The Patron Saint of a Wandering New Yorker

My mother’s cancer had metastasized. It was 2003, and the summer was in full swing. High school kids who would normally be crowding the sidewalks after school were now basking in the East Village sunshine during the day. Brightly colored hair, baggy pants and silly t-shirts bounced off cranky residents, shoppers, and passersby. Sidewalk vendors, those that survived, sold anything and everything an adolescent might need. The continuous din of citizenry drowned out everything except the traffic on 3rd Avenue.

I was visiting for the first time since I had gone to Buffalo for college almost five years ago. I had expected to see big changes in the neighborhood. But it was the same as it ever was and completely different. My plan was to move to Montreal, another excruciating life change that I needed to force upon myself. The empty feeling inside my chest that I had my whole life was only growing bigger. I had to keep moving. The great wide north called to me. I had deferred my plan for a few days, long enough to see my mother’s face one last time.

I spoke to her from time to time during those college years but was otherwise estranged from my old life. I had left the city as soon as I could–a painful but necessary procedure. I could have gone to a school in California or somewhere out west but couldn’t reconcile my need to escape with being so far from my parents. They were all I had. In hindsight, moving upstate had not been the best decision. In my virtual solitude as a student, the darkness inside me and my unquenchable curiosity had unleashed eldritch horrors that I should have seen coming. Even now, as I write this, they haunt me. However, in light of those dark things that have come to pass, I don’t think I would have done anything differently. Well, almost anything…

I was born and raised in the East Village but always felt like a stranger there. My parents owned the building at 13 St. Mark’s Place, which had been passed down to them from my grandparents. I lived there the entire 18 years since my birth, but I never felt like a part of the neighborhood. On top of that, my parents sent me to an uptown private school with the money they brought in from rent. So, my social interactions there were mostly limited to those with the kids in the building, and they always seemed to come and go. By the time I left for college, the building was full of hipsters, and the neighborhood I once knew was almost unrecognizable.

On the day I flew back to the city, I got out of the subway at 8th Street on the N train and walked across Astor Place to the corner of 3rd Avenue and St. Mark’s. It was a walk I had taken thousands of times. I felt like a ghost walking unseen by all but the few unlucky ones who maintained that vestigial ability to see into the beyond. I stood on the corner for a while and watched people walking past the building, completely oblivious to my surveillance. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, but when I saw it, him, I knew and smiled. The smile didn’t last long. It disappeared once he got close enough for me to see the permanent dismal look on his face.

My father had given me everything he could, in some ways more than my mother. He had protected me, had taught me everything he knew and had loved me the way he knew how. He had always hoped I would stay in the city for college, as he had done. Over the years, the disappointments just piled up, and our relationship selfishly deteriorated past the point of no return. By the time I left for college, he had already begun to resent me and the choices I had made. My mother’s recent diagnosis of skin cancer had made that resentment worse.

My relationship with my father was the least of my concerns. I was only there to see my mother one last time. They said the cancer had become aggressive, attacking several major organs. It was just a matter of time, they said. When my father began to fumble with his keys, arms full of groceries, I finally went over to the building. I walked up to him, and the restrained look of excitement on his face almost overwhelmed me. As the shape of his face began to resume its downward drag, he let the door shut before us and placed one of the grocery bags on the floor. Then the unexpected happened. He put his free arm around me and buried his face in my neck. He squeezed me tightly, and memories of his strength came flooding back. It was only when I felt his tears wetting my neck that I realized he was crying.

“Dad…” I said, choking on the dryness in my throat. Before I knew it, he had placed the other bag on the floor and put both his arms around me.

“She’s gone…” he sobbed. He buried his face further into me, almost like he was trying to find a home there.

The emptiness in my chest began to fill with all manner of contortions. My thoughts ran wild, and I felt I was being plucked from this world. I whispered to my father. “Dad, I have to go.” I had planned to leave soon after seeing my mother, a plan that now seemed futile. I couldn’t spend those days alone with my father any more than I could have put an end to my insatiable curiosity.

“Just come in for a little while,” he said. He looked at me and touched my face as if he were recognizing someone else, someone I hadn’t been for ages, someone he still saw there. He wiped the tears that had silently descended my cheeks. In his face, I only saw regret, but I now know that it was my own.

I pushed him away gently, picking up the groceries and said, “Okay, dad. Just for a little while.”

Evolutionary Genetic (T) Dilation (W)

Humans on the planet Earth had done well for themselves for a long time. Or so they thought. By the time they realized that they were tying their own rope, the world became unrecognizable and in large part unlivable. Overpopulation had found its limit, and the population was now on an unprecedented decline. From 24 billion to 10 in a matter of months, people, some otherwise healthy people began dying from what in the end were heart attacks. Unexplained heart attacks. The population has been going down slowly ever since.

Humanity had shit all over everything.

The environment was now seen as a public good, and its protection became militaristic. There were heavily enforced bans on entering beaches and other natural environments that had previously been tourist spots. The population was declining because people simply no longer saw the value or sense there was in procreating. Some rare places had banned pregnancy altogether. Reducing the population was seen as a duty, and one that most people accepted. Still, the very few children being born were accepted as a part of society as well. These children ended up holding the same values as most adults did.

People recognized the horrors brought about by humanity. They accepted some of those horrors, and some of them they did not. There were all kinds–genetic manipulations, Human Digital Implants (HDIs), Organic Artificial Intelligence (OAIs), time travel and more. Each one had benefits and dangers. Some were strictly prohibited, like time travel, although time travel was semi-legal as long as it was done off-planet, and the traveler never returned to present day Earth.

