Over Yonder

         We survived the Dominican Republic. Statistically, it’s no big deal. There is probably a greater chance of dying on a trip to Chicago.           We had been looking forward to this vacation for a while. We were facing eight glorious days with the family on our first foray together outside of the country. I have been outside the U.S. myself, but not my family. Other than Trey’s shitty Passport photo, this trip was perfectly planned by my wife. I just paid for it. She did all of the leg work and planning. It was perfectly laid out (except for that passport photo).         Truth be told, the Dominican Republic was not the closest that any of us came to meeting our demise on this trip. The night before our cruise left port, Gracie and I ventured out to get pizza and wings for the family while we were staying in Cocoa Beach, Florida. The producers of “Live PD” should really consider this town for future broadcasts.          Dinner on this night was the only detail my wife

         A grocery store cigar sits on a brick window ledge near three potted plants. One of the plants is a Rosemary Bush. I don’t know what the other two plants are. “Radar Love” by Golden Earring plays on the speaker. It’s a $6 Rocky Patel. Not my first choice, but it will do. What’s on my mind? I whisper to myself “If earring is one word and not two, why the need for two ‘Rs’?” That is how clear my mind is right now? Completely worry free.           In a few days we will be in the Caribbean. One “R”, but two “Bs”. I want to be inside helping Steph pack for the trip, but I can’t bring myself to stub out Rocky and go inside and be productive. It’s OK, she’s got this. You see, we’ve a got thing called “Radar Love”. The crack of my Miller Lite, as I open it, is in time with the beat of the song. I am on vacation. The beer won’t taste any better in Turks and Caicos. The view will be nicer and the cigars will certainly be better.           The kids are growing older. It may our last

         Charlie is dead. I am reminded of this every morning when I get my keys off the hook to go to work. His ashes sit on a shelf that is to the right of the key hook. Charlie died after we moved into the new house. He sits in his little dark-stained box. Milli Vanilli plays as I type this. “Girl You Know It’s True”. I guess that since it’s politically correct these days to identify as another gender, maybe Charlie is speaking to me from that box.          A lot has changed since we left the apartment. We only lived there a short while, but it seemed like an eternity. We bitched and complained the whole time. The “Pee Pad Porch”, the “After Melrose Pool”, the “Combination Rooms”, the shitty refrigerator (sorry for the expletive, there’s no better way to describe it), the cramped space, etc. The dogs literally shit and pissed on everything. If I could write an advertisement for that place, it would have read “Three Bedrooms, thin walls, and total Hell”. It was a nightmare... So