It's been while, for all concerned, when it comes to my writing endeavors. Luckily there's no one waiting with bated breath, or they'd have long since expired. However, having held my own in moments lately I thought it time to share some poetry.
I'm sure what number I'm at, but I'll be adding this to my collection of sonnets:
A Long Weekend
The days have not stretched on, like this, for years.
They do now due to this new sensation
This stretching of my breath in blood and tears
That aims to break this incarceration,
This pink prison that keeps me far from you.
My capillaries longing construction:
Highways, byways, slicing obstacles through,
Time and space bent to my own compulsion
Of wanting to find my rest in your arms
But the brain signals other needs and sends
Thoughts and dreams to slow these new courses’ charms
And my breath is spent when my typing ends.
My heart beats as I lay alone again
With an odd jackhammer pulsing; “When, when…”
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Have Me For Dinner
An experimental writing piece consisting solely of dialogue. Enjoy!
Have Me For Dinner
-Happy Thanksgiving!
-Welcome, come in, so glad you could join us.
-I guess that makes everyone.
-Smells delicious.
-It’s quite a spread.
-Sure is.
-Looks like you’ve outdone yourselves again.
-I wouldn’t have believed it could be done.
-Oh, stop.
-No really, there’s something for everyone here.
-And then some.
-Let’s gather around, please.
-Everyone!
-Stop it you two!
-We’re going to say grace.
-Would you do the honors?
-Certainly. We are gathered here as friends and family to share in one another’s thanksgiving for the great things that God has provided us with, for our friends and families our health and the feast prepared by loving hands. May God’s grace comfort those less fortunate. Amen.
-Amen.
-Dig in!
-There’s turkey, venison, that there is a rabbit stew.
-Rabbit?
-Ewww….
-Hush.
-There’s plenty of potatoes, scalloped, mashed, semi-mashed and baked.
-We brought a salad.
-Dressings are in the fridge.
-There’s also a roast just about done from the bull we slaughtered this fall.
-What is this dish?
-That?
-Yeah, it smells great.
-You know, I’m not too sure what that is.
-Let me try a piece.
-Not that. That’s tongue.
-Cow tongue?
-No, it’s a little sweeter than cow. The first time I had it, it was glazed with wine, and to be honest it kind of took me by surprise. I got used to it eventually though, then I just lost the taste for it. You’re welcome to try it. I’ve had enough. It’s a little old though. It’s probably too tough. I think you should just leave it be.
-What’s that you have?
-This?
-It looks pretty good.
-It’s heart. It’s kind of gamy.
-Heart?
-Of a deer?
-Something like that.
-I’ve never seen a heart prepared like that before.
-It’s not an easy procedure.
-How was it done.
-To be honest, it takes years to get it just so.
-Years?
-Yep. You need to soften it up for a while first, at least a few months, any less and you may not get full saturation. You’ll know it’s ready when it feels like putty in your hands. Anyhow, that’s when the real care begins. You need to first spend a few weeks molding it into something manageable.
-I bet that’s time consuming.
-Among other things. Anyway, after you’ve shaped it into the desired mold you need to tenderize it a little.
-Tenderize?
-Yeah, you know, beat it up a little. You want it to maintain freshness.
-I see, otherwise it might get stale.
-It should be bleeding a little by the time you’re done. That’s how you know it’s ready.
-Ready for what?
-The next step.
-Which is?
-You need to play with it.
-Play with it?
-Play with it…
-Yep. Play with it.
-No, no, you’re never supposed to play with your food.
-That’s true, but it isn’t food yet - it’s still in preparation.
-Oh, I see.
-I guess that makes sense.
-This can be a very tedious process. Some hearts take years of toying around before you can stop.
-How will you know you can stop?
-That’s the easy part. They start to blow up. Like a balloon. And you want to stop just shy of bursting it.
-Oh.
-Now some hearts take longer than others. This one took five years to go through all of the required stages.
-There’s more?
-Oh, sure. Once the heart balloons it’s almost ready to be harvested. You have to make sure everything else is in order at this time because there’s little to no shelf life once it’s picked before it goes bad. So now you have to handle it very gently because it’s almost ready to pop on it’s own and it has to be done all at once. If it’s properly prepared up to now you should be able to stab it with a sharp knife without popping it.
-How is that?
-That’s the pre-saturation.
-Exactly. The knife goes in and you begin the delicate task of carving it up. Where you go from here is really up to your imagination.
-How was this one done?
-This was a gem. It soaked up so much that it was like a one of those thick gushing sponges. I cut this one once all the way through, but because I was preparing it for an occasion I wanted to do something different. So once I took both halves, I hollowed one out, and stuffed it with the other half and ground the innards of the first to sprinkle over the whole as a sort of garnish.
-You mean the half.
-That’s clever, I didn’t even notice that. Yes, I guess I do. Anyhow, I ground the one half by hand, just by turning it over and over and bit by bit it flaked away, and then added a lot of seasoning to it in order to try and draw out and complement all the natural flavorings.
-It’s truly divine.
-I’m so glad you like it. For my part, I prefer that dish there.
-Oh and what is this?
-You’ll have to trust me on this one, because I know you wouldn’t touch it if I told you.
-It must be something exotic.
-It’s definitely an import.
-I love the sauce.
-It’s really more of a glaze.
-Now what’s the difference?
-A glaze is baked on.
-I see. So what’s the secret?
-I guess I can tell you that I left the skin on.
-Is that why it looks so tanned?
-Precisely not!
-Oh! You got me.
-It’s very lean.
-Oh yes, this dish is. And sun dried to some degree.
-No kidding? I usually don’t go for sun dried.
-Nor I, but this was just too perfect to pass up.
-I agree. Oh, no wait, I got a hair.
-Oh my, how embarrassing!
-Now don’t fret. I see no sense in making a scene. It happens to the best of us.
-I was sure I got them all.
-These little ones are hard to spot.
-Now what about these little kabobs?
-To be honest, they are probably the fattiest finger foods you could find.
-Mmmmm. Magnificent. Here, hon. Try this.
-Wow, these are good. They’re so…
-Yes, what’s the word?
-Soft.
-Exactly! How’d you do that?
-Easy enough, I just left them alone. I let them ripen on the vine so to speak.
-Well it worked.
-Not really.
-What was that?
-Nothing, nothing. I’m glad you enjoy them, I never cared much for them myself, but they’re good with kids.
-Are they beer battered?
-The alcohol cooks out.
-You’ll have to get the recipe.
-I’m working on it love. By the way, where’s that young man who used to come around so often, what was his name?
-I’m sure I don’t know who you mean.
-Sure you do, tall fellow, quite handsome, you two were the best of friends.
-It’s not ringing a bell, but have you met my fiancé?
Have Me For Dinner
-Happy Thanksgiving!
-Welcome, come in, so glad you could join us.
-I guess that makes everyone.
-Smells delicious.
-It’s quite a spread.
-Sure is.
-Looks like you’ve outdone yourselves again.
-I wouldn’t have believed it could be done.
-Oh, stop.
-No really, there’s something for everyone here.
-And then some.
-Let’s gather around, please.
-Everyone!
-Stop it you two!
-We’re going to say grace.
-Would you do the honors?
-Certainly. We are gathered here as friends and family to share in one another’s thanksgiving for the great things that God has provided us with, for our friends and families our health and the feast prepared by loving hands. May God’s grace comfort those less fortunate. Amen.
-Amen.
-Dig in!
-There’s turkey, venison, that there is a rabbit stew.
-Rabbit?
-Ewww….
-Hush.
-There’s plenty of potatoes, scalloped, mashed, semi-mashed and baked.
-We brought a salad.
-Dressings are in the fridge.
-There’s also a roast just about done from the bull we slaughtered this fall.
-What is this dish?
-That?
-Yeah, it smells great.
-You know, I’m not too sure what that is.
-Let me try a piece.
-Not that. That’s tongue.
-Cow tongue?
-No, it’s a little sweeter than cow. The first time I had it, it was glazed with wine, and to be honest it kind of took me by surprise. I got used to it eventually though, then I just lost the taste for it. You’re welcome to try it. I’ve had enough. It’s a little old though. It’s probably too tough. I think you should just leave it be.
-What’s that you have?
-This?
-It looks pretty good.
-It’s heart. It’s kind of gamy.
-Heart?
-Of a deer?
-Something like that.
-I’ve never seen a heart prepared like that before.
-It’s not an easy procedure.
-How was it done.
-To be honest, it takes years to get it just so.
-Years?
-Yep. You need to soften it up for a while first, at least a few months, any less and you may not get full saturation. You’ll know it’s ready when it feels like putty in your hands. Anyhow, that’s when the real care begins. You need to first spend a few weeks molding it into something manageable.
-I bet that’s time consuming.
-Among other things. Anyway, after you’ve shaped it into the desired mold you need to tenderize it a little.
-Tenderize?
-Yeah, you know, beat it up a little. You want it to maintain freshness.
-I see, otherwise it might get stale.
-It should be bleeding a little by the time you’re done. That’s how you know it’s ready.
-Ready for what?
-The next step.
-Which is?
-You need to play with it.
-Play with it?
-Play with it…
-Yep. Play with it.
-No, no, you’re never supposed to play with your food.
-That’s true, but it isn’t food yet - it’s still in preparation.
-Oh, I see.
-I guess that makes sense.
-This can be a very tedious process. Some hearts take years of toying around before you can stop.
-How will you know you can stop?
-That’s the easy part. They start to blow up. Like a balloon. And you want to stop just shy of bursting it.
-Oh.
-Now some hearts take longer than others. This one took five years to go through all of the required stages.
-There’s more?
-Oh, sure. Once the heart balloons it’s almost ready to be harvested. You have to make sure everything else is in order at this time because there’s little to no shelf life once it’s picked before it goes bad. So now you have to handle it very gently because it’s almost ready to pop on it’s own and it has to be done all at once. If it’s properly prepared up to now you should be able to stab it with a sharp knife without popping it.
-How is that?
-That’s the pre-saturation.
-Exactly. The knife goes in and you begin the delicate task of carving it up. Where you go from here is really up to your imagination.
-How was this one done?
-This was a gem. It soaked up so much that it was like a one of those thick gushing sponges. I cut this one once all the way through, but because I was preparing it for an occasion I wanted to do something different. So once I took both halves, I hollowed one out, and stuffed it with the other half and ground the innards of the first to sprinkle over the whole as a sort of garnish.
-You mean the half.
-That’s clever, I didn’t even notice that. