6.18.2011
Mousse Trail
Twelve consecutive days of carpentry can wear on a man, but Dave's been making up for lost time lately. This balmy June Saturday is a much needed reprieve from the morning's rat race and eight-plus hours of ten-penny nails. It's odd how the sounds of hammers and chop saws have blurred the edges of his hearing. Years on the jobsite have taught him to tune out background noise, for better and for worse. Sometimes this adaptation is useful on the home front like when Linda's on a tear in the next room, though it can also be limiting. Today it's the latter. The birds in the yard are unreasonably happy considering the weather, but Dave doesn't notice at first; nor does he let the overcast skies or mild temperature discourage him from opening the freezer for some ice cream. Linda's already two hours late in returning from her cousin's baby shower, but she'll be home soon. Home and fed and ready. The plaid print of Dave's boxers reflects in the chrome handle on the refrigerator as he stands mostly naked in this kitchen that's been half-his for four years, the longest place he's lived since high school. Dave misses high school, more so when he thinks about it. He misses a lot of things, though he'd only admit to a fraction of them. The logo on the lid of the ice cream promises familiar comfort, but the flavor is a new one that the two of them tried last week. It was a stressful selection at the gas station since he'd been trusted with the critical task of choosing the variety. A full three minutes went into the decision. Both he and Linda take their snack foods seriously. He didn't want to disappoint. When he tried making small talk with the clerk about his decadent woes it fell upon deaf, inbred ears. The woman stared blankly above rabbit teeth in silent prayer for No More Like This Guy until the end of her shift. Dave liked the ice cream that night, as did Linda despite its containing multiple forms of chocolate, and he likes it even more today as he stands in burly bewilderment. In a lazy effort to avoid dirtying a spoon he opts to scoop it from the carton with his left index finger. One bite, two bites, three and then four. The cream becomes sweeter as time drips onward. The birds in the maples come into aural focus. The moment is savored as much as the paycheck he received yesterday. If it was any more zen he'd be floating. Four bites turns to eight, turns to twelve, and he stops himself. The pint's quite lighter, he knows that she'll notice. If there's one thing that Linda's good at it's watching the stats, especially when they're decreasing. For a woman with four siblings she's not so good at sharing. Dave always laughs at the irony in that, though there's not a brother or sister of his own in sight with which to share the humor. In sight, he reminds himself somberly. But what is perception if not relative Truth? Dave pictures the cross-bar of the capital T in that last word dropping down to a humble lower-case position. He's learned a lot about that overrated factor, one of them being the misconception that it will set you free. Linda's delayed discovery of the missing ice cream is a prime example of his new stance on the matter. His pointer finger's cold and numb from being used as a utensil in the frozen debauchery. Dave sucks it clean after returning the carton to its shelter of ice and walks upstairs to his bedroom. Maybe Linda will come home soon and they'll do something that'll require him to put on pants. Maybe she'll strip down and they'll take a pleasantly unnecessary afternoon nap. Either one is an inspiring prospect that makes him miss her more, like the dull ache in his jaw when the ice cream took its toll upon his teeth. Sunday is Father's Day, he remembers. He'll have some phone calls to make. With the equivalent of a mental groan he climbs back into bed and waits; for what, as is often the case with a tired carpenter, he's not sure.
5.28.2011
The Current Sea
Andrew Jackson dictates more of your life than your mother ever did and your lover ever will. Money makes the world go 'round, especially when it's in the form of that common denomination spat by ATMs every second of every day. Inflation's hit our pockets hard, but you can still tell a lot with a twenty dollar bill when it comes to judging character. You used to be able to do a lot with character, too.
There've been times when the green got the best of me, or someone else got the jump with the help of some cash. When I was in the fourth grade a mysterious tissue was sitting on the floor near my desk for an entire day. No one stopped to pick it up and throw it in the trash can a mere five feet away. Just before the afternoon announcements came over the PA system, my teacher-- a barrel-chested black man who cared more than he should have, walked over and picked up the crumpled tissue. "No one bothered all day long," he said disappointedly as he glanced at me quickly and lifted it from floor, revealing what was taped to the bottom: a crisp twenty-spot. We all learned something that day, or at least the more precocious of us did. The bus ride home was spent pondering what we could've done with such an unheard of sum of money. Twenty bucks could buy a lot of candy in 1994.
Then there's the aggravation tax trade-off. How many times have you loaned someone a small amount of money and actually been repaid without asking? Sometimes, as Sonny points out in "A Bronx Tale", lending a pest twenty dollars is the best way to get rid of them. They'll never bother you again with that debt hanging in the air. It's a cheap investment for a simpler life. It's one less headache to rattle your day. It's one less day in God's barrel of laughs. The punchline's in the pudding.
The theory spreads and mutates from the social scene to the construction site. There's the story of the foreman who asks his apprentice if he lost twenty dollars on the job. He holds it up and rubs the folded bill against itself, a visual aid to further the illusion and sweeten the bait. This money, of course, came from the foreman's wallet and is merely a test of the young man's character. If he says Yes he'll get his check in the afternoon and be asked not to return. If he says No he can continue to get coffee for the men every morning and continue his rite of passage. This hasn't happened yet, but it will in a few years. Revenge for that fourth grade mishap, perhaps.
Guilt, or fear of it, can drive a man just as easily. I had a friend who got a call about money that had gone missing in his driveway one night. He brought out his flashlight and combed the whole yard, but nothing turned up with the effort. It frustrated him so much that his friend had lost his money that he was prepared to lie and say he found it. Dipping into the liquor store fund didn't seem to be so bad in comparison to the alternative. No one likes to be a suspect. No one likes to lose that trust. The phone call came later that the money was found in a pocket or under a car seat. It was there all along, the seventh president of the United States grinning and hiding in darkness, not far from the skeletons dangling from cobwebbed hangers.
And what of your shadows? What's worth the money? You'd pay arms and legs to send them away. Twenty bucks is a drop in the bucket. Twenty years as a flash in the pan. Twenty rounds left in the banana clip, and the zombies are still coming.
There've been times when the green got the best of me, or someone else got the jump with the help of some cash. When I was in the fourth grade a mysterious tissue was sitting on the floor near my desk for an entire day. No one stopped to pick it up and throw it in the trash can a mere five feet away. Just before the afternoon announcements came over the PA system, my teacher-- a barrel-chested black man who cared more than he should have, walked over and picked up the crumpled tissue. "No one bothered all day long," he said disappointedly as he glanced at me quickly and lifted it from floor, revealing what was taped to the bottom: a crisp twenty-spot. We all learned something that day, or at least the more precocious of us did. The bus ride home was spent pondering what we could've done with such an unheard of sum of money. Twenty bucks could buy a lot of candy in 1994.
Then there's the aggravation tax trade-off. How many times have you loaned someone a small amount of money and actually been repaid without asking? Sometimes, as Sonny points out in "A Bronx Tale", lending a pest twenty dollars is the best way to get rid of them. They'll never bother you again with that debt hanging in the air. It's a cheap investment for a simpler life. It's one less headache to rattle your day. It's one less day in God's barrel of laughs. The punchline's in the pudding.
The theory spreads and mutates from the social scene to the construction site. There's the story of the foreman who asks his apprentice if he lost twenty dollars on the job. He holds it up and rubs the folded bill against itself, a visual aid to further the illusion and sweeten the bait. This money, of course, came from the foreman's wallet and is merely a test of the young man's character. If he says Yes he'll get his check in the afternoon and be asked not to return. If he says No he can continue to get coffee for the men every morning and continue his rite of passage. This hasn't happened yet, but it will in a few years. Revenge for that fourth grade mishap, perhaps.
Guilt, or fear of it, can drive a man just as easily. I had a friend who got a call about money that had gone missing in his driveway one night. He brought out his flashlight and combed the whole yard, but nothing turned up with the effort. It frustrated him so much that his friend had lost his money that he was prepared to lie and say he found it. Dipping into the liquor store fund didn't seem to be so bad in comparison to the alternative. No one likes to be a suspect. No one likes to lose that trust. The phone call came later that the money was found in a pocket or under a car seat. It was there all along, the seventh president of the United States grinning and hiding in darkness, not far from the skeletons dangling from cobwebbed hangers.
And what of your shadows? What's worth the money? You'd pay arms and legs to send them away. Twenty bucks is a drop in the bucket. Twenty years as a flash in the pan. Twenty rounds left in the banana clip, and the zombies are still coming.
5.19.2011
Fear the Rapture, fear the Reaper, fear your Local Congressman.
What makes the month of May
worse in terms of vermin
is that they're not the moths of March
or April's spiders, the heralds of Spring
being washed down the drain
during afternoon showers;
they're six-legged titans
capable of carrying
one hundred-times their weight
and working together
far better than most.
It's hard to watch as the suds lather
less impressively than the ads claim
'cause they always almost make it, they nearly
fight the tide effectively, but eventually
like lesser men, succumb to the holes
in the chrome-plated drain cover.
Somewhere in the septic
or leeching out to fields
is a half-inch reminder
of what we're all to do:
March to the beat towards what's wrong to eat
as Cortez burned his boats after landing.
worse in terms of vermin
is that they're not the moths of March
or April's spiders, the heralds of Spring
being washed down the drain
during afternoon showers;
they're six-legged titans
capable of carrying
one hundred-times their weight
and working together
far better than most.
It's hard to watch as the suds lather
less impressively than the ads claim
'cause they always almost make it, they nearly
fight the tide effectively, but eventually
like lesser men, succumb to the holes
in the chrome-plated drain cover.
Somewhere in the septic
or leeching out to fields
is a half-inch reminder
of what we're all to do:
March to the beat towards what's wrong to eat
as Cortez burned his boats after landing.
5.10.2011
Selling Tickets to the Abortion
A study aired on the boob-tube news revealed that co-ed military training facilities have been facing new problems brought on by the latest wave of the post-millenium cultural/sexual revolution. There's a fire in the barracks in the bases of the nation. Recruits of all branches are routinely asked to strip and checked for fresh tattoos and piercings acquired on weekend leave in the one-horse towns where they're stationed. Female personnel are impregnated and sent home after nights of drunken fraternizing miles away from anyone who cares, thus wasting tax dollars spent in their training. Marines spread STDs like it's nobody's business; as far as they're concerned it's not. (Maybe that's why they're such a notoriously hot-blooded bunch.) Orgies are not uncommon in the on-base saunas, lesbian activity runs rampant in the gang shower rooms, and the rumors we've heard about lonely men being "ship gay" are true. Many female privates defend theirs by wearing cheap engagement rings on their fingers. It seems a fake rock is sometimes enough to deter the Southern gentlemen, at least when it comes to sober sexual advances. A coward, you see, is someone who's given the chance to do the right thing, but doesn't. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and herpes is forever.
A later segment-- nay, a snippet before commercial break-- stated that scientists have discovered that smelling a woman's tears automatically softens a man's erection due to the chemical make-up of sorrow. We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll bide our time gracefully until the cows find out that home is regretfully nowhere. Bad advice, if sincere, is still worth two in the bush: a loafer, a hypocrite, a closet sucker for the home team.
A later segment-- nay, a snippet before commercial break-- stated that scientists have discovered that smelling a woman's tears automatically softens a man's erection due to the chemical make-up of sorrow. We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll bide our time gracefully until the cows find out that home is regretfully nowhere. Bad advice, if sincere, is still worth two in the bush: a loafer, a hypocrite, a closet sucker for the home team.
5.06.2011
Prone to Lung Infections
My father didn't teach me much
except for what's a shame.
He thumped his thick Good Book enough
that Christ forgot His name.
The old man didn't have such skills
that anyone would want.
Forgot to sow the ground he tilled
and aimed but never shot.
I asked him once of politics
the difference in the men.
He said "Well, son, conservatives
and liberals both pretend
to know what's best to save a guy
who's drowning ten feet out.
The liberals throw such extra line
since that's what they're about.
Conservatives, those frugal men
throw five and tell the chap
to swim and take the rope in hand
and learn to close the gap."
I shook my head, a bit confused
while dad unfurled his rope.
Alas, it was too short to use
for drowning men or hope.
except for what's a shame.
He thumped his thick Good Book enough
that Christ forgot His name.
The old man didn't have such skills
that anyone would want.
Forgot to sow the ground he tilled
and aimed but never shot.
I asked him once of politics
the difference in the men.
He said "Well, son, conservatives
and liberals both pretend
to know what's best to save a guy
who's drowning ten feet out.
The liberals throw such extra line
since that's what they're about.
Conservatives, those frugal men
throw five and tell the chap
to swim and take the rope in hand
and learn to close the gap."
I shook my head, a bit confused
while dad unfurled his rope.
Alas, it was too short to use
for drowning men or hope.
5.05.2011
Shotgun Correspondence
Sent: Tuesday, May 03, 2011 1:53 PM
To: Emedia Rifleman
Subject: Better Editing?
As an NRA member, attentive reader, and firearms enthusiast I was rather insulted by this month's issue of American Rifleman. The age-old "ads on the same page as positive, 'unbiased' reviews" routine (i.e., Rhino write-up on page 88) is to be expected in any gun magazine, but I feel we've had the wool pulled over our eyes a bit too blatantly in another example. How can the trusted editors at your publication call the Remington Versa Max "Shotgun of the Year" in the 2011 Golden Bullseye Awards article when on page 94 of the same issue there is a factory recall on the very same shotgun which states the possibility of property damage, personal injury, or death? Those conflicting messages imply one or both of two things about your staff: they're ignorant, or think their readers are. This type of behavior isn't just misleading-- it's irresponsible. Please consider yourselves caught, and hopefully not just by one avid reader.
Regretfully yours,
Mike Vahsen
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mr. Vahsen,
Thanks for your note. The voting for the Golden Bullseye award occurred before the recall came out.
We seriously considered rescinding the award, but chose to go forward after long discussions between our staff and Remington.
Essentially, early in production, first several hundred guns, there was a burr on the cartridge carrier that could cause the carrier to hang up on the receiver's interior, thus retarding the forward movement of the bolt. If this occurred, the hammer had already been freed and could travel forward and "follow" the bolt after its movement had been slowed. Our samples did not exhibit this issue.
Essentially, the gun would not fire, then the weight of the bolt would overcome the friction of the burr on the receiver's interior, and then it would fire--not an ideal situation, obviously.
Remington implemented a production fix as soon as it was known and got almost all of the VersaMax guns back before those with this condition entered commerce.
But they didn't get them all, thus the recall. Comparatively, Remington is not a huge advertiser with Rifleman, nor would we play monetary games with NRA member safety.
We judged the problem to be one that was easily corrected and that Remington got out ahead of the issue quickly enough not to merit revocation of the award.
Sincerely,
Mark Keefe
American Rifleman
To: Emedia Rifleman
Subject: Better Editing?
As an NRA member, attentive reader, and firearms enthusiast I was rather insulted by this month's issue of American Rifleman. The age-old "ads on the same page as positive, 'unbiased' reviews" routine (i.e., Rhino write-up on page 88) is to be expected in any gun magazine, but I feel we've had the wool pulled over our eyes a bit too blatantly in another example. How can the trusted editors at your publication call the Remington Versa Max "Shotgun of the Year" in the 2011 Golden Bullseye Awards article when on page 94 of the same issue there is a factory recall on the very same shotgun which states the possibility of property damage, personal injury, or death? Those conflicting messages imply one or both of two things about your staff: they're ignorant, or think their readers are. This type of behavior isn't just misleading-- it's irresponsible. Please consider yourselves caught, and hopefully not just by one avid reader.
Regretfully yours,
Mike Vahsen
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mr. Vahsen,
Thanks for your note. The voting for the Golden Bullseye award occurred before the recall came out.
We seriously considered rescinding the award, but chose to go forward after long discussions between our staff and Remington.
Essentially, early in production, first several hundred guns, there was a burr on the cartridge carrier that could cause the carrier to hang up on the receiver's interior, thus retarding the forward movement of the bolt. If this occurred, the hammer had already been freed and could travel forward and "follow" the bolt after its movement had been slowed. Our samples did not exhibit this issue.
Essentially, the gun would not fire, then the weight of the bolt would overcome the friction of the burr on the receiver's interior, and then it would fire--not an ideal situation, obviously.
Remington implemented a production fix as soon as it was known and got almost all of the VersaMax guns back before those with this condition entered commerce.
But they didn't get them all, thus the recall. Comparatively, Remington is not a huge advertiser with Rifleman, nor would we play monetary games with NRA member safety.
We judged the problem to be one that was easily corrected and that Remington got out ahead of the issue quickly enough not to merit revocation of the award.
Sincerely,
Mark Keefe
American Rifleman
5.04.2011
Catsitting and Caste Systems
It seemed a shame to wake him
but still I stroked his back
curled into himself
at the foot of my sour bed.
A brief, diminishing glide
of the right paw
was all that it inspired
while the rain continued downward
soaking grass in need of cutting.
His black-and-yellow eyes
barely opened as I lifted
his limp body, more fur than flesh
to the head of my bed
nearer to the pillow
on which I'd soon be drooling
in a midday dreamless nap
that the dreary day demanded.
As I positioned him under the top sheet
his head sticking out
from just behind his pointed ears
he pressed his feline foot against me
in a gentle plead for sleep.
Like a person gesturing, half-awake.
Like a reincarnation of someone long gone.
"Were you a human once, Buddy?" I whisper
towards the clump of domesticated hunter
drifting off beside me in a race to painlessness.
"Raise your right paw if you were," but there's
no motion, and I too follow suit in slumber
the two of us snoring gracefully
like champions of lazy rhythm.
When I wake he's gone, possibly to
the litter box downstairs
or his pink and empty food bowl
or another peaceful perch
unmolested by the likes of Yours Truly--
the only evidence of his presence
a warm spot next to me
on my lonesome mattress.
His undetected exit exudes prowess
unparalleled by any male creature
put on God's green Earth.
I come to the conclusion
that not only was he human once
but must've been a woman.
It's a fitting fate for both of us.
The odds and stakes are noted.
Buddy-Boy, the lover
is paying for her sins.
If it's a sign of what's to come
I can only beg for mercy:
"Please, God. Not a rat-dog.
This bark still has some bite."
but still I stroked his back
curled into himself
at the foot of my sour bed.
A brief, diminishing glide
of the right paw
was all that it inspired
while the rain continued downward
soaking grass in need of cutting.
His black-and-yellow eyes
barely opened as I lifted
his limp body, more fur than flesh
to the head of my bed
nearer to the pillow
on which I'd soon be drooling
in a midday dreamless nap
that the dreary day demanded.
