As some of you will know, this is now the third installment of my unofficial Titanic series, over the course of which I've shared a vast array of facts, stories, conspiracy theories, and even creative writing. Needless to say, the "Unsinkable Ship" has left quite the impression on me, my writing, and my blog. But nevertheless, I feel I have yet to— and may never— exhaust my material, and there are still a number of important Titanic-related things that need to be said. So prefaces aside, here are a few more of my favourite Titanic tidbits. There will almost assuredly be more to come. 

1. Robert Ballard 

3. David Blair

4. Charles Joughin

“Can I help you, uh… sir?”

“Detective Sergeant Calvin Bernard. Are you Miss Jones?”

“Y- yes, I am. Is anything the matter? It’s rather late for unexpected company.”

“I’ve been authorized to conduct an official eyewitness investigation into the Declan Miller case. Mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?”

“Not at all, officer. Make yourself at home.”

“Sergeant.”

“Pardon me?”

“I’m not an officer, miss. My name is Detective Sergeant Calvin Bernard.”

“Oh of course, my mistake.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetheart. Now is there somewhere we can grab a seat? This might take a while.”

“I’ll bring you into the parlour. It’s down the— I can take your coat for you— it’s down the hall and to the left.”

“Sounds good. It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Must get awful lonely.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Living here all by yourself, I mean. A girl like you could use some company.”

“With all due respect, I’ve been getting along just fine on my own.”

“Okay okay, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Why don’t we just get this testimony over with. I’ll lay my files out here.”

“Go ahead.”

“Right then. Let’s get into it. ‘At approximately 2300 hours on February 15, 2019, Dispatch notified the LVMPD of a potential homicide at 10801 W Charleston Blvd, second floor, which is currently being rented to the Howard Hughes Corporation. Upon arriving at the scene, uniformed officers’— and sergeant, obviously— ‘identified the body of victim Declan Miller, 43, who had been dead for an estimated 2 to 3 hours.’ Of course, none of this is news to you, now, is it Miss Jones?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell me, what are your affiliations with the Howard Hughes Corporation?”

“I’m their financial analyst. I have been for some time now.”

“Financial Analyst? Wonder what you had to do to get a job like that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Relax, I was only joking. Anyways, Declan Miller was a realtor for the company, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“What was his reputation in the office?”

“Well, I know a few of the women weren’t exactly… uh, comfortable around him. But he always seemed like a friendly face.”

“Elaborate.”

“Oh, you know. Some of the women would complain about inappropriate comments, nicknames, lack of boundaries, that sort of thing— oh sorry sir, could you keep your feet off the coffee table?”

“Sure thing, honey.”

“But I’ve worked with him for almost a decade now, and I’ve never really—”

“A decade? You must be what, 30? 35? You look good for your age.”

“Um thank you, sir. But as I was saying, I’ve never really had any issues with Mr. Miller.”

“I see. What about his relationship status? I interviewed Julie not long ago, and she said she—”

“Pardon me, sir, but Julie?”

“Janet? Jenny? Oh I don’t know, the secretary.”

“Jane?”

“Jane. Anyways, she said the two of them—Jane and Declan, that is— had been on again off again for a couple years. What did you know about their relationship?”

“Not much, sir. They broke up a few days before Valentine’s Day, but I never really knew why. I did overhear them arguing a few weeks prior though.”

“Did you catch what it was about?”

“Not really. I think she accused Mr. Miller of flirting with his clients or something. I can’t say for certain, but I think she was suspicious of his late nights at the office.”

“So it sounds like Julie started the—”

“Jane.”

“It sounds like Jane started the argument. Were they on good terms the night of the murder?”

“I don’t believe so. She didn’t show up to work that morning.”

“Interesting. And what can you tell me about Declan’s reputation with the rest of the employees?”

“Oh, Mr. Miller’s always been quite popular in the office. Well until his promotion, that is.”

“Promotion?”

“He deserved it, don’t get me wrong. But I think a few of the other realtors were also expecting it, and he didn’t exactly try to hide his excitement.”

“I see. Anyone stick out in your mind as being particularly bothered?”

“I think everyone was a little annoyed, offi— um, sergeant. But now that you mention it, one of the real estate agents—Jacob Wright— seemed especially off-put.”

“Tell me about this Jacob Wright.”

“I could be mistaken, but I believe he and Mr. Miller were once good friends. At least, they used to take lunch breaks together, and I’m pretty sure they’ve carpooled to work a few times.”

“And you noticed a shift after the promotion?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think Mr. Wright was doing too well, and I imagine he could have used the pay raise.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Well, you know how word gets around. I heard through the grapevine that he lost his wife not long ago, and if I’m not wrong, that would make him a single father to three teenage daughters and a newborn. I can’t help but feel sorry for him.”

“When was the promotion announced?”

“I think it was two days before the night of the murder. The thirteenth? I don’t remember exactly.”

“I see. And where were you that night, Miss Jones?”

“Which night, the thirteenth? I had taken the day off to help my sister with some—”

“Not the thirteenth, miss. Where were you the night of the murder?”

“At work, sir”

“For how long?”

“Nine to five.”

“Then what?”

“Straight back here.”

“When did you arrive?”

“5:20.”

“How?”

“By bus.”

“How come?”

“My car’s in for repairs.”

“And you went back to the office later that night? Why?”

“I forgot my purse at my desk.”

“And so you took the bus back to work, rode the elevator to the second floor, unlocked the door, turned on the lights—”

“And found Mr. Miller face down on the carpet. Sorry sir, but may I ask something?”

“What is it?”

“There's been an autopsy, no? Has it revealed anything?”

“Let's leave the investigating to the professionals, darling.”

“Sorry. It’s just that there wasn’t any blood or anything. No sign of a struggle. I figured it must’ve been a heart attack, but when the word ‘homicide’ was all over the news the next day, I couldn’t help but wonder.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this much. This was certainly no accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What’s that?”

“Anthrax.”

“Anthrax?”

“Anthrax. Bacillus anthracis. The stuff’s deadly.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You wouldn’t, sweetheart. Someone’s been lacing it into his clothing.”

“His clothing?”

“Most likely the sleeves of his jacket. He had blisters the size of golfballs running up and down the length of his arms.”

“Who would do such a thing? And why?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“How soon do you think it’ll be until we get some answers?”

“Could be days. Could be a matter of weeks. You okay, miss?”

“Sorry, this is just a lot to take in.”

“I bet you wouldn’t mind some company tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m free to stay for a while. We could—”

“I’ll walk you to the door.”

“Fine, whatever you want.”

“Oh, you almost forgot your coat. I’ll grab it for you. Wait one moment.”

“Sure.”

“There you are.”

“Much obliged. Good night, Miss Jones.”

“Good bye, Sergeant Bernard.”

Far away and just as long ago, in the since-revitalized village of Steinau, there lived two beloved brothers who, although they endured a brutal poverty, served as a blessing to all who observed their good-naturedness and benevolence. On the late-October evening of this particular tale, Jakob and Wilhelm were making their way home through a bitter autumn wind that nipped at their bare noses. The boys were in considerably high spirits despite a trying afternoon at the schoolhouse, and as they sauntered along the pathway, they talked freely of the day’s ordeals.

“Have you recovered your missing slate yet?” Jakob asked, his face betraying earnest concern. At thirteen years old, he was the eldest of 9 children, and especially following their papa’s death two years prior, his relation to his siblings was often more paternal than it was brotherly.

“Nein, I never found it,” Wilhelm admitted regretfully. “Herr Lehmann was rather indignant when I showed up to my lessons without it.”

“Well do not let it ail you, I trust it will show up in good time. Besides in the meanwhile, you can always borrow my— mein Gott!”

Jakob came to an abrupt halt and stared in bewilderment at the terrain. Upon it sat a strange amphibian critter with wide, bulging eyes and wart-covered skin, which would have been crushed underfoot had its resonant croaks not announced its presence. Frogs were certainly not foreign to the village, but something about this one’s demeanor made it seem cognizant, almost human.

Jakob and Wilhelm examined the specimen and as they did, although neither brother externalized the thought, they were both reminded of the characters from the stories their papa used to tell. Before his death, their father had fallen ill with pneumonia, and with each month that passed since he contracted the disease, his stories got increasingly less elaborate. Eventually he was altogether unable to narrate, and now all that remained of his tales existed in the familial comfort that the children affiliated them with.

