The Plot Department

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Oh, Madeline

At Boston University, I befriended a quiet musician named Fred. We had many deep late-night conversations. Then, one day, he lost his mind and had to return home to Maryland.

Fred and I stayed in contact throughout his recovery. He still possessed his charm, humor, and musical prowess. Adjusting to his newly-medicated life wasn’t easy. He suggested I come visit—he didn’t have many friends anymore.

The trip to Bethesda from Penn Station was painless. Just one quick transfer at Washington Union Station, and I was there. We didn’t go straight to his parents’ house. First, a pit stop at the supermarket. His mother had written a grocery list that looked like it had been scribed in the 15th century. She might’ve used a quill.

Fred nearly tore the list into pieces, but I insisted he hand it over as a souvenir.

“That might be worth money,” I told him. He handed it over. God knows where it is now.

Fred’s mother, Madeline, greeted me like one of her own—two kisses on each cheek, a wrist squeeze, multiple hugs, and a stream of “so happy to see you!”

I bonded with Fred’s entire family. They hated it when I left, always insisting I come back soon.

Every couple of months, I’d return for a three-to-five-day visit. On one trip, Fred got sick suddenly and needed bed rest. His father and sister were out of town. It was just Madeline and me, tending to Fred—chatting until nearly 1 a.m., taking long walks, laughing over silly TV shows.

As the years went on, it wasn’t Fred who kept in touch—it was Madeline. She sent weekly emails updating me on Fred’s mental health.

Fred’s younger sister, Jackie, moved to Chicago to pursue dentistry.

Fred’s parents eventually divorced.

Once the divorce was final, Madeline’s emails came daily.

“When can I see you?”

“I’m coming to New York for a conference—would be nice to stay with you somewhere.”

I thought about checking in with Fred—see how his mother was doing emotionally—but didn’t want to worry him. So yes, I met Madeline in a hotel lobby. We had drinks, laughs—it felt like the old days in Bethesda, minus the fireplace and the howling wind against the windows.

“I’m staying here,” Madeline winked. “The rooms are phenomenal. Wanna check them out?”

Oh god. My biology short-circuited. I did want to check out the room—and much more. But Madeline was Fred’s mother. That would be weird… or would it? It had been years since Fred and I shared a beer. We were well past our college years.

“What the hell,” I found myself saying.

Next thing I knew, we were in her hotel room. Madeline was leaning against a pillar, sipping wine, suddenly dressed in this one-piece, semi-transparent outfit. I’ll never forget that pattern: a hummingbird hovering around each nipple, and a cluster of roses doing their best to obscure what couldn’t be obscured.

It was a sleepless night—sweat, longing, yelps, and a crap ton of alcohol.

After that, contact with Madeline faded. Where her emails had been weekly, I started hearing from her twice a month. Then quarterly. Then just a Happy Birthday message once a year. For the past decade, I don’t know if she still walks this earth.

Fred, wherever you are—please forgive me. You were a great friend with an unforgettable family. Maybe this Mother’s Day weekend, you’ll celebrate with joy and lots of music.

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I’m On Edge?

Maybe I am.

Sure, being single sucks — but I thought I was fine until last Thursday. I was out in the garden, yanking weeds, whistling Dixie, and a handful of other tunes.

That is, until the honking started.

Relentless.

All coming from Doug’s house.

I pulled off my gardening gloves and headed over.

The moment he saw me, Doug shouted, “Go back home, Mr. Edgy!”

What the hell was he talking about?

I was the one minding my own business.

He was the one sitting in the driver’s seat, blaring his horn at god only knows what.

“You alright, Doug?”

“Am I alright?”

He walked toward me — a momentary break from the honking.

“You’re the one always on edge. Always coming over, complaining about one thing or another.”

“Doug, you’re the one blaring the horn.”

“See what I mean?”

“I was checking on you. Making sure you’re okay.”

“Go home. Doug. Find a hobby. Knitting would be perfect for you.”

I left without a word.

Hopped on Amazon.

Bought this knitting kit.

Two days later, I set up a camping chair on my driveway, adjacent to my car.

Opened the kit and went to town on a winter hat.

Every few minutes, I’d pause from knitting to blare my horn.

Doug, sadly, never came to check on me.

A few other neighbors, however, glanced over with grave concern.

“All’s well!” I called out. “Just working on a new project.”

In between the bundles of yarn — and through these words on the page is an affiliate link.