It's winter now, the trees are naked, and the cold has hit hard. Today happened to be a particularly dull day, one of those days where lunch, even just a bare salad, was the most interesting part of the entire day. Unfortunately work was approaching quickly, and to add to that I was already mildly stressed over my girlfriend's womanly indecisiveness and subtle bitchiness. Something else you should know is that I am not a cat person, by that I mean I don't really like cats. I don't have a grudge or fear of them, they're just static to me. They live and I live and we live quite disconnected from each other.
I have two cats though, one grey with slight patches of a dark orange and one white with grey and orange patches. Obviously these are of the same litter, or whatever you call cat siblings. Well anyway, the grey cat was inside. We call her Merlot, like the wine. Naming cats is pretty much pointless, kind of like naming a fish, they don't care about the name or even respond to it. I am really not a cat person at all; we just don't mix very well.
I have a girlfriend, as before mentioned. We're not really too emotionally attached either, if we're together it's mostly silent and physically affectionate. Time and kisses basically win my heart no matter who it is. I guess I can fall for anyone I want to. Flexible is the word I would use, maybe even adaptive.
Today, however, I was sitting in my round swivel chair. It sits on the back left corner of the den, or living room, or whatever you call it. I sat in the chair today, beside Merlot, that damn cat actually moved her fat self over to give me some room. I watched the television for a few minutes, glancing over at the fuzz ball beside me. Merlot looked up and made occasional eye contact, then closed her eyes and cat napped.
I feel obliged to pet nearby animals, like they expect such affection or something. So I rubbed his fuzzy head, scratched her neck and stroked her back. Petting is the routine, a cat knows that when someone sits beside them then they're going to get petted. Someone should stop doing that. I'm actually slightly allergic to cats so I didn't pet her very long.
I repeated this series of interval petting for a few sets. When I stopped, Merlot would perk up, look at me and then move closer, licking my hand or at least finding where I placed them. She moved closer, and I would pet her. I am not sure why I continued doing this so long, I could feel mucous clogging my nose.
I rubbed the short furs on her head, stopped. I crossed my legs and tucked my hand between my thighs. It's winter after all and my hands can't stand the cold too long either. Merlot followed my hand and licked at the exposed wrist. I left my hand tucked despite her begging. She proceeded to nuzzle my arm and thigh with the top of her head. I reluctantly petted her head again, scratching her neck and cheeks as well. She closed her eyes and extended her neck so I kept petting. I did this for five minutes or so, moving my hand from one side to the other.
I sneezed and decided it was time to stop. Merlot looked blankly at me, staring straight up to my eyes and then rubbed the top of her head on my arm once again. She stroked my arm with her cheeks, and even climbed into my lap. She licked the side of my hand and moved her cheek to it as well. I looked back down at her, and she looked at me.
It was in this moment that I thought to myself; me and her, we're not so unlike each other, we're actually quite similarly attached.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Gunfire.
Every office is the same, a desk, a window, a comfortable ergonomic chair designed to relive back problems and promote good posture, and usually a slight mess of tax papers, invoices, receipts and various other paperwork. A home office, however, holds more items beyond the depths of accounting and a buy-and-sell lifestyle.
It was mid-summer in North Carolina, I was six, had just started kindergarten at Allen Jay Elementary on the southern side of High Point. Our house was snuggled in the woods, about fifty feet from Triangle Lake Rd and the rusted tin mailbox labeled with our house number chipping off the side. Typical, that's the only word I can use to describe the house, typical white siding, typical black shutters, a typical three-set of stairs leading to the front door, typical screened-in side porch, just typical. The inside dressed with wall-to-wall carpeting, outdated white wallpaper, a black floor television with a seemingly constant hum of 90s sitcoms like Seinfeld or Friends. A normal, mid-nineties, 3 bedroom, one-bath household.
I was an only child, and when my mom was busy cleaning the kitchen or outside enjoying the shade that the oak trees canopy provided, it was just me, young and curious about everything, because at six there's a lot of things you don't know. I would wander about the house like an archaeologist in some ash-covered lost civilization on some strange Mediterranean island just waiting to discover something life-changing, perspective-altering, something powerful.
One weekend day, my mom left, bravely, to the store, I had not woken up yet, so she assumed nothing could go wrong, me asleep, doors locked, Dad at work only seven miles away, everything was secure. The quiet before the storm, not two minutes after she pulled the Ford Bronco out of the gravel driveway, I woke up.
After rubbing the eye gunk off my face and throwing my arms up in a big stretch, I tossed the Sesame Street blanket off and stepped onto the clay colored carpet. I walked out of my door into the quiet house, down the hall, past the office, past the bathroom and into the kitchen. The kitchen and the bathroom were the only places that weren't tucked under the clay carpet. They both had white-square patterned vinyl floors, typical. No one was home but me, that little archaeologist.
Gold, the color of extravagance, success, divinity, also the color of the office doorknob. I held that doorknob in my tiny six year-old hand and debated going in, to me it was like a dark unexplored cave. Traps and tripwires could be beyond the door, the only way to know would be to try and open it and that's what I did. I turned the doorknob. Anxiety turned my stomach. I left the white door cracked open, just enough to peer into, but not quite enough to see into.
I became too afraid and instead skited off down the hallway onto the black leather recliner. I clicked on the television, and it erupted with a bang, so I nervously held the volume button down on the remote control. Now, instead of Seinfeld or Friends, I could glare at Nickelodeon.