People now protected the environment how they once used to protect oil. Part of this protection included the protection of animals, which meant animals now had many rights of people.

This was a problem for Benjameen, a true animal lover who dreamed of dragons. You might be wondering why an animal lover would see animal rights as a problem. That’s where the story begins…

LV-42

He thought it was funny to cough near old people he passed on the train or bus. There was so much hysteria about LV-42, that he couldn’t help finding the whole situation to be extremely humorous. He would cough around mothers with small babies, the old, the infirm. His name was Fred, this minstrel of dearth. He had never been funny. Not before LV-42, not after. Not now. Never. He was the only one laughing. He tried to reason with people when they got angry at him for coughing and sneezing all over them during an outbreak such as this. He tried to tell them that this all has happened before. They had been through worse. They were being silly. He usually just barely avoided a beating. Sometimes he would get slapped or even punched, but an outright beating was rare. So he continued to do it. His favorite spot was a crowded train. It had the most spectacular effect. One poorly covered sneeze sent a wave a fear, repelling passengers from him at more than an arm’s length radius. It always had him roaring with laughter. Their faces were comical expressions of fear. Comical because he believed their fear to be irrational. He laughed and laughed until one day, someone made him stop. Most people were too afraid to give him the beating he deserved. In their minds, the risk of infection was too great. To some degree their fears were rational, which is what made his bad joke so much worse for everyone but him. He sneezed on a crowded train one day, and he began to laugh. From within the receding mass of commuters, he heard an angry, smoldering voice say just one word. “You…” A large man, young, fit, came forward. As usual, Fred tried to reason with him. But the young man just repeated the refrain. “You…” Without warning, the young man grabbed Fred’s neck and squeezed it with the force of a hydraulic press and the conviction of a virgin nun. As Fred’s eyes bulged out of his head, silently begging to escape, a few brave straphangers tried in vain to break the young man’s fierce grip, but failed. A tear ran down the young man’s cheek as Fred began to lose consciousness. “You… took her from me…” the young man said as his whole body trembled toward his goal. Fred’s body finally went limp, and the young man kept squeezing. Shouts of you’re killing him and somebody stop him faded into the background. The onlookers kept their distance, and by the time the police got to Fred’s lifeless body on the train floor, they had all disappeared.

Basement Grate

The little boy, Manny, sat in the alley behind his building. The hot sun filled up every crack and crevice. Outside, there was little escaping it. But the boy didn’t notice the heat. He didn’t have enough sense to notice it. And he was preoccupied with a piece of curved glass from a broken bottle. He sat in the dry, sepia dirt and held the shard between the sun and a troop of ants around an anthill in the concrete. It seemed to him that they were scrambling around chaotically. The sun’s rays focused through the shard into a point of light. He chased an unlucky ant with the minuscule sunbeam. When he was able to hold the light long enough on the ant, it crumbled and fumed into the dirt. The boy was amazed at the result, but his amazement wore off quickly when he realized that the ant was dead. He knew about death. His grandmother had died recently. Amazement turned to sadness, and his look of wonder became a frown. He tossed the shard aside and stood up, carelessly dusting off his pants. He glanced up and down the alley. It was calm, dusty, deserted, filled with a persistent barrage of sunlight. Same as before. Sounds of the city quietly found their way to him. He turned to the back door of his building, sighed and kicked the dirt. Sweat dripped down his temple. Although he didn’t mind the heat, his body gravitated back to the cool corridors of his building. He happened to glance down at a spiderwebbed grate on the floor at the edge of the wall. On the other side of the grate was a small window. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw a small red light blink in the basement. He stopped in his tracks. Instead of going inside, where his body was telling him to go, he crouched near the grate and lay belly down so he could peer into the darkness through the window. The sunlight illuminated a small part of the basement. The rest of it had no light. He stared and stared and stared into the darkness until, for the briefest of moments, the light blinked again. His imagination ran wild. The voices of his aunt and uncle telling him never to go into the basement echoed in his head. He remembered seeing his neighbors going down there, strangers, workers. He was an obedient child, but this time his fear and whatever prudence he had was replaced by insatiable curiosity. The wooden door of the basement was heavy and unbalanced. He stood in front of it and contemplated touching the doorknob until he did. He looked up and down the hallway. The building was quiet. Only sunlight came in, through the back door window. He was alone. Inside the building it was cool and dark. He felt alone, a feeling that only bolstered his audacity. With a slight twist of the doorknob, the door seemed to open on its own. He stepped back and let the door slowly swing open to the subterranean shadows. He had seen neighbors turn on the light, reaching around the right door jamb. He mimicked their movements, and a dim light above him flickered on. He went down the wooden staircase without looking back. As he disappeared in the darkness, someone entered the building through the front door.

Manny found himself at the bottom of the stairs, where the light from above just barely ventured. He saw the back alley window. It sent a small column of light through the window and onto the wall and floor, leaving the rest of the basement to the shadows. He stared again into the darkness, at where he thought the mysterious light would be. He stared and stared, and finally it blinked again. Nothing could stop him from getting closer to that light. His eyes were already used to the darkness, and he began to see what the light was attached to. It was quietly humming in a corner of the dusty basement. It was a deep freezer, and it was locked. He tugged gently on the lock, disappointed. The staircase creaked behind him, and he turned around. It was his uncle, who asked him what he was doing down there. He said he wasn’t doing anything and asked his uncle what the freezer was and what it was doing there. His uncle told him it was from one of the neighbors and that it would be gone soon. It was nothing to think about. His uncle led him back upstairs, and Manny looked back at the freezer, wishing with his whole heart that he could know its contents. He didn’t notice the smell that was beginning to develop down there. He didn’t have enough sense to notice it.

