down corner bodegas near his apartment, but none of them, I repeat, none of them carry Reese's Pieces. They all have Reese's Cups, Reese's cookies, (which I had never seen before), and some Reese's version of the Nutty Bar, but not one store within a four mile radius carries my candy. I would have settled for a dollar store knock-off, but no dice. Even the grocery stores in other neighborhoods that we patronized seemed to have decided to drop the item from their confection inventories. What is going on here? All I wanted was a small bag of deliciousness with which I could stretch my enjoyment of the best candy ever made over an hour long - or longer - stroll through the dicey neighborhoods near Downtown LA in which I am staying. Is that too much too ask? Apparently it is too much. I knew I should have taken that bag from Mom.

Had I been doomed to suffer savage sweets withdrawal in the City of Angels? Would I have to wait another two to three weeks to get my fix? Would I have to leave the city in order to get a hold of that damn candy? The answer, my friends, was "yes." However, I would not need to go all the way back to Laguna, or God forbid, wait till I got all the way home to satisfy my craving. No, I just had to go on a road trip with Matt and his girlfriend to the Hoover Dam, which included a pit stop in the nearby town of Upland, in order to keep from getting cold sweats, hallucinating, and mumbling "pieces...not cups" through trembling and drooling lips as I stared ahead in catatonic state.

It was about eleven this morning when Matt decided to fill up Melissa's SUV on our way to Nevada. We were out near the 'burbs somewhere and happened to spot a mega-gas station from the freeway. We were obviously outside of LA because the building, driveway, and gas pumps didn't have an inch thick brownish-yellow grime on them. This place looked brand new with its twenty different gas pumps, clean white asphalt, and half-mile walk to the large convenience store building. All I wanted at that point was a Coke Zero, but, as has become a California tradition at gas stations, I cruised by the candy aisle. "Resse's Cups, Reese's Nutty Bar thing...Holy shit!" I cheerfully yelped. On the bottom row, near the sugary rejects of the convenience store world were the little orange bags that I had seen in Laguna. The young lady mopping the floor nearby flinched at the bearded crazy man shouting in the candy aisle and exchanged a worried glance with her co-worker behind the counter. I smiled and held up the bag as if to say, "see, they do exist," and made my way to the cashier. The young lady behind the counter was very sweet and, surprisingly, unfazed by my bizarre exclamation. I stood in front of her with an air of pride as if I had captured the elusive animal known around these parts to be,"just a myth." I had bagged the big fish that got away from all the local fisherman. This pocket-sized, orange bag that cost me $1.60 was my white whale. As she counted my change, I started to wonder if I should grab a few bags to play it safe. However, as if the last couple weeks of frantic searching and failing to find the candy never existed, I convinced myself that one bag was enough and that I would have plenty waiting for me in Texas.

I triumphantly showed Matt and Melissa my acquisition and hopped in the backseat of the Jeep. I carefully placed the bag into the cup holder and tried to pretend that it wasn't there. And then something really strange happened. Now that I had the candy, I didn't want it. Well, to be more honest, my intense want of it decreased substantially. Feeling a little philosophical, I began to wonder if my desire for the candy was amplified by their lack of availability. Don't get me wrong, I love the pieces, but at that moment I wasn't ready to fist fight some street toughs for a handful like I would have a week prior. At this point I could take them or leave them. Was the real thrill in the chase and not in the actual peanut butter consumption? Did I truly only want the things I couldn't have while simultaneously under-appreciating the things that I do have? Haven't we all experienced this one way or another? Staring at the small bag in the cup holder, I pondered this very deep line of questioning for a moment....

My intense exploration of that life lesson lasted all of about five minutes. Once I had the first two pieces in my mouth and the shells melted away it was over. I tried to space out the time between each trip into the bag, and the number of candies I would pop into my mouth, but I had eaten them all within about ten minutes. Its funny and sad how self-control and an addictive personality can be brought together in a strenuous tug of war because some Willy Wonka type-genius at the Hershey company one day had a great idea.

As of this writing, I'm back in LA and miles away from my favorite confection. This puts me back at square one. I should have learned my lesson and stocked up in Upland, but I didn't. I figured writing about it would somehow soften the blow of my making the same mistake twice, but it hasn't. It's been less than twenty-four hours and I'm already kicking myself for abandoning a potential RP Reserve. Again!

So, what's the lesson? What's the moral of this story? That is completely up to you. There are probably a lot of things that can be taken from this tale. I think recounting this experience has provided me with a few good things: some personal insight, a nice writing session, and a bit of a chuckle at my own expense. However, one thing it has not provided is the thing that I probably need most: The handful of Reese's Pieces that I am desperately craving.