Steeve Saintvil 2/21/25 Steeve Saintvil 2/21/25

A Change of Heart

Out of the 5,000 heart transplants performed in the United States, Lehigh Hospital performs the most. Built in 1978 in Lehigh, Pennsylvania, it’s the biggest heart transplant facility on the east coast, and located minutes from highway 78. Brandon Bridges is a New Jersey State Trooper, who last year discovered his heart had a hole. Doctors gave him 2 years, if that. But at 7:03 am on July 8th, Brandon hit the lottery. A new heart was added to the query. And it would be his. Tears of joy rolls from his eyes as family and friends circle his bed and exchange warm hugs. They even hug the doctor.

After a few jokes about the hospital food and no longer having to eat it, Brandon wipes the remaining tears from his face, smiles and says, “Can’t thank you enough Doctor Robertson. I owe you my life.” The Doctor waives him off and instead gives credit to probability and how many others aren’t as fortunate. He also mentions faith and encourages Brandon to thank whatever God he prays to. Brandon declines. “I don’t believe in God. If there was a God he wouldn’t put me here.” He frowns. “But I believe in doctors. I can see and touch them. But I can’t see and touch God.” The doctor nods respectfully and changes the subject. He details what’s next, draws on a chart, then points to his own chest, using words too big for any of them to follow. But they pretend and nod as if they do. When he finishes, Brandon’s dad raises his hand.

“So Doc, who’s the heart from?”, he says. Brandon makes eye contact with his wife, his brother makes eye contact with him, and his uncle makes eye contact with the doctor. The doctor smiles and praises a family out of Newark, New Jersey. Something about Jehovah Witnesses not normally doing what they just did. But that the young man, after living a life of gang violence, and feeling guilty for those he’s hurt, decided to offer his heart to science, despite his family disowning him, and after being told the bullet wound he suffered could take his life. And it did. Brandon’s dad raises his hand again. “I see. And ok with you, I have another question. What’s this kid’s name, Doc?” Everyone in the room looks at his father and then the Doctor. The kid’s name was Bokim Johnson. “A black man? You’re giving my son the heart of a black man?”. Brandon’s father erupts. “I’d rather the heart of a pig, before ever signing off on this bullshit”. He slaps the tall glass window behind him as Brandon’s best friend restrains him. The doctor warns the family they’d be forced to leave if this continues. The room goes silent.

“Not sure what’s going on here. But then I do”, the Doctor says. “I will step out for 15 minutes. But when I return a decision is needed. Non-negotiable”. He then turns to Brandon. “Young man, please know all hearts turn black once they stop beating”. The doctor taps him on the thighs gently, pushes a few buttons on his monitors, and then exchanges stares with each person in the room before finally exiting.

Steeve Saintvil 2/5/25 Steeve Saintvil 2/5/25

THE DOUBLE EDGE SWORD AND THE DEPUTY MARSHALL

We had agreed to meet behind Stoney’s Distillery at midnight. I arrived early. Fireflies aluminated the night and angry mosquitoes feasted on flesh. From where I looked, the lights inside were off and the loading area was chained. No workers. I continued a few hundred yards from the building between giant Cedar Trees, and along a twisted muddied path leading into the shadows, and eventually secured my camel to an abandoned well. Prostitutes weren’t allowed to meet publicly, and only allowed to do business in Eretz, which had the largest Prostitute Temple, east of Jericho. In the distance, the top of the trees swayed in the wind whispering of a change in the weather and more rain to come. I fetched water from the well and poured a few gallons for my camel. And waited for Aviv.

ONE HOUR LATER, she finally emerged between the trees. I was pissed. “Make me wait again and I’ll break your jaw with the end of my sword,” I said. She was 27, brunette, thin, tall, curved, brown eyed, cinnamon skin, and an Edomite. Jewish men, typically, did not sleep with Edomites because they worshipped foreign gods. But, long as they worshiped the members below my belt, I couldn’t care less about doctrine. I was an equal opportunity enthusiast. She had a medium sized tote hanging from her shoulder and reached into it, removing a small jardiniere—a decorated pot made for plants—and placed it at my feet. Her miniature garden revealed a cluster of freshly sprouted barley.

Calmly she said, “Zohba, forget my jaw. I’m pregnant. And the baby is yours.”

My eyebrows said otherwise. “What? Bullshit it is. Look. Let’s get this over with.” I kicked the pot of barley to the side, fracturing the orange rim.

Her voice cracking, she said, “I urinated on seeds of wheat and on seeds of barley 5 days ago. And… uh…well… the barley sprouted first.” She knelt and corrected the pot upright, placing the chipped piece back on the rim. It obeyed. She then gently placed the pot back at my feet. “Zohbah, a man-child is in my womb and the sprouted barley you’ve kicked serves as proof.”

I grabbed a licorice stick from my pocket, calculating, and began removing the bark. “How do I know, Aviv, that this isn’t someone else’s urine and someone else’s barley? And hell, if you’re really pregnant, someone else’s kid? You’re a prostitute crying out loud. Or, did you forget?” I sunk my teeth hard into the licorice stick, weakening the bark.

Her eyes watering, she said, “Did I forget?”

“Correct, Aviv. Did you forget or you retired now?”

She wiped her tears and said, “Each day I give my body to the flames and cowards like you are the embers fueling the fire. Raca—she unleashed Aramaic curses on me—if i’m a prostitute, Zohbah, that’s fine. But, tell me. What about the men who sleep with them?