The office was the only thing on my mind, not Apocalypse Now on channel 21, not Dirty Harry on channel 24, not military technology on channel 25, the only thing I could focus on was the fact that the office door was slightly open. I had to dig deeper, to go deeper into that dark cave.
Peering through the crack in the door I could see a mighty mess, papers, photographs, and knickknacks strewn about everywhere. So I pushed the door all the way open. No tripwires, no falling boulders, no alarms, nothing, just quiet. A yellow glow of an aged light bulb and the aftermath of an explosion of papers laid stagnant before my eyes. California Grape figurines sprinkled the floor, along with film canisters, photographs of people I mildly recognized, and fake dog poo. The mess wasn't what interested me.
The white desk sat in the corner, staring me down with it's black handles on two drawers, inviting me to look inside. A taut rope seemed to leash me to the desk drawers and pulled me closer. The office had no wallpaper, just white walls with black scuff marks scarred on.
I opened the top drawer, just some folders with more papers organized and labeled with things like “Auto,” and “Health.” So I gently urged the drawer shut, as if it was made of glass and not old composite wood. I wrapped my fingers around the cold, black aluminum handle of the bottom drawer and pulled that one open.
It was power, not in electricity terms or physics terms, but authority and control. Power cold in my hands. A black handle against the steel, laden with inscriptions. Butterflies don't quite compare to the anxiety, I had bald eagles flapping in my stomach, I had pterodactyls smacking their wings against the walls of my stomach; I had found my treasure.
All the toddler years of fumbling around, smacking pots, and unrolling entire rolls of toilet paper was stealing gum compared to this grand larceny. A gold stripe from the grimy yellow light raced it's way from the hammer to the tip of the barrel, and died into the black abyss of the inside of the barrel. No light found its way into that black hole, just dormant black air.
My little heart raced and I could feel my hands get that clammy, hot, pre-sweat stickiness, so I knew that it was time to put the gun back. Like baby Jesus himself, I cradled the gun with both hands flat, careful not to tap the silver half-moon of a trigger. Silently and with more care than a nuclear physicist I laid the gun back into the cradle of a drawer. I wrapped my hands against the black aluminum handle again and gently urged the off-white drawer shut. I stood still a statue in the midst of a nervous sweat, for an eternity of seconds I could only think of the gun, the power, the danger, and the fact that I was all alone.
I backed out of the room, the deep purple Grapes watching my every move. The faces in the photographs, the stabbing blue eyes, watching, stalking me as I backed away. I kept my dark brown eyes on the drawer, thinking that it would open and the gun would fire at any moment. Step after step, over orange and green golf tees, over tiny mountains of colored pencils, red, yellow, blue, all tangled into a rainbow knot.
I kept backing out until I hit the flower-print wallpaper of the hallway, then I ran off again to the television. I could not stray my thoughts from the revolver, I could still feel the cold blue steel in my palms. I figured a nap may help so I tucked myself between the Sesame Street blanket in my bedroom. Not two minutes after I had laid down, my mother came in fresh from the store and worried. The oven could've been on from breakfast earlier, someone could've broken in, or a tree could've fallen on our tucked away house.
She burst into my room, gasping, I could only smile. She smiled back, and a look of relief on her face. “Right where I left you, you're such a good kid” she remarked in a complimenting, soothed voice. The power a child has over their mother is unmatched, as it was at that moment, us smiling at each other, and that's when I realized how strong that power was.
It was mid-summer in North Carolina, I was six, had just started kindergarten at Allen Jay Elementary on the southern side of High Point. Our house was snuggled in the woods, about fifty feet from Triangle Lake Rd and the rusted tin mailbox labeled with our house number chipping off the side. Typical, that's the only word I can use to describe the house, typical white siding, typical black shutters, a typical three-set of stairs leading to the front door, typical screened-in side porch, just typical. The inside dressed with wall-to-wall carpeting, outdated white wallpaper, a black floor television with a seemingly constant hum of 90s sitcoms like Seinfeld or Friends. A normal, mid-nineties, 3 bedroom, one-bath household.
I was an only child, and when my mom was busy cleaning the kitchen or outside enjoying the shade that the oak trees canopy provided, it was just me, young and curious about everything, because at six there's a lot of things you don't know. I would wander about the house like an archaeologist in some ash-covered lost civilization on some strange Mediterranean island just waiting to discover something life-changing, perspective-altering, something powerful.
One weekend day, my mom left, bravely, to the store, I had not woken up yet, so she assumed nothing could go wrong, me asleep, doors locked, Dad at work only seven miles away, everything was secure. The quiet before the storm, not two minutes after she pulled the Ford Bronco out of the gravel driveway, I woke up.
After rubbing the eye gunk off my face and throwing my arms up in a big stretch, I tossed the Sesame Street blanket off and stepped onto the clay colored carpet. I walked out of my door into the quiet house, down the hall, past the office, past the bathroom and into the kitchen. The kitchen and the bathroom were the only places that weren't tucked under the clay carpet. They both had white-square patterned vinyl floors, typical. No one was home but me, that little archaeologist.
Gold, the color of extravagance, success, divinity, also the color of the office doorknob. I held that doorknob in my tiny six year-old hand and debated going in, to me it was like a dark unexplored cave. Traps and tripwires could be beyond the door, the only way to know would be to try and open it and that's what I did. I turned the doorknob. Anxiety turned my stomach. I left the white door cracked open, just enough to peer into, but not quite enough to see into.
I became too afraid and instead skited off down the hallway onto the black leather recliner. I clicked on the television, and it erupted with a bang, so I nervously held the volume button down on the remote control. Now, instead of Seinfeld or Friends, I could glare at Nickelodeon.
The office was the only thing on my mind, not Apocalypse Now on channel 21, not Dirty Harry on channel 24, not military technology on channel 25, the only thing I could focus on was the fact that the office door was slightly open. I had to dig deeper, to go deeper into that dark cave.
Peering through the crack in the door I could see a mighty mess, papers, photographs, and knickknacks strewn about everywhere. So I pushed the door all the way open. No tripwires, no falling boulders, no alarms, nothing, just quiet. A yellow glow of an aged light bulb and the aftermath of an explosion of papers laid stagnant before my eyes. California Grape figurines sprinkled the floor, along with film canisters, photographs of people I mildly recognized, and fake dog poo. The mess wasn't what interested me.
The white desk sat in the corner, staring me down with it's black handles on two drawers, inviting me to look inside. A taut rope seemed to leash me to the desk drawers and pulled me closer. The office had no wallpaper, just white walls with black scuff marks scarred on.
I opened the top drawer, just some folders with more papers organized and labeled with things like “Auto,” and “Health.” So I gently urged the drawer shut, as if it was made of glass and not old composite wood. I wrapped my fingers around the cold, black aluminum handle of the bottom drawer and pulled that one open.
It was power, not in electricity terms or physics terms, but authority and control. Power cold in my hands. A black handle against the steel, laden with inscriptions. Butterflies don't quite compare to the anxiety, I had bald eagles flapping in my stomach, I had pterodactyls smacking their wings against the walls of my stomach; I had found my treasure.
All the toddler years of fumbling around, smacking pots, and unrolling entire rolls of toilet paper was stealing gum compared to this grand larceny. A gold stripe from the grimy yellow light raced it's way from the hammer to the tip of the barrel, and died into the black abyss of the inside of the barrel. No light found its way into that black hole, just dormant black air.
My little heart raced and I could feel my hands get that clammy, hot, pre-sweat stickiness, so I knew that it was time to put the gun back. Like baby Jesus himself, I cradled the gun with both hands flat, careful not to tap the silver half-moon of a trigger. Silently and with more care than a nuclear physicist I laid the gun back into the cradle of a drawer. I wrapped my hands against the black aluminum handle again and gently urged the off-white drawer shut. I stood still a statue in the midst of a nervous sweat, for an eternity of seconds I could only think of the gun, the power, the danger, and the fact that I was all alone.
I backed out of the room, the deep purple Grapes watching my every move. The faces in the photographs, the stabbing blue eyes, watching, stalking me as I backed away. I kept my dark brown eyes on the drawer, thinking that it would open and the gun would fire at any moment. Step after step, over orange and green golf tees, over tiny mountains of colored pencils, red, yellow, blue, all tangled into a rainbow knot.
I kept backing out until I hit the flower-print wallpaper of the hallway, then I ran off again to the television. I could not stray my thoughts from the revolver, I could still feel the cold blue steel in my palms. I figured a nap may help so I tucked myself between the Sesame Street blanket in my bedroom. Not two minutes after I had laid down, my mother came in fresh from the store and worried. The oven could've been on from breakfast earlier, someone could've broken in, or a tree could've fallen on our tucked away house.
She burst into my room, gasping, I could only smile. She smiled back, and a look of relief on her face. “Right where I left you, you're such a good kid” she remarked in a complimenting, soothed voice. The power a child has over their mother is unmatched, as it was at that moment, us smiling at each other, and that's when I realized how strong that power was.
Mothers and Lovers
Know this, this story doesn't end happily. This isn't the typical boy-meets-girl, boy-falls-in-love-with-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-chases-girl, they live happily ever after type of story. This is my birth certificate stapled to my obituary
My mother is what you might call a pack rat, she hordes these random objects to keep her memory sharp. You see, Alzheimer's runs in the family. There's this box, it contains all the documents of my existence. It begins with the birth certificate. Behind that is my immunization records, then later my first coloring, first report card and so on. If I would ever happen to forget a portion of my life, there it'll be, laid out on paper.
Except, there's a good section missing from the pile, this is the time that she tried to forget. The doctor records are missing, the receipt for the hospital is missing and somehow the diagnosis seems to be left out as well. Followed by the letter I wrote home before going to the hospital is my obituary.
I'm not dead yet, but I would sure like to keep them thinking that I am.
Know this, I didn't care for my mother as much as she thought, sometimes I actually wished it was her that was dead.
My diet now consists of 6 servings of Valium, 3 servings of amphetamine, water and a few slices of bread. I weigh about 133lbs, which is small considering that I'm a little over six feet tall.
After my 6th grade report card is the doctor's prescription for Xanax, 100mg.
"Only God knows that." my mom said it like it was the introduction to every sentence. I've recently learned that it was just her cover-up so that I would think she was smart. Really, only everyone but her would know that. Some things are just too hard for a mother to accept.
All A's on the 8th grade report card, then a prescription of Lithium.
Know this, Valerie didn't find me, Cupid didn't hit me with any arrow, nor was it even fucking spring time, we were just communal drug users. There was no emotional attachment involved.
Before I died, I worked at a hotel, as a security guard. You wouldn't believe the shit you see on the cameras. Transgender in 5B, a divorce just down the hall, newlyweds fumbling in 14C, one frisky maid in the janitor's closet. Before the cameras had audio, the job was sort of a bore, when they did get upgraded, I would've worked for free.
When on patrol, I would remove the "Do Not Disturb" signs dangling from the door. It was the best to see the surprised maid walk in around 9am to the sight of her husband and his boyfriend.
Know this, I do not love, I simply utilize others' feeling for my own benefit. I'm selfish, but that's the only way to get ahead.
Behind my high school diploma is my psychiatric recommendation.
My mother now spends her days with dead tears caked on her wrinkled cheeks. She's not really old, it's the guilt that aged her. She blames herself, she should.
Behind my christening photograph is my checkup report, which states that I'm normal.
Sister Nancy would always tell me that all things are possible through God, but today, I'm making my own possibilities. I'm not waiting for God anymore. Now there's someone who should feel guilty, not Sister Nancy, she was just ignorant.
Valerie was a Catholic school girl before she met me. We both had that in common, we thought Catholicism was about as bad as burning in Hell. Hell, that's where I am at now, according to my mother and the findings in my hospital room, there was no chance for me. I was doomed from the womb.
I'm just glad I had a porn buddy to make sure my mom never found out about Indiana Bone and the Temple of Poon . A porn buddy is that friend that knows where your porn stash is so, as in my case, if you die, your parents think you were always the pure angel they raised you to be. That was the least I could do for her at this point, at least I wasn't a heathen and a pervert, just a heathen.
Valerie was my porn buddy, she knew, Room 103, fourth drawer on the bedside table.
By introducing her to first just weed, then pills, I feel like I've corrupted a precious angel. Someone's poor child, raised in the church, now a mild drug dealer and heavy addict.
Know this, it was not my intention to die, I mean, I miss that security guard job.
I got Valerie a job at the hotel because I wanted to spy on the random shit she would do during the course of the night, she slept during the day. She was a bore though, Maria was much more entertaining, and she ran a prostitution ring out of room 6B.
I would probably sleep in my car before I would sleep in a hotel. One gross fact is that hotels do not was the comforter, only the sheets. The male in room 3C plowing his newlywed wife on top of the bed, yes, you're getting the remnants of that. The severely obese woman naked in room 2B, you're laying on her ass. Hotels are so vile.
Just so you know, I'm not crazy, I never was. Just so you know, I'm an amazing liar.
The night of the crash, I had just left Valerie's apartment. We had just gotten into a fight, I was still pretty heated. Her husband was pretty heated. She was the last person to ever see me alive.
Know this, I wasn't in the car upon impact. I wasn't insured. If Anne Rice could fake her death, so could I. Behind my first newspaper column was my first alcohol purchase receipt. Behind my first birthday card was a picture of my first burn. I've been burning myself since I was one, training for Hell.
There's a rumor that Valerie was found murdered near her apartment, her left ring finger chopped off. Her husband was very heated indeed.
My father left my mom when I was only nine. By then I could've used a new box, maybe even a small bookshelf of the memories my mom desired. I feel part to blame for him leaving, he didn't ask for his wife to go crazy, pregnancy just does that to a woman
If Tupac could fake his death then so could I
The fact is that wasn't in the car when it exploded.
The fact is, I didn't expect to be dead. My mother doesn't feel the same way. It was declared that the wreck was my suicide attempt. Turns out, the wreck was what saved me.
Salvation
Rebirth
Every major religion preaches that when you die you live forever.
Sister Nancy used to say that your body was a shell that held your soul.
Religion, for most, is just a way to cope with death.
Know this, I didn't always hate the church, God made me that way.
I don't know what happened to Valerie, only rumors. I've heard tales that just contradict each other. It's near impossible to filter the truth because every bit of every rumor I've heard is contradictory. I know for a fact that her husband is in prison. I have a dealer who saw him there.
Know this, I never took any of the pills that I was instructed to. I sold them all. I'm more or less a squirrel storing for a long winter. Now, the snow is falling.
My mother looks at my kid photographs everyday, except the one taken upon arrival at the hospital.
Know this, Valerie and I were never together, in that emotional sappy way. By the end, I thought she was just a dope fiend.
Sister Nancy used to say that I needed to get saved. I agreed
My mother used to take me to the park, she would make anecdotes of what I would do while I played. I was an only child. I was her one attempt to continue a legacy. But now, I'm just another dead son.
I had heard rumors about my father as well, apparently he became one of those dot commers, invented some search engine website that is worth multi millions, but I'm not sure on that.
Know this, even if my father was a multimillionaire, I still wouldn't want to see him.
Abandonment beget animosity. Animosity beget loathing.
Sister Nancy used to say that abortion was wrong, that killing the innocent was a sin. I think that the death of one while still innocent lets them live that way forever. I say that abortion doesn't seem like such a bad idea. If it was my mother who chose abortion, I think I would've slapped her a good high five. Why would anyone want to bring another person into this world? I wasn't always this cynical, God made me that way.
