Eric Sazer

What’s Happening With Bella?

“I was getting these icky feelings,” Bella said over coffee. “Where once I couldn’t keep my eyes off Hancho, suddenly he became… repulsive.”

She’d wake in the middle of the night with racing thoughts, chills, and a pounding heart.

Luckily, she had PTO. She couldn’t let Hancho know she was using it, so she’d get dressed for work, head to a coffee shop, and stay there for hours. Hancho’s gym visits stretched from two hours to six. He might as well have worked there. The man loved mingling, pretending to coach innocent patrons.

By the time she returned home, she could fit in a nap on the couch.

On her third day off in a row, she thought about seeing a doctor, until she remembered a New Age magazine article she’d read months before she met Hancho. It was about entity attachments.

Bella went online to dig deeper. Every symptom on the page matched hers.

“There are two routes to find out if you have an entity attachment,” the article said. “One, hire a shaman, healer, or expert. Two, get a solid pendulum, learn to use it, and follow DIY removal protocols.”

Bella wasn’t ready to spend money on a healer, so she searched for a handcrafted pendulum. She skipped the cheap, mass-made ones and found this beautiful piece instead. While it shipped, she studied how to use it.

When it arrived, her suspicions were confirmed she had more than a few entities attached.

Tune in next week to find out how Bella dealt with them…or maybe they dealt with her.

There is an affiliate link above that will help you detect entities, answer your most pressing questions, and, full disclosure, earn me a few nickels. I’d say pennies, but they’ve stopped printing those.

Farewell, Doug

You might be wondering where I’ve been.

Shortly after publishing my last post, I got a call from the New York State Troopers. Doug had collapsed in his front yard and was unresponsive.

He was taken by ambulance to the Ellenville Regional Hospital, where he passed a few hours later. The police couldn’t locate any of Doug’s relatives, but my contact information was scattered all over his house.

“Just in case I forgot your number when I go into the next room,” Doug would have said.

Bella and I were in New York City, sifting through her storage unit when I got the call. Luckily, there was a rolled-up futon behind me as I fell backward in shock. Once I regained composure, we hopped on an Amtrak to Poughkeepsie and headed back to my place.

Doug had written a last will and testament that could put the entire Brandon Sanderson catalog to shame. The last three hundred pages were one long letter to me, detailing every step for his memorial.

“Not a funeral,” Doug wrote. “Those are disgusting. A memorial service.”

The event was to be held on his property. All attendees were required to wear a flannel button-down shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a wide-brimmed rodeo hat. “Special bonus for those touting a lasso,” he added. He never did specify what the bonus was.

No prayers were to be said. Only happy songs. Crying was allowed, if done in private.

His body was to be placed on a wool mattress, naked, under a single linen sheet. Once the celebration wrapped, the food was eaten, and nothing left unsaid, everyone had to leave… except me. I was to douse the place in liquor, especially Doug’s body, and set the house on fire.

Took some convincing for the High Falls Fire Department. Eventually, the chief agreed, showing up in his truck dressed like a wild Texan, ready to extinguish the flame if necessary.

“Those metal urns,” Doug wrote, “total shit. Once the house collapses, you’re to collect my ashes and put them in a teak vase.” This exact teak vase I’ve linked is the one Doug wanted. “If the seller’s out of stock, contact them. See if they’ll make an exception.”

There were plenty in stock. I ordered one. It arrived in perfect time.

Had Doug made it just three more weeks, he would’ve turned 83. I can’t say I’ll miss those 2 a.m. phone calls, but man, he was a character. May he rest in peace.

Not to be a disgusting pig, but there’s an affiliate link in here. If the vase speaks to you, I might make a wee bit of money. So will the seller. But most importantly, Doug would want you to have it.

Please don’t put ashes in there. Use it for flowers. Doug would want beauty, not bones.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has Hancho’s Father Gone?

The departure of Hancho’s father proved more challenging than Bella expected. She thought Hancho would be happier. More open to love-making. But no. He just sat there, clutching his father’s forgotten item: a jar of whipped tallow cream.

Hancho would unscrew the lid, take a whiff of the gorgeous vanilla bean scent, then close it as Bella came closer.