With the licorice stick screwed in the corner of my mouth, I said, “Cry me a Nile. We both know the truth. You saw the color and stripes on my tunic, and gathered I was a high ranking official. And you took your shot. It’s what prostitutes do. But, that’s beside the point. You’re not in the business of babies and have probably swallowed more than your share.” I spat a two inch licorice bark at her feet and glared. “Now, listen, you lice-infested whore. After tonight, disappear. And if I see you again, I’ll pop you like the pimple you are. Understand?” My eyes were on fire. I walked away and untied my camel, and stepped on the stirrup to mount the beast.

She removed her shawl, uncovering her head, and revealed her long red hair. She was stunning. “Popping?”, she said, “I’m not afraid of you, Zohbah.”

I tugged on the camel’s leather halters, instructing the beast her way. I Towered over her and said, “The previous bitch thought the same. And today she’s munching gravel.”

She glared and weighed her next words carefully. “The last bitch, Zohbah, wasn’t me. And clearly the last bitch didn’t know the law.” Her voice now had bass. “Infidelity by a sworn official is punishable by death. Or, did you forget, big boy, you can be popped, too.” The ground made a sound. It was the fractured piece of the jardiniere. It disobeyed and fell. She looked at it and managed a smile. “Or, explaining to your wife, how another woman knows, her husband owns a single testicle, is a better option. But, I’ll leave that up to you.” At this, I clenched my jaw and thought wild things. I dismounted my camel and invaded her space. We were nose to nose. Until she stepped back.

“What? Gonna hit me again, man of God?” She said. Her anger was strong like the winds, fighting to dislodge immovable objects. “You’re a fraud, Zohbah, policing the city and guarding politicians, with scriptures tatted on your biceps. When, really, you’re basically a cheating husband dealing with chronic addictions.”

I’d been a government official 13 years and looked forward to promotion. My resume was impeccable and politicians loved me. I knew everybody. Even the religious leaders. I’d attend lectures and participated in food drives. I’d even protect triage centers during riots, and protected the homes of dignitaries fearful of insurrections. I was that guy. At least during the day. And worked hard to keep it that way.

She said, “A year and a half we’ve been fornicating. And to be clear, during that time, I’ve slept with just you. Yes, just you. And there’s 55,000 reasons why.” She reached in her tote again, and this time, launched a small red bag at my chest. A sinner’s piggy bank. A coin for each lie I’ve told my wife. “Since we’ve met, Zohbah, you’ve paid me 55,000 shekels—three times what my peers earn, and for them, requires ten times the men. Think about that. Why would I sleep with other demons like yourself, when one demon is traumatic enough.”

I dropped the bag of coins to my feet and looked at it. What the hell did I just do, I thought. I then raised my eyes, balled my hand, and struck her in the face. She grunted and fell. I stood over and said, “Two people can keep a secret, my pops taught me. But one of them better be dead. I’ll kill you, Aviv. Hear me? Dead. Like dead-dead”

Blood trickled from her eye as she palmed her face and stumbled back to her feet. With her lip quivering, she said, “You’re too late, Zohbah. I’ve been dead long before meeting you. And what’s in my womb will now be dead also. Go on, Zohba. Go on to your family. Hug them. And pretend all is well with your heart. And forget I said anything.” Aviv turned and headed toward the muddied path and disappeared into the thick twisting branches—leaving behind the bag of shekels and barley. I could still see the tears mixed with blood on her face, even as I headed home, 6 miles south, on the king’s highway.

Scene Two

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER, a new King was inaugurated and his court room was immaculate. The walls were made of white marble from the quarries of Egypt, and carved into them were detailed images of doves and angels. The ceilings were high. And white-and-blue, twelve foot flags, proudly swung from the rafters. The King’s bench was massive. It was made entirely of Gold and positioned six feet above everyone. A group of lawyers discussed strategies, as sad relatives negotiated on behalf of loved ones. Others combed through documents tactically searching for evidence on who’d done what or who hadn’t. Overall, though, the youth out numbered the heads with gray hair. However, most were self-represented—poor folks—limping in a legal safari filled with roaming lions.

A year earlier, I had been promoted to Deputy Marshall by the previous administration. And it was my highest achievement, yet. At precisely 9:00 am, a staff member handed me a stack of dockets. I placed them at my post, secured my sword, and addressed the room. “All rise. The Court of Israel is now in session, the Honorable King Solomon presiding." He was 6 foot 8, athletic built, with a long black beard. He was incredibly wealthy and dressed as splendidly as the flowers in his botanicals. And his crown had twelve stones—one for each tribe of Israel. Known in the region for heavenly wisdom, The King was revered and ruled with a balanced scale by his side made of gold. It was 4 feet wide. And before the start of every case, He’d pre-load jasper marbles, from a velvet bag, weighing 8 ounces each, and placed them all on one side, leaving the other side of the scale empty and unbalanced.

As the King took his thrown, he frowned and nodded, and a guard immediately shut two large exit doors. He then turned and nodded again, and another servant began sweeping a cool breeze in his direction with large fans made of Ostrich feathers. All the right strings were being pulled. He then reached for his gavel, smashed it, and ordered everyone to be seated. The round had begun.