I know it's cynical, but my mother is just a waste of my time. She's old and very unproductive, worrying about me is just a waste of hers as well. I didn't always dislike her. I think it was her addiction to keeping me a child. Her biggest fear was that I might grow up and leave, well, I'm pretty gone now.
These days, I hide out in a shed far in the woods outside of town. I sneak back into the house every night to make sure my mom isn't dead yet. Not dead like me, but really dead.
If she wasn't so feeble and helpless, maybe then I could sympathize with her, my mother that is. If only she wasn't so old.
Valerie is someone that I don't really care to see ever again. I think she's beautiful and all that shit but really, I don't have a reason to see her again. Though I have the feeling that one day we may cross paths.
Know this, I feel more alive now that I'm dead. I guess life works funny like that.
One day, my mother and I got heated. The situation developed into me throwing a chair and stomping out into the car, this is the last time she'd see me alive.
We argued over everything but at least now she doesn't have to worry about that. Something as simple as microwave dinner instructions could be a full on fist fight with us.
Sister Nancy used to say that a family that prays together stays together. What if we all prayed the family fall apart?
Valerie was an amazing tool for prying apart my family. She gave me excuses in order to stay away from any get together. I had TB for my family reunion, for Christmas, it had developed into lupus. I would just spend my holidays with Valerie instead.
We exchanged Valentine's day cards while I was in quarantine.
We kissed each other on New Year's Day while I was still recovering from my pneumonia.
We made love while my mom blew out her birthday candles.
We got high while they put my grandmother in the ground.
It's just about time for me to head into the house to check on the frail living skeleton.
Sister Nancy would say honor thy mother and father. Well, this was my method.
First I walk around the house, listen for the television, telephone, radio, anything other than her snoring. Next I tap the window to see just how asleep she really is. No response. I creep in through the front door. The lock is broken from me slamming the door shut. I walk to her room. To get to my mother's room, I have to walk through the kitchen and den and then through the hallway. I get past the kitchen without a sound.
The fact is, I actually know where Valerie is. She's about half across the country now, escaping that crazy ex-husband. Technically, he isn't her ex-husband. Apparently, I have to sign divorce papers for us to be split.
I'm not crazy, I promise.
No light in the house is on tonight. Through the dark all that's visible is the cold stunned stare of two eyes. "Can we talk this time?" says a voice, old and stressed with grief.
Know this, mothers and lovers will always stay with you, even when you die.
Early Autumn- Langston Hughes
When Bill was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking, talking together. Then something not very important had come between them, and they didn’t speak. Impulsively, she had married a man she thought she loved. Bill went away, bitter about women.
Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years.
“Bill Walker,” she said.
He stopped. At first he did not recognize her, to him she looked so old.
“Mary! Where did you come from?”
Unconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took it.
“I live in New York now,” she said.
“Oh” — smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
“Always wondered what happened to you, Bill.”
“I’m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.”
“Married yet?”
“Sure. Two kids.”
“Oh,” she said.
A great many people went past them through the park. People they didn’t know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold.
“And your husband?” he asked her.
“We have three children. I work in the bursar’s office at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very . . .” (he wanted to say old) “. . . well,” he said.
She understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, she found herself desperately reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all. Bill was still young.
“We live on Central Park West,” she said. “Come and see us sometime.”
“Sure,” he replied. “You and your husband must have dinner with my family some night. Any night. Lucille and I’d love to have you.”
The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a little sick.
“We’d love it,” she answered.
“You ought to see my kids.” He grinned.
Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in the blue air.
“There’s my bus,” she said.
He held out his hand. “Good-bye.”
“When . . .” she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off. The lights on the avenue blurred, twinkled, blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a word.
Suddenly she shrieked very loudly. “Good-bye!” But the bus door had closed.
The bus started. People came between them outside, people crossing the street, people they didn’t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address — or to ask him for his — or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill too.
Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years.
“Bill Walker,” she said.
He stopped. At first he did not recognize her, to him she looked so old.
“Mary! Where did you come from?”
Unconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took it.
“I live in New York now,” she said.
“Oh” — smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
“Always wondered what happened to you, Bill.”
“I’m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.”
“Married yet?”
“Sure. Two kids.”
“Oh,” she said.
A great many people went past them through the park. People they didn’t know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold.
“And your husband?” he asked her.
“We have three children. I work in the bursar’s office at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very . . .” (he wanted to say old) “. . . well,” he said.
She understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, she found herself desperately reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all. Bill was still young.
“We live on Central Park West,” she said. “Come and see us sometime.”
“Sure,” he replied. “You and your husband must have dinner with my family some night. Any night. Lucille and I’d love to have you.”
The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a little sick.
“We’d love it,” she answered.
“You ought to see my kids.” He grinned.
Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in the blue air.
“There’s my bus,” she said.
He held out his hand. “Good-bye.”
“When . . .” she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off. The lights on the avenue blurred, twinkled, blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a word.
Suddenly she shrieked very loudly. “Good-bye!” But the bus door had closed.
The bus started. People came between them outside, people crossing the street, people they didn’t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address — or to ask him for his — or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill too.
Evangelical.
The blue glow of the television conically lights the otherwise blackened room. The still of body of an old woman sits staring at the television. An evangelical preacher's voice resonates through the room with it's accented "-ah" suffixes on every word.
"And-a, the Lord-a has spoken-a" he says as she listens ever so intently.