As I positioned him under the top sheet
his head sticking out
from just behind his pointed ears
he pressed his feline foot against me
in a gentle plead for sleep.
Like a person gesturing, half-awake.
Like a reincarnation of someone long gone.
"Were you a human once, Buddy?" I whisper
towards the clump of domesticated hunter
drifting off beside me in a race to painlessness.
"Raise your right paw if you were," but there's
no motion, and I too follow suit in slumber
the two of us snoring gracefully
like champions of lazy rhythm.
When I wake he's gone, possibly to
the litter box downstairs
or his pink and empty food bowl
or another peaceful perch
unmolested by the likes of Yours Truly--
the only evidence of his presence
a warm spot next to me
on my lonesome mattress.
His undetected exit exudes prowess
unparalleled by any male creature
put on God's green Earth.
I come to the conclusion
that not only was he human once
but must've been a woman.
It's a fitting fate for both of us.
The odds and stakes are noted.
Buddy-Boy, the lover
is paying for her sins.
If it's a sign of what's to come
I can only beg for mercy:
"Please, God. Not a rat-dog.
This bark still has some bite."
4.25.2011
Memento mori, Canis familiaris: A Scene at Three Corners.
The springtime grass is slowly greening as two female twenty-somethings stand in their mismatched scrubs; one in teal pants and a floral top, the other in a violent mish-mash of polka dots and pink. Flower Girl is smoking a cigarette and keeping dirty-blonde hair out of her eyes with the help of a glorified rubber band. Dottie's reading a dime novel through thick-rimmed glasses worthy of a nerd-rock superstar. Neither of them speak or look at one another, though there are only fifteen feet between them in the field behind the brick animal hospital where they've chosen to set their stage. Their left hands both hold leashes, one more element that binds the two unlikely co-conspirators. It's a snapshot worth a fortune to the right man.
A dog at the end of each leather strap paces until it tugs, then turns around and does the same in the opposite direction. These pets are clearly as medicated as their over-anxious owners sitting in the waiting room or on a beach in Bermuda. One of them wears a twitching beard, a terrier of some sort that'd almost look dignified if not for its nervous condition. The other's an unidentifiable mutt, the kind that'd loyally walk the kids to school if the parents didn't drive them to the bus stop every morning instead. Neither canine appears willing to squat and see to the duty that requires the hiring and bi-weekly payment of the two aloof girls too ashamed to lock eyes. We all die wasting time, and vice versa.
Uncaring, the reluctant employees remain relatively still, silently reveling in the fact that they're paid by the hour, not by the turd. Flowergirl-turned-perpetual-bridesmaid-who's-never-going-to-throw-the-backwards-bouquet-if-she-keeps-it-up-like-this takes a deep drag on her extra long menthol, an ex-boyfriend in the back of her brain working his way down into her lungs. The Bookworm tries to turn the page, one-handed, and drops her distraction of choice to the super-fertilized lawn, innocently oblivious to the fact that she's becoming quasi-fiction in the process.
(Billy's "Merely Players" speech comes to mind. That poor Danish prince was doomed from the start. Other than the crazy woman who does the world a favor by ridding it of her shadow it's the only thing in the script that's half-believable; even that's redundant to anyone who's faired enough flawed friendships and been blinded by the sun more than would like to be admitted for the sake of being the fool. Yorick, you ain't missing much.)
The light turns green, the observing deity pivots His right foot from the brake to the rubbed-raw accelerator while wanting the Smoking Girl's number and the Reader's hand in marriage, and the intersection of the creatures' Venn diagram is made clear: All three are waiting for shit to happen; all five feel trapped by present circumstances.
There. I'm finished. What have you done to realize your dream today?
A dog at the end of each leather strap paces until it tugs, then turns around and does the same in the opposite direction. These pets are clearly as medicated as their over-anxious owners sitting in the waiting room or on a beach in Bermuda. One of them wears a twitching beard, a terrier of some sort that'd almost look dignified if not for its nervous condition. The other's an unidentifiable mutt, the kind that'd loyally walk the kids to school if the parents didn't drive them to the bus stop every morning instead. Neither canine appears willing to squat and see to the duty that requires the hiring and bi-weekly payment of the two aloof girls too ashamed to lock eyes. We all die wasting time, and vice versa.
Uncaring, the reluctant employees remain relatively still, silently reveling in the fact that they're paid by the hour, not by the turd. Flowergirl-turned-perpetual-bridesmaid-who's-never-going-to-throw-the-backwards-bouquet-if-she-keeps-it-up-like-this takes a deep drag on her extra long menthol, an ex-boyfriend in the back of her brain working his way down into her lungs. The Bookworm tries to turn the page, one-handed, and drops her distraction of choice to the super-fertilized lawn, innocently oblivious to the fact that she's becoming quasi-fiction in the process.
(Billy's "Merely Players" speech comes to mind. That poor Danish prince was doomed from the start. Other than the crazy woman who does the world a favor by ridding it of her shadow it's the only thing in the script that's half-believable; even that's redundant to anyone who's faired enough flawed friendships and been blinded by the sun more than would like to be admitted for the sake of being the fool. Yorick, you ain't missing much.)
The light turns green, the observing deity pivots His right foot from the brake to the rubbed-raw accelerator while wanting the Smoking Girl's number and the Reader's hand in marriage, and the intersection of the creatures' Venn diagram is made clear: All three are waiting for shit to happen; all five feel trapped by present circumstances.
There. I'm finished. What have you done to realize your dream today?
The Home-Row Isn't Strong Enough to Rid the World of His Shadow
We were taking coffee break in one of the building's three designated lunch rooms, the four of us tired of choking on welding fumes and grateful for the reprieve. Our snacks were gone, our drinks down to one remaining chug. It was that awkward conversation time when no one wants to get up first and head back to the task at hand, but nobody wants their boots to drag last-in-line, either. Like a gift from God my phone rang. I stepped out into the hallway to answer it, a bit afraid since I didn't recognize the number aside from the middle three digits that told me it was a cellular line.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Michael?" a faintly Jewish-sounding voice whined. Could he have changed that much in a few years? A wife, a son; I guess he could've.
"Yes?" I asked more cautiously now that the chips were on the table
"Michael, it's your father! Where are you?" He sounded legitimately agitated at this mysterious Michael's absence. It couldn't have been whom I thought it was. That Christ-fearing coward couldn't care less about his first attempt at family, the holy hypocrite that he is and will be all the way to the grave. He started anew in one of life's rarely granted do-overs without as much as a card dropped in the mailbox. I'm not an afterthought he'll have in his precious afterlife. Sometimes that burns me as much as the flames of Hell someday will. There's comfort in knowing what's coming.
"You've got the wrong number. I was confused at first because my name is also Michael." My explanation trailed off. It didn't make sense to continue telling of the irony to a stranger in search of his son.
"Hmph," he half-laughed, half-snorted. This mystery man of mine hung up and I walked back into the break room. The three wise men were waiting: my stepfather, a forty-five-year-old friend who'd taught me the most in the pipe trade, and a man I'd worked for since the age of eighteen looked up from their styrofoam cups in silent anticipation of a report. I stood in the doorway, suggesting that I was ready to go back to work.
"He was looking for his son Michael," I told them. "Wanted to know where I'd been. I told him I've been wondering the same for the last four-and-a-half years." I felt the familiar muscle movement of that painkilling smirk used in defense of what lies beneath the bearded facade. It'd take a wrench or a bottle to pry it from my face. I know. I've tried it before.
The three of them laughed the laugh of the knowing uncomfortably, none of them wanting to admit their sources, and downed the rest of their beverages. Their chairs squeaked against the commercial tile floor as they rose to take on the rest of the day. None of us knew it'd be fourteen hours, but one of us knew he was lucky. As trite as it is, the woven blue-on-white framed number is right-- that thing on God and doors and windows.
Three or four fathers are better than one. Three or four anythings are better than one nothing. Three or four more sentences would make this more believable. I can't come up with them, though; there's too much truth in what really happened sometimes. Saved by a semicolon again.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Michael?" a faintly Jewish-sounding voice whined. Could he have changed that much in a few years? A wife, a son; I guess he could've.
"Yes?" I asked more cautiously now that the chips were on the table
"Michael, it's your father! Where are you?" He sounded legitimately agitated at this mysterious Michael's absence. It couldn't have been whom I thought it was. That Christ-fearing coward couldn't care less about his first attempt at family, the holy hypocrite that he is and will be all the way to the grave. He started anew in one of life's rarely granted do-overs without as much as a card dropped in the mailbox. I'm not an afterthought he'll have in his precious afterlife. Sometimes that burns me as much as the flames of Hell someday will. There's comfort in knowing what's coming.
"You've got the wrong number. I was confused at first because my name is also Michael." My explanation trailed off. It didn't make sense to continue telling of the irony to a stranger in search of his son.
"Hmph," he half-laughed, half-snorted. This mystery man of mine hung up and I walked back into the break room. The three wise men were waiting: my stepfather, a forty-five-year-old friend who'd taught me the most in the pipe trade, and a man I'd worked for since the age of eighteen looked up from their styrofoam cups in silent anticipation of a report. I stood in the doorway, suggesting that I was ready to go back to work.
"He was looking for his son Michael," I told them. "Wanted to know where I'd been. I told him I've been wondering the same for the last four-and-a-half years." I felt the familiar muscle movement of that painkilling smirk used in defense of what lies beneath the bearded facade. It'd take a wrench or a bottle to pry it from my face. I know. I've tried it before.
The three of them laughed the laugh of the knowing uncomfortably, none of them wanting to admit their sources, and downed the rest of their beverages. Their chairs squeaked against the commercial tile floor as they rose to take on the rest of the day. None of us knew it'd be fourteen hours, but one of us knew he was lucky. As trite as it is, the woven blue-on-white framed number is right-- that thing on God and doors and windows.
Three or four fathers are better than one. Three or four anythings are better than one nothing. Three or four more sentences would make this more believable. I can't come up with them, though; there's too much truth in what really happened sometimes. Saved by a semicolon again.
4.21.2011
SCANTRON
I'm made aware
inconveniently
that Leonard's sent a message.
Leo, we always called him
but no one calls him now--
not since the move down south
the arrest, the shotgun wedding and kids.
I ignore Leo, Leonard, whatever he's called
these days, continue my night
thinking back to the time
when we had to put our full names
one capital letter per box
on those state-examined testing sheets.
How perfectly LEONARD fit then;
how terribly he does now.
We're all in a high percentile
though the standards
like the outcomes
have changed.
When in doubt
pick C.
inconveniently
that Leonard's sent a message.
Leo, we always called him
but no one calls him now--
not since the move down south
the arrest, the shotgun wedding and kids.
I ignore Leo, Leonard, whatever he's called
these days, continue my night
thinking back to the time
when we had to put our full names
one capital letter per box
on those state-examined testing sheets.
How perfectly LEONARD fit then;
how terribly he does now.
We're all in a high percentile
though the standards
like the outcomes
have changed.
When in doubt
pick C.
4.19.2011
Slippery Freudian Slopes
"Do I still resemble her from this angle?" she asks, her head dipped back in the nest made by her pillow. His forearms shift uncomfortably on her hips as he lays prone diagonally to her naked form.
"Who?" he asks in a poor purchase of time. They never forget the slips, he thinks. It makes him wonder how people stay married for forty years. There must be a lot of lying involved, Oscar-worthy performances from the altar to the grave. Was he drunk and spilling his guts when he told her two years ago? Of course; he must've been. Why did he always fall into that trap? Dimitri Karamazov indeed, beard and scars to prove it.
"Becky," she answers coolly without looking down at his quivering brow, perhaps out of pity for a man on the run.
Her butchering of the name bothers him like it always does when someone fouls it up casually as if they knew the girl, but didn't. Not Becky, not Rebecca, but Beck. That was how she referred to herself eight years ago when they were young and in that first form of amateur love, and that is how she's to be addressed now as long as he has a say in the matter. There was something less feminine about her version of her name that made the two of them seem even more alike in addition to their dark features, sarcastic humor, and similar taste in music. She could take the Jack straight better than he could, though. He attributed it to her father, but neither of them spoke about it. Her career has probably moved her towards Rebecca status, but that doesn't matter now in the dim light of the apartment in which he still holds a candle. He remembers seeing a parochial school dedicated to Our Lady of Pompeii and laughing at its morbid implications. That's who Beck's become to him: a patron saint of Better Times buried in yards of ash. Eight years. God, has it been that long? he asks himself.
"You mean..." he begins, quickly realizing that correcting her nominal mistake will only make it worse. The vague opening words make it easy to recover. "...to tell me that you don't think I'm over her?" Brilliant. Masterful. Bond at his best.
Her eyes finally peel from the ceiling and stare down at his waiting countenance. Did she buy it? For that matter, did he? Only the coming reaction will tell. Eight years of locking a child in his heart. It seemed like yesterday, yet also eternity. The lovely, long-haired girl that made him who he is today, for better and worse and mostly unintentionally, still has a hand in his daily affairs. It makes him breathe more deeply. It relieves his troubled ghosts. They're still with us when they're gone. It's all an illusion, this passing of time and faces. We're not alone. If we'd reach out far enough they'd still be there in some way, shape, and form. The problem is that we're too afraid of what we'd find now, so we wait. We wait for something, not knowing what. Deliverance. Salvation. Another turn up at bat.
"I know you are, silly boy," she says with a half-hearted smile. "I just want to be as beautiful to you as she was."
The bait won't be taken, as tempting as it is with the current rush of nostalgia coursing through his veins. That's too rich for his blood, not worth an afternoon of apologies. She knows he hates this kind of fishing, but they're also both aware of who's got the upper hand.
He parries with a compliment he'd been saving for a rainy day, neither of which worth mentioning. She coos and gives a childlike kiss on his forehead.
When the smoke clears they make love in the lazy haze of the afternoon, neither of them saying names for some hours. It's a hell of a life sometimes, but someone's got to live it.
"Who?" he asks in a poor purchase of time. They never forget the slips, he thinks. It makes him wonder how people stay married for forty years. There must be a lot of lying involved, Oscar-worthy performances from the altar to the grave. Was he drunk and spilling his guts when he told her two years ago? Of course; he must've been. Why did he always fall into that trap? Dimitri Karamazov indeed, beard and scars to prove it.
"Becky," she answers coolly without looking down at his quivering brow, perhaps out of pity for a man on the run.
Her butchering of the name bothers him like it always does when someone fouls it up casually as if they knew the girl, but didn't. Not Becky, not Rebecca, but Beck. That was how she referred to herself eight years ago when they were young and in that first form of amateur love, and that is how she's to be addressed now as long as he has a say in the matter. There was something less feminine about her version of her name that made the two of them seem even more alike in addition to their dark features, sarcastic humor, and similar taste in music. She could take the Jack straight better than he could, though. He attributed it to her father, but neither of them spoke about it. Her career has probably moved her towards Rebecca status, but that doesn't matter now in the dim light of the apartment in which he still holds a candle. He remembers seeing a parochial school dedicated to Our Lady of Pompeii and laughing at its morbid implications. That's who Beck's become to him: a patron saint of Better Times buried in yards of ash. Eight years. God, has it been that long? he asks himself.
"You mean..." he begins, quickly realizing that correcting her nominal mistake will only make it worse. The vague opening words make it easy to recover. "...to tell me that you don't think I'm over her?" Brilliant. Masterful. Bond at his best.
Her eyes finally peel from the ceiling and stare down at his waiting countenance. Did she buy it? For that matter, did he? Only the coming reaction will tell. Eight years of locking a child in his heart. It seemed like yesterday, yet also eternity. The lovely, long-haired girl that made him who he is today, for better and worse and mostly unintentionally, still has a hand in his daily affairs. It makes him breathe more deeply. It relieves his troubled ghosts. They're still with us when they're gone. It's all an illusion, this passing of time and faces. We're not alone. If we'd reach out far enough they'd still be there in some way, shape, and form. The problem is that we're too afraid of what we'd find now, so we wait. We wait for something, not knowing what. Deliverance. Salvation. Another turn up at bat.
"I know you are, silly boy," she says with a half-hearted smile. "I just want to be as beautiful to you as she was."
The bait won't be taken, as tempting as it is with the current rush of nostalgia coursing through his veins. That's too rich for his blood, not worth an afternoon of apologies. She knows he hates this kind of fishing, but they're also both aware of who's got the upper hand.
He parries with a compliment he'd been saving for a rainy day, neither of which worth mentioning. She coos and gives a childlike kiss on his forehead.
When the smoke clears they make love in the lazy haze of the afternoon, neither of them saying names for some hours. It's a hell of a life sometimes, but someone's got to live it.
4.18.2011
Diurnal Emissions
Blood has gathered twice--
once in me, once on me.
It's no longer recreational
this crime scene in the name.
Add it to the list you keep:
The things we do for love, etc.
She wipes it up, a loving maid
throws it overhand
to the darkest corner of her room.
When the nightstand candle's blown
it smells like birthdays
for some seconds, but really
both of us are dying:
slowly, surely, surreptitiously.
They'll hang us high for these
sins and mortal treasons
but for now we'll savor
the afterwards bliss
and try to dream of better places
where the dream has yet to crash.
Don't judge the man who says
what you've only dared to think.
When the bricks fall you'll need friends.
The roster will surprise you.
once in me, once on me.
It's no longer recreational
this crime scene in the name.
Add it to the list you keep:
The things we do for love, etc.
She wipes it up, a loving maid
throws it overhand
to the darkest corner of her room.
When the nightstand candle's blown
it smells like birthdays
for some seconds, but really
both of us are dying:
slowly, surely, surreptitiously.
They'll hang us high for these
sins and mortal treasons
but for now we'll savor
the afterwards bliss
and try to dream of better places
where the dream has yet to crash.
Don't judge the man who says
what you've only dared to think.
When the bricks fall you'll need friends.
The roster will surprise you.
4.16.2011
Candy Wrapper Semaphores
The train's almost to the last stop and my aching back is thankful. There's a race going on in the novel on my lap. Three more pages to go before the end of the chapter; with a little gusto I can make it, big and small picture implied. The highlighter's been working overtime with this latest read. Updike's unapologetic words hit hard like polished stones honed from the same primordial observations that I've made through my travels and travesties, loving corrections humbly offered by an unmet friend who's barely been underground long enough for his hair to stop growing: another one of life's great misses. We're mostly born to die again, hopefully encountering some kindred prisoners on the way. My luck's been less than enviable. My best relationships are traditionally of the posthumous persuasion. It's a blessing and a curse to have this passion, this search for the word, though we wouldn't have it any other way.
I flip a page and glance up at the young man walking down the aisle with a box of chocolates in his hands. "Two for four, three for five," he gently pleads in that modest voice only convincing when coming from a black male's soothing vocal cords. It must be reminiscent of their slave days. The kind, crooning Negro was harder to whip-- Darwin's theories of adaptation and survival personified. I reach for my wallet as he approaches. I know that I'll submit. Reparations for a crime my ancestors weren't here to commit. Besides, who doesn't like chocolate?
"Do you have change for a twenty?" I ask with the slow-tongued, naive drawl a cow would have if it could speak. It's a set-up, a gift from the gods of gullible men. He'll knock this one out of the park, and I can't blame him. It's my fault. It always is.
"How about six candies for ten?" he suggests, his soft tone slightly more forceful than before. "That'll buy three basketball uniforms and get me that much closer to the All Expenses Paid Vacation." He doesn't name the destination or the team. A good actor, a good liar, would've noticed this lack of detail and seen through his ruse, but I'm no Marlon Brando; more importantly, he's already got me on the run.
"I really only want three..." I futilely whine, my voice drenched in defeat.
He doesn't even have to say anything, just gives me those watery chocolate eyes. The man is no boy, but still he plays the helpless card. It wins the round expertly. Aces and eights plague my hand. I'm spread too thin to put up a fight.
"Give me ten back," I say as he lowers the box so I can select my unwanted candies.
"Any six you want," he offers as a consolation prize. I choose three peanut butter-filled affairs, though I know they won't travel well, and three bags of hard-shelled chocolate morsels.
"Thanks," he says as he raises his wares and makes his way down the aisle, not bothering to stop and peddle at any other seats. He's found his sucker. He's made his money. For the lousy six dollars he's spent on candy at a convenience store he's made another four in profit. I'm the saddest proponent of capitalism. I'm an honorary member of the NAACP. I'm a laid-off, broke philanthropist with a heart too big to say No. But I'm me, and that's how I want it. It's the one thing they can't take.
Brakes come on and slow the train. I shove my book into my bag and cram the candy in afterwards. It'll be squished or melt before it meets any mouth, mine or otherwise. It doesn't feel right to rise with the rest of the riders. My foolish contribution to the Harlem Hustler who got on at 125th Street has rendered me unworthy of beating any fellow travelers to the opening metal mouths at the ends of our train car. I've been duped and deserved to wait for my turn. Hustle-Man, of course, is far from the scene. I'm a joke he'll tell at dinner. I'm a pawn that fell for ghetto glory. I'm the reason he keeps swindling his way through the world: opportunity.
I decide to use the bathroom on the empty train since the one at the station's a slophouse and I have my walking cut out for me. In the brief time it took me to make water and wash my hands the train's already started to fill with new occupants headed in the other direction. By the time I wedge my bag through the double-doors all of the booths have at least one seat taken. Some of the passengers pretend to be sleeping so no one asks them to move their belongings and make room. The passive-aggressive grind rumbles on: shining, modern, efficient, unchanged.
As I make my way through the bustling city my bag begins to feel like it's carrying lead. According to law, though, it isn't. I trudge on faithfully en route to my destination, turning onto a side street to avoid the heavy human traffic. A well-kept homeless man counts change on the quiet sidewalk. He could easily pass for the Candy-Man's father, close to the appropriate age and overall demeanor. There's no smell as I walk by; he's one of the better survivors. Maybe they really are related. I turn and walk back towards him. It seems the right thing to do. Who needs that much chocolate?
"Want some candy?" I ask, surprisingly even-toned. I'm never that good at appealing to strangers. It comes off so unsure.
"Huh? Nah. No, thank you," he replies, though the comma between No and Thank you may not actually be there. He sounds as though I've bothered him. Maybe he lost count of his change due to my interruption. The bottle of hooch will have to wait that much longer. Food, it appears, is not on his menu, even the elusive free type of sustenance. It's freedom he seeks in the form of a glass flask. I can't begrudge him that, even with an uptown son that much closer to new basketball uniforms and a free vacation courtesy of a weak-spined tourist.
I do an about-face, re-find my stride, and smile down at the pavement. We don't all lace up dead men's boots. We won't all jump in the same grave. The world still has its innovators. Energy flows in accordance with effort. Home's not hard to imagine. And chocolate takes longer to melt than I thought.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike.
I flip a page and glance up at the young man walking down the aisle with a box of chocolates in his hands. "Two for four, three for five," he gently pleads in that modest voice only convincing when coming from a black male's soothing vocal cords. It must be reminiscent of their slave days. The kind, crooning Negro was harder to whip-- Darwin's theories of adaptation and survival personified. I reach for my wallet as he approaches. I know that I'll submit. Reparations for a crime my ancestors weren't here to commit. Besides, who doesn't like chocolate?
"Do you have change for a twenty?" I ask with the slow-tongued, naive drawl a cow would have if it could speak. It's a set-up, a gift from the gods of gullible men. He'll knock this one out of the park, and I can't blame him. It's my fault. It always is.
"How about six candies for ten?" he suggests, his soft tone slightly more forceful than before. "That'll buy three basketball uniforms and get me that much closer to the All Expenses Paid Vacation." He doesn't name the destination or the team. A good actor, a good liar, would've noticed this lack of detail and seen through his ruse, but I'm no Marlon Brando; more importantly, he's already got me on the run.
"I really only want three..." I futilely whine, my voice drenched in defeat.
He doesn't even have to say anything, just gives me those watery chocolate eyes. The man is no boy, but still he plays the helpless card. It wins the round expertly. Aces and eights plague my hand. I'm spread too thin to put up a fight.
"Give me ten back," I say as he lowers the box so I can select my unwanted candies.
"Any six you want," he offers as a consolation prize. I choose three peanut butter-filled affairs, though I know they won't travel well, and three bags of hard-shelled chocolate morsels.
"Thanks," he says as he raises his wares and makes his way down the aisle, not bothering to stop and peddle at any other seats. He's found his sucker. He's made his money. For the lousy six dollars he's spent on candy at a convenience store he's made another four in profit. I'm the saddest proponent of capitalism. I'm an honorary member of the NAACP. I'm a laid-off, broke philanthropist with a heart too big to say No. But I'm me, and that's how I want it. It's the one thing they can't take.
Brakes come on and slow the train. I shove my book into my bag and cram the candy in afterwards. It'll be squished or melt before it meets any mouth, mine or otherwise. It doesn't feel right to rise with the rest of the riders. My foolish contribution to the Harlem Hustler who got on at 125th Street has rendered me unworthy of beating any fellow travelers to the opening metal mouths at the ends of our train car. I've been duped and deserved to wait for my turn. Hustle-Man, of course, is far from the scene. I'm a joke he'll tell at dinner. I'm a pawn that fell for ghetto glory. I'm the reason he keeps swindling his way through the world: opportunity.
I decide to use the bathroom on the empty train since the one at the station's a slophouse and I have my walking cut out for me. In the brief time it took me to make water and wash my hands the train's already started to fill with new occupants headed in the other direction. By the time I wedge my bag through the double-doors all of the booths have at least one seat taken. Some of the passengers pretend to be sleeping so no one asks them to move their belongings and make room. The passive-aggressive grind rumbles on: shining, modern, efficient, unchanged.
As I make my way through the bustling city my bag begins to feel like it's carrying lead. According to law, though, it isn't. I trudge on faithfully en route to my destination, turning onto a side street to avoid the heavy human traffic. A well-kept homeless man counts change on the quiet sidewalk. He could easily pass for the Candy-Man's father, close to the appropriate age and overall demeanor. There's no smell as I walk by; he's one of the better survivors. Maybe they really are related. I turn and walk back towards him. It seems the right thing to do. Who needs that much chocolate?
"Want some candy?" I ask, surprisingly even-toned. I'm never that good at appealing to strangers. It comes off so unsure.
"Huh? Nah. No, thank you," he replies, though the comma between No and Thank you may not actually be there. He sounds as though I've bothered him. Maybe he lost count of his change due to my interruption. The bottle of hooch will have to wait that much longer. Food, it appears, is not on his menu, even the elusive free type of sustenance. It's freedom he seeks in the form of a glass flask. I can't begrudge him that, even with an uptown son that much closer to new basketball uniforms and a free vacation courtesy of a weak-spined tourist.
I do an about-face, re-find my stride, and smile down at the pavement. We don't all lace up dead men's boots. We won't all jump in the same grave. The world still has its innovators. Energy flows in accordance with effort. Home's not hard to imagine. And chocolate takes longer to melt than I thought.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike.
4.14.2011
As Time Goes By In a Chain Restaurant
I knew the date would bomb when I drove by and saw her standing sulkily in front of the restaurant upon which we'd reluctantly agreed; a frumpy mess in all black, she wasn't fooling anyone. My night's well-groomed attire felt like a waste. It was never possible to pull off when it mattered. I, for a change, was looking halfway decent; or perhaps the upper hand simply made me feel that way.
The weight in her face made her seem like a liar or a drunk or, most logically, both. I'd learned that last truism the hard way and tucked it inside my chest pocket. This glutton for punishment marched through the parking lot and greeted his damsel in obvious distress, swearing in his mind with every step that blind dates and downcast camera angles should be banned from the Constitution. It wasn't going to get the best of me, though. "If she can take it, I can take it," I assured myself and the invisible black pianist.
The seats are taken, the stage is set. We order after perusing the menu for ten minutes. When the food finally comes I'm practically ecstatic. Not even the man-sized margarita had made trudging through conversation tolerable. The Lord works in mysterious ways, sometimes via Mexican cuisine.
"The salsa looks good," she says between bites. It's actually a coarsely-chopped pico de gallo, but her ignorance goes unpunished. Pointing out the difference between salsa and what's on my plate would be like correcting a first-grader for calling a crocodile an alligator. It'd be like accusing a true friend of thievery. It'd be like trusting anyone: pointless.
"It's as good as it looks," I say, mouth agape, trying to convey the onions. "Lots of cilantro." They say those who dislike cilantro have more highly developed taste buds. It's supposed to taste like soap to people who are further down the evolutionary path. I'm not ashamed of being simple. I relish in my caveman state. It makes the mirror easier.
She pokes and prods at her salad, but none of it seems to disappear, much like a pasta dish's conundrum. The curvy girls get salad, the rails get cheese fries, and the Puerto Ricans get Mexican food. It makes as much sense as moving to Morocco.
"I'm full already," she admits, a hint of pride in her retraint hiding behind her tonsils.
"Don't force yourself, really. It's fine. The rent's paid up."
She smirks, unsure if I'm kidding or not. My face doesn't break, I don't come out of character with a chuckle or a grin. Years of practice in dry delivery make it feasible. My restraint is more sharpened than hers. Something tells me my everything is more everything than hers, it's part of the reason I know this'll be the last time I see her. There's comfort in that. There's comfort in every loss if one looks hard enough.
It doesn't seem worth it to impress her with cash. Let her think it'll take me five months to pay off this mistake of a meal. The waiter can run my plastic if it means keeping green in my wallet. Currency's convenient, fast, liquid. I'm drowning in this date, a miniature me in the shot glass of sour cream served with my quesadillas; but the wounded shepherd surrenders to fate. He'll ride out the rest for chivalry's sake and an addition to his quiver of sharp, quickened stories. The thought of the tragic comedy obtained makes it easier to wave my hand in a swatting motion as she reaches for her purse when the check finally comes.
"Not even half?" she asks daintily like a dark-featured Ingrid Bergman sticking to the script.
"Not even the tip," I reply, sans fedora and cigar. The plane's taking off, alright, but I can't wait to put her on it. Sam, my trusty black friend, will never play this again, and I am grateful; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of my life.
The weight in her face made her seem like a liar or a drunk or, most logically, both. I'd learned that last truism the hard way and tucked it inside my chest pocket. This glutton for punishment marched through the parking lot and greeted his damsel in obvious distress, swearing in his mind with every step that blind dates and downcast camera angles should be banned from the Constitution. It wasn't going to get the best of me, though. "If she can take it, I can take it," I assured myself and the invisible black pianist.
The seats are taken, the stage is set. We order after perusing the menu for ten minutes. When the food finally comes I'm practically ecstatic. Not even the man-sized margarita had made trudging through conversation tolerable. The Lord works in mysterious ways, sometimes via Mexican cuisine.
"The salsa looks good," she says between bites. It's actually a coarsely-chopped pico de gallo, but her ignorance goes unpunished. Pointing out the difference between salsa and what's on my plate would be like correcting a first-grader for calling a crocodile an alligator. It'd be like accusing a true friend of thievery. It'd be like trusting anyone: pointless.
"It's as good as it looks," I say, mouth agape, trying to convey the onions. "Lots of cilantro." They say those who dislike cilantro have more highly developed taste buds. It's supposed to taste like soap to people who are further down the evolutionary path. I'm not ashamed of being simple. I relish in my caveman state. It makes the mirror easier.
She pokes and prods at her salad, but none of it seems to disappear, much like a pasta dish's conundrum. The curvy girls get salad, the rails get cheese fries, and the Puerto Ricans get Mexican food. It makes as much sense as moving to Morocco.
"I'm full already," she admits, a hint of pride in her retraint hiding behind her tonsils.
"Don't force yourself, really. It's fine. The rent's paid up."
She smirks, unsure if I'm kidding or not. My face doesn't break, I don't come out of character with a chuckle or a grin. Years of practice in dry delivery make it feasible. My restraint is more sharpened than hers. Something tells me my everything is more everything than hers, it's part of the reason I know this'll be the last time I see her. There's comfort in that. There's comfort in every loss if one looks hard enough.
It doesn't seem worth it to impress her with cash. Let her think it'll take me five months to pay off this mistake of a meal. The waiter can run my plastic if it means keeping green in my wallet. Currency's convenient, fast, liquid. I'm drowning in this date, a miniature me in the shot glass of sour cream served with my quesadillas; but the wounded shepherd surrenders to fate. He'll ride out the rest for chivalry's sake and an addition to his quiver of sharp, quickened stories. The thought of the tragic comedy obtained makes it easier to wave my hand in a swatting motion as she reaches for her purse when the check finally comes.
"Not even half?" she asks daintily like a dark-featured Ingrid Bergman sticking to the script.
"Not even the tip," I reply, sans fedora and cigar. The plane's taking off, alright, but I can't wait to put her on it. Sam, my trusty black friend, will never play this again, and I am grateful; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of my life.
4.11.2011
Stranger Danger
They say in the City
when the falafel hits the fan
to pull the nearest fire alarm.
New York's Bravest
have to arrive
within two minutes
or their funding is cut
or their kids wear old shoes
or their lives are reduced
to safe, risk-free doldrums.
So if you're in trouble
while seeking it out
where dreams are born
or dashed to bits on the pavement
run for the pull-switch
since the hills are too far
and hope for the best
or what you deserve
or how they make it seem better
in movies.
There is not an answer.
Every question leads to more.
Like jellyfish, now, together:
transparent, toxic, washed up
on the shore.
when the falafel hits the fan
to pull the nearest fire alarm.
New York's Bravest
have to arrive
within two minutes
or their funding is cut
or their kids wear old shoes
or their lives are reduced
to safe, risk-free doldrums.
So if you're in trouble
while seeking it out
where dreams are born
or dashed to bits on the pavement
run for the pull-switch
since the hills are too far
and hope for the best
or what you deserve
or how they make it seem better
in movies.
There is not an answer.
Every question leads to more.
Like jellyfish, now, together:
transparent, toxic, washed up
on the shore.
4.10.2011
Take a Knee, Offense
That last shot of Irish whiskey, the same brand I'd sworn off after the Saint Patty's Day debacle, had hit me like a ton of Emerald Isle potatoes. One of the evening's co-conspirators had ordered it foolishly as an attempted display of bravado. Peacocks were God's last crafted bird, a joke to remind the world of pride's downfalls. The doll sitting beside us at the oak was talking to a college lad far below her standards, or what they should've been had she known better. My friend's flawed drunken logic aimed to prove something by downing a man's drink. Fortunately, she never looked our way during the process. Both of us made the post-shot grimace and reached desperately for our cocktails to chase the gasoline down our throats. In trying too hard one loses sight. In wine there is truth, but only pain in straight whiskey. I pointed out our failure and my punch-drunk accomplice agreed. It'd been a long night for both of us; still, like stubborn children, we'd refused to go to bed. Why pass up a perfectly good Friday? Maybe the miracle would finally transpire.
A new face approaching from the recycled crowd at my six saved us from our newfound miseries.
"Jamie," my pal called out. "Come meet my friend Mike."
The ambiguity of the name frightened me at first. I'd met enough lackluster females lately, didn't need another awkward introduction. Turning around provided some relief. Jamie was a man, and one I recognized from a past life. We shook hands while my eyes peeled the years and beers off his face. There he was, alright: the starting quarterback from the Modified team on which I played during my one year of football. Jamie, in all his post-pubescent glory.
"I know you," I said enthusiastically, the vodka and whiskey mixing to create a grin on my face that no sadistic coach could remove. "You probably don't remember me, but I used to watch your blind side." I turned ninety degrees to the right while patting an imaginary football with my left hand that my right hand nestled confidently, imitating a quarterback's movement.
Jamie's eyes smiled wide. He didn't want to shoot me down, but wasn't sure how to field my statement. I respected his choice of silent approbation.
"I played Left Tackle. Number eighty-five. They put me on the line after learning I couldn't catch with those shoulder pads in the way." The last clause was my excuse, a thin and unimpressive alibi. When they gave me the trophy for Most Improved Player at the end of the season I failed to realize what it really meant: I was the worst kid who wound up not being quite as bad by the end. Only time would teach the art of the effective use of euphemisms. Still, it was the one trophy I'd ever earned.
Jamie laughed this time, but still came out with nothing. Maybe it was the alcohol that stole his tongue that night. Such a curse is not always a bad thing. There are always benefits to the crutch. Even broken clocks are right twice a day.
My buddy chuckled at my shameless revelation while Jamie walked away. It wasn't to bigger and better-- only the bathroom. Even quarterbacks eventually met reality. There were no cheerleaders for Modified, probably because fourteen-year-olds had enough hormonal issues. There weren't many women chanting our names now, either. And the coach was replaced with a mental image of an amalgamation of our fathers, our teachers, and the cops who'd pulled us over throughout the years. We were calling the plays now, some more sound than others. There was no one to thank, but no one to blame, either.
"Good ol' Jamie," I said before sipping my drink.