He scanned the room and counted heads with his eyes, calculating the hours needed to clear the room. He then turned to me, nodded, and said, “Good Morning Mr. Zohbah. I’m ready. What is today’s first case?” I grabbed the first docket at the top of the pile and scanned the document. Something about a dead baby. I then turned to the second page. And almost wet my pants. “Mr. Zohbah, perhaps before the Messiah returns?” Patience was thin. I buried the docket at the bottom of the stack and reached for another. “Mr. Zohbah, question. Was the first docket cursed?” I shook my head and kept my eyes fixed on the stack. He tapped his bench. “Alright. Then today, Bailiff. Let’s go.” I retrieved the initial docket at the bottom of the stack and announced the case, reluctantly.

I cleared my throat and said, “Your Honor, my Lord. In the matter between Plaintiff, Aviv Goshen, and Defendant, Tamar Cohen, both parties are disputing a homicide of a new-born infant in the district of Canaan.” After speaking her name, my heart dropped to my stomach. Was she also here for me, I thought. And why didn’t she abort the baby. I resumed to my post and attempted to hide behind one of the hanging flags. But, the King’s assistant wasn’t helpful. Her feathers produced a constant breeze and caused the flag to bob and weave, exposing my face—along with my guilt. As the flag brushed my face every few seconds, I finally mustered the courage to gaze across the court room. We locked eyes. And Aviv’s stare burned a whole through my soul.

The King reviewed the docket and addressed them. “Mrs. Aviv, please remove your shawl when you address the court. And Mrs. Tamar, good morning to you. Know, you’ll have your chance in a moment. But, for now sit tight.” Her red hair fell to her shoulders as she stepped forward, alone. And her face was still as stunning as before. The King continued. “A person who represents themselves in court, has a fool for a client.” He grimaced. “Nevertheless. What is your account of events, Mrs. Aviv ?” He then reached for an 8 ounce jasper marble from the left side of the scale, reclined in his seat, and crossed his leg. The floor was hers.

With her chin tucked and lips quivering, she said, “Pardon me, my lord. This woman and I live in the same house, and I had a baby while she was there with me.” The King suddenly raised his hand and interrupted her mid-sentence. And asked about the father’s whereabouts. Aviv lifted her chin, wiped her tears, calculated, and then looked in my direction. The food in my stomach rose to my mouth. But, after seconds passed, the King jokingly reassured her, that clearly, his Deputy Marshall isn’t the father. And, instead, she’d do better keeping focus on her testimony. As the King said this, a snot-nosed youth sitting in the back row, maybe in his early 20’s, suggested perhaps, it might be him, who’s the actual father. And if he wasn’t, he’d be willing to practice. The court room erupted with laughter as Aviv hung her shoulders. And to avoid further suspicion, I joined the circus and laughed just as hard. Yet, still. All I could think was how terribly wrong they were and how terribly right she was. The King smashed his gavel and demanded order. Silence fell over the court and Aviv continued her account.

“Pardon me, my Lord. Just, that, losing my child… has been… has been… difficult.” The tears continued and King Solomon sympathized allowing her to gather herself. “Both of us our prostitutes, My Lord. And while I cannot speak for Mrs. Tamar, and because I’ve been with so many men, it’s impossible for me to point who the father is.” She lifted her chin and again glanced in my direction. But briefly this time, as if sparing my life. The food in my mouth retreated. And the King nodded at her in approval and placed the first marble on the scale. Wisdom was at work. But so was folly. The dispute continued.

She wiped her nose with tissue and said, “as I was saying, my Lord. The third day after my child was born, this woman also had a baby. We were alone. There was no one in the house but the two of us. During the night this woman’s son died because she lay on him. So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I slept. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast.” Aviv glared at the other woman and said, “Have you no shame? That’s my son you’re holding and you know it”. The other woman hurled profanities in return and had to be restrained. The king smashed his gavel and called to order.

Aviv lowered her voice and said, “My apologies King… but.. but.. the next morning… when I got up to nurse my son—the child was dead! But when I looked at him closely in the morning light, I saw that it wasn’t the son I had borne and…” The King lifted his index finger and Aviv knew the drill. She paused. Solomon then dropped another 8 ounce marble on the scale and calculated his next question.

Running his fingers through his long beard, he said, “Tell me. What’s the boys name?” Both mothers answered simultaneously. The babies name was either Asher or Elijah. But it couldn’t be both. The King raised his index again. “Alright. I think I see what’s going on here. Mrs. Tamar, please step forward,”. She was dressed in all black and had a refrigerated voice. She wasn’t ugly. But she also wasn’t beautiful. And a gold bracelet in the form of a serpent wrapped her left forearm. And in the right, a baby rested peacefully. And could possibly be mines.

The King continued. “Mrs. Tamar, since you’re ready for blows, and because the first to speak always appears right, that is, until another comes along and gives their side, the court is ready to hear your version of events.” The third marble sat in the King’s hand, as the scale teeter tottered, almost balanced. Tamar denied the first account, claiming the living son was hers and the dead one was Aviv’s. But, Aviv insisted and held her position—the live child was hers and the dead one was Tamar’s. And so they argued viciously before the King. Tamar spat at Aviv, and in return, Aviv spat back. The King smashed his gavel and called to order, again. But this time warning them with contempt.

He uncrossed his leg and said, “I’ve heard enough. This one says, ‘My son is alive and your son is dead,’ while that one says, ‘No! Your son is dead and mine is alive’. But I’ll do you both one better.” The king stood and pointed at me. “Zohbah, I command the living child be cut in half with your sword and give each mother a half. The audience gasped and whispered to one another. And I wondered which sin was greater: not fathering my son or killing him. My heart pounded as I pulled my sword from my sheath and stood before the mothers.

Talking through her teeth to avoid being heard, Aviv said, “Coward. I swear if you raise that sword, I’m telling everything”. Her eyes were filled with water. Tamar, stood to my right, and after hearing Aviv, squinted as if solving the mystery. Surely she would speak out. So I hurried. I grabbed the new born by the ankle from Tamar’s arm, held him upside down, tightened the grip on my hilt, clenched my jaw, closed my eyes, and raised the sword north with torque and speed. The baby weighed less than a pillow and had a full set of black hair. His arms jerked around and he began to cry. Everyone in the court room stood and either clapped their mouths or covered their eyes. And it was then I realized I was indeed a coward.

But Aviv being deeply moved with love for her son, jumped on my torso. She raised her arm risking the sword and allowed her shoulder to take the impact. My forearm collided with her neck knocking her to the ground. She grunted and wrapped her arms around my boot and said, “Please, my Lord, give the living baby to Tamar! Don’t kill him! Please I beg you!” But, Tamar being the Raven she was, pleaded the opposite. She insisted the ceremony continue, and the baby be cut in half. And neither mother be awarded the child.

The King’s eyes filled with fire. He rose to his feet, looked at the 8 ounce jasper marble in his right hand, and placed it on the scale. The unit slowly moved. The audience watched the scale anxiously, teeter tottering, back and forth. And there it happened. Equilibrium. A hush fell over the court. And only Aviv’s whimpers were heard from the cold granite floor. The King raised his right hand and stared into the audience.

Calmly he declared his ruling and said, “Give the living baby to Aviv. Do not kill him. She is the biological mother.” He then pointed to Tamar and calculated. “Honest scales belong to the Lord, Mrs. Tamar. And all the weights in the bag belong to him. Today I find you guilty of murder and kidnapping. You will spend the rest of your days chained to a wall, giving birth to regret.” He smashed his gavel and ordered Aviv be given resources for emotional and physical damages. Guards swept Tamar away as she kicked and screamed and pleaded, threatening the King to reconsider. He ignored and took a recess. And ordered the court be emptied. Aviv signed papers and exited immediately through the crowd, whimpering along, and calling the babies name—Asher—and how much she loved him. The audience cheered and sung a song of justice, clapping and enthralled by the King’s verdict.

By the time the room emptied I was alone. And stood frozen hypnotized by an almost-bloody sword, wondering what could’ve been. Aviv had solved her case, while mines, had just begun. I laid the sword on the granite floor and exited a convicted man.

Steeve Saintvil 2/5/25 Steeve Saintvil 2/5/25

THE DOUBLE EDGE SWORD AND THE DEPUTY MARSHALL

Calmly she said, “Zohba, forget my jaw. I’m pregnant. And the baby is yours.”

My eyebrows said otherwise. “What? Bullshit it is. Look. Let’s get this over with.” I kicked the pot of barley to the side, fracturing the orange rim.

Her eyes watering, she said, “Did I forget?”

“Correct, Aviv. Did you forget or you retired now?”

She removed her shawl, uncovering her head, and revealed her long red hair. She was stunning. “Popping?”, she said, “I’m not afraid of you, Zohbah.”

I tugged on the camel’s leather halters, instructing the beast her way. I Towered over her and said, “The previous bitch thought the same. And today she’s munching gravel.”

Scene Two

Steeve Saintvil 1/23/25 Steeve Saintvil 1/23/25

Chocolate Cheesecake

I shoved my face into the slice of chocolate cheese cake. But not before destroying a bacon cheese burger and onion rings with lots of ketchup. Laughing mom said, “Take it easy Jacob. Need you alive for your 14th birthday too”. I laughed. Shake Shack was our tradition. No matter whose birthday, it’s where we went. Mom’s was October 22nd. Dad’s was December 8th. And mine was June 25th. The waitress asked if there’d be anything else, grabbed a few empty dishes from our table, and handed dad the tab. He thanked her. He then opened the small black leather binder and studied the document. His eyebrows rose.

Mom looked at him. “Are we good?” Dad closed the binder and grabbed some Cajun Shoe String Fries from his plate. But mom pressed in. “Darius… are we good?” He continued and vacuumed whatever soda was left in his glass and placed it back down. When suddenly his eyes began to water. He then turned to me and calmly said, “Whatever you do in this life, Jacob, get money. Lots of it. The kind where asking others help isn’t needed.” He wiped his face with his sleeves and looked into the distance, quitting while ahead.

“Honey, don’t listen to your father”, mom interjected. “Money is overrated. She propped her purse on the table and scooted over. “Instead, try and see money like oxygen. It’s everywhere, right?” I nervously smiled and nodded in approval. “Tell me. When’s the last time you’ve run out of oxygen.” This made an impression on my dad, I could tell. “You wouldn’t be here, Jacob, to tell me if you did. You’d be brain dead. The truth is each day your lungs receive all the oxygen they’ll ever need, and not a breath short.” She grabbed my fork and took a bite of my cheesecake, and stared at dad. Calmly I said, “Then why’s dad crying?”

