On a familiar street in an average town sits a standard brick house. It is silent at night, not because the noise of the day magnifies the quiet of the night, but because the days themselves are listless and simply carry on late into the evening. It’s only natural.

The state of this home reflects the disposition of its owner, which is that of an amiable widower. J.D. has lived alone for years in the same standard brick house he and his wife moved into before their first child was born.

The kids are gone now, of course.

J.D. is the oldest gentleman on his block, and he often flirts with memories of a time when he was the block’s youngest. There are two empty houses now, across the street. Their owners died and thus bumped J.D. to the top of street’s generational food chain.

The view from the top wasn’t so bad.

“Bastard!”

It was 6 a.m. and J.D. just dropped part of his breakfast toast into his “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug.

J.D peered out toward the block. Strange. The “For Sale” sign across the street had changed to a “Sold” sign overnight. He couldn’t even recall any visitors having looked at the house. And who changes a for-sale sign in the middle of the night anyway?

Another set of new neighbors. A fresh start for a new couple, perhaps, or maybe a single man. Maybe a man his age. Maybe a woman his age.

J.D. gulped his coffee down, soggy toast, cream, sugar and all.

Then, like skid marks on a dark interstate passing beneath at 80 m.p.h., the “Sold” sign was gone—just as quick as that—and the house had one corner window ablaze with a red light. Or was it just a red curtain with white light cast upon it?

It was night, now, of course. That’s why the light was so bright.

But J.D. certainly thought this move happened in the blink of an eye. Where was the U-Haul? They really stay the night on the first day, huh? J.D. peered out from between his curtains. He must be getting old.

He strolled to his front door and glanced through the window.

The house was like midnight, except for that red window. Or was it a red light? The rays cut through the healthy blades of grass, fresh from a summer rain.

“Oh—you, god…!”

Another day and another dropped bit of toast. Another coffee mug. “I’d rather be fishing.” The tint of the early morning sun indicated to J.D. the darkness was not ready to give up its hold of the heavens to the morning sun quite yet.

Or was that just the clouds.

J.D. looked outside. The red light shined, permeating even the dim morning light. It was much more luminous than he had thought.

Knock, knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

Introductions were important to J.D., and he was, after all, the big fish on this block. But, his new neighbors didn’t answer, despite their red light. He hadn’t seen a car yet. Perhaps the realtor had left it burning, there was no one inside after all!

The dead leaves on the foreign porch reminded J.D. that fall was coming. The block seemed deserted, he thought. The red light burned.

Back at home, face pressed to the window, he tried to deduce clues from the house, but it gave up nothing. Maybe it was a candle, in there. It seemed to emanate with infernal ferociousness, whatever it was.

He opened the door and stood on his porch, looking at their porch. The front door was open. Leaves were scraping the ground in the wind. The door was open and there was a great abyss leading inside.

J.D. ambulated on his lawn, then ventured to the curb. The new moon was quite consuming, he thought, though he couldn’t see it, he felt it—of course. He was compelled forward…

But the door wasn’t open. J.D. felt foolish, he blushed, his cheeks flushed crimson. He retreated to his house, but not before a look at the red window, again.

“Shit.”

The coffee tipped completely, today. Forget the toast.

The drips and drops didn’t burn his lap—it was cold. It was yesterday’s coffee. Soggy toast washed to the floor. Today was very much overcast, the night still seemed to have a grip on the day and the clouds swirled in a glorious fashion. Perhaps a thunderstorm was coming?

Like a glowing coal furnace at the end of a black boiler room, he thought—with the door closed, of course, and flames flickering out of its mouth.

Coffee dripped from his robe but no one was there to see him standing on the porch. His feet touched the cold cement. Where were they? His neighbors, of course.

Knock, knock.

No answer. But why, it was Patty’s house. She was always home in the morning, and a good chat, too. He would ask Patty about the strange neighbors.

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

J.D. about-faced slowly and shakily. Was the sun really setting? This wasn’t his porch. He fled home and stared again at that fireball window. The front door was still standing open ,too. Close it, dammit.

On another porch again, feeling foolish, filled with anger. The door was ajar, yes! Yes! But here, in front of him it stood closed, now. A nice oak door it was.

“Oh… god.”

The walls seemed to glow like fresh blood, and the light in the ceiling was indeed burning red. Opening the door—touching that brass handle, and pushing hard—had made his pulse race, but the room, that was a real experience.

Thump, thump.

It was because of the chair that the room was so vulgar.

The chair sat there staring at him. Positioned to face the door directly, shunning the small sweaty window it gazed upon him confidently. The room vibrated with a life he had not encountered before, and the walls trembled as color oozed from them.

Funny how things appear larger on the inside, he thought. Ha, ha. It’s not really funny, J.D. He looked around, eyes wide, gaping mouth, false teeth…

Each night he sleeps alone in a bed made of hand-me-down linen.

He took a seat in the chair and the door closed. He watched it close. He didn’t close it.

That is how they found him, staring straight ahead, motionless, just watching the door. The room was littered with bodies. Who they belonged to was anyone’s guess.

The clouds circulated and the evening descended again.

"Ugh, but the smoking ban is such a bore, I mean, please."

"OK, I'm sorry, I thought..."

"Can we just talk about something else?"

She inhaled deep and long and exhaled a bored, tired cloud that drifted beneath the lazy glow of a few dim lights. She had heard this all before, she had entertained this question one hundred and one times, she just wanted to talk about something else. Why did she even invite this little girl out to dinner anyway, what the hell was she doing?

"Yeah, I... I'm sorry, I didn't know it was a touchy subject. Never--nevermind."

Uncomfortable barely began to describe the feeling that encapsulated her entire body, from her sweaty palms to her freshly shaved legs; this wasn't a normal feeling. She wasn't even with a man. She was at dinner with her co-worker, but dressed up for the first time in years. Why was she so nervous? She should probably just excuse herself now, this was silly and inappropriate, she should never have accepted the invitation in the first place.

"Yes, please, nevermind," came an angry retort.

She wanted this to be over with.

This restaraunt was too fancy. What was blue cheese foam with port reduction, really? Something edible?

Later, at home, Cynthia would take a bath. Then she would have a drink, a glass of wine her father had mailed her from France. It had been sitting in it's original box on her countertop for months. She would taste it tonight, but she never really understood why people liked wine. She would ease into bed, she would call Thomas.

Ann's apartment was sparsely decorated, just family photos, gifts she couldn't bring herself to throw out, and a cross on the wall. She liked most things. She would sleep on the same cotton sheets that she has slept on for the past 5 years. She didn't own any CDs, so she wouldn't listen to music before bed, nor would she read a book. She would sleep in a quiet house.

Until Thomas arrived.

A properly-hyped sporting event can bring some of society's finest derelicts and unbalanced headcases into close proximity for a few hours of inebriated cheering, chanting and cussing--often culminating in fistfights, or if you're lucky, a fullscale riot.

The aforementioned all takes place in the stands, of course, away from the field or the diamond. The erratic, seemingly batty behavior of these patrons isn't mirrored on the gridiron. The athletes have their heads on straight.

They are down to earth.

They want nothing to do with their foaming-at-the-mouth-fans.

They are composed.

They are sane.

That is unless they are marathon runners--because the marathon runner is a breed of human that has truly and completely gone mad. Lemmings, they are.

A professional diver has calm nerves, full concentration and a steady heartbeat. An NBA basketball player shooting a feethrow down by one with only seconds on the clock keeps a steady hand and a focused mind. A football quarterback remains poised and confident, oblivious to the thousands of cheering friends and booing enemies surrounding him--he can thread a needle from 30 yards away, even with lineman advancing.

These athletes are who the Greeks had in mind when they were carving the Discobolis. These are the perfect competitors they were sculpting from marble.

The marathon runner, though, is not one of them. He is insane.

He trots along, at his own pace, up and down hills as the sun beats upon his bare back. He plods along, oblivious like the quarterback; not because he's concentrating, but because at mile 24 his mind has left him nothing to think about--it is as empty as that of a newborn child.

He's been running for 4 hours, his shorts are soaked, his feet are calloused, and his nipples are bleeding.

Oh, and he loves every minute of it.

The marathoner will travel to participate in the knee-busting, ACL damaging event. Hundreds of miles she will drive, and internationally she will fly, simply to run. For hours and hours on end.

The marathoner will pack her best running gear: her favorite Texas flag shorts (if she's from Texas, of course), her near-and-dear sombrero, her his daughters stroller (to be pushed for all 26.2 miles, of course. Daughter included).

There is no fighting, and usually no beer drinking during the event. There are no riots. But the marathon runner has even the rowdiest drunken Packer's fan beaten.

The marathoner doesn't have a team that wins or loses. The marathoner himself doesn't win or lose. He simply runs. He may get a medal at the end of his ordeal, if he's lucky. He may get a cotton t-shirt. But his heaving carcass also gets stares from passers-by who ogle beathless five-mile-per-hour dash to nowhere.

The marathoner doesn't care.

The marathoner doesn't mind being ogled.

The marathoner doesn't care that his orange striped lyrcra shorts are riding up into the sweaty abyss between his buttocks. He doesn't care about the sunburn. He is so indifferent to the opinion of onlookers, that he has let his taken his shirt off, exposing his leathery epidermis, complete with grey backhair. He doesn't care that he's old. He knows.

This is the marathoner.

A dehydrated trainwreck. An eccentric loon. But the marathoner is also happy, she's beaming. It radiates from every pore.

When she crosses the finish line, she may appear in a state of dementia, but make no mistake: her mental faculties are working fine, and she is as close to pure euphoria as possible for a living, breathing person...

...Though that breathing may be a little bit hard and heavy.

"So, what's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Sex with her. What's it like to fuck her?"

Silence for a moment, Then another moment. He shifted uncomfortably beneath his 20-year-old skin.

"She's your sister, man," he said, feigning confidence, trying to make his outsides appear as collected as he wished his insides were.

We had just met, but I didn't care. I dispensed with formalities. She was asleep upstairs, he was a guest in my parents home, and I was the older brother. He was cornered and alone, and I was the older brother. Cliche, yes. But satisfying, too.

I really had no desire to find out what it was like to fuck my sister--that could lead to unwanted mental scars from vicarious thrills--I only wanted to be impudent for the sake of impudence. The rare opportunity to interrogate a nervous boyfriend on his first encounter with the fam' had presented itself... and I moved like a circling vulture.

"So you are fucking her, then."

A twinge of anger in my voice (But of course I wasn't angry, why would I be angry? I didn't care that they had slept together, I couldn't care less if they had fucked one thousand and one times on my parents mattress sans condoms. What stake had I in the love life of my sister? She was free to do what she wanted--and I was free to watch this young house guest writhe in pain with every additional word).

The lights were dim, so I couldn't discern the reaction on his face clearly. I left him that comfort, darkness, though I flirted with the idea of flipping the lights on and bathing the cold basement room in pornographically clear fluorescence. Then I could have seen the sweat drip from his forehead.

"No, I'm not, I mean, that's not what I meant."

To be in his position, oh, I couldn't even imagine. I tried to imagine, I had dreamt about it: meeting her family, meeting the older brother, meeting the father. Basically getting grilled by the two of them until you could smell the shit in the air (Coming from my pants, of course). Those were just dreams, though. This was his reality, and my nostrils were beginning to pick up a pungent aroma... enough already.

"I'm just fucking with you, man."

Carl von Clausewitz wrote that "War is thus an act of force to compel our enemy to do our will." He has stated the obvious and apparent truth. But what happens, then, when we are our own enemy? What happens when one must compel upon himself his own will?

"The self is not something one finds; it is something one creates," wrote Thomas Szasz.

I have created myself, yes, but it is not me. Constantly I am at war against my own mind. I want to do so much, but it is a fight. I want to be so much, but it is a battle. I see you, and yet...

Place a hand grenade in the hibachi grill of your mind.

It's when that stupid little green line appears beneath your freshly composed prose--that special moment reminding you that your grammar is imperfect, that it needs a but of tweaking and rearranging to join the rest of the coherent literary world in stylistic balance-that makes you realize you never learned to write quite right.

The preceding paragraph is underlined in green, and so am I. When I walk around, a squiggly green line follows, constantly pointing out the grammatical error that is my life.

Yes, the surface is fine. Calm, collected... Calculated, too? All of the above.

Order exists there, but chaos permeates from beneath, just as sweat flows through pores.

Too vague? If I wanted to be implicit I would say, "read between the squiggly lines and tell me what's missing." If I wanted to be explicit I might say, "read between the squiggly lines and notice that there are only my thoughts, all alone. Get it, I'm lonely." If I wanted to be figurative, I wouldn't say anything, I would write (oh, and it would probably be something laced with disgusting hubris).

Though I may have an ego about writing, I have no pride in my squiggly green follower, underlying everything I do.

But what is so unorganized about my organism that I can float around, playing the role of social butterfly, yet remain so utterly isolated? Why can't people see this? Why don't I fall for people?

Why do I keep it all in?

And, why am I so happy, regardless of it all?

(Would that make me a Prozac user?)

(I'm not)

Note: I sit in a slouch. Next to my couch. Typing face down now, eyes closed, picturing your cute face, presented in something beyond TechniColor by the 130 video monitors of my mind. I can't wait until we meet again, for the first time.

What would you wish for?

You down with OPP? (That stands for "Other People's Pussy," in case you weren't familiar with the early '90s Naughty by Nature hit of the same name.)

Me? Well, not exactly. But I am down with OPD: other people's desks.

The story of my work history over the past three years is the story of other people's desks, but also of other people's photos, other people's knick-knacks and other people's trash. Mine is the story of a part-timer whose job description didn't quite merit a personal workspace, and thus was sent on a journey into the land of other people's desks.

But hey, the world of OPD can be a fun and exciting place. You can learn a lot from OPD.

For instance, I know that the features editor at the Journal Star has a beautiful daughter who will be married soon. I know that a certain copy-editor is a vehement feminist. I know about professional wrestling obsessions, coffee drinking preferences and even eBay buying habits.

Yes that's right, eBay buying habits.

When I sit at OPD, I am also sitting at other people's computers with their Google, eBay and WWW histories resting beneath my fingertips.

Dance Dance Revolution (both the pads and the game), Final Fantasy X (along with strategy guides) and even used jeans--all recent eBay purchases of one copy-desk denizen. Who knew.

A novelty South Park “cheesy poofs” box. Plastic flowers. A phone book dated 1998. Tear off calendars that haven't been torn off for months. These are all part of creative office feng-shui.

Many people would hate to work in the world of OPD, but I relish the opportunity. I move like a ghost, barely touching keyboards and mice, returning all pens and pencils to their original resting positions. I float about from desk to desk—whatever is available will do.

I live in the world of OPD. I come and go as I please. I know all about you, but you don’t know me.

Note: this story was published in the Seward County Independent.

Seward’s Fourth of July 10-kilometer race was probably titled the “Freedom Run” to fit with the spirit of Independence Day. However, the “freedom” that was on my mind while running the mostly unpaved course had nothing to do with the American Revolution.

I simply wanted freedom for the tiny pebble that had made itself a new home between my sock and heel.

Perhaps I would have been of a more patriotic mindset if I could have dislodged that little rock from its resting place. I was perfectly content running with the 100 or more participants, and without a stone tagging along.

Had it not decided to join me on the 6.2 mile journey, then maybe my focus would have been on more historic freedom-related topics—the Boston Tea Party, the Declaration of Independence or the Battle of Bunker Hill.

After all, this was the Freedom Run.

But my mind was on the miniscule stone buried beneath my cotton sock, a stone whose fate didn’t seem to include liberation.

With every step the parasitic rock burrowed deeper into my heel.

Ouch.

Tugging on my sock while running only made it worse. Stomping my feet to rattle it loose simply made my knees ache.

But what about stopping altogether and taking a moment just to remove the offending nugget?

No such luck. I must have laced up too tight. Who knew freedom was such a battle?

So I pressed on, with the understanding that the finish line wouldn’t necessarily mean freedom for the gravel in my shoe, but at least freedom from the pain caused by running with it rattling around in there.

The race took me about 40 minutes to complete. During the 30 minutes in which I had my pebble passenger onboard every step registered an uppercase “OUCH” in my brain.

But only after finishing the race did I realize what the consequences of running a few miles with a rock in my shoe really were.

For one, I spent the rest of the Fourth of July walking with a limp—which wasn’t all that bad until I had to explain to my friends the reason for my funny gait: because of the rock in my shoe, yes.

Nothing as glorious as a sprained ankle, a torn ACL or even a bruise, but a little ole’ rock in my shoe was the culprit.

They suggested I had never really mastered the first grade technique of emptying the sand from of my shoes.

That might be true. I’ve always been somewhat of a slow, stubborn learner, though I won’t soon forget the nasty half-dollar sized blister on the back of my right foot.

Funny thing was, after it was all over, I couldn’t seem to find the pebble.

I guess that’s OK though. The small stone found its freedom, somehow, joining other gravel and sediment at the corner of 14th and Seward Streets.

So after the sun dipped below the horizon that evening, I hobbled to the edge of my driveway and lit a few fireworks to celebrate.