I was in my father's house
where I grew up
a common dreamscape
as of late.
He'd gone out to the garage
and I'd snuck inside.
I was taking a leak
with the bathroom door ajar
when I noticed someone stirring
in the bedroom across the hall.
Peeping through the crack between
the hinge side of the door and the wall
I saw two round eyes watching me.
"Sorry," I said. "Didn't see you there
otherwise I would've closed the door."
"It's alright," she answered in a sultry
Eastern European accent.
"I've been wanting to meet you."
I was surprised he'd even told her about me.
After finishing my business I zipped up
and entered the room that was tinted blue
by the sunlight coming through the curtains
just as I remember it being in there.
She was sprawled out on the bed
like a woman posing for a painting
you'd see behind a bar from the Old West
right on down to the lacy white nothings
that barely covered her smooth young body.
Her face was very round and soft
her wavy brown hair neatly kept.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Twenty-five," she answered coyly
rubbing her hands together and looking at the floor.
He's married a woman less than half his age
I thought to myself.
She must've heard the gears turning
because she chimed right in
with a list of Biblical figures with young wives
as if that made it normal.
Yeah, they were two peas in a pod alright.
"I won the Nobel Prize, you know," she said
as a last resort to her argument.
"In what?"
"Loving God," her naive smile replied
like such a category existed.
It was hard, but I managed not to vomit.
That's when I realized it was all a bad dream.
Soulmates, that was for sure.
My discontent didn't turn her off too much
though; the next thing I knew
my head was in her hands and she was kissing me
deeply, pulling my hands to her plump young buttocks
and whimpering like a Goddamn lamb.
"Where are you from?" I asked between breaths
while trying to escape Delilah's scissors.
"Canada," she lied.
Russia, the Ukraine, maybe a Polak;
she was no Canadian, not even the French kind.
She stepped out of the white doily shielding her loins
and pulled me down on top of her sparse sprinkling
of curly brown hair before I could protest.
The noises she made shed all innocence at that point.
It sounded like she needed it.
I heard a door slam outside and knew it was time to run.
The old man would be back soon.
"Fe Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of a Puerto Rican"
and all that jazz.
I pulled away and made my escape through
the blue curtains.
When I woke up shortly afterwards
I checked my phone and saw that my stepfather
and one of my employers had both called.
They must've known, they tried to save me.
No more pondering life before bed.
Even my subconscious is out for me:
My heart, on a platter, covered in Marinara, al dente.
It's so much legalese for something so simple.
He'll never get it.
Currently reading:
"Death in the Afternoon" by Ernest Hemingway.
11.26.2008
11.25.2008
It was easy to shine in a one-horse town.
My teachers didn't know what to do
with me as a kid.
I remember being bored and unimpressed
in the second and third grades
at Highland Falls Elementary
with subjects that I had already absorbed
one way or another.
"He's ahead of his years, with a very dry
sense of humor," one teacher told my parents.
I asked my mom what a dry sense of humor was.
She said she couldn't explain it to me.
I hoped it wasn't a bad thing.
Those poor middle-aged ladies
must've felt bad for me half-asleep
at my desk, or they just didn't want
to have to go out of their ways to
keep me stimulated.
Some form of undeclared arrangement
came about along the way where I
was allowed to conduct independent studies
on the faux-marble floor of the hallway
in a safe niche under the stairwell.
They'd try to challenge me with
a task that seemed appropriate
according to their training
but I'd always go my own route
and impress them in the process
with my extracurriculars.
Eventually they gave up trying to direct me
in anticipation of what I'd come up with next.
One time I wrote an investigative paper
on a locally famous mountain, Anthony's Nose
complete with interviews with my classmates
regarding their own personal experiences.
Then there was a trite little folder of
perfectly dreadful rhyming poems I conjured
which was still sitting in the drawer of
a bureau at my father's house the last time
I was there.
Stories, skits, battle scenes, board games designed
on huge pieces of oak tag that my teachers
willingly supplied; anything to keep me happy
and productive.
"He's so creative, Mrs. Vahsen.
We don't want to get in his way."
As if I'd let them.
On the contrary, I had them wrapped.
Sometimes I'd go so far as to request
the assistance of a classmate or two.
Certain projects needed more than one
person and my collaborators were always
grateful to me for being rescued
from the mundane lessons being taught
in those stuffy classrooms.
There was a boy named James Hilligas
who was frequently my partner in pointless ventures.
His sandy hair covered his head in tight curls
and his pale blue eyes and milky skin
gave him the appearance of a ghost
which is all he is anymore.
Other kids would be playing tag
during recess, but James and I
would be too busy finishing our latest project for that.
I don't know what ever happened to him
but I doubt he remembers the shy kid
with the big brown eyes who would
spend hours coming up with plots
and pictures for assignments that weren't assigned;
wastes of paper, more than anything.
A crusade against the grain.
My best work was done alone, of course.
Without the need to filter ideas through another mind
one could really lay it out there, really make those
stick figures come to life in whatever they were doing.
Choosing adjectives were never a problem that way either.
The down side of working alone on that glossy floor
in the hallway was that people walking by
often got the wrong idea and shook their heads.
They assumed I had misbehaved and was being punished
with banishment from the rest of the class.
It shamed me to feel that way in their eyes
but I never bothered trying to explain myself.
Besides, maybe in a way they were right.
Here I am sixteen years later
still under those stairs in a sense
and the only real difference is that
my poems don't rhyme.
No matter, though; it's gotten me this far.
Jimmy? You out there?
with me as a kid.
I remember being bored and unimpressed
in the second and third grades
at Highland Falls Elementary
with subjects that I had already absorbed
one way or another.
"He's ahead of his years, with a very dry
sense of humor," one teacher told my parents.
I asked my mom what a dry sense of humor was.
She said she couldn't explain it to me.
I hoped it wasn't a bad thing.
Those poor middle-aged ladies
must've felt bad for me half-asleep
at my desk, or they just didn't want
to have to go out of their ways to
keep me stimulated.
Some form of undeclared arrangement
came about along the way where I
was allowed to conduct independent studies
on the faux-marble floor of the hallway
in a safe niche under the stairwell.
They'd try to challenge me with
a task that seemed appropriate
according to their training
but I'd always go my own route
and impress them in the process
with my extracurriculars.
Eventually they gave up trying to direct me
in anticipation of what I'd come up with next.
One time I wrote an investigative paper
on a locally famous mountain, Anthony's Nose
complete with interviews with my classmates
regarding their own personal experiences.
Then there was a trite little folder of
perfectly dreadful rhyming poems I conjured
which was still sitting in the drawer of
a bureau at my father's house the last time
I was there.
Stories, skits, battle scenes, board games designed
on huge pieces of oak tag that my teachers
willingly supplied; anything to keep me happy
and productive.
"He's so creative, Mrs. Vahsen.
We don't want to get in his way."
As if I'd let them.
On the contrary, I had them wrapped.
Sometimes I'd go so far as to request
the assistance of a classmate or two.
Certain projects needed more than one
person and my collaborators were always
grateful to me for being rescued
from the mundane lessons being taught
in those stuffy classrooms.
There was a boy named James Hilligas
who was frequently my partner in pointless ventures.
His sandy hair covered his head in tight curls
and his pale blue eyes and milky skin
gave him the appearance of a ghost
which is all he is anymore.
Other kids would be playing tag
during recess, but James and I
would be too busy finishing our latest project for that.
I don't know what ever happened to him
but I doubt he remembers the shy kid
with the big brown eyes who would
spend hours coming up with plots
and pictures for assignments that weren't assigned;
wastes of paper, more than anything.
A crusade against the grain.
My best work was done alone, of course.
Without the need to filter ideas through another mind
one could really lay it out there, really make those
stick figures come to life in whatever they were doing.
Choosing adjectives were never a problem that way either.
The down side of working alone on that glossy floor
in the hallway was that people walking by
often got the wrong idea and shook their heads.
They assumed I had misbehaved and was being punished
with banishment from the rest of the class.
It shamed me to feel that way in their eyes
but I never bothered trying to explain myself.
Besides, maybe in a way they were right.
Here I am sixteen years later
still under those stairs in a sense
and the only real difference is that
my poems don't rhyme.
No matter, though; it's gotten me this far.
Jimmy? You out there?
11.24.2008
On stepping into the same river twice.
My father really pushed me
to go to The University at Albany
for a reason that didn't reveal itself
at the time
but it seems clear now:
His
One That Got Away
Anne
went there almost forty years ago.
His predictably awkward college visits
consisted of useless care packages
and coffee-fueled diner sermons.
I believe he was hoping
that somewhere in between
he'd find her still waiting for him
sitting by that hideous concrete fountain
at the center of the campus.
The last time I saw him two years back
he was ranting and raving about his current God
but I know damn well from the experience
of being his similarly-fated progeny
just who controlled the weather back then
when he was my age, and it was
that silly broad.
(You have to get up pretty early
to fool this one, Charlie.)
So listen, Pops, if you're out there:
we can suck on that bitter reed of life
for only so long, trying to keep it wet
for a second shot at that big solo
but guess what--
It ain't comin'.
You keep pounding your Good Book
and I'll crack the spines of mine
in our efforts to suck the marrow out
but that won't change a Goddamn thing, either.
(You have to get up even earlier
to fool that One.)
Silence is golden
but duct tape is silver
and you know I'm hard-up
for a line
if I'm stealing stuff
from bumper stickers
and my old man.
Give me her address.
I'll forward the loans.
to go to The University at Albany
for a reason that didn't reveal itself
at the time
but it seems clear now:
His
One That Got Away
Anne
went there almost forty years ago.
His predictably awkward college visits
consisted of useless care packages
and coffee-fueled diner sermons.
I believe he was hoping
that somewhere in between
he'd find her still waiting for him
sitting by that hideous concrete fountain
at the center of the campus.
The last time I saw him two years back
he was ranting and raving about his current God
but I know damn well from the experience
of being his similarly-fated progeny
just who controlled the weather back then
when he was my age, and it was
that silly broad.
(You have to get up pretty early
to fool this one, Charlie.)
So listen, Pops, if you're out there:
we can suck on that bitter reed of life
for only so long, trying to keep it wet
for a second shot at that big solo
but guess what--
It ain't comin'.
You keep pounding your Good Book
and I'll crack the spines of mine
in our efforts to suck the marrow out
but that won't change a Goddamn thing, either.
(You have to get up even earlier
to fool that One.)
Silence is golden
but duct tape is silver
and you know I'm hard-up
for a line
if I'm stealing stuff
from bumper stickers
and my old man.
Give me her address.
I'll forward the loans.
Mild Profundity from Rm. 236 of the Oasis Resort (and Chinese Buffet) in Oneonta, New York.
That relic of a television didn't work
which was O.K. since we'd brought our books
and young libidos
but to be truthful
most of my learning
was done in the shower
as usual:
The best part about staying at a motel
is wasting all of those tiny hair conditioner packages
on your beard, your pits, your crotch, whatever
and not feeling one bit guilty.
Currently reading:
"Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger.
which was O.K. since we'd brought our books
and young libidos
but to be truthful
most of my learning
was done in the shower
as usual:
The best part about staying at a motel
is wasting all of those tiny hair conditioner packages
on your beard, your pits, your crotch, whatever
and not feeling one bit guilty.
Currently reading:
"Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger.
11.22.2008
No choppers, no napalm, no cavalry coming.
"It'll be a routine mission," Franco muttered to himself in his best John Wayne. Boy was that a lie. Most of the things stated at that briefing were incorrect: the drop zone, the locations of the various targets, the amount of cover provided by the jungle to aid in the ambush and the retreat, the number of men they'd be up against. None of those factors by itself would have caused the unfortunate outcome, but the combination of them was catastrophic. If any of those things had gone right maybe the rest of his squad wouldn't have been pinned down and slaughtered, maybe he wouldn't have been knocked unconscious by that concussion grenade and then captured. But it was no time for maybes; Franco heard footsteps coming towards the barn where he was being kept. He lifted his chin from his chest and tensed his muscles against the ropes that bound him to the chair. They wouldn't find him limp when they walked in. He owed his fallen comrades that.
Three coffee-colored men walked in without acknowledging his presence. Their shirts were unbuttoned down to the gut and they were laughing. Drunk, he thought. Celebrating their victory over an American Special Forces unit. The one who laughed the loudest produced a bottle from his pocket and passed it around. He could see the sweat dripping from their greasy black hair. The adrenaline of the firefight had worn off in their bodies and the alcohol was taking over. Good, Franco thought. These guys are like Boy Scouts with machine guns, and they don't have those machine guns right now. He was trained to take on multiple men twice his size at once. It was just a matter of waiting for the opportunity. Timing was everything. If only that grenade hadn't gone off when it did. He could still see his buddies' faces. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head to get those thoughts out of his head. Spots of blood appeared on the floor every time his head swung back and forth. They must've roughed him up pretty bad. He didn't even realize he was bleeding until then.
Franco heard the squeaky barn door open again and fixed his blurred eyes in that direction. A fourth man had walked in carrying a burlap sack. He looked directly at Franco tied to the chair in the middle of the barn and hurled the bag towards him. It landed five feet short of hitting him. The severed head of his squad leader rolled out and stared at him. Elyosh. What was his first name, though? Franco couldn't remember. With a name like Elyosh what else would you be called? At least he wasn't married. The Department of Defense would have to stretch the truth in that letter-- "Died mercifully quick in valiant service to his Country." What they never included in those letters was what became of the body. Elyosh here was being used as a scare tactic, leverage to pry Franco's mouth wide open. He couldn't let that happen. He spit at the head and yelled in Spanish that he hated that bastard anyway. Letting on that he knew their language so soon might have been a strategic mistake according to the textbook, but Franco knew it didn't matter in this case. These guys were butchers. It wouldn't be long, whatever was coming.
The one with the bottle tried to pass the liquor to the head-thrower, but he shoved it back at his chest without taking his eyes off Franco. He barked some orders at the other three men and made his way towards Elyosh's pitiful remains. In a move reminiscent of his soccer days, the apparent leader of the group of guerrillas kicked the head right into Franco's lap. "There," he said. "Now you can tell him just how you feel." The man's Spanish was impeccable, not a mushy rural dialect like the others in the area spoke. He was educated, probably nowhere near the cesspool of a nation he was now in. Establishing the Man in Charge-- step one in the process of hostage negotiation, but this was the wrong chapter. Franco thought back to the ones on interrogation and torture. He couldn't remember a thing. The Army didn't teach you how to lose. Maybe that's why they were starting to, all over the world. Franco parted his thighs and let Elyosh fall back to the ground. The head made a dull thud like a coconut falling into sand.
The man stepped closer and introduced himself as Manolo. He wore the same tattered uniform as the rest of the soldiers in the compound, but with a sense of pride. It was buttoned properly and maintained to regulation standards that probably didn't exist. Manolo believed in what he was doing. That made him dangerous. He took one step back from Franco, pulled his leg back, and kicked him in the shin like his mother's dignity was on the line. Franco's eyes crossed in anguish, but it happened so fast that he didn't have time to scream. "We're going to have some fun, Yankee...but first you're going to tell me what I want to know." Franco glanced down at Elyosh and promised him that wouldn't happen. He thought back to the worst situations he'd been in, the hardest things he had to do. They all paled in comparison compared to the punishment that was about to be endured in silence for the sake of Duty; not the kind they pound into you as you go through the System. That was a Duty to Country, a blind patriotism that had gotten a lot of farmboys and dimestore hoodlums killed over the years. The type of dedication Franco would have to rely on was the kind that's only learned on the battlefield, the love for the man in the foxhole next to you. He'd been on so many night missions with that handful of men that he could tell which one was standing next to him based on the smell of his sweat. He looked at the head again. Elyosh always reeked of garlic, even when they'd been in the field for weeks on end and hadn't eaten food flavored with something other than the hot sauce supplied in each pre-packaged ration. The rest of the guys always made fun of him for it and told him that's why he hadn't roped a shackjob yet. The half of Franco's face that wasn't blackened from the gunpowder let itself smile for the first time in days. There. He had what he needed now.
"Oh, you think it's funny?" Manolo kicked his other shin so hard that the chair fell over sideways. Still no sound from Franco's lips other than the heavy breathing. His head was facing the back end of the barn so he couldn't see what was going on. He heard the drunk men across the barn stop talking. Something bad was about to happen. Manolo's voice cut across the room-- "Sanchez! Bring that can of gasoline over here!" A rustling of objects and deliberate footsteps coming closer made Franco's heart rate double. Manolo plucked the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the side of Franco's head. The audible singe and smell of burning hair surpassed all other sensory information being delivered to Franco's fatigued brain. He thought this only happened in movies. He thought even if he did escape by some miracle his wife would never recognize him after what was about to happen. The liquid rained down from behind, soaked his hair and ran down his face. The smell of urine filled his nostrils and he realized he'd been duped. Kick, kick, bluff: that was the pattern. The soldiers standing near the entrance laughed and Manolo zipped his pants back up. "There," he said. "That's better." Three seconds later a foot came crashing down on Franco's hands that were tied behind the back of the chair. He felt a shattered bone pierce the skin of one of his fingers. He couldn't tell which one anymore. Kick, kick, bluff, kick. "That piss sure seemed to fall a long way before hitting me. Your wife must be terribly disappointed." Manolo laughed uncomfortably. They both knew who held the cards, petty insults at ones manhood didn't matter.
Manolo grabbed Franco's sleeve and pulled him back into a sitting position, this time facing the back of the barn. "What were you after? This is a low-profile installation with nothing worth dying over, not for you at least. Two hundred men and some anti-aircraft nests, a few minor political prisoners from local towns." Franco swallowed some blood and responded, making sure to roll his R's beautifully. "You might want to count your men again, you seem to be mistaken." More futile rib shots. Franco had nothing left to lose, he only wanted to die well. There would be no birds swooping in to extract him. Choppers would not be dispatched, the life-saving sound of their droning whirl would never be heard by his ears again. He couldn't even hope for an airstrike to blow them all to hell and put him out of his misery. Any knowledge of the entire mission would be denied by the boys Stateside. It'd be like Elyosh, Franco, and the others never even existed. That was the nature of the covert ops business, though. They knew what they were getting into when they signed up. He snapped out of this mental tangent to the excruciating pain of his broken hand being squeezed by his captor, the blood spurting from the hole where the bone was protruding and soaking into the dirt floor. Don't scream, he thought to himself. It's almost over.