So while neither Jakob nor Wilhelm were particularly fond of amphibian beasts, they unspokenly resolved to follow it. And consequently, when the frog bounded off the pathway, across the creek, and into the woods, that’s exactly where the boys went.


Whether it was the forest that became progressively denser or the frog that became progressively faster, the intensive pursuit seemed more and more hopeless with every step the brothers took. They chased the creature up hills and down gulleys, over bridges and under fallen logs, all the while speculating where it might be leading them. For as long as they ran, not once did the thought of turning back ever cross their minds, and when the frog eventually disappeared into a thicket of shrubs, they got onto their hands and knees without hesitation and crawled after it through the brambles.

“Austch, Jakob! These thistles are scratching my arms,” Wilhelm cried out as the two of them plodded hurriedly into the shrubs.

“Mine, too,” Jakob responded through clenched teeth. “We must be nearing the other side, though.”

“How can you be sure? It seems to go on forever.” Wilhelm, being the youngest, had followed in behind his brother who had instinctively taken the lead. So however much he strained to see what was ahead of him, his only view was of his brother’s tattered leather breeches.

“We are coming up to a glade. I can see it through the branches.” Jakob reported, and when he was finally able to push his way through the last of the brambles, he brushed the debris from his clothing and looked around in awe. “Look for yourself!”

Wilhelm followed seconds later, stumbling out of the bushes and onto the ground.

The brothers found themselves in a broad, open clearing. Sun rays showered down from the opening in the forest’s roof in such a way that the entire scene seemed otherworldly and transcendent, like one of the enchanted woodlands from their papa’s fairy stories. It was as if they had somehow wound up in an entirely different realm, far from their village and far from their home. All that was missing from the picture was their olive-skinned object of pursuit.

“Now where could that frog have gone?” Jakob pondered aloud.

“I do not see any sign of it. Perhaps it—”

Just then, Wilhelm felt a tugging at his waistcoat. When he turned around to determine its source, he saw what appeared to be a tiny man staring back at him. He only came up to the boy’s knees, and could have passed for a child were it not for his long, knotted beard and wrinkled face. His limbs were long and spindly, especially in proportion to his dwarfish height, and his clothing were loose around his body. It reminded Jakob of the way his papa’s clothes used to hang slack from his scrawny arms. He lost so much weight since he fell ill with pneumonia that his ribs protruded from his body like the trees protrude from the earth.

“Hello sir,” Wilhelm greeted after recovering from his initial surprise. “Ah, can you help us? We’re looking for a frog.”

The man barely seemed to register the question. He offered no response, and instead continued to stare up at the brothers unabashedly. Wilhelm eyed his brother for help, and Jakob stepped in.

“My name is Jakob, and this is my brother Wilhelm,” he said, clearly articulating each syllable. “What is your name?”

At that, the man burst into a fit of gleeful laughter. He held his stomach and skipped away from the clearing, singing and giggling: “What is my name? What is my name?”

“Come back!” Jakob yelled, grabbing his brother’s hand and running after him. “Please sir. We need your help.”

As the two brothers ran deeper into the forest a different noise caught their attention. A beautiful instrumental melody echoed through the trees, one that was far more interesting than the little man’s cackling voice. At the sound of the song, the boys looked at each other in wonder. “Do you hear that?” Jakob asked, entranced by the haunting tune.

“Where could it be coming from?” Wilhelm seemed to breathe the words out, completely captivated. The only thought that occupied his mind was sourcing the mysterious melody.

“I am not sure, but look over there!”

Wilhelm directed his gaze in the direction his brother pointed, and just caught sight of a laddish youth before he disappeared into the woods. From what Wilhelm saw, the young man was clad in a bright, colourful coat and held a wooden pipe in his hands, from which came the most beautiful tune the boys had ever heard. But the most extraordinary part of it all was the train of creatures that seemed to trail behind the lad. Most were rodents, but there were also a number of other small mammals that seemed to scamper hurriedly after the piper. And for some inexplicable reason, Jakob and Wilhelm were instantly convinced to do the same.