“I’m crying because… well… because… you see… it’s my job to provide. But I haven’t been.” His lip quivered. My dad was the most giving man around. He had a big scar on his forehead from fighting a pit-bull looking to hurt his younger sister. He was 17 then, and she was 8. He always loved others more than himself. “Yes, oxygen might be everywhere”, he calmly said, “but the taller the mountain, the thinner the air”. This struck a cord and my mom began crying, too.

He reached for her hand and comforted her. I pushed my cheesecake aside and said, “Mom and Dad, I don’t need money or oxygen or mountains or Shake Shack.” They looked at me wondering whose child is this. “All I really need is to get off punishment, so I can play with my friends next time I’m in trouble”. They rolled their eyes and laughed. I ate the last of my chocolate cheese cake and wiped my mouth. And it didn’t matter what the tab was, long as the currency was love, joy, and peace.

Steeve Saintvil 1/21/25 Steeve Saintvil 1/21/25

STUNG

Right side of his face expanded like rising pizza dough. Dean Smith was stung by a Japanese Hornet on a Saturday while barbecuing in his back yard. Janet brought a bag of frozen beans and bottle of Benadryl. Dean thanked her and then pointed to the nest, which hung from a Sycamore branch 27 feet above the patio.

Damn, she said. It’s bigger than I thought. Thing’s the size of a laundry basket. Think we should? Should what? Destroy it, babe. I mean, look, your face. He took his eyes off the nest and poured Benadryl into a shot sized cup, and chugged it happy hour style—but ignored her question. Is the ice helping? She asked and reached to inspect him. But he leaned away defensively. Her shoulders hung. She turned and collected the garlic and onion powder from the grill, and headed inside. But not before one last suggestion.

Perhaps your shotgun can do the trick, she said. With one foot in the house and the other on the patio, she continued. And besides, you’re pretty good at shooting things down, no? He wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist and tossed the plastic cup at her face. Have you always been this stupid? he said. Shoot the nest and then what, shoot the seven thousand chasing my ass down the block, too? She reversed her direction, both feet now back on the patio, and stepped toward him.

Alright, Dean. I have a better idea. What if you still shoot the nest, still wait for the seven thousand, but now, instead of killing thousands, gun down just those that are yours and I’ll gun down just those that aren’t. Or, should the Queen Bee sign papers, too? His shoulders hung. Asshole, she continued. Hope the Benadryl fails and your throat closes quickly. She rolled her eyes, scooped up the plastic cup, placed it in his hands, and entered the house. Dean wrestled with his thoughts realizing he’d now been stung twice, and a third possibly very soon.

Steeve Saintvil 1/8/25 Steeve Saintvil 1/8/25

Bag of Doritos

Broken inside like a bag of Doritos, as years of chipped corners burry themselves in hard to reach places, and the heart becomes as salty as the contents inside. Air fills the bag and hides what little is there and deceives the foolish, and becomes nothing more but a pit stop for aching stomachs—the cool ranch of life and the nacho cheese of despair. Dirty finger tips evident a life well lived! The bag is tipped, plucked, and shaken as the crumbs buried in the hard to reach places slide toward the opening and satisfies another—and nothing is wasted.

Steeve Saintvil 12/31/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/31/24

The Post Card

Dear Joel,

Before making a decision, both of you should visit the lake this Saturday.

Love, grandpa.

Round Valley, New Jersey was about three hours from Middletown, Connecticut. But if you by-pass the George Washington Bridge, and take 287 instead, the detour reduces the trip by 45 minutes. Angelica and I refused to speak the entire drive.

We had met at LSU during the Shaquille O’Neal days. And got married five years after he entered the NBA. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. And according to her, I was the most handsome. Yet, the concept of marriage always frightened me. All of my relatives—except one—were either single or divorced. My father abandoned my mother when I was eight years old. And the senior year of high school, my mother died in a car accident, never remarrying. I struggle at times, though, wondering which was worse: dying from a car accident or from a broken heart. As for my grandfather, he’s unique. He actually married and endured. Yet, his wife died, too. Which, really, has left him just as divorced as all the others.

When Angelica got pregnant, her family pressured her about marriage. Puerto Ricans looked down on daughters who have children out of wedlock. So, to soften the blow, I proposed without a ring, and married at City Hall. But, when Symphony turned two years old, and our careers began to prosper, we officially had a wedding ceremony—flower girls and all.

Angelica majored in Music Theory, and has been professor of music at Roosevelt High School since graduating college. Her salary ($105,000). As for me, I majored in Sports Therapy and currently work for the University of UConn under the basketball program. My salary ($130,000). Money has always been a source of contention. We bought our first home, but purchased too much. Last year, Angelica called the cops for the first time and I was arrested for domestic violence.

—

Pomme de Terre—which is French for potato—barked from the front porch, alerting his master we’d arrived. The dog only had three legs and blind in one eye. But, it was either that, or pay eighty a month for Slomin’s Shield. Too expensive, though, for an old man, living mostly off social security. We eased into the gravel driveway, grabbed our luggage from the trunk, and smiled pretentiously, as if neither of our hearts needed triage.

The dark clouds hinted rain as the wind swung a tire hanging from the tall Chestnut oak branches, which as a kid, was my favorite. My grandfather would push me until I fell dizzy, and then I’d ask to do it again. He was the best. His house sat perfectly at the foothills of Cushetunk Mountain, low enough to go fishing, but just above lake levels to avoid hurricane season floods. He’s lived at Round Valley 57 years. And 13 of those, alone. My grandmother died of congestive heart failure in 1989, and he deeply misses her. He opens the front door and steps out.