There was a sweltering humidity in the air and the current circumstances were not helping matters. Manolo raised his hand to his brow and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His long fingers spread across his eyes and cheeks as if deep in thought. When he lowered his hand there were red smears of Franco's blood on his face. He stared intently at his prisoner, then glanced at Elyosh's head on the floor, finally fixing his gaze at the drunk soldiers near the door of the barn still drinking and laughing under the dim fluorescent light. Franco couldn't make out the meaning of Manolo's expression. In a tone more suited for a tax audit interview he asked him one more time why they'd been sent to infiltrate the base. As expected no answer came, just more blood on the ground from the wounded soldier's hand and mouth. "As you wish," he whispered before sweeping passed Franco, ripping his dog tags from his neck in the process, and heading over to the other men.
Franco pictured his wife and children, and his dead mother. His first love. The dog that ran away when he was a kid. Even the ninth-grade Spanish teacher who taught him to roll those R's. Then all went black and his stubbled chin dropped back down to that broad chest of an old-time prize fighter.
The shot rang out and scared the soldiers sober. "Why'd you kill him so soon?" asked the one who had offered Manolo the bottle previously. "You know headquarters would've liked to interrogate him." Manolo picked up the spent cartridge from the ground and slipped it into his pocket next to Franco's dog tags before answering. "He wouldn't have cracked," he said before gesturing for the bottle and taking a long hit. "Get rid of the body," he said without making eye contact with anyone. Manolo walked out of the barn and into the dense night air alive with insects and saltpeter. The mirror was cruel to him as he washed the blood off his hands and face in the latrine before leaving the base and heading home.
Later that night while lying in bed his wife asked him what was wrong, why he didn't want to make love for the first time since their courtship. "I executed a man stronger than me today. Somehow he won, even in death." He rolled over and faced the wall, wondering if she had ever really enjoyed a night of nuptial consummation. Had he ever pleased a woman a day in his life? A faint laugh came from the pocket of his pants crumpled up on the floor as the jungle hummed around his cottage for what would be the longest night of his life.
Three coffee-colored men walked in without acknowledging his presence. Their shirts were unbuttoned down to the gut and they were laughing. Drunk, he thought. Celebrating their victory over an American Special Forces unit. The one who laughed the loudest produced a bottle from his pocket and passed it around. He could see the sweat dripping from their greasy black hair. The adrenaline of the firefight had worn off in their bodies and the alcohol was taking over. Good, Franco thought. These guys are like Boy Scouts with machine guns, and they don't have those machine guns right now. He was trained to take on multiple men twice his size at once. It was just a matter of waiting for the opportunity. Timing was everything. If only that grenade hadn't gone off when it did. He could still see his buddies' faces. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head to get those thoughts out of his head. Spots of blood appeared on the floor every time his head swung back and forth. They must've roughed him up pretty bad. He didn't even realize he was bleeding until then.
Franco heard the squeaky barn door open again and fixed his blurred eyes in that direction. A fourth man had walked in carrying a burlap sack. He looked directly at Franco tied to the chair in the middle of the barn and hurled the bag towards him. It landed five feet short of hitting him. The severed head of his squad leader rolled out and stared at him. Elyosh. What was his first name, though? Franco couldn't remember. With a name like Elyosh what else would you be called? At least he wasn't married. The Department of Defense would have to stretch the truth in that letter-- "Died mercifully quick in valiant service to his Country." What they never included in those letters was what became of the body. Elyosh here was being used as a scare tactic, leverage to pry Franco's mouth wide open. He couldn't let that happen. He spit at the head and yelled in Spanish that he hated that bastard anyway. Letting on that he knew their language so soon might have been a strategic mistake according to the textbook, but Franco knew it didn't matter in this case. These guys were butchers. It wouldn't be long, whatever was coming.
The one with the bottle tried to pass the liquor to the head-thrower, but he shoved it back at his chest without taking his eyes off Franco. He barked some orders at the other three men and made his way towards Elyosh's pitiful remains. In a move reminiscent of his soccer days, the apparent leader of the group of guerrillas kicked the head right into Franco's lap. "There," he said. "Now you can tell him just how you feel." The man's Spanish was impeccable, not a mushy rural dialect like the others in the area spoke. He was educated, probably nowhere near the cesspool of a nation he was now in. Establishing the Man in Charge-- step one in the process of hostage negotiation, but this was the wrong chapter. Franco thought back to the ones on interrogation and torture. He couldn't remember a thing. The Army didn't teach you how to lose. Maybe that's why they were starting to, all over the world. Franco parted his thighs and let Elyosh fall back to the ground. The head made a dull thud like a coconut falling into sand.
The man stepped closer and introduced himself as Manolo. He wore the same tattered uniform as the rest of the soldiers in the compound, but with a sense of pride. It was buttoned properly and maintained to regulation standards that probably didn't exist. Manolo believed in what he was doing. That made him dangerous. He took one step back from Franco, pulled his leg back, and kicked him in the shin like his mother's dignity was on the line. Franco's eyes crossed in anguish, but it happened so fast that he didn't have time to scream. "We're going to have some fun, Yankee...but first you're going to tell me what I want to know." Franco glanced down at Elyosh and promised him that wouldn't happen. He thought back to the worst situations he'd been in, the hardest things he had to do. They all paled in comparison compared to the punishment that was about to be endured in silence for the sake of Duty; not the kind they pound into you as you go through the System. That was a Duty to Country, a blind patriotism that had gotten a lot of farmboys and dimestore hoodlums killed over the years. The type of dedication Franco would have to rely on was the kind that's only learned on the battlefield, the love for the man in the foxhole next to you. He'd been on so many night missions with that handful of men that he could tell which one was standing next to him based on the smell of his sweat. He looked at the head again. Elyosh always reeked of garlic, even when they'd been in the field for weeks on end and hadn't eaten food flavored with something other than the hot sauce supplied in each pre-packaged ration. The rest of the guys always made fun of him for it and told him that's why he hadn't roped a shackjob yet. The half of Franco's face that wasn't blackened from the gunpowder let itself smile for the first time in days. There. He had what he needed now.
"Oh, you think it's funny?" Manolo kicked his other shin so hard that the chair fell over sideways. Still no sound from Franco's lips other than the heavy breathing. His head was facing the back end of the barn so he couldn't see what was going on. He heard the drunk men across the barn stop talking. Something bad was about to happen. Manolo's voice cut across the room-- "Sanchez! Bring that can of gasoline over here!" A rustling of objects and deliberate footsteps coming closer made Franco's heart rate double. Manolo plucked the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the side of Franco's head. The audible singe and smell of burning hair surpassed all other sensory information being delivered to Franco's fatigued brain. He thought this only happened in movies. He thought even if he did escape by some miracle his wife would never recognize him after what was about to happen. The liquid rained down from behind, soaked his hair and ran down his face. The smell of urine filled his nostrils and he realized he'd been duped. Kick, kick, bluff: that was the pattern. The soldiers standing near the entrance laughed and Manolo zipped his pants back up. "There," he said. "That's better." Three seconds later a foot came crashing down on Franco's hands that were tied behind the back of the chair. He felt a shattered bone pierce the skin of one of his fingers. He couldn't tell which one anymore. Kick, kick, bluff, kick. "That piss sure seemed to fall a long way before hitting me. Your wife must be terribly disappointed." Manolo laughed uncomfortably. They both knew who held the cards, petty insults at ones manhood didn't matter.
Manolo grabbed Franco's sleeve and pulled him back into a sitting position, this time facing the back of the barn. "What were you after? This is a low-profile installation with nothing worth dying over, not for you at least. Two hundred men and some anti-aircraft nests, a few minor political prisoners from local towns." Franco swallowed some blood and responded, making sure to roll his R's beautifully. "You might want to count your men again, you seem to be mistaken." More futile rib shots. Franco had nothing left to lose, he only wanted to die well. There would be no birds swooping in to extract him. Choppers would not be dispatched, the life-saving sound of their droning whirl would never be heard by his ears again. He couldn't even hope for an airstrike to blow them all to hell and put him out of his misery. Any knowledge of the entire mission would be denied by the boys Stateside. It'd be like Elyosh, Franco, and the others never even existed. That was the nature of the covert ops business, though. They knew what they were getting into when they signed up. He snapped out of this mental tangent to the excruciating pain of his broken hand being squeezed by his captor, the blood spurting from the hole where the bone was protruding and soaking into the dirt floor. Don't scream, he thought to himself. It's almost over.
There was a sweltering humidity in the air and the current circumstances were not helping matters. Manolo raised his hand to his brow and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His long fingers spread across his eyes and cheeks as if deep in thought. When he lowered his hand there were red smears of Franco's blood on his face. He stared intently at his prisoner, then glanced at Elyosh's head on the floor, finally fixing his gaze at the drunk soldiers near the door of the barn still drinking and laughing under the dim fluorescent light. Franco couldn't make out the meaning of Manolo's expression. In a tone more suited for a tax audit interview he asked him one more time why they'd been sent to infiltrate the base. As expected no answer came, just more blood on the ground from the wounded soldier's hand and mouth. "As you wish," he whispered before sweeping passed Franco, ripping his dog tags from his neck in the process, and heading over to the other men.
Franco pictured his wife and children, and his dead mother. His first love. The dog that ran away when he was a kid. Even the ninth-grade Spanish teacher who taught him to roll those R's. Then all went black and his stubbled chin dropped back down to that broad chest of an old-time prize fighter.
The shot rang out and scared the soldiers sober. "Why'd you kill him so soon?" asked the one who had offered Manolo the bottle previously. "You know headquarters would've liked to interrogate him." Manolo picked up the spent cartridge from the ground and slipped it into his pocket next to Franco's dog tags before answering. "He wouldn't have cracked," he said before gesturing for the bottle and taking a long hit. "Get rid of the body," he said without making eye contact with anyone. Manolo walked out of the barn and into the dense night air alive with insects and saltpeter. The mirror was cruel to him as he washed the blood off his hands and face in the latrine before leaving the base and heading home.
Later that night while lying in bed his wife asked him what was wrong, why he didn't want to make love for the first time since their courtship. "I executed a man stronger than me today. Somehow he won, even in death." He rolled over and faced the wall, wondering if she had ever really enjoyed a night of nuptial consummation. Had he ever pleased a woman a day in his life? A faint laugh came from the pocket of his pants crumpled up on the floor as the jungle hummed around his cottage for what would be the longest night of his life.
11.18.2008
Locks of Love
The two nights a week I have welding class at my union hall are rough. I work eight hours, then lurk in a dark basement full of welding booths for three more hours. It's a long day and by the time I take my boots off for the first time in fourteen hours and take that much needed shower it's aleady almost time for bed. Tonight's mad dash from the hall's front door led to a careless mistake; when I whipped my keys out of my pocket one of them sprung loose somehow. It was pitch dark by that time, I only knew it had happened because of the clinking sound it made as it bounced off the sidewalk and into the dead leaves on the ground somewhere. I checked my keychain and all of the important ones seemed to still be there. No one likes losing anything, but I tried to focus on the fact that I could still drive home and unlock my front door, and that was all that mattered at the time. I'd find out what seemingly trivial thing I'd lost access to when I'd go to grab that random key and suddenly notice it isn't there.
At the first traffic light I hit during my ride home I pulled up next to an eighteen-wheeler. After inching forward toward the cab I looked up and noticed something large, brown and furry strapped into the passenger seat. I glanced over at the haggard old driver, then back at his mysterious guest to make sure it wasn't his wife. It wasn't. The black plastic eyes that were sewn onto the face reflected the red of the traffic light, and then the pointed ears revealed themselves. This guy had a huge stuffed teddy bear sitting next to him. I'd heard of taking a friend or loved one on those long cross-country treks, but this was something new to me. That guy must really get lonely to resort to that, I thought to myself. Then again, a stufed animal can't disagree or give an old opinionated trucker any lip so maybe it makes sense. But what about the potential for accidents caused due to passing motorists taking their eyes off the road in order to establish what that thing is? Does that really warrant the bear's presense for its faux company factor? And does he bring that thing into the bunk in the back of the cab to spoon with on those cold nights? My appraisal of the unsettling situation came to a screeching hault when those big shiny eyes reflected green instead of red. That bear was his business, and getting home to take those boots off was mine.
Something inside me forced my hand to hit my right directional on at the last minute, something that we'll refer to here as hunger. I knew I could have easily just headed home and crashed after my shower and a few chapters in bed, but that would lead to a miserable morning with a stomach aching until my nine o'clock coffee break. I pulled up to the window after placing my order to pay the girl who was obviously exhausted from a long shift due to the apathy in her voice over the intercom. It shocked me to see that it was someone I'd worked with eight years ago in the fast food industry, or maybe it didn't. She didn't recognize me with the beard and tattoos, but then again she probably wouldn't have remembered me if I still looked like that same clean-cut teenager. Seeing her there all these years later made me appreciate the fact that I was driving home from a tough day at a high-paying construction job followed by an annoying union hall function. It's hard to remember the old water marks at high tide. I handed her the money, she handed me the bag of food, and I made sure to smile and reciprocate when she told me to have a good night. She needed it more than I did.
---------------------------
All of that sympathy went directly out the proverbial window as soon as I got home, though. My stomach was growling so much that I sat right down at the kitchen table to eat without even taking those lead boots off first. A first inspection of the bag's contents frightened me at first, but I placed confidence in that girl's ability to fill a fast-food order after such a long tenure in the field. Maybe she put the biscuits in the bucket with the chicken? I was wrong, and therefore furious. No wonder she never made it out of that line of work, she couldn't even master such a simple task. Who can truly enjoy eating fried chicken without biscuits? Those three fluffy balls of dough symbolized more than three dollars' worth of my bill. I decided to head back across town to get them based on the principle of the thing. That's when it dawned on me: I'd become that guy who we always wondered about when we worked the post-dinner-rush drive-thru, the one who would waste more money on gas coming back for a forgotten item based on the fact that it should have been there in the first place. I was right: even if I didn't have the hairy face or ink she wouldn't have recognized me. And the second time talking to her that night, assertively and politely, she didn't. Maybe all of my changes haven't been for the better.
I pondered that for awhile until I became depressed at the realization that it's a sign of getting old. To lighten the mood I thought about some positive things such as getting paid the next day. That would mean having to swing by my boss' hideout at his favorite bar to have a beer with him, thus rescuing him from his stuffed animal crane machine addiction for half an hour or so, depending. That man can feed dollar bills into that sadistic contraption in pursuit of those worthless pieces of poorly stitched cotton for hours, and he will if no one is there to hold a conversation with him. One of the ways to gauge how long he's been at the bar is to see how many plush animals are sitting at the end of the oak in front of his reserved stool that he occupies from eleven-thirty in the morning until mid-afternoon. It's hard to leave that place without him pawning off some of those stupid toys on me, as if I have a long list of people to give them to just as soon as I can. They end up sitting on my couch for awhile until I bring them to work and toss them into the car of a coworker with kids. That train of thought made me realize what a hypocrite I'd been. I turned around and looked in the back seat of my truck and there they were, staring at me sardonically: two stuffed bears dressed like pilgrims and holding small pumpkins for the approaching holiday. Maybe that trucker was wondering what my intentions were, too. That verse about the speck of dust and the plank in the respective eyes came to mind, always one of my favorites. It's a good book, whether it's fact or fiction. I drove on, it was all there was left to do.
Perhaps it was Providence or just my need for closure, but that last issue was not going to go unresolved. My headlights illuminated the back of the car ahead of me at that last traffic light near my house and as I sat and waited for the light to turn I read the license plate: CKP 7671. That combination was just one digit off from the tag on an old car I used to drive. Turning on the dome light in my truck, I fumbled through the jangling mess of keys dangling from my ignition. The mystery was solved, alright. And though I haven't driven that car in several years now, sometimes, when I see a similar model on the road, I'd like to give it one last spin. They say you regret the things you don't do in life more than the things you do. Of course, again, they're lying.
At the first traffic light I hit during my ride home I pulled up next to an eighteen-wheeler. After inching forward toward the cab I looked up and noticed something large, brown and furry strapped into the passenger seat. I glanced over at the haggard old driver, then back at his mysterious guest to make sure it wasn't his wife. It wasn't. The black plastic eyes that were sewn onto the face reflected the red of the traffic light, and then the pointed ears revealed themselves. This guy had a huge stuffed teddy bear sitting next to him. I'd heard of taking a friend or loved one on those long cross-country treks, but this was something new to me. That guy must really get lonely to resort to that, I thought to myself. Then again, a stufed animal can't disagree or give an old opinionated trucker any lip so maybe it makes sense. But what about the potential for accidents caused due to passing motorists taking their eyes off the road in order to establish what that thing is? Does that really warrant the bear's presense for its faux company factor? And does he bring that thing into the bunk in the back of the cab to spoon with on those cold nights? My appraisal of the unsettling situation came to a screeching hault when those big shiny eyes reflected green instead of red. That bear was his business, and getting home to take those boots off was mine.
Something inside me forced my hand to hit my right directional on at the last minute, something that we'll refer to here as hunger. I knew I could have easily just headed home and crashed after my shower and a few chapters in bed, but that would lead to a miserable morning with a stomach aching until my nine o'clock coffee break. I pulled up to the window after placing my order to pay the girl who was obviously exhausted from a long shift due to the apathy in her voice over the intercom. It shocked me to see that it was someone I'd worked with eight years ago in the fast food industry, or maybe it didn't. She didn't recognize me with the beard and tattoos, but then again she probably wouldn't have remembered me if I still looked like that same clean-cut teenager. Seeing her there all these years later made me appreciate the fact that I was driving home from a tough day at a high-paying construction job followed by an annoying union hall function. It's hard to remember the old water marks at high tide. I handed her the money, she handed me the bag of food, and I made sure to smile and reciprocate when she told me to have a good night. She needed it more than I did.
