I\u2019m waiting for my prescription at the pharmacy, my stomach churning like basil in a blender. I keep an eye on an older man farther down the aisle, rummaging through the antacids. He seems fine. I\u2019m suffocating in here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A lady over by the contraceptive display jabbers away in Arabic. Her hijab is covering what I know must be a head wound. She\u2019s also missing an arm. I do my best to ignore her. The old guy moves on over to the snack aisle, no threat for the time being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hear my name, \u201cRiley Hoffman,\u201d over the store\u2019s PA system. As I approach the prescription counter, I happen upon the lady in the hijab, now accompanied by someone who could be her sister. They\u2019re pointing at me and chattering incessantly. I remind myself to breathe. I feel the perspiration breaking out across my forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just pick up my prescription and slip out the door<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Too late. Artemis is already filling an order behind the counter. His large black frame blocks out the shelves stocked with pharmaceuticals behind him. Artemis finds a way to really ruin my day, almost every day. I see his camouflage combat uniform peeking out from beneath a spotless white lab coat. His fatigues are bloody and in tatters thanks to a detonated IED years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He leans over the counter, sticking his rotting face close to mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot a good look today, is it, buddy?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I leave without picking up the paroxetine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Artemis appears again back at my parents\u2019 house, where I\u2019m safely insulated in my basement bedroom. It\u2019s like he can\u2019t leave me alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI see you\u2019ve booked a little social engagement later this week.\u201d Artemis is stretched out on the wire frame bed, his head staining my pillow with coagulated blood. His boots, biscuit-colored military issue, shed sand on my sheets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I shrug. \u201cMy mother wants me to meet this girl, says I should get out more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He lifts his head and surveys my bedroom. \u201cShe\u2019s got a point. You are getting a little stale down here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A trio of severely injured women shuffle past us, hurling invectives at me in Arabic. One of them holds out the residual stump of her arm for the rest to see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Artemis sits up, his entrails leaking out of his abdomen. \u201cThink of all the fun you\u2019ll miss here. Another night playing Overwatch on your Xbox and jacking off. It\u2019s impressive how you can perform both of those at the same time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Iraqis bump into my dresser and deflect off, heading back the other way across the room. Gabbing away the entire time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Artemis straightens up on his gelatinous legs. He teeters on those unsteady pinions, testing out his equilibrium. \u201cYou\u2019re going through with it, right? You have to be getting close to some sort of federally mandated social expiration date down here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother isn\u2019t forthcoming about my potential \u201cdate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe\u2019s unemployed, just like you. You\u2019ll have a lot to talk about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have a job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPicking up dog poop isn\u2019t a career. Imagine me telling her parents that. I just said that you were in between jobs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Whenever the subject of gainful employment comes up with my father, he just shakes his head and asks me when I\u2019m going to move out. That\u2019s why I usually stay hidden in my bedroom when he arrives home, tucked away in the basement, same as I did as a gangly middle-schooler.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dog-walking has been a good gig for me. I set my own schedule, and I\u2019m out in the open where things aren\u2019t so claustrophobic. The ghosts of the past mostly leave me alone while I\u2019m with the dogs. Not sure why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I have one enormous advantage over my competition from the adjacent communities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Grosse Pointers prefer to do business with their own kind. Especially when it comes to their beloved Tucker or Bailey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My father\u2019s completely silent on our drive over to the Whiskey Six, a quaint sports bar embedded in the retail district of Grosse Pointe. My mother is primping herself in front of the vanity mirror located on the sun visor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTry to be engaging, okay?\u201d she says over her shoulder. \u201cI\u2019d say just be yourself, but we know where that leads to.\u201d I\u2019m riding in the passenger seat in the back, gazing out the window at the storefronts on Kercheval Avenue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The things I do to placate my mother<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Linda Jevnikar\u2019s already there waiting for us at the bar. I know immediately that I\u2019ve been hoodwinked. Sure, she has some interesting assets, a small waist and diaphanous brown eyes. But there\u2019s no getting around the ridiculous bouffant hairdo. If you remember the girls who sang with the rock group the B-52s, it\u2019s that kind of hairstyle. Swooped up into a conical shape on her head. Not to mention her hair color is Easter egg dye orange.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then there\u2019s her laugh. Right off the bat, she giggles at my mother\u2019s compliment on her dress. Except it\u2019s a cackle loud enough to startle the other diners and stop their conversations cold. I recall a witch from a Tales from the Darkside<\/em> episode whose laugh came disturbingly close to Linda\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, Linda and I have talked long enough,\u201d my mother says when our food arrives. \u201cIt\u2019s your turn, Riley.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Except for having ordered fish and chips, tartar sauce on the side, my father still hasn\u2019t said a word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I jam a piece of too-hot pizza into my mouth, burning the inside of my cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay, I\u2019ll start,\u201d Linda says. \u201cYour mother tells me you\u2019re a Marine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I nod and motion that I have food in my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She lets out a rackety cackle. \u201cGo ahead and finish chewing. I was interested in your fatigues.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOur uniform?\u201d I swallow hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I describe our military attire, from top to bottom. Linda smiles approvingly. I add in an anecdote about my bootcamp instructor. The first thing he taught us was how to lace up our boots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat was your typical day like? Did you have a gun? How big?\u201d This question is accompanied with a rip-roaring cackle. I notice the diners at the next table asking their waiter if they can move to a just-vacated table against the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s a mundane explanation. Most of our days were spent cleaning our weapons and preparing for inspections.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The whole terrain was sandy, so you had to try to get every grain out of an object that has endless crevices and compartments. We used baby wipes to remove the built-up carbon from our rifles. Cotton swabs were inserted into those hard-to-reach spaces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo you\u2019re telling me that the U.S. military is the biggest buyer of household cleaning products?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cProbably.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m having a good time, even if I don\u2019t want to admit it to myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother and Linda excuse themselves to the ladies\u2019 room. They chatter at each other as they walk away, gesticulating in a vaguely familiar manner. I look over at my father, who is slowly eating his French fries, bite after methodical bite. No way I\u2019m going to be stuck with him while we wait for the women to return. I get up and make my way to the back of the restaurant and push open the men\u2019s room door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOcupado<\/em>, man. You\u2019re going to have to wait.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n This time, Artemis has thoughtfully rearranged the skin back onto his face. I make a detour around him and head to the urinal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry, dude, but that ugly chick scares me.\u201d He opens his hematic eyes wide in an expression of mock horror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I finish up, flush, and walk to the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHer laugh. Riles, it freaks me out,\u201d he says. \u201cLike someone caterwauling through a blowhorn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I can\u2019t see Artemis\u2019s reflection in the bathroom mirror, only that big shit-faced grin of his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Like an oversized Cheshire cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wash my hands and grab a towel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Doesn\u2019t anyone else in this goddamn restaurant have a pressing need to urinate?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n He cracks open the door and peers out. \u201cThey\u2019re heading back to the table now. She\u2019s a slump-buster, all right. Woof.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I throw the towel in the trash.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe\u2019s gonna change<\/em> you, man. You hear me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He opens the door wide and extends his arms toward the dining room. \u201cGo ahead,\u201d he says. \u201cUnless you\u2019d rather stay in here, where it\u2019s safe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m going back in,\u201d I say to no one in particular. I return to my seat and manage to finish dinner without incident.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019ll admit it was a bit unusual for a Grosse Pointe-bred lad to join the Marines. Every senior in my class was college-bound unless you counted Arnie Glesson, who\u2019d opted for trade school. And me, of course. I had the grades and the ACT score to attend college. That wasn\u2019t the point. I wanted to see<\/em> new things. Experience the world, not matriculate on a college campus where everyone else came from privileged families. My mother suggested I take a gap year, like some of the neighbors\u2019 kids did after college.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSee Europe,\u201d she said, \u201cor perhaps Greece.\u201d I made a mental note that my mother might be geographically challenged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My father just told me to man up and go to college or get a job.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I decided to take that gap year, and an extended one at that, and have Uncle Sam foot the bill. Everyone thought I was nuts to join the Marines. I thought it was bad ass. I didn\u2019t anticipate seeing any hostile combat. Boy, was I wrong on that number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Linda wastes no time in texting me the very next day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n LINDA: I had the most wonderful time.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I ask how she got my number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n LINDA: Your mother, silly. Let\u2019s talk on the phone.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n So we do, for almost two hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWeren\u2019t you excited to be in a different country? A new culture?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMost of it was insanely boring.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019s obsessed with military attire. I wonder if she\u2019s a dog tag chaser. I\u2019ve heard stories of such women but have never encountered one before personally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you wear those yellow-colored combat boots?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat the hell kind of question is that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou know, the suede boots? Very fashionable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We wore tan desert military boots, developed for desert conditions. No steel toe to fry your foot in the oppressive heat, and the eyelets were sealed to keep sand from getting inside. They were issued with a buff-colored instruction tag, informing you to change your socks regularly, dry out the insoles from time to time, and not to polish the boots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI love the color coordination,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Artemis makes a point of standing next to my bed the whole time, pointing at his pilot\u2019s watch and shaking his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTime\u2019s a wastin\u2019, Riles,\u201d he says, tapping on the bezel. \u201cWe\u2019re supposed to be watching The Walking Dead<\/em> reruns right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My treatment requires that I periodically visit my therapist, Dr. Alice Kim. The waiting room she shares with an eye surgeon is not much bigger than my closet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Eight of us are crammed into a room with only six available seats. And it\u2019s warm.<\/em> Like tropical rain forest warm. I can feel the perspiration dripping down through my eyebrows. The canary-colored walls are closing in. My heart\u2019s doing kettlebell swings in my chest. Is my left arm going numb?<\/em> I need to distract myself. I try concentrating on another patient\u2019s eye patch. I figure she can\u2019t stare back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I feel weak, like someone\u2019s sitting on my chest. My breathing\u2019s labored. I\u2019m getting woozy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m going to have a heart attack, right here, in this godforsaken waiting room<\/em>. I practice the breathing exercises Dr. Kim has taught me. Nausea inches its way up my esophagus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Should I call 911?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I opt for stepping out into the hallway. Breathe, I tell myself. In and out. Two women in head coverings are watching me. I feel a little better.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At least the mutilated Iraqis are here<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I realize these are actual living, breathing<\/em> Muslim women, themselves avoiding the stifling waiting room by lingering out in the hallway. No injuries, no head wounds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re alive,\u201d I say without thinking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They avert their eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I reenter the waiting room, still a little queasy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dr. Kim is there, motioning for me to enter her office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReady?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI guess. Can you leave your door open?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s not protocol.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust a crack? Please?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s an appointment of convenience for both of us. The same old questions, the same curt answers. I keep an eye on the door, closed for privacy. Her office is slightly less claustrophobic than the waiting room. If I keep my breathing slow and steady, I can avoid another panic attack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She perks up when I tell her about Linda.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis could be a real breakthrough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fine, I\u2019m happy to talk about Linda. It\u2019s not like I\u2019m going to mention Artemis or the dead Iraqi women, so we might as well talk about something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow does that make you feel? That\u2019s your first date in a very long time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI guess we\u2019re phone dating right now. She calls me almost every day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I leave out some information, like the 1960s hairstyle and her blaring cackle. And her infatuation with all things military.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m avoiding a question I know is coming. And I\u2019ll be forced to lie when she gets around to asking it. The truth is, I\u2019ve stopped taking my meds. If I divulge that little tidbit, my treatment could be cut off. My father will raise Cain and perhaps issue an ultimatum for me to leave the house. My world will come crashing down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019d be easier just to go back on my meds. But I\u2019m not myself on the paroxetine. I feel fatigued and dizzy. I forget about dog-walking appointments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t want to go back on my meds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I depart through the same suffocating waiting room. Artemis is there, sitting in the last available seat. He tilts his head back, aiming a plastic vial at the corner of his putrescent eyelid. He\u2019s stolen someone\u2019s prescription eyedrops again. His chest wound, exposed through a tear in his military uniform, festers with maggots. He stands up to greet me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou could have delved into some more sexual problems,\u201d he says, blinking from the assault of medication in his eyes. \u201cFrankly, I was getting bored sitting out here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Linda wants to know about all of it. Every gory detail of my time in Iraq.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This is unanticipated. My parents have never asked about my military service. Dr. Kim asks, but I refuse to tell her. Even Artemis doesn\u2019t go there, which I find sort of strange.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But Linda presses me for specifics.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I explain that an IED is a simple contraption, a triggering device made of wood and wire usually hidden haphazardly, undetectable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They were common, really. Not a week went by without one going off in our vicinity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was part of the landscape. Just like the mosques and clay brick buildings. One minute everything was quiet, and then, boom! Chaos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShit,\u201d Linda says. \u201cIt didn\u2019t kill anyone you know, did it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n When Artemis bought it, it all happened in slow motion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We were finishing up a reconnaissance mission, inspecting the nooks and crannies of a small village, any place where an insurgent might be hidden. Artemis said he\u2019d had enough, that he was heading back to our vehicle. He took a half step, the kind you take when you want to change direction. That was a half step into oblivion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned my face away from the blast, then looked back after the smoke had cleared; then I had to look away again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next time I saw Artemis was when I returned home to Grosse Pointe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere was no war in Iraq,\u201d I tell Linda. \u201cAt least not technically.\u201d The top brass labeled it a counterinsurgency, and it was our job to contain it. Every Iraqi resident, from the guy across the street watching you to the children playing some version of jacks or marbles in the dirt, was suspect. You couldn\u2019t take your eyes off them for a minute. If you did, you might end up like Artemis, a whole side of your body split wide open, your guts oozing out onto the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you shoot anyone?\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sure we did. We fired indiscriminately first and asked questions later. This resulted in a string of unnecessary Iraqi civilian casualties. Our whole unit was perpetually agitated and on high alert. We were a bunch of pissed-off Marines on the prowl for a scapegoat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid they shoot back?\u201d Linda says. \u201cWere any of your friends hurt?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can\u2019t recall. It\u2019s all a blur now.\u201d Another lie. We say good night to each other and hang up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s funny, I can recall every detail,\u201d Artemis says. He\u2019s playing Grand Theft Auto on my Xbox, running over pedestrians haphazardly in a low-slung sports car. \u201cI remember lying on the ground staring sideways at a pair of boots.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat was the last thing you saw?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah. An ordinary pair of military-issue boots. You know, the ones with the tan laces. There was a dog tag tied under one of the eyelets.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He swerves to avoid running his animated twelve-cylinder coupe into a light pole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was someone trying to provide first aid, I guess,\u201d he says. \u201cI couldn\u2019t tell who it was. The lights went out pretty fast after that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wish to dear God those pair of boots belonged to me. Not a chance, though. I was too busy bending over and puking, trying to forget what I\u2019d just seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Linda texts me a few days later. Do I want to go to a movie? I text back that I\u2019m not comfortable in movie theaters. I expect her to ring me up and continue our nightly engagement, chatting on the phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n LINDA: Fine. I\u2019ll bring over the popcorn.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Turns out Linda isn\u2019t all that interested in popcorn or any of the many streaming options on my TV. She has no qualms about \u201cdoing it\u201d in the basement of my parents\u2019 house. Even with my parents directly above us, watching Cake Boss <\/em>in the living room. She kisses me quickly on the mouth, then tumbles onto my unmade bed. She lets out a snort followed by an ear-piercing cackle. No way my mother didn\u2019t hear that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We\u2019re risking an appearance by the normally bumptious Artemis. I expect to see him standing next to my bed in all his grisly glory, nodding his head in approval. The Iraqis, they can do their own thing, it won\u2019t bother me. But I can\u2019t shake the notion that Artemis is there, somewhere, watching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We take turns, Linda and I, performing a time-honored, choreographed mating dance. I unbutton my shirt; Linda lifts her blouse over her head. Her bra slips off. My Levi\u2019s do the same. Linda\u2019s skirt takes some fiddling, but eventually it\u2019s pooled around her ankles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Problem is, Artemis is lurking in my head. I keep an eye out for him, focusing on the right-side bedpost, where he likes to materialize.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I kneel on the bed, exposed, flaccid, and unable to consummate the act.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t you find me attractive?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A real dilemma. Be honest? A better strategy: lie like a rug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOf course I do. I\u2019m just distracted.\u201d A partial truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGuys don\u2019t get distracted.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She begins to whimper, still sprawled spread-eagle across my bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ve hit a new low, naked in a musty old basement bed with an unemployed guy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have a job. I walk dogs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That just prompts a rash of uncontrolled sobs. She stutters out something, its import obscured by all the bawling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stroke the Creamsicle-colored swirl on top of her head, thinking that might quell her crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She sits up and scans the room for her bra. \u201cI thought you were supposed to be some sort of bad-ass Marine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Linda marches out the front door in a state of half undress, in full view of my parents. Her parting words, mumbled under her breath, are \u201cI don\u2019t deserve this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019s right. She deserves someone who adores her despite the beehive hairdo and wicked cackle of a laugh. She might have to look long and hard for that person, but that\u2019s what she deserves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I descend back down to my dungeon of a bedroom and fire up a video game. Save for the explosions emanating from the television, it\u2019s quiet. No one here but me and my Xbox controller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I expect Artemis to reveal himself, ready to contribute some sort of snarky comment. But he doesn\u2019t, and even the Iraqis don\u2019t make an appearance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m alone for the first time since returning home from Iraq.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m waiting for my prescription at the pharmacy, my stomach churning like basil in a blender. I keep an eye on an older man farther down the aisle, rummaging through the antacids. He seems fine. I\u2019m suffocating in here. A lady over by the contraceptive display jabbers away in Arabic. Her hijab is covering what … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-272","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/272","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=272"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/272\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":273,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/272\/revisions\/273"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=272"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=272"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=272"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Douglas Steward has attended several creative writing workshops, including Gotham Writers Workshop classes. Semi-retired from a career that has included working in the automotive industry, manufacturing technologies, and real estate development, Douglas now devotes his time to writing and taking care of his two collie dogs.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"