"No one in this bar's good, Mike."
I didn't acknowledge or deny. I was still in '98, and thankful.
A new face approaching from the recycled crowd at my six saved us from our newfound miseries.
"Jamie," my pal called out. "Come meet my friend Mike."
The ambiguity of the name frightened me at first. I'd met enough lackluster females lately, didn't need another awkward introduction. Turning around provided some relief. Jamie was a man, and one I recognized from a past life. We shook hands while my eyes peeled the years and beers off his face. There he was, alright: the starting quarterback from the Modified team on which I played during my one year of football. Jamie, in all his post-pubescent glory.
"I know you," I said enthusiastically, the vodka and whiskey mixing to create a grin on my face that no sadistic coach could remove. "You probably don't remember me, but I used to watch your blind side." I turned ninety degrees to the right while patting an imaginary football with my left hand that my right hand nestled confidently, imitating a quarterback's movement.
Jamie's eyes smiled wide. He didn't want to shoot me down, but wasn't sure how to field my statement. I respected his choice of silent approbation.
"I played Left Tackle. Number eighty-five. They put me on the line after learning I couldn't catch with those shoulder pads in the way." The last clause was my excuse, a thin and unimpressive alibi. When they gave me the trophy for Most Improved Player at the end of the season I failed to realize what it really meant: I was the worst kid who wound up not being quite as bad by the end. Only time would teach the art of the effective use of euphemisms. Still, it was the one trophy I'd ever earned.
Jamie laughed this time, but still came out with nothing. Maybe it was the alcohol that stole his tongue that night. Such a curse is not always a bad thing. There are always benefits to the crutch. Even broken clocks are right twice a day.
My buddy chuckled at my shameless revelation while Jamie walked away. It wasn't to bigger and better-- only the bathroom. Even quarterbacks eventually met reality. There were no cheerleaders for Modified, probably because fourteen-year-olds had enough hormonal issues. There weren't many women chanting our names now, either. And the coach was replaced with a mental image of an amalgamation of our fathers, our teachers, and the cops who'd pulled us over throughout the years. We were calling the plays now, some more sound than others. There was no one to thank, but no one to blame, either.
"Good ol' Jamie," I said before sipping my drink.
"No one in this bar's good, Mike."
I didn't acknowledge or deny. I was still in '98, and thankful.
4.06.2011
Agaricus bisporus
a fist hits stuffed cotton
repetitively
tightens for the finale
can't beat gravity
and is shamed
as cheeks puff out
like Louis Armstrong
in an attempt
to keep it in--
thin walls, thin veils
thin threads between us
about to be snipped.
the white worm crawls down
lazily like
an old friend told an old friend
to tell a man who used to have some
to look out for his love
through cheap headphones.
the laugh defied the drywall.
a roll, a wipe, a basket;
the crowd goes wild
and Pistol Pete goes to sleep:
incorrigible, insatiable
incapable of unadulterated love.
repetitively
tightens for the finale
can't beat gravity
and is shamed
as cheeks puff out
like Louis Armstrong
in an attempt
to keep it in--
thin walls, thin veils
thin threads between us
about to be snipped.
the white worm crawls down
lazily like
an old friend told an old friend
to tell a man who used to have some
to look out for his love
through cheap headphones.
the laugh defied the drywall.
a roll, a wipe, a basket;
the crowd goes wild
and Pistol Pete goes to sleep:
incorrigible, insatiable
incapable of unadulterated love.
On Hanoi Jane and Other Traitors
That tail twitching
on the roadkilled squirrel
isn't the wind
or an earthshake--
it's the nerves of fresh death.
Can you smell it
in the headlight dust?
Taste it in the carbon?
It's a heart at half-mast
like a weak-willed rising
late into her night
when the sheep get loud enough
for the drooling wolves to hear.
Go big or go home
or go home with someone big
more than likely
but regardless
put the Jazz Hands away:
The adults are talking.
Alas, the pineapple went to waste.
She was too gone to notice the taste.
on the roadkilled squirrel
isn't the wind
or an earthshake--
it's the nerves of fresh death.
Can you smell it
in the headlight dust?
Taste it in the carbon?
It's a heart at half-mast
like a weak-willed rising
late into her night
when the sheep get loud enough
for the drooling wolves to hear.
Go big or go home
or go home with someone big
more than likely
but regardless
put the Jazz Hands away:
The adults are talking.
Alas, the pineapple went to waste.
She was too gone to notice the taste.
Water Sports and Weddings
It was time to do the unspeakable. It was time to let them go. There'd been too many casualties lost under the pile. A man can only wear so many shirts; it's hard enough swapping hats all the time. Some good old friends were tossed into the heap of rejects. A heavy hand is needed when weeding through the ranks. It was hard, but overdue, like most things lately. There were gifts and there were gags, there were reminders of some keepers that I managed to lose along the way. Some trophy tees I kept simply because of their sources, their stories. A white Section IX Swimming Champs number, the names of two girls I'd entered printed on the back; how could I get rid of that ironic cotton? The sweeter of the two broke the record set by another person I used to date, several years her senior, in a strange twist of fate. A few more T-shirts later and I find one from an Empire State Games rowing medalist. Crew, they call it, but I never liked the term. She was another one that irked me, mostly since I wasn't ready. I never am until it's too late. The swimmers, the rowers, the fishers of faulted men: It must be because I'm a Pisces. Some of them fall for it, myself included. It's not a shirt that one can shed. That's why they'd be inaccurate in calling me a snake.
4.02.2011
A Pome That Slept In Sodomy Til 'Twas Safe To Type
His body clutches the mattress
through sour-smelling, sweaty sheets
like a panther clinging low to the ground
though this cat's strike is over.
In his heavy, sideways head
temples pound with tainted blood
and he can hear his eyelashes
against the pillowcase
which now smells of perfume
and overpriced conditioner.
He licks his salty lips to try to bring
them back, but they are too far
in the process to reverse the aftermath.
The friction, the rhythm, the giving
of a world where nothing hurts as much
at least not for the moment: these are what
contribute to the tingle in his tongue
and the scratches on his shoulders
and his hair all off in rays
and if he had a say about it
the soreness of his loins;
but tonight his mouth is good enough
and tonight is foul and fair enough
as the grasslands fall away
and transform into sand.
The panther shrinks to human form
a wounded gladiator laying, gasping
bleeding in the dust as the crowded
coliseum cheers the carnage on.
Brass soldiers grip their spears and await
their mortal orders as the Governor stands
and stretches out his hand, thumb still sideways.
The most honest moment in a man's life
is a brief and precious time directly afterwards.
He slips into a dreamstate somehow safer
than this current mocked-up nightmare
before that thumb can tilt down
or point up towards the sky.
He is grateful for not knowing.
He is tired from the fight.
He will empty trashcan contents
in the morning when she's gone.
For a man who claims to read
he's sure slow with the patterns.
through sour-smelling, sweaty sheets
like a panther clinging low to the ground
though this cat's strike is over.
In his heavy, sideways head
temples pound with tainted blood
and he can hear his eyelashes
against the pillowcase
which now smells of perfume
and overpriced conditioner.
He licks his salty lips to try to bring
them back, but they are too far
in the process to reverse the aftermath.
The friction, the rhythm, the giving
of a world where nothing hurts as much
at least not for the moment: these are what
contribute to the tingle in his tongue
and the scratches on his shoulders
and his hair all off in rays
and if he had a say about it
the soreness of his loins;
but tonight his mouth is good enough
and tonight is foul and fair enough
as the grasslands fall away
and transform into sand.
The panther shrinks to human form
a wounded gladiator laying, gasping
bleeding in the dust as the crowded
coliseum cheers the carnage on.
Brass soldiers grip their spears and await
their mortal orders as the Governor stands
and stretches out his hand, thumb still sideways.
The most honest moment in a man's life
is a brief and precious time directly afterwards.
He slips into a dreamstate somehow safer
than this current mocked-up nightmare
before that thumb can tilt down
or point up towards the sky.
He is grateful for not knowing.
He is tired from the fight.
He will empty trashcan contents
in the morning when she's gone.
For a man who claims to read
he's sure slow with the patterns.
4.01.2011
Online Dating Tips, Volume One: The Beginning of the End
In honor of April Fools' Day I am posting the valuable lessons I've learned thus far in my epic foray into the terrifying hell that is Internet Dating. Thank you for all of the encouraging feedback I've received via email, text message, and random drunken pat-on-the-back at the various local watering holes we mortals stubbornly frequent. This experiment is made far less painful by knowing that others are reaping the benefits of my literal labors of love. If, by chance, you do decide to follow me into the dark, please take some of the advice listed to heart; I didn't make this stuff up out of nowhere, folks. Most of it was witnessed firsthand or learned the hard way. At some point, and I'll only know when that point is reached when I come to it, I will eject from this burning plane of an experiment with enough time to release my 'chute in the form of a compiled list of Online Dating Tips to submit as an article somewhere shameless enough to publish it. For now, friends, laugh beside me at my failure. Here's to having a sense of humor about the heart and human condition...Enjoy.
Online Dating Tip #492: No one should be judged for having children from a past relationship; but for the love of your bastard offspring, don't post pictures of them in your profile. There's a spot in the questionnaire for this information. Why subject your kid to the shame of being taken along for the internet dating ride? That'll only reserve you spots in a nursing home and hell, both of which you'll deserve.
Online Dating Site Tip #339: Don't list some random, WPS (White People Shit) hobby for the sake of seeming interesting. You like camping? Passing out drunk on your friend's couch doesn't count. Look, horseback riding! You rode a carousel twenty years ago, big deal. The beach? Last time I checked we were landlocked. Gas is $4/gallon. Unless you have a magic carpet I'm staying home. Give it up. We're all pretty boring.
Online Dating Site Tip #164: Don't post too many pics. An overzealous attempt leads to failure. The odds of someone so pathetic as to resort to 'net dating being photogenic are slim. Listen up, Myspace tricksters of yore (you know what camera angle I'm talking about): delete the date stamp. If your last good shot was taken four years ago you've probably taken a turn for the worse. But I can keep a secret if you can.
Online Dating Site Tip #238: If the recipient of your message does not respond it's merely because they read your profile, saw how amazing you are, realized they could never be enough for someone of your caliber, and decided to bow out for fear of wasting the time of such an eligible bachelor(-ette). No, really. It's not that they don't like you.
Online Dating Tip #74: When the cheerleader/quarterback rejected your prom date invitation, how did you cope? Did you pursue it to the point of humiliation? No, you went home and masturbated. Don't change the gameplan now, at least when it comes to moving on. Follow-up messages to already ignored pleas for validation only put you that much closer to restraining order status. Take it from me. I've been blocked. Twice.
Online Dating Tip #28: If you find out a same-sex friend has stooped as low as you have by creating a dating site profile in a sad attempt to fill the void don't search for it or ask for the link. This is akin to glancing over the fiberglass divider between urinals in a public restroom. If you want to see a sad excuse for a penis just look in the mirror. You, friend, have done this to yourself.
Online Dating Tip #170: Posting a group shot is not a terrible idea. Proof that you are not a reclusive ax murderer couldn't hurt. Keep in mind that guilt by association is a very real thing (See also: poor roommate selection) when choosing which friends you want to admit to having. Make sure you are the most appealing specimen, at least in that particular photo, unless you want to be asked for someone else's number.
Online Dating Tip #27: Let's talk about sugar-coating, euphemisms, softening the blow. Social drinker? Raging alcoholic. Occasional smoker? Drug addict. Few extra pounds? Morbidly obese. Undecided about children? Men: I'm neutered. Women: I want eight kids. Not into intimate encounters? Women: I'm a recovering whore. Men: I'm hiding my intentions. Be honest. Anything less is a waste of time, not to mention bandwidth.
Online Dating Tip #151: Alcohol mixes poorly with first impressions, especially when it comes to maintaining an air of respectability. Laying in your skivvies while decimating a liter of rum and sending potential suitors overly sincere introductory emails may sound like a great idea, but be warned: the shame you experience upon reading your outbox the next morning will be the only thing to rival your wicked hangover.
Online Dating Tip #243: If you "poke", "wink at", or "want to meet" someone and they ignore your limp-spined attempt to make contact don't send an email, too. Back when you bothered with foreplay did you try to steal Third Base after having your hand swatted away from Second? No. Why try to run across the field like a nutjob now? Cut your losses, take better pics, remove lame hobbies from your profile, and move on.
Online Dating Tip #244: Doling out rejection is your chance to play God. Don't ruin it by avenging your teenage acne catastrophes. If someone contacts you and you're not interested don't respond. That way, when you finally realize you're going to have to settle, you can tell the truth: You were in Cambodia helping amputee orphans and didn't feel you could dedicate enough time and attention to such a special person.
Online Dating Tip #57: Here are some signs that you've found a nympho, be that good or bad. Very athletic = Can put my ankles behind my ears. Like to have fun = Put out on the first date. Very understanding = Won't be mad if you come prematurely. Like to cuddle = Like to cuddle after awkward sex with a stranger so I don't have flashbacks of whatever terrible experience turned me into a raging sexfiend.
Online Dating Tip #44: If you honestly believe that the survey that whichever site you've sold your soul to actually gets entered into some brilliant information-analyzing database to compile a list of appropriate matches based on your answers then you've also probably tried to chat back with the webcam girl pop-up ads that were brought to your monitor courtesy of your favorite porn sites. Don't play dumb now, champ.
Online Dating Tip #32: Don't show up to your first "real" date wasted from a redneck family birthday party. If the person you've disrespected by appearing in said state suggests rescheduling, take them up on the fake offer to end any further shame. If you lack the common sense to do this, at least remove your Bluetooth earpiece while sitting across from them over coffee. Never order watermelon at a diner. True story.
Online Dating Tip #33: Telling your date "They made me put pants on before leaving the house" may raise some questions. Following it up with "I had a miniskirt on" will raise some eyebrows. But insisting upon "a need for ventilation downstairs" thrice in an hour will certainly earn you this snide remark: "Do you have a condition I should know about?" Where do these people come from? Walden, via Missouri. FML.
Online Dating Tip #98: You post a pic of a textual tattoo you have. Someone emails you citing the source of the quotation, then goes into an analysis of its possible meaning. You probably shouldn't respond with "I just got those words 'cause they sounded good. I assumed I'd figure it out later." This happened, too. Lyric: "Love is watching someone die." More people in the online dating world need to be that someone.
Online Dating Tip #73: If a SMILF (Single Mom I'd Like...) you're trying to seduce asks if you have siblings don't say "No, I was a mistake." This one gets a good laugh from most people, but may not fly with a woman whose firstborn was a result of wing night at the bar. It's bad enough this kid's picture is on mom's dating profile. Don't add insult to injury by pointing out the fact that neither of you were planned.
Online Dating Tip #64: Don't copy/paste your hobbies from what you've seen on "Jersey Shore". Gym/Tan/Laundry is not the mantra of champions, it's a sad slogan for unoriginal people to apply to their boring lives. Clubbing is something that pederasts do to seals to curb the urge, not a hobby you'll be sharing with someone for decades as you try to beat the beat up without breaking a hip. Fetch my grenade whistle.
Online Dating Tip #68: If you ask a girl what her routine is and she says anything to the effect of "First I spin around on the pole, then I take the rest off, twirl some more, and finally crawl around collecting singles," you've probably met a stripper. This isn't always a bad thing, depending on your goals, but don't plan on taking her home to mom, discussing literature, or having clothes sans lavender and glitter.
Online Dating Tip #219: Don't waste time talking to people from more than twenty miles away. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but you have no need for separation from human contact if you've sunk this low. Keep your sites local for the sake of that late-night booty call which you'll barely be sober enough to make. Besides, it's not stalking if you always just happen to be at the grocery store you both use.
Online Dating Tip #6: Mentioning sex in your profile is akin to bringing up wrecks at a racetrack: Everyone's there for the same reason, there's no need to advertise. Most of us also seek love, companionship, permission to pass gas after Mexican sans judgment (only in a well-ventilated room), but we're also tired of using our hands and/or battery-operated devices to ensure that we don't go on hormonal killing sprees.
Online Dating Tip #80: Trying to pick someone up at a bar is like checkers. It's fast-paced, straight-forward, and relatively inconsequential. Email flirtation, on the other hand, is like chess. Moves are deliberate and planned, possible responses must be considered before committing to a play, and tactics must be honed through trial by fire if success is desired. Feel free to tip your martyr for his painful legwork.
Online Tip #42: Please post one focused, well-lit body shot. Suggesting that you don't exist from the shoulders down implies that you don't think I exist from the neck up. I know that you know that I know what you're hiding, tubby. Maybe it's time you stop lying to yourself and the rest of the Online Dating World. Find less sedentary hobbies than playing poker with cupcakes as chips, like training for triathlons.
Online Dating Tip #62: If you're a woman who needs things fixed at home please wait until after the third date (or a foolishly premature consummation) to ask for any manly favors that don't involve a bed. Yes, I can fix your sink and dabble in electrical. Need some spackling done? I'm no artist, but I have a friend who can for a fair fee. Keep in mind that although men are useful for repairs nothing in life is free.
Online Dating Tip #464: It must be hard to be a trophy specimen with so many desirable applicants, but refrain from talking to more than three people at once. Let the herd thin before replacing more potential exes with new contestants, otherwise you'll forget what you've told whom...not that you to need to worry since you're telling the truth about your weight, your accomplishments, and your criminal record. Right?
Online Dating Tip #591: Millions of people enjoy recreational activities in oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams. Some of those uncomfortable with the chance of bacterial infection and/or animal attacks opt for swimming pools instead. These are valid interests that may help define you as a person, but remember: Don't mention being into water sports in your profile unless you plan on attracting a special breed of freak.
Online Dating Tip #492: No one should be judged for having children from a past relationship; but for the love of your bastard offspring, don't post pictures of them in your profile. There's a spot in the questionnaire for this information. Why subject your kid to the shame of being taken along for the internet dating ride? That'll only reserve you spots in a nursing home and hell, both of which you'll deserve.
Online Dating Site Tip #339: Don't list some random, WPS (White People Shit) hobby for the sake of seeming interesting. You like camping? Passing out drunk on your friend's couch doesn't count. Look, horseback riding! You rode a carousel twenty years ago, big deal. The beach? Last time I checked we were landlocked. Gas is $4/gallon. Unless you have a magic carpet I'm staying home. Give it up. We're all pretty boring.