---------------------------
All of that sympathy went directly out the proverbial window as soon as I got home, though. My stomach was growling so much that I sat right down at the kitchen table to eat without even taking those lead boots off first. A first inspection of the bag's contents frightened me at first, but I placed confidence in that girl's ability to fill a fast-food order after such a long tenure in the field. Maybe she put the biscuits in the bucket with the chicken? I was wrong, and therefore furious. No wonder she never made it out of that line of work, she couldn't even master such a simple task. Who can truly enjoy eating fried chicken without biscuits? Those three fluffy balls of dough symbolized more than three dollars' worth of my bill. I decided to head back across town to get them based on the principle of the thing. That's when it dawned on me: I'd become that guy who we always wondered about when we worked the post-dinner-rush drive-thru, the one who would waste more money on gas coming back for a forgotten item based on the fact that it should have been there in the first place. I was right: even if I didn't have the hairy face or ink she wouldn't have recognized me. And the second time talking to her that night, assertively and politely, she didn't. Maybe all of my changes haven't been for the better.
I pondered that for awhile until I became depressed at the realization that it's a sign of getting old. To lighten the mood I thought about some positive things such as getting paid the next day. That would mean having to swing by my boss' hideout at his favorite bar to have a beer with him, thus rescuing him from his stuffed animal crane machine addiction for half an hour or so, depending. That man can feed dollar bills into that sadistic contraption in pursuit of those worthless pieces of poorly stitched cotton for hours, and he will if no one is there to hold a conversation with him. One of the ways to gauge how long he's been at the bar is to see how many plush animals are sitting at the end of the oak in front of his reserved stool that he occupies from eleven-thirty in the morning until mid-afternoon. It's hard to leave that place without him pawning off some of those stupid toys on me, as if I have a long list of people to give them to just as soon as I can. They end up sitting on my couch for awhile until I bring them to work and toss them into the car of a coworker with kids. That train of thought made me realize what a hypocrite I'd been. I turned around and looked in the back seat of my truck and there they were, staring at me sardonically: two stuffed bears dressed like pilgrims and holding small pumpkins for the approaching holiday. Maybe that trucker was wondering what my intentions were, too. That verse about the speck of dust and the plank in the respective eyes came to mind, always one of my favorites. It's a good book, whether it's fact or fiction. I drove on, it was all there was left to do.
Perhaps it was Providence or just my need for closure, but that last issue was not going to go unresolved. My headlights illuminated the back of the car ahead of me at that last traffic light near my house and as I sat and waited for the light to turn I read the license plate: CKP 7671. That combination was just one digit off from the tag on an old car I used to drive. Turning on the dome light in my truck, I fumbled through the jangling mess of keys dangling from my ignition. The mystery was solved, alright. And though I haven't driven that car in several years now, sometimes, when I see a similar model on the road, I'd like to give it one last spin. They say you regret the things you don't do in life more than the things you do. Of course, again, they're lying.
11.17.2008
Another way to look at it.
If it wasn't so practical
we'd kill it like any other weed.
The roots of one plant entangle
those of its neighbor
and spread throughout
millions of acres
across the globe.
Wheat, like man, is a virus.
It's no wonder we depend on it.
we'd kill it like any other weed.
The roots of one plant entangle
those of its neighbor
and spread throughout
millions of acres
across the globe.
Wheat, like man, is a virus.
It's no wonder we depend on it.
Thirty-Odd-Six.
Rifle season started on Saturday
and the deer have been out
frolicking in fields trying to get theirs
while dodging bullets.
It's a tough game
that probably makes that
hard to acquire piece of doe tail
that much more enjoyable...
for the bucks, I mean.
On my way to class tonight
I witnessed that age-old dance firsthand.
In a desolate field no more than thirty feet away
I spotted an eight-pointer with a wide rack
chasing a doe back and forth.
It was such a National Geographic moment that I
had to stop my truck in the middle of the road to watch.
She'd stop short and cut back in the other direction.
He'd do the same, though not as smoothly
due to his hormone-induced state of arousal
and the mood cast by the setting sun.
I could practically see the drool
dripping from the corners of his mouth
as he tripped over his own feet
in that desperate attempt to land a lay.
A set of headlights in my rearview
prompted me to let up off the brake
and get moving again.
I asked a few other guys at the hall
if they'd seen the display, but none of them had.
I was the only one to witness that failure.
Something told me that poor buck
never got what he was after.
It almost made me feel bad
for all of the venison I'd eaten over the weekend.
Almost.
After settling in for the night I thought
about that rare sight again
and called my adopted father of a coworker.
He's a big hunter
who always supplies my friends and me
with more venison than we know what to do with.
I told him about that chase scene in the field
and he explained it in a way that I hadn't
thought of yet:
"They're in the rut this time of year.
They're like you young guys--
they've only got one thing on their minds
and it drives them crazy to the point
where they're careless and wander out
into fields where guys like me shoot them.
You want some more deer meat?"
My response came quickly as if second nature
and he laughed that harmless old man laugh of his.
"You young bucks are all the same, alright..."
I didn't argue
but I wasn't about to turn down another free meal
on grounds of honor amongst thieves.
That buck should've paid more attention in high school
and found a job with good benefits.
Let's hear it for capitalism's effect on procreation
and man's exploitation of it in the form of a high-powered rifle.
Dig in, folks.
Our freezer's full.
and the deer have been out
frolicking in fields trying to get theirs
while dodging bullets.
It's a tough game
that probably makes that
hard to acquire piece of doe tail
that much more enjoyable...
for the bucks, I mean.
On my way to class tonight
I witnessed that age-old dance firsthand.
In a desolate field no more than thirty feet away
I spotted an eight-pointer with a wide rack
chasing a doe back and forth.
It was such a National Geographic moment that I
had to stop my truck in the middle of the road to watch.
She'd stop short and cut back in the other direction.
He'd do the same, though not as smoothly
due to his hormone-induced state of arousal
and the mood cast by the setting sun.
I could practically see the drool
dripping from the corners of his mouth
as he tripped over his own feet
in that desperate attempt to land a lay.
A set of headlights in my rearview
prompted me to let up off the brake
and get moving again.
I asked a few other guys at the hall
if they'd seen the display, but none of them had.
I was the only one to witness that failure.
Something told me that poor buck
never got what he was after.
It almost made me feel bad
for all of the venison I'd eaten over the weekend.
Almost.
After settling in for the night I thought
about that rare sight again
and called my adopted father of a coworker.
He's a big hunter
who always supplies my friends and me
with more venison than we know what to do with.
I told him about that chase scene in the field
and he explained it in a way that I hadn't
thought of yet:
"They're in the rut this time of year.
They're like you young guys--
they've only got one thing on their minds
and it drives them crazy to the point
where they're careless and wander out
into fields where guys like me shoot them.
You want some more deer meat?"
My response came quickly as if second nature
and he laughed that harmless old man laugh of his.
"You young bucks are all the same, alright..."
I didn't argue
but I wasn't about to turn down another free meal
on grounds of honor amongst thieves.
That buck should've paid more attention in high school
and found a job with good benefits.
Let's hear it for capitalism's effect on procreation
and man's exploitation of it in the form of a high-powered rifle.
Dig in, folks.
Our freezer's full.
Ring the bell when the flies come.
It tasted like a shot of sulfur.
As horrible as it was I had to take it
three or four times a day for the week
I was there, even at ungodly hours of the night.
The nurse would wake me
out of my tossing half-sleep
balancing a tray like some life-saving waitress
with the miniature can of ginger ale
and shot glass of rotten eggs
reflecting the dull light of the television
that the thirty-something-year-old Hispanic male
diabetes patient in the bed bed next to mine
refused to turn off at night.
He'd recently had a leg amputated so I let him
have his solace in possession of the remote control.
"Sorry I had to wake you," the nurse would say.
"You didn't," and it wasn't a lie.
I'd wager my pension that it's harder to sleep
in a hospital than it is in a pinned-down foxhole.
She'd pass me the cure
which tasted more like a punishment
and disappear back into the bright anesthetic hallway
of that fifth-floor wing of Albany Med.
I'd roll back over and try to get some shut-eye
but it never amounted to much
with the thoughts of repercussions
racing through my head
and the dull ache of the I.V. in my arm
reminding me that it was not just another bad dream
from which I'd wake still drunk off whiskey
in the sweaty sheets
of that twin-sized bed
in that collapsing dorm room
where I chose to fall apart
despite the full scholarship
and abandoned earning potential.
The next day in the hospital was always a new adventure
a new lease on a life I thought
would cease to exist on March 27th
of the Two Thousand Fourth Year of Your Lord.
I'd even have a new lady-friend sitting next to me
furnished by the hospital's list of stand-ins
to make sure I didn't get any more funny ideas.
It took me a couple hours to figure out
this woman's true purpose was at first
but cut me some slack-- it's hard to think straight.
with that kind of buzz.
I realized their role when I noticed how official
the changing of the guard was once their shifts had ended.
She'd gather the books, magazines, and snacks
she'd brought to pass the time while watching over me
like some sort of sad guardian angel, sign a sheet on my chart
and relinquish her chair to the next person.
Most of them were middle-aged African American women
in pant suits and heelless dress shoes
who smiled wide enough for the both of us.
They'd wonder how such a pleasant young man
could have done such a thing
while I'd wonder how the hell one goes about
applying for such a morbid job.
But they weren't always such pearly-toothed mothers
who looked like they belonged on a pancake syrup bottle.
There was one babysitter who stands out in my mind now
as I sit here regurgitating this embarrassing time, mostly
naked and wrapped in a blanket
with fingernails a touch too long to type comfortably
on this brisk November morning.
She was also black, but much younger than the others
and had a vastly different demeanor.
Her clothes were too tight to adequately contain or conceal
her incredibly round body parts and it made her look like
a grape whose skin was about to burst.
The tight curls in her hair hung from her enormous round head
like tendrils from a rotten pumpkin
and she seemed more concerned
with her professor's homework assignments
than paying any attention to me.
Sometimes I'd try to break the awkward tension by making small-talk
with these people, but this one wanted no part in it
so I gave up trying. I quit my gracious attempt at contrived levity
I arranged the tubes connected to my arm in a manner
that would not allow them to pull out with any sudden movement
and pretended to sleep. I thought it would be easier
to keep my eyes closed for her six- or eight-hour shift
than to consciously tolerate her obvious distaste.
This one wasn't going to make it that easy on me, though.
For the second time in a week I was about to learn
that tuning the world out will not get a female out of your head.
That obnoxious sulfur shot intended to save my liver
that I mentioned before had certain side effects
mainly of the olfactory variety.
After drinking my dose of that elixir
the stench would seep through my pores
and out of my body in gaseous form
from both ends.
It didn't help that they wouldn't let me shower often
since someone would have to watch me.
I knew it wasn't a pleasant aroma
but none of my previous surrogate mothers
had made me notice their disgust.
This girl was different, though.
As soon as she thought I'd dosed off
she reached into her bag of tricks
pulled out a can of air-freshener
and started spraying it in my general direction.
I felt the fine mist of citrus-scented liquid
fall to my face and tried my hardest not to
rip out the needle, spring to my feet
and run out of that place.
My muscles tensed up as I laid there and took it.
I accept it now as a brutally honest moment
that shouldn't be taken for granted:
I stunk to her, the World stunk to me
and neither of us wanted to be there.
She repeated the spraying process a few times
during the course of her sentence in that chair
next to my bed, but it bothered me less and less.
It was still hard to contain myself, but for different reasons.
I fantasized about ripping the can from her hands
lighting a match, and using it as a blowtorch
to singe off those awful curls of hers
or maybe just incinerate her precious college textbook
that was sitting on her inflated lap.
Like so many other things that could've stumped another
it all became a game to me.
I had to try not to laugh as I laid there in a fake sleep state
for fear of seeming quite the lunatic
and being transferred to a "different wing" by those in charge
of my immediate fate.
She gathered her things when her shift ended
and as she wobbled towards the door
it took all of my composure not to mutter something
derogatory under my breath while still pretending to be asleep.
But I didn't want her to turn around.
I wanted her out of my life for good, and she has been
until this day when it's suddenly appropriate to bring her up;
or maybe not appropriate, though necessary
for my current sanity which hangs in the balance daily.
Ah, catharsis, old friend...
Anyway, she left. My roommate with the bandaged stump
where his leg had once been
didn't wait two minutes before pulling back the curtain
and filling me in on what a rude so-and-so she was.
"Man, you won't believe this. That girl
was spraying air-freshener over your bed while you slept."
Again, it was hard not to laugh.
"Yeah? I thought it smelled better in here."
He wasn't such a bad guy, despite his television addiction.
"I know how bad that medicine smells, but I know that it tastes
even worse. I did something stupid when I was a kid, too.
It gets better..."
Then he whipped the curtain around again.
That last confession was his attempt
at a masculine consolation and it drained him.
I appreciated it for what it was and felt bad
when the doctor came in that evening
to inform him and his wife
that the other leg would have to be
cut off as well.
He lied, though.
"It" doesn't get better.
In these four years
the world has gotten no less cruel--
I've just found better ways to manage.
All this must be hard to take
coming from a man who still believes
he can cause objects to levitate
by holding out his open hand
and concentrating very hard.
It's all in the wrist.
Try it sometime.
Currently reading:
"Portions From a Wine-Stained Notebook" by Charles Bukowski.
As horrible as it was I had to take it
three or four times a day for the week
I was there, even at ungodly hours of the night.
The nurse would wake me
out of my tossing half-sleep
balancing a tray like some life-saving waitress
with the miniature can of ginger ale
and shot glass of rotten eggs
reflecting the dull light of the television
that the thirty-something-year-old Hispanic male
diabetes patient in the bed bed next to mine
refused to turn off at night.
He'd recently had a leg amputated so I let him
have his solace in possession of the remote control.
"Sorry I had to wake you," the nurse would say.
"You didn't," and it wasn't a lie.
I'd wager my pension that it's harder to sleep
in a hospital than it is in a pinned-down foxhole.
She'd pass me the cure
which tasted more like a punishment
and disappear back into the bright anesthetic hallway
of that fifth-floor wing of Albany Med.
I'd roll back over and try to get some shut-eye
but it never amounted to much
with the thoughts of repercussions
racing through my head
and the dull ache of the I.V. in my arm
reminding me that it was not just another bad dream
from which I'd wake still drunk off whiskey
in the sweaty sheets
of that twin-sized bed
in that collapsing dorm room
where I chose to fall apart
despite the full scholarship
and abandoned earning potential.
The next day in the hospital was always a new adventure
a new lease on a life I thought
would cease to exist on March 27th
of the Two Thousand Fourth Year of Your Lord.
I'd even have a new lady-friend sitting next to me
furnished by the hospital's list of stand-ins
to make sure I didn't get any more funny ideas.
It took me a couple hours to figure out
this woman's true purpose was at first
but cut me some slack-- it's hard to think straight.
with that kind of buzz.
I realized their role when I noticed how official
the changing of the guard was once their shifts had ended.
She'd gather the books, magazines, and snacks
she'd brought to pass the time while watching over me
like some sort of sad guardian angel, sign a sheet on my chart
and relinquish her chair to the next person.
Most of them were middle-aged African American women
in pant suits and heelless dress shoes
who smiled wide enough for the both of us.
They'd wonder how such a pleasant young man
could have done such a thing
while I'd wonder how the hell one goes about
applying for such a morbid job.
But they weren't always such pearly-toothed mothers
who looked like they belonged on a pancake syrup bottle.
There was one babysitter who stands out in my mind now
as I sit here regurgitating this embarrassing time, mostly
naked and wrapped in a blanket
with fingernails a touch too long to type comfortably
on this brisk November morning.
She was also black, but much younger than the others
and had a vastly different demeanor.
Her clothes were too tight to adequately contain or conceal
her incredibly round body parts and it made her look like
a grape whose skin was about to burst.
The tight curls in her hair hung from her enormous round head
like tendrils from a rotten pumpkin
and she seemed more concerned
with her professor's homework assignments
than paying any attention to me.
Sometimes I'd try to break the awkward tension by making small-talk
with these people, but this one wanted no part in it
so I gave up trying. I quit my gracious attempt at contrived levity
I arranged the tubes connected to my arm in a manner
that would not allow them to pull out with any sudden movement
and pretended to sleep. I thought it would be easier
to keep my eyes closed for her six- or eight-hour shift
than to consciously tolerate her obvious distaste.
This one wasn't going to make it that easy on me, though.
For the second time in a week I was about to learn
that tuning the world out will not get a female out of your head.
That obnoxious sulfur shot intended to save my liver
that I mentioned before had certain side effects
mainly of the olfactory variety.
After drinking my dose of that elixir
the stench would seep through my pores
and out of my body in gaseous form
from both ends.
It didn't help that they wouldn't let me shower often
since someone would have to watch me.
I knew it wasn't a pleasant aroma
but none of my previous surrogate mothers
had made me notice their disgust.
This girl was different, though.
As soon as she thought I'd dosed off
she reached into her bag of tricks
pulled out a can of air-freshener
and started spraying it in my general direction.
I felt the fine mist of citrus-scented liquid
fall to my face and tried my hardest not to
rip out the needle, spring to my feet
and run out of that place.
My muscles tensed up as I laid there and took it.
I accept it now as a brutally honest moment
that shouldn't be taken for granted:
I stunk to her, the World stunk to me
and neither of us wanted to be there.
She repeated the spraying process a few times
during the course of her sentence in that chair
next to my bed, but it bothered me less and less.
It was still hard to contain myself, but for different reasons.
I fantasized about ripping the can from her hands
lighting a match, and using it as a blowtorch
to singe off those awful curls of hers
or maybe just incinerate her precious college textbook
that was sitting on her inflated lap.
Like so many other things that could've stumped another
it all became a game to me.
I had to try not to laugh as I laid there in a fake sleep state
for fear of seeming quite the lunatic
and being transferred to a "different wing" by those in charge
of my immediate fate.
She gathered her things when her shift ended
and as she wobbled towards the door
it took all of my composure not to mutter something
derogatory under my breath while still pretending to be asleep.
But I didn't want her to turn around.
I wanted her out of my life for good, and she has been
until this day when it's suddenly appropriate to bring her up;
or maybe not appropriate, though necessary
for my current sanity which hangs in the balance daily.
Ah, catharsis, old friend...
Anyway, she left. My roommate with the bandaged stump
where his leg had once been
didn't wait two minutes before pulling back the curtain
and filling me in on what a rude so-and-so she was.
"Man, you won't believe this. That girl
was spraying air-freshener over your bed while you slept."
