WHEN WE WERE KIDS

When we were kids
it was boys versus girls,

cops and robbers,

lights against darks.

Only later did it become

inequality and injustice,

sexism and racism.

When we were kids
it was just a game 

that we were playing.

We were having fun

pitting ourselves against

each other,

fellow brothers and sisters.

If we only knew.

When we were kids           

we were young.

The World was our neighborhood,

our neighborhood was the World!

When we were kids

our voices were our voices.

When we were kids

we were captains and coaches,

the referees and the players.

We kept our own score.

Our memories are so short
term.
                        

When we were kids

we were of the same kind.

Creative and innocent,

equal pupils of life.

And now we are not.

GARAGE SALE

The woman who lives with her husband up Filbert on Marie is having a garage sale. They're both in their late 40s, he's Asian, quiet and nice, and she's a big bosomed redhead, all teeth.

For the last 10 years, the couple has lived in their apartment in Sausalito — she calls this the banana belt. They've lived in San Rafael, and before coming to Sausalito to live, they lived in Point Richmond, across the Richardson Bay or North Bay.

"I thought we'd hate it here," she says. "We used to look over here and see it. But we like it, there's hardly ever any fog."

The items at the garage sale aren't just odds and ends. You'd think the couple was moving again. Artwork, picture frames, candlesticks, cutlery, pillows, an entire DVD collection, paperback books, and safari themed house wares that include elephant everything, zebra engravings, and leopard prints are neatly displayed in their dugout garage.

"We've gone modern," she says. "Redid the entire apartment.

"You find it weird deciding which of your things to get rid of. But where are we going to put it? We have no storage."

A car drives past the open garage, which is underneath the couple's two-story, wood-paneled apartment, and suddenly a deer crosses the road below — Filbert — and diverts its course as the car approaches.

"They come right up these stairs," the woman says of the deer. "We haven't seen them in a while, though, I wonder where they've been."

From their bedroom window, she says they can see the yard of the church next door often filled with deer — the church doesn't use the yard much, she says. Mothers and their young will walk right over into their yard. They come for little red berries that grow on the bushes back there.

The deer is the size of a large American motorcycle, its antlers are as long as a man's forearm. Right now it's hiding out in the ivy-heavy property, out of site, and below the deck where an elderly woman sits at a table. You can see heads inside the car that stopped, turned to the left, looking at where the deer must be.

"DVDs are a dollar," the woman says. Her husband says nothing the entire time and could be mistaken for a looker, two of which are passing by at the moment.

There's a shuffle in the ivy and a dog barks in that direction. The car, as if dog's bark was its ignition, continues down the hill.

"What is it?" the elderly woman from the deck calls down to us in the garage.

"It's a deer," the redheaded woman says.

Her husband puts his thumbs to his temples and wiggles his fingers to show the woman on the deck he's a deer. Then he drops his arms, looks at us, smiles and shrugs.

I AM MIGUEL TEJADA

I am Miguel Tejada,
brought to San Francisco to help an organization.

Some moves had to be made for us to get back on track,
hopefully.

He was given an opportunity.
Did it turn out the way we wanted to in the end?
Obviously not.
But it's time for both parties to move on.

I just thank them for the opportunity.

We didn't know who, or when it was coming.
At some point something had to be done.

It just did not happen.

I am Miguel Tejada,
designated for assignment.

I AM AARON ROWAND

I wish things would have turned out differently.
I wish things would have gone better.
I think it's probably the right move for both parties...

I think we knew eventually it was coming.
This team needed some changes.

I'm not going out here taking parting shots,
And wish each and every one of them the best.

We felt this was the right time to set them free.
We appreciate their efforts.

I am Aaron Rowand,
designated for assignment.

Direct quotes made by SF Giants taken from ESPN.com and SFGate.com coverage.

POOL PARTY

We were invited to a pool party.
An email went around.
Burgers and beer would be served.
If you can, please bring a side dish,
the email said.

On our way to the pool party
we stopped at Mollie’s for
some chips and salsa.
We grabbed a chip bag and contemplated
the other guests.

What if there already are tortilla chips?
We could get salsa.
We could get Circus Animal cookies.
And so we did.
Also, a 12 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

When we got to the pool party,
no one answered the door.
There was noise coming from the backyard, the sound of
splashing from the pool.
I tried the gate but it was nailed shut,
so we decided to knock
before letting ourselves in.