Her picture frames fill the end tables. Smiling children with their arm around each other, posed faces tilted at a slight angle. A copy of the Holy Bible rests on her blanketed lap, closed. The cobwebs cast brief shadows on the walls behind her. The preacher continues his sermon. Her eyes focus on the center of the television, on the preacher's headpiece microphone, on the podium he bangs his fist on.
Newspaper clippings litter the floor with headlines of sports achievements, "Star Quaterback Wins Again" one reads.
Her glasses rest at the tip of her nose, like a high school librarian. Her breathing is soft, slow, and sporadic. The wrinkles of her face create the crackled view of what was once a beautiful portrait but time added coats and layers. The lines around her eyes extend in a sunburst pattern to her gray hairline, thick and wiry. Every breath sounds like another struggle, the preacher breathes in deep and exhales loud words in tongue. Her mouth drops open, and her blinking slows. Her spotted hands open the Bible open, she flips through the onion pages, and finds a picture hidden between. In the picture, a young woman kneels between two happy children.
A tear follows the maze of wrinkles down her nose, under her glasses and around her mouth, her lips are cracked at the corners; sore, red and peeling. The preacher plugs a book he wrote, and a 1-800 number appears on the screen. "To send-a donations-a.." he preaches.
A steady flow of tears follow the maze, making a path for the rest, and like ants the follow in line. She takes the picture out of the Bible and closes it. The puts the picture face up on top of the Bible and rests her hand on top of both. Her shaky bony fingers bend over the picture. Her eyes glisten and she closes them, squeezing out a small waterfall. She shivers and pulls the blanket higher on her lap. Her breathing becomes steady, deep, and she dozes off.
A baby boy tosses himself in a crib, rolling over and over all night, crying. A young woman rushes in the room and lifts him, cradling him in her arms, rocking him to sleep. She lays him back down in the crib, under a wall hanging of a cross. The baby boy rolls to his side while hugging the corner of his down blanket.
A young man sits on the side of a white bed, his digital clock say it's 3:31 am, he sits with his head in his hands and hid elbows on his knees. Bent forward he shakes his head. He rubs his face and slings his body back onto the bed.
The old woman shifts her body to rest herself in the corner of her chair. The preacher is still asking for donations, explaining where to send them. She shakes her head side to side.
A woman in a black dress stands alone in a cemetery, pinching the stalk of a rose. An open vault rests before her and even under her veil, she's obviously crying.
A boy sits cross legged on the sidewalk, his magnifying glass aimed perfectly to burn ants, and him eyeing the entire process. One, two, three, ants march; one, two, three ants fry. After a few ants, the boy puts his own finger underneath the glass, creating a bad sunburn almost immediately.
A teenage male slams a door shut, cracking the molding around it. The crack inches it's way upward, like a canyon in the door frame and a woman walks up to it, fingering the crack from top to bottom. She walks away with her head down and her hands pressed together.
The old woman's hands inch closed, picture inside of her palms, bent. She lifts her hands and rips the picture. She drops both halves to the floor. The Bible still rests perfectly centered in her lap, face up, it's gold lettering almost unreadable in the blue light. Her left arm drops, and a ringed hand falls to the side of her chair. Her breathing returns to shallow, sporadic and short breaths.
A boy sits in the bathroom alone, his face wet, pink and puffy.
The woman's right hand rubs the brown leather of the Bible, she rubs her finger over and over on certain spots, paying close attention to the same areas as if she was trying to rub her way through the cover.
The boy in the bathroom reaches for the Bible resting on the tank behind him, he opens it and reads the Ten Commandments. He rests the book between his legs, on his lap and closes his eyes.
The woman wakes up, startled and out of breath. The preacher is prancing around on stage, smacking foreheads and lifting the paralyzed. The grasps the entire Bible with her right hand and throws it at the television screen. The whole room goes black when the screen shatters. The Bible lays open, it's onion pages bent and crinkled. The woman's eyes shut again.
When the sun rises, the woman still rests, in her chair, in the same positon she fell asleep in. The blinds let in bars of light. The floor shimmers with broken glass; the Bible is spotted with crimson red splotches. Her breathing almost nonexistent. Her face calm, relaxed, a drooping spiderweb of wrinkles.
A young man rests in the bathroom, slumped over, his arms at his sides, his head between his knees. The same crimson red splattered over the wall behind him. The old woman's eyes glaze, her hand lazily opens and falls. Her breathing slows to a stop.
"And-a, the Lord-a has spoken-a" he says as she listens ever so intently.
Her picture frames fill the end tables. Smiling children with their arm around each other, posed faces tilted at a slight angle. A copy of the Holy Bible rests on her blanketed lap, closed. The cobwebs cast brief shadows on the walls behind her. The preacher continues his sermon. Her eyes focus on the center of the television, on the preacher's headpiece microphone, on the podium he bangs his fist on.
Newspaper clippings litter the floor with headlines of sports achievements, "Star Quaterback Wins Again" one reads.
Her glasses rest at the tip of her nose, like a high school librarian. Her breathing is soft, slow, and sporadic. The wrinkles of her face create the crackled view of what was once a beautiful portrait but time added coats and layers. The lines around her eyes extend in a sunburst pattern to her gray hairline, thick and wiry. Every breath sounds like another struggle, the preacher breathes in deep and exhales loud words in tongue. Her mouth drops open, and her blinking slows. Her spotted hands open the Bible open, she flips through the onion pages, and finds a picture hidden between. In the picture, a young woman kneels between two happy children.