Online Dating Site Tip #164: Don't post too many pics. An overzealous attempt leads to failure. The odds of someone so pathetic as to resort to 'net dating being photogenic are slim. Listen up, Myspace tricksters of yore (you know what camera angle I'm talking about): delete the date stamp. If your last good shot was taken four years ago you've probably taken a turn for the worse. But I can keep a secret if you can.
Online Dating Site Tip #238: If the recipient of your message does not respond it's merely because they read your profile, saw how amazing you are, realized they could never be enough for someone of your caliber, and decided to bow out for fear of wasting the time of such an eligible bachelor(-ette). No, really. It's not that they don't like you.
Online Dating Tip #74: When the cheerleader/quarterback rejected your prom date invitation, how did you cope? Did you pursue it to the point of humiliation? No, you went home and masturbated. Don't change the gameplan now, at least when it comes to moving on. Follow-up messages to already ignored pleas for validation only put you that much closer to restraining order status. Take it from me. I've been blocked. Twice.
Online Dating Tip #28: If you find out a same-sex friend has stooped as low as you have by creating a dating site profile in a sad attempt to fill the void don't search for it or ask for the link. This is akin to glancing over the fiberglass divider between urinals in a public restroom. If you want to see a sad excuse for a penis just look in the mirror. You, friend, have done this to yourself.
Online Dating Tip #170: Posting a group shot is not a terrible idea. Proof that you are not a reclusive ax murderer couldn't hurt. Keep in mind that guilt by association is a very real thing (See also: poor roommate selection) when choosing which friends you want to admit to having. Make sure you are the most appealing specimen, at least in that particular photo, unless you want to be asked for someone else's number.
Online Dating Tip #27: Let's talk about sugar-coating, euphemisms, softening the blow. Social drinker? Raging alcoholic. Occasional smoker? Drug addict. Few extra pounds? Morbidly obese. Undecided about children? Men: I'm neutered. Women: I want eight kids. Not into intimate encounters? Women: I'm a recovering whore. Men: I'm hiding my intentions. Be honest. Anything less is a waste of time, not to mention bandwidth.
Online Dating Tip #151: Alcohol mixes poorly with first impressions, especially when it comes to maintaining an air of respectability. Laying in your skivvies while decimating a liter of rum and sending potential suitors overly sincere introductory emails may sound like a great idea, but be warned: the shame you experience upon reading your outbox the next morning will be the only thing to rival your wicked hangover.
Online Dating Tip #243: If you "poke", "wink at", or "want to meet" someone and they ignore your limp-spined attempt to make contact don't send an email, too. Back when you bothered with foreplay did you try to steal Third Base after having your hand swatted away from Second? No. Why try to run across the field like a nutjob now? Cut your losses, take better pics, remove lame hobbies from your profile, and move on.
Online Dating Tip #244: Doling out rejection is your chance to play God. Don't ruin it by avenging your teenage acne catastrophes. If someone contacts you and you're not interested don't respond. That way, when you finally realize you're going to have to settle, you can tell the truth: You were in Cambodia helping amputee orphans and didn't feel you could dedicate enough time and attention to such a special person.
Online Dating Tip #57: Here are some signs that you've found a nympho, be that good or bad. Very athletic = Can put my ankles behind my ears. Like to have fun = Put out on the first date. Very understanding = Won't be mad if you come prematurely. Like to cuddle = Like to cuddle after awkward sex with a stranger so I don't have flashbacks of whatever terrible experience turned me into a raging sexfiend.
Online Dating Tip #44: If you honestly believe that the survey that whichever site you've sold your soul to actually gets entered into some brilliant information-analyzing database to compile a list of appropriate matches based on your answers then you've also probably tried to chat back with the webcam girl pop-up ads that were brought to your monitor courtesy of your favorite porn sites. Don't play dumb now, champ.
Online Dating Tip #32: Don't show up to your first "real" date wasted from a redneck family birthday party. If the person you've disrespected by appearing in said state suggests rescheduling, take them up on the fake offer to end any further shame. If you lack the common sense to do this, at least remove your Bluetooth earpiece while sitting across from them over coffee. Never order watermelon at a diner. True story.
Online Dating Tip #33: Telling your date "They made me put pants on before leaving the house" may raise some questions. Following it up with "I had a miniskirt on" will raise some eyebrows. But insisting upon "a need for ventilation downstairs" thrice in an hour will certainly earn you this snide remark: "Do you have a condition I should know about?" Where do these people come from? Walden, via Missouri. FML.
Online Dating Tip #98: You post a pic of a textual tattoo you have. Someone emails you citing the source of the quotation, then goes into an analysis of its possible meaning. You probably shouldn't respond with "I just got those words 'cause they sounded good. I assumed I'd figure it out later." This happened, too. Lyric: "Love is watching someone die." More people in the online dating world need to be that someone.
Online Dating Tip #73: If a SMILF (Single Mom I'd Like...) you're trying to seduce asks if you have siblings don't say "No, I was a mistake." This one gets a good laugh from most people, but may not fly with a woman whose firstborn was a result of wing night at the bar. It's bad enough this kid's picture is on mom's dating profile. Don't add insult to injury by pointing out the fact that neither of you were planned.
Online Dating Tip #64: Don't copy/paste your hobbies from what you've seen on "Jersey Shore". Gym/Tan/Laundry is not the mantra of champions, it's a sad slogan for unoriginal people to apply to their boring lives. Clubbing is something that pederasts do to seals to curb the urge, not a hobby you'll be sharing with someone for decades as you try to beat the beat up without breaking a hip. Fetch my grenade whistle.
Online Dating Tip #68: If you ask a girl what her routine is and she says anything to the effect of "First I spin around on the pole, then I take the rest off, twirl some more, and finally crawl around collecting singles," you've probably met a stripper. This isn't always a bad thing, depending on your goals, but don't plan on taking her home to mom, discussing literature, or having clothes sans lavender and glitter.
Online Dating Tip #219: Don't waste time talking to people from more than twenty miles away. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but you have no need for separation from human contact if you've sunk this low. Keep your sites local for the sake of that late-night booty call which you'll barely be sober enough to make. Besides, it's not stalking if you always just happen to be at the grocery store you both use.
Online Dating Tip #6: Mentioning sex in your profile is akin to bringing up wrecks at a racetrack: Everyone's there for the same reason, there's no need to advertise. Most of us also seek love, companionship, permission to pass gas after Mexican sans judgment (only in a well-ventilated room), but we're also tired of using our hands and/or battery-operated devices to ensure that we don't go on hormonal killing sprees.
Online Dating Tip #80: Trying to pick someone up at a bar is like checkers. It's fast-paced, straight-forward, and relatively inconsequential. Email flirtation, on the other hand, is like chess. Moves are deliberate and planned, possible responses must be considered before committing to a play, and tactics must be honed through trial by fire if success is desired. Feel free to tip your martyr for his painful legwork.
Online Tip #42: Please post one focused, well-lit body shot. Suggesting that you don't exist from the shoulders down implies that you don't think I exist from the neck up. I know that you know that I know what you're hiding, tubby. Maybe it's time you stop lying to yourself and the rest of the Online Dating World. Find less sedentary hobbies than playing poker with cupcakes as chips, like training for triathlons.
Online Dating Tip #62: If you're a woman who needs things fixed at home please wait until after the third date (or a foolishly premature consummation) to ask for any manly favors that don't involve a bed. Yes, I can fix your sink and dabble in electrical. Need some spackling done? I'm no artist, but I have a friend who can for a fair fee. Keep in mind that although men are useful for repairs nothing in life is free.
Online Dating Tip #464: It must be hard to be a trophy specimen with so many desirable applicants, but refrain from talking to more than three people at once. Let the herd thin before replacing more potential exes with new contestants, otherwise you'll forget what you've told whom...not that you to need to worry since you're telling the truth about your weight, your accomplishments, and your criminal record. Right?
Online Dating Tip #591: Millions of people enjoy recreational activities in oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams. Some of those uncomfortable with the chance of bacterial infection and/or animal attacks opt for swimming pools instead. These are valid interests that may help define you as a person, but remember: Don't mention being into water sports in your profile unless you plan on attracting a special breed of freak.
3.30.2011
Go Vomit on Your Idol's Shoe
There's no such thing
as common sense
or fair foul-weather friends
when those you trust
waste precious time
studying the trends
in what you've done
and where you've been
and where their lives aren't going.
The fever broke.
The bubble burst.
There are so few worth knowing.
So pack a bag and clear the shelves
and burn what you can't carry.
You've got your health.
You've got your gun.
Only fools get married.
There's not a goal.
They've killed the dream.
There may not be a God.
Some hands you fold.
Some cards you keep
until the Dealer nods.
The difference, then
is knowing how
to play out this last hand.
Your Valley's dry.
Your mouth is, too.
Your friend's too drunk to stand
but that ain't you
and that ain't me
unless it's Friday night.
It's best to cut out cancer cells
with sharp and borrowed knives.
We'll steal a book
that used to be
a joke among the boys
and learn a lesson from a man
who knew to ditch his toys
even when it meant a move
so bold it looked like running.
What did Edna say of light?
The faintest can be stunning.
as common sense
or fair foul-weather friends
when those you trust
waste precious time
studying the trends
in what you've done
and where you've been
and where their lives aren't going.
The fever broke.
The bubble burst.
There are so few worth knowing.
So pack a bag and clear the shelves
and burn what you can't carry.
You've got your health.
You've got your gun.
Only fools get married.
There's not a goal.
They've killed the dream.
There may not be a God.
Some hands you fold.
Some cards you keep
until the Dealer nods.
The difference, then
is knowing how
to play out this last hand.
Your Valley's dry.
Your mouth is, too.
Your friend's too drunk to stand
but that ain't you
and that ain't me
unless it's Friday night.
It's best to cut out cancer cells
with sharp and borrowed knives.
We'll steal a book
that used to be
a joke among the boys
and learn a lesson from a man
who knew to ditch his toys
even when it meant a move
so bold it looked like running.
What did Edna say of light?
The faintest can be stunning.
3.27.2011
Karate Chops As Loud As Gunshots
His therapist said owning a television was a good idea, that it'd make my weekends at his place less boring, especially since there weren't many kids in the neighborhood to play with. My mother was right for leaving that one-horse town, and him, for that matter. His therapist was right, too, but may have crossed a line by suggesting appliance ownership. The good ones make you come out with what you need to hear, they don't leave the answer in your lap like a gift from someone better off and wiser. He bought a cheap set a few months after the divorce. His favorite slogan prevailed in its purchase: "Quality goods at discounted prices." By that I mean the remote control stopped working one day. We didn't have cable and the connection was frustratingly fuzzy, but there was something to look at if I sought distraction.
One such relief came in the form of a now-laughable modern cowboy cop show. A certain Texas Ranger, who shall go needlessly nameless, roundhoused his way to the triumphant end of every predictable episode. His black partner, the suggested token minority, was the downplayed brains of the operation, though he was always a step or two behind the great white martial artist's Old West instincts. Even back in the mid-Nineties when the program was first aired the hero was in his fifties. He seems an unlikely protagonist, at least for a show based on shootouts and terribly choreographed fight scenes, but the hand he had in producing and directing squashed any possible doubts or dissent. It must be nice to have money, even if it helps you shame yourself on national television.
The washed-up action hero also managed to convince his way into writing and singing the show's theme song in the form of a monotone, half-spoken cowboy's chorus. My father, long-time struggling do-gooder that he was, appreciated the lyrics as much as the song made most others cringe with secondhand embarrassment. "The eyes of the Ranger are upon you. Any wrong you do he's gonna see. When you're in Texas look behind you 'cause that's where the Ranger's gonna be." It was terribly trite, but undeniably effective; so much so, in fact, that my tight-wad dad bought me a reproduction Texas Ranger's badge, silver star inside a circle, at a junk store disguised as an antique shop across the River. It was his way of saying he supported my respect for justice, or what I thought justice was at that young, naive age. No therapist had to talk him into that purchase, though ten dollars isn't quite a bank-breaker. Those words contribute to the irony of our estrangement now. He's ignored my existence for years. His eyes haven't been on me or the wrong I've done, partially in my futile attempt to avoid making the same mistakes he did as a younger man. And I wish that last part of that simple song was correct, but clearly the Ranger's not behind me if I'm still trying to make sense of his refusal to be in my life anymore. I would've gone to the wedding. I'd like to know my new brother. I'm not the result of a test-run version of his life. I'm his son and always will be, whether we like that or not.
Does anyone ever get over the pain their family caused them? I'd like to believe so, but it doesn't seem to be in the cards just yet, at least not for a few more hands. Perhaps that's God's way of motivating us to be better people than those broken souls who raised us. In the meantime I'll try not to lose too much sleep over it. My nightmares are far more feminine these days. You know where my scars are. Don't use them against me. Now pull that red and yellow lever, Conan.
One such relief came in the form of a now-laughable modern cowboy cop show. A certain Texas Ranger, who shall go needlessly nameless, roundhoused his way to the triumphant end of every predictable episode. His black partner, the suggested token minority, was the downplayed brains of the operation, though he was always a step or two behind the great white martial artist's Old West instincts. Even back in the mid-Nineties when the program was first aired the hero was in his fifties. He seems an unlikely protagonist, at least for a show based on shootouts and terribly choreographed fight scenes, but the hand he had in producing and directing squashed any possible doubts or dissent. It must be nice to have money, even if it helps you shame yourself on national television.
The washed-up action hero also managed to convince his way into writing and singing the show's theme song in the form of a monotone, half-spoken cowboy's chorus. My father, long-time struggling do-gooder that he was, appreciated the lyrics as much as the song made most others cringe with secondhand embarrassment. "The eyes of the Ranger are upon you. Any wrong you do he's gonna see. When you're in Texas look behind you 'cause that's where the Ranger's gonna be." It was terribly trite, but undeniably effective; so much so, in fact, that my tight-wad dad bought me a reproduction Texas Ranger's badge, silver star inside a circle, at a junk store disguised as an antique shop across the River. It was his way of saying he supported my respect for justice, or what I thought justice was at that young, naive age. No therapist had to talk him into that purchase, though ten dollars isn't quite a bank-breaker. Those words contribute to the irony of our estrangement now. He's ignored my existence for years. His eyes haven't been on me or the wrong I've done, partially in my futile attempt to avoid making the same mistakes he did as a younger man. And I wish that last part of that simple song was correct, but clearly the Ranger's not behind me if I'm still trying to make sense of his refusal to be in my life anymore. I would've gone to the wedding. I'd like to know my new brother. I'm not the result of a test-run version of his life. I'm his son and always will be, whether we like that or not.
Does anyone ever get over the pain their family caused them? I'd like to believe so, but it doesn't seem to be in the cards just yet, at least not for a few more hands. Perhaps that's God's way of motivating us to be better people than those broken souls who raised us. In the meantime I'll try not to lose too much sleep over it. My nightmares are far more feminine these days. You know where my scars are. Don't use them against me. Now pull that red and yellow lever, Conan.
3.25.2011
Red Hot Beef
I wake from an unneeded nap
under a loosely woven blanket
on the plush down of my couch
a chill from March's last laugh
sneaking through the fabric.
It's almost four in the afternoon.
My mouth has yet to meet
a glass, a fork, a toothbrush.
It's clearly time to add that fact
to the list of things to change.
My quadriceps ache as I rise
in the living room.
Have they atrophied from disuse?
Battery acid has replaced my blood.
I rub my goosebumped thighs to try
to get them back again.
Funny, my legs were her favorite.
Now, like the rest, they've gone.
I can almost taste the alcohol
that'll serve me once the sun's down.
A gentleman can wait for that.
Only fools rush in.
The kitchen greets me quietly
as I rummage through the refrigerator.
No leftovers left, no one-shot deals.
I open the freezer and pull a burrito
begrudgingly from the door.
I lived on these six years ago.
I thought I'd sworn them off.
The microwave does its thing
to my frozen Meximeat while
something squirrely draws me back
to the fridge to check one more time
as if the contents have changed
as if things shuffle around
when the light goes out, other
than in a bedroom.
All present and accounted for, though this time
I notice a package of chopped meat
that looks how my leg muscles feel.
The sticker on it reads 80% Lean.
At least I'm not the only one
making poor decisions here.
Summoned by a bell
I grab my sad brunch from the nuke
and stand on the faux hardwood
to dine in pseudo style.
An elderly neighbor speed-walks by
hoping to suck one more spring from life.
The smile makes it obvious: Cancer, two more years.
The tortilla burns my tongue since I could never
heat those things right, even with years of practice.
My left hand gets bored, finds a new distraction
in a comfortable place it's rested before.
It's OK. The neighbors can't see me scratching.
Character is what you do
when no one else is looking.
When the last bite's taken
I wash both hands in the kitchen sink
and make way for the couch
where indigestion will begin.
The sun's angled afternoon rays
pour in through drafty windows
as my eyes try to find green
in the yard, notice more in the neighbor's.
"Maybe he can't handle it,"
I say aloud when wondering why
the response never came.
Maybe the word "friend" crossed a line.
Should've kept a safe distance.
Should've kept the plan the same.
Should've brushed my teeth
right after the burrito.
The clock chimes, the needles prick
another day is spent
ripping nails from toes and fingers.
It's not the lack of money anymore.
It's that every day's the same.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Redux" by John Updike.
under a loosely woven blanket
on the plush down of my couch
a chill from March's last laugh
sneaking through the fabric.
It's almost four in the afternoon.
My mouth has yet to meet
a glass, a fork, a toothbrush.
It's clearly time to add that fact
to the list of things to change.
My quadriceps ache as I rise
in the living room.
Have they atrophied from disuse?
Battery acid has replaced my blood.
I rub my goosebumped thighs to try
to get them back again.
Funny, my legs were her favorite.
Now, like the rest, they've gone.
I can almost taste the alcohol
that'll serve me once the sun's down.
A gentleman can wait for that.
Only fools rush in.
The kitchen greets me quietly
as I rummage through the refrigerator.
No leftovers left, no one-shot deals.
I open the freezer and pull a burrito
begrudgingly from the door.
I lived on these six years ago.
I thought I'd sworn them off.
The microwave does its thing
to my frozen Meximeat while
something squirrely draws me back
to the fridge to check one more time
as if the contents have changed
as if things shuffle around
when the light goes out, other
than in a bedroom.
All present and accounted for, though this time
I notice a package of chopped meat
that looks how my leg muscles feel.
The sticker on it reads 80% Lean.
At least I'm not the only one
making poor decisions here.
Summoned by a bell
I grab my sad brunch from the nuke
and stand on the faux hardwood
to dine in pseudo style.
An elderly neighbor speed-walks by
hoping to suck one more spring from life.