They started off, first walking and soon sprinting, in the direction of the music. But before they had been running for very long, two cold, bony hands grabbed onto their ankles and pulled them to the ground. As the brothers struggled to break free, they caught a glimpse of their captor. She was a hideous thing of nearly seven feet. Through her matted nest of hair and her massive pointed hat, Jakob and Wilhelm could make out a face of sagging skin on which lay a malicious smile.

“Hello, my dears.” The woman croaked. “I do say, you two would make a tasty meal.”

The brothers stared up at her, mute with terror. Jakob’s mind raced, desperately searching for something he could use to protect his little brother— a stone, a stick, anything. ‘What would papa do?’ he kept thinking to himself. The thought got louder and louder until the voice in his head was practically screaming at him. ‘What would papa do?’ 

“You have nothing to fear, children,” coaxed the woman. “You will not feel a thing.” And at that, she lifted a large club-like branch from the forest floor and raised it over her head, about to strike.

Jakob and Wilhelm held each other in their arms and cowered together, frozen in place. They expected a blow to come down on them any second, and they closed their eyes, whispering to each other panickedly.

“This cannot be happening.” Jakob muttered under his breath. “This cannot be happening.”

“Jakob?” Wilhelm whispered.

“What is it?”

“We are so alone.”

“I know, Wilhelm.” Jakob clung to his brother tighter and buried his face into his coat. “I miss papa.”

“I miss him too.”


“You boys seem to be far from home.”

In place of the wicked old woman’s brittle, throaty voice, a masculine voice sounded instead. Slowly, the brothers opened their eyes and lifted their gaze on the speaker. A sturdy, muscular lumberman stood, towering over them, holding a hatchet in one hand and a bundle of freshly-cut wood in the other. Despite his intimidating image, his face was soft and his eyes were gentle.

“Sir?” Jakob asked, his voice still quivering with fear. “Where has the old woman gone? Pardon my asking, but has she become you? Or rather, is she inside of you?”

“Old woman?” the lumberman laughed heartily. “Do you think I look like an old woman?”

“I think she was a witch,” Wilhelm chimed in. “She was standing just there. Perhaps, you…” Wilhelm trailed off and stared at the hatchet hanging from the man’s hand.

The lumberman shouldered his bundle of wood and put up his axe. Chuckling, he took the brothers by their hands.

“Sorry sir, but can you not hear that melody?” Jakob persisted. He could still hear the piper’s tune on the distant wind.

“And have you happened to see any frogs nearby?” Wilhelm added.

“You children have such vivid imaginations. Someone ought to be writing this nonsense down,” the lumberman said, shaking his head to himself. “Come along, I will lead you back to the village. It is nearing dusk.”

As the three of them walked hand in hand back to the village, Wilhelm spotted a dark tablet-shaped object in the soil. He pulled away from the party to take a closer look, and after brushing away the dirt from its surface, he recognized it as his missing slate from the schoolhouse. Relieved, Wilhelm picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and ran to catch up with his brother.

Since the lockdown started, I've been trying to make more time for regular exercise in my admittedly uneventful schedule, and I imagine a lot of people can say the same. It hasn't been anything too sensational— daily runs, home workout apps, longer neighbourhood walks— but I noticed almost instantly that I was getting so much more out of it than what I was putting in.

Ever since health class in grade school, the extensive physical advantages of frequent exercise have been drilled into our heads: weight loss, longer lifespan, better skin, healthier sleep, the list goes on. But for most people, exercise seems to lose its relevance more and more with each year that passes between them and grade 8 gym class. Maybe it's because the Beep Test was a little too traumatic or maybe it's because they had a coach that was a little too discouraging. Physical activity isn't just some ploy to make students run around while teachers get a break, though, and it's good for so much more than weight loss and clear skin.

Arguably the easiest way to exemplify the wide range of well-being encompassed by physical exercise is by taking a look at what some call the Tripartite View, others call the Trinity of Man, and still others have (perhaps more comprehensibly) have dubbed the Mind Body Spirit Connection. The latter term is more or less self-explanatory: the Mind Body Spirit Connection is the Christian concept that each individual is equally comprised of each of those three elements, and essentially, what happens to one has a direct and proportionate impact on the other two.