Truth be told, we were late for the pool party,
beyond fashionably.
The pool party was from 12-4,
and we showed up well after three.

Near the entry of the house of the pool party,
bags of clothes were strewn about.
We stepped over them toward the kitchen.
Through glass doors I could see
the backyard filled
with people by this point,
most of whom were in the pool.

We didn’t bring suits to the pool party.
We thought we’d be too late, and
to be honest, I didn’t want to swim.
I wanted to drink PBR and
maybe eat a little something.

Now, however, in the backyard of the pool party,
shaking the hands with guests,
surveying the situation, living it,
I wish I had brought my suit.
I mean, I can drink a cold beer from a can
and stand in a pool of water at the same time.

Instead, at the pool party,
I ate quickly and drank quicker:
Burgers and chips and pie and ice cream.
PBR after PBR.

I moved to the corner of the pool party
to get into shade.
I took my shoes off and sat at the pool's edge.
I was partway in —
The water was cool and nice, and some folks swam by to introduce themselves.

At the pool party,
there were two-pieces
and black and white baggy trunks.
Geometric shapes
and floral printed patterns.
Back hair and long hair
and pasted down curly wet hair.
I was partyway out.

Someone at the pool party said, This water is merky.
I swilled back a quarter of the can in hand.
Do you know Joe Pytka? someone asked swimming to another topic before a response.
I drank another quarter down.
My brother designed a spiky chair,
I'm drinking.
I had my fantasy football draft yesterday,
I bring the can back up.
I have a 75-year old physicist as a client,
the rest is spit.

It was a pleasure attending the pool party,
thank you for having us.

BEE STINGS AND BANANA SLUGS

Up earlier than usual,
I take Heidi for a walk.

The world is vacant,
we had it to ourselves.

We walked a familiar street,
up the hill we know so well.

Stairs lead
to the street
that takes us to
our private park.

Placed in a pocket,
jammed into the let, and
cupped into the palm
of the hand,
the park is ours.

Heidi squatted,
like she does,
the park was, you see
also her bathroom.

So, with a bag,
I go to pick it up
(a dog owner's main objective)
when I'm shocked,
no wait, stung
by a bee.

Shot like a shotgun,
the bee got me
behind the ear.

I felt it
before I say it:

Jesus.
Fuck me.

I swat
and spin around,
and come
face to wrist
with the accomplice.

Black and gold and,
Is it dead?
I knock it off.
It hurts, oh it still hurts.

I looked down
and notice
another shade of gold,
a yellow, turd-like finger,
a slow moving,
Banana Slug.

ON MY WAY TO WORK

The knob is locked,
And the door shut tight.
I make sure of this before I turn
past the statue
of Saint Francis.

I hop up the stone steps
to get to street level.
A car comes quick
—you hear em before you see em.
I let it pass before I start
down the sidewalk
toward 7-11.

Another car passes,
opposite direction this time,
an old man goes home as I
head to work.

I wait for the signal to change
at a crosswalk, then I walk.
On the other side
there’s a shortcut I’ve been taking lately
—a jagged path down the dirt hillside.
The path’s quite steep and my shoes,
my shoes are slick and made for skating,
my laptop’s under my arm, and
the headphones are in.
When I slip, I fall
all the way back.

The angle isn’t much—
A mere forty-five degrees.
My free hand’s hits first,
then the middle of back;
my forearm falls flat
on the ground.

As I get up and pat myself off,
I hear someone laugh,
but can’t make out who—
perhaps it’s all in my headphones.

I walk off as if nothing happened, and
if you saw me just after you might
think I was just dusty

While I realize this:
There are shortcuts in life,
but sometimes they
dust you up.

TWO BLUE TOWELS

Oh no.
I noticed we’re using the same towel.
Both are blue and in the bathroom.

I washed my face and now I’m
looking at these two towels
in front of the shower.

Water drips from my face,
There’s soap even on my neck and
around my jaw.

I rinsed, so
It’s not like I’m blinded
Still, I don’t know which towel you’d
want me to use.

I took a shower early this morning and
used one of these terrycloth towels
that’s within arms reach.

It’s not as if they’re exactly the same,
but they are a similar faded sky
blue.

We’re a lot alike, you and me,
like these towels, I think, as I let my face to dry
Naturally.