The smile makes it obvious: Cancer, two more years.
The tortilla burns my tongue since I could never
heat those things right, even with years of practice.
My left hand gets bored, finds a new distraction
in a comfortable place it's rested before.
It's OK. The neighbors can't see me scratching.
Character is what you do
when no one else is looking.
When the last bite's taken
I wash both hands in the kitchen sink
and make way for the couch
where indigestion will begin.
The sun's angled afternoon rays
pour in through drafty windows
as my eyes try to find green
in the yard, notice more in the neighbor's.
"Maybe he can't handle it,"
I say aloud when wondering why
the response never came.
Maybe the word "friend" crossed a line.
Should've kept a safe distance.
Should've kept the plan the same.
Should've brushed my teeth
right after the burrito.
The clock chimes, the needles prick
another day is spent
ripping nails from toes and fingers.
It's not the lack of money anymore.
It's that every day's the same.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Redux" by John Updike.
3.24.2011
The Cavalry Only Comes When the Mortarmen Are Sleeping
I was asked to write this so I did. Jeff Buckley's arpeggiated Fender Telecaster cried reverb-soaked notes as he sang his rendition of "Hallelujah" in my ears through ancient headphones at least eight times in the process. Make of it what you will or won't. No holds barred, no punches pulled. I hope it's good enough, Babe.
"The Cavalry Only Comes When the Mortarmen Are Sleeping"
The American Dream is perhaps the biggest lie of the previous century. Americans, as citizens of a rising and ruling superpower, needed something to cling onto to justify their goal of global Manifest Destinty; something wholesome, something sweet, something different from the imperialistic continent from which they came-- so they centralized their goal and made it succinct: two-and-a-half kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. What honest person wouldn't aspire to that dream? It's humble, it's pure, it's seemingly obtainable with enough diligence and a democratic government to protect its existence. I, on the other hand, have far more honest reasons for wanting it: I missed it on the first time around, as did my parents, and I want to better the world that I call home.
Is it so wrong that I'm trying to break a cycle started generations before my life began? Stubborn, maybe; a small fish in a big pond trying to make a difference with a meager flick of the tail. But haven't you heard of the tidal wave on one coast starting due to a butterfly's flapping wings on the opposite shore? It takes some action, no matter how small, to start a revolution. It takes a family getting it right to make up for years of wasted effort, wasted youth, wasted potential, wasted space. Frankly, I've spent enough time being wasted. There were many things I never had as a child, one of them being a home. My mother didn't literally; she moved thirteen times within the same three neighboring towns during her childhood due to the tough economic circumstances faced by a single widow of three who couldn't speak the native tongue. My father, wherever he is, had a house on a hill in the nice part of town where his family owned a profitable tavern and restaurant. Regardless, it was no home. My grandfather, a drunk I never met and hope to never meet in any possible Afterlife, would come home from his establishment drunk on Puerto Rican rum, ironically, and beat the innocence out of the boy who would someday sprout me. Even the family dog would hide under the nearest bed. My dad, then a gangly wuss at a prominent Catholic private school in Westchester County, took it like a man-- more of a man than his father would ever be, World War II veteran or not. I never knew about my dad's struggle until six years ago, and even then it wasn't because he told me. My aunt and mother filled me in on those quiet years of which he never spoke. It broke my heart to hear how he ached, and it hurt even more to learn that he'd hidden it for so long. A true martyr doesn't show his stripes. I suppose my hobby denies me that status, but so be it; I'd rather use my talent. My father tried not to expose his anguish, but in the end his lack of a proper home cost him. He wasn't able to build the domestic eutopia he'd longed for as a young man; in fact, he did quite the opposite. His dream was like a feather floating on the water: the harder he tried to get closer to it, the further away it slipped. And for most of the first twenty-seven years of my life it's been quite the same. I haven't seen him for more than four years, but I know now why my mother left him when I was seven. It took years to understand her motives. Even though I know she did what was best for both of us, the lover of the underdog in me still weeps for that broken man who gave me the last name by which I've come to be known-- that is, to say, if anyone really knows me. I've walked in your tired steps, old man. I've made the same mistakes and curse myself for it.
But not now. Not anymore. Hopefully, God-willing, never again. I want to right those wrongs. I know the dangers of both traps: the physical and the emotional. I've seen both parents fail, but I've also seen them triumph. These eyes have witnessed a lot in their brief time on Earth. In some light they look like my mother's. I'm proud of that, the warm chocolate comfort that hers have always exuded reflected in my own; but more often than not they look like my dad's, those foreign dark globes which mine haven't met for over four years. They're searching, they're hurting, they're his. Maybe it's time to change both views. Maybe it's time to make them mine. Maybe I need to set my sight, my sites, on something bigger: painting that white picket fence that both parents failed to obtain. It's only a heap of wood driven into the ground, but I've yet to buy one. In fact, last week I ripped a few haggard sections of it out of the yard where I live temporarily since they were a peeling-paint disgrace to the neighborhood. But deep inside this cynical walking wound of a plumber I know that there will be a time, there will be a reckoning; and when that time comes I'll revel in its holy glory. Even the greatest sinner has his moment next to Christ. Ask the redeemed thief hanging by his hands on Golgotha. No; in ten years ask me.
"The Cavalry Only Comes When the Mortarmen Are Sleeping"
The American Dream is perhaps the biggest lie of the previous century. Americans, as citizens of a rising and ruling superpower, needed something to cling onto to justify their goal of global Manifest Destinty; something wholesome, something sweet, something different from the imperialistic continent from which they came-- so they centralized their goal and made it succinct: two-and-a-half kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. What honest person wouldn't aspire to that dream? It's humble, it's pure, it's seemingly obtainable with enough diligence and a democratic government to protect its existence. I, on the other hand, have far more honest reasons for wanting it: I missed it on the first time around, as did my parents, and I want to better the world that I call home.
Is it so wrong that I'm trying to break a cycle started generations before my life began? Stubborn, maybe; a small fish in a big pond trying to make a difference with a meager flick of the tail. But haven't you heard of the tidal wave on one coast starting due to a butterfly's flapping wings on the opposite shore? It takes some action, no matter how small, to start a revolution. It takes a family getting it right to make up for years of wasted effort, wasted youth, wasted potential, wasted space. Frankly, I've spent enough time being wasted. There were many things I never had as a child, one of them being a home. My mother didn't literally; she moved thirteen times within the same three neighboring towns during her childhood due to the tough economic circumstances faced by a single widow of three who couldn't speak the native tongue. My father, wherever he is, had a house on a hill in the nice part of town where his family owned a profitable tavern and restaurant. Regardless, it was no home. My grandfather, a drunk I never met and hope to never meet in any possible Afterlife, would come home from his establishment drunk on Puerto Rican rum, ironically, and beat the innocence out of the boy who would someday sprout me. Even the family dog would hide under the nearest bed. My dad, then a gangly wuss at a prominent Catholic private school in Westchester County, took it like a man-- more of a man than his father would ever be, World War II veteran or not. I never knew about my dad's struggle until six years ago, and even then it wasn't because he told me. My aunt and mother filled me in on those quiet years of which he never spoke. It broke my heart to hear how he ached, and it hurt even more to learn that he'd hidden it for so long. A true martyr doesn't show his stripes. I suppose my hobby denies me that status, but so be it; I'd rather use my talent. My father tried not to expose his anguish, but in the end his lack of a proper home cost him. He wasn't able to build the domestic eutopia he'd longed for as a young man; in fact, he did quite the opposite. His dream was like a feather floating on the water: the harder he tried to get closer to it, the further away it slipped. And for most of the first twenty-seven years of my life it's been quite the same. I haven't seen him for more than four years, but I know now why my mother left him when I was seven. It took years to understand her motives. Even though I know she did what was best for both of us, the lover of the underdog in me still weeps for that broken man who gave me the last name by which I've come to be known-- that is, to say, if anyone really knows me. I've walked in your tired steps, old man. I've made the same mistakes and curse myself for it.
But not now. Not anymore. Hopefully, God-willing, never again. I want to right those wrongs. I know the dangers of both traps: the physical and the emotional. I've seen both parents fail, but I've also seen them triumph. These eyes have witnessed a lot in their brief time on Earth. In some light they look like my mother's. I'm proud of that, the warm chocolate comfort that hers have always exuded reflected in my own; but more often than not they look like my dad's, those foreign dark globes which mine haven't met for over four years. They're searching, they're hurting, they're his. Maybe it's time to change both views. Maybe it's time to make them mine. Maybe I need to set my sight, my sites, on something bigger: painting that white picket fence that both parents failed to obtain. It's only a heap of wood driven into the ground, but I've yet to buy one. In fact, last week I ripped a few haggard sections of it out of the yard where I live temporarily since they were a peeling-paint disgrace to the neighborhood. But deep inside this cynical walking wound of a plumber I know that there will be a time, there will be a reckoning; and when that time comes I'll revel in its holy glory. Even the greatest sinner has his moment next to Christ. Ask the redeemed thief hanging by his hands on Golgotha. No; in ten years ask me.
3.22.2011
An Accusatory Essay on Anachronistic Acrobatics
Our existence is a constant trade. Those who are honest admit to being guilty of the sad cycle-- exchanging one thing for the next like a reckless Wall Street amateur (you, yes you, you know who you are). This seems fair for That, and That is bettered by Over Yonder, and Over Yonder's hills are eventually no longer as green as those Rolling Meadows on the horizon just shy of that blinding sun. You can plug in whatever specifics you like: a career path; a home; a bottle blonde in too-tight business attire. We've traded, we've bartered, we've hurt and been hurt in the process, and as a result we've walked away unfairly unscathed (I stole that line from a high school sweetheart kind enough to refuse the taking of my innocence who later rescinded her stance on the matter) like a drunk driver from an accident that killed three innocent people (I borrowed that scenario from what usually happens since the drunk's body's been loosened by the alcohol and flops around like a ragdoll upon impact); but more often than not we've been disappointed, and by the most dangerous people possible: ourselves. Somewhere along the way we fouled up. One of those deals was not as kosher as we thought. The one that followed was even less copacetic. Finally, too far down the spiral to swim our ways back up, we realized all was lost. We were lost. We were headed for the plumbing trap, sometimes quite literally. That hopeful kid in the yearbook photograph became a painful joke. We weren't destined for Great Things like those blank stares and airbrushed complexions suggested. Hell, we'd be lucky to survive, and Hell itself became very real; as real as Death and taxes. So now towards the end of this soapbox manifesto I implore you: chase that passion you'd like to be paid to pursue; find that place good enough to hang up your holsters; seek out that poor girl you wasted and say Hello for the Hell of it; and then, if you're a fool like me, you'll find that broken link in the chain and try to undo the hapless years of missteps. Don't worry. They're only laughing because they know you're right and can't deal with another abortion. Who can? I can't. We can't. Amen.
3.18.2011
Swearing Off Jameson
The station sign blurs by
through a window, southbound train
and he wonders if the others
seated near him know
what Spuyten Duyvil means.
It's Dutch for Spite the Devil.
It's not a place, it's a promise
like the short life expectancy
of currency on a New York City street.
His stop comes up, he stands
and shoulders his heavy burden.
The nylon strap digs in, draws blood
from tender neck-flesh.
It's the price to pay to travel
where he'll never call his home.
Another price, another promise
another good excuse
for threadbare socks and dirty heels.
He's glad none of his lovelies
will see him act the fool
or lose his lucky boxers
in the worst of human ways.
Metal jaws close behind him.
He's committed to the night
and thankful that it's young.
There are worse fates than the Bronx.
There are worse friends than he's got.
He lights a long-awaited smoke
and sets his course for Broadway.
through a window, southbound train
and he wonders if the others
seated near him know
what Spuyten Duyvil means.
It's Dutch for Spite the Devil.
It's not a place, it's a promise
like the short life expectancy
of currency on a New York City street.
His stop comes up, he stands
and shoulders his heavy burden.
The nylon strap digs in, draws blood
from tender neck-flesh.
It's the price to pay to travel
where he'll never call his home.
Another price, another promise
another good excuse
for threadbare socks and dirty heels.
He's glad none of his lovelies
will see him act the fool
or lose his lucky boxers
in the worst of human ways.
Metal jaws close behind him.
He's committed to the night
and thankful that it's young.
There are worse fates than the Bronx.
There are worse friends than he's got.
He lights a long-awaited smoke
and sets his course for Broadway.
3.15.2011
Wet Work of an Era and a Cure for Swimmer's Ear
It's been a long travail
with this yearly lung infection
and the color that I cough
is not the color that I sneeze.
Sunday's gin and Monday's menthols
didn't help the cure, but what is life
without some living? Only bores
avoid the vice.
I've been eating lots of oranges
and maintaining fluid intake.
Chicken soup, garlic, and the word
will fix the rest.
But in the middle of my mucus
there's a small dab of salvation.
I'd been tossing snotty tissues
across the ballfield of my room
missing the can every time like a lush.
It dawned on me, the fourth day in
to move the basket to the bedside
since no one claims that half
of the floorboards anymore.
See, you doubting Tommies:
I told you there was room.
When the organist starts sweating
it's not always a bad sign.
with this yearly lung infection
and the color that I cough
is not the color that I sneeze.
Sunday's gin and Monday's menthols
didn't help the cure, but what is life
without some living? Only bores
avoid the vice.
I've been eating lots of oranges
and maintaining fluid intake.
Chicken soup, garlic, and the word
will fix the rest.
But in the middle of my mucus
there's a small dab of salvation.
I'd been tossing snotty tissues
across the ballfield of my room
missing the can every time like a lush.
It dawned on me, the fourth day in
to move the basket to the bedside
since no one claims that half
of the floorboards anymore.
See, you doubting Tommies:
I told you there was room.
When the organist starts sweating
it's not always a bad sign.
3.12.2011
En Otra Vida
I could hide five
inside my chest cavity.
I could cram two
in the valves of my heart.
I'm no more me than you.
I'm no more green than blue.
We should hide behind our pen names
since the master's gone for good.
Walking wounded to the rear
of this medicated nation.
Catholic girls in pleated plaid
can grind the guilt away.
Don't look at me in that tone of voice
turning lesbians straight
and the opposite, too
pissing out fires and backpedaled mantras
while the welterweight champion
draws blood in her room.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit, Run" by John Updike.
inside my chest cavity.
I could cram two
in the valves of my heart.
I'm no more me than you.
I'm no more green than blue.
We should hide behind our pen names
since the master's gone for good.
Walking wounded to the rear
of this medicated nation.
Catholic girls in pleated plaid
can grind the guilt away.
Don't look at me in that tone of voice
turning lesbians straight
and the opposite, too
pissing out fires and backpedaled mantras
while the welterweight champion
draws blood in her room.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit, Run" by John Updike.
3.09.2011
Pluto's Not a Planet (Anymore)
The townie counters, posts a rebuttal.
"Who are you to dream of Artemis?"
An artificial offering to a god too high to care
in the form of time and street soot
wiped from white-topped appliances
fails to sate the blood's shameful call.
"Your form has less splendor by the syllable."
There's little left to argue.
There's no one left who cares.
The townie counters, rolls over in bed.
There will be other chances to knock
down doors begging to be skipped.
For now it's a nap, a brief wrestle with
a salty subconscious too laden with loss
to be the sleep of the just. There is rhyme
and there is reason, but they're both
so out of reach.
The townie cowers, masks his queer pain.
There will be a reckoning.
No one gets away forever.
In the meantime if you miss her
read the book of Revelations.
She's in it a lot
along with her horses;
a nightcap; a footnote; a brief taste
of cyanide.
"Who are you to dream of Artemis?"
An artificial offering to a god too high to care
in the form of time and street soot
wiped from white-topped appliances
fails to sate the blood's shameful call.
"Your form has less splendor by the syllable."
There's little left to argue.
There's no one left who cares.
The townie counters, rolls over in bed.
There will be other chances to knock
down doors begging to be skipped.
For now it's a nap, a brief wrestle with
a salty subconscious too laden with loss
to be the sleep of the just. There is rhyme
and there is reason, but they're both
so out of reach.
The townie cowers, masks his queer pain.
There will be a reckoning.
No one gets away forever.
In the meantime if you miss her
read the book of Revelations.
She's in it a lot
along with her horses;
a nightcap; a footnote; a brief taste
of cyanide.
Smoker's Cough Soliloquy
A rattlesnake's a gentleman.
He warns before he strikes.
The shaking tail, the tell-tale noise;
you've earned it if he bites.
There are rainstorms in the desert.
There are dust clouds over seas.
There are lots of things I'll never grasp
like why such Beauties fell for me.
It's a dry spell if it happens
intentional or not.
Who wants to be a rebound?
I'd trade my key in for a lock.
It's a date if David's paying.
It's a shame if David does.
At the rate that David's going
the drunk will fade to buzzed.
He likes to speak in riddles.
He likes to talk in maths.
He likes to like to like to like.
He tends to like too fast.
The rattlesnake's a gentleman.
He tries to play by rules.
He's well aware they don't exist.
The rattlesnake's no fool.
He warns before he strikes.
The shaking tail, the tell-tale noise;
you've earned it if he bites.
There are rainstorms in the desert.
There are dust clouds over seas.
There are lots of things I'll never grasp
like why such Beauties fell for me.
It's a dry spell if it happens
intentional or not.
Who wants to be a rebound?
I'd trade my key in for a lock.
It's a date if David's paying.
It's a shame if David does.
At the rate that David's going
the drunk will fade to buzzed.
He likes to speak in riddles.
He likes to talk in maths.
He likes to like to like to like.
He tends to like too fast.
The rattlesnake's a gentleman.
He tries to play by rules.
He's well aware they don't exist.
The rattlesnake's no fool.
3.06.2011
Dinner Party Flatulence and Other Minor Offenses
The wind's whipping, howling
through the high-rise apartments
of the Upper West Side
and I feel like a fake:
Here I am in an aunt's guestroom
like a thief amongst the righteous.
(They crucified them both
on the same holy hill.)
I'd kill for arms across my chest.
I'd kill for frighteningly less.
A recent conversation comes
recklessly to mind.
He tells me he gave her a lift
from the bar, she and another girl.
They wound up at someone's house, maybe his.
He got distracted, forgot she was downstairs.
When he went to fetch a glass of water
from the kitchen she asked for a ride home
from a corner of the pitch black living room.
"Scared me half to death," he laughs
as my heart sinks with the familiar image.
An invisible hook tugs at the spot
where my large and small intestines meet.
I shake it off, keep rolling. It was getting
back at me, and failed. Pity is a wonderdrug.
