I had this one two days ago, but it's as fresh in my mind as when I first woke up. My father and I were in his old car, the one he had when we still spoke. He'd just gotten out of some Holy Roller conference and was wearing one of those "Hi, my name is..." name-tags on the left breast of his maroon T-shirt. There was already a thin layer of slush on the roads and the flakes were coming down harder by the minute. For whatever reason he was driving erractically; strange, since my old man's always driven dangerously slow. We skidded around on the slick pavement crossing into the opposite lane quite a few times as the frozen roads wound up and down the hills of Rockland County. At one point he wasn't paying attention and almost sent us off a cliff. Subconsciously wanting to be the hero in my dreams, I grabbed the wheel and steered us back on track. Once he'd re-commandeered the vehicle he managed to throw us right back into danger. The tires were slipping on the wet snow as we were desperately trying to ascend a steep hill. We wound up in the wrong lane. I screamed at him to stop fllooring the gas pedal, that it was getting us nowhere. I saw headlights coming around the bend and thought we were done for. I'd died in my dreams before, it wasn't a surprise. Somehow, though, we managed to get back into our lane. The stubborn old bastard still wouldn't slow down, however. We were flying down a hill marked thirty miles-an-hour at a brisk fifty-five; I was close to shitting myself. Not knowing how else to slow us down I pulled the emergency brake. When that didn't work I shifted the car into a lower gear. It was all futile, my father was hauling ass. My pleas to be more careful must've finally gotten through to him. He pulled over and switched seats with me. It was comforting to get behind the wheel, but not for long. The car wanted to accelerate on its own and the brake wasn't doing much of anything. My dad stared straight ahead, didn't bother giving me the "I told you so" look that a normal human being would've relished. We zoomed past a cop car at a speed that'd undoubtedly raise any patrolman's eyebrow. I was not about to get into an accidental high-speed pursuit, especially with that old coot riding shotgun, so I opted to stop the car the hard way. I could see a thick patch of snow in the center of the road ahead of us, a five-foot snow bank in the shoulder to the right. My foot slammed the brake as hard as it could as I aimed for the dangerous spot in the road and jerked the wheel, sending us spinning. Luckily, we landed in the bank, facing the wrong way so we could see the rollers on top of the approaching cruiser. My father and I both jumped out of the car thankful to still have our lives. When the officer arrived on the scene he immediately blamed by father for the accident. Good ol' Charlie didn't put up much of a fight, even though I'd been the one driving. He managed to irritate the cop with his antics and stupid questions, the socially awkward dolt that he is, as I cringed and called my mother for a ride home. There was a lot of noise in the background when she picked up her phone. She said that she was at a restaurant and was too drunk to drive. I told her not to worry, I'd be OK without her help. After hanging up I turned back and saw that my dad was in handcuffs. I guess he finally pushed that cop over the edge with his nonsense. And yes, the police officer in my nightmare was played by no other than Reginald VelJohnson, friendly neighborhood cop in both 'Family Matters' (Carl Winslow) and 'Die Hard' (not Carl Winslow). Who else could it have been?
I woke shortly afterwards as is usually the case. My beard and the pillow were soaked in drool, another unfortunately common occurrence. My girlfriend's green-gray eyes peered over at me from under heavy lids. She asked what was wrong, what had happened in my sleep. She can tell when they're about him now. Sometimes I think she knows more about me than I do. I recited the story I just told here. She suggested I talk to someone, go see somebody, a shrink-- since my father's absence has clearly become a major theme in my life. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Regardless, it doesn't take a Sigmund Freud to decipher what this one in particular meant: I couldn't slow that damn car down any better than he could. I'm making the same mistakes, heading down the same path, suffering the same consequences; and that's my biggest fear, really: the self-fulfilling prophecy, the unbroken cycle. Maybe I should've aimed for the telephone pole across from that snow bank instead.
And Sigmund--
I'm well aware of what they didn't tell us in college: you were just a perverted cocaine addict who lost his jawbone to cigar-induced cancer.
9.30.2009
9.29.2009
Milk, Bread, Eggs...
An old friend called me up
said that 'Having feelings sucks'.
(Well, she didn't really call me
but it sounded better.)
And she disappeared before
I could settle any score.
(See, it's not the case 'cause if we didn't
what then would they trample?)
We can hear more rhyme than reason.
I've been dreamin' more than sleepin'.
It's no wonder that she cropped him
(the fuck) out of the picture.
said that 'Having feelings sucks'.
(Well, she didn't really call me
but it sounded better.)
And she disappeared before
I could settle any score.
(See, it's not the case 'cause if we didn't
what then would they trample?)
We can hear more rhyme than reason.
I've been dreamin' more than sleepin'.
It's no wonder that she cropped him
(the fuck) out of the picture.
The Lameness Czars
But can't she see
it's no coin-
cidence
that my fav-
orite novel's called
'The Bro-
thers Kar-
amazoV'
? (Please?)
it's no coin-
cidence
that my fav-
orite novel's called
'The Bro-
thers Kar-
amazoV'
? (Please?)
9.27.2009
Don't threaten me with a good time.
Dave and I had already been there
working on the boiler for two hours
when he found the poor thing.
He was kneeling in the corner of
the basement and let out a yell that sounded
like it came from a frightened schoolgirl.
It was so feminine that he probably would've
paid a substantial sum of money
to hide all evidence of it having happened
from our brother members.
Even plumbers have fears.
"You're afraid of a little snake, Dave?"
I asked after my laughter had died down.
"Didn't used to be. Not taking any chances."
He was riffling through my tool bucket in search
of something with which to hit the coiled up garter.
It didn't seem right.
"Don't kill it. I'll catch it."
"And do what with it?"
"Let it go outside."
"Fine, but if you try to catch it
and it escapes in here
you can work in this corner all day."
The sincerity in his voice was matched by
his raised eyebrow. For a grown man
he sure was acting like a little girl.
They're not even poisonous.
Snakes, I mean.
My tape measure served as a good
instrument to use to prod the terrified snake.
It snapped at its metal hook a few times
and refused to be goaded into the pail
I was holding in front of it. Getting sick of the charade
I found a rag and used that to grab it.
Dave peered down into the bucket with disgust
after I caught the snake. The hammer in his hand
twitched with the remnants of the dose of adrenaline
his initial scare had afforded him.
I've never understood people who kill things
for getting in their way, much less out of unjustified fear.
I've never really understood people at all, truth be told.
I suppose I'd be worried if I did.
Dave followed me outside to watch me free the captive.
He hadn't put the hammer down yet, it was starting
to worry me a bit.
"Not here. Keep walking," he said
when I went to tip the bucket in the back yard.
"It might slither up my hose if you set it free
too close to the house."
The green garden hose we'd run out from
the basement to drain the old boiler
prior to removing it was a good ten feet to my left.
My friend's fear was legitimate. I felt bad.
We watched it disappear into some tall grass.
"Thanks," Dave said. "I'm glad I didn't have to kill it."
He flipped the hammer around and caught it
in mid-air by the head, then turned and walked
back towards the house with long, even strides.
A few hours later we were done piping the boiler.
Dave's specialty was wiring and he was about
to show me just how great he was at it-- that is until
he opened up the electrical box on the wall and jumped back
with that same shrill shriek.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Look at those black wires with the yellow stripes."
He was right, they did resemble smaller versions
of our reptilian friend.
"No hammer this time, OK?"
When the customer returned home three hours later
Dave made reference to the day's capture.
"No extra charge for snake removal, Mrs. Cho."
"What you mean?" she asked with a gasp.
"My partner here got rid of one he found in the corner."
Mrs. Cho nodded in silent appreciation. Then she
asked whom to make the cheque out to.
"Dave Bush Maintenance," my partner said.
"Spell that, prease," replied Mrs. Cho.
Dave looked mortified for the third time that day.
"D-A-V-E, B-U-S-H," he recited as he fumbled through
his pocket. "M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E," he read
from the business card his wife had printed up for him.
Arlene was clearly the brains of the operation.
"That word always messes me up," he explained
after Mrs. Cho had walked out of the room.
"She's from a foreign country. What's your excuse?"
"I'm a plumber, Shakespeare," Dave responded.
"More of a plumber than you'll ever be."
I couldn't have agreed more.
working on the boiler for two hours
when he found the poor thing.
He was kneeling in the corner of
the basement and let out a yell that sounded
like it came from a frightened schoolgirl.
It was so feminine that he probably would've
paid a substantial sum of money
to hide all evidence of it having happened
from our brother members.
Even plumbers have fears.
"You're afraid of a little snake, Dave?"
I asked after my laughter had died down.
"Didn't used to be. Not taking any chances."
He was riffling through my tool bucket in search
of something with which to hit the coiled up garter.
It didn't seem right.
"Don't kill it. I'll catch it."
"And do what with it?"
"Let it go outside."
"Fine, but if you try to catch it
and it escapes in here
you can work in this corner all day."
The sincerity in his voice was matched by
his raised eyebrow. For a grown man
he sure was acting like a little girl.
They're not even poisonous.
Snakes, I mean.
My tape measure served as a good
instrument to use to prod the terrified snake.
It snapped at its metal hook a few times
and refused to be goaded into the pail
I was holding in front of it. Getting sick of the charade
I found a rag and used that to grab it.
Dave peered down into the bucket with disgust
after I caught the snake. The hammer in his hand
twitched with the remnants of the dose of adrenaline
his initial scare had afforded him.
I've never understood people who kill things
for getting in their way, much less out of unjustified fear.
I've never really understood people at all, truth be told.
I suppose I'd be worried if I did.
Dave followed me outside to watch me free the captive.
He hadn't put the hammer down yet, it was starting
to worry me a bit.
"Not here. Keep walking," he said
when I went to tip the bucket in the back yard.
"It might slither up my hose if you set it free
too close to the house."
The green garden hose we'd run out from
the basement to drain the old boiler
prior to removing it was a good ten feet to my left.
My friend's fear was legitimate. I felt bad.
We watched it disappear into some tall grass.
"Thanks," Dave said. "I'm glad I didn't have to kill it."
He flipped the hammer around and caught it
in mid-air by the head, then turned and walked
back towards the house with long, even strides.
A few hours later we were done piping the boiler.
Dave's specialty was wiring and he was about
to show me just how great he was at it-- that is until
he opened up the electrical box on the wall and jumped back
with that same shrill shriek.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Look at those black wires with the yellow stripes."
He was right, they did resemble smaller versions
of our reptilian friend.
"No hammer this time, OK?"
When the customer returned home three hours later
Dave made reference to the day's capture.
"No extra charge for snake removal, Mrs. Cho."
"What you mean?" she asked with a gasp.
"My partner here got rid of one he found in the corner."
Mrs. Cho nodded in silent appreciation. Then she
asked whom to make the cheque out to.
"Dave Bush Maintenance," my partner said.
"Spell that, prease," replied Mrs. Cho.
Dave looked mortified for the third time that day.
"D-A-V-E, B-U-S-H," he recited as he fumbled through
his pocket. "M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E," he read
from the business card his wife had printed up for him.
Arlene was clearly the brains of the operation.
"That word always messes me up," he explained
after Mrs. Cho had walked out of the room.
"She's from a foreign country. What's your excuse?"
"I'm a plumber, Shakespeare," Dave responded.
"More of a plumber than you'll ever be."
I couldn't have agreed more.
9.26.2009
The Job of 38th Street
Their asses swayed back and forth
in front of me on the dimly lit sidewalk.
Both girls were a few inches shorter than me
and quite a bit paler, though I never did
see their faces. They walked arm-in-arm
possibly lesbians; probably so, in fact--
sometimes I feel like us red-blooded
heterosexuals are the minority in this city.
One of them had a black hooded sweatshirt
and bleached streaks in her dark hair.
The other, the taller of the two, wore
a pink sweater that didn't quite cover
her orange undershirt. I like when that happens.
We all do, us red-blooded heterosexuals.
My shins were killing me from all of the
flat-footed pavement-pounding I'd been doing.
I'd just dropped her lunch off at the hospital
and was heading back to her apartment
in the hope that the key she'd made me would work
this time. I needed something to focus
my blurred vision on, something to follow
in order to make it those twenty blocks back to the apartment.
It wasn't personal, wasn't sexual; just something to follow
to latch onto, like a set of red tail lights on a tired drive home.
I could smell the rich sauces in the Chinese food cartons
that Bleached Hair was carrying in a white plastic bag.
The familiar aroma made me feel comfortable in
an otherwise unfamiliar place. Then I caught a whiff
of the perfume that one of them was wearing.
Something in my motivation changed.
I banged a left at the next intersection, crossed
before the red hand disappeared, almost got clipped
by a delivery boy on a bicycle who cursed at me in Spanish.
I'd have to find a new guide home. The asses weren't so harmless
anymore and my lazy eye couldn't carry the guilt.
Everyone loses in a city made of sidewalks.
Don't mind my noticing;
blame it on the low blood sugar.
in front of me on the dimly lit sidewalk.
Both girls were a few inches shorter than me
and quite a bit paler, though I never did
see their faces. They walked arm-in-arm
possibly lesbians; probably so, in fact--
sometimes I feel like us red-blooded
heterosexuals are the minority in this city.
One of them had a black hooded sweatshirt
and bleached streaks in her dark hair.
The other, the taller of the two, wore
a pink sweater that didn't quite cover
her orange undershirt. I like when that happens.
We all do, us red-blooded heterosexuals.
My shins were killing me from all of the
flat-footed pavement-pounding I'd been doing.
I'd just dropped her lunch off at the hospital
and was heading back to her apartment
in the hope that the key she'd made me would work
this time. I needed something to focus
my blurred vision on, something to follow
in order to make it those twenty blocks back to the apartment.
It wasn't personal, wasn't sexual; just something to follow
to latch onto, like a set of red tail lights on a tired drive home.
I could smell the rich sauces in the Chinese food cartons
that Bleached Hair was carrying in a white plastic bag.
The familiar aroma made me feel comfortable in
an otherwise unfamiliar place. Then I caught a whiff
of the perfume that one of them was wearing.
Something in my motivation changed.
I banged a left at the next intersection, crossed
before the red hand disappeared, almost got clipped
by a delivery boy on a bicycle who cursed at me in Spanish.
I'd have to find a new guide home. The asses weren't so harmless
anymore and my lazy eye couldn't carry the guilt.
Everyone loses in a city made of sidewalks.
Don't mind my noticing;
blame it on the low blood sugar.
9.25.2009
Marco!
The book got boring so I marked my page and put it down. She was still too into hers to be distracted by my fingertips as I stroked her back in a feeble attempt to initiate something. This is her place, this cubby hole in Midtown West, and I should know better than to try to run the show. The narrow mind that I am, I try sometimes.
Someone outside her window (she'd rather hear me say 'our', but I can't just yet) is taking the building's trash out of the two wooden bins near the front door. I can hear the bottles clinking together, can almost hear the man cursing us gringos under his breath. How did he get such a job? Why is he automatically Latino? Have I seen him before?, maybe on my glorious zombie stroll back from the bar at five in the morning the other night? You know, the time I stumbled into some Pakistani restaurant since it was the only place open at that hour, took a look at the bearded men around me, mumbled 'Goddamn terrorists', and somehow managed to walk out without becoming the next day's lunch special. It's no wonder she worries about me wandering this town alone at night when she's off taking care of strangers for a living. No no no! She's a nurse, not a prostitute, though one of those approached me in the bar on the infamous Pakistani night and asked if I wanted to hang out. I told her I already was hanging out. She didn't seem to agree, stormed out with a clickety-clack of her heels and a swish of her dangerously short skirt. Later on was a little different. The rats ran away from me as I chased them down alleys. It's a wonder I made it home. I just wasn't made for Manhattan, but I'm trying for her sake. No, in this case I'll say 'our'.
That poor spic bastard's still out there. The bottles are still crashing into one another, he's still muttering curse words that'd make that hooker blush. He's downstream from my existence in this place, praying I'm not pissing in the river. If I didn't empty the bottles then he's going to get a sticky surprise. If he drops one by accident then the homeless woman who sleeps on the sidewalk is going to get cut. Do you know they weld steel rods on top of fire hydrants here so that bums can't sit on them? Have you seen the benches with dividers in them to prevent them from being used as beds? This place is one big sad food chain and that's one of my main problems with it. The social stratification is just too broad and heartbreaking. Give me Suburbia where everyone's relatively equal, at least to the naked eye. I'm looking out the window now at a spire atop a church three blocks away. I'm not sure who's at the top of this chain, but it sure isn't God. He abandoned this experiment a long time ago. I just heard the Devil in the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel-- the Devil, or the collective death rattle of a few hundred motorists filtering into this bustling metropolis to start another day of the race.
And me? I'm embedded like a tick engorged with blood, a jostled Romeo under house arrest trying to keep his head above water while keeping his ear to the ground. I currently have $230 in parking tickets and the unemployment check won't be in the mail for another week. It's a hell of a predicament for a simple man like me. It takes a hell of a woman to make that all worthwhile. Her book must've gotten boring, she's pressed into the pillow. Let me go join that dream of hers. Ours. Amen.
Someone outside her window (she'd rather hear me say 'our', but I can't just yet) is taking the building's trash out of the two wooden bins near the front door. I can hear the bottles clinking together, can almost hear the man cursing us gringos under his breath. How did he get such a job? Why is he automatically Latino? Have I seen him before?, maybe on my glorious zombie stroll back from the bar at five in the morning the other night? You know, the time I stumbled into some Pakistani restaurant since it was the only place open at that hour, took a look at the bearded men around me, mumbled 'Goddamn terrorists', and somehow managed to walk out without becoming the next day's lunch special. It's no wonder she worries about me wandering this town alone at night when she's off taking care of strangers for a living. No no no! She's a nurse, not a prostitute, though one of those approached me in the bar on the infamous Pakistani night and asked if I wanted to hang out. I told her I already was hanging out. She didn't seem to agree, stormed out with a clickety-clack of her heels and a swish of her dangerously short skirt. Later on was a little different. The rats ran away from me as I chased them down alleys. It's a wonder I made it home. I just wasn't made for Manhattan, but I'm trying for her sake. No, in this case I'll say 'our'.
That poor spic bastard's still out there. The bottles are still crashing into one another, he's still muttering curse words that'd make that hooker blush. He's downstream from my existence in this place, praying I'm not pissing in the river. If I didn't empty the bottles then he's going to get a sticky surprise. If he drops one by accident then the homeless woman who sleeps on the sidewalk is going to get cut. Do you know they weld steel rods on top of fire hydrants here so that bums can't sit on them? Have you seen the benches with dividers in them to prevent them from being used as beds? This place is one big sad food chain and that's one of my main problems with it. The social stratification is just too broad and heartbreaking. Give me Suburbia where everyone's relatively equal, at least to the naked eye. I'm looking out the window now at a spire atop a church three blocks away. I'm not sure who's at the top of this chain, but it sure isn't God. He abandoned this experiment a long time ago. I just heard the Devil in the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel-- the Devil, or the collective death rattle of a few hundred motorists filtering into this bustling metropolis to start another day of the race.
