Wonka

When we returned to Tinkerbell's place, she showed me her preparations for Halloween. A three-foot-tall soft-serve ice cream cone sat in her living room. Her theme was Willy Wonka.

"Tink, this is amazing! How did you do that?" I asked.

She went into detail on how she constructed it. "The bottom is a trash can. The top I made from pool noodles."

"What about the sprinkles?"

"Those are clay. You have to bake them first."

The result was outstanding. She'd captured every detail, down to the texture on the cone. But this was only part of it. Stuffed in closets throughout the house were large toadstools, gumdrops, and lollipops. Each piece exploded with detail.

In the downstairs closet, there were materials for a giant Pop-Tart she was creating next.

"You could do this professionally," I said.

Tinkerbell downplayed her skills, but I’m an arts-and-crafter myself. I know good work. People would pay for such a display. She had been working on things since December.

"Wouldn't you love getting paid for what you enjoy doing?"

We headed back outside. Tink sat on her porch while I stood nearby. Tinkerbell gossiped about her neighbors as they entered and exited the condos across the street. Unlike the dorm, this time I was reluctant to leave.

I’ll make sure to post some pictures of the completed display.

Movin Day

 Movin’ Day

“Do you want to drive?” I ask. “I should warn you, Gia thinks my driving is terrible.”

“Are we going to have to take the keys away from you one day?” Tinkerbell teases.

She invited me to go with her and TRex for Movin’ Day. TRex is starting his second year at CMU. It’s her way of saying, You were a part of this.

Like so many times before, Tinkerbell turns it into an adventure. We’re not just helping TRex move into his dorm—we’re spending the night at Soaring Eagle Casino first.

I pull into their driveway in the early afternoon. TRex loads what wouldn’t fit in his car into the back of the Buick. He’s so big now—six-foot-two and lean muscle. I almost don’t recognize him, except for his smile. He still has his mother’s smile. He’s a good kid. Tinkerbell did a great job raising him. If I helped even a little along the way, I’m glad.

We take two cars, with Tinkerbell riding with me. I only miss one exit. She complains dramatically, but it’s all in fun.

Conversation flows nonstop during the drive. She tells me about the elaborate Halloween display she’s planning—this year’s theme is Willy Wonka. She’s been making giant ice cream cones, candies, even a six-foot Pop-Tart. It’s a year-long project. She still knows how to maximize fun. Tinkerbell has settled into her life, and I’m happy for her.

She still babies TRex. He’s her shining achievement. She complains about him when he’s home, but I know she misses him fiercely when he’s gone.

At the casino, the three of us spend more time wandering than gambling, but it’s still enjoyable. We play a few slot machines. No one wins more than they lose, though TRex seems the luckiest. When we finally retire for the night, Tink and TRex share a late-night pizza in their room while I sit outside on a bench, listening to the fountains. I’m settling into my life too.

The next morning, we help TRex move in. We’re a week early—he’s part of a special donor-sponsored team-building program—so the dorm is mostly empty. His room feels cramped for four boys. No privacy, one bathroom. I compare it to prison.

Tinkerbell is a nonstop flutter of over-helping and nagging. Halfway through, TRex’s roommate and his mom arrive. Suddenly the roommate’s mother is carrying on just like Tinkerbell.

“Oh my god, it’s like an echo chamber,” I whisper to TRex. “I thought it was just your mom.” From bits of conversation, I learn she’s a single mom too. Maybe that plays into it.

Tinkerbell and I explore the rest of the dorm. There isn’t room for two moms in that tight space. By the time we return, TRex has most of his things set up. I shake his hand and say goodbye, signaling to Tink that it’s time to go. She’s reluctant to leave, but my presence keeps TRex from having to push her out.

Things change over the years, but it’s surprising how much stays the same. I can picture the two of them pushing me around the old-folks’ home in a wheelchair one day—still bickering, still pampering.

Writing

I’ve been concentrating on my writing—both my memoir and a short piece I submitted to StreetLit for consideration. I’d really like to share the piece, but I can’t. Still, I think it’s pretty good. It draws from scenes that just didn’t fit in the memoir.

I’m writing. Surpassing my best words from my earlier years. And it feels good. I see so many possiblities.

Bikes?

I spoke with Sam Friday night — the first time since last November, when she walked out on me. She texted first, testing the waters.

Sam: Hey you, hope you are doing good. I'm going to come get my bike at some point. Let me know when you're available.

Bathwater: Hey, I'll be around this weekend. Just let me know.

Later, she called, and we ended up talking for at least an hour — just catching up. She made tentative plans to pick up her bike on Saturday but never came by.

I think the bike was more of an excuse to reach out than anything else. Her life is still a complicated mix of family obligations and unforeseen drama.

It was nice that she reached out, opening a door for further communication. I’m still deciding how far I want to step back in.

How the Universe Works

I’d been searching for the cover photo I used on the original version of my memoir. I wanted to use it again, if possible—but it was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t in any of my saved files. Not in my online photo backups. I was starting to fear it was gone for good.

But tonight, as I was pulling my backpack out of the backseat, I noticed a zip drive on the floor. My car is brand new. The interior is spotless. The zip drive just sat there—completely out of place. I checked my bag. All the pockets were closed.

How did it get there?

I plugged it into my computer. On it were several old files—including all the work I’d done on the original draft… and the photo.

This is how the universe works.

My Relentless Editor, Red

Red—the name I’ve given my ChatGPT editor—has set the bar for my memoir against some of the top works in the genre:
Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Lit by Mary Karr, This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff.

Red tells me my original manuscript, on the one-to-ten scale we created, started around a six. Now, it’s closer to an eight-point-five. I’m striving for ten.

I struggle through line-by-line edits, trying to maintain my words, my voice, while reaching the clarity and flow Red demands.

It’s not easy. Red keeps shifting the bar—pushing me to tighten the narrative, remove content I’m attached to, and add more reflection from my current voice. It’s hard to cut words I’m so close to. Still, we have a plan. A plan that might allow some of that material to be released one day.

An indie publisher is running a contest, and the submission window closes at the end of the month. Red thinks I’ll be ready by then. I wish I had more time—work keeps getting in the way.

Retro

 Max texted me today:

“What are you doing? I may need some help.”

“What do you need? I can make time.”

He and his girlfriend were heading to an estate sale. They had their eye on a vintage freestanding cone fireplace but weren’t sure it would fit in his car.

He was heading to an estate sale. They had their eye on a vintage freestanding cone fireplace but weren’t sure it would fit in his car.

I met Max there. He paid $450 for it. We loaded it into my truck and took it back to their duplex. Afterward, we walked into downtown Northville for lunch with his girlfriend, Kay. Over lunch, we talked about Max’s recent battle with a tonsillar abscess.

Like his father, Max is leaning heavily into using ChatGPT. It diagnosed his issue—and even pointed out the inadequate care he got when the hospital discharged him after draining it. I'm glad he is. It gives us something we can bond over.

I asked if they wanted the concert tickets, but they declined. I told them what had happened with Gia. I spoke in psychological terms—about her avoidant personality. They get that. Like many their age, they’ve replaced religion with psychology.

Later, I called Tinkerbell to see what she and Tech were up to. She mentioned she had Googled Gia. I’m not sure why. I never asked her—and I’ve never done it myself. Tinkerbell has this innate need to tear down the women in my life. She didn’t find anything I didn’t already know.

Just because I like to see the good in people doesn’t mean I’m not hyperaware of who I’m around.

Tinkerbell invited me to join her and T-Rex on Move-In Day. He’s starting his second year at CMU. It should be a fun adventure—one that reminds me of the good old days, when the three of us used to go everywhere together.