My plumbing's better than my painting.
My whining trumps them both.
And the next person to make a Charlie Sheen joke
will be plucking their teeth from my knuckles.
through the high-rise apartments
of the Upper West Side
and I feel like a fake:
Here I am in an aunt's guestroom
like a thief amongst the righteous.
(They crucified them both
on the same holy hill.)
I'd kill for arms across my chest.
I'd kill for frighteningly less.
A recent conversation comes
recklessly to mind.
He tells me he gave her a lift
from the bar, she and another girl.
They wound up at someone's house, maybe his.
He got distracted, forgot she was downstairs.
When he went to fetch a glass of water
from the kitchen she asked for a ride home
from a corner of the pitch black living room.
"Scared me half to death," he laughs
as my heart sinks with the familiar image.
An invisible hook tugs at the spot
where my large and small intestines meet.
I shake it off, keep rolling. It was getting
back at me, and failed. Pity is a wonderdrug.
My plumbing's better than my painting.
My whining trumps them both.
And the next person to make a Charlie Sheen joke
will be plucking their teeth from my knuckles.
3.02.2011
The Conjugal and the Damned
I pace the porch
cigarette in hand
like a caged tiger
itching to get out
and taste the flesh of the world
or what it's supposed to be.
Even now at midnight
there are some expectations.
"I can't do it yet,"
I shadow-box to the overhead bulb
between drags on my menthol.
"Then it's really over."
It's not so much that absence;
it's that I'm forced to shop alone
but I've been saving cardboard boxes
because I know it's time.
My room's spewing enough
books and thrift-store T-shirts.
Perhaps someone will help me--
the clothes and the pictures, at least.
"No, that's no good either,"
my wiser side counters
like a sweeping left hook
to the clock that stopped last year.
"I'd beg them to stay
for ice cream and a movie."
You clingy, predictable
bastard, you.
Though it's by choice
that I'm still chaste
at least for twenty-seven;
a self-induced dryspell
thinly veiled
as making change.
The old lady next door
sees me chatting with myself
and Mr. Marlboro.
She rubs her curlers, lowers the blinds
frowns at the fate of her progeny.
I can't see the latter
but I feel it just the same.
I smash out my smoke
in the tin ashtray
and go inside to take
what's left:
a good, foamy piss.
Aim to hit the bubbles, kid.
There.
You've said it.
Now get up, put pants on
and go outside
to make what you've written real.
The imagery was decent.
You've almost got yourself
convinced.
If only local women
were impressed
by hearts on sleeves.
Chat Roulette, I hate you
and may move to Indiana.
Currently reading:
"Secret Diary of a Call Girl" by Anonymous.
cigarette in hand
like a caged tiger
itching to get out
and taste the flesh of the world
or what it's supposed to be.
Even now at midnight
there are some expectations.
"I can't do it yet,"
I shadow-box to the overhead bulb
between drags on my menthol.
"Then it's really over."
It's not so much that absence;
it's that I'm forced to shop alone
but I've been saving cardboard boxes
because I know it's time.
My room's spewing enough
books and thrift-store T-shirts.
Perhaps someone will help me--
the clothes and the pictures, at least.
"No, that's no good either,"
my wiser side counters
like a sweeping left hook
to the clock that stopped last year.
"I'd beg them to stay
for ice cream and a movie."
You clingy, predictable
bastard, you.
Though it's by choice
that I'm still chaste
at least for twenty-seven;
a self-induced dryspell
thinly veiled
as making change.
The old lady next door
sees me chatting with myself
and Mr. Marlboro.
She rubs her curlers, lowers the blinds
frowns at the fate of her progeny.
I can't see the latter
but I feel it just the same.
I smash out my smoke
in the tin ashtray
and go inside to take
what's left:
a good, foamy piss.
Aim to hit the bubbles, kid.
There.
You've said it.
Now get up, put pants on
and go outside
to make what you've written real.
The imagery was decent.
You've almost got yourself
convinced.
If only local women
were impressed
by hearts on sleeves.
Chat Roulette, I hate you
and may move to Indiana.
Currently reading:
"Secret Diary of a Call Girl" by Anonymous.
2.26.2011
A Slow Growth on the Soul
By the time the volunteer ambulance rolled up to 37 Onnit Road the window of opportunity had closed-- not the one to save Gary Schlecker's dwindling life; the one to justify turning the lights and siren on while escorting his body to whatever white, sterile walls awaited it. That was the only reward in a case like his, especially if you'd ever loaned him money or bought him a drink.
"Here, Sam. Wipe this under your nostrils," Lonnie said as he handed Sam a jar of Vick's. He conjured it from under the passenger's seat of the meat wagon after it pulled into the driveway. "The cops on Gary's porch have that twisted look on their faces. It's gonna be a ripe one."
Sam spun off the lid of the pungent cream and spread an over-zealous, two-inch length of blue well past the edges of his nose.
"You're the best tech this town's got, Lon," Sam said matter-of-factly.
Little tricks like the Vick's impressed those who worked with Lonnie. He never discredited their claims, but deep down in his simple, suburban heart he knew that he was an observer, not a genius. He saw the odor-fighting trick on a detective show once. The hip, shoulder-holstered cops applied the ointment under their noses before fingerprinting an especially rancid crime scene. He made a mental note of the technique before retiring to bed next to his slightly overweight wife. I'll wow them with this one, Lonnie thought as he drifted off to the pleasant land where his thirty-year mortgage didn't exist. The monsters of dreamscapes didn't work in the medium of paper. For Lonnie, Sam, and most other men in their tax bracket with similar IQs, the worst things encountered during sleep consisted of the fairer sex and younger versions of themselves. Tight-bodied cheerleaders had transformed into cottage-cheesed soccer moms in the familiar scenario that the game of life churned out over and over. Quarterbacks retired to armchairs and beer packed on pounds with a vengeance. It seemed unfair to all parties involved, including the electric company. Few folks over thirty had their weekly consummation without turning the lights off first.
The things they could've done. The places they could've gone. The love they could've made. The horror of the long list of possibilities crept into Lonnie's distracted mind as he and Sam walked to the back of the ambulance.
"Gary's better off," he slipped, half-consciously.
"What's that?" Sam asked. The overabundance of noxious chemicals under Sam's nose was beginning to affect his brain slightly. It was a side effect Sam looked forward to every time. An innocent buzz was one of the many simple pleasures that Gary would no longer be eligible to enjoy. He'd gone and died. Safer, but limited. It seemed a fair trade to those who knew the score, or could at least read the board. Lonnie was one of the latter.
The two men wheeled the stretcher to the side entrance of the house. Anyone from town could tell that the door near the stone porch was the one to use. Only new delivery men bothered with the one out front. Sgt. Daniels was wiping sweat from his forehead with what looked like a lace handkerchief. No one questioned Sgt. Daniels when it came to his decisions.
"My mouth won't do your eyes justice," the sergeant said in his guttural voice. "And it smells even worse than it looks. You may want to..." but he trailed off after noticing the streak across Sam's oblivious face. "Take a deep breath before you go in there. It looks like old Gary's been gone for awhile, maybe more than two weeks."
"Yeah, haven't seen him at O'Malley's lately," Sam blurted out, instantly regretting his statement and hoping that no one could smell last night's folly on his breath.
"Hasn't been to church much, either," Lonnie said as he locked eyes with the chief. "At least not according to the bingo demographic." Sam exhaled lightly. He loved going on calls with Lonnie. He could get him out of anything.
"You boys leave the investigating to me," Sgt. Daniels told the two unlikely small-town paramedics. "We're all done in there for now if you'd like to dignify the deceased."
That last phrase was one that always stuck in Lonnie's head. It sounded so grandiose, gave his part-time role a true sense of meaning. There were nights when he considered the legitimacy of the siren rides that led right to the morgue. The front page of the 'Herald' was a better place than the obituaries, but someone had to bring them there-- 'them' being his neighbors. "Dignifying the deceased" was about as good a way as anyone could put such a morbid task as corpse removal. Lonnie wondered if Sgt. Daniels had coined the term himself in his years on the force or if it came pre-packaged in some little-known law enforcement handbook.
He doubted that Sam or any of the other volunteer ambulance drivers had the same line of thinking. He doubted if a lot of people thought much at all. It all started with the eyes; sight, an awakening. Too many people wore blinders complacently. Half as many over-indulged in their not-so-innocent thrills of choice. Sam wasn't alone in his cups. Lonnie was alone in his skull. Even his well-meaning wife couldn't help that. She could barely work off last winter's hibernation roll that had formed around the waistline of her jeans. Lonnie didn't begrudge her that. Truth be told, he'd always liked his women a pinch on the plus side. Skinny people, like Sam's habit of chewing gum religiously on every morning call, couldn't be trusted.
"Let me get the door for you gentelmen," Sgt. Daniels said as he turned the volume knob on his radio all the way to the right, putting himself on the grid once again.
The medical examiner was packing a bag of instruments as Sam and Lonnie rolled the stretcher through the kitchen. Neither of them knew his name. He worked for the county and was not as permanent a fixture as Sgt. Daniels. His title sufficed. The harbinger of death was not someone with whom any small-town locals wanted to be on a first-name basis.
"If the fall didn't kill him, the black mold would've," the M.E. uttered. "Another few months at best." His tone was frighteningly professional. It justified the sentiments held by the two men there to collect their neighbor.
"And all this time I thought it was only smoker's cough," Sam whispered to Lonnie, trying not to speak loudly enough to give their ominous colleague a reason to chat any further.
Lonnie maintained his silence. There was a level of reverence he believed should be present when performing such a task. Gary's last passage through his doorway would be an honorable one if he had anything to say about it, or not say; but when they reached the bathroom where Gary's body was sprawled out on the floor that silent state of grace changed.
"My God. Gary's a flower pot," Sam blurted. It was true. Their deceased acquaintance was face-up, mouth gaping, vast expanse of black mold creeping from his throat. It spread down from his face and covered the linoleum floor around him. The shower curtain that he'd grabbed and pulled down in an attempt to break his lethal fall covered his naked body. All that protruded was that cracked, gushing head and the mold to which it gave birth.
"Looks like all the drywall's going to have to be ripped out," Sam said as he locked the stretcher's wheels. Lonnie usually had to remind him to do so, but that was not the case for a change. "They'll probably need a barrel of bleach to scrub this place, too. Once that black mold gets into a house it's almost impossible to..."
"Sam. Shut up and help me lift him," Lonnie said. Sam lowered is head and complied. There'd been enough speculation for one day. It was time to do what they'd been called to do. Silence was golden and Gary was dead and nothing anyone could say would change either of those facts.
Sam reached through the shower curtain and grabbed the backs of Gary's calves with his rubber-gloved hands. There was an unmentioned understanding that Lonnie always lifted the top half of the body, no matter whom he was working with that day. He seemed like a header.
"One. Two. Lift," Lonnie said, his hands hooking Gary's armpits, as they hoisted him onto the stretcher. They covered the body with the white sheet they'd brought in and prepared to wheel Gary out to the daylight. For some reason, as was normally the case, they both paused and turned back towards the spot where the corpse had lain for two solid weeks. The mold hadn't grown on the floor that Gary's body had covered, leaving a perfect outline of his final pose in the form of a white-on-black silhoutte on the cheap linoleum flooring.
Sam couldn't bear to keep it inside of him. It was worth another scolding. Out with it he came. "It's sort of beautiful, Lon."
"Yeah. It sort of is."
And the two of them turned and rolled Gary home.
"Here, Sam. Wipe this under your nostrils," Lonnie said as he handed Sam a jar of Vick's. He conjured it from under the passenger's seat of the meat wagon after it pulled into the driveway. "The cops on Gary's porch have that twisted look on their faces. It's gonna be a ripe one."
Sam spun off the lid of the pungent cream and spread an over-zealous, two-inch length of blue well past the edges of his nose.
"You're the best tech this town's got, Lon," Sam said matter-of-factly.
Little tricks like the Vick's impressed those who worked with Lonnie. He never discredited their claims, but deep down in his simple, suburban heart he knew that he was an observer, not a genius. He saw the odor-fighting trick on a detective show once. The hip, shoulder-holstered cops applied the ointment under their noses before fingerprinting an especially rancid crime scene. He made a mental note of the technique before retiring to bed next to his slightly overweight wife. I'll wow them with this one, Lonnie thought as he drifted off to the pleasant land where his thirty-year mortgage didn't exist. The monsters of dreamscapes didn't work in the medium of paper. For Lonnie, Sam, and most other men in their tax bracket with similar IQs, the worst things encountered during sleep consisted of the fairer sex and younger versions of themselves. Tight-bodied cheerleaders had transformed into cottage-cheesed soccer moms in the familiar scenario that the game of life churned out over and over. Quarterbacks retired to armchairs and beer packed on pounds with a vengeance. It seemed unfair to all parties involved, including the electric company. Few folks over thirty had their weekly consummation without turning the lights off first.
The things they could've done. The places they could've gone. The love they could've made. The horror of the long list of possibilities crept into Lonnie's distracted mind as he and Sam walked to the back of the ambulance.
"Gary's better off," he slipped, half-consciously.
"What's that?" Sam asked. The overabundance of noxious chemicals under Sam's nose was beginning to affect his brain slightly. It was a side effect Sam looked forward to every time. An innocent buzz was one of the many simple pleasures that Gary would no longer be eligible to enjoy. He'd gone and died. Safer, but limited. It seemed a fair trade to those who knew the score, or could at least read the board. Lonnie was one of the latter.
The two men wheeled the stretcher to the side entrance of the house. Anyone from town could tell that the door near the stone porch was the one to use. Only new delivery men bothered with the one out front. Sgt. Daniels was wiping sweat from his forehead with what looked like a lace handkerchief. No one questioned Sgt. Daniels when it came to his decisions.
"My mouth won't do your eyes justice," the sergeant said in his guttural voice. "And it smells even worse than it looks. You may want to..." but he trailed off after noticing the streak across Sam's oblivious face. "Take a deep breath before you go in there. It looks like old Gary's been gone for awhile, maybe more than two weeks."
"Yeah, haven't seen him at O'Malley's lately," Sam blurted out, instantly regretting his statement and hoping that no one could smell last night's folly on his breath.
"Hasn't been to church much, either," Lonnie said as he locked eyes with the chief. "At least not according to the bingo demographic." Sam exhaled lightly. He loved going on calls with Lonnie. He could get him out of anything.
"You boys leave the investigating to me," Sgt. Daniels told the two unlikely small-town paramedics. "We're all done in there for now if you'd like to dignify the deceased."
That last phrase was one that always stuck in Lonnie's head. It sounded so grandiose, gave his part-time role a true sense of meaning. There were nights when he considered the legitimacy of the siren rides that led right to the morgue. The front page of the 'Herald' was a better place than the obituaries, but someone had to bring them there-- 'them' being his neighbors. "Dignifying the deceased" was about as good a way as anyone could put such a morbid task as corpse removal. Lonnie wondered if Sgt. Daniels had coined the term himself in his years on the force or if it came pre-packaged in some little-known law enforcement handbook.
He doubted that Sam or any of the other volunteer ambulance drivers had the same line of thinking. He doubted if a lot of people thought much at all. It all started with the eyes; sight, an awakening. Too many people wore blinders complacently. Half as many over-indulged in their not-so-innocent thrills of choice. Sam wasn't alone in his cups. Lonnie was alone in his skull. Even his well-meaning wife couldn't help that. She could barely work off last winter's hibernation roll that had formed around the waistline of her jeans. Lonnie didn't begrudge her that. Truth be told, he'd always liked his women a pinch on the plus side. Skinny people, like Sam's habit of chewing gum religiously on every morning call, couldn't be trusted.
"Let me get the door for you gentelmen," Sgt. Daniels said as he turned the volume knob on his radio all the way to the right, putting himself on the grid once again.
The medical examiner was packing a bag of instruments as Sam and Lonnie rolled the stretcher through the kitchen. Neither of them knew his name. He worked for the county and was not as permanent a fixture as Sgt. Daniels. His title sufficed. The harbinger of death was not someone with whom any small-town locals wanted to be on a first-name basis.
"If the fall didn't kill him, the black mold would've," the M.E. uttered. "Another few months at best." His tone was frighteningly professional. It justified the sentiments held by the two men there to collect their neighbor.
"And all this time I thought it was only smoker's cough," Sam whispered to Lonnie, trying not to speak loudly enough to give their ominous colleague a reason to chat any further.
Lonnie maintained his silence. There was a level of reverence he believed should be present when performing such a task. Gary's last passage through his doorway would be an honorable one if he had anything to say about it, or not say; but when they reached the bathroom where Gary's body was sprawled out on the floor that silent state of grace changed.
"My God. Gary's a flower pot," Sam blurted. It was true. Their deceased acquaintance was face-up, mouth gaping, vast expanse of black mold creeping from his throat. It spread down from his face and covered the linoleum floor around him. The shower curtain that he'd grabbed and pulled down in an attempt to break his lethal fall covered his naked body. All that protruded was that cracked, gushing head and the mold to which it gave birth.
"Looks like all the drywall's going to have to be ripped out," Sam said as he locked the stretcher's wheels. Lonnie usually had to remind him to do so, but that was not the case for a change. "They'll probably need a barrel of bleach to scrub this place, too. Once that black mold gets into a house it's almost impossible to..."
"Sam. Shut up and help me lift him," Lonnie said. Sam lowered is head and complied. There'd been enough speculation for one day. It was time to do what they'd been called to do. Silence was golden and Gary was dead and nothing anyone could say would change either of those facts.
Sam reached through the shower curtain and grabbed the backs of Gary's calves with his rubber-gloved hands. There was an unmentioned understanding that Lonnie always lifted the top half of the body, no matter whom he was working with that day. He seemed like a header.
"One. Two. Lift," Lonnie said, his hands hooking Gary's armpits, as they hoisted him onto the stretcher. They covered the body with the white sheet they'd brought in and prepared to wheel Gary out to the daylight. For some reason, as was normally the case, they both paused and turned back towards the spot where the corpse had lain for two solid weeks. The mold hadn't grown on the floor that Gary's body had covered, leaving a perfect outline of his final pose in the form of a white-on-black silhoutte on the cheap linoleum flooring.
Sam couldn't bear to keep it inside of him. It was worth another scolding. Out with it he came. "It's sort of beautiful, Lon."
"Yeah. It sort of is."
And the two of them turned and rolled Gary home.
2.23.2011
Friends Don't Let Friends Write Bad Poetry.
Operator! Operator!
We've got a live one on the line.