And me? I'm embedded like a tick engorged with blood, a jostled Romeo under house arrest trying to keep his head above water while keeping his ear to the ground. I currently have $230 in parking tickets and the unemployment check won't be in the mail for another week. It's a hell of a predicament for a simple man like me. It takes a hell of a woman to make that all worthwhile. Her book must've gotten boring, she's pressed into the pillow. Let me go join that dream of hers. Ours. Amen.
9.24.2009
Keep that dirty Pig Latin under your hat.
If held at hipster knifepoint
I'd humbly confess
today
tonight
tomorrow
that in a case
likes this
where you can almost smell
her bleeding
it's best to use
that rusty cider press.
I'd humbly confess
today
tonight
tomorrow
that in a case
likes this
where you can almost smell
her bleeding
it's best to use
that rusty cider press.
9.16.2009
Bookends
My feet dangled down off the edge of the dock just shy of touching the water. Despite the minor separation I could feel the lake's coolness chilling my toes. It was a little after five in the afternoon and I'd had my share of nautical recreation. The novel next to my left elbow made way for the book of crossword puzzles under my chin. If a gin and ginger was dripping condensation onto the pressure-treated planks under me I just might have died happy right then and there.
Thankfully, no moment is perfect.
Two shirtless, golden-brown elementary school boys rowed into view as if to prove the above statement by breaking the precious silence I'd worked so hard to obtain. They were obviously brothers, my conclusion being drawn on their matching bowl cuts that were clearly the work of their mother. Shiny, chestnut-colored hair with streaks of sun-bleached blonde fell gracefully around their tender skulls. They were too young to appreciate their full heads of perfect hair and too naive to tell mom that the style they donned was far outdated. It'd be at least another eight years before they'd start to see their mother, their father, their grandparents as mere mortals perfectly capable of fucking up royally. I was precocious, started at seven. Wouldn't wish that on anyone.
"I don't want my butt to touch the weeds, Andy," said the younger of the two. "It tickles." His inflatable tube was being towed along the surface of the late-August water by Andy's canoe. "You don't take me through the grass now, I won't take you through the grass when it's your turn to get pulled." It seemed like a fair deal.
"OK, Tate," called Andy over his life-preservered shoulder. "Watch out, here comes Pat."
Enter Canoe Number Two, Stage Right. It's occupant, Pat, was at least two years older than Andy, and being that he was sans bowl cut, did not appear to be a third sibling. His puffy, white cheeks had the beginnings of what would later develop into sunburn. A faded green T-shirt underneath his too-tight life jacket suggested that Pat was old enough to realize he was on the verge of a life of ridiculed obesity; old enough to know it, and old enough to try to cover it up with that silly T-shirt. Prior experience told me that Pat's personality would probably try ever-so-hard to compensate for his physical short-comings.
"Slow down, Andy!" he yelled between paddle strokes. "I want to run Tate over!"
Sometimes I hated being right. Still do. Turns out there are a lot of Pats in the world.
The Bowl Brothers responded to the approaching threat accordingly. Andy paddled harder, Tate propelled himself as best he could with his arms. Pat was certainly en route, but his larger size could be exploited if they made it under the low-hanging branches before he could ram the tube. They knew damn well he wouldn't be able to fit under the canopy formed by the drooping maples near the water's edge. They knew that Pat knew that they knew they'd be safe if they made it there in time. Being that this is a somewhat true story, they did.
"23 Across. Early Germans. Seven letters, third letter U."
I sucked on the back of my pen and thought for a moment.
"Teutons," I whispered, filling in the corresponding blocks. I decided to pay attention to my crossword puzzle instead of the splash-fest that was going on twenty yards away on my once-peaceful lake. The maple leaves deflected most of the water sent airborne by both sides, though that didn't deter the combatants one bit. Armistice was a long way away. If only I'd had that lovely gin and ginger I might've leapt in and joined the battle. But for which side? I suppose it wouldn't have mattered.
"Try and hit me now, Pat!" Tate yelled as he smacked water towards his portly friend.
"Yeah! Leave him alone!" Andy was laughing more than he was splashing.
"You guys are so dead once you come out of there," replied a frustrated Pat, his cheeks no longer white at all. "I'm telling your mom you got my good shirt wet."
It was a desperate move, the mother card. Pat's choice to play it, even if he was bluffing, was a self-declared defeat. The Bowl Brothers stopped splashing, I believe more out of pity than fear.
"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" went a whistle from way across the lake. The three boys' heads turned simultaneously in the direction of the noise that was apparently so familiar to them. They'd probably associate the sound of a whistle with childhood summers as long as they'd live. It'd be a good memory.
"Come on, they want us back at the camp."
"Truce?"
"Sure."
"We'd better get back there soon," said a suddenly responsible Andy. "It's almost dark and we're all the way over here."
"We'll make it before night-time, right Andy?" inquired an audibly concerned Tate.
"Yeah, of course."
"I don't know about me, guys. I'm pretty tired from all this messing around," sighed a nervous Pat. He was probably afraid that abandonment would be the punishment for his attempted sins.
"I can throw you the other rope and tow both of you back," said Andy. "As long as you row a little at least."
"Thanks."
"Great," huffed Tate. He had yet to learn the value of forgiveness. Turns out there are even more Tates than Pats in the world.
I glanced back down at my crossword puzzle, the drama finally over.
"34 Down. To Quit. Five letters. Second letter B, last letter T."
"Pat, are you even paddling?" Andy asked over his shoulder as the three boys sailed off out of sight.
"No, of course he's not," Tate answered agitatedly.
"Hey, give me a minute to catch my breath," Pat defended. That was the last decipherable statement.
A small fish jumped as if to signify the official departure of my temporary company. Their non-descript voices trailed off into the quiet dusk of the Adirondack evening. The delay in their voices carrying over the water was comforting, the pixelated reflections of the dripping maple branches a work of art that no painter could reproduce. A duck dove in search of prey, came back up swallowing something. I hoped the fish I'd just met had made its escape.
I sucked the back of my pen in search of the answer to the last crossword clue I'd read. It came to me like an invisible bullet.
The word slipped off my lips curtly, my thumb clicking the ballpoint out to its ready position.
"Babe, you alright?" Cecilia called from the porch behind me.
"Yeah. Be right in." There was not as much conviction in my voice as I'd intended.
I heard the screen door slam shut as I filled in the letters with a shaky hand. A well-deserved splinter pierced my knee as I rose from the dock to join my beloved inside.
The summer was over for all of us all over again.
Thankfully, no moment is perfect.
Two shirtless, golden-brown elementary school boys rowed into view as if to prove the above statement by breaking the precious silence I'd worked so hard to obtain. They were obviously brothers, my conclusion being drawn on their matching bowl cuts that were clearly the work of their mother. Shiny, chestnut-colored hair with streaks of sun-bleached blonde fell gracefully around their tender skulls. They were too young to appreciate their full heads of perfect hair and too naive to tell mom that the style they donned was far outdated. It'd be at least another eight years before they'd start to see their mother, their father, their grandparents as mere mortals perfectly capable of fucking up royally. I was precocious, started at seven. Wouldn't wish that on anyone.
"I don't want my butt to touch the weeds, Andy," said the younger of the two. "It tickles." His inflatable tube was being towed along the surface of the late-August water by Andy's canoe. "You don't take me through the grass now, I won't take you through the grass when it's your turn to get pulled." It seemed like a fair deal.
"OK, Tate," called Andy over his life-preservered shoulder. "Watch out, here comes Pat."
Enter Canoe Number Two, Stage Right. It's occupant, Pat, was at least two years older than Andy, and being that he was sans bowl cut, did not appear to be a third sibling. His puffy, white cheeks had the beginnings of what would later develop into sunburn. A faded green T-shirt underneath his too-tight life jacket suggested that Pat was old enough to realize he was on the verge of a life of ridiculed obesity; old enough to know it, and old enough to try to cover it up with that silly T-shirt. Prior experience told me that Pat's personality would probably try ever-so-hard to compensate for his physical short-comings.
"Slow down, Andy!" he yelled between paddle strokes. "I want to run Tate over!"
Sometimes I hated being right. Still do. Turns out there are a lot of Pats in the world.
The Bowl Brothers responded to the approaching threat accordingly. Andy paddled harder, Tate propelled himself as best he could with his arms. Pat was certainly en route, but his larger size could be exploited if they made it under the low-hanging branches before he could ram the tube. They knew damn well he wouldn't be able to fit under the canopy formed by the drooping maples near the water's edge. They knew that Pat knew that they knew they'd be safe if they made it there in time. Being that this is a somewhat true story, they did.
"23 Across. Early Germans. Seven letters, third letter U."
I sucked on the back of my pen and thought for a moment.
"Teutons," I whispered, filling in the corresponding blocks. I decided to pay attention to my crossword puzzle instead of the splash-fest that was going on twenty yards away on my once-peaceful lake. The maple leaves deflected most of the water sent airborne by both sides, though that didn't deter the combatants one bit. Armistice was a long way away. If only I'd had that lovely gin and ginger I might've leapt in and joined the battle. But for which side? I suppose it wouldn't have mattered.
"Try and hit me now, Pat!" Tate yelled as he smacked water towards his portly friend.
"Yeah! Leave him alone!" Andy was laughing more than he was splashing.
"You guys are so dead once you come out of there," replied a frustrated Pat, his cheeks no longer white at all. "I'm telling your mom you got my good shirt wet."
It was a desperate move, the mother card. Pat's choice to play it, even if he was bluffing, was a self-declared defeat. The Bowl Brothers stopped splashing, I believe more out of pity than fear.
"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" went a whistle from way across the lake. The three boys' heads turned simultaneously in the direction of the noise that was apparently so familiar to them. They'd probably associate the sound of a whistle with childhood summers as long as they'd live. It'd be a good memory.
"Come on, they want us back at the camp."
"Truce?"
"Sure."
"We'd better get back there soon," said a suddenly responsible Andy. "It's almost dark and we're all the way over here."
"We'll make it before night-time, right Andy?" inquired an audibly concerned Tate.
"Yeah, of course."
"I don't know about me, guys. I'm pretty tired from all this messing around," sighed a nervous Pat. He was probably afraid that abandonment would be the punishment for his attempted sins.
"I can throw you the other rope and tow both of you back," said Andy. "As long as you row a little at least."
"Thanks."
"Great," huffed Tate. He had yet to learn the value of forgiveness. Turns out there are even more Tates than Pats in the world.
I glanced back down at my crossword puzzle, the drama finally over.
"34 Down. To Quit. Five letters. Second letter B, last letter T."
"Pat, are you even paddling?" Andy asked over his shoulder as the three boys sailed off out of sight.
"No, of course he's not," Tate answered agitatedly.
"Hey, give me a minute to catch my breath," Pat defended. That was the last decipherable statement.
A small fish jumped as if to signify the official departure of my temporary company. Their non-descript voices trailed off into the quiet dusk of the Adirondack evening. The delay in their voices carrying over the water was comforting, the pixelated reflections of the dripping maple branches a work of art that no painter could reproduce. A duck dove in search of prey, came back up swallowing something. I hoped the fish I'd just met had made its escape.
I sucked the back of my pen in search of the answer to the last crossword clue I'd read. It came to me like an invisible bullet.
The word slipped off my lips curtly, my thumb clicking the ballpoint out to its ready position.
"Babe, you alright?" Cecilia called from the porch behind me.
"Yeah. Be right in." There was not as much conviction in my voice as I'd intended.
I heard the screen door slam shut as I filled in the letters with a shaky hand. A well-deserved splinter pierced my knee as I rose from the dock to join my beloved inside.
The summer was over for all of us all over again.
9.14.2009
Popcorn sold separately. Batteries not included.
It felt so liberating to finally remove my boots
after that grueling fourteen-hour day.
My bad ankle had been acting up since I first hit the gas pedal.
She wouldn't be laying in my bed anymore, she was already
back on her way to her city.
All I wanted was to smell her in the sheets.
It wasn't on my desk next to the keyboard
when I entered my room and started to disrobe.
Maybe she wrote it on the second or third sheet of
the pad so I'd find it a few days later
after tearing off previous pieces, shopping lists and such
(she did that sometimes, too)
but it wasn't there, either.
I frowned and emptied my pockets onto the dresser:
a marker, some chalk to mark pipe, a box-cutter, a few quarters.
After tossing the dirty clothes into the hamper
I turned and faced the bed: she'd changed the sheets before leaving.
So much for inhaling that sweet and spicy scent.
It'd be detergent in my nostrils while I drifted off to sleep.
Detergent and the smell of copper.
The shower went as usual. The steps were just as creaky.
The rabbit still ran under the arm chair when I reached the landing.
Fortunately, though, I didn't turn off the light before climbing
into bed. Something in my gut told me to lift my pillow.
There it was, her tired cursive waiting to be discovered.
But I won't tell you what it said.
Some things are private, even for me.
Suffice it to say I slept well, and it wasn't just because
of the overtime I worked.
Newland Archer-- you old fool, you...
after that grueling fourteen-hour day.
My bad ankle had been acting up since I first hit the gas pedal.
She wouldn't be laying in my bed anymore, she was already
back on her way to her city.
All I wanted was to smell her in the sheets.
It wasn't on my desk next to the keyboard
when I entered my room and started to disrobe.
Maybe she wrote it on the second or third sheet of
the pad so I'd find it a few days later
after tearing off previous pieces, shopping lists and such
(she did that sometimes, too)
but it wasn't there, either.
I frowned and emptied my pockets onto the dresser:
a marker, some chalk to mark pipe, a box-cutter, a few quarters.
After tossing the dirty clothes into the hamper
I turned and faced the bed: she'd changed the sheets before leaving.
So much for inhaling that sweet and spicy scent.
It'd be detergent in my nostrils while I drifted off to sleep.
Detergent and the smell of copper.
The shower went as usual. The steps were just as creaky.
The rabbit still ran under the arm chair when I reached the landing.
Fortunately, though, I didn't turn off the light before climbing
into bed. Something in my gut told me to lift my pillow.
There it was, her tired cursive waiting to be discovered.
But I won't tell you what it said.
Some things are private, even for me.
Suffice it to say I slept well, and it wasn't just because
of the overtime I worked.
Newland Archer-- you old fool, you...
9.13.2009
Illegally in the HOV Lane
There's a bump near the southbound
95th Street exit on the Joe DiMaggio
West Side Highway, Henry Hudson
whatever you want to call it.
If you hit it at fifty
your balls float a little.
I try to hit it at sixty.
Once, on my way down to see her
I contemplated picking up
an outdoorsman who was sleeping
on the sidewalk under some sheets of cardboard.
We could grab a slice, maybe some coffee.
The thought of what his piss-soaked clothes
might smell like in the seat next to me, the
windows rolled up tight to keep the noise
and stench of the city out, deterred me.
What if I threw up? He wouldn't like that.
They say most of them are mentally ill
whether that caused or resulted from
their living conditions. I didn't want to risk
being shanked in the neck, being found
dead on the side of the road, soaked in
my own blood and vomit, my head leaning
on the horn. They'd try to bill my family
if it happened in a No Honking Zone.
Insult to injury, further shame to death.
I decided to keep driving.
Can't save them all.
If you don't have enough for the whole class
you can't have any.
Save your money
for the eight-dollar bridge toll.
Street cleaning rules are in effect.
Everything else has gone out the window.
95th Street exit on the Joe DiMaggio
West Side Highway, Henry Hudson
whatever you want to call it.
If you hit it at fifty
your balls float a little.
I try to hit it at sixty.
Once, on my way down to see her
I contemplated picking up
an outdoorsman who was sleeping
on the sidewalk under some sheets of cardboard.
We could grab a slice, maybe some coffee.
The thought of what his piss-soaked clothes
might smell like in the seat next to me, the
windows rolled up tight to keep the noise
and stench of the city out, deterred me.
What if I threw up? He wouldn't like that.
They say most of them are mentally ill
whether that caused or resulted from
their living conditions. I didn't want to risk
being shanked in the neck, being found
dead on the side of the road, soaked in
my own blood and vomit, my head leaning
on the horn. They'd try to bill my family
if it happened in a No Honking Zone.
Insult to injury, further shame to death.
I decided to keep driving.
Can't save them all.
If you don't have enough for the whole class
you can't have any.
Save your money
for the eight-dollar bridge toll.
Street cleaning rules are in effect.
Everything else has gone out the window.
9.11.2009
There's a line drawn in the sand.
"V as in Victor
A-H, S-E-N,"
she annunciates
into the phone
with the same cadence
indoctrinated into me
as a kid
by my mother
who no longer uses
the name.
"No, not B, V.
And it's H-S, not S-H."
I can hear her getting
agitated, glad it's not at me.
She waits for the recital.
I feel her pain
after years of trying
to explain the same name.
"Yeah, that's it."
She's too good at the speech
not to want it.
-------------
I'm working with my buddy
Dave the next day. Well, not with-- for.
He knows I could use the cash
and throws me some side work
when I call and ask him if he needs a hand
putting a boiler in or running some pipe.
He's thirty-five, married his high school sweetheart
and has three rambunctious boys
that love him dearly. I can hear it
in their voices when they answer his phone.
"Daddy, it's your friend Mike..."
I'm up on the ladder getting ready
to solder a joint. He reaches up to hand me
the torch when I notice some black electrical tape
wrapped around his middle finger.
"What happened, Mr. Accident Prone?"
"Cut myself on some copper."
"That stuff's supposed to make you money
not make you bleed."
"Yeah, yeah. Sweat that joint, Shakespeare."
Before getting back to the task at hand
my eyes are drawn to the adjacent finger.
He's one of the few men in the trade
I've seen wear his band.
It's supposed to be a safety issue--
tools or machinery could get caught in it, so they say--
but most guys just use that as an excuse
to leave it at home on their dressers.
The fact that Dave doesn't
is another reason to respect him.
What's a finger compared to a life?
I know which camp is mine.
A-H, S-E-N,"
she annunciates
into the phone
with the same cadence
indoctrinated into me
as a kid
by my mother
who no longer uses
the name.
"No, not B, V.
And it's H-S, not S-H."
I can hear her getting
agitated, glad it's not at me.
She waits for the recital.
I feel her pain
after years of trying
to explain the same name.
"Yeah, that's it."
She's too good at the speech
not to want it.
-------------
I'm working with my buddy
Dave the next day. Well, not with-- for.
He knows I could use the cash
and throws me some side work
when I call and ask him if he needs a hand
putting a boiler in or running some pipe.
He's thirty-five, married his high school sweetheart
and has three rambunctious boys
that love him dearly. I can hear it
in their voices when they answer his phone.
"Daddy, it's your friend Mike..."
I'm up on the ladder getting ready
to solder a joint. He reaches up to hand me
the torch when I notice some black electrical tape
wrapped around his middle finger.
"What happened, Mr. Accident Prone?"
"Cut myself on some copper."
"That stuff's supposed to make you money
not make you bleed."
"Yeah, yeah. Sweat that joint, Shakespeare."
Before getting back to the task at hand
my eyes are drawn to the adjacent finger.
He's one of the few men in the trade
I've seen wear his band.