Again, it was hard not to laugh.
"Yeah? I thought it smelled better in here."
He wasn't such a bad guy, despite his television addiction.
"I know how bad that medicine smells, but I know that it tastes
even worse. I did something stupid when I was a kid, too.
It gets better..."
Then he whipped the curtain around again.
That last confession was his attempt
at a masculine consolation and it drained him.
I appreciated it for what it was and felt bad
when the doctor came in that evening
to inform him and his wife
that the other leg would have to be
cut off as well.
He lied, though.
"It" doesn't get better.
In these four years
the world has gotten no less cruel--
I've just found better ways to manage.
All this must be hard to take
coming from a man who still believes
he can cause objects to levitate
by holding out his open hand
and concentrating very hard.
It's all in the wrist.
Try it sometime.
Currently reading:
"Portions From a Wine-Stained Notebook" by Charles Bukowski.
11.13.2008
letter downer
there's something on the wing
and it's not going away
any sooner than
that green penny on the bathroom floor
that's been there for months now
and will be forever.
but don't fear an old dog
whose tricks you already know.
as he slobers all over himself
you almost feel bad
for what you know must come.
the back yard and the rifle
won't ever look the same again.
shouldn't you spit some out now?
masking the whiskey
with grenadine and coke
is almost as bad
as masking the rest
with that omniscient grin.
with enough cherry flavoring
anything is tolerable.
even you.
well, i only waste words when i want to
and tonight i just don't.
so skip the foreplay, woman.
it's 10 p.m.
do you know where your children are?
and it's not going away
any sooner than
that green penny on the bathroom floor
that's been there for months now
and will be forever.
but don't fear an old dog
whose tricks you already know.
as he slobers all over himself
you almost feel bad
for what you know must come.
the back yard and the rifle
won't ever look the same again.
shouldn't you spit some out now?
masking the whiskey
with grenadine and coke
is almost as bad
as masking the rest
with that omniscient grin.
with enough cherry flavoring
anything is tolerable.
even you.
well, i only waste words when i want to
and tonight i just don't.
so skip the foreplay, woman.
it's 10 p.m.
do you know where your children are?
11.12.2008
Depth charges.
It used to be great news to hear
about a teacher's sudden misfortune
that led to their absence
and the feeble attempt at
compensation made by the Powers That Were.
The Board of Ed could always
manage to find someone
to take attendance and maintain
basic order in the classroom
but little else; no real scholastic progress
could be expected.
We knew that they knew
that our real teachers knew
that those poorly photocopied worksheets
were as much of a joke
as the substitute teacher's
pending degree in, say, basket-weaving
or philosophy.
But when we got a Sub who truly stood out
it sometimes made the forty-minute period
more interesting than the pointless movie
being played in the background, left
in the teacher's desk arbitrarily
in case of just such an emergency.
There was this one clown who fit the bill
at the junior high school I attended.
I forget what his name was, something vaguely Italian
but I remember just what he looked like--
a short, stocky man who came across
as too rough around the edges to work
in a school, but too innocent to work
on the dock or in the shipyard where he probably belonged.
His greasy gray hair was always just barely combed
as if he'd slept in a car for three weeks straight
and his flannel shirts were always managing
to untuck themselves from his jeans by the afternoon
but what really stood out about this poor man
was his footwear: he always wore a decrepit pair
of black rubber winter boots that a grandma would wear.
It was for this very reason that he was dubbed 'Snowboots'
by those of us who knew of his existence, and it
was all fun and games until it came to a head.
One day, months after the silently awarded nickname
had come into play, one of my more outspoken classmates
decided to ask Snowboots why he was wearing snowboots.
"There's still snow on the ground where I live," was
his response, which would've seemed reasonable
if it wasn't for the season.
"In May?" the kid asked as he smirked
and rolled his eyes towards us.
He'd won, he'd belittled Snowboots
and asked what we were all dying to know
but somehow it wasn't as enjoyable
as some of us had hoped.
Now, looking back, maybe Mr. Boots was even
telling the truth.
I've seen stranger things in these ten years since
than snow on the ground in May.
Mr. LaMoth was another such individual.
He looked like God's cruel joke
of a Disney-style talking burnt match
who was cut from the final version of
'Beauty and the Beast'.
The poof of wild gray hair atop his lanky
tanned body perfectly crowned
the expressive face carved deep
with crow's feet and made further ridiculous
by the Coke-bottle glasses that
doubled the size of his eyes.
Talking to him, one walked away no wiser.
His sixty-some-odd years of existence
had made him no smarter a man
than the bottle he'd obviously clung to had
and it led to some amusing legends.
Some said he claimed to be an ex-CIA assassin
others said he had to register when he moved
into a neighborhood, and when he disappeared
from our high school mysteriously the common rumor
was that he'd been dismissed for kicking a student
(the same one who questioned Snowboots' footgear, naturally)
who pushed him over the edge with relentless taunting.
Despite the fact that all myths start with some truth
and that he was an odd duck loaded with bad puns
and an obvious unhealthy affection for high school girls
who told my class he had a "pornographic memory"
on more than one occasion
I just think he was a lonely old man
who had no sellable skills
that could get him those hundred-dollars-a-day.
He was humanized in my eyes
when I learned that he lived on Homeland Ave.
in Cornwall, the same road where my girlfriend
at the time lived. His big red-and-white surfboard
of a car from the late Sixties, early Seventies
somehow made such sense. What else would he drive?
If someone asked me to recall one time
when LaMoth almost did his job effectively
without seeming like a total freak
I'd tell them about the time he subbed
for my History class and had us watch 'Casablanca'
for the few days in a row that he had us.
He tried explaining the backstory
of the Visci government and how they were
only a front put on by the Nazis.
That was the first and last thing
that the man ever said in my presence that made sense.
When that plane took off at the end of the film
I knew why his eyes were glued to that TV screen
as he sat in the chair at the front of that dark classroom
with his back to facing us.
I knew because I felt the same way.
But here I am now
long since out of school
with nothing more to show for myself
than these half-complete men
who used to serve as an example
of what not to become.
And all three of us probably have
those same fifty-seven college credits
though in varying useless gen.-ed. subjects.
It's enough to make me believe
that Someone wrote this script
long before I even started to act it out.
I'll try to break a leg, Old Man;
just don't be surprised
if I use your name in vain afterwards.
Currently reading:
"To Have and Have Not" by Ernest Hemingway.
about a teacher's sudden misfortune
that led to their absence
and the feeble attempt at
compensation made by the Powers That Were.
The Board of Ed could always
manage to find someone
to take attendance and maintain
basic order in the classroom
but little else; no real scholastic progress
could be expected.
We knew that they knew
that our real teachers knew
that those poorly photocopied worksheets
were as much of a joke
as the substitute teacher's
pending degree in, say, basket-weaving
or philosophy.
But when we got a Sub who truly stood out
it sometimes made the forty-minute period
more interesting than the pointless movie
being played in the background, left
in the teacher's desk arbitrarily
in case of just such an emergency.
There was this one clown who fit the bill
at the junior high school I attended.
I forget what his name was, something vaguely Italian
but I remember just what he looked like--
a short, stocky man who came across
as too rough around the edges to work
in a school, but too innocent to work
on the dock or in the shipyard where he probably belonged.
His greasy gray hair was always just barely combed
as if he'd slept in a car for three weeks straight
and his flannel shirts were always managing
to untuck themselves from his jeans by the afternoon
but what really stood out about this poor man
was his footwear: he always wore a decrepit pair
of black rubber winter boots that a grandma would wear.
It was for this very reason that he was dubbed 'Snowboots'
by those of us who knew of his existence, and it
was all fun and games until it came to a head.
One day, months after the silently awarded nickname
had come into play, one of my more outspoken classmates
decided to ask Snowboots why he was wearing snowboots.
"There's still snow on the ground where I live," was
his response, which would've seemed reasonable
if it wasn't for the season.
"In May?" the kid asked as he smirked
and rolled his eyes towards us.
He'd won, he'd belittled Snowboots
and asked what we were all dying to know
but somehow it wasn't as enjoyable
as some of us had hoped.
Now, looking back, maybe Mr. Boots was even
telling the truth.
I've seen stranger things in these ten years since
than snow on the ground in May.
Mr. LaMoth was another such individual.
He looked like God's cruel joke
of a Disney-style talking burnt match
who was cut from the final version of
'Beauty and the Beast'.
The poof of wild gray hair atop his lanky
tanned body perfectly crowned
the expressive face carved deep
with crow's feet and made further ridiculous
by the Coke-bottle glasses that
doubled the size of his eyes.
Talking to him, one walked away no wiser.
His sixty-some-odd years of existence
had made him no smarter a man
than the bottle he'd obviously clung to had
and it led to some amusing legends.
Some said he claimed to be an ex-CIA assassin
others said he had to register when he moved
into a neighborhood, and when he disappeared
from our high school mysteriously the common rumor
was that he'd been dismissed for kicking a student
(the same one who questioned Snowboots' footgear, naturally)
who pushed him over the edge with relentless taunting.
Despite the fact that all myths start with some truth
and that he was an odd duck loaded with bad puns
and an obvious unhealthy affection for high school girls
who told my class he had a "pornographic memory"
on more than one occasion
I just think he was a lonely old man
who had no sellable skills
that could get him those hundred-dollars-a-day.
He was humanized in my eyes
when I learned that he lived on Homeland Ave.
in Cornwall, the same road where my girlfriend
at the time lived. His big red-and-white surfboard
of a car from the late Sixties, early Seventies
somehow made such sense. What else would he drive?
If someone asked me to recall one time
when LaMoth almost did his job effectively
without seeming like a total freak
I'd tell them about the time he subbed
for my History class and had us watch 'Casablanca'
for the few days in a row that he had us.
He tried explaining the backstory
of the Visci government and how they were
only a front put on by the Nazis.
That was the first and last thing
that the man ever said in my presence that made sense.
When that plane took off at the end of the film
I knew why his eyes were glued to that TV screen
as he sat in the chair at the front of that dark classroom
with his back to facing us.
I knew because I felt the same way.
But here I am now
long since out of school
with nothing more to show for myself
than these half-complete men
who used to serve as an example
of what not to become.
And all three of us probably have
those same fifty-seven college credits
though in varying useless gen.-ed. subjects.
It's enough to make me believe
that Someone wrote this script
long before I even started to act it out.
I'll try to break a leg, Old Man;
just don't be surprised
if I use your name in vain afterwards.
Currently reading:
"To Have and Have Not" by Ernest Hemingway.
11.11.2008
(epic) blog fail
left eye's been having spasms
more and more frequently
for the last few days.
when it happens it feels like
there's a maggot trying
to squirm its way
from under my eyelid.
unpleasant, though probably harmless.
sight slightly distorted, blurred
depth perception thrown off a bit
and it vanishes as abruptly as it came.
chris says it's a lack of potassium
but i say it's a lack of soul
and besides, us puerto ricans
fry the nutrients right out of our bananas.
couldn't sleep last night, circadian rhythm's
been thrown way off by the unpredictable
schedule i've had since the lay-off.
sleep til eleven, read, rub one out, write
if i'm lucky, read again, brush my teeth
avoid putting pants on at all costs.
but last night it wasn't just the redundancy
that kept me up, it was him.
and what kind of wife, what kind of woman
must he have found if she can't convince him
to do the right thing and pick up the goddamn phone?
i tried the pen, it didn't work. it's his turn.
not holding my breath.
and when i finally did doze off
i dreamt i was at the bar and my coworkers were there
but i couldn't allow myself to have fun because
there was a gas manifold i had to work on
and tom and dave were shaking their heads
at my failure, two of my three surrogate fathers
who secretly fight for the right to call me son
and even when the bartenders' shirts came off
and tom started dancing and singing with the band
i couldn't be distracted from those damn pipes and fittings
that will continue to haunt me for the rest of my life
laughing all the way to the bookstore.
rest in peace, rizzo.
you couldn't have saved that cowboy anyway.
he'll get his kicks on route 66.
what does that even mean?
nothing. it was just a great book
from an unsung hero.
more books than heroes these days.
fuck it, i'd settle for a peer.
(30 views today
and i haven't even posted lately. the regulars
have already had their fix last time
so that tells me this one's new.
that means i've been 'discovered'
again, another person clicking away
at the life of a stranger, a voyeur.
it's almost as sick
as the fact that i analyze it.
you hide behind your monitor
i'll hide behind mine
and we'll call it even.)
i give up. i'm forcing it tonight.
you can't take a shit
if your guts are empty.
more and more frequently
for the last few days.
when it happens it feels like
there's a maggot trying
to squirm its way
from under my eyelid.
unpleasant, though probably harmless.
sight slightly distorted, blurred
depth perception thrown off a bit
and it vanishes as abruptly as it came.
chris says it's a lack of potassium
but i say it's a lack of soul
and besides, us puerto ricans
fry the nutrients right out of our bananas.
couldn't sleep last night, circadian rhythm's
been thrown way off by the unpredictable
schedule i've had since the lay-off.
sleep til eleven, read, rub one out, write
if i'm lucky, read again, brush my teeth
avoid putting pants on at all costs.
but last night it wasn't just the redundancy
that kept me up, it was him.
and what kind of wife, what kind of woman
must he have found if she can't convince him
to do the right thing and pick up the goddamn phone?
i tried the pen, it didn't work. it's his turn.
not holding my breath.
and when i finally did doze off
i dreamt i was at the bar and my coworkers were there
but i couldn't allow myself to have fun because
there was a gas manifold i had to work on
and tom and dave were shaking their heads
at my failure, two of my three surrogate fathers
who secretly fight for the right to call me son
and even when the bartenders' shirts came off
and tom started dancing and singing with the band
i couldn't be distracted from those damn pipes and fittings
that will continue to haunt me for the rest of my life
laughing all the way to the bookstore.
rest in peace, rizzo.
you couldn't have saved that cowboy anyway.
he'll get his kicks on route 66.
what does that even mean?
nothing. it was just a great book
from an unsung hero.
more books than heroes these days.
fuck it, i'd settle for a peer.
(30 views today
and i haven't even posted lately. the regulars
have already had their fix last time
so that tells me this one's new.
that means i've been 'discovered'
again, another person clicking away
at the life of a stranger, a voyeur.
it's almost as sick
as the fact that i analyze it.
you hide behind your monitor
i'll hide behind mine
and we'll call it even.)
i give up. i'm forcing it tonight.
you can't take a shit
if your guts are empty.
11.10.2008
"...to make us the Perfect Pair."
Christ, light a candle.
It reeks of pork and sodomy in here.
Is that all you've got?
Is that all??
How precious...
Copper-bottom pots
mangled by the celery stalks
and years of loose resolutions--
two raspberries atop
the milky domes of motherhood.
Oh, bury my heart at Wounded Knee.
I hope I fall to salmonella
contracted while licking brownie mix
from a spoon you've yet to wash.
There's your hint.
Throw me that bone.
Until then it's more of the same
bumpin' uglies on the reg
and
a dead geisha in the trunk of an '83 Caprice
head severed, tilted to the right.
Let's compare notes.
Drive yourself home.
Boil it down, see what you have left:
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Orgasm.
Currently reading:
"Exile and the Kingdom" by Albert Camus.
It reeks of pork and sodomy in here.
Is that all you've got?
Is that all??
How precious...
Copper-bottom pots
mangled by the celery stalks
and years of loose resolutions--
two raspberries atop
the milky domes of motherhood.
Oh, bury my heart at Wounded Knee.
I hope I fall to salmonella
contracted while licking brownie mix
from a spoon you've yet to wash.
There's your hint.
Throw me that bone.
Until then it's more of the same
bumpin' uglies on the reg
and
a dead geisha in the trunk of an '83 Caprice
head severed, tilted to the right.
Let's compare notes.
Drive yourself home.
Boil it down, see what you have left:
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Orgasm.
Currently reading:
"Exile and the Kingdom" by Albert Camus.
11.08.2008
This used to be cartoon time.
My back doesn't care
if it's Saturday or not;
it'll only let me roll around
in bed for so long
before it reminds me
by means of dull aches
that it has other things to do.
This is what led me to my desk
on this particular morning, the
window open and fan on
due to the unseasonably warm weather
that almost made it too hot and stuffy
to sleep next to another person
last night. Almost.
I turn and look at the crumpled mass
hiding under the blanket, a delicate
yet muscular leg shooting out from
one end, a tangled nest of hair
draping over the pillows at the other.
The neighbor is mowing his dead lawn
for the third time this week
and I'm wondering if he really
hates his wife that much.
I glance over at my phone on my desk.
No one interrupted our slumber.
No one tried to get me to come out
and put on the show, the heavy-faced mask.
No one called for any reason.
Those are the good nights, when people
respect my walls enough to let me use them.
The urge comes to urinate so I rise and head
to the bathroom in the half-light of a cloudy 9 a.m.
When I come back in I hit the light switch
in the hopes of inspiring her to rouse herself
or at least let me read while she sleeps
but to no avail.
She groans something in the tone
of a cuter version of Frankenstein's monster
akin to what an elementary school student
would say to his mother about not wanting
to go to class that day.
I turn the lights back off.
"It's nine o'clock, Honey. We went to bed at midnight."
Then I come close to singing
some Jesus song my mom used to sing to me
about rising, shining, and giving God the glory
to further back my argument, but refrain
for fear of seeming a hypocrite.
"I know, but it's Saturday..."
It sure isn't much of a case
considering the both of us usually function
on a little less than two-thirds that amount of sleep
but it's enough to quiet my limp-wristed protest.
There's always the computer, there's always the rabbit.
I lay down beside her, thrusting my left arm under her neck
as she nestles her head in circular motions
in that spot between my shoulder and neck
right above my collar bone. It feels good for five minutes
but then my back starts to throb again.
She tells me about the dreams she had
without bothering to open her eyes.
"My friends and I went out
but we couldn't get into any of the bars.
And then you and I were about to get married
but you stood me up at the altar."
I wonder which nightmare was worse:
being denied alcohol, or being denied an alcoholic.
I rub her head and twirl a lock of hair
as she rolls back over and drifts off.
"OK, Sleepyhead. Get some more rest,"
knowing she didn't hear me.
A conclusion is drawn as I mull over what she said:
that damn mattress causes a lot of nightmares.