”Shut up Old mutt. You ain’t scarin’ nobody. Fool. Ya’ barkin’ the wrong direction, anyways”.

He sweeps the dog from his path with his right foot, and gingerly descends the steps to greet us. Overwhelmed with joy, he then signals with both hands to have us meet him halfway. We do. And exchange warm embraces.

“Jo-Jo my boy, so glad you made it. Hardly slept last night, thinking ‘bout you guys. And, Angelica, wow. Look at you. My gosh. You never disappoint. Lemme Guess…”, as he tugs on the sleeves of her red trench coat, “Louis Vuitton?”

“Thank you Mr. Saintvil. Too kind.”

“Goodness gracious. How many times must I tell you, It’s Norvin. Call me Norvin”. He grins. His eyes are filled with life.

“Alright. Will do, Mr. Saintvil”. Grandad catches her joke, laughs some more, and then hugs her again.

We continue exchanging pleasantries in the front yard for another 10 minutes, lightly discussing the weather, the Saturday traffic, and the new toll plaza the city recently added few miles from his exit. He then asks if we’re hungry and insists that we eat. In Haitian culture it is blasphemous to decline food after being offered. So, out of respect, but more so fear, we accept—even though we’d already eaten, hours earlier. He encourages us to step inside. But not Pomme de Terre. His shift isn’t over. And neither is his marriage. Granddad shuts the door, lowers the blinds, and illuminates the front porch with a bright tungsten light.

The end

Steeve Saintvil 12/30/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/30/24

Room Full of Empty

From where I’m positioned, a light bulb swings from a frayed electrical line from the ceiling. Next to me is a partially torn mattress drenched in gasoline. The room doesn’t have windows or doors. And my mouth tastes like blood. My name is Rasheed and I’m 32. I think.

My most recent solid memory is rain and then a sharp pain to the back of my neck. The Jordan 13’s on my feet look familiar. They’re my brother’s. I think. But the Rolex is a mystery. I hardly could afford rent in Brooklyn, so certainly the time piece can’t be mines. My shirt collar is ripped and spots of blood have stained the white sleeves. I frantically investigate the small room with my eyes. “Hey ! Can anybody hear me!” My voice box is cracked and I can hardly whisper. In addition, there’s also a sharp stabbing pain on the left side of my face, near my upper cheekbone.

I reach in my pocket and find a cell phone. It’s not mines. I don’t do Androids. Nevertheless, it’s unlocked. So I take a few selfies and study the results. My jaw drops. Well, not actually. Because it can’t. That stabbing pain earlier is a dislocated jaw bone. I then pinch the glass to magnify the pictures to study more. Black and blue bruises, and skin burns, invade my neck and Adam’s apple. My left eye is blackened, while both pupils are bloodshot. My bottom lip is busted and the blood dribbling down my chin is dry rotted like 5 day old icing on a pound cake.

“What the hell is going on?”, I thought.

I drop the phone, stand to my feet, and walk the room. The floor is sticky like spilled cool-aid. I proceed to sweep my hands across the cold and sweaty walls, and search for secret exits, handles, or buttons, or anything not so obvious, but should be. Negative. The room is a dead end. So I punch the walls with incredible force, repeatedly. I fracture two outer knuckles on my right hand and the pain drops me to my knees. I whimper with whatever air was left in my lungs.

After 27 minutes of stillness, the pain from not knowing I’ll escape, swallows whole, the pain of endless broken bones. I cannot die here. I cannot! I grab the phone again rejuvenated. And attempt a call. But the phone signal is obsolete. So next, I decide to skim through the phone’s call history: 32 missed calls—4 of which, are as recent as two hours ago—and all from the same number. But a number I don’t know. And even if I knew it, the phone’s battery is now at 2%, and ready to die. Like me. I walk to the mattress, lower my body slowly, and lay down with my face once more pointed at the light bulb with its frayed electrical line that hangs from the ceiling. I then place the phone over my heart, shut my eyes, and embrace the tears that purifies my sins.

But two minutes later, the phone suddenly chimes. It’s a text. And from the unknown number, who earlier, had called 32 times. After reading the text, I rise to my feet. The message was direct:

“you’re over thinking it. Slow down”.

I try to reply, but the phone dies in my hands and the screen goes black. I smile. Because I now know freedom isn’t far away. I think.

Written By: Steeve Saintvil

Steeve Saintvil 12/22/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/22/24

Life on the Line

In 1994, my brother Ruddy put his life on the line against three teenagers in Warninco Park looking to steal our bikes. He was nine years old. Roselle, New Jersey had a reputation for being rough and the youth made sure to remind you. In those days, the anti-bully movement, was movement of the feet—run fast and hard. But, on that day, only thing getting ready to run was a fade.

While my brother and I were shooting hoops, three teenage boys joined us. But what had appeared as innocent, quickly turned into monkey in the middle, and with our basketball as the prize. After 20 minutes of pleading, and then seeing what was coming next, I turned to my brother and said, “Grab your bike and forget ‘bout the ball. We’re going home”. But doing this was like poking a stick into a hornets nest. The teenagers grew more aggressive, and now our bikes became the prize, instead.

