Writing, I find, is the damndest thing. I can neither condone or control it; all I can do is hope it takes me somewhere interesting. Most times it does. When it doesn’t, I tend to mope around and scowl at the wallpaper, a habit my wife can do without. Then again, she has her piano. She’s playing it now,
beautifully. Don’t ask me name the song, though. It’s a classical number I’ve only listened to her pound out a million times. One thing I’ve never heard her do however, is sit down to play and not be able to. That would be unthinkable and most unhealthy for the Pittman household. See, that shiny Yamaha is her emotional release - as much as my own coffee-stained keyboard is the key to a good night sleep. When I first began sequestering myself in my upstairs lair to write, I assured my bride all was still well. “Look. I’m not playing
Donkey Kong up there,” I’d say - as if chasing pixilated plumbers were any
less viable than posting one’s every other thought on the internet. My wife, a wise woman who learned to live with my quirks l-o-n-g ago, only laughs, then threatens to buy me a poster of that damn gorilla. Should I ever get published, I fully expect her to present me with it, whereupon I’ll frame and display it with great pride.
But that day is a long way away - especially since I’m wasting my time riffing on writer’s block, rather than filling holes in my memoir. But therein, lies the rub. No matter how I compartmentalize my time, no matter how many posts I slather on the web, no matter how much fine Guatemalan bean I crush and drain through paper, I still cannot summon the muse whenever I want. I guess that’s why they call it a muse. All I do know is I can schedule whole blocks of time here in my study, only to watch dust motes dance for what feels like hours on end. Other times, I’ll suddenly come to - aware only that I’m totally naked, soaking wet and scribbling rejoinders on the steamed-up shower door (a really bad tactic considering my homeland’s current drought). But I didn’t log in to put
that picture in your head; it’s merely what my fingers heard my head say. Most times I pay attention, but there are times I don’t. I’ve learned to just let it go, you see, to allow my hands to dictate that voice in my head and just be glad he’s feeling talkative. Hell, the worst thing that can happen is I’ll refer to myself in third person, something I cringe at every time someone does it in front of my camera.
But I digress, which come to think of it, may be the title of this very post. I’m pretty sure it’ll all be downhill from there - as this is one of those awful stream of consciousness entries my half dozen readers so graciously allow me from time to time. Sorry…and thanks. If you’re still reading this, you either know me or have little else to do. I’m cool with that. In fact, that kind of reader generosity is what keeps blogging possible. If everything I share here had to polished and rewritten, I’d find another hobby and you’d find another website to surf. That would suck, for I am as addicted to your eyeballs as I am hooked on good coffee. How authors of yesteryear produced finished works with no encouragement along the way astounds me. Then again, there’s lots about writing I don’t know. I didn’t study it in the college courses I never attended, didn’t even experiment with in high school (outside of forging a few report cards). I just grew up reading everything I could find, hid my ambition under a cloak of melancholy and figured I’d get around to scribbling down my thoughts someday.
The internet, however, I never saw coming.
Before yesterday morning I’d never even heard of Josh Sweitzer. But 24 hours after stepping over puddles of his blood, I’m still trying to figure out why he had to die. It happened less than a mile from El Ocho itself; a burly young man working the counter of his uncle’s convenience store. When a group of rowdy young men crowded the tiny store, he insisted they step outside, with only two at a time remaining inside to buy their items. That obviously didn’t sit well with the young men, for minutes later one of them came back to the store, waited until Josh was alone behind the counter, then stepped inside and executed the 21 year old with a bullet to the brain. Family members say Josh Sweitzer didn’t stop breathing until hours later, but as his blood spread across the floor of the Lucky Mart convenience store, his dreams of becoming a cop - along with every other aspiration the young college graduate ever had - ceased to be...
I, of course, was blissfully unaware of the murder - until I walked into work yesterday morning and found two homicide detectives sitting at my desk. I didn’t know who they were, but their shoulder holsters and sour expressions told me I wouldn’t be turning a story on leftover Halloween candy after all. Instead, I’d spend the day retracing the steps of a most inexplicable act. It started with surveillance photos. The two detectives had them on a disk and together with reporter Caron Myers, were eager to see them disseminated. Still not sure what the suspects were wanted for, I digitized several ATM photos of a young man chuckling as he swiped a stolen bank card. Only after that did Caron interview the cops, and that’s when I learned about the neighborhood slaying that would consume the rest of my day. But even then it didn’t hit home. I’ve covered more murders than I can possibly remember. Rarely do they register as anything but more senseless fodder for the machine. This one, however, did.
Perhaps that’s because I used to frequent the store Josh died in. Or maybe it was because I had the misfortune of stepping inside that very establishment before the crime scene cleaners had arrived. Most probably, my emotional connection was formed when Josh’s uncle stepped before the cameras and told of his young nephew’s thwarted dreams. A big burly guy himself, the uncle’s voiced hitched as tears streamed down his face. A few minutes into the interview, I was breathing heavy myself - even as I reached up to zoom in closer. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t shake the scenario from my mind. Josh’s killers didn’t take anything; they just stepped inside the store and assassinated a young man who was scheduled to meet with an Air Force recruiter a few hours later. If you think it makes no sense on the evening news - ya oughta check it out in 3-D sometime. The only solace is in those surveillance photos. Spreading those across the land won't raise the dead, but hopefully they’ll assist whoever his killers are on their way to the lethal injection lab. I’d kinda like to be there, too.
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It was the early 21st century and I was itchin’ to get back on air. Can’t say why exactly; maybe I was just trying to prove I could still pull it off. Whatever the reason, I let it be known to the higher-ups my furry mug was no available to the viewing public. I can’t remember their exact reply but it something along the lines of “Heh…”. Still, I wasn’t discouraged. Neither was I particularly choosy. When the opportunity arose to sub for a morning reporter on vacation, I rose early and drug an iron over some logowear. The resulting television wasn’t memorable to most, but I can’t seem to erase it from my brain, no matter 
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