Must be something in the springs.
I get up out of bed again, done for good
with that cursed place for the morning.
Once she wakes up it'll be back to normal;
breakfast, brushing our teeth together, plans for the day.
Once I can turn on the light to read I'll be fine.
But like I said, until then
there's always the computer, always the rabbit.
if it's Saturday or not;
it'll only let me roll around
in bed for so long
before it reminds me
by means of dull aches
that it has other things to do.
This is what led me to my desk
on this particular morning, the
window open and fan on
due to the unseasonably warm weather
that almost made it too hot and stuffy
to sleep next to another person
last night. Almost.
I turn and look at the crumpled mass
hiding under the blanket, a delicate
yet muscular leg shooting out from
one end, a tangled nest of hair
draping over the pillows at the other.
The neighbor is mowing his dead lawn
for the third time this week
and I'm wondering if he really
hates his wife that much.
I glance over at my phone on my desk.
No one interrupted our slumber.
No one tried to get me to come out
and put on the show, the heavy-faced mask.
No one called for any reason.
Those are the good nights, when people
respect my walls enough to let me use them.
The urge comes to urinate so I rise and head
to the bathroom in the half-light of a cloudy 9 a.m.
When I come back in I hit the light switch
in the hopes of inspiring her to rouse herself
or at least let me read while she sleeps
but to no avail.
She groans something in the tone
of a cuter version of Frankenstein's monster
akin to what an elementary school student
would say to his mother about not wanting
to go to class that day.
I turn the lights back off.
"It's nine o'clock, Honey. We went to bed at midnight."
Then I come close to singing
some Jesus song my mom used to sing to me
about rising, shining, and giving God the glory
to further back my argument, but refrain
for fear of seeming a hypocrite.
"I know, but it's Saturday..."
It sure isn't much of a case
considering the both of us usually function
on a little less than two-thirds that amount of sleep
but it's enough to quiet my limp-wristed protest.
There's always the computer, there's always the rabbit.
I lay down beside her, thrusting my left arm under her neck
as she nestles her head in circular motions
in that spot between my shoulder and neck
right above my collar bone. It feels good for five minutes
but then my back starts to throb again.
She tells me about the dreams she had
without bothering to open her eyes.
"My friends and I went out
but we couldn't get into any of the bars.
And then you and I were about to get married
but you stood me up at the altar."
I wonder which nightmare was worse:
being denied alcohol, or being denied an alcoholic.
I rub her head and twirl a lock of hair
as she rolls back over and drifts off.
"OK, Sleepyhead. Get some more rest,"
knowing she didn't hear me.
A conclusion is drawn as I mull over what she said:
that damn mattress causes a lot of nightmares.
Must be something in the springs.
I get up out of bed again, done for good
with that cursed place for the morning.
Once she wakes up it'll be back to normal;
breakfast, brushing our teeth together, plans for the day.
Once I can turn on the light to read I'll be fine.
But like I said, until then
there's always the computer, always the rabbit.
11.07.2008
If you need a stool sample you'll have to peel me from the oak.
The sound changes its hiss
when the shower goes cold
after someone flushes the toilet
or puts up a load of laundry.
It's something else
trivial and overlooked
that we'll take for granted
until we reach the point
where the lines on the pavement
end.
I gave the time
to the girl in the green dress
once or twice
and it broke both our hearts.
Still, though he's sometimes soaked
with whiskey, bad puns
and even worse decisions
I still have that bluebird
down there somewhere
as I'm reminded every morning.
(Lures and matches, for another mattress.)
And someday I'll storm that gate
with my army of good intentions
bringing up the rear
and Saint Peter will laugh me
right off the battlefield.
No bother;
until then I'll keep on
making sure my decisions
aren't made in a vacuum
and not caring
that no one carves pumpkins anymore.
So take the toothbrush
to those teeth and lips
scrub away last night's purple failure
and drive yourself to work
still affected
but seeing straight enough
to dodge the next round.
On guard, motherbitch.
when the shower goes cold
after someone flushes the toilet
or puts up a load of laundry.
It's something else
trivial and overlooked
that we'll take for granted
until we reach the point
where the lines on the pavement
end.
I gave the time
to the girl in the green dress
once or twice
and it broke both our hearts.
Still, though he's sometimes soaked
with whiskey, bad puns
and even worse decisions
I still have that bluebird
down there somewhere
as I'm reminded every morning.
(Lures and matches, for another mattress.)
And someday I'll storm that gate
with my army of good intentions
bringing up the rear
and Saint Peter will laugh me
right off the battlefield.
No bother;
until then I'll keep on
making sure my decisions
aren't made in a vacuum
and not caring
that no one carves pumpkins anymore.
So take the toothbrush
to those teeth and lips
scrub away last night's purple failure
and drive yourself to work
still affected
but seeing straight enough
to dodge the next round.
On guard, motherbitch.
11.06.2008
Green Goddess (Un)Dressing
Most mornings I wake up
and it's under my pillow
as though in my sleep
I hid it from whatever might
take it in my vulnerable state.
This time I knew exactly
what I was protecting it from.
In my last bout of sleep
I dreamt I was in my last employer's mansion.
I urinated in his toilet
not caring that I missed a little
turning some of the small blue tiles green.
Then his wife came out
in a dark brown suede jacket
only it wasn't his wife--
it was Jane.
She had dyed her hair dark
or maybe the color she'd shown me back then
was the false one, but those piercing
blue eyes gave it away regardless.
She was older in the dream
older than me even
with fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth
that didn't succeed in detracting from her beauty.
I tried to tell her something
but my tongue was all jumbled
and she continued about her business
whatever it was
with a demeanor similar
to that which we'd both agree I'd deserve.
It was all too real
and when the alarm went off I was glad it was over and
only a dream, thankfully one I hadn't had in awhile.
That's the rub about ones like that--
they'll change your outlook on the potential
of the female form, for good and bad
and are far too clever and vindictive to disappear forever
even after the last call
which occurred on my way to New Hampshire.
But it didn't matter, since like I said
when I woke it was still under my pillow
and I stretched my limbs in preparation
for the day I was about to face.
That's the beauty of the sleep cycle:
it allows us to start over every twenty-four hours.
It's never as though a fragrance worn
for ten straight years has been discontinued.
It's never too dramatic to face
though sometimes a scream
with the windows up on the way to work
or a stiff cocktail before bed
or a phone call from your fiancee under that pillow
are needed to cope.
My bitch is in heat.
Where's yours?
Currently reading:
"Midnight Cowboy" by James Leo Herlihy.
and it's under my pillow
as though in my sleep
I hid it from whatever might
take it in my vulnerable state.
This time I knew exactly
what I was protecting it from.
In my last bout of sleep
I dreamt I was in my last employer's mansion.
I urinated in his toilet
not caring that I missed a little
turning some of the small blue tiles green.
Then his wife came out
in a dark brown suede jacket
only it wasn't his wife--
it was Jane.
She had dyed her hair dark
or maybe the color she'd shown me back then
was the false one, but those piercing
blue eyes gave it away regardless.
She was older in the dream
older than me even
with fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth
that didn't succeed in detracting from her beauty.
I tried to tell her something
but my tongue was all jumbled
and she continued about her business
whatever it was
with a demeanor similar
to that which we'd both agree I'd deserve.
It was all too real
and when the alarm went off I was glad it was over and
only a dream, thankfully one I hadn't had in awhile.
That's the rub about ones like that--
they'll change your outlook on the potential
of the female form, for good and bad
and are far too clever and vindictive to disappear forever
even after the last call
which occurred on my way to New Hampshire.
But it didn't matter, since like I said
when I woke it was still under my pillow
and I stretched my limbs in preparation
for the day I was about to face.
That's the beauty of the sleep cycle:
it allows us to start over every twenty-four hours.
It's never as though a fragrance worn
for ten straight years has been discontinued.
It's never too dramatic to face
though sometimes a scream
with the windows up on the way to work
or a stiff cocktail before bed
or a phone call from your fiancee under that pillow
are needed to cope.
My bitch is in heat.
Where's yours?
Currently reading:
"Midnight Cowboy" by James Leo Herlihy.
11.03.2008
Goodbye Sky Harbor
came on as I drove past
the shortcut to the high school
I attended six long years ago
and the tail lights in front of me
stretched and blurred.
But like Jimmy once said:
"I am but one small instrument.
Do you remember that?"
I still have
The Dream.
I hope you've shook the nightmare.
the shortcut to the high school
I attended six long years ago
and the tail lights in front of me
stretched and blurred.
But like Jimmy once said:
"I am but one small instrument.
Do you remember that?"
I still have
The Dream.
I hope you've shook the nightmare.
11.02.2008
Now Buckwheat, please use the word 'dictate' in a sentence.
It had been years since I walked into that Army-Navy store out in Port Jervis. When I was a kid my old man and I used to stop in there whenever we were in the vicinity on a fishing trip to the Delaware River. He'd buy me some random piece of seemingly useless yet undeniably cool military surplus to add to my collection: a backpack or camouflage clothing or a trench shovel or a gas mask or a dud grenade, thus making my backyard Rambo fantasy sessions all the more real, and making him the hero once again. It became harder for him to be the man I needed as years went on, but that's another story.
So there I was two weeks ago, perusing through that same olive drab green merchandise a decade-and-a-half later. My wool coat, tongue-in-cheek thrift store T-shirt, tight Levi's and running sneakers made me stick out like a sore thumb. The thick beard I've been growing out didn't help the situation any, the Taliban look not being popular amongst God-fearing gun-toting good ol' boys from them there parts. Employees were sizing me up from the minute I walked through the door and I felt their eyes burning holes through my back as I thumbed through bins of stuff that would've gotten me excited as a kid and still had a nostalgic effect on me somehow. Finally, one of the burly ex-Marine (wait, there's no such thing) behind the counter manned up and asked the question they'd all been dying to hear answered: "Can I help you with something?" I quickly flipped through the rack of BDU shirts in front of me until I found a plain green one, held it up and asked if they had any in the back in a larger size. "No, we only carry them in sizes not made for real people unfortunately. Anything else would be special order, I could have it hear in a few weeks." He must've seen my spirits drop due to that last bit of information, considered the dense beard I had and put two and two together. "Let me guess-- you're going to be Fidel Castro for Halloween." My face lit up at his recognition of my intentions since it meant I'd chosen wisely. If this country bumpkin got it then my far more cultured friends and colleagues would for sure. I told him I had the right hat, pants, boots, and cigar to wear to my friend's party. He reassured me that those items would be enough to pull it off and that I wouldn't be mistaken for Papa Smurf. I laughed and told him that I had an OD green jacket from ten years ago, but wanted a shirt in case the coat got too hot to wear. We shrugged our shoulders simultaneously and went back about our respective businesses. I got a pair of WWII-style large-lens mirrored aviators and drove the forty minutes back home.
The costume went over well. I was pleased with the laughs I got out of it. One girl called her grandmother to tell her about it because apparently the old lady has had a crush on him ever since his coup in Cuba in the middle of the last century. If only my boy Fidel could have been there that night to see me do him justice, stroking the beard and biting the thick stoagie while refraining from trying to mimic the accent since I knew I wouldn't be able to pull it off consistently, especially as the alcohol set in. Somewhere on his island he was laying in that deathbed of his that he's been in for awhile now, rolling around on bed sores and cursing his failure to go out still standing. That's not to say that I feel bad for the guy. I heard recently on a radio talk show that in some form of autobiographical work the former Communist dictator claimed to have slept with 70,000 women in his lifetime. That's way more than basketball legend Wilt Chamberlain's impressive 20,000. That's probably a decent chunk of the Cuban female population. Did he have secret police who raided bars just before last call to round up unsuspecting women? I don't care how much game a man can spit, those kinds of numbers require some form of forceful tactic; roofies and duct tape, the Horny Gestapo, mail-order brides paid for by the national economy, something. And you also can't convince me that he would confess to sleeping with most of those women to his friends. With those numbers there's just no feasible way that the majority of them were attractive enough to brag about the next day at the bar. "Si, hombre. Me and that fox Marrrria really heet eet off last nah-eet." Chances are he kept most of the truth to himself. Quantity over quality, which may or may not have went along with his fiscal-political stance. Either way, pimps up/hoes down. Fiddy, this Bud's for you.
So there I was two weeks ago, perusing through that same olive drab green merchandise a decade-and-a-half later. My wool coat, tongue-in-cheek thrift store T-shirt, tight Levi's and running sneakers made me stick out like a sore thumb. The thick beard I've been growing out didn't help the situation any, the Taliban look not being popular amongst God-fearing gun-toting good ol' boys from them there parts. Employees were sizing me up from the minute I walked through the door and I felt their eyes burning holes through my back as I thumbed through bins of stuff that would've gotten me excited as a kid and still had a nostalgic effect on me somehow. Finally, one of the burly ex-Marine (wait, there's no such thing) behind the counter manned up and asked the question they'd all been dying to hear answered: "Can I help you with something?" I quickly flipped through the rack of BDU shirts in front of me until I found a plain green one, held it up and asked if they had any in the back in a larger size. "No, we only carry them in sizes not made for real people unfortunately. Anything else would be special order, I could have it hear in a few weeks." He must've seen my spirits drop due to that last bit of information, considered the dense beard I had and put two and two together. "Let me guess-- you're going to be Fidel Castro for Halloween." My face lit up at his recognition of my intentions since it meant I'd chosen wisely. If this country bumpkin got it then my far more cultured friends and colleagues would for sure. I told him I had the right hat, pants, boots, and cigar to wear to my friend's party. He reassured me that those items would be enough to pull it off and that I wouldn't be mistaken for Papa Smurf. I laughed and told him that I had an OD green jacket from ten years ago, but wanted a shirt in case the coat got too hot to wear. We shrugged our shoulders simultaneously and went back about our respective businesses. I got a pair of WWII-style large-lens mirrored aviators and drove the forty minutes back home.
The costume went over well. I was pleased with the laughs I got out of it. One girl called her grandmother to tell her about it because apparently the old lady has had a crush on him ever since his coup in Cuba in the middle of the last century. If only my boy Fidel could have been there that night to see me do him justice, stroking the beard and biting the thick stoagie while refraining from trying to mimic the accent since I knew I wouldn't be able to pull it off consistently, especially as the alcohol set in. Somewhere on his island he was laying in that deathbed of his that he's been in for awhile now, rolling around on bed sores and cursing his failure to go out still standing. That's not to say that I feel bad for the guy. I heard recently on a radio talk show that in some form of autobiographical work the former Communist dictator claimed to have slept with 70,000 women in his lifetime. That's way more than basketball legend Wilt Chamberlain's impressive 20,000. That's probably a decent chunk of the Cuban female population. Did he have secret police who raided bars just before last call to round up unsuspecting women? I don't care how much game a man can spit, those kinds of numbers require some form of forceful tactic; roofies and duct tape, the Horny Gestapo, mail-order brides paid for by the national economy, something. And you also can't convince me that he would confess to sleeping with most of those women to his friends. With those numbers there's just no feasible way that the majority of them were attractive enough to brag about the next day at the bar. "Si, hombre. Me and that fox Marrrria really heet eet off last nah-eet." Chances are he kept most of the truth to himself. Quantity over quality, which may or may not have went along with his fiscal-political stance. Either way, pimps up/hoes down. Fiddy, this Bud's for you.
11.01.2008
Where dodgeball victims congregate.
It's kids in casts
riding bikes too fast.
It's cigarette butts in the concrete I mixed
and those who step out of the shower to piss.
It's trying to use a plumb bob
on a windy autumn day.
It's references caught and dropped and missed
since we know that you know that I know
and don't care.
It's not a bandwagon
I'd expect to see you on.
It's keeping it that way.
It's going into the bookstore
and bumping into no one.
It's not being able to look across the table
and knowing what it means.
It's none of yours and all of mine
and from here on out that's just fine.
It's hard water in a hotel shower
and boy did we take baths in there
though we barely fit
with armpits smelling of moldy tents
and tired organs played just right
to the tune of 10,000 disapproving mothers.
It's my toes curling in my shoes
and how she won't like me saying it.
It's making the beast with two backs
as we both show our age.
It's plucking the crumpled photo
from the trash can.
(She didn't know I couldn't part--
the last act of a desperate man.)
It's a phone call at one in the morning
over a Dostoevsky story that got her down
and how right then I knew
all over again.
It's kids in casts
riding bikes too fast.
It's a drunk who drove his truck
kissed his driveway, then passed out.
I won't let me
let you down.
Currently reading:
"The Poetry of Pablo Neruda" edited by Ilan Stavans.
riding bikes too fast.
It's cigarette butts in the concrete I mixed
and those who step out of the shower to piss.
It's trying to use a plumb bob
on a windy autumn day.
It's references caught and dropped and missed
since we know that you know that I know
and don't care.
It's not a bandwagon
I'd expect to see you on.
It's keeping it that way.
It's going into the bookstore
and bumping into no one.
It's not being able to look across the table
and knowing what it means.
It's none of yours and all of mine
and from here on out that's just fine.
It's hard water in a hotel shower
and boy did we take baths in there
though we barely fit
with armpits smelling of moldy tents
and tired organs played just right
to the tune of 10,000 disapproving mothers.
It's my toes curling in my shoes
and how she won't like me saying it.
It's making the beast with two backs
as we both show our age.
It's plucking the crumpled photo
from the trash can.
(She didn't know I couldn't part--
the last act of a desperate man.)
It's a phone call at one in the morning
over a Dostoevsky story that got her down
and how right then I knew
all over again.
It's kids in casts
riding bikes too fast.
It's a drunk who drove his truck
kissed his driveway, then passed out.
I won't let me
let you down.
Currently reading:
"The Poetry of Pablo Neruda" edited by Ilan Stavans.
10.30.2008
Iron and other ferrous metals.
"...and all of you
will spend this year
learning how to weld...."
he said from beneath
a furrowed gray brow
above two eyes
green with envy
for our youth
and opportunity
still not quite gone.
"...and you will do it
my way, the Right Way
since all of you
are here tonight
because this is the Career
You've Chosen."
I tried.
I swear I tried extremely hard
but it happened--
that damn uncontrollable smirk
that only God can wipe off
through His almighty smiting.
"You. What's your name?
Something funny about what I just said?"
Better judgment intervened.
I had a whole year
of apprenticeship class
with this authority figure to endure
in the basement of the union hall.
"No, sir. Just thinking
about something
that happened earlier."
'Earlier that day' was implied
in order to get out of trouble
but I was really thinking
of what had happened
a few years ago
and how that had gotten me
where I was, sitting in front
of this bitter old man
who swore he was going
to make a welder out of me yet.
What he said was too much to handle--
I didn't chose the pipe;
the pipe chose me
or maybe the bottle
made the decision for both of us.
"Well there's no thinking
allowed here, Kid.
Just welding.
And what did you say your name was?"
But before I could respond
my buddy sitting
across the room
opened his mouth:
"That's Shakespeare, Chucky.
We call him that on the job, he reads
in his truck on lunch break."
Chucky exhaled the smoke
from a cigarette he wasn't smoking.
"Shakespeare, huh? I've got my eye on you.
I can tell you're 'The One' in this class..."
He muttered something under
his breath about how there's
always got to be One Per Group.
I was too busy correcting him
in my head to pay attention, though--
"The One in this class?
I'm the one in a million, brother."
Currently reading:
"The Plague" by Albert Camus.
will spend this year
learning how to weld...."
he said from beneath
a furrowed gray brow
above two eyes
green with envy
for our youth
and opportunity
still not quite gone.
"...and you will do it
my way, the Right Way
since all of you
are here tonight
because this is the Career
You've Chosen."
I tried.
I swear I tried extremely hard
but it happened--
that damn uncontrollable smirk
that only God can wipe off
through His almighty smiting.
"You. What's your name?
Something funny about what I just said?"
Better judgment intervened.
I had a whole year
of apprenticeship class
with this authority figure to endure
in the basement of the union hall.
"No, sir. Just thinking
about something
that happened earlier."
'Earlier that day' was implied
in order to get out of trouble
but I was really thinking
of what had happened
a few years ago
and how that had gotten me
where I was, sitting in front
of this bitter old man
who swore he was going
to make a welder out of me yet.
What he said was too much to handle--
I didn't chose the pipe;
the pipe chose me
or maybe the bottle
made the decision for both of us.
"Well there's no thinking
allowed here, Kid.
Just welding.
And what did you say your name was?"
But before I could respond
my buddy sitting
across the room
opened his mouth:
"That's Shakespeare, Chucky.
We call him that on the job, he reads
in his truck on lunch break."
Chucky exhaled the smoke
from a cigarette he wasn't smoking.
"Shakespeare, huh? I've got my eye on you.
I can tell you're 'The One' in this class..."
He muttered something under
his breath about how there's
always got to be One Per Group.
I was too busy correcting him
in my head to pay attention, though--
"The One in this class?
I'm the one in a million, brother."
Currently reading:
"The Plague" by Albert Camus.
10.27.2008
With all their groaning, what do dogs dream?
It was a relief that I saw coming a quarter of a mile away. His right hand was stretched straight out, perpendicular to his body, his torso pointed plaintively at the oncoming traffic. Every time I'd seen a hitch-hiker for the last several years they had always thrust their thumbs out too late and there had always been a row of cars behind me that'd hinder me from stopping so abruptly. This time was setting up to be the one, though, since he'd given me plenty of time to slow down. Besides, I was the only one driving at the time on that part of the two-lane highway that meandered through those orchards and farmlands. I pressed my boot down on the brake pedal and fumbled for the hazard lights button as I veered to a wide spot in the shoulder ten feet beyond the old man. One look at him scurrying my way through my rear-view mirror told me that this was a break that this fellow needed.
"Ed, I'll have to call you back." He sounded confused as I rushed him off the phone since I had already begun talking to my new friend who was jabbering something incoherent to himself as he opened the door of my truck. I hung up the phone and slid it into my pocket, taking time to absorb the character that I was about to meet and would probably never forget. The first thing that struck me was the stick. He had been waving it around with the hand not projecting his thumb when he hailed me. Now that I had an up close view of it I found myself having some questions that I knew I wouldn't be asking. It was a wooden walking stick of some kind that appeared to have originally been something else, perhaps a fishing pole. Bits of bright plastic were attached to the center portion and rotting shreds of twine were rapped around various sections. He clutched it firmly in his old bony knuckles as he took his sweet time climbing up into the passenger seat of my pick-up. I watched with horror as he jabbed his stick skyward and stopped just millimeters short of the fabric lining the ceiling of my new truck. Even if he'd punctured it I wouldn't have said much, however. It's a general rule not to threaten a man who carries a stick such as his. Women and children should probably avoid men who carry strange devices like said multipurpose mystery stick, but I was not afraid, being a six-foot two-forty construction worker and all. "Howdy," I said in a tone amiable enough to show good will while firm enough to express my willingness to make it home alive.
"It's just a ways up the road," the old man muttered from somewhere inside his deeply wrinkled face covered with a dense layer of white stubble. His anxious response to a question I hadn't even asked yet suggested that he'd been through this before and knew the routine. Suddenly I felt bad for worrying about his crazy-person stick.
"Not a problem. Buckle up, though. That beeping won't stop for awhile unless you do. Damn technology." He complied, or tried to, but apparently didn't understand my intentions. Pulling the seat belt over his shoulder and tucking it under his arm, he turned and faced me for the first time. "Yeah, that cop who hides up ahead is a jerk. Short, pudgy little guy. Real bastard." It didn't click in his head that the ticket was not what concerned me. I wasn't about to argue the point. "Aren't they all, though?" I asked, adding a forced laugh afterwards. "I'm Al," the stranger said, staring me in the face with his piercing baby blues. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'd already gathered this information through my skills of inductive reasoning, or just the white tag with "Al" embroidered on it in red stitching that clung to the breast pocket of his haggard denim shirt by barely a thread. "Nice ta meetcha, Al" I replied as I turned off my hazards, put the truck in gear, and pulled back onto the highway. "I'm Dave." And sure enough, that beeping stopped shortly after.
It wasn't long before I came to the conclusion that Al was out of his mind, or at least did an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be. I tried guiding the conversation in a logical direction but good ol' Al kept reverting back to that pesky cop that hides around the bend with his radar gun. His vehement hatred for this speed trap seemed funny since Al had probably not driven in quite a few years, which was probably for the best since I could smell it on him. The beer permeated through his pores and filled the cab of my truck with that unique scent of copper and bananas that only an old alcoholic can produce. He didn't appear drunk and didn't smell like alcohol itself, but barley and hops had definitely become their own food groups in Al's diet over the years, which in turn probably led to his need to hitch rides. I knew he didn't have his license because I'd seen him walking that road before many a time over my years of traveling it. The more I thought about it the more I found it surprising that this was the first time I'd actually seen him ask for a ride. My mind settled on the fact that his caving in this time must've had something to do with the ominous rain clouds rolling in over the hill and his lack of an umbrella, and then I started listening again since he was done complaining about local law enforcement for the time being.
"It sure is cold. Was beautiful today, cold now. Snuck up on me, this weather." I cracked a smile at my own sick pleasure with myself at having been right as to his decision to get a lift. It quickly faded after I remembered that pride is a deadly sin. "Yeah, it's supposed to rain tonight," I replied in conversational least common denominator fashion, but even my weather talk was not going to steer Al in any kind of predictable direction. This was a script that would play out according to how he wanted it to and the sooner I'd accept that the better of I'd be.
"Make a left here," he barked in a voice unlike the one he was using just moments before. It came as a surprise since it was his own fault I'd almost missed the turn and had to slam the brake and cut the wheel hard in order not to pass it. Al's demeanor instantly changed back to its happy-go-lucky and semi-insane self as soon as we were safely on his road. A broad grin smothered his face and a sparkle gleamed from the corner of his eye as he scanned the rolling green hills of farmland on which he'd probably spent a lot of time. This was home for him and it felt good. "Jackson Road," he blurted as if he was reading my mind. "Yeah, I've never been back here before. Sure is nice." I was about to attempt a question about the land when he shot his pointer finger out so rapidly and forcefully that it made a sound as it cut through the still air in the truck. "Deer! They're all over right now. People building homes, deer are all over." I imagined that Al had not legally held a weapon used in the sport for an even longer time than he hadn't operated a motor vehicle, so I didn't ask if he was a hunter. "Right, more construction forces them out of their habitat and the deer don't know what to do with themselves." It didn't click with him, though. He just kept staring blankly at the three does bounding through the field towards the forest. I didn't mind my inability to have a normal conversation anymore. There was comfort in giving up. Al was a strange duck alright, but I could relate to his solace in simple pleasures. The two of us watched the deer disappear in silence and I drove on, only more cautiously since I'd learned about Al's tendency to give directions at the last possible moment.
The barn seemed to rise up out of the ground itself. All of a sudden we came around a sharp bend and over a hill simultaneously and there it was, just as it probably had been for over a hundred years. The planks were in need of repair and it looked like it hadn't been painted in decades, but it was still standing, albeit at an angle that seemed to defy gravity. Just beyond that relic of architecture was a house in not as bad shape that relieved me for some reason. I slowed down in anticipation, but Al never gave me the cue to stop and I rode right by the ranch house. "Hundred and fifty cows here," he mumbled as he shifted his stick from one hand to the other. That was the first time that I saw the other thing he'd been carrying, a burlap sack. "Lots of cows but I can't ride one of them to the post office," he said in his attempt at humor. So that was where he'd gone? And what was with the empty sack? More and more questions flooded my brain as I continued to drive. It distracted me enough to almost miss the turn yet again when Al snapped "Right here!" as we almost passed a driveway leading to a shack. It was in not as bad condition as that barn, but not quite as new as the house. "This is my place," Al beamed with that same dreadful pride that had made me feel guilty before, only he didn't seem ashamed as I had over it. There was an innocence about him that I couldn't quite put a finger on, though it probably had something to do with humble years spent in solitude.
I pulled into the lot and put the truck in park since I figured it'd take him awhile to gather himself and get out of the truck. I was right. As he went to thank me I caught him off guard by asking a favor of him. "Can I use your restroom?" I had to urinate awfully bad and didn't want to have to wait until I'd reach my destination. "Sure, sure. Come on in," he replied as he hobbled away, his stick and sack now in the same hand in order to allow him to open the front door of his shanty. I could tell that he was talking to himself just by the motion of his jawbones that I saw from behind as I turned off my engine and stepped out onto the dirt. I didn't feel strange about asking anymore because it seemed to please him to be able to return the favor. Somehow Al and I had more in common than I'd first thought when he sat down next to me on the side of that highway, and part of me wanted to stretch out our encounter a bit longer if possible.
Al was about as big on formalities as he was on conversational etiquette. By the time I reached the door he was already inside and seated at a small table with only one chair. "Want some cider from the orchard?" he asked, throwing the stick and sack into a corner of the small room. "No thanks," but it almost didn't seem necessary since he had already started scribbling something down ferociously on a surprisingly pristine sheet of paper, his tongue sticking out of one corner of his mouth as the pen scratched the parchment hard. That cider was never a real option for me. In fact, that cider was probably still sitting down the road at the orchard. His offer was just a shallow gesture that his mother must've sowed in him when he was a child. I was OK with that.
I glanced around the room awkwardly for a few seconds trying not to seem too curious, but finally gave in to better judgment. "So where is it?" I asked of an audience that had long since left me. "Where's what?" was my answer, and I chuckled at what I thought was another bad joke. "Oh, right. The crapper." He'd really forgotten why I was standing in his home-- no, he'd forgotten I was there at all. All that mattered to him was whatever he was writing down on that piece of paper. "It's the door on the left." There were only two doors adjacent to the room and I was glad that my options were limited since further assistance would not be easy to obtain. His voice had changed back to that harried one that had first reared its head when I almost missed the turn onto Jackson Road. I was in his domain now, impeding him from doing whatever it was that was so important to him, which had something to do with whatever that arthritic hand was jotting down.
I walked into the bathroom, did my business as quickly as possible, washed my hands, and strode back out into that open room where he sat at the table for one. That's when I noticed something strange. All along the wall where I had walked in through the front door was some kind of sorting system. It looked similar to something a post office would have to organize letters, only the grid system was different. Instead of having zones or streets, the X and Y axes were curiously labeled with the months of the year and years themselves, dating all the way back to the 1960s. Each box in the matrix had been stuffed to the brim with envelopes to the point where it was almost hard to tell where one box ended and the next began, the thin wood being nearly covered by the fanned out ends of the letters. This man was clearly some form of farmhand, not a postal worker, which was a good thing since he obviously would have been late with his deliveries. What was the meaning of this? My better judgment succumbed again for no excusable reason and it slipped out before I could catch it: "What is all that?" I was afraid I'd just opened a can I wouldn't be able to close, but it was too late to turn back.
Al stopped writing for the first time since I'd walked in three minutes ago. He looked up at me, then at the wall of envelopes, then back at me. His head cocked to one side a little as if my question was a silly one. The five longest seconds of my life crawled by and his head straightened out again. "Those? Those are my ideas. What's your name again, mister?" He smiled wide, revealing spots where several teeth were missing, though the ones he had left were as white as the perfect piece of paper lying flat on the table in front of him. "Ideas?" I asked, still utterly confused and blatantly ignoring his question as to my identity since I suddenly needed to know what was going on in that tiny bungalow in the middle of nowhere. Al put his pen down, slid his chair back from the table, rose to his feet and walked over to his masterpiece. Choosing a coordinate arbitrarily from the rack he plucked out an envelope and held it up in front of his chest with both hands. "See? See the postmark? Dated, official." He flipped it around and held it the same way. "See this? Sealed." I started to comprehend what he was getting at but didn't want to break the news that this archaic form of cheap copyrighting would never hold up in court. That was an old wives' tale perpetuated mostly by people who would never have an idea worthy of laying claim to in the first place. "Oh, I see..." and let the last word trail off as if to show appreciaton for the genius of the man standing before me. It was evident that Al loved that charade because that boyish smile shot across his face again and those baby blues deepened. He turned to return his idea from June 1973 back to its rightful place and I headed for the front door. By the time my hand reached the knob he was already back at his desk and hard at work. I turned to thank him, but didn't bother. I knew he wouldn't hear me anyway. Al had big things going on here, whatever they were. I was only in his way. I understood that finally.
My truck seemed further from the house than I'd thought. As I made my way back to it I pieced together the facts: the old man still bursting with thoughts deemed important enough to save after years of living in isolation; the walking stick that helped him get to the post office in his worthless attempt to copyright his ideas; the empty burlap sack that was used to transport his treasures back and forth; but mostly, and to my greatest dismay, the tragic truth that no one would ever know what it was he was trying to say in those letters to himself and that they'd probably wind up in a dump someday, unopened. It broke my heart for a split second.
The truck started up, but the engine hummed differently. The final oddity came as I pulled out of the driveway. Just at the end of it was a post with a large tin mailbox, "LeGORY" painted in black lettering on the side. At first it seemed unreasonable that an absurd old man who lived alone in a tiny servants' quarters on a forgotten farm would walk all the way to the post office when he could have just as easily put his letters in that mailbox and addressed them to himself. As long as the stamp was on it the postal delivery worker would've taken it to be processed and brought it back. Then it dawned on me that I wouldn't have risked losing my life's work either if I could have limited the distance it had to travel outside the safety of my hands. One can only trust oneself in this world unfortunately.
I started whistling a song whose melody I didn't know I knew and drove off over the hill that hid this place from the main thoroughfare. "Good luck, Mr. LeGory," I said to myself aloud, which no longer seemed odd to me. "I'll see you again."
"Ed, I'll have to call you back." He sounded confused as I rushed him off the phone since I had already begun talking to my new friend who was jabbering something incoherent to himself as he opened the door of my truck. I hung up the phone and slid it into my pocket, taking time to absorb the character that I was about to meet and would probably never forget. The first thing that struck me was the stick. He had been waving it around with the hand not projecting his thumb when he hailed me. Now that I had an up close view of it I found myself having some questions that I knew I wouldn't be asking. It was a wooden walking stick of some kind that appeared to have originally been something else, perhaps a fishing pole. Bits of bright plastic were attached to the center portion and rotting shreds of twine were rapped around various sections. He clutched it firmly in his old bony knuckles as he took his sweet time climbing up into the passenger seat of my pick-up. I watched with horror as he jabbed his stick skyward and stopped just millimeters short of the fabric lining the ceiling of my new truck. Even if he'd punctured it I wouldn't have said much, however. It's a general rule not to threaten a man who carries a stick such as his. Women and children should probably avoid men who carry strange devices like said multipurpose mystery stick, but I was not afraid, being a six-foot two-forty construction worker and all. "Howdy," I said in a tone amiable enough to show good will while firm enough to express my willingness to make it home alive.
"It's just a ways up the road," the old man muttered from somewhere inside his deeply wrinkled face covered with a dense layer of white stubble. His anxious response to a question I hadn't even asked yet suggested that he'd been through this before and knew the routine. Suddenly I felt bad for worrying about his crazy-person stick.
"Not a problem. Buckle up, though. That beeping won't stop for awhile unless you do. Damn technology." He complied, or tried to, but apparently didn't understand my intentions. Pulling the seat belt over his shoulder and tucking it under his arm, he turned and faced me for the first time. "Yeah, that cop who hides up ahead is a jerk. Short, pudgy little guy. Real bastard." It didn't click in his head that the ticket was not what concerned me. I wasn't about to argue the point. "Aren't they all, though?" I asked, adding a forced laugh afterwards. "I'm Al," the stranger said, staring me in the face with his piercing baby blues. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'd already gathered this information through my skills of inductive reasoning, or just the white tag with "Al" embroidered on it in red stitching that clung to the breast pocket of his haggard denim shirt by barely a thread. "Nice ta meetcha, Al" I replied as I turned off my hazards, put the truck in gear, and pulled back onto the highway. "I'm Dave." And sure enough, that beeping stopped shortly after.