As we pedaled through uneven grass and mulch, they ran after us. We built some distance, but not enough. One of the three grabbed Ruddy’s bicycle frame and lifted the rear wheel off of the ground. My brother was now pedaling mid air. So, I bust a U-turn, slide off my bike, and step to Debo. But only to negotiate. I’m a peace maker. “We don’t want no problems bro. Just wanna go home. That’s it”, I said. Laughter. That’s what they gave me. Just laughter. And returned their focus back to Ruddy.

Suddenly, however, I see my brother eject himself from his bike, squares his feet, curl his fingers, ball both hands, and raise them eye level. He then says, “Knuckle up. You bitch ass nigga”. But, really, it’s not what he says, at all. Just seems fitting to me at this point of the account. And would’ve been dope, though, if he had. Yet, not as dope as total silence. Ruddy was done with talking. My brother instantly realized a new power. The less I speak, the louder I become. And my bullies shrink. It’s exactly what they did.

“Oh, shit. Little man got heart”, said one of the cowards.

At the end, we left in peace and with our bikes. My brother taught me a great lesson that day. That when you put your life on the line, you soon find not many really want the problems that come with it! They just pretend.

Steeve Saintvil 12/20/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/20/24

Don’t Drive High

I saw an interesting billboard yesterday in Arizona. It read, “If you are high, don’t drive”. Now, on the surface that seems like solid advice—driving impaired needs no explanation. Yet, as the billboard entered my review, I then thought, “Wait. Reading impaired is also impossible”. Which then means the billboard only is useful to those who are sober. But then that’s like offering dentures to people with full sets of teeth. The message actually looses its bite.

Moreover, if the warning is to avoid driving altogether, why glue the information 60 feet in the air, along highway such and such, in the middle of the Navajo Dessert, where now, in order to see the Ad, technically requires driving—the very thing the Ad says not to do. I laughed. And then concluded that the billboard was just as impaired as the people it intended to target.

Steeve Saintvil 12/18/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/18/24

THREE HEAVENS

If there’s three heavens, one of those must be for kids, cause ain’t no way I’m spending eternity with mines, on the same floor.

Steeve Saintvil 12/15/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/15/24

TRAFFIC LIGHT

People sometimes leave me hanging.

People sometimes run through me.

People say I slow them down.

But then others say I rush them.

People stare annoyed, waiting until I change.

Yet, to others, I’m oblivious.

That is, until I stop them again.

I’ve saved many, but seen some close calls.

I’ve also had beefs, even took some to court.

To those distant I’m hard to understand.

But to those near I’m clear as day.

I’ve seen many cry alone late at night.

Then hours later laughing during the day.

Others even piss on me, but the rain washes it off.

Push my buttons and I might just react.

But most times I stand still as people walk away.

I’ve realized, through the years, blacking out isn’t so good. So, instead, I’m filled with light 24/7.

Now, to some this describes a traffic light.

But if you look closely it describes my life.

Steeve Saintvil 12/8/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/8/24

INxiety

I find vision interesting. Because it is the window to the soul. What a person can see, matters a lot. To appreciate Mount Everest requires sight. To appreciate LeBron or a child’s painting requires the same. In fact, we value vision so much, that we allow even doctors to laser our eyeballs. Then there’s contact lenses. Just putting them on is interesting. And then there’s eye glasses—a million dollar industry. Lens Crafters, pretty much does what its name says, craft lenses. Simple. And each Saturday people line their doors, and do so, all in the name of VISION! People have a strong desire to see.

But, what happens when vision is lost inwardly? The answer is simple: anxiety. Or, in this case, INxiety. A condition where the spirit cannot properly see—causing life to appear blurry. And sadly, there’s no PPO for spiritual glaucoma. And, to put it into context, spiritual blindness, is just as dangerous, as the DMV granting licenses, to people unable to recite line 7 :

F - E - L - O - P - Z - D

And if the person who can’t read line 7 is a danger to society, what’s the difference then with the person who can’t read inwardly? Reality is, people all around us are constantly ready to crash out. They have a strong desire to see, but yet can’t. However, if they had people able to “craft” spiritual lenses on their behalf, they would enjoy all the colors life provides. After all, the heart is a “deep ocean”, the Proverb says, “but a person with great understanding can pull from it”.

In other words, anxiety is first solved, not by pills, although pills have its place, but instead, by talking with someone in high regard. Typically, such a person, at one time or another, should had been as blind as you! Or else, the talk reduces to the blind leading the blind.

Steeve Saintvil 12/4/24 Steeve Saintvil 12/4/24

Smile Sister

My sister had a chip tooth.

possibly from curse words.

Although it’s fixed now,

still get on people nerves.

A fire cracker, but I still love her though.

Despite burning my face about 30 years ago.

I cried. She hugged me. And so I never told.

The chic hasn’t hugged me since and I’m 43 years old.

Speaking of pain, she also attended Rutgers.

Had a sick mother, not to mention, 2 brothers.

Plus no wings but still graduated with flying colors.

Time passed. Got married. Became pregnant.

Water broke. Old Post Road. Boston Market.

Drove to the hospital. Almost flipped. And then I parked it.

Few hours later birth to a boy and I loved it.

And that’s only a slice of her story. I Left out her career and power lifting after 40.

So at the end God deserves the Glory! Smile my sister because He will never leave you lonely.

Steeve Saintvil 11/29/24 Steeve Saintvil 11/29/24

Apples are for those Below

Got divorced.

Slept on my sister’s couch.

Could’ve called her a bitch. Didn’t.

Held that in my mouth.

Tears when I lost my daughter.