“Why don’t you put some on,” she advised.

“No. He left in a hurry. He’ll come back for it,” Hancho mumbled.

This went on for weeks. No sign of Hancho’s father. The man never had his cell phone on. It was only for emergencies.

“But what about emotional emergencies?” Hancho screamed, nearly smashing the whipped tallow jar to pieces.

“Calm yourself,” Bella said. “Put down the jar and let’s take a nap in the bedroom.”

For the first time (and last), Hancho took her advice. They lay side by side. Her leg draped over his. She caressed his fingers, then his heart, as he sobbed uncontrollably.

Above is an affiliate link (where I might make a few coins) to the most delicious-smelling, grass-fed beef tallow that’ll make you look and feel ten years younger. Too bad Hancho’s father never remembered to retrieve his jar. At least it’s in capable hands now… err, mine.

Hancho, Part Three

While Bella and Daphne got lost in the frog figurine, night after night, day after day, Hancho had a small awakening. Having his father crash out on the couch had been boring. The man was either munching junk on the sofa or running out to the bodega for a quick 2,000-calorie snack.

It was time to spice things up. Literally.

There was a park several blocks from the apartment with a barbecue grill. Hancho picked up a pound and a half of steak, tossed that in a cooler along with some ice, plastic plates, two steak knives, two forks, bottles of water, several 8-ounce cans of tomato juice, a few lemons, vodka, and a container of this instant Bloody Mary mix (not an affiliate link. Just shouting out a friend’s killer product.)

“Where are you taking me?” his father whined the whole way to the park.

“Don’t worry, pops,” Hancho reassured his father. Hancho knew that each time he told his pops not to worry, it only increased the man’s anxiety.

Finally, at the park, Hancho’s father acted like he’d never seen a place like this. Benches, trees, basketball courts, and several rusted-out public barbeque grills. The man couldn’t get comfortable until Hancho served the Bloody Mary.

“This is kinda nice,” his old man said. “Too bad Bella couldn’t join us.”

“Let’s not talk about her right now,” Hancho said, then took a big gulp of Bloody Mary.

They stayed at the park until the police kicked them out. By then, the two men could barely walk straight. The police officer was kind enough to drive them home. He walked them up to the apartment and handed the two drunkards off to Bella.

Hancho awoke with the most god awful hangover. He had a memory of fighting with Bella, or was that his father? Bella blinked open her eyes. She leaned in to kiss Hancho.

Minutes later, Hancho had a letter in his hands. In his father’s terrible chicken scratch handwriting, he was able to make out the following:

Hancho, it was only a matter of time before it cracked between us. Thank you for the stay. I appreciated the food and the drinks yesterday. I’m out of your hair as you requested. Until next time…or not. Love, Pops

Hancho, Part Two

Hancho’s father never left. Sure, he’d hobble to the bodega every morning for a paper and egg sandwich. Occasionally, he would join a group of men for gambling and arguing over appropriate female attire. Mostly, he sat on the couch like a kind old lump.

Bella tuned the man out and focused exclusively on Hancho. Did he have any idea what a damper his father’s presence had on their budding relationship? These thoughts overwhelmed her, so she’d ponder work instead.

Other than taking lunch with her boss, Bella was quiet. She barely mingled with her co-workers. That is, until the company hired Daphne. She could’ve been Bella’s twin, except for her bright blue eyes.

Daphne was obsessed with frogs. She had frog mugs. Pins made of assorted materials that, when melded together, formed a frog. Daphne would stay late at the office, not because she had work, but because of this solar-powered frog figurine. If you click on the affiliate link, you’ll see a happy frog holding a book, either thinking or perhaps happily interrupted by a loved one. The book only illuminates in a dark setting.

Bella had yet to see the magic of this figurine.

“Can you stay late with me?” Daphne asked Bella. “I’d like to show you something.”

“I can head back to the house, eat with Hancho and his lovely mole of a father… then return after that.”

They nodded in agreement.

At 8:30 p.m., Bella and Daphne stood together, their elbows gliding against one another, staring at the frog figurine.

“It’s so lovely,” Daphne sighed.