A tear follows the maze of wrinkles down her nose, under her glasses and around her mouth, her lips are cracked at the corners; sore, red and peeling. The preacher plugs a book he wrote, and a 1-800 number appears on the screen. "To send-a donations-a.." he preaches.
A steady flow of tears follow the maze, making a path for the rest, and like ants the follow in line. She takes the picture out of the Bible and closes it. The puts the picture face up on top of the Bible and rests her hand on top of both. Her shaky bony fingers bend over the picture. Her eyes glisten and she closes them, squeezing out a small waterfall. She shivers and pulls the blanket higher on her lap. Her breathing becomes steady, deep, and she dozes off.
A baby boy tosses himself in a crib, rolling over and over all night, crying. A young woman rushes in the room and lifts him, cradling him in her arms, rocking him to sleep. She lays him back down in the crib, under a wall hanging of a cross. The baby boy rolls to his side while hugging the corner of his down blanket.
A young man sits on the side of a white bed, his digital clock say it's 3:31 am, he sits with his head in his hands and hid elbows on his knees. Bent forward he shakes his head. He rubs his face and slings his body back onto the bed.
The old woman shifts her body to rest herself in the corner of her chair. The preacher is still asking for donations, explaining where to send them. She shakes her head side to side.
A woman in a black dress stands alone in a cemetery, pinching the stalk of a rose. An open vault rests before her and even under her veil, she's obviously crying.
A boy sits cross legged on the sidewalk, his magnifying glass aimed perfectly to burn ants, and him eyeing the entire process. One, two, three, ants march; one, two, three ants fry. After a few ants, the boy puts his own finger underneath the glass, creating a bad sunburn almost immediately.
A teenage male slams a door shut, cracking the molding around it. The crack inches it's way upward, like a canyon in the door frame and a woman walks up to it, fingering the crack from top to bottom. She walks away with her head down and her hands pressed together.
The old woman's hands inch closed, picture inside of her palms, bent. She lifts her hands and rips the picture. She drops both halves to the floor. The Bible still rests perfectly centered in her lap, face up, it's gold lettering almost unreadable in the blue light. Her left arm drops, and a ringed hand falls to the side of her chair. Her breathing returns to shallow, sporadic and short breaths.
A boy sits in the bathroom alone, his face wet, pink and puffy.
The woman's right hand rubs the brown leather of the Bible, she rubs her finger over and over on certain spots, paying close attention to the same areas as if she was trying to rub her way through the cover.
The boy in the bathroom reaches for the Bible resting on the tank behind him, he opens it and reads the Ten Commandments. He rests the book between his legs, on his lap and closes his eyes.
The woman wakes up, startled and out of breath. The preacher is prancing around on stage, smacking foreheads and lifting the paralyzed. The grasps the entire Bible with her right hand and throws it at the television screen. The whole room goes black when the screen shatters. The Bible lays open, it's onion pages bent and crinkled. The woman's eyes shut again.
When the sun rises, the woman still rests, in her chair, in the same positon she fell asleep in. The blinds let in bars of light. The floor shimmers with broken glass; the Bible is spotted with crimson red splotches. Her breathing almost nonexistent. Her face calm, relaxed, a drooping spiderweb of wrinkles.
A young man rests in the bathroom, slumped over, his arms at his sides, his head between his knees. The same crimson red splattered over the wall behind him. The old woman's eyes glaze, her hand lazily opens and falls. Her breathing slows to a stop.
Just Smoke.
He slides the door to the porch open, and follows her lead out. The two sit on the brick ledge, her tucked away with her back to him, between his legs. He wraps them both in the cranberry velour blanket, carefully covering her exposed toe. She giggles as she lights her cigarette and attempts to blow away from his face.
The smoke rose from her lit cigarette, dancing eloquently like a ballerina into the cold Carolina night sky. The grayed ballerina pirouetting upwards, and vanishes, as smoke does. The two sit, anonymously silhouetted by the street lights, and nuzzled like two puzzle pieces. She takes another hit from her cigarette and sighs. The smoke finds it's way to his nose quickly and warms him.
"I don't even know what to do right now," she states.
"What do you mean?" he says.
"About moving, I don't know, I think I'm going to take about 6 months off of school to really establish residency and maybe get a job or something there first."
"Eh, I understand that, makes sense," he shrugs.
"I don't know, it's just scary, Boulder is so far from here."
"Well," he sighs, "don't move."
"I have to, I've already told my cousin that I would and I want to, it's just difficult." she responds.
He shakes as a cold breeze grazes his exposed feet, lowers his chin over her shoulder and into the blanket. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath, he lifts his head and continues silently watching the swaying leaves and parked cars. He tucks his arms over her knees and slightly squeezes.
"This is just hard," she says as she blows out another breath of smoke.
He lets out another packed sigh instead of everything he's thinking.
"Well, just enjoy it here while you can" he whispers into her ear on accident; she twitches her head away.
Blinds crack open from facing windows, watching each slight movement of the silhouette. She tosses her cigarette and it lands with a splash of orange ashes. The smell of smoke dissipates.
"I really need to go get some coffee so that I can finish this paper," she says.