It's supposed to be a safety issue--
tools or machinery could get caught in it, so they say--
but most guys just use that as an excuse
to leave it at home on their dressers.
The fact that Dave doesn't
is another reason to respect him.
What's a finger compared to a life?
I know which camp is mine.
9.10.2009
So narrow you can see right through.
The big-
gest sin
is not
suicide;
it's fail-
ing to
learn
from your
mis-
takes.
(You did
that
stolen re-
volver
justice,
Babe;
these hills
are nothing
like
white
elephants.)
But my
idea
of Heaven
is
to sleep
beside you
every night
and on
our ride
home
from the
lake
last
weekend
I kept my
sunburn
a secret
for fear
that you'd
stop rub-
bing my
back.
gest sin
is not
suicide;
it's fail-
ing to
learn
from your
mis-
takes.
(You did
that
stolen re-
volver
justice,
Babe;
these hills
are nothing
like
white
elephants.)
But my
idea
of Heaven
is
to sleep
beside you
every night
and on
our ride
home
from the
lake
last
weekend
I kept my
sunburn
a secret
for fear
that you'd
stop rub-
bing my
back.
9.08.2009
Your idea of a Grand Finale is a waste of my tax dollars.
Call me an un-American grouch
but fireworks make me sad.
And no, it's not because
my dolt of a father brought
the dog my parents had bought for me
as a present for my fifth birthday
to the Bear Mountain fireworks
where the second shot had terrified
him so much that he bolted hard enough
to break his leash and run away
never to be seen again.
It really has very little to do with that.
Promise. Swear. Cross my heart and hope to...
It's more of the fact that those quiet, reflective
moments shared by some of us present during
the celebratory spectacle of light and sound
are generally a farce. We sit and think
of all the promises made and broken
to and by ourselves, respectively.
We imagine a beauty that isn't really there.
We wait until it's over to look down at our watches
and complain that the show was six minutes
shorter than last year's. And then we walk home
pretending not to be disillusioned.
But the real kicker is how eager we are
to pull the people under our arms closer to ourselves
as if that'll keep them from repeating the process
that we've come to know so well.
Sure, they'll be there for that first year's
fireworks display. The two of you will hold each other
tightly and think of how fortunate you are to be together
and how many more fireworks shows you hope
to enjoy in the holy presence of one another.
Then a year goes by: lo and behold, you're
watching the damn fireworks yet again. This time, however
reality's set in; those little flaws you used to love so dearly
during the honeymoon phase are now the hideous idiosyncrasies
that drive you to the point of insanity. You both know
you probably won't stay together much longer, let alone
forever, but you may make it a few months longer. Then
one of you will wisen up and do what's right for both parties.
It's just a matter of when.
And then comes the third fireworks display in the vicious cycle--
the one where you're either alone and questioning
how many of those statements were lies, or if you're lucky
you've got someone else under that needy arm of yours
as you're wondering if you can somehow manage
to not blow it for once. Either way it's depressing.
Either way you should probably just stay home next time.
They won't hold it against you forever.
Can't you fake a cold or something?
Benji, if you're out there, you had the right idea.
but fireworks make me sad.
And no, it's not because
my dolt of a father brought
the dog my parents had bought for me
as a present for my fifth birthday
to the Bear Mountain fireworks
where the second shot had terrified
him so much that he bolted hard enough
to break his leash and run away
never to be seen again.
It really has very little to do with that.
Promise. Swear. Cross my heart and hope to...
It's more of the fact that those quiet, reflective
moments shared by some of us present during
the celebratory spectacle of light and sound
are generally a farce. We sit and think
of all the promises made and broken
to and by ourselves, respectively.
We imagine a beauty that isn't really there.
We wait until it's over to look down at our watches
and complain that the show was six minutes
shorter than last year's. And then we walk home
pretending not to be disillusioned.
But the real kicker is how eager we are
to pull the people under our arms closer to ourselves
as if that'll keep them from repeating the process
that we've come to know so well.
Sure, they'll be there for that first year's
fireworks display. The two of you will hold each other
tightly and think of how fortunate you are to be together
and how many more fireworks shows you hope
to enjoy in the holy presence of one another.
Then a year goes by: lo and behold, you're
watching the damn fireworks yet again. This time, however
reality's set in; those little flaws you used to love so dearly
during the honeymoon phase are now the hideous idiosyncrasies
that drive you to the point of insanity. You both know
you probably won't stay together much longer, let alone
forever, but you may make it a few months longer. Then
one of you will wisen up and do what's right for both parties.
It's just a matter of when.
And then comes the third fireworks display in the vicious cycle--
the one where you're either alone and questioning
how many of those statements were lies, or if you're lucky
you've got someone else under that needy arm of yours
as you're wondering if you can somehow manage
to not blow it for once. Either way it's depressing.
Either way you should probably just stay home next time.
They won't hold it against you forever.
Can't you fake a cold or something?
Benji, if you're out there, you had the right idea.
9.07.2009
Havin' it whose way?
"Are you ready to order yet, sir?"
"I'd like a Number Six, please. Medium-sized with a Diet."
"Anything else today?"
"Can you hold the mayo and put that spicy sauce on it instead?"
"What spicy sauce?"
"The one on those new sandwiches being advertised."
"I don't have a button for that on my register."
"Can you tell the guy in the back to put the sauce on it?"
"I guess so."
"Thanks."
"That'll be six seventy-two, please pull around."
If I was really feeling sadistic that night
I would've handed her eleven seventy two
at the window and watched her head explode.
"I'd like a Number Six, please. Medium-sized with a Diet."
"Anything else today?"
"Can you hold the mayo and put that spicy sauce on it instead?"
"What spicy sauce?"
"The one on those new sandwiches being advertised."
"I don't have a button for that on my register."
"Can you tell the guy in the back to put the sauce on it?"
"I guess so."
"Thanks."
"That'll be six seventy-two, please pull around."
If I was really feeling sadistic that night
I would've handed her eleven seventy two
at the window and watched her head explode.
9.04.2009
Under the covered bridge.
Globs of wax on the floor from the previous night's candle-lit encounter held their dull pastel purple perfectly. We were sprawled out in the dim half-light of my room on that lazy Thursday morning, the beast with two backs having been killed twice already. She was reading a book I'd lent her as I slowly fed her her favorite ice cream, a smooth mixture of coconut and pineapple that would've gone great in a rum concoction.
"Let me turn the light on, Babe. It's too dark to read in here. Bad for your eyes."
"Says who?"
"Mothers throughout the centuries."
She shot me a look that sought to dispelled the old wive's tale. I reached down for another silver spoonful of the rich dessert and noticed a small, wet circle on the sheet where my left armpit had been dripping. It wasn't particularly hot in my room, but my body's accustomed to draining itself. Our bodies were practically empty as it was, the eager lovers that we were and had always been. She caught me staring down at the sweat mark on the sheet and snorted quietly through her nostrils to express her slightly disapproving and hesitant amusement. I loved when she did that.
Was it time for another bite yet? We were sharing the remnants of the carton, but I was only partaking so she would indulge. Two for her, one for me-- the ratio I preferred.
"Last bite. Open."
She complied, despite my awkward movement. It was clear I hadn't dealt much with children.
"You're terrible at feeding people."
"You're great at ruining things," I said, rising to rinse the bowl out in the sink.
The bathroom was closer, and therefore my destination. Besides, I didn't feel like going downstairs to the kitchen considering I wasn't wearing much of anything. I swished some water around in the bowl as the early afternoon sun shone through the venetian blinds in the second-floor bathroom. She must've opened them before. She always did that for some reason, ever since she'd first started coming here. Sometimes, when I wasn't her intended host, I'd find the bathroom shades in their open position and stage a silent protest of longing. Why couldn't I have seen her? Why was I such a coward? The worst part was that I knew the answers to both of those questions and chose to do nothing about it. It didn't matter anymore, though; things were as they should have been from the start. But there was still that sour memory of what the opened venetian blinds used to symbolize.
"Would you shoot me?" I asked her once I'd returned to my bedroom.
"I think so," she said, a puzzled look on her face. I could tell that she'd really thought about it. It disturbed me a bit that she'd responded so sincerely without the further clarification that I planned on delivering next.
"I mean with non-lethal shells. Rubber buckshot. I want to get some to keep in the shotgun as the first two rounds. Doesn't seem right to be OK with using them on someone else if I don't know what they feel like. You know, kind of like how cops have to be pepper-sprayed before they can carry the stuff."
"You're ridiculous, but I get it. You sure you trust me enough for that?"
"More than anyone else right now, myself included."
She put the book down on my bed, wiped some coconut pineapple ice cream from my beard with her thumb, and ran her fingers down my left cheek. There wasn't much light in the room, but I could tell that her eyes were more gray than green at the moment.
My mother would approve someday. My father would miss out. It didn't seem such a bad deal, all things considered. I'd done in twenty-five years what some people hadn't in a lifetime, even if I wasn't sure what exactly that was. The days of taking hostages were over, and I was done eating ice cream.
"Let me turn the light on, Babe. It's too dark to read in here. Bad for your eyes."
"Says who?"
"Mothers throughout the centuries."
She shot me a look that sought to dispelled the old wive's tale. I reached down for another silver spoonful of the rich dessert and noticed a small, wet circle on the sheet where my left armpit had been dripping. It wasn't particularly hot in my room, but my body's accustomed to draining itself. Our bodies were practically empty as it was, the eager lovers that we were and had always been. She caught me staring down at the sweat mark on the sheet and snorted quietly through her nostrils to express her slightly disapproving and hesitant amusement. I loved when she did that.
Was it time for another bite yet? We were sharing the remnants of the carton, but I was only partaking so she would indulge. Two for her, one for me-- the ratio I preferred.
"Last bite. Open."
She complied, despite my awkward movement. It was clear I hadn't dealt much with children.
"You're terrible at feeding people."
"You're great at ruining things," I said, rising to rinse the bowl out in the sink.
The bathroom was closer, and therefore my destination. Besides, I didn't feel like going downstairs to the kitchen considering I wasn't wearing much of anything. I swished some water around in the bowl as the early afternoon sun shone through the venetian blinds in the second-floor bathroom. She must've opened them before. She always did that for some reason, ever since she'd first started coming here. Sometimes, when I wasn't her intended host, I'd find the bathroom shades in their open position and stage a silent protest of longing. Why couldn't I have seen her? Why was I such a coward? The worst part was that I knew the answers to both of those questions and chose to do nothing about it. It didn't matter anymore, though; things were as they should have been from the start. But there was still that sour memory of what the opened venetian blinds used to symbolize.
"Would you shoot me?" I asked her once I'd returned to my bedroom.
"I think so," she said, a puzzled look on her face. I could tell that she'd really thought about it. It disturbed me a bit that she'd responded so sincerely without the further clarification that I planned on delivering next.
"I mean with non-lethal shells. Rubber buckshot. I want to get some to keep in the shotgun as the first two rounds. Doesn't seem right to be OK with using them on someone else if I don't know what they feel like. You know, kind of like how cops have to be pepper-sprayed before they can carry the stuff."
"You're ridiculous, but I get it. You sure you trust me enough for that?"
"More than anyone else right now, myself included."
She put the book down on my bed, wiped some coconut pineapple ice cream from my beard with her thumb, and ran her fingers down my left cheek. There wasn't much light in the room, but I could tell that her eyes were more gray than green at the moment.
My mother would approve someday. My father would miss out. It didn't seem such a bad deal, all things considered. I'd done in twenty-five years what some people hadn't in a lifetime, even if I wasn't sure what exactly that was. The days of taking hostages were over, and I was done eating ice cream.
9.03.2009
Newman
When I hear a drum fill like the one
in that last song I listened to
before pulling into my driveway
I'm forced to miss watching
a drummer keep time
on his head or chest while not playing
as me and the boys hold it down
with the strings. It's one of those things
you can't explain to someone who hasn't been there.
It's not the music I regret not having around anymore;
it's the moments like that in a circle of half-drunk friends.
But I was once accused of having
and I quote:
"a warped perception of reality."
That became a title
and another reason to leave, though
I forget who left whom that fifteenth and final time.
It's a lot like comfort food from my mother
going bad on the kitchen counter
while I'm out gallivanting in the sunlight
I claim to hate.
We'll all get over it eventually.
We haven't much choice.
That's the beauty of the thing.
-----------
"Too late," I said half inquisitively
as the mailman shut the back of his truck
after emptying the blue drop box in front
of the post office. He was pudgy and short
and looked like he wouldn't be doling out random kindness.
Wrong again, oh cynical one.
"No you're not," he said with an extended hand and
what was either a wink or a squint
in the orange glow of the setting September sun.
As I pulled away he gave me a salute
his postman's key dangling from the long chain
attached to his blue shorts.
Those words echoed in my thick skull
bouncing around all the bad ideas.
A prophet who loved his job
despite the stereotypes.
Stupendous.
in that last song I listened to
before pulling into my driveway
I'm forced to miss watching
a drummer keep time
on his head or chest while not playing
as me and the boys hold it down
with the strings. It's one of those things
you can't explain to someone who hasn't been there.
It's not the music I regret not having around anymore;
it's the moments like that in a circle of half-drunk friends.
But I was once accused of having
and I quote:
"a warped perception of reality."
That became a title
and another reason to leave, though
I forget who left whom that fifteenth and final time.
It's a lot like comfort food from my mother
going bad on the kitchen counter
while I'm out gallivanting in the sunlight
I claim to hate.
We'll all get over it eventually.
We haven't much choice.
That's the beauty of the thing.
-----------
"Too late," I said half inquisitively
as the mailman shut the back of his truck
after emptying the blue drop box in front
of the post office. He was pudgy and short
and looked like he wouldn't be doling out random kindness.
Wrong again, oh cynical one.
"No you're not," he said with an extended hand and
what was either a wink or a squint
in the orange glow of the setting September sun.
As I pulled away he gave me a salute
his postman's key dangling from the long chain
attached to his blue shorts.
Those words echoed in my thick skull
bouncing around all the bad ideas.
A prophet who loved his job
despite the stereotypes.
Stupendous.
9.01.2009
Wrecked him.
The four of us arrived at the union hall
in the same order that we would
if we were going there for our weekly
plumbing classes, though that wasn't
the occasion this time.
We were going to carpool down
to Westchester Medical Center to see Ray
another guy in the apprenticeship program
who had recently been hit head-on
by a dump-truck while coming home from work.
Collapsed lung, lacerated liver, shattered ankle
appendix and ten feet of large intestine removed
but they said he'd be alright.
"Anybody hear from Tim?" I asked
as I approached the designated smoking spot
outside the front of the stone building
where we met for meetings.
"He'll be here in ten. Need a smoke?"
"I'm good. Quit." I went for my pack of gum.
We shot the shit for a few minutes catching up
on work stories, tales of general hilarity and misfortune.
"Here he comes now," I announced to the other two plumbers.
Tim offered to drive down to the hospital.
I thought I'd end up doing it, but he jumped
at the chance as if it was his silent penance
for holding us up. We saw the empty paper bag
and knew why he was running late.
"Does Ray need us to bring him anything?"
"Bacon double cheeseburger from a fast food place
and two strippers," I said from my spot in the back seat.
"Maybe a few feet of guts if we can scrounge some up."
"I brought him this," the kid next to me said, pulling
a folded magazine from his back pocket.
"It's a Collector's Edition."
"Playboy? Think that's what he really wants right now?"
"You're right. Can he even use his pecker?" Jay was turning
red with embarrassment. We all knew his heart was in the
right place and wanted to console him. Construction workers
are only allowed to do that by busting balls, though.
"Jesus, Jay," I said from the half of my mouth
that wasn't smiling as widely. "If the nurses catch him
rubbing one out they'll kick him to the curb."
We passed the skin mag around and flipped through
the pages. Lots of actresses from throughout the forty years
it had been in publication. A few washed-up singers.
One dead sex symbol. All in all it was a quality issue.
"I don't think he should have this anyway," Tim said
as he shoved it under the visor above his head
with the hand that wasn't driving.
We all laughed, he pulled it back down
and tossed it into Jay's lap.
The rest of the ride went quickly.
We found that bacon double.
Tim was the first one to enter Ray's room.
The forty pounds our pal had lost
in the seven weeks since the accident
had changed his appearance so much
that he was unrecognizeable; so much so, in fact
that Tim did an about-face and started to
walk out of the room as if he'd made a mistake.
"Tim! It's me, man," came Ray's weakened voice
from behind the light blue curtain.
Ray wasn't a big guy to begin with. This
tragedy had diminished his size even further.
His chest was small and frail, his arms thin
and the tendons in his neck stuck out like
cords tightened behind a thin beige sheet.
He could've been in a film about the Holocaust.
The four of us looked at each other.
I was glad we'd made it a point to get
exactly what he wanted to eat for him.
He needed all the help he could get, especially
since he was a divorced man of forty-something
whose family lived in Florida.
We sat around our emaciated friend
and made him laugh as much as possible.
No patronizing, no sugar-coating the facts.
Told a few recent work stories that had
been circulating at coffee break.
Nothing major, nothing too deep.
Company, fraternity. No stroking of anything.
"Crossword puzzles, huh?" I commented
letting my fingertips graze the cover
of the book of puzzles on his table.
Reminded me of laying with my girlfriend
and feeling intellectually spanked.
A proud defeat.
I tried to hide my happy memory out of
respect for my friend's situation.
"Yeah. I only get a few answers, then give up."
Then Tim chimed in with what we'd all been wondering:
"You need anything else, bro? A book? Some magazines?"
That was supposed to be the cue. He was baiting him.
Jay locked eyes with Tim before glancing at the rest of us
as if to say "No way in hell am I pulling that
magazine out of my pocket." There were things
far more important than some famous naked broads of yore.
A man's got to walk before he can run, let alone fuck.
"Nah, man. I'm good."
Jay sighed in relief.
Ray pushed the button that allowed more morphine
to drip into his system.
The rest of us counted our respective blessings.
We found more things to laugh about.
My watched stopped for some reason
while we were there
and the ride home felt like it took much longer.
"Next week?" I asked as we pulled into the
parking lot at the hall.
"I'm in."
"Yeah."
"No doubt."
Some of us are only born
without brothers.
in the same order that we would
if we were going there for our weekly
plumbing classes, though that wasn't
the occasion this time.
We were going to carpool down
to Westchester Medical Center to see Ray
another guy in the apprenticeship program
who had recently been hit head-on
by a dump-truck while coming home from work.
Collapsed lung, lacerated liver, shattered ankle
appendix and ten feet of large intestine removed
but they said he'd be alright.
"Anybody hear from Tim?" I asked
as I approached the designated smoking spot
outside the front of the stone building
where we met for meetings.
"He'll be here in ten. Need a smoke?"
"I'm good. Quit." I went for my pack of gum.
We shot the shit for a few minutes catching up
on work stories, tales of general hilarity and misfortune.
"Here he comes now," I announced to the other two plumbers.
Tim offered to drive down to the hospital.
I thought I'd end up doing it, but he jumped
at the chance as if it was his silent penance
for holding us up. We saw the empty paper bag
and knew why he was running late.
"Does Ray need us to bring him anything?"
"Bacon double cheeseburger from a fast food place
and two strippers," I said from my spot in the back seat.
"Maybe a few feet of guts if we can scrounge some up."
"I brought him this," the kid next to me said, pulling
a folded magazine from his back pocket.
"It's a Collector's Edition."
"Playboy? Think that's what he really wants right now?"
"You're right. Can he even use his pecker?" Jay was turning
red with embarrassment. We all knew his heart was in the
right place and wanted to console him. Construction workers
are only allowed to do that by busting balls, though.
"Jesus, Jay," I said from the half of my mouth
that wasn't smiling as widely. "If the nurses catch him
rubbing one out they'll kick him to the curb."
We passed the skin mag around and flipped through
the pages. Lots of actresses from throughout the forty years
it had been in publication. A few washed-up singers.
One dead sex symbol. All in all it was a quality issue.
"I don't think he should have this anyway," Tim said
as he shoved it under the visor above his head
with the hand that wasn't driving.
We all laughed, he pulled it back down
and tossed it into Jay's lap.
The rest of the ride went quickly.
We found that bacon double.
Tim was the first one to enter Ray's room.
The forty pounds our pal had lost
in the seven weeks since the accident
had changed his appearance so much
that he was unrecognizeable; so much so, in fact
that Tim did an about-face and started to
walk out of the room as if he'd made a mistake.
"Tim! It's me, man," came Ray's weakened voice
from behind the light blue curtain.
Ray wasn't a big guy to begin with. This
tragedy had diminished his size even further.
His chest was small and frail, his arms thin
and the tendons in his neck stuck out like
cords tightened behind a thin beige sheet.
He could've been in a film about the Holocaust.
The four of us looked at each other.
I was glad we'd made it a point to get
exactly what he wanted to eat for him.
He needed all the help he could get, especially
since he was a divorced man of forty-something
whose family lived in Florida.
We sat around our emaciated friend
and made him laugh as much as possible.
No patronizing, no sugar-coating the facts.
Told a few recent work stories that had
been circulating at coffee break.
Nothing major, nothing too deep.
Company, fraternity. No stroking of anything.
"Crossword puzzles, huh?" I commented
letting my fingertips graze the cover
of the book of puzzles on his table.
Reminded me of laying with my girlfriend
and feeling intellectually spanked.
A proud defeat.
I tried to hide my happy memory out of
respect for my friend's situation.
"Yeah. I only get a few answers, then give up."
Then Tim chimed in with what we'd all been wondering:
"You need anything else, bro? A book? Some magazines?"
That was supposed to be the cue. He was baiting him.
Jay locked eyes with Tim before glancing at the rest of us
as if to say "No way in hell am I pulling that
magazine out of my pocket." There were things
far more important than some famous naked broads of yore.
A man's got to walk before he can run, let alone fuck.
"Nah, man. I'm good."
Jay sighed in relief.
Ray pushed the button that allowed more morphine
to drip into his system.
The rest of us counted our respective blessings.
We found more things to laugh about.
My watched stopped for some reason
while we were there
and the ride home felt like it took much longer.
"Next week?" I asked as we pulled into the
parking lot at the hall.
"I'm in."
"Yeah."
"No doubt."
Some of us are only born
without brothers.
8.31.2009
Mild spoonerisms in this desert rain love.
"She's still sleeping in her bed, though not as soundly
as his right foot feeds the engine gas-- his laugh
over hitting the straight stretch of Eisenhower mile
muffled by the radio and whistle of the wind
in the windows he's cracked
to stay awake in lieu of coffee.
He sniffs his hand on the early ride north, a reluctant
return to a place no longer quite his home--
the smell of pennies and blood
beat into the leather of his steering wheel
not yet corrupting the trace of her delicate scent..."
See, I was talking about copper there
without actually mentioning it...
It was vain, it was vague, it was trying
too hard as usual.
I can't do this. Neither can you.
We'll pound our fingers and eyes out trying.
There's a difference 'tween art
and artwork:
the latter you hang on the fridge;
the former hangs you, and wherever
it damn well pleases.
Normally I'd plead the Fifth
but sometimes I take a stab.
Behind me on that beckoning bed
there's a gun to clean
and laundry to fold
so there's no time tonight
to fall shamefully in the middle.
There he goes again
wearing his heart
on the home row.
"My bedroom window's open
and though I hear no commotion
outside in the street or neighboring yards
I'm inhaling the pungent scent of
a man's pipe. It reminds me of
my childhood neighbor Pete
who once pulled me from a pool
I mistakenly jumped in while wearing only one water-wing.
That carcinogenic smell comforts me to this day, this night
even in my longing for your skin on mine.
May I show you to your seats?
May I sew you to your sheets?
I have the sound of the bugs where I sleep.
You have the wail of the sirens..."
Yup, there he goes again.
Somebody stop him.
That rifle won't clean itself.
Currently reading:
"Straight Man" by Richard Russo.
as his right foot feeds the engine gas-- his laugh
over hitting the straight stretch of Eisenhower mile
muffled by the radio and whistle of the wind
in the windows he's cracked
to stay awake in lieu of coffee.
He sniffs his hand on the early ride north, a reluctant
return to a place no longer quite his home--
the smell of pennies and blood
beat into the leather of his steering wheel
not yet corrupting the trace of her delicate scent..."
See, I was talking about copper there
without actually mentioning it...
It was vain, it was vague, it was trying
too hard as usual.
I can't do this. Neither can you.
We'll pound our fingers and eyes out trying.
There's a difference 'tween art
and artwork:
the latter you hang on the fridge;
the former hangs you, and wherever
it damn well pleases.
Normally I'd plead the Fifth
but sometimes I take a stab.
Behind me on that beckoning bed
there's a gun to clean
and laundry to fold
so there's no time tonight
to fall shamefully in the middle.
There he goes again
wearing his heart
on the home row.
"My bedroom window's open
and though I hear no commotion
outside in the street or neighboring yards
I'm inhaling the pungent scent of
a man's pipe. It reminds me of
my childhood neighbor Pete
who once pulled me from a pool
I mistakenly jumped in while wearing only one water-wing.
That carcinogenic smell comforts me to this day, this night
even in my longing for your skin on mine.
May I show you to your seats?
May I sew you to your sheets?
I have the sound of the bugs where I sleep.
You have the wail of the sirens..."
Yup, there he goes again.
Somebody stop him.
That rifle won't clean itself.
Currently reading:
"Straight Man" by Richard Russo.
8.30.2009
fare
My controversial crash-course
in the big bad City
has been quite the sociology lesson.
The determined flow of traffic
in the subway that still boggles my mind;
the heavily-tattooed homeless
who once had enough money
to make the poor decisions
that got them where they are;
the awkward Upstate plumber
stumbling through a mass of people
who have a better understanding
of the way Manhattan works, as well
as its appeal.
But there are its moments.
Like when I see someone
try to hail a cab on a busy corner.
It's always easy for me on those quiet
Monday mornings, long before the commuters
have made it across the bridges and
through the tunnels. Most times
I'm the only one on the sidewalk
at 5 a.m., my duffle bag under my arm.
Taxis see me from a quarter-mile away, swerve
effortlessly through three lanes to get to
their next passenger, their next gratefully generous tip.
That's not the case at busy hours of the day, though.
And I believe I can tell a lot about a person
by the desperate wave of their hand.
Is it urgent or relaxed? Are they standing
on the sidewalk or on the pavement?
Where do they look like they're going?
To meet someone, to leave someone?
Are they arrogant, confident, secure, vulnerable?
Do they need that ride much more
than that cabby needs the seven bucks?
I like to try to determine these things
in the brief seconds I share with these people
from my safe and nameless distance.
Of course I may be wrong, but it helps make up
for time lost in my quiet apple region.
My naivety, my simpler way of life could only go on
for so long. I tried to keep it that way once:
like Rip Van Winkle sleeping
the world went on around me, she went on
without me.
Rise, and shine, and give God the glory.
in the big bad City
has been quite the sociology lesson.
The determined flow of traffic
in the subway that still boggles my mind;
the heavily-tattooed homeless
who once had enough money
to make the poor decisions
that got them where they are;
the awkward Upstate plumber
stumbling through a mass of people
who have a better understanding
of the way Manhattan works, as well
as its appeal.
But there are its moments.
Like when I see someone
try to hail a cab on a busy corner.
It's always easy for me on those quiet
Monday mornings, long before the commuters
have made it across the bridges and
through the tunnels. Most times
I'm the only one on the sidewalk
at 5 a.m., my duffle bag under my arm.
Taxis see me from a quarter-mile away, swerve
effortlessly through three lanes to get to
their next passenger, their next gratefully generous tip.
That's not the case at busy hours of the day, though.
And I believe I can tell a lot about a person
by the desperate wave of their hand.
Is it urgent or relaxed? Are they standing
on the sidewalk or on the pavement?
Where do they look like they're going?
To meet someone, to leave someone?
Are they arrogant, confident, secure, vulnerable?
Do they need that ride much more
than that cabby needs the seven bucks?
I like to try to determine these things
in the brief seconds I share with these people
from my safe and nameless distance.
Of course I may be wrong, but it helps make up
for time lost in my quiet apple region.
My naivety, my simpler way of life could only go on
for so long. I tried to keep it that way once:
like Rip Van Winkle sleeping
the world went on around me, she went on
without me.
Rise, and shine, and give God the glory.
8.28.2009
Why you're better off not procreating.
Sansmith came out of the iso-pod rubbing his forearm right below the inside of the elbow.
"How much love did you give her today?" asked Crowner as he swiped his card down the Credit-Meter outside of the Nutri-Booth Console. His clanktons were running short, but all the overtime he'd accumulated at Reactor Plant 17 lately would assure him some serious plastic in the next direct deposit cycle.
"As much as I could afford this week. Plasma's running low again. I blame it on those new hydro-tubes the Vend-Bots are selling down at the Reactor. Not enough potable content."
Crowner swiped his card again. The magnetic strip had been rubbed raw by the particles in his pocket. He knew that the Workman's Regulation Handbook strictly forbade pockets on the job, but it was a rule he chose to ignore. He had to keep some semblance of a normal life, even in the Post-Melt Days. It was getting harder to remember what it felt like to sleep next to another human being. Amendment 42 was the worst thing to happen to Americorp in decades. Most unizens agreed to that.
"Jezzie's a lucky woman, Sansy," Crowner said, trying to remain respectfully in tune with the Platonic Conduct Codes. It was crucial to avoid detection by the Censor-Cams oscillating overhead. "Don't you let her forget that when you see her next cycle."
"If I get to, you mean. That all depends on whether or not our work schedules correspond. I miss good old-fashioned Manual Transaction. My veins are shot from all these Sangui-Love Supplement sessions," Sansmith replied as he rolled down his sleeve to cover the bruises. A combination of his olive skin and derma-art hid the yellow phase well, but the purples and browns stuck out like sore thumbs. It was obvious that he'd missed Jezzie terribly-- no one else on his unit had spent as many credits in the Extractor Iso-Pod as he had. There were times when he chose that activity over nutritional replenishment. He knew his sacrifice meant a lot to her; or prayed she did, wherever she was. Love would be the end of him, just as the oracle had predicted when he was first deployed twenty-eight Revo-Cycles ago.
"Don't look so glum, Crowner. The State will pair you up someday."
"One can only hope."
"Hope? Not for long, if Amendment 43 is passed next Luna-Cycle," corrected Sansmith. "Doesn't look good, either. The Mono-Party is consistently unanimous."
Crowner stopped trying to swipe his card in the glowing slot of the agitated Credit-Meter. He wasn't hungry anymore.
"How much love did you give her today?" asked Crowner as he swiped his card down the Credit-Meter outside of the Nutri-Booth Console. His clanktons were running short, but all the overtime he'd accumulated at Reactor Plant 17 lately would assure him some serious plastic in the next direct deposit cycle.
"As much as I could afford this week. Plasma's running low again. I blame it on those new hydro-tubes the Vend-Bots are selling down at the Reactor. Not enough potable content."
Crowner swiped his card again. The magnetic strip had been rubbed raw by the particles in his pocket. He knew that the Workman's Regulation Handbook strictly forbade pockets on the job, but it was a rule he chose to ignore. He had to keep some semblance of a normal life, even in the Post-Melt Days. It was getting harder to remember what it felt like to sleep next to another human being. Amendment 42 was the worst thing to happen to Americorp in decades. Most unizens agreed to that.
"Jezzie's a lucky woman, Sansy," Crowner said, trying to remain respectfully in tune with the Platonic Conduct Codes. It was crucial to avoid detection by the Censor-Cams oscillating overhead. "Don't you let her forget that when you see her next cycle."
"If I get to, you mean. That all depends on whether or not our work schedules correspond. I miss good old-fashioned Manual Transaction. My veins are shot from all these Sangui-Love Supplement sessions," Sansmith replied as he rolled down his sleeve to cover the bruises. A combination of his olive skin and derma-art hid the yellow phase well, but the purples and browns stuck out like sore thumbs. It was obvious that he'd missed Jezzie terribly-- no one else on his unit had spent as many credits in the Extractor Iso-Pod as he had. There were times when he chose that activity over nutritional replenishment. He knew his sacrifice meant a lot to her; or prayed she did, wherever she was. Love would be the end of him, just as the oracle had predicted when he was first deployed twenty-eight Revo-Cycles ago.
"Don't look so glum, Crowner. The State will pair you up someday."
"One can only hope."
"Hope? Not for long, if Amendment 43 is passed next Luna-Cycle," corrected Sansmith. "Doesn't look good, either. The Mono-Party is consistently unanimous."
Crowner stopped trying to swipe his card in the glowing slot of the agitated Credit-Meter. He wasn't hungry anymore.
8.27.2009
Un Padre renuente y la Enfermera obstinada.
Eddie
As happy as I am for you
I wish you weren't in the mountains
camping for the weekend
and would be there to talk tomorrow
while we're waiting for our checks.
Eddie
Sometimes I wish you weren't such
a stand-up guy
the kind I'd like to call my own
'cause we'll both have to settle
for this surrogate status.
Eddie
Sometimes I try to picture
what your life was like at my age
to see if I can stick it out
for just a few more decades.
Eddie
If I knew she'd be home
and could keep a secret
I'd take a ride out to your place tomorrow
to talk to the one good woman
you've found in this world
but no good woman can keep a secret
from the man she loves.
Eddie
Sometimes I wish
you weren't so afraid
to show your feelings
for more than five minutes at a clip
and if you'd let me I'd give you
a teary-eyed, snot-congested hug.
But Eddie
We're construction workers
and that sort of thing
just ain't allowed.
I'd kill for a cigarette
but I seem to have quit
though a Sam Adams over a burger
at that hole in the wall
where we used to have our liquid lunch
every Saturday
sounds like therapy to me.
Eddie
Strength is an illusion
but the tape measure doesn't lie.
Have a good weekend with the boys.
Hope to see you Monday.
As happy as I am for you
I wish you weren't in the mountains
camping for the weekend
and would be there to talk tomorrow
while we're waiting for our checks.
Eddie
Sometimes I wish you weren't such
a stand-up guy
the kind I'd like to call my own
'cause we'll both have to settle
for this surrogate status.
Eddie
Sometimes I try to picture
what your life was like at my age
to see if I can stick it out
for just a few more decades.
Eddie
If I knew she'd be home
and could keep a secret
I'd take a ride out to your place tomorrow
to talk to the one good woman
you've found in this world
but no good woman can keep a secret
from the man she loves.
Eddie
Sometimes I wish
you weren't so afraid
to show your feelings
for more than five minutes at a clip
and if you'd let me I'd give you
a teary-eyed, snot-congested hug.
But Eddie
We're construction workers
and that sort of thing
just ain't allowed.
I'd kill for a cigarette
but I seem to have quit
though a Sam Adams over a burger
at that hole in the wall
where we used to have our liquid lunch
every Saturday
sounds like therapy to me.
Eddie
Strength is an illusion
but the tape measure doesn't lie.
Have a good weekend with the boys.
Hope to see you Monday.
Yardbirds
I froze as soon as I saw
the sprinkler guy's apprentice
coming down the corridor.
The grin on his face was
that of a man who knows
that he'll soon be granted the chance
to exact his revenge.
I froze as soon as I saw him
approaching me, the roll of duct tape
still in my hands. The cat was out of the bag.
"So you're the one who's been
taping our toolbox shut for the last two weeks?
We thought it was the carpenters."
I was slightly offended that they hadn't assumed
my guilt. The prank was fairly flawless, especially
when I did it before they had a chance to open
their box in the morning and would have to rely
on whatever sharp object they could muster up
to slice the tape off. If one of them had brought it up
at coffee break my face would've given me away.
Turns out I'm a terrible liar.
"We got him, Bill!"
Bill came around the corner. I could practically
hear his Western New York accent tearing into me
before he even opened his mouth.
"Oh. It's on, motherfucker."
It took all I had not to laugh in his face.
That only would've made things worse.
The sprinkler fitters are my pipe trade brothers
but that doesn't mean they won't get theirs.
"Hey, nothing permanent. And no personal vehicles,"
I said through my shit-eating.
"Just don't fall asleep in the shade anymore..."
Every time they saw me for the rest of the day they smiled.
--------------------------------------
"Well, I was busted. Caught red-handed," I told my partner.
"What do you mean?" he asked, still focused on the last beer
he had on his lunch break.
"The sprinkler guys caught me taping their box shut."
"That was you? Brilliant!"
"Yeah. I'm done. They have it out for me now."
"Bill's a good guy, and his apprentice is a pussy.
I wouldn't worry. They'll play fair, won't go overboard."
"I got too greedy. Should've waited 'til they'd left the job."
"Happens to the best of us. I wish I knew who it was
that put the picture of Obama's face under my windshield wiper."
I somehow managed to maintain my composure.
He had said he thought it was the mailman who frequents
his favorite ginmill the day before and I'd kept my mouth shut.
It was his last day on the job, though, and I'd already been
nabbed once. Might as well come clean.
"It was me. I was going to put a sign next to it
that said 'Barack is my co-pilot', but figured
my blue marker would've given me away."
Perhaps I was giving him too much credit
though he did use 'exonerated' in a sentence once.
"At least I didn't tape it over the W sticker
on the back of your van."
"That's a collector's item at this point."
"I know."
This man had told me a story about how he once
attacked an ATM machine that ate his card
with a metal garbage can and was arrested
for doing a thousand dollars in damage.
The internal camera had gotten some good shots
of him approaching with said instrument of destruction
in hand and made for some good belly laughs
down at the police station.
I'd heard other rumors about his temper
from fellow fitters, but never saw him lose his cool
during our three-week stint together.
Needless to say I was a bit apprehensive
over what this vehement Republican's response would be.
"Well it's good to see someone's still got
a sense of humor around here," he said, the red
stubble on his chin shining in the fluorescent light.
My ass unclenched itself as I exhaled.
We smirked, looked down at our dirty knees
and returned to the pipe at hand.
the sprinkler guy's apprentice
coming down the corridor.
The grin on his face was
that of a man who knows
that he'll soon be granted the chance
to exact his revenge.
I froze as soon as I saw him
approaching me, the roll of duct tape
still in my hands. The cat was out of the bag.
"So you're the one who's been
taping our toolbox shut for the last two weeks?
We thought it was the carpenters."
I was slightly offended that they hadn't assumed
my guilt. The prank was fairly flawless, especially
when I did it before they had a chance to open
their box in the morning and would have to rely
on whatever sharp object they could muster up
to slice the tape off. If one of them had brought it up
at coffee break my face would've given me away.
Turns out I'm a terrible liar.
"We got him, Bill!"
Bill came around the corner. I could practically
hear his Western New York accent tearing into me
before he even opened his mouth.
"Oh. It's on, motherfucker."
It took all I had not to laugh in his face.
That only would've made things worse.
The sprinkler fitters are my pipe trade brothers
but that doesn't mean they won't get theirs.
"Hey, nothing permanent. And no personal vehicles,"
I said through my shit-eating.
"Just don't fall asleep in the shade anymore..."
Every time they saw me for the rest of the day they smiled.
--------------------------------------
"Well, I was busted. Caught red-handed," I told my partner.
"What do you mean?" he asked, still focused on the last beer
he had on his lunch break.
"The sprinkler guys caught me taping their box shut."
"That was you? Brilliant!"
"Yeah. I'm done. They have it out for me now."
"Bill's a good guy, and his apprentice is a pussy.
I wouldn't worry. They'll play fair, won't go overboard."
"I got too greedy. Should've waited 'til they'd left the job."
"Happens to the best of us. I wish I knew who it was
that put the picture of Obama's face under my windshield wiper."
I somehow managed to maintain my composure.
He had said he thought it was the mailman who frequents
his favorite ginmill the day before and I'd kept my mouth shut.
It was his last day on the job, though, and I'd already been
nabbed once. Might as well come clean.
"It was me. I was going to put a sign next to it
that said 'Barack is my co-pilot', but figured
my blue marker would've given me away."
Perhaps I was giving him too much credit
though he did use 'exonerated' in a sentence once.
"At least I didn't tape it over the W sticker
on the back of your van."
"That's a collector's item at this point."
"I know."
This man had told me a story about how he once
attacked an ATM machine that ate his card
with a metal garbage can and was arrested
for doing a thousand dollars in damage.
The internal camera had gotten some good shots
of him approaching with said instrument of destruction
in hand and made for some good belly laughs
down at the police station.
I'd heard other rumors about his temper
from fellow fitters, but never saw him lose his cool
during our three-week stint together.
Needless to say I was a bit apprehensive
over what this vehement Republican's response would be.
"Well it's good to see someone's still got
a sense of humor around here," he said, the red
stubble on his chin shining in the fluorescent light.
My ass unclenched itself as I exhaled.
We smirked, looked down at our dirty knees
and returned to the pipe at hand.
8.26.2009
In other news, I'm selling my guitars...
Blowing through
a children's book
about a prince in peril.
The little twit adorns the body
of two vessels I've known:
one a white-capped breaker, one a fellow
ship in passing.
He needs to stop questioning
as much as I do.
The mac-n-cheese wasn't
the same sober; too much
grated parmesan, not enough
American and a whole pot left
to suffer through tomorrow
coagulating in the fridge--
It was better when a drinking buddy
made it at three in the morning.
It was better when twelve twenty-year-olds
fought over the last of it.
It was better when we swore we wouldn't
turn out like our parents.
Swallowed the last of my juice
and took the pill dry.
Took a few tries, couldn't get it down.
It dissolved on my tongue before
slipping passed my massive tonsils.
Antibiotics as stale as this filler.
Chocolate chips erased the bitter taste.
(My nurse could smell the infection on me.
Thank God there's no perfume this time.
At least she knows to follow her nose.
It's gotten her this far.)
That blue-and-gold box lied to me tonight:
'al dente' is a euphemism for foolishly unprepared.
That's exactly what this all was.
I'd apologize, but there's no point--
Like me, friend, you've fallen in love
with a lot of people who didn't exist.
Pinch yourself next time.
a children's book
about a prince in peril.
The little twit adorns the body
of two vessels I've known:
one a white-capped breaker, one a fellow
ship in passing.
He needs to stop questioning
as much as I do.
The mac-n-cheese wasn't
the same sober; too much
grated parmesan, not enough
American and a whole pot left
to suffer through tomorrow
coagulating in the fridge--
It was better when a drinking buddy
made it at three in the morning.
It was better when twelve twenty-year-olds
fought over the last of it.
It was better when we swore we wouldn't
turn out like our parents.
Swallowed the last of my juice
and took the pill dry.
Took a few tries, couldn't get it down.
It dissolved on my tongue before
slipping passed my massive tonsils.
Antibiotics as stale as this filler.
Chocolate chips erased the bitter taste.
(My nurse could smell the infection on me.
Thank God there's no perfume this time.
At least she knows to follow her nose.
It's gotten her this far.)
That blue-and-gold box lied to me tonight:
'al dente' is a euphemism for foolishly unprepared.
That's exactly what this all was.
I'd apologize, but there's no point--
Like me, friend, you've fallen in love
with a lot of people who didn't exist.
Pinch yourself next time.
8.24.2009
Bronchitis, otra vez.
I wouldn't have been there
ten minutes early
if I'd known they'd keep me
waiting for half an hour
after the scheduled time.
I wouldn't've been there
at all if she hadn't
pulled rank, her profession and all.
Us stubborn fitters
sweat, bleed, or drink
the ailment right out of us.
It's no wonder we're sick
for weeks at a time.
But there I was, and I'd
already finished my book.
Even some forms to fill out
in the interim would've been welcomed.
It wasn't in the cards, though;
I shuffled my feet
and tried not to cough too frequently
as the waiting room continued to fill up
with the same people who always
end up in front of me
cashing in two-dollar lottery tickets
at the gas station
and playing their unlucky numbers.
"Mr. Schuler?" a tired nurse asked
through a suddenly gaping door.
The wrinkled mass across from my
still shuffling sneakers rose
with his wife to answer the call.
The two of them looked like
they'd forgotten why'd they'd shown up
in the first place as they awkwardly made
their way towards the door, the cracking of
calcified joints practically audible
in the air-conditioned silence. The doctors there
specialized in pulmonary care
which made many of their patients
very old; I wasn't sure what I was doing there
but the Schulers seemed even more confused.
"Mr. Schuler, would you like your wife
to join you?" the receptionist asked from behind
the obviously non-bulletproof glass.
Some law made that question mandatory, but
the Schulers hadn't voted on it
so they didn't bother answering.
The nurse looked at the secretary in silent defeat.
Their frowns seemed to say
what the soles of my wasted running shoes were mumbling:
At least Mr. Schuler won't die alone.
That's more than some of us can say.
ten minutes early
if I'd known they'd keep me
waiting for half an hour
after the scheduled time.
I wouldn't've been there
at all if she hadn't
pulled rank, her profession and all.
Us stubborn fitters
sweat, bleed, or drink
the ailment right out of us.
It's no wonder we're sick
for weeks at a time.
But there I was, and I'd
already finished my book.
Even some forms to fill out
in the interim would've been welcomed.
It wasn't in the cards, though;
I shuffled my feet
and tried not to cough too frequently
as the waiting room continued to fill up
with the same people who always
end up in front of me
cashing in two-dollar lottery tickets
at the gas station
and playing their unlucky numbers.
"Mr. Schuler?" a tired nurse asked
through a suddenly gaping door.
The wrinkled mass across from my
still shuffling sneakers rose
with his wife to answer the call.
The two of them looked like
they'd forgotten why'd they'd shown up
in the first place as they awkwardly made
their way towards the door, the cracking of
calcified joints practically audible
in the air-conditioned silence. The doctors there
specialized in pulmonary care
which made many of their patients
very old; I wasn't sure what I was doing there
but the Schulers seemed even more confused.
"Mr. Schuler, would you like your wife
to join you?" the receptionist asked from behind
the obviously non-bulletproof glass.
Some law made that question mandatory, but
the Schulers hadn't voted on it
so they didn't bother answering.
The nurse looked at the secretary in silent defeat.
Their frowns seemed to say
what the soles of my wasted running shoes were mumbling:
At least Mr. Schuler won't die alone.
That's more than some of us can say.
8.19.2009
Buster
There're Band-Aids on her nipples
as she's sweating
through her dress:
the subway is hotter
than the restaurant was.
(All I can do is imagine for now.
I'd give my left one to teleport there.)
"So what'd the thrasher say?"
It doesn't matter. He passed
the test, distance be damned.
"Playing by the rules
for a change."
The West Side, the home stretch.
Back in the saddle--
Reverse Cowgirl for awhile
and faces for the finish
(just how we like it, reminded of our love)--
avoiding chronic rugburn
as the aunts castrate the herd.
But it's not so bad, this apron.
as she's sweating
through her dress:
the subway is hotter
than the restaurant was.
(All I can do is imagine for now.
I'd give my left one to teleport there.)
"So what'd the thrasher say?"
It doesn't matter. He passed
the test, distance be damned.
"Playing by the rules
for a change."
The West Side, the home stretch.
Back in the saddle--
Reverse Cowgirl for awhile
and faces for the finish
(just how we like it, reminded of our love)--
avoiding chronic rugburn
as the aunts castrate the herd.
But it's not so bad, this apron.
8.17.2009
Something borrowed, something blue, something old, something new."
In a laundry-scheduling blunder
worthy of a swift
slap to the forehead
I let my four towels
enter the hamper
before leaving for
the weekend.
My error hadn't been
discovered until I went
to shower off
a nauseous day of work
this morbid Monday evening.
My hand was forced.
I pulled the brown one
from my shelf
and slung it over the curtain rod
in a bathroom that needs a cleaning
as desperately as my memory does.
The recent addition to the roster
hung there laughing to itself
as lukewarm water ran down my back
this time unaccompanied
by a pair of willing elbows
to soothe away the ache.
A band of honeycomb pattern
four inches from the draped edge
winked and prodded at my cheeks.
"I did the right thing," I told
a frayed thread dangling from the
corner of the towel.
"Didn't I?"
The kind leave nothing behind.
worthy of a swift
slap to the forehead
I let my four towels
enter the hamper
before leaving for
the weekend.
My error hadn't been
discovered until I went
to shower off
a nauseous day of work
this morbid Monday evening.
My hand was forced.
I pulled the brown one
from my shelf
and slung it over the curtain rod
in a bathroom that needs a cleaning
as desperately as my memory does.
The recent addition to the roster
hung there laughing to itself
as lukewarm water ran down my back
this time unaccompanied
by a pair of willing elbows
to soothe away the ache.
A band of honeycomb pattern
four inches from the draped edge
winked and prodded at my cheeks.
"I did the right thing," I told
a frayed thread dangling from the
corner of the towel.
"Didn't I?"
The kind leave nothing behind.
8.16.2009
A shitty short story that got me through a hell of a Sunday (with the help of some Bacardi, mind you).
"Any last requests?" he asked him sneeringly as he knelt in the dusty road. He'd traversed its winding expanse so many times throughout his twenty-six years without ever imagining it'd take him to the next life.
"In the heart," he stated with a dignity only conceivable in the voice of a man who knows he'll soon be no more.
A series of images ran through his head, some more pleasant than others. He'd want that face saved for those who would care enough to give a proper burial; wanted the mind that had served him so well for so many years preserved.
Cecilia. If only he could see her one last time. She'd been sent away to a convent after the incident that roused her family's suspicions. In her absence he started buying guns. When the revolution came a few months later it only made sense for him to partake. What was death in the face of heartache?
He thought back to the time he took the busload of nuns hostage. "Friends of the Republic," the guerrilla leaders had said from their hidden soapboxes "are enemies of our cause." That had justified the plan he'd suggested to commandeer the bus. What better way to show ones enemy the extent of your conviction than to strike out against God himself in the form of the establishment? When he and four other masked men boarded that bus all he could think of was finding his Cecilia sitting amongst the sisters. His bloodshot eyes scanned the faces of the terrified nuns until they found their mark. It took all he had inside himself to refrain from dropping his shotgun, tearing off his mask, and telling her not to worry. He longed to lick away the tears that were rolling down her face, but had to settle for a brief glimpse of her beauty now strangled by black-and-white robes. "The money's not here!" one of the marauders yelled after rifling through the mother superior's briefcase.
"Let's get out of here before the Federals show up." Not a second went by. "Yes, let's go." There was no disapproval in his reply. He'd gotten what he'd wanted out of the ambush.
But was that all so trivial now, or was it all that mattered? He knew that he wouldn't live long enough to find out.
"As a captured member of the radical party in opposition to..."
He knew the recital by heart. Officers were required by law to give that deceptively righteous speech to those about to be executed. From the safety of bushes, rocks, and riverbanks present after numerous raids gone wrong he and his cohorts had heard these words given to brothers in arms about to be shot. "We can't let them die like dogs," he'd argued the first time it happened. Without the slightest hesitation the three men laying low beside him cocked and aimed their weapons at his chest. No words needed to be exchanged at that point. Joining up meant understanding the importance of living to fight another day. No mourner would know the true circumstances of your death from the newspapers, but they might taste the glory of a future victory if you could live long enough to accomplish it. It was a selfish way to live, but the only way.
This was the second time he'd heard the false justification for murder that day, though. The first time had been a mere ten minutes prior as his best friend, now dead by his hand in the road beside him, was in the same position where he currently found himself. The Federals had had his friend at gunpoint and were about to send him to his Maker when a shot rang out from the reeds near the river. The man fell face forward into the dirt as three of the guards turned their baffled faces towards the source of the gunshot. He reloaded his rifle and fired two more rounds, killing one soldier instantly and maiming another well enough to bring him to the ground. In the heat of the moment he had not heard the patrol boat approaching upstream behind him. By the time the bullhorn sounded commanding him to throw down his weapon it was already too late. A bullet from the man prevented from executing his friend had torn through his left shoulder, causing him to drop his rifle into the current behind him as the exit wound exploded in a gush of crimson jelly. The shot was a lucky one, a blind act of desperation into a mass of vegetation. Great men are not supposed to die by such flukes, though they often do.
They dragged his half-conscious body from the bank of the river and into the road where the initial execution was to take place. Knuckles made a firm connection with his cheekbone, bringing him back to the world that would soon be going black. For the first time since being shot he felt the pain in his body. His right hand reached up and fingered the bloody hollow of shattered bone and loose skin where the socket of his left arm had been. Cecilia. Cecilia. How she once loved the broad shoulders that were now half of what they used to be. He hoped she'd never see the corpse.
"On your knees, traitor," the officer commanded. A closer look at his captor's face revealed his identity. He had been the local tailor, a humble man of meager means, before the revolution had started. High mortality rates on both sides had forced men up the chain of command faster than what was customary. Power went to some heads more than others, the simplest men often becoming the most ruthless butchers. "Any last requests?" he asked, spittle at both downturned corners of his mouth.
"In the heart," his answer came.
An adrenaline induced sweat poured off his face and made tiny craters in the dry dirt below him. He could hear their impact like meteors between the pounding of his temples. The scorching sun caused his perspiration to evaporate as soon as it made contact with the ground. The day was so hot that many had ignorantly wished for death.
"Dogs have no hearts, only stomachs," the tailor in battle dress said as he kicked his prisoner in the ribs. "Ready! Aim!"
But that was the last thing his victim ever heard.
He was on that tranquil coast where he'd made love to Cecilia, the two of them trying to evade the curious sight of passing boaters. An innocent giggle came from between her perfectly square teeth as she gathered her skirt around their hips to try to conceal their love from the world. Great men should have such memories to reflect upon.
A government issue .30 caliber bullet tore through the back of his skull just as her laugh ended, thus destroying what Cecilia had truly fallen in love with well before their rendezvous on that beach.
The family lost the option of an open-casket service. Cecilia lost her will to pray with conviction. The world lost one more reason to keep spinning at such an urgent rate. And great men? What are great men, really?
"In the heart," he stated with a dignity only conceivable in the voice of a man who knows he'll soon be no more.
A series of images ran through his head, some more pleasant than others. He'd want that face saved for those who would care enough to give a proper burial; wanted the mind that had served him so well for so many years preserved.
Cecilia. If only he could see her one last time. She'd been sent away to a convent after the incident that roused her family's suspicions. In her absence he started buying guns. When the revolution came a few months later it only made sense for him to partake. What was death in the face of heartache?
He thought back to the time he took the busload of nuns hostage. "Friends of the Republic," the guerrilla leaders had said from their hidden soapboxes "are enemies of our cause." That had justified the plan he'd suggested to commandeer the bus. What better way to show ones enemy the extent of your conviction than to strike out against God himself in the form of the establishment? When he and four other masked men boarded that bus all he could think of was finding his Cecilia sitting amongst the sisters. His bloodshot eyes scanned the faces of the terrified nuns until they found their mark. It took all he had inside himself to refrain from dropping his shotgun, tearing off his mask, and telling her not to worry. He longed to lick away the tears that were rolling down her face, but had to settle for a brief glimpse of her beauty now strangled by black-and-white robes. "The money's not here!" one of the marauders yelled after rifling through the mother superior's briefcase.
"Let's get out of here before the Federals show up." Not a second went by. "Yes, let's go." There was no disapproval in his reply. He'd gotten what he'd wanted out of the ambush.
But was that all so trivial now, or was it all that mattered? He knew that he wouldn't live long enough to find out.
"As a captured member of the radical party in opposition to..."
He knew the recital by heart. Officers were required by law to give that deceptively righteous speech to those about to be executed. From the safety of bushes, rocks, and riverbanks present after numerous raids gone wrong he and his cohorts had heard these words given to brothers in arms about to be shot. "We can't let them die like dogs," he'd argued the first time it happened. Without the slightest hesitation the three men laying low beside him cocked and aimed their weapons at his chest. No words needed to be exchanged at that point. Joining up meant understanding the importance of living to fight another day. No mourner would know the true circumstances of your death from the newspapers, but they might taste the glory of a future victory if you could live long enough to accomplish it. It was a selfish way to live, but the only way.
This was the second time he'd heard the false justification for murder that day, though. The first time had been a mere ten minutes prior as his best friend, now dead by his hand in the road beside him, was in the same position where he currently found himself. The Federals had had his friend at gunpoint and were about to send him to his Maker when a shot rang out from the reeds near the river. The man fell face forward into the dirt as three of the guards turned their baffled faces towards the source of the gunshot. He reloaded his rifle and fired two more rounds, killing one soldier instantly and maiming another well enough to bring him to the ground. In the heat of the moment he had not heard the patrol boat approaching upstream behind him. By the time the bullhorn sounded commanding him to throw down his weapon it was already too late. A bullet from the man prevented from executing his friend had torn through his left shoulder, causing him to drop his rifle into the current behind him as the exit wound exploded in a gush of crimson jelly. The shot was a lucky one, a blind act of desperation into a mass of vegetation. Great men are not supposed to die by such flukes, though they often do.