This is as close as you'll get
to Christmas this year.
What's that I hear
of tactical advantage?
Another flouncing fawn
upon the sacrificial floormat
that like motives
never change.
There are times to run
and times to fight
and times to ration your ammo
'cause the cavalry ain't coming
and the General's dying orders
were lost in garbled lung-blood.
So suit up in the intermission
and lace up for the let-down.
This is not your chapter six.
It's not time to move on yet.
When the barbecue grill's smoking
and the dough is reeling in
you'll laugh off 3:00 am
pretending not to know
these nights.
We've got a live one on the line.
This is as close as you'll get
to Christmas this year.
What's that I hear
of tactical advantage?
Another flouncing fawn
upon the sacrificial floormat
that like motives
never change.
There are times to run
and times to fight
and times to ration your ammo
'cause the cavalry ain't coming
and the General's dying orders
were lost in garbled lung-blood.
So suit up in the intermission
and lace up for the let-down.
This is not your chapter six.
It's not time to move on yet.
When the barbecue grill's smoking
and the dough is reeling in
you'll laugh off 3:00 am
pretending not to know
these nights.
2.22.2011
Missionary, Legs Over Shoulders:
That's how Lady Luck's been
givin' it to ya' lately
and you take it like a champ
not a chump
not crying
about your cervix
to the closest
set of ears.
What's next but
the old Navy saying:
"BOHICA"--
Bend over, here it comes again.
And ya' don't stop
'cause ya' can't stop.
Let the boys be boys, lieutenant.
I spent a lot of time
trying on bodies
and found one that fit
but only at night.
Dammit, corporal.
Fetch her some slippers
and if there are none in this town
we'll blow the next one
to pieces
in the name of the Father
the sun, and the Whole-Wheat Ghost.
A curse upon the silent eye;
the taste of too much pressure.
I don't like it anymore.
It smells like sin and failure.
It's never too late to quit, private.
Not even at twenty-seven.
You can keep her, brother.
I know the scent already.
The truthful scars will free themselves
long after stripes and shots:
Grandpa never jumped
on a grenade to save his buddies.
He was working on the boiler
drunk when it exploded.
Rub-a-dug-dub.
Thanks for the grub.
Greece must be better than this.
givin' it to ya' lately
and you take it like a champ
not a chump
not crying
about your cervix
to the closest
set of ears.
What's next but
the old Navy saying:
"BOHICA"--
Bend over, here it comes again.
And ya' don't stop
'cause ya' can't stop.
Let the boys be boys, lieutenant.
I spent a lot of time
trying on bodies
and found one that fit
but only at night.
Dammit, corporal.
Fetch her some slippers
and if there are none in this town
we'll blow the next one
to pieces
in the name of the Father
the sun, and the Whole-Wheat Ghost.
A curse upon the silent eye;
the taste of too much pressure.
I don't like it anymore.
It smells like sin and failure.
It's never too late to quit, private.
Not even at twenty-seven.
You can keep her, brother.
I know the scent already.
The truthful scars will free themselves
long after stripes and shots:
Grandpa never jumped
on a grenade to save his buddies.
He was working on the boiler
drunk when it exploded.
Rub-a-dug-dub.
Thanks for the grub.
Greece must be better than this.
2.20.2011
Whilst rinsing and repeating...
Pisces, unoriginal--
you modern, model youth.
With your phone and late-night glow
you show such little couth.
Driver, now suspended--
who will lead them to the end
searching crowded taprooms
til Last Call for making friends?
Son, not so prodigal--
your dad's laugh sounds the same.
You sold his birthday shotgun.
All that's left now is his name.
Are you wearing ruby slippers?
'Cause you might get blown away.
New York's the same as Kansas:
Nothing gold can stay.
you modern, model youth.
With your phone and late-night glow
you show such little couth.
Driver, now suspended--
who will lead them to the end
searching crowded taprooms
til Last Call for making friends?
Son, not so prodigal--
your dad's laugh sounds the same.
You sold his birthday shotgun.
All that's left now is his name.
Are you wearing ruby slippers?
'Cause you might get blown away.
New York's the same as Kansas:
Nothing gold can stay.
2.18.2011
Another reason why the Chinese deserve to win.
In our silent stupor
we pound them back
like lumberjacks.
I drizzle syrup over rocks
on the stainless altar
of the night's slow demise
placing my emptied glass
on the right
because it's easiest to remember
since that's what I am.
A mnemonic device
they call it.
In my case
a condition
though I'm not the only one.
If you're ever in the market
for a comfortable casket
I have a friend
who'll help you look.
Don't worry about his mirror trick.
It's no different from the way
we'll all disappear.
Mea culpa, Father.
It's not one to stick on the fridge
even if there were
magnets strong enough.
I blame its lack in substance
candor, cadence
on a forestalled morning
cigarette: thank God--
something I can remedy.
For every action there's a loss.
Currently reading:
"Narcissus and Goldmund" by Hermann Hesse.
we pound them back
like lumberjacks.
I drizzle syrup over rocks
on the stainless altar
of the night's slow demise
placing my emptied glass
on the right
because it's easiest to remember
since that's what I am.
A mnemonic device
they call it.
In my case
a condition
though I'm not the only one.
If you're ever in the market
for a comfortable casket
I have a friend
who'll help you look.
Don't worry about his mirror trick.
It's no different from the way
we'll all disappear.
Mea culpa, Father.
It's not one to stick on the fridge
even if there were
magnets strong enough.
I blame its lack in substance
candor, cadence
on a forestalled morning
cigarette: thank God--
something I can remedy.
For every action there's a loss.
Currently reading:
"Narcissus and Goldmund" by Hermann Hesse.
2.11.2011
How I'll Think of Manhattan While Burning in Hell
We lay entangled
in her vermillion bedsheets
a lazy Friday night
as we wish the rest of them to be
in our midst
after a meal that more than satisfied
our bellies.
There may be wine or cocktails later
but it matters little to either of us.
I feel the suction give way as
I pull my ear from her right shoulder
to praise the silhouette of her stray hairs
in the nightstand lamp--
a lunar eclipse of the fairest kind.
Lowering my head back down
to hear the ocean of her precious inner workings--
the ebb and flow of a system
that I'm thankful to have found
and pray to mix with mine someday.
My sideways view is simple
but as complex as it need be.
An orange glow illuminates the fine paths
in her skin as I breathe in the smell of home.
She shifts her weight from one shoulder
to the other and for the first time in my life
I fall in love with the tendon in a person's neck.
The strap of her bra curves over her left shoulder
not six inches from my face; though straight
as an arrow, it's the most imperfect line
in my present privileged view.
I'd be lying if I told you
I'm this lucky every night
but the greater shame would be
to deny the truth
that when it's there
I see it
and am grateful.
in her vermillion bedsheets
a lazy Friday night
as we wish the rest of them to be
in our midst
after a meal that more than satisfied
our bellies.
There may be wine or cocktails later
but it matters little to either of us.
I feel the suction give way as
I pull my ear from her right shoulder
to praise the silhouette of her stray hairs
in the nightstand lamp--
a lunar eclipse of the fairest kind.
Lowering my head back down
to hear the ocean of her precious inner workings--
the ebb and flow of a system
that I'm thankful to have found
and pray to mix with mine someday.
My sideways view is simple
but as complex as it need be.
An orange glow illuminates the fine paths
in her skin as I breathe in the smell of home.
She shifts her weight from one shoulder
to the other and for the first time in my life
I fall in love with the tendon in a person's neck.
The strap of her bra curves over her left shoulder
not six inches from my face; though straight
as an arrow, it's the most imperfect line
in my present privileged view.
I'd be lying if I told you
I'm this lucky every night
but the greater shame would be
to deny the truth
that when it's there
I see it
and am grateful.
2.10.2011
Pest Perspective
It was a good one, and snuck up on me
like any good one does. The book I'd
recently received in the mail on Papa's guns
kept me company while I sat on the porcelain
and did what I'd gone there to do.
Just as quickly as it started
it was over; conveniently, I'd just finished
a chapter. I love when that happens. It seems right.
Take what you can get and be grateful.
You'll lead a fuller life.
Like most honest people I peered into the bowl
while I stood and wiped. Nothing out of the ordinary.
No blood-- always a good sign. But then that claim
of normalcy changed. Something moved. Then it
moved again. I saw legs and antennae swimming around
at the surface of the water. The venison in my gut
re-sprouted its antlers and turned ninety-degrees.
At first I thought it came from me; a parasite, a tapeworm
a demon from hell. Then I sobered up. It was a silverfish
common to my house at night. It must've fallen into
the toilet before I'd entered the bathroom and I hadn't noticed.
What honest person looks before they squat?
Relieved, though slightly disturbed, I resumed with the
customary wiping. The next wad of tissue landed on the critter
intentionally. I couldn't bear to see its grotesque dance with
death anymore. It made my dinner quiver.
But when I pushed that chrome lever down it dawned on me
which of us was the lucky one. I would return to my nightly routine
only to go down the tubes in a figurative sense if the laid-off pattern
of empty-wallet misery progressed. The bug, on the other hand
would shortly be quite dead after a putrid drowning death
sans company of Davy Jones in my overfilled septic tank.
And yes, I mean to call myself the victor in that scenario.
It could always be worse, ladies and hosts.
Currently reading:
"Hemingway's Guns" by Calabi, Helsley, and Sanger.
like any good one does. The book I'd
recently received in the mail on Papa's guns
kept me company while I sat on the porcelain
and did what I'd gone there to do.
Just as quickly as it started
it was over; conveniently, I'd just finished
a chapter. I love when that happens. It seems right.
Take what you can get and be grateful.
You'll lead a fuller life.
Like most honest people I peered into the bowl
while I stood and wiped. Nothing out of the ordinary.
No blood-- always a good sign. But then that claim
of normalcy changed. Something moved. Then it
moved again. I saw legs and antennae swimming around
at the surface of the water. The venison in my gut
re-sprouted its antlers and turned ninety-degrees.
At first I thought it came from me; a parasite, a tapeworm
a demon from hell. Then I sobered up. It was a silverfish
common to my house at night. It must've fallen into
the toilet before I'd entered the bathroom and I hadn't noticed.
What honest person looks before they squat?
Relieved, though slightly disturbed, I resumed with the
customary wiping. The next wad of tissue landed on the critter
intentionally. I couldn't bear to see its grotesque dance with
death anymore. It made my dinner quiver.
But when I pushed that chrome lever down it dawned on me
which of us was the lucky one. I would return to my nightly routine
only to go down the tubes in a figurative sense if the laid-off pattern
of empty-wallet misery progressed. The bug, on the other hand
would shortly be quite dead after a putrid drowning death
sans company of Davy Jones in my overfilled septic tank.
And yes, I mean to call myself the victor in that scenario.
It could always be worse, ladies and hosts.
Currently reading:
"Hemingway's Guns" by Calabi, Helsley, and Sanger.
2.07.2011
Snowjob
I'm not sure which one of us invented it. Lower middle-class kids growing up in a suburban condominium development are always a touch on the sadistic side. Call it an occupational hazard if you must give it a label. It's simply part of the territory. Regardless, we were all to be blamed for its widespread success in our neighborhood, just as the entire group present was responsible if a ball hit a window during an impromptu game. Sure, the glass never broke, but that didn't matter to the bitter old folks inside. We were hoodlums as far as they were concerned, and our parents were to be notified if necessary. Little did they know, and little did anyone know since it never came down to it, but our parents wouldn't have cared. They had bigger things to worry about. They had mortgages and mouths to feed. They were losing sleep at night.
When that snow fell in blankets and school was closed we weren't playing ball anymore. It was snowball fight time. Fortresses could be built out of the heaps left by plow trucks. The older kids learned not to bother with that strategy. Nothing lasted forever, be it the spring thaw or the change in power that rendered its construction pointless. We could all cope with that sun's rays making our winter battleground dissipate, but to see our bunkers taken over by hands other than the ones that built them and then used against us was a price we weren't willing to pay. We tried to avoid being overrun in very much the same way that adults have done it since the beginning of time: we formed teams, alliances, coalitions. Somehow, be it through human nature or the will of the gods, the lines drawn in the snow always made sense. One side was comprised of the honor roll sector, the chorus kids and band kids, and a handful of the less talented sports players. The other team was made up of mouth-breathers, bullies who picked on nerds and music geeks, children of parents who'd blamed their divorces on their offspring, and the sports players who could've gone pro. The little league pitchers with arms worth anything never wound up on the former team. It was strength in numbers and maybe a stroke of luck or two that won wars. That still happened for a few of us back then.
The battle could start at any time. All it took was one innocent throw to commence the onslaught and one well-aimed ball of ice to some poor sap's face to end it. Somewhere in between was where the magic happened, where the early stages of character development shone through: acts of bravery, acts of cowardice, maliciously packed iceballs hurled at wool-capped heads, the celebration of the sore-armed victors, the dispersion of casualties across the white terrain, the retreat of the snow-caked losers-- all of these would shape who we'd become, would act as unnoticed foreshadowing for the rest of our lives, would be the excuse we'd use for being late for dinner.
All of that was fair and good and righteous in its chaste simplicity. But God forbid it came to hand-to-hand combat. Wrestling in the snow never ended well. All parties involved became covered in ice crystals that would penetrate their clothing and make the walk home that much more miserable. It usually started with a bum-rush and ended with the single, most contemptful act that I can remember growing up: the snowjob. As I said, I don't remember who came up with the idea. Maybe it was always there and only had to be discovered by each up-and-coming generation, like French kissing and tax fraud. The snowjob was a cruel maneuver used in desperation by the underdog or as a demoralizing deathblow dealt by the soon-to-be-winner. Its execution was far simpler than its repurcussions-- all one had to do was shove their unfortunate little buddy's face in the snow and hold it there for a few seconds. The aftermath, on the other hand, was not so succinct. There was yelling, there was crying, there were comical forays into cursing which had yet to be explored. All of these were made funnier by the victim's bright red face. Snow, it turns out, burns quite nicely when it comes in contact with human skin, especially that of a tender young specimen. Devices from the Spanish Inquisition weren't needed to perform our childhood torture; nor was an increase in age. There's a bit of a monster in all of us. The only difference is what action it takes, and to what extreme, for that mean beast to come out.
"My pal with the plow truck almost killed some stupid kid the other day," my friend and sometimes-coworker told me as we discussed our current laid-off adventures over the phone. Apparently, as we get older, building a fort in a snow mound goes from being a bad idea for tactical reasons to a down-right deadly decision. The conversation continued, but all I could think of was my days of cupping snow into ammunition. "Hey, are you listening?" he asked after noticing my prolonged absence from the dialogue. "Yes," I lied as I silently considered if I was finally paying for all the snowjobs I'd given over the years, literal and otherwise. Now I know why my mother wouldn't have cared about a ball hitting a window. Now I know why she's suffered from insomnia; still does. Even with only my mouth to feed the world's a harsh enough place. Now I wish that I could endure the receiving end of one last snowjob if it'd make this relentless daymare go away.
Who am I kidding? I invented it.
When that snow fell in blankets and school was closed we weren't playing ball anymore. It was snowball fight time. Fortresses could be built out of the heaps left by plow trucks. The older kids learned not to bother with that strategy. Nothing lasted forever, be it the spring thaw or the change in power that rendered its construction pointless. We could all cope with that sun's rays making our winter battleground dissipate, but to see our bunkers taken over by hands other than the ones that built them and then used against us was a price we weren't willing to pay. We tried to avoid being overrun in very much the same way that adults have done it since the beginning of time: we formed teams, alliances, coalitions. Somehow, be it through human nature or the will of the gods, the lines drawn in the snow always made sense. One side was comprised of the honor roll sector, the chorus kids and band kids, and a handful of the less talented sports players. The other team was made up of mouth-breathers, bullies who picked on nerds and music geeks, children of parents who'd blamed their divorces on their offspring, and the sports players who could've gone pro. The little league pitchers with arms worth anything never wound up on the former team. It was strength in numbers and maybe a stroke of luck or two that won wars. That still happened for a few of us back then.
The battle could start at any time. All it took was one innocent throw to commence the onslaught and one well-aimed ball of ice to some poor sap's face to end it. Somewhere in between was where the magic happened, where the early stages of character development shone through: acts of bravery, acts of cowardice, maliciously packed iceballs hurled at wool-capped heads, the celebration of the sore-armed victors, the dispersion of casualties across the white terrain, the retreat of the snow-caked losers-- all of these would shape who we'd become, would act as unnoticed foreshadowing for the rest of our lives, would be the excuse we'd use for being late for dinner.
All of that was fair and good and righteous in its chaste simplicity. But God forbid it came to hand-to-hand combat. Wrestling in the snow never ended well. All parties involved became covered in ice crystals that would penetrate their clothing and make the walk home that much more miserable. It usually started with a bum-rush and ended with the single, most contemptful act that I can remember growing up: the snowjob. As I said, I don't remember who came up with the idea. Maybe it was always there and only had to be discovered by each up-and-coming generation, like French kissing and tax fraud. The snowjob was a cruel maneuver used in desperation by the underdog or as a demoralizing deathblow dealt by the soon-to-be-winner. Its execution was far simpler than its repurcussions-- all one had to do was shove their unfortunate little buddy's face in the snow and hold it there for a few seconds. The aftermath, on the other hand, was not so succinct. There was yelling, there was crying, there were comical forays into cursing which had yet to be explored. All of these were made funnier by the victim's bright red face. Snow, it turns out, burns quite nicely when it comes in contact with human skin, especially that of a tender young specimen. Devices from the Spanish Inquisition weren't needed to perform our childhood torture; nor was an increase in age. There's a bit of a monster in all of us. The only difference is what action it takes, and to what extreme, for that mean beast to come out.
"My pal with the plow truck almost killed some stupid kid the other day," my friend and sometimes-coworker told me as we discussed our current laid-off adventures over the phone. Apparently, as we get older, building a fort in a snow mound goes from being a bad idea for tactical reasons to a down-right deadly decision. The conversation continued, but all I could think of was my days of cupping snow into ammunition. "Hey, are you listening?" he asked after noticing my prolonged absence from the dialogue. "Yes," I lied as I silently considered if I was finally paying for all the snowjobs I'd given over the years, literal and otherwise. Now I know why my mother wouldn't have cared about a ball hitting a window. Now I know why she's suffered from insomnia; still does. Even with only my mouth to feed the world's a harsh enough place. Now I wish that I could endure the receiving end of one last snowjob if it'd make this relentless daymare go away.
Who am I kidding? I invented it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)