Bella said nothing. This is exactly how she pictured Hancho someday. Wisened. Happy. Rested. Eager to interweave fantasy and reality. She fell to her knees as if that frog statue had become some religious icon, then sobbed.

Above is an affiliate link where I will get the most luscious nickels that will fall from the sky and into my pocket.

Hancho, Part One

An office job served Bella well. Her colleagues were kind. Bella’s boss, Mark, was constantly cracking jokes as he treated her to lunch every day. She never thought a 40-hour workweek would feel like a ride at an amusement park.

As she filed away the clients’ folders, she thought of Hancho’s body. How badly she wished to rush home and watch him shower. Impossible, anyhow, with Hancho’s father making a sudden visit.

The man took residence on their couch. Never slept. The TV blared all night. Amazingly, Bella got a full night’s sleep during the man’s stay.

While his father was there, Hancho reduced his time at the gym to 90 minutes. He started saying “Thank you,” “I love you,” and “Please” to Bella. He even caressed her hand one morning, making Bella late for work.

One evening, Bella returned home to a candlelit dinner. Sure, the table was set for three, but even with Hancho’s father there, Bella was the primary focus.

“How was work?” Hancho asked.

“Fun as always.”

Bella looked for signs of jealousy in Hancho but couldn’t find any.

“So glad it was fun, baby.”

Baby?

“You gonna give it to her?” Hancho’s father asked.

“One minute, pop.” Hancho appeared to be drowning in Bella’s appearance. “You know, baby, at work how you can pour yourself a cup of coffee, walk away for a few minutes, but then a few minutes turn into an hour?”

Bella nodded.

“Well, I got you this cup.” Hancho reached out from underneath the table and plopped a 14 oz black cup on the table. “Ember” was written on the front. “It has a ninety-minute battery life. Your coffee will never get cold again.”

“Oh wow.” Bella saw the veins pulsating in Hancho’s arm as he handed her the cup. “So sweet.”

Bella took that cup to work. Used it daily. But with each sip of coffee, she’d think of Hancho and his stupid father. When was that man ever gonna leave? It had been three weeks and it felt like she was supporting two men.

Just a few paragraphs up was an affiliate link. Should you choose to purchase the item, I just might get a few coins tossed my way.

Bella, Part Three

For three solid weeks, Bella and Hancho hobbled around his apartment in silence.

They moved like mute pantomimes, directionless and bruised by something neither would name.

Hancho’s time at the gym doubled, denying Bella the chance to watch the veins bulge in his arms during a bicep curl. So she stayed home, staring out the window, eating beans out of a can.

On the street were happy couples, arm in arm. Some walked dogs. Others pushed baby strollers.

“Will I ever get there with Hancho?” she asked herself.

Before she had a chance to answer, he came bursting through the door with a box.

“This is for you,” he said, sliding it her way. The side of it grazed her left calf.

Inside was a leather briefcase.

What the hell was Bella supposed to do with this?

“It’s very nice,” Bella told him. “But… what’s it for?”

“What’s it for?” Hancho’s face turned red. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “You’re gonna go to work.”

Then came the expletives. Then the mumbling. Something about how ungrateful she was.

Back in Wisconsin, Bella’s only job was at Dairy Queen. She started in high school and worked there until several days before she left for New York. If she showed up to Dairy Queen with a leather briefcase, everyone would’ve laughed. The manager might’ve pulled her aside and asked if she intended to move up in the company.

As she stared at the briefcase — tilted sideways in its cardboard cradle — Hancho told her to use her time wisely. He gave her two days to find a decent office job.

“And what if I can’t?” Bella asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Hancho replied, gym bag in hand.

He slammed the door behind him. Its vibration sent a chill down her back.

In next week’s post, Hancho’s abusive energy is put on hold while Bella navigates joy in unexpected places.

Oh, and if that briefcase link above gave you a tingle of “maybe I need that,” just know it’s an affiliate link.

If you grab one, I might make a few coins — not enough for a mansion, but maybe enough for Bella to upgrade to a can of organic beans.

Bella, Part Two

As I zipped up the tent, I figured Bella would mumble a quick thank you, and we’d both be out like lights. But the moment my head hit the makeshift pillow, the questions started. Who was she? Would this be Abby’s and my last night on Earth?