They dragged his half-conscious body from the bank of the river and into the road where the initial execution was to take place. Knuckles made a firm connection with his cheekbone, bringing him back to the world that would soon be going black. For the first time since being shot he felt the pain in his body. His right hand reached up and fingered the bloody hollow of shattered bone and loose skin where the socket of his left arm had been. Cecilia. Cecilia. How she once loved the broad shoulders that were now half of what they used to be. He hoped she'd never see the corpse.
"On your knees, traitor," the officer commanded. A closer look at his captor's face revealed his identity. He had been the local tailor, a humble man of meager means, before the revolution had started. High mortality rates on both sides had forced men up the chain of command faster than what was customary. Power went to some heads more than others, the simplest men often becoming the most ruthless butchers. "Any last requests?" he asked, spittle at both downturned corners of his mouth.
"In the heart," his answer came.
An adrenaline induced sweat poured off his face and made tiny craters in the dry dirt below him. He could hear their impact like meteors between the pounding of his temples. The scorching sun caused his perspiration to evaporate as soon as it made contact with the ground. The day was so hot that many had ignorantly wished for death.
"Dogs have no hearts, only stomachs," the tailor in battle dress said as he kicked his prisoner in the ribs. "Ready! Aim!"
But that was the last thing his victim ever heard.
He was on that tranquil coast where he'd made love to Cecilia, the two of them trying to evade the curious sight of passing boaters. An innocent giggle came from between her perfectly square teeth as she gathered her skirt around their hips to try to conceal their love from the world. Great men should have such memories to reflect upon.
A government issue .30 caliber bullet tore through the back of his skull just as her laugh ended, thus destroying what Cecilia had truly fallen in love with well before their rendezvous on that beach.
The family lost the option of an open-casket service. Cecilia lost her will to pray with conviction. The world lost one more reason to keep spinning at such an urgent rate. And great men? What are great men, really?
Southpaw love in the Big Apple.
A guy like me doesn't wander
Manhattan alone by himself often;
if he does, it's probably got something
to do with a woman or what she's driven
him to, in this case Puerto Rican Rum--
the same kind slugged by one of the two
grandfathers I never met, ironically not
the Hispanic one.
It was well before midnight, for the record.
Thankfully the liquor stores were still open--
one advantage of staying in such a dump of a city.
"You want anything while I'm out?" I slurred.
She shook her head from the bathroom floor.
That one step in her building tripped me up a bit.
It wouldn't've been so bad if I'd stumbled down
the stairs, the outcome being the same
for all intents and purposes.
My strategic boxer choice for the evening
no longer mattered.
The street didn't smell as strongly of
spoiled ethnic food and urine
in that sangria state. My non-descript black T
preserved my anonymity. I was glad
I'd foregone my typical thift store shirt.
The ones who could read might've figured out
that I was a tourist if I'd made that mistake.
I'd wanted to look presentable in case we went out.
That wasn't happening anymore, not at the rate
things were going. All I wanted was another cocktail
and some peace and quiet. Maybe another
beautifully out-of-key song to lull me to sleep.
Hell's Kitchen. What a perfect waste of a name.
A well-kept homeless man was haggling with
the Muslim shop owner as I staggered in to the narrow
closet of a liquor store.
"Come on, buddy. I'm a regular here. All I have is
three bucks. Give it to me, I'll bring you the last dollar tomorrow."
The flask of rotgut was already in the paper bag that'd
eventually become its curbside coffin. We all knew
it was only a matter of time.
"Alright, but you better pay me tomorrow," said the
slightly less brown man behind the counter
in his cliche sing-song Middle Eastern accent.
It was no stretch to say that in some point in time
soldiers wearing our nation's flag on their shoulders
had fired something at this man's countrymen;
now he was playing God with an alcoholic, the
American Dream gone awry. Tables turn quickly
when the battlefield comes home.
Still, it was good to see he had a heart.
"Thanks, brother. I swear I'll be back." He left
the store clutching the paper bag like a long-lost friend
that'd probably kill him in the end.
"Bottle of Bacardi, please," I said when the clerk
had closed the register.
He reached for the bigger one
but I knew the night wouldn't last quite that long.
"No, the smaller one."
I handed him a twenty. He slipped the bottle
into a black plastic bag and slid my change
across the counter towards me.
I scooped up the coins and pushed the dollar bill
back in his direction.
"Take his dollar. He's good now, alright?"
A smirk fought its way to the surface of his skin.
Three beads of sweat rolled down his neck
to his soaked collar. If the clock on the wall
wasn't digital I probably would've heard it tick.
"OK, my friend," he laughed, both of us knowing
he'd still hit that sorry bastard up for his loan
the next day. "You have a good night."
The pavement felt softer on the walk back to her place.
Part of me was shocked when she buzzed me in
to let me back upstairs.
"You alright, Babe?"
"Yeah. Almost. Yeah."
The ice had already melted in the glass
by the time I downed her cocktail an hour later.
Only one of us was good at nursing.
I didn't mind, it saved me a trip to the kitchen.
We fell asleep once the skeletons stopped rattling.
Somehow the city
became big enough
for the two of us again.
Manhattan alone by himself often;
if he does, it's probably got something
to do with a woman or what she's driven
him to, in this case Puerto Rican Rum--
the same kind slugged by one of the two
grandfathers I never met, ironically not
the Hispanic one.
It was well before midnight, for the record.
Thankfully the liquor stores were still open--
one advantage of staying in such a dump of a city.
"You want anything while I'm out?" I slurred.
She shook her head from the bathroom floor.
That one step in her building tripped me up a bit.
It wouldn't've been so bad if I'd stumbled down
the stairs, the outcome being the same
for all intents and purposes.
My strategic boxer choice for the evening
no longer mattered.
The street didn't smell as strongly of
spoiled ethnic food and urine
in that sangria state. My non-descript black T
preserved my anonymity. I was glad
I'd foregone my typical thift store shirt.
The ones who could read might've figured out
that I was a tourist if I'd made that mistake.
I'd wanted to look presentable in case we went out.
That wasn't happening anymore, not at the rate
things were going. All I wanted was another cocktail
and some peace and quiet. Maybe another
beautifully out-of-key song to lull me to sleep.
Hell's Kitchen. What a perfect waste of a name.
A well-kept homeless man was haggling with
the Muslim shop owner as I staggered in to the narrow
closet of a liquor store.
"Come on, buddy. I'm a regular here. All I have is
three bucks. Give it to me, I'll bring you the last dollar tomorrow."
The flask of rotgut was already in the paper bag that'd
eventually become its curbside coffin. We all knew
it was only a matter of time.
"Alright, but you better pay me tomorrow," said the
slightly less brown man behind the counter
in his cliche sing-song Middle Eastern accent.
It was no stretch to say that in some point in time
soldiers wearing our nation's flag on their shoulders
had fired something at this man's countrymen;
now he was playing God with an alcoholic, the
American Dream gone awry. Tables turn quickly
when the battlefield comes home.
Still, it was good to see he had a heart.
"Thanks, brother. I swear I'll be back." He left
the store clutching the paper bag like a long-lost friend
that'd probably kill him in the end.
"Bottle of Bacardi, please," I said when the clerk
had closed the register.
He reached for the bigger one
but I knew the night wouldn't last quite that long.
"No, the smaller one."
I handed him a twenty. He slipped the bottle
into a black plastic bag and slid my change
across the counter towards me.
I scooped up the coins and pushed the dollar bill
back in his direction.
"Take his dollar. He's good now, alright?"
A smirk fought its way to the surface of his skin.
Three beads of sweat rolled down his neck
to his soaked collar. If the clock on the wall
wasn't digital I probably would've heard it tick.
"OK, my friend," he laughed, both of us knowing
he'd still hit that sorry bastard up for his loan
the next day. "You have a good night."
The pavement felt softer on the walk back to her place.
Part of me was shocked when she buzzed me in
to let me back upstairs.
"You alright, Babe?"
"Yeah. Almost. Yeah."
The ice had already melted in the glass
by the time I downed her cocktail an hour later.
Only one of us was good at nursing.
I didn't mind, it saved me a trip to the kitchen.
We fell asleep once the skeletons stopped rattling.
Somehow the city
became big enough
for the two of us again.
8.13.2009
The irony propels itself.
Because the murderer fears the sting of the knife
the thief knows who lurks on the fire escape
and the cheater sees what's up the actor's sleeve:
That's why he won't sleep tonight.
the thief knows who lurks on the fire escape
and the cheater sees what's up the actor's sleeve:
That's why he won't sleep tonight.
8.12.2009
Lease, with option to buy:
a nice place in the West 80s--
the kind where you wouldn't mind
parking overnight, even with
a truckload of borrowed tools
though I still miss my alternate spelling
of your name
rising to rinse the undercarriage afterwards
and honing the dealbreaker hex.
Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black
with silver ink all down her back:
we do our best work in the dark
in lieu of a truth that scares us.
the kind where you wouldn't mind
parking overnight, even with
a truckload of borrowed tools
though I still miss my alternate spelling
of your name
rising to rinse the undercarriage afterwards
and honing the dealbreaker hex.
Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black
with silver ink all down her back:
we do our best work in the dark
in lieu of a truth that scares us.
8.10.2009
You can choose your friends, too.
A barrage of phone calls
from hired gun uncles--
"Call her back," they'd say
in more than those words
if I'd answer the rings
of the artillery;
but I know better
than to pick up
and tell the patriarch
I have no need for blood
right now
unless it's on my sheets.
Currently reading:
"The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers".
from hired gun uncles--
"Call her back," they'd say
in more than those words
if I'd answer the rings
of the artillery;
but I know better
than to pick up
and tell the patriarch
I have no need for blood
right now
unless it's on my sheets.
Currently reading:
"The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers".
8.09.2009
Cosmoline
And that's you
still smoking in the outfield
coughing up a lung
as back home on the ranch
a fly rests upon its swatter
rubbing thin elbows together
in quiet rebellion.
Somewhere in the periphery
there's a man making neighbors'
pets disappear. That's time spent
far more wisely, friend.
Let's bathe in our discontent's winter
before the blackshirts come
to take the remainder
of our intangibles away.
It's a movie that no one left here
has the heart to see, vignettes or none.
Currently reading:
"The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje.
still smoking in the outfield
coughing up a lung
as back home on the ranch
a fly rests upon its swatter
rubbing thin elbows together
in quiet rebellion.
Somewhere in the periphery
there's a man making neighbors'
pets disappear. That's time spent
far more wisely, friend.
Let's bathe in our discontent's winter
before the blackshirts come
to take the remainder
of our intangibles away.
It's a movie that no one left here
has the heart to see, vignettes or none.
Currently reading:
"The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje.
Sham-wowed.
It's a cruel slap to his perfectly trimmed beard
the way they still play
his Infomercials
despite his sudden death
the narcotics found in his system
well hushed.
He's not yelling through the TV screen anymore
and neither am I.
Let us let the dogs sleep
ignoring the useless products
lonely housewives don't need.
I can clean my own mess, thank you.
the way they still play
his Infomercials
despite his sudden death
the narcotics found in his system
well hushed.
He's not yelling through the TV screen anymore
and neither am I.
Let us let the dogs sleep
ignoring the useless products
lonely housewives don't need.
I can clean my own mess, thank you.
8.06.2009
Unfahrenheit
Maria Dolores is her name
that second one meaning 'pain'
and it's fitting, all considered.
She was burned out of several
low-rent apartments
back in the Fifties and Sixties
I've heard
but somehow the family
still has that suitcase
of bent-corner, sepia photos intact.
Who was the one to bang on the doors?
Who was the one to choke on the smoke?
Was it her brothers or mother
yanking those snapshots
and portraits from soon-to-burn closets?
The way that she's framed the best of the bunch
answers that question complete.
At one time in your life, Ma
you had your priorities straight.
that second one meaning 'pain'
and it's fitting, all considered.
She was burned out of several
low-rent apartments
back in the Fifties and Sixties
I've heard
but somehow the family
still has that suitcase
of bent-corner, sepia photos intact.
Who was the one to bang on the doors?
Who was the one to choke on the smoke?
Was it her brothers or mother
yanking those snapshots
and portraits from soon-to-burn closets?
The way that she's framed the best of the bunch
answers that question complete.
At one time in your life, Ma
you had your priorities straight.
8.05.2009
Sonny vs. Mario vs. MV
Then there was the time
we were half-drunk in my room
sharing not-so-secret secrets
while trying to be coy.
She was sitting Indian style
in front of my tallest bookshelf.
I loved the inanimate object far more.
"I keep money stashed in one
of those books right in front of you,"
I blurted with a sad sense of pride
in my oh-so-tortured savings method.
The truth was that I used to
keep a hundred-and-a-half in there
but would always forget whether or not
I'd used it or not when I'd flip through
the pages and find them empty.
In an attempt to organize my system
I left a piece of paper in there
to write the date and amount of money
hidden within the binding to help me
keep track; that didn't seem to work
for some unknown reason, either.
In reality I'd given up on the emergency money
philosophy since I couldn't keep track of it
and it usually wound up being spent
halfway through a drunken night
on something that was very temporary--
almost as temporary as that romantic endeavour
would turn out to be.
"Can you guess which one?" I asked.
I wanted to know if she could figure it out based on the title
which I naturally found very appropriate.
Well, it was more than that--
I wanted to see if she understood my way of thinking
or not. That's all I've ever really sought in another:
understanding, even when I don't understand myself.
A tall order for a short temper.
I guess that's why I vent here instead.
Her hand moved from left to right across the backs
of the books, stopping in front of the wrong one.
I forget which book it was now, even after glancing to my right
but that doesn't matter anyway.
It was wrong. Dead wrong.
Unforgiven.
"No, no. That's not it!" I pleaded with fate.
It seemed that none of them would ever
pull that sword from that stone.
" 'The Terrible Hours' is where I keep it. As in
I'd need money in times of despair. It makes
perfect sense. Don't you get it?"
She didn't. She just looked at me with those
big doe eyes as if to let me down easy, her head
cocked to one side like a confused puppy.
I was crazy and expected someone else to be, too.
One would have to be to go down with this ship.
That's what that book was about, actually; a submarine
that sank to the bottom of the Atlantic
with its crewmen trapped inside.
They got them out, otherwise it wouldn't have made
for very good sales at the bookstores.
Most people still need happy endings
and though I hate to admit it
I'm hoping for one myself.
So I'm asking you now:
Are you crazy enough?
we were half-drunk in my room
sharing not-so-secret secrets
while trying to be coy.
She was sitting Indian style
in front of my tallest bookshelf.
I loved the inanimate object far more.
"I keep money stashed in one
of those books right in front of you,"
I blurted with a sad sense of pride
in my oh-so-tortured savings method.
The truth was that I used to
keep a hundred-and-a-half in there
but would always forget whether or not
I'd used it or not when I'd flip through
the pages and find them empty.
In an attempt to organize my system
I left a piece of paper in there
to write the date and amount of money
hidden within the binding to help me
keep track; that didn't seem to work
for some unknown reason, either.
In reality I'd given up on the emergency money
philosophy since I couldn't keep track of it
and it usually wound up being spent
halfway through a drunken night
on something that was very temporary--
almost as temporary as that romantic endeavour
would turn out to be.
"Can you guess which one?" I asked.
I wanted to know if she could figure it out based on the title
which I naturally found very appropriate.
Well, it was more than that--
I wanted to see if she understood my way of thinking
or not. That's all I've ever really sought in another:
understanding, even when I don't understand myself.
A tall order for a short temper.
I guess that's why I vent here instead.
Her hand moved from left to right across the backs
of the books, stopping in front of the wrong one.
I forget which book it was now, even after glancing to my right
but that doesn't matter anyway.
It was wrong. Dead wrong.
Unforgiven.
"No, no. That's not it!" I pleaded with fate.
It seemed that none of them would ever
pull that sword from that stone.
" 'The Terrible Hours' is where I keep it. As in
I'd need money in times of despair. It makes
perfect sense. Don't you get it?"
She didn't. She just looked at me with those
big doe eyes as if to let me down easy, her head
cocked to one side like a confused puppy.
I was crazy and expected someone else to be, too.
One would have to be to go down with this ship.
That's what that book was about, actually; a submarine
that sank to the bottom of the Atlantic
with its crewmen trapped inside.
They got them out, otherwise it wouldn't have made
for very good sales at the bookstores.
Most people still need happy endings
and though I hate to admit it
I'm hoping for one myself.
So I'm asking you now:
Are you crazy enough?
8.04.2009
Eating the windfall apples again.
She's on a couch and she's losin' it
her voice trying to sound profound
but only making a bigger fool of itself
than the worthless writer did with the words
she's stumbling through tonight.
The middle syllable of a five-dollar adjective
is accented improperly, over-stressed
for an emphasis that isn't there.
In a fit of self-conscious floundering
she repeats the offending phrase
just barely aloud at first, then for
her sole intended listener to hear.
He's sprawled out on an adjacent
piece of secondhand furniture, his mind less
attentive to the orator than mine
though I'm fifteen feet away.
I cringe in mild horror, glad that
they're not the muddled cords
that'll someday lull my kids to sleep.
More the cruel critic than erudite ear
I march up the creaking steps
to talk trash about another one
who will never taste the wrath.
"I can love them," I reassure myself
in the inner tone I've selfishly come to love,
"as long as their books don't clutter my shelves..."
and the rabbit hides under the baseboard
while the butcher wipes sweat from his brow
well-knowing that most people, himself included
were born to sound fake in the air.
her voice trying to sound profound
but only making a bigger fool of itself
than the worthless writer did with the words
she's stumbling through tonight.
The middle syllable of a five-dollar adjective
is accented improperly, over-stressed
for an emphasis that isn't there.
In a fit of self-conscious floundering
she repeats the offending phrase
just barely aloud at first, then for
her sole intended listener to hear.
He's sprawled out on an adjacent
piece of secondhand furniture, his mind less
attentive to the orator than mine
though I'm fifteen feet away.
I cringe in mild horror, glad that
they're not the muddled cords
that'll someday lull my kids to sleep.
More the cruel critic than erudite ear
I march up the creaking steps
to talk trash about another one
who will never taste the wrath.
"I can love them," I reassure myself
in the inner tone I've selfishly come to love,
"as long as their books don't clutter my shelves..."
and the rabbit hides under the baseboard
while the butcher wipes sweat from his brow
well-knowing that most people, himself included
were born to sound fake in the air.
8.03.2009
Sin mi voz.
On a borrowed plaid blanket
and planted grass
betwixt a river
and it's long-dead discoverer
lay two olive lovers
gazing into rough-hewn sculptures
whose sole remaining tests
be those of time, pressure being
pre-determined and defeated
unanimously.
He doesn't notice his hand entwined
in that lazy lock as the aperture opens;
it hereby makes his case
as he now prepares to sleep
unmentionably and alone, wiling away
a countdown just as sacred
as his vow to make
warding off dog tones
a special goal of his.
And it's love.
And was love, even in that big city.
And he thanks God she didn't choose
to learn
until now.
and planted grass
betwixt a river
and it's long-dead discoverer
lay two olive lovers
gazing into rough-hewn sculptures
whose sole remaining tests
be those of time, pressure being
pre-determined and defeated
unanimously.