"Awh, no you don't, just sit here a bit longer" he asks.
"I can't, I really need to go get some coffee," she informs as he softly kisses her cheek. She extends her legs and stands up and he follows her back through the sliding door. She walks briskly out of sight and into her room but quickly returns with a hooded sweatshirt on.
"Okay, I guess I'll see you tomorrow maybe" she says with furrowed brows.
"Hm, I guess," he repeats disappointedly.
She opens her arms and gives him a tight hug, he leans on the back of the couch and closes his eyes. He can smell the smoke attatched to both of their clothes. They ease back and then kiss slightly. He leans in again and again they kiss. His hands wander to the back of her head; hers rest on his shoulders. The kiss ends and he looks into her captivatingly blue eyes. He changes focus and lets his eyes wander away. She lets go of him and he follows her out.
"You going to leave the lights on?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'll just be gone for a little bit" she replies and closes the door behind them.
He walks out to her car with her and again she opens her arms and they hug tightly. His arms lay on her shoulders, and hers rest across his hips and cross at his lower back.
"I think we should spend more time together" he admits with visible breath gray and foggy.
"If I can find some time then we will, it's just hard" she answers.
He kisses her lips.
"See, that makes this hard" she says, "I'm moving across the country."
He looks away again, "I know," he says, "I just don't want to regret any time not spent with you."
They kiss again and hold. He raises his hands to her cheeks and holds her face in them.
"Okay, I really need to go get coffee" she interrupts.
"Okay," his breath still obvious.
She slides into her leather seats, hunts for keys then puts them in the ignition.
"So, just call me or something later okay?" she says.
"Okay, I will"
"Alright," she says as they kiss again.
"Coffee" she exclamates invisibly.
"Coffee" he smiles as he shuts her door.
He lowers his head grinning as he walks to his car, bare arms folded against the wind. He gets to his car and looks at the vacant spot where hers left. The smell of smoke tickles his nose and as soon as it comes, it vanishes.
The smoke rose from her lit cigarette, dancing eloquently like a ballerina into the cold Carolina night sky. The grayed ballerina pirouetting upwards, and vanishes, as smoke does. The two sit, anonymously silhouetted by the street lights, and nuzzled like two puzzle pieces. She takes another hit from her cigarette and sighs. The smoke finds it's way to his nose quickly and warms him.
"I don't even know what to do right now," she states.
"What do you mean?" he says.
"About moving, I don't know, I think I'm going to take about 6 months off of school to really establish residency and maybe get a job or something there first."
"Eh, I understand that, makes sense," he shrugs.
"I don't know, it's just scary, Boulder is so far from here."
"Well," he sighs, "don't move."
"I have to, I've already told my cousin that I would and I want to, it's just difficult." she responds.
He shakes as a cold breeze grazes his exposed feet, lowers his chin over her shoulder and into the blanket. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath, he lifts his head and continues silently watching the swaying leaves and parked cars. He tucks his arms over her knees and slightly squeezes.
"This is just hard," she says as she blows out another breath of smoke.
He lets out another packed sigh instead of everything he's thinking.
"Well, just enjoy it here while you can" he whispers into her ear on accident; she twitches her head away.
Blinds crack open from facing windows, watching each slight movement of the silhouette. She tosses her cigarette and it lands with a splash of orange ashes. The smell of smoke dissipates.
"I really need to go get some coffee so that I can finish this paper," she says.
"Awh, no you don't, just sit here a bit longer" he asks.
"I can't, I really need to go get some coffee," she informs as he softly kisses her cheek. She extends her legs and stands up and he follows her back through the sliding door. She walks briskly out of sight and into her room but quickly returns with a hooded sweatshirt on.
"Okay, I guess I'll see you tomorrow maybe" she says with furrowed brows.
"Hm, I guess," he repeats disappointedly.
She opens her arms and gives him a tight hug, he leans on the back of the couch and closes his eyes. He can smell the smoke attatched to both of their clothes. They ease back and then kiss slightly. He leans in again and again they kiss. His hands wander to the back of her head; hers rest on his shoulders. The kiss ends and he looks into her captivatingly blue eyes. He changes focus and lets his eyes wander away. She lets go of him and he follows her out.
"You going to leave the lights on?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'll just be gone for a little bit" she replies and closes the door behind them.
He walks out to her car with her and again she opens her arms and they hug tightly. His arms lay on her shoulders, and hers rest across his hips and cross at his lower back.
"I think we should spend more time together" he admits with visible breath gray and foggy.
"If I can find some time then we will, it's just hard" she answers.
He kisses her lips.
"See, that makes this hard" she says, "I'm moving across the country."
He looks away again, "I know," he says, "I just don't want to regret any time not spent with you."
They kiss again and hold. He raises his hands to her cheeks and holds her face in them.
"Okay, I really need to go get coffee" she interrupts.
"Okay," his breath still obvious.
She slides into her leather seats, hunts for keys then puts them in the ignition.
"So, just call me or something later okay?" she says.
"Okay, I will"
"Alright," she says as they kiss again.
"Coffee" she exclamates invisibly.
"Coffee" he smiles as he shuts her door.
He lowers his head grinning as he walks to his car, bare arms folded against the wind. He gets to his car and looks at the vacant spot where hers left. The smell of smoke tickles his nose and as soon as it comes, it vanishes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)