Bichos (Creatures)

The brown-haired man rolled himself up into a ball in the bloody bed and took the last swig of cheap brandy. The sheets were sweaty and so was he. It was getting late, but that didn’t matter anymore. He had gone too far this time. The night sky was riddled with white points. He thought about rolling out of the bed, but couldn’t find a reason to. He put his lips to the bottle again and sucked air. He pushed himself up onto his arms. His head hung in between his shoulders. His hair hung in front of his face. He was naked. He looked around the room for something to wear.

He found a set of keys on the floor and tested them in the door. When he was satisfied that the keys would let him back in, he left, locking the door behind him. The night air was beautiful. A terrible insult to him. A terrible reminder that he could never be who he had been ever again. He didn’t regret it. He had already reconciled with the fact that he was not much longer for this world. In many ways, he was happy about it. When he got to the liquor store, he went straight back to the overproof rum without even a glance at anyone else in the store.

A shrill voice rose from near the counter. “Just let me have the beer, man.” A young woman was complaining. “I’ve been here a thousand times!” she shouted. It seemed that the clerk disagreed with her, but he didn’t say much about it. Her face was agitated, and for a moment it made her look older.

The brown-haired man waited for her to move out of the way. When she did, he placed two bottles on the counter and took enough cash from the wallet.

“Hey, mister,” she said, letting her frown twist up to a straight line.

The brown-haired man knew what was coming, but he didn’t care.

“Hey, mister? Hello?” she said with a wavering inflection as she waggled two fingers in his face. When he looked at her, she cringed for a moment, but quickly switched to a smile. “Yeah?” he said, with barely any breath in his lungs. “Ugh, god. Never mind,” she huffed. Then she left. The brown-haired man shrugged and looked at the clerk, who cringed for a moment, but quickly switched to a smile.

The brown-haired man left the liquor store. Behind him angels’ bells rang. He looked around the night streets and looked to the sky. Stars winkled at him. He cracked open one of the bottles and tipped it back, looking at the sky until his eyes teared up. He looked around again, took another swig and cringed for a moment, and quickly switched to a smile.

Murder in Hell’s Gorge

An unfinished short story by Steven Cuffari

Chapter One

Hell’s Gorge was a great place once. I remember the winding ride down the mountainside to get to the center of town. It was beautiful. How we used to ritually go to town for ice cream on the first day of spring. The sun reflecting off the chrome of my mother’s red, beat-up old Jaguar. In the summer, she kept the roof open. I loved that. Summers were perfect. They always had the perfect amount of heat. I remember the autumn leaves in the wind scraping down the street. Our winters were cold and snowy, but never painfully so.

Hell’s Gorge was the place to be. The schools were good and the people were kind. But that all changed one day and I still don’t know the exact reason why. It’s more of a mystery to me than it is to whoever might read this one day. All I can do is tell how it was back then. I don’t understand this place anymore. I am still here. But I hope not for long. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

Hell’s Gorge was once a place where you could raise your kid. I always thought that’s why my mom moved us here. She told me that my father had died and we needed to start over far away. But it never felt like starting over. Life in Hell’s Gorge was smooth and easy. It was a mountainous country paradise.

Hell’s Gorge was home. But it was more than that. It was a safe space. It was a clean place. I don’t remember much of what happened in my life before we lived in Hell’s Gorge, but I do remember my mother always being happy. I was always happy too. There was a dark cloud over our lives before Hell’s Gorge. Not only was the death of my father something I never truly understood, even to this day, it was also supposed to be something that my mother was too sad to talk about.

There is a sort of fog around my memories from those days before Hell’s Gorge and our early days there. My memories become very clear by the time I was 12 years old. Even then, everything seemed perfect. I had a lot of friends. The neighbors were almost all like family. There was no crime. Not even petty crime. I guess it is always possible that our small town had always been secretive. Perhaps my memories were protected by the very townspeople who were keeping those secrets. I never have been a conspiracy theorist or one to believe much without evidence. But it’s always possible. And at this point highly likely.

Speaking of beliefs, you would never believe that our small town even had a church, since the vast majority of our limited population never attended. Even on the big holidays. Hell’s Gorge was for all intents and purposes, an atheistic community. With a name like Hell’s Gorge, you might be tempted to think the opposite. But I swear it’s true.

Another strange thing I remember about Hell’s Gorge is that it was oddly advanced and progressive for such an isolated town. The geography surrounding the center of town and the residential areas that circled up the mountainsides around it was extremely isolated. The only traffic in and out were occasional tractor trailers that provided the vast majority of what the town needed. And it seemed like we had everything we needed. I don’t claim to understand exactly how our little town worked, but it seemed that we produced enough at home to have near to 100 percent employment and everything else was easily and affordably shipped in.

No one in Hell’s Gorge spoke about money. Of course, there were all the necessary conversations about the subject, but no one ever dwelled on it. Don’t get me wrong, capitalism was alive and well in Hell’s Gorge. But somehow, we never seemed to suffer the stereotypical problems of capitalism.

By the time I was 18, I had already had two jobs of my own. When I was about 10 or 11, I used to help our neighbors with their gardens as an assistant. Many of our closest neighbors were getting on in their years, so there was a lot of work to be had. I did that for at least a couple of years. When I was about 14 or so, I started working in a diner that served primarily hamburgers. I was the delivery boy. I did that until I was 17. I was known as Jackie, the hamburger kid.