We make a pair
like these towels.
Not a perfect match,
But one and one is two.

I’ve been blue,
and I know you have too.
Not like these towels.
Just sad sometimes, I mean.

Damp. We’ve both been that, too.
Just like these towels still seem to be.
Inseparable these towels seem .

Someone left these towels in my possession,
I think, as I my face becomes not that wet.
you don’t claim them to be yours at all,
then why are you using one then?

These towels are ours now.
That’s a funny thing to say.
We have things that belong to us.
Not mine, not yours,
They both belong to both of us.

So why do I stand here using neither of them?
Just thinking of these two blue towels
I’ve let me face become dry.

RETURN POLICY

I returned merchandise when I was young. That was my thing. Past 30 days, without a receipt, with no packaging, I was successful at taking things back.

Target was my favorite store. Their return policy was generous. My identification was innocence and white. My teeth were more crooked, my hair was blonder.

It started with a cordless phone. I was ten when I got one for my room. It didn’t come with everything. I wanted a new one. I waited in line by myself and Target exchanged it for me.

I became comfortable at the counter, and returned Gameboys games, electronic organizers, house fans, and watches I had. I got cash back and store credit. I was confident then, and became fearless at the customer service desk.

My dad doesn’t follow instructions like this. He can over react. Things break and words fly. When he wanted to watch TV without paying for it, he tried to install a coaxial cable to the antenna on the roof. He figured he could, so he bought the cable from the RadioShack up the street. He screwed one end of the cable to the TV. And on the roof, he forced the other into something wasn’t supposed to. He forced it. That paper clip wire inside got mangled to a curly cue, and then it broke off. Words dropped from the roof, and there was more yelling back inside. He asked me to return it for him, and said I could keep the money.

We grew up with RadioShack toys. I had a remote control 4X4 Big Foot. Rechargeable batteries. My brother and I had headphones, a boombox, a Walkman, handheld games, and all with batteries. The nice old lady that manages the franchise worked there a career. She was a pro, taking my information, my phone number. I had the receipt but she wanted the story.

I mentioned that the cable was too short and the wrong color. She wanted to talk to my father, so she dialed the number I gave her. I watched and waited. Dad picked up, and she asked him what happened. She held the phone for me to hear my father on the other end of the line.

The words, “my son, stupid as he is,” have long been quoted in the retelling this story. There was no mention of his faulty installation practices, or Dad’s lack of coaxial understanding.

I got the cash back. My dad called Jones Intercable, and had them install cable. It was immediately canceled when he noticed he could use their cable for the antenna, and my home didn’t have pay-TV again until I was in college, when my grandparents moved in.

TIPPER & LEO

Of the recurring characters
from the childhood stories my dad told
there is one I know the origin of

Carved in the wood of a gazebo
near the snack bar of the swimming pool
where my father and his brother went
were three names their fingers found

SIG
ALPO
LEO

Names of some juveniles
from another town
in another time,
a far away place

A bond was formed,
their friendships made this trio
excited this day, I imagine
in the middle of a summer month
young and innocent,
becoming

One of them brought a knife,
or maybe got out a key.
It was one of their ideas to leave their mark
their first names in the wooden post of that place
and the others who went along with it

It was that instigator—the way I see,
that brought the blade, and
who handed it to the others
that was the last
to lay his own name down

LEO

His true friend, however
the way my father told it
isn’t mentioned in graffiti
but is clearly
in the stories
that my father told
me and my brother.
His name was Tipper.

HOW IT STARTED

I started documenting what I was doing. That’s not entirely true. I’d embellish some things because what's happening isn't all that interesting. That’s how it started. I’d do something at work and then turn around and write about it — me as the character I. For example, my new supervisor told me of a policy the company had that I wasn’t aware of — chain of command communication. I missed telling someone something, or I told the wrong person something in the wrong order. I listened to her and nodded my head and said, “Oh, OK, that makes sense.” She turned around and made an excuse for not being able to finish this conversation at this point in time and return to her office, and I, in turn, went to an empty word document and embellish the story into an insubordination of sorts, where the disagreements, lead to plotting, and arguments, and undressing, and where the situation resolved with me storming out early for the day, heading to the cantina, getting drunk, and returning the next day with a real chip on my shoulder. That’s how it started.