It wasn't long before I came to the conclusion that Al was out of his mind, or at least did an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be. I tried guiding the conversation in a logical direction but good ol' Al kept reverting back to that pesky cop that hides around the bend with his radar gun. His vehement hatred for this speed trap seemed funny since Al had probably not driven in quite a few years, which was probably for the best since I could smell it on him. The beer permeated through his pores and filled the cab of my truck with that unique scent of copper and bananas that only an old alcoholic can produce. He didn't appear drunk and didn't smell like alcohol itself, but barley and hops had definitely become their own food groups in Al's diet over the years, which in turn probably led to his need to hitch rides. I knew he didn't have his license because I'd seen him walking that road before many a time over my years of traveling it. The more I thought about it the more I found it surprising that this was the first time I'd actually seen him ask for a ride. My mind settled on the fact that his caving in this time must've had something to do with the ominous rain clouds rolling in over the hill and his lack of an umbrella, and then I started listening again since he was done complaining about local law enforcement for the time being.
"It sure is cold. Was beautiful today, cold now. Snuck up on me, this weather." I cracked a smile at my own sick pleasure with myself at having been right as to his decision to get a lift. It quickly faded after I remembered that pride is a deadly sin. "Yeah, it's supposed to rain tonight," I replied in conversational least common denominator fashion, but even my weather talk was not going to steer Al in any kind of predictable direction. This was a script that would play out according to how he wanted it to and the sooner I'd accept that the better of I'd be.
"Make a left here," he barked in a voice unlike the one he was using just moments before. It came as a surprise since it was his own fault I'd almost missed the turn and had to slam the brake and cut the wheel hard in order not to pass it. Al's demeanor instantly changed back to its happy-go-lucky and semi-insane self as soon as we were safely on his road. A broad grin smothered his face and a sparkle gleamed from the corner of his eye as he scanned the rolling green hills of farmland on which he'd probably spent a lot of time. This was home for him and it felt good. "Jackson Road," he blurted as if he was reading my mind. "Yeah, I've never been back here before. Sure is nice." I was about to attempt a question about the land when he shot his pointer finger out so rapidly and forcefully that it made a sound as it cut through the still air in the truck. "Deer! They're all over right now. People building homes, deer are all over." I imagined that Al had not legally held a weapon used in the sport for an even longer time than he hadn't operated a motor vehicle, so I didn't ask if he was a hunter. "Right, more construction forces them out of their habitat and the deer don't know what to do with themselves." It didn't click with him, though. He just kept staring blankly at the three does bounding through the field towards the forest. I didn't mind my inability to have a normal conversation anymore. There was comfort in giving up. Al was a strange duck alright, but I could relate to his solace in simple pleasures. The two of us watched the deer disappear in silence and I drove on, only more cautiously since I'd learned about Al's tendency to give directions at the last possible moment.
The barn seemed to rise up out of the ground itself. All of a sudden we came around a sharp bend and over a hill simultaneously and there it was, just as it probably had been for over a hundred years. The planks were in need of repair and it looked like it hadn't been painted in decades, but it was still standing, albeit at an angle that seemed to defy gravity. Just beyond that relic of architecture was a house in not as bad shape that relieved me for some reason. I slowed down in anticipation, but Al never gave me the cue to stop and I rode right by the ranch house. "Hundred and fifty cows here," he mumbled as he shifted his stick from one hand to the other. That was the first time that I saw the other thing he'd been carrying, a burlap sack. "Lots of cows but I can't ride one of them to the post office," he said in his attempt at humor. So that was where he'd gone? And what was with the empty sack? More and more questions flooded my brain as I continued to drive. It distracted me enough to almost miss the turn yet again when Al snapped "Right here!" as we almost passed a driveway leading to a shack. It was in not as bad condition as that barn, but not quite as new as the house. "This is my place," Al beamed with that same dreadful pride that had made me feel guilty before, only he didn't seem ashamed as I had over it. There was an innocence about him that I couldn't quite put a finger on, though it probably had something to do with humble years spent in solitude.
I pulled into the lot and put the truck in park since I figured it'd take him awhile to gather himself and get out of the truck. I was right. As he went to thank me I caught him off guard by asking a favor of him. "Can I use your restroom?" I had to urinate awfully bad and didn't want to have to wait until I'd reach my destination. "Sure, sure. Come on in," he replied as he hobbled away, his stick and sack now in the same hand in order to allow him to open the front door of his shanty. I could tell that he was talking to himself just by the motion of his jawbones that I saw from behind as I turned off my engine and stepped out onto the dirt. I didn't feel strange about asking anymore because it seemed to please him to be able to return the favor. Somehow Al and I had more in common than I'd first thought when he sat down next to me on the side of that highway, and part of me wanted to stretch out our encounter a bit longer if possible.
Al was about as big on formalities as he was on conversational etiquette. By the time I reached the door he was already inside and seated at a small table with only one chair. "Want some cider from the orchard?" he asked, throwing the stick and sack into a corner of the small room. "No thanks," but it almost didn't seem necessary since he had already started scribbling something down ferociously on a surprisingly pristine sheet of paper, his tongue sticking out of one corner of his mouth as the pen scratched the parchment hard. That cider was never a real option for me. In fact, that cider was probably still sitting down the road at the orchard. His offer was just a shallow gesture that his mother must've sowed in him when he was a child. I was OK with that.
I glanced around the room awkwardly for a few seconds trying not to seem too curious, but finally gave in to better judgment. "So where is it?" I asked of an audience that had long since left me. "Where's what?" was my answer, and I chuckled at what I thought was another bad joke. "Oh, right. The crapper." He'd really forgotten why I was standing in his home-- no, he'd forgotten I was there at all. All that mattered to him was whatever he was writing down on that piece of paper. "It's the door on the left." There were only two doors adjacent to the room and I was glad that my options were limited since further assistance would not be easy to obtain. His voice had changed back to that harried one that had first reared its head when I almost missed the turn onto Jackson Road. I was in his domain now, impeding him from doing whatever it was that was so important to him, which had something to do with whatever that arthritic hand was jotting down.
I walked into the bathroom, did my business as quickly as possible, washed my hands, and strode back out into that open room where he sat at the table for one. That's when I noticed something strange. All along the wall where I had walked in through the front door was some kind of sorting system. It looked similar to something a post office would have to organize letters, only the grid system was different. Instead of having zones or streets, the X and Y axes were curiously labeled with the months of the year and years themselves, dating all the way back to the 1960s. Each box in the matrix had been stuffed to the brim with envelopes to the point where it was almost hard to tell where one box ended and the next began, the thin wood being nearly covered by the fanned out ends of the letters. This man was clearly some form of farmhand, not a postal worker, which was a good thing since he obviously would have been late with his deliveries. What was the meaning of this? My better judgment succumbed again for no excusable reason and it slipped out before I could catch it: "What is all that?" I was afraid I'd just opened a can I wouldn't be able to close, but it was too late to turn back.
Al stopped writing for the first time since I'd walked in three minutes ago. He looked up at me, then at the wall of envelopes, then back at me. His head cocked to one side a little as if my question was a silly one. The five longest seconds of my life crawled by and his head straightened out again. "Those? Those are my ideas. What's your name again, mister?" He smiled wide, revealing spots where several teeth were missing, though the ones he had left were as white as the perfect piece of paper lying flat on the table in front of him. "Ideas?" I asked, still utterly confused and blatantly ignoring his question as to my identity since I suddenly needed to know what was going on in that tiny bungalow in the middle of nowhere. Al put his pen down, slid his chair back from the table, rose to his feet and walked over to his masterpiece. Choosing a coordinate arbitrarily from the rack he plucked out an envelope and held it up in front of his chest with both hands. "See? See the postmark? Dated, official." He flipped it around and held it the same way. "See this? Sealed." I started to comprehend what he was getting at but didn't want to break the news that this archaic form of cheap copyrighting would never hold up in court. That was an old wives' tale perpetuated mostly by people who would never have an idea worthy of laying claim to in the first place. "Oh, I see..." and let the last word trail off as if to show appreciaton for the genius of the man standing before me. It was evident that Al loved that charade because that boyish smile shot across his face again and those baby blues deepened. He turned to return his idea from June 1973 back to its rightful place and I headed for the front door. By the time my hand reached the knob he was already back at his desk and hard at work. I turned to thank him, but didn't bother. I knew he wouldn't hear me anyway. Al had big things going on here, whatever they were. I was only in his way. I understood that finally.
My truck seemed further from the house than I'd thought. As I made my way back to it I pieced together the facts: the old man still bursting with thoughts deemed important enough to save after years of living in isolation; the walking stick that helped him get to the post office in his worthless attempt to copyright his ideas; the empty burlap sack that was used to transport his treasures back and forth; but mostly, and to my greatest dismay, the tragic truth that no one would ever know what it was he was trying to say in those letters to himself and that they'd probably wind up in a dump someday, unopened. It broke my heart for a split second.
The truck started up, but the engine hummed differently. The final oddity came as I pulled out of the driveway. Just at the end of it was a post with a large tin mailbox, "LeGORY" painted in black lettering on the side. At first it seemed unreasonable that an absurd old man who lived alone in a tiny servants' quarters on a forgotten farm would walk all the way to the post office when he could have just as easily put his letters in that mailbox and addressed them to himself. As long as the stamp was on it the postal delivery worker would've taken it to be processed and brought it back. Then it dawned on me that I wouldn't have risked losing my life's work either if I could have limited the distance it had to travel outside the safety of my hands. One can only trust oneself in this world unfortunately.
I started whistling a song whose melody I didn't know I knew and drove off over the hill that hid this place from the main thoroughfare. "Good luck, Mr. LeGory," I said to myself aloud, which no longer seemed odd to me. "I'll see you again."
10.25.2008
high speed ramblings over the air, vol. 1
the taste of blood in my mouth
from too much red meat
an autoerotic monopoly on God
one hand slicing the other
a coat left at my house
is its own license to wear it
and anymore there's no rush
quite like talking into a tape recorder
at eighty miles an hour.
oozing sex from the ears
and ailment from the eyes
ears popping with the elevation
of twelve hundred feet
and it's autumn in New York
like when you offer someone
a stick of gum
and they ask you
"what flavor?"
from too much red meat
an autoerotic monopoly on God
one hand slicing the other
a coat left at my house
is its own license to wear it
and anymore there's no rush
quite like talking into a tape recorder
at eighty miles an hour.
oozing sex from the ears
and ailment from the eyes
ears popping with the elevation
of twelve hundred feet
and it's autumn in New York
like when you offer someone
a stick of gum
and they ask you
"what flavor?"
They suffer in silence.
It had been awhile
since she'd let me pick her up--
a typical specimen
with her own agenda
and little time for me in it.
I caught her off guard
in her half asleep state
rolled up in a mound
of fuzzy blue blankets.
Victory was finally mine.
She squirmed around at first
until I stroked her head
and between her shoulders
enough to calm her down
for a quick bit of affection.
Once I'd stopped, though
she seized the opportunity
and leapt from my my grasp
sprung from my torso
and landed on the hardwood floor.
It was only a two-foot drop
since I was sitting down
but the angle and force
at and with which she hit, respectively
didn't seem too accommodating.
My chores led me downstairs
so I left her to her own devices.
Half an hour later I came back
to check on her and managed
to pick her up again, cradling her
in my arms against my chest.
I moved my hand and saw
bright red blood covering my finger
then noticed two spots on my shirt
where she had been leaning.
I put her back down and inspected
her limbs and found where the blood
was coming from.
She must've broken a nail on impact
when she'd jumped before.
It had happened to others
I'd had in the past, but this was the first
time I'd seen her injured.
She hopped gingerly behind the chair
where she felt safe
and nursed her wound with her tongue.
I let her be for the rest of the day.
I knew she'd be alright, but it was hard
to watch her lose that precious blood
even in small quantities.
What shocked me was her serene
appraisal of the situation.
She'd never seen her own blood before
but it came as no surprise to her
and she mended herself as best she could
just as Nature embedded in her genetic coding.
The bleeding stopped in an hour
and so did the limp-wristed hobbling.
She was her same rambunctious self again.
We'd made it-- she'd survived and I still had my friend.
You can't say you've really loved something
until it's bled on you.
since she'd let me pick her up--
a typical specimen
with her own agenda
and little time for me in it.
I caught her off guard
in her half asleep state
rolled up in a mound
of fuzzy blue blankets.
Victory was finally mine.
She squirmed around at first
until I stroked her head
and between her shoulders
enough to calm her down
for a quick bit of affection.
Once I'd stopped, though
she seized the opportunity
and leapt from my my grasp
sprung from my torso
and landed on the hardwood floor.
It was only a two-foot drop
since I was sitting down
but the angle and force
at and with which she hit, respectively
didn't seem too accommodating.
My chores led me downstairs
so I left her to her own devices.
Half an hour later I came back
to check on her and managed
to pick her up again, cradling her
in my arms against my chest.
I moved my hand and saw
bright red blood covering my finger
then noticed two spots on my shirt
where she had been leaning.
I put her back down and inspected
her limbs and found where the blood
was coming from.
She must've broken a nail on impact
when she'd jumped before.
It had happened to others
I'd had in the past, but this was the first
time I'd seen her injured.
She hopped gingerly behind the chair
where she felt safe
and nursed her wound with her tongue.
I let her be for the rest of the day.
I knew she'd be alright, but it was hard
to watch her lose that precious blood
even in small quantities.
What shocked me was her serene
appraisal of the situation.
She'd never seen her own blood before
but it came as no surprise to her
and she mended herself as best she could
just as Nature embedded in her genetic coding.
The bleeding stopped in an hour
and so did the limp-wristed hobbling.
She was her same rambunctious self again.
We'd made it-- she'd survived and I still had my friend.
You can't say you've really loved something
until it's bled on you.
10.24.2008
Chipped black nail polish and other things that turn my stomach.
We'd been working at getting
the plumbing up and running
for five hours by that point
after working a full day.
It was dark, we were tired
and dirty and didn't foresee success.
I called my mom at nine thirty
to ask if we could swing by
her place to shower
since going to bed
in waste water is less than sanitary.
I was shocked when she said no
since she was too tired to hear
the noise of the shower
and it was embarrassing to have to tell
my roommate that we'd have
to look elsewhere.
Did she want me to get a hotel room?
I said I'd call a friend instead
and hung up, disillusioned and confused
as to the meaning of blood relation
especially in a case of minor inconvenience
on her behalf versus our filthy plight.
Two days later she emailed me
as predicted, saying exactly what I knew she would
the same spiel about my selfishness
and unwillingness to see it
but I shrugged it off as usual
since reverse parenting
is so six summers ago.
I ran right over when she needed
something as simple as
a washer machine valve changed
which I'm sure her husband could've handled.
How could she not let me use her shower?
We haven't spoken since
and it's been three more days.
She seems to think I mind
but I'm used to losing parents now
and the main reason I even go there
most times is to see my grandmother.
Let her think she's proved her point.
I know where I still stand.
It's the same issue I've had
with any woman:
they don't comprehend
that I can hold out
much longer than they can.
I've learned to rely on myself.
Currently reading:
"A Happy Death" by Albert Camus.
the plumbing up and running
for five hours by that point
after working a full day.
It was dark, we were tired
and dirty and didn't foresee success.
I called my mom at nine thirty
to ask if we could swing by
her place to shower
since going to bed
in waste water is less than sanitary.
I was shocked when she said no
since she was too tired to hear
the noise of the shower
and it was embarrassing to have to tell
my roommate that we'd have
to look elsewhere.
Did she want me to get a hotel room?
I said I'd call a friend instead
and hung up, disillusioned and confused
as to the meaning of blood relation
especially in a case of minor inconvenience
on her behalf versus our filthy plight.
Two days later she emailed me
as predicted, saying exactly what I knew she would
the same spiel about my selfishness
and unwillingness to see it
but I shrugged it off as usual
since reverse parenting
is so six summers ago.
I ran right over when she needed
something as simple as
a washer machine valve changed
which I'm sure her husband could've handled.
How could she not let me use her shower?
We haven't spoken since
and it's been three more days.
She seems to think I mind
but I'm used to losing parents now
and the main reason I even go there
most times is to see my grandmother.
Let her think she's proved her point.
I know where I still stand.
It's the same issue I've had
with any woman:
they don't comprehend
that I can hold out
much longer than they can.
I've learned to rely on myself.
Currently reading:
"A Happy Death" by Albert Camus.
10.22.2008
a greater crime than parricide.
Tonight was the my first night
back at stupid plumbing class
down at the union hall.
It was just an orientation session
for designating schedules and doling out books
so we got out two hours early
but it still managed to leave me sour.
The coordinator of the apprenticeship program
a fake-tanned Italian man of fifty-five with a penchant
for fine scotch, expensive cigars, and leather blazers
was speaking in front of the fifty or so apprentices.
In his feeble attempt at professionalism
he mentioned an exam that the class about
to graduate from the five-year apprenticeship program
can take in order to receive an associates degree
in our trade, which is essentially useless
though it'd look good tacked to a wall next to a dirty calendar.
Only two members of our local can take the test per year
so it's up to the intructors to decide whom to nominate
from the unenthusiastic list of potential candidates.
Someone sitting in one of the front rows tonight
mentioned how no one went to take the test
last year anyway, implying that it's a waste of time.
The same heckler said that the one kid who would've gone
last year is the one who died in a car accident
after a night of heavy drinking at a Mexican restaurant.
That's when the feet started entering the mouths.
"Yeah, maybe he would've gone," said the coordinator
in his best Joe Pesci impersonation voice
"but that was yet to be determined by the instructors.
I just said that at the kid's funeral to make his mother
feel good."
I couldn't believe he had the nerve to say something
so audacious in front of the peers of the deceased.
It turned my stomach instantly and a buddy of mine
and I glanced sideways at each other simultaneously.
I didn't know the kid personally, but I recognized
the name when I heard of his passing
and came to find out that he was the older brother
of someone I went to elementary school with
who gave me a bookbag full of his older brother's toys
that are rolling around in my mother's shed somewhere.
We're reminded how small a world it is on a daily basis.
And on nights like tonight I'm reminded
of how cruel a world it can be
even amongst us alleged "brothers".
If they ever threaten to take my card
on account of my doing what I have to in order
to make a buck, scabbing it up on weekends and such
I'll tell them to make sure
to let that same prick do the talking
at my hearing so I can respectfully remind him
who dies in "Goodfellas," and why.
back at stupid plumbing class
down at the union hall.
It was just an orientation session
for designating schedules and doling out books
so we got out two hours early
but it still managed to leave me sour.