I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Here we are, two strangers, lying side by side—almost as intimate as it gets—yet we know nothing about each other.”

“Would you like to hear my story?”

You’d think the scream that prompted me to “rescue” her would’ve been a sign to say, “Maybe tomorrow?” or “Just a quick version?” But nope—I told her to go ahead.

Bella’s originally from Wisconsin. Estranged from her parents, who used religion as a weapon. Two summers ago, she’d had enough. She hit the road for New York—on foot, no less—wearing these badass motorcycle boots.

She had never been to NYC. Instantly, she fell in love—not just with the city, but with the wrong man. Hancho. A Greek Jew who spent more time in the gym than he did sleeping.

Hancho wore tight shorts and a muscle shirt. Bella fell in love with the veins running down his arms. She wasn’t paying attention to the force behind them.

“Sit here!”

“Get out the fucking way, bitch.”

She’d never encountered a man like Hancho in Wisconsin. Bella did everything to appease him—polished his lifting shoes, ironed his sweaty socks, handed him his 128 oz thermos between sets.

It didn’t take long before Bella lost track of her finances. One day, sent to buy protein bars, her card declined. She panicked. What would she tell Hancho?

She raced back to the gym—where else would he be?—and muttered her confession. For a moment, he looked at her like she’d turned into a rotting corpse. Then he resumed his workout and ignored her for the rest of the day.

There’s only so much of Bella’s story I can tell in one sitting before getting ill. It’s so tragic. Absurd. And it’s to be continued.

Until next week, I hope your eyes stumbled across the affiliate link above. May the boots fit—and may you never trip over your own feet. Bella didn’t. Why should you?

Bella, Part One

It’s the middle of the night. You’re lying in your tent, tossing and turning, searching for that perfect position.

You’re about 50 yards from the trail, yet the sudden scream sounds like it’s coming from inside your tent.

This isn’t a dream. Not a drill.

You know someone’s in terrible danger—but you have no idea what to do.

If you unzip the tent, he/she/it/they might spot you.

Do nothing, and the person…

What would you do?

I’ll tell you what I did.

First, I shut Abby up—her barking was ruining the vibe.

Then the beast in me tore the tent wide open, and I hollered,

“Pull your shit together or I’m gonna beat all your asses.”

Silence.

Not a stir.

I then grabbed this fucker.

Thank god for it—if I’d had any weaker flashlight, I would’ve seen nothing but branches.

Turned it on, and just beyond the light: a woman in her early 30s, dressed in what looked like a large doily.

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” she asked, trembling.

I didn’t dare step forward. She almost looked feral.

“If you attack me, I will.”

“I won’t attack you.” She grinned. “My name’s Bella.”

Bella said she has regular nightmares and was hoping a night out in nature would cure her.

“Could take a while,” I told her.

I hadn’t shared my name—must’ve forgotten.

Just as I thought the conversation was winding down, she asked if she could stay in my tent for the rest of the night.

“With me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I nodded.

She hobbled over. In we went.

We didn’t sleep, but there was no hanky panky either.

More on Bella—and our journey—next week.

Hopefully the affiliate link above didn’t blind you. It has that power.

Camping Restoration Activated

I’m a bit tired of the day-to-day. This weekend, I’m hopping in my car and heading to an undisclosed location. No electricity. No running water (except a river). A lean-to, if I’m lucky. My phone? Stored in the glove compartment.

If you need to reach me… too bad.

It’s been a hell of a year — full of loss, grief, and drawing firm boundaries with loved ones. And yet, at the same time, the excitement of starting my business. All of it has been swirling together, sometimes creating more confusion than clarity.

I’m ready for this trip. Just me, the car, and my dog Abby. Here’s what I packed:

1. One small towel

2. One change of boxers

3. An extra pair of socks

4. Raingear

5. Canned vegan nutrition (for me)

6. Canine nutrition (for Abby)

7. Can opener

8. Tooth and skin hygiene supplies

9. A lovely survival kit (in case things go sideways).

I wish I had more to say, but my head’s spinning.

May I return with greater clarity and balance.

Magic #9 (isn’t that a song title?) has an affiliate link tucked in there.