He doesn't notice his hand entwined
in that lazy lock as the aperture opens;
it hereby makes his case
as he now prepares to sleep
unmentionably and alone, wiling away
a countdown just as sacred
as his vow to make
warding off dog tones
a special goal of his.
And it's love.
And was love, even in that big city.
And he thanks God she didn't choose
to learn
until now.
The first thing I did after reloading the shotgun.
Lost a bet with myself and shaved my head
but I'm growing it out again
like Conor used to sing about
back when we were single.
I was standing in a highway rest stop
and instantly knew which man in the crowd
that long-haired broad would walk to
after leaving the ladies' room.
It wasn't me.
Let's get something else straight--
He didn't die for you or me;
He did it so some lonely misanthropes
could write a book, a fairytale
to help them sleep at night.
Me?
I've found a better method.
"Mine is a jealous god," the children shall
recite as they dance around the architect
to the tune of a baker's dozen.
"Take it easy, or any way you can get it,"
and we heard the Grand Finale
from the safety of my room
for a reason.
"Let the loser have the last word, Son,"
a welder once told me.
Fast windshield wipers used to
turn his hungover stomach, too.
Those days are done for him now, but
I can still smell the whiskey and women
on his beard if there's no breeze.
Some can't handle the mixture of hot and cold.
This is not for them.
Currently reading:
"Animal Farm" by George Orwell.
but I'm growing it out again
like Conor used to sing about
back when we were single.
I was standing in a highway rest stop
and instantly knew which man in the crowd
that long-haired broad would walk to
after leaving the ladies' room.
It wasn't me.
Let's get something else straight--
He didn't die for you or me;
He did it so some lonely misanthropes
could write a book, a fairytale
to help them sleep at night.
Me?
I've found a better method.
"Mine is a jealous god," the children shall
recite as they dance around the architect
to the tune of a baker's dozen.
"Take it easy, or any way you can get it,"
and we heard the Grand Finale
from the safety of my room
for a reason.
"Let the loser have the last word, Son,"
a welder once told me.
Fast windshield wipers used to
turn his hungover stomach, too.
Those days are done for him now, but
I can still smell the whiskey and women
on his beard if there's no breeze.
Some can't handle the mixture of hot and cold.
This is not for them.
Currently reading:
"Animal Farm" by George Orwell.
7.29.2009
Rocco, if you only knew...
"Jesus, kid. It's pouring off your face."
"Some of us work for a living."
"Yeah, but that's excessive."
"I sweat in January."
"You part...?"
"No, but my mom's Puerto Rican."
"My granddaughter's half."
"It's not so bad."
"Didn't say it was."
"I'm Italian and German, too."
"You're a mutt."
"Better than being an old dog trying to learn new tricks."
"Who said I wanted to learn anything?"
"I forgot, you're a stubborn old laborer."
"So can your dad cook as well as your mother?"
"No. He tried, though."
"Tried?"
"I haven't seen him in three years."
"Why not?"
"He's crazy."
"Oh."
"That's why I'm glad I've got guys like..."
"So your mom makes rice and beans. You're lucky."
"Yeah."
"Raining like hell out there."
"Tornado warning, too."
"You know anyone who's been hit by a tornado?"
"Well...no."
"Then don't worry about it, Dorothy."
"But if I don't, who will?"
"Guys like me."
"Exactly."
"Huh?"
"Nevermind. Go push your broom."
"I'm not too old to knock you off that ladder."
"That's fine. If I get hurt I can go home early."
"This is your home, for the next thirty years."
"Not if I prove my father wrong."
"Something tells me you already have."
"Maybe."
"What's wrong with your arm?"
"My tattoos itch."
"All of a sudden?"
"Yeah."
Currently reading:
"Death of a Salesman" by Arthur Miller.
"Some of us work for a living."
"Yeah, but that's excessive."
"I sweat in January."
"You part...?"
"No, but my mom's Puerto Rican."
"My granddaughter's half."
"It's not so bad."
"Didn't say it was."
"I'm Italian and German, too."
"You're a mutt."
"Better than being an old dog trying to learn new tricks."
"Who said I wanted to learn anything?"
"I forgot, you're a stubborn old laborer."
"So can your dad cook as well as your mother?"
"No. He tried, though."
"Tried?"
"I haven't seen him in three years."
"Why not?"
"He's crazy."
"Oh."
"That's why I'm glad I've got guys like..."
"So your mom makes rice and beans. You're lucky."
"Yeah."
"Raining like hell out there."
"Tornado warning, too."
"You know anyone who's been hit by a tornado?"
"Well...no."
"Then don't worry about it, Dorothy."
"But if I don't, who will?"
"Guys like me."
"Exactly."
"Huh?"
"Nevermind. Go push your broom."
"I'm not too old to knock you off that ladder."
"That's fine. If I get hurt I can go home early."
"This is your home, for the next thirty years."
"Not if I prove my father wrong."
"Something tells me you already have."
"Maybe."
"What's wrong with your arm?"
"My tattoos itch."
"All of a sudden?"
"Yeah."
Currently reading:
"Death of a Salesman" by Arthur Miller.
7.28.2009
cause and Effect
When the honeybees die off
the plants will find a way
to pollenate themselves.
This summer's bat shortage
hasn't left me with any more
mosquito bites than usual.
But believe me when I tell you
that if the acid rain and bug repellant
hadn't hushed the bullfrog chorus
not even my best friend
could've dragged me from that lake.
the plants will find a way
to pollenate themselves.
This summer's bat shortage
hasn't left me with any more
mosquito bites than usual.
But believe me when I tell you
that if the acid rain and bug repellant
hadn't hushed the bullfrog chorus
not even my best friend
could've dragged me from that lake.
7.27.2009
Ode to the East Side
My reference to the misspelling
of her name in the local paper's recent article
went right over her bleached-blonde hair.
Something else was on what was left of her mind.
She told me that the bar was closing
at the end of the summer, that I
might not see her again.
"Keep your hair short
and save the beard
for when you're old like
the rest of the guys who
come in here. You're a hot tamale
right now."
Little did she know that neither the look
she preferred for me or the bar she worked at
would last to the end of July. I was only responsible
for one of those fates-- that's all I can ever claim.
I remember her crying on the porch
bumming a smoke, her lipstick
on the filter and her expensive chest
pressed against mine as she told me
she'd miss tending bar at that dump.
It was hard to watch such a simple
existence come apart so entirely.
It was hard not to get somewhat hard
though I'm not proud of that.
"Do you know anyone who would hire me?"
"For what?"
"As a waitress or bartender."
"I'll ask around."
Two weeks later she tried to lure a slightly more
desperate regular in with what she'd really meant.
I don't believe he declined, despite his eye contact
and vehement insistence that he'd controlled himself.
A good businessman can lie to your face.
The last time I was there someone returned
two cocktails, claiming the vodka was in the cola
and the rum was in the tonic. She replaced them
for free. Then she made the same mistake
and almost ran out crying. I could see
why the place was going under.
"Nice ring," she told some haggard sea wench
who was sucking on a granny cocktail
in the hopes that I'd been drugged.
"Some asshole gave it to me," came the shrew.
"He's only an asshole for giving it to you," I mumbled
into my pint glass, the words drowning in carbonation.
I thumbed through my wallet and bought the clearly lost
young couple at the end of the bar a round before rising
to my feet in an attempt to find the legs that'd
somehow manage to bring me home safely again.
It was how I wanted to remember that dive.
Guess it was a success.
of her name in the local paper's recent article
went right over her bleached-blonde hair.
Something else was on what was left of her mind.
She told me that the bar was closing
at the end of the summer, that I
might not see her again.
"Keep your hair short
and save the beard
for when you're old like
the rest of the guys who
come in here. You're a hot tamale
right now."
Little did she know that neither the look
she preferred for me or the bar she worked at
would last to the end of July. I was only responsible
for one of those fates-- that's all I can ever claim.
I remember her crying on the porch
bumming a smoke, her lipstick
on the filter and her expensive chest
pressed against mine as she told me
she'd miss tending bar at that dump.
It was hard to watch such a simple
existence come apart so entirely.
It was hard not to get somewhat hard
though I'm not proud of that.
"Do you know anyone who would hire me?"
"For what?"
"As a waitress or bartender."
"I'll ask around."
Two weeks later she tried to lure a slightly more
desperate regular in with what she'd really meant.
I don't believe he declined, despite his eye contact
and vehement insistence that he'd controlled himself.
A good businessman can lie to your face.
The last time I was there someone returned
two cocktails, claiming the vodka was in the cola
and the rum was in the tonic. She replaced them
for free. Then she made the same mistake
and almost ran out crying. I could see
why the place was going under.
"Nice ring," she told some haggard sea wench
who was sucking on a granny cocktail
in the hopes that I'd been drugged.
"Some asshole gave it to me," came the shrew.
"He's only an asshole for giving it to you," I mumbled
into my pint glass, the words drowning in carbonation.
I thumbed through my wallet and bought the clearly lost
young couple at the end of the bar a round before rising
to my feet in an attempt to find the legs that'd
somehow manage to bring me home safely again.
It was how I wanted to remember that dive.
Guess it was a success.
White T-shirts as flags.
You're not around, you're out of town.
Who is it inside you now?
You never host, you'll never host
or you'll walk around a graveyard, ghost.
Is it decent of me to pace naked like this
if the blinds are drawn, the windows locked?
Sugar to wash the salt down for dinner.
The brownie mix will stay on the shelf.
There's no one around to grab me
a towel when I forget that there isn't one
in the bathroom mid-shower.
And this is what it was like to fold laundry.
I don't put any of them away
since I deserve to hear them laughing:
"Virginia, Virginia! Can't we go back there?"
But Baby, Baby, Baby
buy me time to load the mags.
Run around the yard if you've got to.
It'll all pay off in spades
if you
take it like a champ.
Did you have to spray my pillow with perfume
before you left?
You did, you did;
and I'm OK now, thanks.
Who is it inside you now?
You never host, you'll never host
or you'll walk around a graveyard, ghost.
Is it decent of me to pace naked like this
if the blinds are drawn, the windows locked?
Sugar to wash the salt down for dinner.
The brownie mix will stay on the shelf.
There's no one around to grab me
a towel when I forget that there isn't one
in the bathroom mid-shower.
And this is what it was like to fold laundry.
I don't put any of them away
since I deserve to hear them laughing:
"Virginia, Virginia! Can't we go back there?"
But Baby, Baby, Baby
buy me time to load the mags.
Run around the yard if you've got to.
It'll all pay off in spades
if you
take it like a champ.
Did you have to spray my pillow with perfume
before you left?
You did, you did;
and I'm OK now, thanks.
7.23.2009
trophy wives, trophy scars
Slowly, how the knife enters:
Acute pain where tip meets
skin latter giving way to
former with a
tearing heard
only at the
cellular level.
An oddly wel-
comed release
as surface pres-
sure and tension give
way forming a vac-
uum around the
blade. The en-
velope widens
to accept a
sharp truth,
deeper
deep-
ening
to the
hilt.
No
rushing red. No hurries here except to the end
of the book. I swore I wouldn't mention paper
this time. This was supposed to be about a
girl but I muttered about a woman instead.
Acute pain where tip meets
skin latter giving way to
former with a
tearing heard
only at the
cellular level.
An oddly wel-
comed release
as surface pres-
sure and tension give
way forming a vac-
uum around the
blade. The en-
velope widens
to accept a
sharp truth,
deeper
deep-
ening
to the
hilt.
No
rushing red. No hurries here except to the end
of the book. I swore I wouldn't mention paper
this time. This was supposed to be about a
girl but I muttered about a woman instead.
7.22.2009
BEC, SPK
Rocco, the fifty-eight-year-old laborer
on the job, had beat me to the deli again.
He was the coffee break boy for his company
despite his age; I was the same
because of mine. His order had already been placed
and he was sitting at a table reading the paper
when I walked through the door.
"Mornin, kid," he mumbled. "Take a number."
"Who are you kidding, Roc? Laborers can't read."
"I just look at the pictures," he said with a grin wise enough
to know to steal a man's thunder by beating him to the punch.
I read the breakfast list to the guy behind the counter
knowing he'd mess up at least one of the items.
Us coffee boys knew the place's reputation for errors
but the food was good and the devil we knew
was better than that other one.
"Have a seat, Mike," Rocco said, pulling out
a chair with his dirty steel-toed boot.
"Gave up trying to sound out the words?"
I wasn't giving up that easily.
He shot me a look that said "If you were my son
I would've just slapped you." Part of me wished he had.
"Lemme see that paper, pops," I said
in my best Brooklynese.
He slid the newspaper across the table towards me.
It was open to the horoscope page.
Rocco folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
Even though it had rained for most of the last month
his face was the color of a ripening tomato, a hint of olive
still present in the tentative red. His curly, gray hair was
matted down from where his hardhat had been; it looked
like something that should've been keeping a dog warm instead.
But those sparkling eyes were probably just as bright
as they were in his high school yearbook photo.
That was where I tried to focus my attention when talking to the man.
"Hey, look at this. It says it's a four-star day for Pisces.
My luck's finally changed." I went on to read my favorable prediction
not caring whether he wanted me to or not.
" 'Something that happened in your past will motivate you to move
forward with one of your old plans. Touch base with the people
who inspired you the first time around. The timing is much better now.'
Not bad, huh?"
"You're just an apprentice, your life is still meaningless," he replied.
I gave him credit for his witty sincerity. It was obvious he'd been meaning
to remind me of that fact for awhile.
"Maybe so, but at least it looks good on paper. What's your sign?"
"It depends on which newspaper it is. Some say I'm a Cancer, others
bump me ahead to a Leo. I pick whichever one sounds better that day."
I found them on the page. Neither of them had as many stars as mine, but
there was no mention of death, doom, or gloom. They didn't sound
as appropriate as mine had when I read them aloud, though maybe
that's because we all make them relative to our own secret lives somehow.
"Sounds like I'm going for Cancer this time, kid."
"That's the first time I've seen someone say that with a smile," I said
pointing to his pack of Reds sitting on the table between us.
"Don't you think that's a bit of a jaded way to assess your future?"
"The future can't hurt anyone as much as the past. I'm not scared."
For a guy who pushed a broom for a living he sure was making sense.
I glanced down at his hands, gnarled and scarred
like the roots of a tree clinging to the edge
of a too-fast river, the current having its way with the flesh.
We both knew which horoscope was truly his.
Our eyes drifted to the five-day forecast
on the television that hung in the corner of the deli
in an admirable attempt at acting aloof.
I decided to let him have his lie;
God knows there are a good twenty people
who let me live mine every day.
Maybe twenty-one, though I'm still not certain.
"Rocco, you're up," the sandwich man shouted.
"I win again, kid," Roc said as he rose to his feet
to pay for his coffee order. "Ya gotta get up pretty early
in the morning to get the best o' this old man."
I decided to let him have that one, too.
on the job, had beat me to the deli again.
He was the coffee break boy for his company
despite his age; I was the same
because of mine. His order had already been placed
and he was sitting at a table reading the paper
when I walked through the door.
"Mornin, kid," he mumbled. "Take a number."
"Who are you kidding, Roc? Laborers can't read."
"I just look at the pictures," he said with a grin wise enough
to know to steal a man's thunder by beating him to the punch.
I read the breakfast list to the guy behind the counter
knowing he'd mess up at least one of the items.
Us coffee boys knew the place's reputation for errors
but the food was good and the devil we knew
was better than that other one.
"Have a seat, Mike," Rocco said, pulling out
a chair with his dirty steel-toed boot.
"Gave up trying to sound out the words?"
I wasn't giving up that easily.
He shot me a look that said "If you were my son
I would've just slapped you." Part of me wished he had.
"Lemme see that paper, pops," I said
in my best Brooklynese.
He slid the newspaper across the table towards me.
It was open to the horoscope page.
Rocco folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
Even though it had rained for most of the last month
his face was the color of a ripening tomato, a hint of olive
still present in the tentative red. His curly, gray hair was
matted down from where his hardhat had been; it looked
like something that should've been keeping a dog warm instead.
But those sparkling eyes were probably just as bright
as they were in his high school yearbook photo.
That was where I tried to focus my attention when talking to the man.
"Hey, look at this. It says it's a four-star day for Pisces.
My luck's finally changed." I went on to read my favorable prediction
not caring whether he wanted me to or not.
" 'Something that happened in your past will motivate you to move
forward with one of your old plans. Touch base with the people
who inspired you the first time around. The timing is much better now.'
Not bad, huh?"
"You're just an apprentice, your life is still meaningless," he replied.
I gave him credit for his witty sincerity. It was obvious he'd been meaning
to remind me of that fact for awhile.
"Maybe so, but at least it looks good on paper. What's your sign?"
"It depends on which newspaper it is. Some say I'm a Cancer, others
bump me ahead to a Leo. I pick whichever one sounds better that day."
I found them on the page. Neither of them had as many stars as mine, but
there was no mention of death, doom, or gloom. They didn't sound
as appropriate as mine had when I read them aloud, though maybe
that's because we all make them relative to our own secret lives somehow.
"Sounds like I'm going for Cancer this time, kid."
"That's the first time I've seen someone say that with a smile," I said
pointing to his pack of Reds sitting on the table between us.
"Don't you think that's a bit of a jaded way to assess your future?"
"The future can't hurt anyone as much as the past. I'm not scared."
For a guy who pushed a broom for a living he sure was making sense.
I glanced down at his hands, gnarled and scarred
like the roots of a tree clinging to the edge
of a too-fast river, the current having its way with the flesh.
We both knew which horoscope was truly his.
Our eyes drifted to the five-day forecast
on the television that hung in the corner of the deli
in an admirable attempt at acting aloof.
I decided to let him have his lie;
God knows there are a good twenty people
who let me live mine every day.
Maybe twenty-one, though I'm still not certain.
"Rocco, you're up," the sandwich man shouted.
"I win again, kid," Roc said as he rose to his feet
to pay for his coffee order. "Ya gotta get up pretty early
in the morning to get the best o' this old man."
I decided to let him have that one, too.
7.21.2009
Skipping Browning, for now.
It seemed a fitting time to finish
the anthology of poems that had been haunting
my night stand and lunch breaks for months.
Towards the end it finally became
what it should've been all along
but then again I'm biased
and no fan of romanticism.
People made fun of me for never
taking the clear dust jacket off;
not "people", but a person.
I've shrugged off bigger criticisms
mostly from reflections.
As if in search of one last gem
I flipped back through its contents tonight
making sure to check the first few pages
for some possible dedication in a script too perfect
to be recent. No such luck, though I found its source.
The library rental card secured
inside the front cover revealed
that it had only been borrowed nine times
in its fifteen-year term at
the Julia L. Butterfield Memorial Library in Cold Spring.
It seemed a waste, though for a reason different
from the one that led some liberal librarian
to donate it to the thrift store where I bought it
for a quarter: this was another kind of shame.
Nothing worse than waste, be it of space
or an idea. There was one particularly poignant ditty
at the end about a woman who kept the pocket-dulled
ring from her failed marriage on her keychain as a reminder
of what love is not--
it should have been the last poem
of that 524-page abortion.
the anthology of poems that had been haunting
my night stand and lunch breaks for months.