The Mind Body Spirit Connection has been a pertinent idea for thousands of years, and although it has theological roots, has been loosely applied to medical science throughout history. As early as ancient times, it was accepted that a healthy mind constitutes a healthy body, and relatively, a healthy body is crucial to house a healthy mind. The concept translates into modern medicine likewise, in that mental stress is widely regarded as a contributing cause to a number of physical diseases.

This connection exhibits itself in a couple of ways in our routine lives. When someone's stressed, for instance, their body experiences physical symptoms— sweating, an increased heartbeat, narrowed vision— which seem to be commensurate with their mental symptoms— a racing mind, panicked emotions, anger, etc.

Another example of the Mind Body Spirit Connection's relevance in our lives is through the prominence of exercise, not just on the body, but subsequently on the mind and the spirit.

Spirit

Mind

Between her traditional role in a 17th century marriage and her modern role in a 21st century action movie, the Western woman has been taught throughout history that her value lies in her outward appearance. As soon as her behaviour starts to support that notion, though, her centuries of deep-rooted principles suddenly turn on her, and she is deemed "narcissistic," "egotistical," and "conceited." At least, those are some of the most consistent words that pop up when you Google search the word selfie.


I think that's the root of the problem when it comes to addressing the steadily increasing relevance of selfies in our culture. Because at the same time that girls are taught to strive for conventional beauty, they are also advised to deflect compliments, deny praise, and manifest excess modesty in everything they do, lest they come across as arrogant. For most young women⁠—  and anyone for that matter⁠— taking a selfie is simply a step towards debunking that teaching, and recognizing that they are worth a picture.

Most of us have already heard of the selfie's widely debated role in restoring confidence, though. Instead, I want to touch on some of the less scrutinized benefits of selfies in today's media-based society.

I'm sure you're aware of social media's more toxic edge. When your feed exclusively consists of people's good sides, from the good side of their faces to the good side of their lives in general, it's hard not to compare their best to your worst. And although that dangerous tendency is important to acknowledge, there's another largely unexplored angle to consider, which exhibits itself in hospital patient Day Bishop's reliance on media during his crainiotomy. "With medical stuff, people don't know how to talk about it and don't know how to start the conversation. Putting it out there on social media really helps ... I would click on different hashtags and see so many people's pictures of their scars ... I was looking for affirmation from someone else."

In the same way that new mothers go to mom groups or recovering addicts go to group therapy, seeing someone facing the same trials as you⁠— even if it's through the form of a stranger's hospital selfies⁠— can provide a really authentic sense of reassurance and comfort.

That deep-seated comfort can also come from a more abstract place. If you've ever seen a face in the license plate and rear lights of your car, then you've experienced at least a mild form of pareidolia, which is a human's natural tendency to perceive faces everywhere. Our brains are hardwired to pick them out of splatters of paint, clouds, patterns, and anything and everything else. Pareidolia is a primitive, instinctual response that has protected human beings for centuries. Christopher French puts it like this: "A classic example is the Stone Age guy standing there, scratching his beard, wondering whether that rustling in the bushes really is a sabre-toothed tiger. You're much more likely to survive if you assume it's a sabre-toothed tiger and get out of there." Nowadays we don't have to worry about prehistoric predators, but that inherent comfort that comes from a human visage is still relevant today.

Netflix incorporates this phenomenon into its company's marketing strategies, because show cards and titles that involve human faces consistently have higher rates and better profits than those that don't. And it's the same thing on Instagram. Especially in today's age of texts and phone calls, where face to face contact simply isn't valued the way it used to be, we need to see each other's faces. There's no better way to put it.

All of this reasoning and explanation is ultimately unnecessary, though. In its simplest terms, a selfie is easy and fun. Somehow taking a photograph with a front facing camera has come to be frowned on, but in no way should it be taboo for anyone to snap a photo when they're feeling themselves.

Beauty in all forms is worth celebrating, and that's why there's nothing wrong with taking a selfie.

If you're a youngest child such as myself, you can probably relate to the torment of watching your older siblings blatantly exercise their privileges in front of you. Such was my experience, anyways, when I accompanied my older sibling to Best Buy after they had saved up enough years worth of birthday and Christmas money to buy a new-in-box iPod Touch. Now, I know today an iPod is just another run-of-the-mill gadget, but back in 2012 when the only devices in most households were landlines and microwaves, the iPod Touch was an enshrined artifact.

And being the youngest, I had to stand around and watch while my sibling took their precious time in the Best Buy, choosing the perfect case, earbuds, and whatever unnecessary accessories they deemed essential. Needless to say, I was jealous.

The trip wasn't a total bust though, because as a result of my evident resentment, my dad gave me ten dollars to spend at the Walmart next door. That marked the day I bought my first cribbage board, a purchase which would go on to transform my appreciation of card games forever.

If you've never heard of cribbage, you've probably at least seen its apparatus: a single plank of wood (typically 4 by 12 inches) lined with three adjacent coloured tracks of tiny holes, and complete with three sets of correspondingly coloured pegs. Outwardly, cribbage is a game of chance, but its more avid players will know that true mastery requires strategy, tactic, and skill.

Fundamentally, and so as not to overwhelm any of my unfamiliar readers, the game is a race to 121 points. Players⁠— or in some cases, teams⁠— compete against their opponents, usually by increments of two, to be the first to earn their peg's spot in that revered 121st hole at the end of the track. Not unlike a lot of card games, points are earned by combining cards into pairs, runs, flushes, and sums of fifteen. But something that sets cribbage apart is the way players respond and react to each other's moves in real time, which as journalist Clifton Mark puts it, "makes game play more like conversation than combat."

One of the best aspects of the game is the cribbage-exclusive insider slang that seems to unspokenly get passed down from player to player (my favourite example being "nineteen" which means a zero point hand). And along with the jargon, the rhythmic sing-song nature of the counting makes the whole game feel like poetry. Most competitors take it one step further by inventing their own rhymes when they count their hands. There's a good reason for that, too: cribbage was invented by Sir John Suckling, a 17th century poet, which explains the game's lyrical quality.

Since it was invented four centuries ago, cribbage has waxed in popularity. It eventually became the official game of American submariners after Dick O'Kane, an American commander, played a perfect 29-point hand right before setting off on a record-setting patrol.

And even though I'm not a reputed poet or a highly-regarded submarine commander, cribbage has been a pretty substantial part of my life. A few summers ago, my dad and I started a year-long tournament in which we played a game of cribbage every day for 365 days. A couple of times we played in the middle of the night if he got off work late, and we played online when I was travelling in the summer, but somehow we managed to keep it up for the whole year. I guess we're pretty evenly matched, because we kept track of our points, and we finished the last game of the tournament with a perfect tie.

So when I say I could play cribbage everyday, I'm talking literally. And even though I might be a little biased, the game's complex strategies, rich history, and rhythmic diction is why cribbage is the perfect pastime.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

In hindsight, I’m not sure where I was directing the statement. It certainly wasn’t my intention to alert an unsuspecting passenger of the city bus I had spent the night riding, but I guess privacy is elusive when you’re both enclosed in a 40-foot vehicle at one in the morning. I was aimlessly wandering the streets of Las Vegas a few hours prior, and erratically hopped onto the bus with a harebrained notion that I could escape my life by means of physical distance. I’ve come to realize, though, that no matter your definition of life— be it existence, circumstance, mere survival— it takes more than a 50-mile bus route to escape.

“You good, bud?” the passenger asked, his tone betraying equal parts confusion and concern. The subtle cock of his head requested permission to butt-scooch across the empty seats that divided us, and after I nodded my consent, he obligingly closed the gap.

“I’m Manny,” he said, reaching out his hand and giving mine a shake. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, and between his cream-coloured hoodie and his unkempt stubble, he looked like some kind of albino predator. I found myself inadvertently leaning away. Besides if anything, the Las-Vegas-late-night-bus-rider archetype validated my fear.

“Hi, um, Manny,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Just talking to myself, I guess.”

“It’s cool.”

We rode on in silence for a couple of minutes, staring at the neon billboards and street lamps racing past our window, which were the only signs of life in the otherwise sleeping city. Finally I interrupted the permeating stillness. “Do you ever feel like your entire life is crumbling? And all you can do is watch?”

Manny hesitated, clearly formulating his thoughts. “Sounds like you’ve got a heavy load. Something goin’ on?”

“I don’t know, nevermind.” Suddenly the prospect of dumping my trivial problems on this unassuming soul seemed a little selfish. For all I knew he was on his way to see his girlfriend or live it up with his friends, and the last thing he needed was some random killjoy spoiling his fun. “Sorry, man.”

“S’all good.”

Once again, we sat in agonizing quiet. I leaned my head against the windowpane, and the bumps in the road seemed to amplify straight into my skull. Maybe the awkward silence finally got to me, or maybe deep down I was intrigued at the thought that someone— even if it was a bedraggled stranger— might listen. Whatever my reason, I eventually gave in. “I’m starting to hate the sound of my ringtone,” I sighed.

Manny tilted his head slightly and looked at me through quizzical eyes. “Uh… your ringtone?”

“It’s a bit of a long story.”


I know they’re just automated messages, but every phone call feels like a personalized attack. It’s as if my worst vices are literally being called out with these constant, unavoidable reminders that my life is shambles. It’s the same thing each time: “This prerecorded message is intended to notify you of an unresolved debt. Please contact your creditor to—”

I always hang up before the mechanical voice can get any further.

Everytime my iphone starts playing that loathsome default marimba tune that I never had the motivation to change, all I can hear ringing through my head is: failure, failure, failure.

And it isn’t even my fault. I mean sure, technically I decided to hook up my credit card to that first slot machine all those years ago. But I didn’t ask to be born in a gambling-based megalopolis any more than I asked to be born with natural habit-forming genes, and once I had begun, it was like this vicious, unescapable cycle. The more debt I was in, the more desperately I needed a victory.

Anyways, my cell phone came to spend a lot of time on Do Not Disturb, especially during my daily afternoon naps (which I always took on the stained, run-down polyester sofa I found with an “up for grabs” sign by the side of the road). This particular nap stemmed from having just gotten off an 8-hour bartending shift. I had to rest up my vocal chords before another few hours of exercising my peppy, high-pitched customer service voice at a closing grocery store shift later that night.

As I was dozing off, my girlfriend texted that she would be home late, and since I’m so dismally antisocial, I didn’t have a reason to expect anyone else to contact me that day. So when I woke up to 5 missed calls and a lengthy voicemail from my father, well, to say I was surprised would be putting it lightly. My old man hasn’t spoken to me (let alone by phone) since I moved to the city and took up gambling, and I’m honestly amazed his number was even in my contacts.

As shocked as I was to see his name pop up in my notifications, though, I was all-the-more surprised to learn the intent of his call.

“Hey. You didn’t pick up so I’m just gonna leave a message to get this over with,” the voicemail started. His voice was warped with static through the receiver, but I could still pick out resentment in his tone. “I just got the results of an MRI I took a few weeks ago. Not that you’ll care to know, but I tested positive.” After a brief pause, he continued. “I have leukemia.”

To erase message, press 3. To reply to message, press 4. To save message, press 7.

That was it. No “good bye, no “I miss you,” no “I want to see you one last time before I die from this largely incurable disease that’s eating away at my blood cells as we speak.” Well, of course he didn’t say the latter. It would have been a lie.

I dialed 3 on my keypad and layed back down on the couch.

My father has never been the typical baseball-playing, pun-telling dad. Don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t a child-abuser or a cheater, either. If anything, when I think about my childhood, his name just doesn’t seem relevant. The bar was like his second— or first— home, and most nights he would sooner sleep on the floor of his buddies’ apartment than with his own wife.

 Mom was better off when he wasn’t around anyways. The days he spent at home weren’t without their share of swearing, and yelling.

Now that I think about it, that’s probably why my relationship with my girlfriend isn’t the healthiest. I didn’t exactly grow up with a gentlemanly, woman-respecting influence, so how could I be expected to do better? Sure I’m not the most compassionate partner ever, but for having spent the first two decades of my life watching my father behave the way he did, I’d say I’m doing pretty well.

She certainly doesn’t think so, though. A few weeks ago she accidentally pocket-dialed me, and I’ll just say this: it doesn’t get much worse than spending your lunch break listening to your girlfriend of three years make out with someone you don’t even know.

Neither of us mentioned the unintentional phone call, and I don’t think we ever will. I know I can’t really blame her, but if she can’t handle our relationship without a freaking affair, then she can go ahead and leave me for—


“What ended up happening to your mom?”

“Huh?” I was so absorbed in my complaints that I had entirely forgotten Manny was still listening. At the sound of his question, I was snapped out of my own thoughts, and suddenly I was back on the almost-empty transit bus, riding down the streets of Las Vegas.

“Your mom.” He repeated patiently. “Where did she end up?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I dunno, man. It seems to me your father never really owned up to his mistakes.” He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the cushioned backs of the next row of seats. “Hard to imagine her getting out of that relationship and moving on if he was always running off to the bar.”

“No, she didn’t,” I confessed. “They’re still together as far as I know.”

“Cool.”

Something about the stillness that followed made it pretty evident that neither of us found their lasting marriage ‘cool,’ and the more I thought about their relationship, the more I clued in to what Manny was trying to say.

“Look, I didn’t come here to be preached at by someone I just met.” I could feel my face going red.

“I know,” he answered coolly. “You came here to get away.”

“I guess so, but it’s not like I’m—” I started, before realizing I had nothing to say. Instead I turned away from my accuser and stared at my feet.

“You can’t just erase your voicemails and hang-up on your debt collectors forever. At some point you’re gonna have to pick up.”

Just then, the bus driver’s weary-sounding voice called out from the front. “Last stop of the night!”

As we were getting up to leave, Manny placed a hand on my shoulder. “I know you don’t want anything to do with your cell phone these days,” he chuckled “But I’m only a call away.” At that he reached into his wallet, pulled out a surprisingly elaborate business card, and handed it to me. “I hope things turn around for you, man.”

I turned the card over in my hands. It was made of stiff cardstock, and everything from the font to the layout seemed unexpectedly professional.

It wasn’t that I intended to call the number. In fact, it was more likely that the card would find its eternal resting place at the back of my wallet, buried between half-used gift cards and old receipts. But the fact that it was there served as a strange reassurance to me, as if no matter how tough my situation got, at least there was somebody who cared.

I folded my wallet and tucked it into my back pocket. “I don’t know how to thank—” I started, but when I looked up from my wallet to see the recipient of my gratitude, he had already left.


Somehow each impulsive decision I’ve made over the past year has brought me to where I am now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my now-empty apartment, surrounded by nothing but four alabaster-white walls and the roof over my head.

I broke up with my girlfriend last spring. It wasn’t some kind of vindictive punishment; it was actually the opposite. It was pretty clear we weren’t right for each other, and instead of allowing her to spend who-knows-how-many miserable years stuck in a begrudging relationship, I called it off for her sake. I’m only sorry it took so long for me to do so.

Pretty instantaneously after that, I made the trip down to Morgan City where my father’s been doing chemo in the hospital. During the two hour drive, I kept running scenarios through my head. I knew he didn’t want to see me, and who am I kidding, I didn’t really want to see him either. But I also knew if he passed away still holding onto the bitterness between us, I would never forgive myself.

Once my unannounced Chevy was parked in the driveway of my parents’ condo, it didn’t move for almost half a year, and while they certainly weren’t the most pleasant months of my life, I truly believe they were some of the most crucial. Because when my father eventually passed, I think we had unspokenly made amends and were both ready to move on— him with whatever was awaiting him after his time on earth, and me with whatever was left of mine.

I knew it would be difficult to fully move on with the gambling debt constantly hanging over my head, though, so before I could change my mind, I called up an auctioneer and sold all my belongings. Soon enough, everything down to my ratty road-side furniture was gone. All I had left was my wallet, my cell phone, and the shirt on my back.

My apartment was empty, my slate was clean, and I didn’t know how to start the rest of my life.

So there I sat amongst my vacant walls, mindlessly flipping through my wallet and reflecting on my options, when I happened upon an old crumpled business card. I didn’t exactly remember the context of the card, but something deep inside me associated it with a surreal sense of comfort.

I spontaneously picked up my cell phone and dialed the number scrawled across the center of the cardstock.

“Hey, what’s up?” the man on the line answered.

When I finally spoke, my voice seemed to echo across the barren apartment.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”