In my last year of high school, I quit that job. I had earned enough to finish school and either take a year off when I turned 18 or head off to college. I had my pick of several colleges and universities, even a few in Europe. My mother wasn’t the kind of mother to hold me back, but I could feel that she would be lonely if I left. She never even hinted at it, but she couldn’t hide it. I guess in some ways, her true emotions were the only thing that she couldn’t hide.

In that year that I turned 18. That last year of high school, I didn’t know what to do. The world was a vast mystery, a world where anything was possible. Anything could happen. I felt that Hell’s Gorge was too idyllic. It was too peaceful. Too calm. Too predictable. Until that point, I could barely remember ever even having had a bad day, let alone a traumatic experience. Looking back to how I was then, I honestly believed that Hell’s Gorge was a utopia.

Late that summer–I was an August-born summer baby–I had my birthday, and I made my decision. High school was already a distant memory, barely two months behind me, and my mother held back tears as I told her I would go to New York University in September.

“Blow out your candle, darling,” she said. I blew out the single red candle on our traditional Hostess chocolate cupcake and gave her half. It was another one of our things. We had many of them. Most of them were nothing I would remember. But those birthdays alone with my mother were ours. Of course we celebrated events and holidays with our friends and neighbors, but it was often just us. It seemed then like a perfect balance of private and public life.

When I left Hell’s Gorge, I always knew I would come back. Even if it was just to visit, I never expected that Hell’s Gorge wouldn’t be a part of my life in some way. It would always be home. I traveled back there at least twice a year until my the end of my junior year at NYU. That year had been a tough one for me. After three years in New York, I was not in a good place. NYU was a stifling mess of a place to be. The teachers were all full of shit and played favorites in a way I would never have expected from a school with such a good reputation. New York itself was no picnic, but I had curated a group of friends that made it all possible. I had been working as a bartender in Midtown, and that was also no picnic. I didn’t understand how I could work so hard for so little money. I expected bartending in New York to be easy and lucrative. Instead, it was grinding, humiliating and hardly seemed worth the money. It did pay the rent though. I was rarely ever hungry. And it fit my schedule. So there were reasons to stay. But spiritually, it drained me.

That year began a three-year stint during which I rarely thought about Hell’s Gorge let alone go back to visit. I was completely caught up in my life in New York. I thought only about my mother and called her about once a month. But Hell’s Gorge was too far away and too boring to take up my time. I was beginning to feel at home in New York despite its challenges. That year I quit NYU, and I must admit I did it in an emphatic way. Long story short, I came to class still drunk from a Friday night out that stretched into Monday. That weekend, I had decided to tell my least favorite professor to fuck off on the last day of classes and give in my transfer paperwork. I was going to Hunter College for my last year. The emphatic part was that I pissed in the garbage can next to his desk before I walked out. It was a puerile thing to do, but I did it. I had to pay for it, and it was worth every penny at the time.

In those three years that followed, I knew less and less about Hell’s Gorge and what was going on there. It ceased to be a conversation I had with my mother. We spoke only about ourselves somehow. A new fog developed in my mind, this time around the part where my thoughts, feelings and memories of Hell’s Gorge were stored. Hell’s Gorge was still there, just hidden. My thoughts were focused on the girl I was dating, the job that I secretly hated, my friends in the English department and the constant feeling that I had to do more. New York was a sickness in me, one that cut me off from my only family. A sickness that put physical and emotional distance between me and the place I was raised. It was a sickness that made me jealous, ambitious and callous. I didn’t know it at the time. At the time, I believed I was an artist. I believed that being an artist, a writer was all I needed to worry about. The relationships, the people, the communities, they were all secondary. Hell’s Gorge had been a soft place, a perfect place. It seemingly had none of the vice and corruption of NYC. That dirtiness was now I what I loved about it. When I finally let the city sink its feeding tubes in my skin, it infected me like a virus. I couldn’t think about anything else but success in New York City.

Until one morning I got a call to the dusty landline in my shared apartment in Brooklyn. I reflexively jumped to grab the phone, something leftover in me from growing up with a landline in Hell’s Gorge. As I said hello, I wondered who the hell would be calling me on a landline. The person on the other end of the call asked me if I was John Pettis, and I said I was.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” the person said, with true sorrow in her voice. “But your mother has died.”

Then the fog in my brain that had been hiding Hell’s Gorge cleared up almost immediately. I now recognized the voice of the person who had just relayed the most horrifying news I could receive. It was Kristina Sands. My obsession with NYC drained from my veins. The infection was over for the time being.

“I’ll be on the next plane there,” I said. We said goodbye and hung up. I opened my laptop, found the next flight out of JFK. I packed a small backpack with a spare outfit, my toothbrush and toothpaste. I was going back to Hell’s Gorge, and I knew that I wouldn’t need to bring anything else. After all, Hell’s Gorge was a great place.

Chapter Two

Hell’s Gorge had been named after Johan Hellerman, a German immigrant who discovered the gorge, who is known to have made a fortune in logging there. It is known that over the centuries, the town had had various incarnations: a wellness resort, a hunting ground, a summer getaway and a military outpost, just to name a few. Almost none of that remains. By the time I was a pre-teen, the Hellerman name had all but disappeared as well. I had never known there to be a Hellerman anywhere in Hell’s Gorge. The only two things that bore his name when I lived there were the town itself and a stone factory from around 1945, Hell’s Headstones. Even the actual gorge was no longer there. The stream that ran through the mountainsides had dried up two hundred years ago.

Hell’s Gorge had always been a difficult place to get in or out of. On the day I learned of my mother’s death, I was headed there by plane to the nearest city, Plato, where I would take a rental car down the winding, gorgeous, tree-lined mountainside to the center of Hell’s Gorge.