The coordinator of the apprenticeship program
a fake-tanned Italian man of fifty-five with a penchant
for fine scotch, expensive cigars, and leather blazers
was speaking in front of the fifty or so apprentices.
In his feeble attempt at professionalism
he mentioned an exam that the class about
to graduate from the five-year apprenticeship program
can take in order to receive an associates degree
in our trade, which is essentially useless
though it'd look good tacked to a wall next to a dirty calendar.
Only two members of our local can take the test per year
so it's up to the intructors to decide whom to nominate
from the unenthusiastic list of potential candidates.
Someone sitting in one of the front rows tonight
mentioned how no one went to take the test
last year anyway, implying that it's a waste of time.
The same heckler said that the one kid who would've gone
last year is the one who died in a car accident
after a night of heavy drinking at a Mexican restaurant.
That's when the feet started entering the mouths.
"Yeah, maybe he would've gone," said the coordinator
in his best Joe Pesci impersonation voice
"but that was yet to be determined by the instructors.
I just said that at the kid's funeral to make his mother
feel good."
I couldn't believe he had the nerve to say something
so audacious in front of the peers of the deceased.
It turned my stomach instantly and a buddy of mine
and I glanced sideways at each other simultaneously.
I didn't know the kid personally, but I recognized
the name when I heard of his passing
and came to find out that he was the older brother
of someone I went to elementary school with
who gave me a bookbag full of his older brother's toys
that are rolling around in my mother's shed somewhere.
We're reminded how small a world it is on a daily basis.
And on nights like tonight I'm reminded
of how cruel a world it can be
even amongst us alleged "brothers".
If they ever threaten to take my card
on account of my doing what I have to in order
to make a buck, scabbing it up on weekends and such
I'll tell them to make sure
to let that same prick do the talking
at my hearing so I can respectfully remind him
who dies in "Goodfellas," and why.
We would've known what to do if they weren't at their stupid Jehovah meeting...
For those of you who've lost faith in God:
don't count the Old Man out just yet--
He still smites, therefore He still exists.
Came home to what
for the sake of sparing you gruesome details
could be categorically considered
a plumbing disaster.
I know what you're thinking:
how perfect, since I'm a plumber, right?
Wrong.
See, 'plumber' is a term commonly misused
to describe my union brethren and me.
We are technically 'pipefitters'
who install piping systems of various sorts
that transport various fluids
so we don't encounter actual human excrement
quite as often as you'd like to assume.
Catastrophes such as this
still come as a shock to us.
My roommate and I
spent a good five hours in my crawlspace
snaking out waste lines in an attempt
to locate and neutralize the stoppage.
The trusty process of elimination
told me that the problem was further down
the main outside of the house
but the snake I borrowed didn't reach that far.
When all else failed we dug up the lid
to the septic tank and pulled it off.
Sure enough, there was our problem:
a massive wad of tampons.
If you don't see the irony in this
you obviously haven't read my last little number
which is probably for the best.
I have been punished for lashing out
against our Maker's finest creation.
Unfortunately, my buddy had to suffer alongside me
but hey, you know what misery loves.
So now, after calling out of work
to deal with the aftermath
I'm off to the supply house
to gather parts needed to reinstall our toilet.
And girls, for the almighty love of
He Who Speaks Loud and Clear via Ironic Afflictions--
try to remember not to flush your rag
down the toilet from now on.
don't count the Old Man out just yet--
He still smites, therefore He still exists.
Came home to what
for the sake of sparing you gruesome details
could be categorically considered
a plumbing disaster.
I know what you're thinking:
how perfect, since I'm a plumber, right?
Wrong.
See, 'plumber' is a term commonly misused
to describe my union brethren and me.
We are technically 'pipefitters'
who install piping systems of various sorts
that transport various fluids
so we don't encounter actual human excrement
quite as often as you'd like to assume.
Catastrophes such as this
still come as a shock to us.
My roommate and I
spent a good five hours in my crawlspace
snaking out waste lines in an attempt
to locate and neutralize the stoppage.
The trusty process of elimination
told me that the problem was further down
the main outside of the house
but the snake I borrowed didn't reach that far.
When all else failed we dug up the lid
to the septic tank and pulled it off.
Sure enough, there was our problem:
a massive wad of tampons.
If you don't see the irony in this
you obviously haven't read my last little number
which is probably for the best.
I have been punished for lashing out
against our Maker's finest creation.
Unfortunately, my buddy had to suffer alongside me
but hey, you know what misery loves.
So now, after calling out of work
to deal with the aftermath
I'm off to the supply house
to gather parts needed to reinstall our toilet.
And girls, for the almighty love of
He Who Speaks Loud and Clear via Ironic Afflictions--
try to remember not to flush your rag
down the toilet from now on.
10.20.2008
On losing the taste for the sport.
It's a good thing I got out
of the game when I did--
I was beginning to hate
its ultimate goal.
Have you ever actually seen
one of those things?
Most are by no means attractive
and seem almost foreign
some alien life form
grotesquely slimy, hideously confusing
like a lobster's face.
The smell of most
isn't much better.
Even the prettiest girls
get a fair share of funk
where the sun don't shine
after a day's worth of friction.
It's nothing to be ashamed of, ladies.
Just be more appreciative
of the next guy who goes down.
And he will, in more ways than one
and that's my real gripe--
not the various forms of unsettling discharge
nor strange pasty stains on inside-out underwear
nor any other of the physical oddities
of that unholy hole.
It's the unfair advantage that you're sitting on
that really gets to me, and more specifically
its ability to drive a man over the edge.
Case in point:
Here lies John Q. Average, another sad victim
of the Vagina Conspiracy.
Dignity and reasoning
first to go, followed by soul and spirit.
"Bros before...nevermind.
I'm turning off my phone,"
and that's only the beginning of the travesty
of sacrifice that comes with the territory
that I'm relieved to no longer
let enslave me.
It comes when it comes
so to speak.
(For me, it may never again
thanks to this one.)
It goes more easily.
(Yeah, now we're talkin'!)
Free at last.
Just kidding, girls.
Treasure that goldmine.
of the game when I did--
I was beginning to hate
its ultimate goal.
Have you ever actually seen
one of those things?
Most are by no means attractive
and seem almost foreign
some alien life form
grotesquely slimy, hideously confusing
like a lobster's face.
The smell of most
isn't much better.
Even the prettiest girls
get a fair share of funk
where the sun don't shine
after a day's worth of friction.
It's nothing to be ashamed of, ladies.
Just be more appreciative
of the next guy who goes down.
And he will, in more ways than one
and that's my real gripe--
not the various forms of unsettling discharge
nor strange pasty stains on inside-out underwear
nor any other of the physical oddities
of that unholy hole.
It's the unfair advantage that you're sitting on
that really gets to me, and more specifically
its ability to drive a man over the edge.
Case in point:
Here lies John Q. Average, another sad victim
of the Vagina Conspiracy.
Dignity and reasoning
first to go, followed by soul and spirit.
"Bros before...nevermind.
I'm turning off my phone,"
and that's only the beginning of the travesty
of sacrifice that comes with the territory
that I'm relieved to no longer
let enslave me.
It comes when it comes
so to speak.
(For me, it may never again
thanks to this one.)
It goes more easily.
(Yeah, now we're talkin'!)
Free at last.
Just kidding, girls.
Treasure that goldmine.
10.19.2008
From one Dick to another.
His name is Richard.
He's about sixty, though he could pass for
seventy-five, a retired local cop who looks, walks
and sounds like some sort of balding scarecrow.
From where I sit in my bedroom
I can see into his kitchen window.
He's drying a plate with a white towel right now
and as frail as the man is, every motion he makes
during every task I watch him perform
from the safety of my voyeuristic perch
is done with such deliberate fervor
as if to stake claim to something
that could be lost if he isn't careful.
Sometimes I want to remind him
that if it hasn't left him yet
it probably never will
but we'll never speak
since we have no reason to.
I'd wager money that you could find
a lint-covered piece of butterscotch candy
in the right hip pocket of his brown slacks
and in his left would be a receipt from the oil change
he got today for that car that's older than me
which it seems he constantly makes excuses
to drive around town as if he bought it yesterday.
His back yard is filled with other vehicles, sheds
and unfinished projects long since rusted beyond repair.
Toys his grandchildren left out fill the gaps in between.
His family visits him daily and I see his peppered moustache
dance above his flannel shirt as he waves goodbye
in his driveway every evening as if he won't see them tomorrow.
He knows he might not.
Tonight I see you, Richard
and commend you for a life well-lived
though I don't know your last name
or whether or not you've ever cheated on your wife
or your taxes.
None of that matters to me anyhow.
That Frankenstein fence you rigged years ago
has made us good neighbors.
But honestly, why is the light always on
in your basement?
Currently reading:
"The Stranger" by Albert Camus.
He's about sixty, though he could pass for
seventy-five, a retired local cop who looks, walks
and sounds like some sort of balding scarecrow.
From where I sit in my bedroom
I can see into his kitchen window.
He's drying a plate with a white towel right now
and as frail as the man is, every motion he makes
during every task I watch him perform
from the safety of my voyeuristic perch
is done with such deliberate fervor
as if to stake claim to something
that could be lost if he isn't careful.
Sometimes I want to remind him
that if it hasn't left him yet
it probably never will
but we'll never speak
since we have no reason to.
I'd wager money that you could find
a lint-covered piece of butterscotch candy
in the right hip pocket of his brown slacks
and in his left would be a receipt from the oil change
he got today for that car that's older than me
which it seems he constantly makes excuses
to drive around town as if he bought it yesterday.
His back yard is filled with other vehicles, sheds
and unfinished projects long since rusted beyond repair.
Toys his grandchildren left out fill the gaps in between.
His family visits him daily and I see his peppered moustache
dance above his flannel shirt as he waves goodbye
in his driveway every evening as if he won't see them tomorrow.
He knows he might not.
Tonight I see you, Richard
and commend you for a life well-lived
though I don't know your last name
or whether or not you've ever cheated on your wife
or your taxes.
None of that matters to me anyhow.
That Frankenstein fence you rigged years ago
has made us good neighbors.
But honestly, why is the light always on
in your basement?
Currently reading:
"The Stranger" by Albert Camus.
Sac.
Being laid off isn't so bad. All concept of time goes out the window. Tuesday might as well be Saturday, and the fine State of New York pays for my laziness. That's not to say it's time entirely wasted. I've been catching up on my reading at least. And besides, I still work three or four days a week when the guy I work for on the side needs me to come in and bail him out. It's not a bad gig.
My stepfather, Craig, is also working for Tom with me right now since his sheet metal business is slow. The two of them go back twenty years so it's funny to watch them interact. Tom never refers to Craig by name. It's always "Good morning, Dickhead," or "Hey Mike, where's Asshole hiding?" And the gay jokes, can't forget the gay jokes. One time Craig made the mistake of saying "Fredo, my man!" to this Mexican gentleman as Tom walked by silently in the background. Later on in the afternoon Tom confronted Craig about "his man," and asked if there was anything going on between the two of them. Craig's not as quick with the comeback as Tom and usually just curses him out while storming away, tools clenched tight in hands. I absorb all of it and receive Tom's subtle winks with a secret pleasure.
Sometimes it's more akward than amusing to work with my stepfather and watch him be the butt of the joke. It turns out construction workers are perverts. There was a six-month period where Tom would not say "Good morning" to me, but opted for a more direct "Ya eat any pussy last night?" It was a comical way to start the day, and most of the time it was harmless. Until of course one time when I made a point to make Tom proud one night so I could answer in the affirmative the next morning, and after hearing the good news Tom took it upon himself to approach me and Craig as we were working. "Hey, Asshole. The Kid ate some pussy last night, I'm proud of him," at which point my stepfather and I laughed uncomfortably since my girlfriend at the time had just come over for dinner two nights previous. It's not so easy to switch back and forth between family and coworker at times like that, and things get even more complicated when the joke is on Craig since he's married to my mother.
One such instance occurred last week. It was unseasonably warm in the plant where we were working and all of us had walked back and forth for tools or material at least twenty times over the course of the day. Sweating profusely plus walking long distances equals chafing. As the bunch of us working for Tom washed our hands at the end of the day this subject came up. Craig mentioned how badly chafed his balls were. Another fellow, who must not have known our relation, told him to stop whining and have the old lady take care of it. Craig responded with "I can't, they're so torn up from working for Tom that she won't go near them!" What was I to do? Pretend not to have heard? Laugh uncomfortably? Express pride in my mom's better judgment? "Yeah, Ma, that's right. Stay away from those nasty red balls, you're better than that!" But instead I dried my hands and made sure to avoid eye contact on the way out of the bathroom.
And there it was. And so we are. God bless the American Way.
My stepfather, Craig, is also working for Tom with me right now since his sheet metal business is slow. The two of them go back twenty years so it's funny to watch them interact. Tom never refers to Craig by name. It's always "Good morning, Dickhead," or "Hey Mike, where's Asshole hiding?" And the gay jokes, can't forget the gay jokes. One time Craig made the mistake of saying "Fredo, my man!" to this Mexican gentleman as Tom walked by silently in the background. Later on in the afternoon Tom confronted Craig about "his man," and asked if there was anything going on between the two of them. Craig's not as quick with the comeback as Tom and usually just curses him out while storming away, tools clenched tight in hands. I absorb all of it and receive Tom's subtle winks with a secret pleasure.
Sometimes it's more akward than amusing to work with my stepfather and watch him be the butt of the joke. It turns out construction workers are perverts. There was a six-month period where Tom would not say "Good morning" to me, but opted for a more direct "Ya eat any pussy last night?" It was a comical way to start the day, and most of the time it was harmless. Until of course one time when I made a point to make Tom proud one night so I could answer in the affirmative the next morning, and after hearing the good news Tom took it upon himself to approach me and Craig as we were working. "Hey, Asshole. The Kid ate some pussy last night, I'm proud of him," at which point my stepfather and I laughed uncomfortably since my girlfriend at the time had just come over for dinner two nights previous. It's not so easy to switch back and forth between family and coworker at times like that, and things get even more complicated when the joke is on Craig since he's married to my mother.
One such instance occurred last week. It was unseasonably warm in the plant where we were working and all of us had walked back and forth for tools or material at least twenty times over the course of the day. Sweating profusely plus walking long distances equals chafing. As the bunch of us working for Tom washed our hands at the end of the day this subject came up. Craig mentioned how badly chafed his balls were. Another fellow, who must not have known our relation, told him to stop whining and have the old lady take care of it. Craig responded with "I can't, they're so torn up from working for Tom that she won't go near them!" What was I to do? Pretend not to have heard? Laugh uncomfortably? Express pride in my mom's better judgment? "Yeah, Ma, that's right. Stay away from those nasty red balls, you're better than that!" But instead I dried my hands and made sure to avoid eye contact on the way out of the bathroom.
And there it was. And so we are. God bless the American Way.
10.16.2008
In loving memory of Jane Cooney Baker, who died before her time.
I'm so sorry, Sophie
and Olivia, it could've been grand
but none of us will ever know
'cause there was nothing quite like good times
at the expense of unsuspecting women
back then.
"Repent," he told himself
but it was not quite as easy
as getting rid of a broken toaster oven.
It was more like the aftertaste of milk.
It had been awhile since he'd heard from her
and he was hoping she said "He's a Hitler,"
but he was wrong, and the bruises
she went to work with for two weeks
proved it.
Then there was the one who'd pant his name
every other breath. She'd be reminding him
of whom he was trying to forget he was
while straightening her eyes
until the sun came up and the party rolled off
of their respective couches.
Again, the toaster didn't stand a chance
but I'm still brushing dairy teeth
and by the way, whose is that toothbrush
that's been on the vanity in my bathroom
untouched for over six months?
I'm throwing it out now.
This packrat lets go eventually.
Well, mostly.
It's a hard town to drive through still
avoided like the plague, the scene of a crime
the young Bohemian couples holding hands
because though I've since retrieved it in Another Form
I was robbed of something there once
and I blame it all on German engineering.
It's all just more
of the same soap opera
with less weddings--
a shoebox full
of many perfumed letters.
There are melodies lingering
in your head that you've forgotten
are there, but that makes them
no less real
and you no more innocent.
I put a knot in my hair
that I had to rip out
while watching a movie
the other night
and now I know how she feels.
I told all this to the rabbit
but she just cocked her head
and looked at me funny.
Our conversations have been
one-sided lately
the novelty of my presence
having worn its welcome
since I'm laid off and home all the time now.
So the King of Pronouns plays it safe again
though changing names and places
may still hurt the Dearly Departed
and more important Others.
A man like me has no choice.
Lo siento, Mi Amor...
con palabras como besitos.
and Olivia, it could've been grand
but none of us will ever know
'cause there was nothing quite like good times
at the expense of unsuspecting women
back then.
"Repent," he told himself
but it was not quite as easy
as getting rid of a broken toaster oven.
It was more like the aftertaste of milk.
It had been awhile since he'd heard from her
and he was hoping she said "He's a Hitler,"
but he was wrong, and the bruises
she went to work with for two weeks
proved it.
Then there was the one who'd pant his name
every other breath. She'd be reminding him
of whom he was trying to forget he was
while straightening her eyes
until the sun came up and the party rolled off
of their respective couches.
Again, the toaster didn't stand a chance
but I'm still brushing dairy teeth
and by the way, whose is that toothbrush
that's been on the vanity in my bathroom
untouched for over six months?
I'm throwing it out now.
This packrat lets go eventually.
Well, mostly.
It's a hard town to drive through still
avoided like the plague, the scene of a crime
the young Bohemian couples holding hands
because though I've since retrieved it in Another Form
I was robbed of something there once
and I blame it all on German engineering.
It's all just more
of the same soap opera
with less weddings--
a shoebox full
of many perfumed letters.
There are melodies lingering
in your head that you've forgotten
are there, but that makes them
no less real
and you no more innocent.
I put a knot in my hair
that I had to rip out
while watching a movie
the other night
and now I know how she feels.
I told all this to the rabbit
but she just cocked her head
and looked at me funny.
Our conversations have been
one-sided lately
the novelty of my presence
having worn its welcome
since I'm laid off and home all the time now.
So the King of Pronouns plays it safe again
though changing names and places
may still hurt the Dearly Departed
and more important Others.
A man like me has no choice.
Lo siento, Mi Amor...
con palabras como besitos.
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