Society thinks men don’t desire to be fathers.

Six figure income dwindled to zero. All of a sudden the marriage has a problem.

But not in the Lexus. You sung so much could’ve dropped an album.

I cooked you eggs, bacon, and grits. The marriage was lit.

Yup I couldn’t catch fashion. Yet today it’s you throwing a fit.

We reap what we sow—three baby daddies. Thought it’d be sweet, until it’s you who caught cavities.

Then my best friend from high school betrayed me. A tragedy.

Left a knife in my back. Now, when I stand up, I’m special, like a Katt Williams comedy.

Supposedly, apple trees, don’t eat apples. They drink water. The apples are for those below—the good friends. Or those who grow colder.

Steeve Saintvil 11/20/24 Steeve Saintvil 11/20/24

Unsubscribe Me

I’ve gotten numerous emails with the option to subscribe or unsubscribe. The infamous “click here, if yes”, button. The method, though, is funny to me. Because in the 1990’s—long before the internet—testosterone charged boys did the same. Whenever they liked a girl, they’d reach for paper and publish perhaps, one of the most unromantic lines in literary history:

“Keisha, would you go with me?”

Nevertheless, those Romeo’s were marketing geniuses. They’d even add intricate graphs to their letters—empty squares revealing the word “yes”, and then, other squares, right beside those, with the letters “N-O”. To those who are Generation Alpha you wouldn’t understand.

Yet, what do squares and subs and liking a girl, say about faith in God? It says everything. If a person doesn’t know their worth, they’ll likely subscribe to anything, and then realize later, that unsubscribing, is damn hard. Furthermore, the words “will you go with me” is interesting in this setting. Because really, will you go, is all that God cares about. But then so does the Devil. Therefore, unsubscribe from the notion that your life is basic. It is far from it. 24/7 there is a war over who gets to you first.

Steeve Saintvil 11/14/24 Steeve Saintvil 11/14/24

Love You to the Moon & Back

The moon is slowly drifting away from Earth at a rate of about 1.5 inches per year. This means by the time I’m 70, that’s 40 inches. Impressive. But what’s more impressive is the guy whose job it is, to fly to the moon with a measuring tape, and the guy whose job it is, to hold it, on the other end, in Houston. But that’s beside the point. The fact is things move apart.

So what does that say about life? It says a lot. For starters, failed relationships are a moon. Somewhere the person looses their gravitational pull by taking another for granted. Now, while 1.5 inches seems harmless, it isn’t. Just picture Earth without a moon. Likewise, picture you without God. Or worse, you without the people he gave. It’s jarring to the eyes. So, here’s what to do, instead. Love intentionally. Embrace those drifting towards you and ignore the ones who aren’t. And you’ll be fine.

Steeve Saintvil 11/13/24 Steeve Saintvil 11/13/24

Deer Lord

Last night I saw no less than three dead deers on highway 80, between Indiana and Iowa. But this is normal in the fall, as deers migrate to avoid snowy weather. Ohio alone has over 500,000 of them. So for truckers driving nights, being alert is paramount. Furthermore, deers have adapted to low-light, which means at night they see much better. That is, until light from a vehicle hits them. The result is blindness. Hence, the old saying, “stuck like a deer in the head lights”. This is when a person is unable to process life because of a shock or fear.

But should this be normal? The answer is no. Unlike deers, we should never adapt to low light. In other words, not knowing who we are in Christ. Yes, life happens. This is true. However, there are particular guarantees in God that reduces, if not eliminates, our initial response to freeze. While our souls might indeed “thirst for the Lord, as the deer thirst for the waters”, according to the Psalms, seems to me, getting to the waters safely is just as important. What worry is to us, are what headlights are to deers.

Steeve Saintvil 11/12/24 Steeve Saintvil 11/12/24

Only Thing Fair in Life is Milk

My favorite brand of milk is Fair Life. The taste is delicious. They have chocolate, strawberry, and protein options. Not to mention, the light blue colored bottles labeled 2% and the red ones labeled “whole”. Which, by the way, I never understood. In “milk math” 2% stands for the TOTAL WEIGHT in fat, but not actually the “amount” of fat the bottle has. In other words, ten pounds of pennies isn’t also ten dollars of income. Nevertheless, the point is, Fair Life is good.

However, can having a fair life extend beyond just milk? It depends. What do people say having a fair life is?Is it a luxury car, yacht, lots of money, good health, many friends, good food, zero taxes, family, short lines at the DMV, no enemies, unlimited sunshine, no Trump in office, or perhaps the opposite? Do you see the point, though?

If having a fair life means intercourse with the things we strongly desire, joy will always be promiscuous. Instead, A fair life is about contentment (and not to be confused with complacent). And then making sure the total weight in you, concerning it, exceeds 2%—going from blue to red, making life “whole”. Yes, I know. Contentment isn’t easy. But who said life was fair?

Steeve Saintvil 11/10/24 Steeve Saintvil 11/10/24

Having Differences

A good friend produces benefits for the person across from them. But when a friendship has a dark cloud, both parties suffer, and instead, the umbrella becomes the prize. This is the heart of every argument. A lesser item deceptively appearing more valuable than the people it divides. I know this too well.

Nevertheless, how do we solve this? I’d say, first, start with yourself. Have I been a good friend. If so, great. Now, flip the coin. Has my friend also been good to me? The point is without value nothing is repairable. The relationship is as good as dead.