Historically, Hell’s Gorge had always done well. Ever since that first German immigrant. Despite its remoteness, it was a fruitful place. A great place. It was also a distinctly banal place. When I was growing up there, it was almost as if there were no culture. Hell’s Gorge didn’t have a People. There were community events, people in relationships, families that went back generations. But there was always a sense that things would change. Hell’s Gorge was remote, boring and soft, but it was always changing.

Now that I look back, I can understand why I hated History class so much as a child in Hell’s Gorge. It was never about Hell’s Gorge. Everything we knew about Hell’s Gorge came by word of mouth. Maybe that has something to do with what happened there. What is probably still happening there.

Another strange thing about Hell’s Gorge growing up was that it had very little tourists. We had very little to see, of course, but that wasn’t the strange thing. Historically, it was supposed to have been a huge attraction for nearby cities. When I was a kid, it was rare to see stranger other than a truck driver. It seemed that even the government didn’t interfere with Hell’s Gorge. Looking back, I know this is not possible. But today if you mention Hell’s Gorge in most cities nearby, they will think you made up the name.

When I arrived in Plato Airport, the information center had nothing on Hell’s Gorge and the staff claimed they didn’t know the name. I asked other travelers which highway to take and no one could tell me. I easily looked it up on my phone later, but something compelled me to ask around before I headed out. I had been away for almost exactly three years and for some reason I didn’t know what to expect. I had images of the Hell’s Gorge from my youth flooding into my mind. But I couldn’t trust them. When I finally got into the rental car and looked up my old address on my phone, I was happy to see that everything seemed up-to-date. I clicked on the image that popped up next to my mother’s house and smiled at the Christmas decorations on display. I remembered why I was there and stopped smiling. The photo looked recent and I wasn’t able to think happy thoughts, so I closed the image and followed my phone’s directions to get out of Plato toward Hell’s Gorge.

The road to Hell’s Gorge was dull and gray. It had the same feeling you might get rolling through the suburbs of Northern New Jersey. Strip malls and gas stations as far as the eye could see. It was hard to believe that the area around Hell’s Gorge was so typical. Even when I was growing up, any excursion out of town made me feel like the world was moving without us. This was always such a weird feeling, because Hell’s Gorge had everything any other town had. Sometimes even more. Of course, we moved slightly slower than bigger places like Plato, an actual city. But we always caught up. There was something else that made us different, and even to this day, I couldn’t say exactly what it was. As I drove the two hours from Plato to the mountainous edge of Hell’s Gorge, I noticed that there were no signs for it. There were signs for all the cities in the area both large and small, but nothing for Hell’s Gorge. But that didn’t matter, once I got to those outskirts, I knew where I was. It all came back to me in reels of memories. The happy nights out drinking with friends. The drinking age in Hell’s Gorge never seemed to be an issue. The food. You might be tempted to think that we stuck the basics since we were such an out of the way place. But we had everything. Somehow Hell’s Gorge brought in food from Asia, Africa, America, Europe. We didn’t have many restaurants, but those that we did have served a global selection of food I have never even seen in NYC. My mother’s personal favorite was an amazing Szechuan-style spicy chicken. Memories of my first kiss. My graduation ceremony. Those days and nights just my mom and me.  She was my only family then. She’s my only family now, even though she is gone.

I went into auto-pilot mode as I turned down that first twisting road toward my past. It was already getting dark around 5pm. The road seemed darker than I remembered it being at this time of year. It was early November. Halloween had come and gone, but the houses close to the road still glowed with the orange of jack o’lanterns. Growing up we didn’t celebrate Halloween, or many of the holidays with much fervor, but the traditions were there. It was almost as if we did it because everyone else did. We always had a good time of course. It was just that it felt paper-thin. I was surprised by that jack o’lantern light on the mountainsides, but I also wasn’t surprised. I knew that some things had to have changed, but I hoped for some reason that most of it hadn’t. How much could a town change in three years? 

The last time I was here, my mother picked me up at the train station in town. That’s how we did it all those years I had been visiting regularly. The train line had three stops. One in the center of Hell’s Gorge, one in the southern part of the surrounding mountains and a third one near the airport in a slightly larger town called New Scotsland. 

She drove us up the mountainside to her house, the house where I grew up. It was the complete opposite drive I was doing now. We spoke about school, and I told her all my worries. She smiled in her typical sad way and told me that everything would be alright. She said, “The Lord will provide.” 

It was a shock to me then and it still shocked me then as I remembered it. It still shocks me to this day, but I have somewhat of an understanding of what happened in Hell’s Gorge and what that had to do with my mother. It is still not completely clear, but the connections are there, however blurry they might be. 

Her seemingly religious faith almost instantaneously disappeared. “You will figure it all out, my son,” she continued. “That’s all I meant.” I never heard a religious word from her mouth again. And she was right, I would figure it out and I did. I chose not to return to Hell’s Gorge unless it was the end of the world. That’s how I figured it out. Although I spoke to my mother regularly, I wasn’t sure what was going on with her. She seemed fine and never complained. Maybe if I had gone to see her face-to-face I would have known more. 

As I remembered it, I was always the one complaining. Telling her my problems. I never once thought she might have any. I remember asking myself how stupid could I have been? Although I never left Hell’s Gorge because of my mother or because Hell’s Gorge was a bad place to be. As I’ve said, it was a great place to be. Looking back now, I think I made the right decision, except the part about leaving my mother behind.

As I drew closer to my mother’s house, I passed by houses of old friends, Jimmy the Turk, Jimmy the Mic, Ashley, Sandra. And of course, Kristina. Kristina Sands. The same girl I believed to have given me the terrible news about my mother. As I thought of her, I realized she hadn’t told me what my mother died of.

I was surprised that I didn’t think of it before. And as I pulled up in the driveway, I got the feeling that she was not dead. That none of this was real. I stopped the car, got my bag and walked up the stairs to the front door. The house was like it had been as long as I could remember. I half expected there to be Halloween decorations. My mother, like most of the town growing up, wasn’t interested in all the fanfare of the holidays. They were always just an excuse to be together. It was a no frills version of the holidays. 

What surprised me even more was when I tried to enter the house, the door was locked. I never even considered that it would be, and I actually hit my forehead against the door trying to go in. I brought nothing with me but a change of clothes and my toothbrush, so I either had to break in to my own house or figure something else out. The back door was just as locked as the front. It wasn’t too late to go to the morgue to see my mother. I had to go there anyway to get things started for her burial. I had to find out how she died. I had to find out if they had her keys.

Chapter Three

Kristina was my first… my first a lot of things. She was also my first love. She wasn’t in my life for long, but in the time that she was she made an impact. She lived on the same side of the mountain as we did when I was growing up. For about a year, my mother picked her up on the way to junior high school since her parents both worked early. We were 12 years old if I remember correctly, but it wasn’t until the end of that year that we got involved. We never went out or dated or had any kind of boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. We… just… were… In our brief time together, she was able to capture my heart. The way we parted ways was less than ideal and involved a lot of spite and vitriol. To this day I don’t know what it had all been about. For a long time I simply thought she was an asshole and wrong about everything. She made it clear to me that we had nothing between us. She had my heart and then broke it for seemingly no reason.

On the day that I went to the morgue to see my mother, I didn’t doubt that Kristina had had her reasons. I didn’t hold anything against her. I was over it by then. Now I wish I had never gone to that morgue. Things might have turned out differently. If that was her on the phone, then she might still be at the morgue, I thought. 

When I showed up, the place was as you would expect. Bland, official and somewhat dark. I imagined the coroner to be a short, bent man with a lazy eye. I couldn’t have been more wrong. There was no one at the front desk when I came in. I called out, but heard no response. I called out again, moving closer to the doors just beyond the desk. This time I thought I heard someone call back. Since I had no other choices but to go in or wait, and I decided that I needed to get it over with.  

I followed the voice I heard through the doors of the morgue. I felt like I was passing into the underworld. I shouted, hello, again and heard someone shout back. It sounded like someone was in distress, so I quickened my pace. The doors on the right were all closed and marked Examination Room then a number. The doors on the left offices that had people’s names on them. Some were open, others closed. There were enough lights and devices switched on that I thought that there must have been someone working. A pot of coffee just finished brewing in one of the open offices. I heard the voice again, this time it sounded like laughing. I saw one of the doors open and felt the voices was coming from there. It turned into multiple voices. When I reached the door, I could see through the crack that it was Kristina. I froze. Her face was still young, but different. You could tell she had aged. It immediately occured to me that I too had aged, but ever since I had arrived there in Hell’s Gorge, I had been imagining myself as a younger version of myself. The spell broke when I saw her face. She looked happy. For some reason I felt happier because of it, but it didn’t last long. She finally caught sight of me through the crack and gasped slightly. 

“What the hell?” I heard her say angrily. I recognized that anger after all these years. I stepped back, away from the door. She was fixing her blouse, tucking it into her pants when she came out. She closed the door quickly behind her, making sure that whoever was in there would not be seen. I deliberately averted my eyes. I didn’t want it to seen that I cared about who was in there. I didn’t. I was there to take care of my mother. As Kristina stood in front of me for those few milliseconds fixing her shirt I thought she had recognized me. I took my time studying her face. 

“You shouldn’t be back here,” she said. “Can I help you? Please this way.” She guided me by the arm without even touching me. As I looked at her, she looked back at me. I could tell now that she hadn’t recognized me, but that she had recognized that I knew who she was. I thought that if she hadn’t left this town since we were kids, she wouldn’t have to think about it too long before she recognized me. 

When we got to the front desk, she led me around to the front and she took a seat behind. “What can I do for you?” she asked, clearly still pondering who I was. I could see it in her forehead that she was working it out.

She still didn’t recognize me. I even told her that I was there for my mother Helga Pettis. At some point I thought that she was faking it. How could she not remember me? How could she not remember my mother?

“Oh,” she said, when I told her my mother’s name. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I told her thank you and that I just needed to see her and get her things. 

“Did she leave a set of keys behind?” I asked, confused about my own wording of that sentence. She died, and unless she committed suicide, she didn’t leave anything behind. 

Kristina solemnly said yes and unlocked one of several small lockers behind her. She pulled out a plastic bag and a paper envelope. “I just need to see ID,” she said.

I showed her my New York driver’s license. She still didn’t recognized me. It was only until I emptied my mother’s keys from the envelope onto the front desk that she sat up straight and looked hard at my face. “Johnnie?” she asked. “Is that you?” She was the only one who ever called me Johnnie. It brought a strange smile to my face. “Why didn’t you say something?”

I told her I didn’t know what to say. It had been so long. “Wow,” she said. “I haven’t thought… I mean, the last time I saw you…”

“Wasn’t a great moment for either of us,” I finished for her. 

“My god, I’m so sorry about your mother. I didn’t even realize it was her. I’m such an idiot. You know, things have changed around here. I don’t—”

Just then, a man came in through the doors behind the front desk.

“Bill, you remember Johnnie, don’t you?”

Bill stuck his hand out and cocked his head to the side, furling his brow.

“You might remember me as Jackie—” 

“The pizza delivery guy! Pettis! Of course!”

I didn’t bother to correct him, that I was a hamburger delivery guy. He smiled and stared at me, surveying me from head to toe until he realized why I was there.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” he offered. 

Before I could respond, Kristina took over for him. “Bill, I’ve got this.” It seems that he knew his place, whatever that was. I was tired already despite it being before 5pm. Bill nodded gently and gave a sympathetic frown then left. 

“Was it you who called me,” I asked. 

“Yes. I have the shit job around here. There is nothing good about having to call people in their worst moments, being the one to tell them…” 

I couldn’t help but laugh and ask her what could be good about working in a morgue at all? She gave me a look that I instinctually felt would be followed up by a scathing diatribe. Instead, she nodded, weighing the possibility of my comment. “Maybe so,” she said.

She let out a sigh of relief, and I realized I had put my foot in my mouth. She looked up at me and nodded slightly to her left, indicating that we should get to what I had come there to do.

In the morgue proper, Kristina showed me my mother’s body in that cold room. I told myself then and there that I would never forget it, but to this day, I am not sure what I saw in that room. It was definitely my mother, but looking back, I can only be filled with doubt as to what I had seen there. I wanted to cry. Instead I asked Kristina what happened to her.

“I’m sorry, John.” She looked down at the body. “I can’t speak officially, since I’m not the coroner. But from what it says on her file, I can tell you off the record that it looks like… it wasn’t an accident.”

Chapter Four

The night I saw my mother’s corpse, I got the key from her belongings and spent the night in her house. Everything was as she had left it right before she died. The coroner’s report said her body was found in the woods just outside the center of town and that her chest had been caved in by extreme force. 

I had a nightmare about Kristina not being herself but her own daughter, and that time had sped up in Hell’s Gorge to the point that generations had passed.

There had always been a sort of bubble around us. We Hell’s Gorgeans. When I asked Kristina what she thought happened, she simply said, “Your mother was murdered.” The weight of the concept of anyone wanting or needing to kill my mother was heavy, but nothing heavier than the weight of her being gone. Just gone. I couldn’t stay at my mother’s house, so I asked Kristina. 

 

Caught on Tape

A short biographical article by Steven Cuffari

Pumpkin Projected onto the Wall by Matthew Gordon via Wikipedia licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Podcasting. How did I get here? 24 episodes and six months later, and I feel like I will do this for the rest of my life. It doesn’t matter whether or not you know what I am talking about. Or if you’ve ever listened to my podcast. That’s not why I do it. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

There is something very natural to me about podcasting. The simplicity. At least, it is the way I do it. There’s very little editing. Very little intervention. Like a natural wine. Or maybe it’s just me… But I digress. How did I get here? Let me start at the beginning…

The first audio recordings I ever made were with my brother, who is one year younger than me. I must have been eight or nine years old. I won’t go into detail about those recordings, because their content is irrelevant. Let it suffice to say that at a young age we were able to create stories, little worlds, using only our voices, a boom box, some blank cassette tapes and our imaginations. That was the power of audio, even back then. It was a perfectly natural, simple thing to do at the time, and we had the technology to do it.

Later as a teenager and young adult, I had become a musician (again, that’s another story). As a result, I began to record music and started my experiments with audio anew. Creating high-quality recordings was now even easier.

Since those early days, I’ve toyed with audio recording devices of many kinds–multitrack tape recorders, basic mixing consoles, computer audio interfaces, portable voice recorders, audio software, even smartphones.

In the research leading up to my first podcast, I was happy to find out how good and affordable audio technology had become since my previous experiences. Right now it seems that that technology will only continue to get better and cheaper.

But the important question is why? Why create a podcast? Especially one like mine, which is more or less an audio record of my conversations with various friends and acquaintances. Why create such a record? What purpose does it serve? It turns out that there are many answers to these questions.

Before I answer them I want to point something out. I always say that I don’t agree with ninety percent of what comes out of my mouth. And I believe that most people don’t want hard evidence of often thoughtless and improvised shit they say. That seems like a tangent, but I’ll get to it.

One reason I do podcasting is that, for me, it is a kind of therapy. Regular podcasts can be a way for me to work out whatever might be going on. Of course, the podcast is not just about me (usually it’s not at all about me). I have guests and collaborators on nearly every episode. Which brings me to another reason I do it.

Podcasting helps me to create communities based on my interests. This might not be obvious, but podcasting can require a lot of people and collaborators. Since I don’t have much time or money, I do virtually everything production-wise on my own. The more people involved, the easier it is. My gracious and amazing guests are often the podcast’s main attraction. Arguably, they are the only reason the podcast exists. These communities and the desire to create them are yet another story that will go untold for now (I’m racking up future stories to tell, if you haven’t noticed). I’ll have to get to that another time.

Another reason I do podcasts is somewhat more selfish. I do it to create a body of work that showcases my ability to produce media. I know, it sounds vague and weird, but there’s not much more to say than that. Maybe I can explain it better some other time. I think that creating a year’s worth or more of podcast episodes can only help in a career as a media producer or whatever. Whatever that even means. Let’s see where it takes me–that’s the essential philosophy behind it.

I also get to promote the work and projects of friends and acquaintances, which gives me that feeling of fulfillment that one gets from helping people.

I think that answers the question why? Which leaves me with one other thing that I want to get to. As I alluded to above, I really think that most people do not want to have their voices and their comments recorded for the world to hear. I think that for many it creates a feeling akin to stage fright or perhaps an unwelcome feeling of vulnerability.

For me however, it is a welcome feeling. Actually, a recent guest on my show said that this feeling of creating something before an audience, performing in front of an audience, gives you an adrenaline rush that comes from the pressure to be good or to perform well. That adrenaline rush is a good feeling for most people. But there is also something sort of masochistic about it. I believe that that adrenaline comes from a fear of failure. In other words, being a performer–even a podcaster–means risking failure.

While you are on air, live or pre-recorded, there is a huge potential to make mistakes. There is a huge possibility that you will put your foot in your mouth. Things can go horribly wrong and you can make a complete fool out of yourself. For me this is an exciting prospect, which is why I think of it as masochistic. I want to put myself out there, make mistakes, make a fool of myself… and learn from it. It is a pleasure to put myself at risk this way. I like to be caught on tape. In some way, it keeps me honest. I want people to hear my flaws, see them, judge them, tell me about them. This is the way we learn.

Therefore, the final reason I have for doing podcasts is to do just that–to learn. I think that podcasting, or recording conversations and discussions in general, is a great way to learn. To learn about media production. To learn about ourselves. To learn about our world. And each other.

How did I get here? How did I become a so-called podcaster? I guess the answer to that question is simple: I chose to be here. And I recommend it to everybody who’s listening.

(Oh! And Happy Halloween!)

In Vino Veritas

A short biographical article by Steven Cuffari

Sun Dial in the Chateau de Pommard, France, by Bidoj via Wikipedia licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

“If you know anything about that gorgeous southern clime, then you know they are known for their wine.” –Me, referring to Argentina

In vino veritas. In wine, there is truth. But I’ll get to that in a moment. I’m a drinker. Always have been. Always will be. Sometimes I am selective, sometimes not. For example, when I was a baby, I gave up on the bottle (of milk) then gave up on milk altogether. And I’ve never looked back. To this day I don’t drink milk (unless it’s chocolate milk).

Since then my relationship to drinks has always been complicated. When everyone else was dipping their cookies in milk, (I shit you not) I was dipping my cookies in orange juice–seriously, don’t knock it until you try it. Some might say that this preference for juice over milk comes from some deep-seated mommy issues… Maybe.

I took my first sip of beer at the age of seven if I remember correctly. It was a Heineken. It was bitter. I didn’t like it. But I didn’t hate it. The adults around me were all drinking it, and that sip was simply a matter of curiosity. Fast forward 10 years later and I was loving beer in all its available forms: 40s, 12-ounce bottles, 12-ounce cans, tallboys, mugs, glasses, malt liquor, stouts, lagers, imported, domestic, draft beer, light beer and so on. Whiskey was also on the drink list at that time, but nothing was as cheap and available as beer.

This obsession with drinks soon spread to other objects of imbibition like bitters, liqueurs, spirits, cocktails, and of course, wine. I sought out places where I could get the tasty tipples, and as I got older bars became my preferred location. No surprise there. I fell in love with the atmosphere as well as the liquid love shelved on the other side of the bar. So much so that I wanted to be in the business. (I should mention that the idea of being in the business was first instilled (or distilled) in me via the classic TV show Cheers, but that’s another story.)

However, in my early adult years I didn’t make much of a foray into the competitive New York City bartending scene. Maybe it was laziness. Maybe lack of confidence. Maybe I was too busy with other shit. Doesn’t matter. It didn’t stop me from learning as much as I could about everything to do with drinks, their production, preparation, serving and of course, enjoyment. Finally, years later, in 2009 to be exact, I tried again and got a job at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Tribeca, which shall remain nameless. There, at the ripe old age of 31, I worked my way up in 10 months or so from busboy to runner, to server, to bartender. But before I knew it, I had my fill of NYC and left for Argentina to take my life elsewhere.

At that nameless Tribeca restaurant, I learned and relearned many things about the food and beverage industry. I won’t go into too much detail (yet), but it really was a pivotal point in my life. I realized that one can truly do whatever one wants as long as the opportunity is there and you work at it and of course, have a lot of luck. I also learned that it is never too late to start something new or go back to something old.

You might be wondering what the hell this article is about. The strange title may have given you some insight into that, but its vagueness probably looms over anything you can surmise from it.

Let me get to the point. One of the most surprising things I learned during my time at that heretofore unnamed Manhattan resto is that I love wine. Before that, I was drinking some basic stuff, mostly Italian, mostly red, some French, some Sicilian, a dry white every now and then. I enjoyed a nice Nero d’Avola, a tasty Côtes du Rhône, a big Chianti. But all that was second to my first true love in beer. It was only when I worked with a sommelier, who shall also go without appellation, for the first time that I understood the charm, the mysteries and the stories that go along with every glass, every bottle of wine.

In all honesty, looking back through the fog of time, I cannot be one hundred percent sure of the sequence of all these events. But this is more or less how things happened. After I left NYC for Argentina, my love for wine only increased. (If you know anything about that gorgeous southern clime, then you know they are known for their wine.) I have been looking for a way to live my life with wine ever since. It is like a close friend that you wish could be there for all the most important moments of your life. And that is not to say I have forsaken my other friends. They are all coming along for the ride.

Let this little piece of writing be a confession of sorts. I love wine. I want to buy it, drink it, share it, sell it. I want to know it. I want to know it from seed to sip. From grape to gullet. From terroir to table. I am by no means an expert. By no means. Let this little piece of writing be the start of the record of my journey with wine, wherever it takes me. It has taken me a time to get here, to these words. It may take longer to get wherever I am going. But as the cliché goes, the journey is the destination.

So… in vino veritas.

I will fill up these pages with truths that I find in wine: including but not limited to notes on wines I drink, commentary on books I read, stories about people I meet. If it comes about from my experiences with wine, it goes here. Join me for the journey. And on the way, for a drink.

Salute!