Towards the end it finally became
what it should've been all along
but then again I'm biased
and no fan of romanticism.
People made fun of me for never
taking the clear dust jacket off;
not "people", but a person.
I've shrugged off bigger criticisms
mostly from reflections.
As if in search of one last gem
I flipped back through its contents tonight
making sure to check the first few pages
for some possible dedication in a script too perfect
to be recent. No such luck, though I found its source.
The library rental card secured
inside the front cover revealed
that it had only been borrowed nine times
in its fifteen-year term at
the Julia L. Butterfield Memorial Library in Cold Spring.
It seemed a waste, though for a reason different
from the one that led some liberal librarian
to donate it to the thrift store where I bought it
for a quarter: this was another kind of shame.
Nothing worse than waste, be it of space
or an idea. There was one particularly poignant ditty
at the end about a woman who kept the pocket-dulled
ring from her failed marriage on her keychain as a reminder
of what love is not--
it should have been the last poem
of that 524-page abortion.
7.19.2009
Mounting Saint Mary.
A marble would've rolled across the room
faster than one of the pinewood derby cars
my father and I made during my cub scout days
had I dropped one on the floor of
that Midtown apartment.
The paint was too thick, made the doors stick
and filled in the grooves in the trim.
My father could've used some
for the outside of his peeling house
though the yard looks great as always.
All I wanted to come home to was my air conditioning
and some comfort food, but my roommate made goat
for dinner.
Fucking goat.
Canned soup isn't going to cut it
and the truck's too tired to go back out
so I'm going to bed hungry:
hungry, but well-loved.
It's more than I deserve.
I know I'm no knight, girls
but I seem to remember a few good ones
we spent together.
Carry them in your back pocket
right next to your knife.
faster than one of the pinewood derby cars
my father and I made during my cub scout days
had I dropped one on the floor of
that Midtown apartment.
The paint was too thick, made the doors stick
and filled in the grooves in the trim.
My father could've used some
for the outside of his peeling house
though the yard looks great as always.
All I wanted to come home to was my air conditioning
and some comfort food, but my roommate made goat
for dinner.
Fucking goat.
Canned soup isn't going to cut it
and the truck's too tired to go back out
so I'm going to bed hungry:
hungry, but well-loved.
It's more than I deserve.
I know I'm no knight, girls
but I seem to remember a few good ones
we spent together.
Carry them in your back pocket
right next to your knife.
The Sins of Your Gods
The bar was supposed to be
closing in ten minutes; the black-shirted kid
behind the tap had flashed the lights
three times to designate Last Call
but none of the seasoned old men
sitting in the smoke-filled room seemed
to notice. It'd take more than some
amateur mixologist to drag them out
of a ginmill before they were ready to go.
I approached Ernie first.
He was standing, just as he wrote
with a short, melting tumbler next to
his right hand. A sweater choked his neck
and bull chest as he sweat into his moustache.
He looked more like a Rizzo than a Hemingway somehow.
"You got such a bad rap unfairly," my subconscious
told him. "They called you sexist, but your females
were always stronger if you really read the lines.
The sun only rose when they told it to, and arms were
dropped when they declared armistice. It doesn't get
much closer to the truth than that."
"They still didn't get it," he sighed to someone else.
"It was enough to drive a man to his shotgun."
"A man should never keep it far away," he replied
as his eyes drifted off to his happy hunting grounds.
I was thankful that his eyes and the rest of his head
were still intact for my dream. It would've been
traumatic otherwise.
"But what about the ones that got away?"
It was a feeble attempt, but I had to make it;
I knew he was already gone.
Bukowski must've overheard me from his corner
of the bar. He shot a thumb in my direction
and whispered something to the spineless bartender
who had given up on kicking anyone out.
I picked up my cocktail with the intention
of heading over to see Hank and clarify
what I meant so I wouldn't be crushed
by the thought of a hero laughing at my naivety.
The bartender must've responded with something
that the old man didn't much appreciate. Hank
knocked his wine glass to the floor and swore
at the terrified young man behind the oak.
"Try saying that after you've been weened
from your mother's tit, you ignorant little shit.
Now hand me that bottle of scotch."
I decided not to go see Hank. Some images are best
preserved by never being seen up close.
"I'll tell you about the ones who got away,"
came a soft voice from behind me. Sherwood Anderson
tapped me on the shoulder and handed me his card.
I slipped it into my back pocket and had a seat next
to him. His business suit and oil-slicked hair
seemed far too classy for such a dive. It made sense
that he'd rather be associated with these men
than the ones he had been forced to interact with
in the real world, though. He made the sign
of a throat being slashed to the bartender
to suggest cutting Bukowski off. We both
tried not to laugh at the attempted manslaughter joke.
"Do you know what the real shame is, boy?"
he asked in his usually hidden Ohio accent.
"Not the skirts that escaped, but the stories."
I thought back to how he died. Splinters from
a toothpick that garnished a martini consumed
during a going away party had been caught
in his throat and caused an infection
during his cruise to South America.
He died in some humid hospital in a country
that didn't understand the langauge he loved.
Hank succumbed to cancer; Hem offed himself--
they both saw it coming, had time
to fire those last shots from the hip.
Sherwood still had some aces up his sleeve
when he was called home. His notebooks were
probably found by relatives and auctioned off
to the highest bidder, the roots of the random
words and phrases tragically misunderstood.
He was heartbroken by his inability
to get it all down in time-- a writer's greatest fear.
I could see that the handkerchief in
the breast pocket of his blazer had been used
recently, probably in a toilet stall
where no one would see a gentleman weeping.
I didn't know how to console the poor man
so I didn't bother trying. A good writer
knows what not to say and when not to say it.
I patted him on the shoulder and pointed
towards our belligerent friend who was now
passed out on his placemat, his forearms his pillow
the bottle of scotch in the crotch of his elbow.
The bartender looked relieved
as he scrubbed a pint glass.
"And to think that man outlived all of us,"
Sherwood said with a grin as the color
returned to his face.
"He couldn't have done it without you two,"
I replied, counting my singles and leaving
a generous tip under my coaster.
It was time for me to leave.
I had a new story to wake to.
closing in ten minutes; the black-shirted kid
behind the tap had flashed the lights
three times to designate Last Call
but none of the seasoned old men
sitting in the smoke-filled room seemed
to notice. It'd take more than some
amateur mixologist to drag them out
of a ginmill before they were ready to go.
I approached Ernie first.
He was standing, just as he wrote
with a short, melting tumbler next to
his right hand. A sweater choked his neck
and bull chest as he sweat into his moustache.
He looked more like a Rizzo than a Hemingway somehow.
"You got such a bad rap unfairly," my subconscious
told him. "They called you sexist, but your females
were always stronger if you really read the lines.
The sun only rose when they told it to, and arms were
dropped when they declared armistice. It doesn't get
much closer to the truth than that."
"They still didn't get it," he sighed to someone else.
"It was enough to drive a man to his shotgun."
"A man should never keep it far away," he replied
as his eyes drifted off to his happy hunting grounds.
I was thankful that his eyes and the rest of his head
were still intact for my dream. It would've been
traumatic otherwise.
"But what about the ones that got away?"
It was a feeble attempt, but I had to make it;
I knew he was already gone.
Bukowski must've overheard me from his corner
of the bar. He shot a thumb in my direction
and whispered something to the spineless bartender
who had given up on kicking anyone out.
I picked up my cocktail with the intention
of heading over to see Hank and clarify
what I meant so I wouldn't be crushed
by the thought of a hero laughing at my naivety.
The bartender must've responded with something
that the old man didn't much appreciate. Hank
knocked his wine glass to the floor and swore
at the terrified young man behind the oak.
"Try saying that after you've been weened
from your mother's tit, you ignorant little shit.
Now hand me that bottle of scotch."
I decided not to go see Hank. Some images are best
preserved by never being seen up close.
"I'll tell you about the ones who got away,"
came a soft voice from behind me. Sherwood Anderson
tapped me on the shoulder and handed me his card.
I slipped it into my back pocket and had a seat next
to him. His business suit and oil-slicked hair
seemed far too classy for such a dive. It made sense
that he'd rather be associated with these men
than the ones he had been forced to interact with
in the real world, though. He made the sign
of a throat being slashed to the bartender
to suggest cutting Bukowski off. We both
tried not to laugh at the attempted manslaughter joke.
"Do you know what the real shame is, boy?"
he asked in his usually hidden Ohio accent.
"Not the skirts that escaped, but the stories."
I thought back to how he died. Splinters from
a toothpick that garnished a martini consumed
during a going away party had been caught
in his throat and caused an infection
during his cruise to South America.
He died in some humid hospital in a country
that didn't understand the langauge he loved.
Hank succumbed to cancer; Hem offed himself--
they both saw it coming, had time
to fire those last shots from the hip.
Sherwood still had some aces up his sleeve
when he was called home. His notebooks were
probably found by relatives and auctioned off
to the highest bidder, the roots of the random
words and phrases tragically misunderstood.
He was heartbroken by his inability
to get it all down in time-- a writer's greatest fear.
I could see that the handkerchief in
the breast pocket of his blazer had been used
recently, probably in a toilet stall
where no one would see a gentleman weeping.
I didn't know how to console the poor man
so I didn't bother trying. A good writer
knows what not to say and when not to say it.
I patted him on the shoulder and pointed
towards our belligerent friend who was now
passed out on his placemat, his forearms his pillow
the bottle of scotch in the crotch of his elbow.
The bartender looked relieved
as he scrubbed a pint glass.
"And to think that man outlived all of us,"
Sherwood said with a grin as the color
returned to his face.
"He couldn't have done it without you two,"
I replied, counting my singles and leaving
a generous tip under my coaster.
It was time for me to leave.
I had a new story to wake to.
7.15.2009
Great Expectations
I'm digging through a stack of CDs now, but most of the ones up here in my room are useless: the classics are scratched to the point of ruin, and the unlabeled ones are demos from defunct teenage bands I used to play with onstage. It'll be a silent romp with the buttons tonight, I'm not in the mood to play YouTube DJ. Besides, nothing I could find up here in my deceivingly safe hermitage would top the chorus of that last song I heard on my ride home. Those lines about first wives and everybody leaving are just too damn catchy. They made me run that last red light between my room and me tonight. And if I'd had someone in the passenger seat or a pack of smokes to console me I would've sped right past my driveway and went for the ride that I would've taken had I been seven years younger.
I used to do this with a beer can statue and an overflowing ashtray next to my mouse pad. Now I'm lucky if there's a squirrel on the tree outside my window or my ancient neighbor's out back sucking on a cigarette that should've killed him years ago. As long as this cursor's still blinking there's still hope. It was no overstatement when I said I need these people like holes in my head, though maybe that'd relieve some of the pressure. The phone keeps ringing, but it's not who I want it to be. Not tonight.
Sometimes my mother doesn't understand the power of words. She's a classic example of why one should respond instead of reacting, should take a few moments to let that filter between brain and mouth kick in. I know she usually doesn't mean to be harmful with her statements; at the same time, however, she should know her son well enough by now to realize that he's an over-sensitive emotional packrat who takes words, both written and spoken, very seriously. Tonight, Ma, you failed.
We were watching TV over a meal she'd made to lure me to the house. The fried flounder with onions always went so well with white rice, peas, and carrots. It was a combination I'd enjoyed since childhood, a tried and true time machine that takes me to a better place when there was still the semblance of any kind of family life. A segment about infant memory came on as we chewed our food at the table. She reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. The reporter said that newborn babies start memorizing events in the womb, simple things like the theme song of the mother's favorite soap opera. My mom smiled and looked over at me; "Stevie's Tricycle" she said. That's the title of a book she used to read to me through her stomach and after I was born. It's been packed away in a cardboard box somewhere for years, but if you opened it to any page and gave me the first few words I bet I could finish the sentence. And the colors, the lush greens of the bushes in the background and the red and yellow fruit, presumably peaches, hanging from the trees in little Stevie's yard. I remember those, too. The tricycle was fire engine red and had long streamers dangling from the ends of the white handebars. I wish I remembered more things like those streamers.
"Maybe you subconsciously remember what he did," she said after swallowing her bite of rice. I knew which "he" she meant, the only one it could possible be. I pretended not to hear her and hoped she'd change the subject. She didn't.
"I was seven months pregnant with you when he..." but I cut her off before she could finish.
"Please, Mom. Not to be rude, but I don't want to know."
I have enough reasons to hate the man, to fear him, to love him senselessly despite his abandonment, to pray I don't complete the cycle. Some pieces of the puzzle should remain brown-side-up for the sake of what's left of my own well-being. My mother didn't seem to agree. She wanted to fill me in on some abusive act that he perpetrated while I was still defenseless, not that I'm much less vulnerable now. Shit, I haven't seen the guy in almost three years and I'm still haunted by his Roman nose and blank shark's eyes.
The rest of the meal was silent. Mom acted as if I'd insulted her by not wanting to hear the tale that I knew would only break my heart further. Part of her was hoping I'd complete her sentences like I would've if she started reading "Stevie's Tricycle" so she wouldn't feel so alone in that memory. Thankfully, it's not one we share. I cleared my plate and put it in the sink making sure to express my gratitude for dinner. She nodded her head flippantly and took a sip of the white wine she was drinking from a dixie cup. The kitchen didn't feel as warm as the womb.
My stepfather was well into the vodka by the time I went back to the living room to talk to him about work. He repeated himself within the same sentences and sucked at the tumbler of ice like it contained some unknown cure. It seemed like a good time to make my escape since the conversation was going nowhere. I went upstairs to bid my grandmother farewell. She told me in her native tongue that she prays for me every day and that God is with me wherever I go. I rubbed her back and thanked her even though I wasn't so convinced as to God's intentions for keeping tabs on me. I feel more like the guinea pig or the jester than the beloved son most times. And that's just what my name's supposed to mean, Michael David: "He who is like the Lord; Beloved." It's laughable, really.
That laundry must've been crucial to the next day's outfit. My mother was folding it with the fervor of a desperate stockholder as the line graph plummets. "Goodnight, Mom," I said as I gave her a hug. She barely wrapped her arms around me, didn't look me in the eyes. "What's wrong?"
"I'm tired, Mike," she lied. She'd been tired all her life, partially from dealing with people like my estranged father and the drunk downstairs. It had never been an excuse to half-ass her only child.
I left her to her folding, grabbed the bag of leftovers she'd packed, and headed for my truck, fumbling for my keys in the pocket of my jeans. When the stereo came on I was glad to hear that blue-collar voice belting the woes of a lost generation. And when that song I mentioned earlier came on I hit twenty over the speed limit like that dreaded "he" was following me. Sometimes I wish that was the case. I'll never let my hostage get away.
I used to do this with a beer can statue and an overflowing ashtray next to my mouse pad. Now I'm lucky if there's a squirrel on the tree outside my window or my ancient neighbor's out back sucking on a cigarette that should've killed him years ago. As long as this cursor's still blinking there's still hope. It was no overstatement when I said I need these people like holes in my head, though maybe that'd relieve some of the pressure. The phone keeps ringing, but it's not who I want it to be. Not tonight.
Sometimes my mother doesn't understand the power of words. She's a classic example of why one should respond instead of reacting, should take a few moments to let that filter between brain and mouth kick in. I know she usually doesn't mean to be harmful with her statements; at the same time, however, she should know her son well enough by now to realize that he's an over-sensitive emotional packrat who takes words, both written and spoken, very seriously. Tonight, Ma, you failed.
We were watching TV over a meal she'd made to lure me to the house. The fried flounder with onions always went so well with white rice, peas, and carrots. It was a combination I'd enjoyed since childhood, a tried and true time machine that takes me to a better place when there was still the semblance of any kind of family life. A segment about infant memory came on as we chewed our food at the table. She reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. The reporter said that newborn babies start memorizing events in the womb, simple things like the theme song of the mother's favorite soap opera. My mom smiled and looked over at me; "Stevie's Tricycle" she said. That's the title of a book she used to read to me through her stomach and after I was born. It's been packed away in a cardboard box somewhere for years, but if you opened it to any page and gave me the first few words I bet I could finish the sentence. And the colors, the lush greens of the bushes in the background and the red and yellow fruit, presumably peaches, hanging from the trees in little Stevie's yard. I remember those, too. The tricycle was fire engine red and had long streamers dangling from the ends of the white handebars. I wish I remembered more things like those streamers.
"Maybe you subconsciously remember what he did," she said after swallowing her bite of rice. I knew which "he" she meant, the only one it could possible be. I pretended not to hear her and hoped she'd change the subject. She didn't.
"I was seven months pregnant with you when he..." but I cut her off before she could finish.
"Please, Mom. Not to be rude, but I don't want to know."
I have enough reasons to hate the man, to fear him, to love him senselessly despite his abandonment, to pray I don't complete the cycle. Some pieces of the puzzle should remain brown-side-up for the sake of what's left of my own well-being. My mother didn't seem to agree. She wanted to fill me in on some abusive act that he perpetrated while I was still defenseless, not that I'm much less vulnerable now. Shit, I haven't seen the guy in almost three years and I'm still haunted by his Roman nose and blank shark's eyes.
The rest of the meal was silent. Mom acted as if I'd insulted her by not wanting to hear the tale that I knew would only break my heart further. Part of her was hoping I'd complete her sentences like I would've if she started reading "Stevie's Tricycle" so she wouldn't feel so alone in that memory. Thankfully, it's not one we share. I cleared my plate and put it in the sink making sure to express my gratitude for dinner. She nodded her head flippantly and took a sip of the white wine she was drinking from a dixie cup. The kitchen didn't feel as warm as the womb.
My stepfather was well into the vodka by the time I went back to the living room to talk to him about work. He repeated himself within the same sentences and sucked at the tumbler of ice like it contained some unknown cure. It seemed like a good time to make my escape since the conversation was going nowhere. I went upstairs to bid my grandmother farewell. She told me in her native tongue that she prays for me every day and that God is with me wherever I go. I rubbed her back and thanked her even though I wasn't so convinced as to God's intentions for keeping tabs on me. I feel more like the guinea pig or the jester than the beloved son most times. And that's just what my name's supposed to mean, Michael David: "He who is like the Lord; Beloved." It's laughable, really.
That laundry must've been crucial to the next day's outfit. My mother was folding it with the fervor of a desperate stockholder as the line graph plummets. "Goodnight, Mom," I said as I gave her a hug. She barely wrapped her arms around me, didn't look me in the eyes. "What's wrong?"
"I'm tired, Mike," she lied. She'd been tired all her life, partially from dealing with people like my estranged father and the drunk downstairs. It had never been an excuse to half-ass her only child.
I left her to her folding, grabbed the bag of leftovers she'd packed, and headed for my truck, fumbling for my keys in the pocket of my jeans. When the stereo came on I was glad to hear that blue-collar voice belting the woes of a lost generation. And when that song I mentioned earlier came on I hit twenty over the speed limit like that dreaded "he" was following me. Sometimes I wish that was the case. I'll never let my hostage get away.
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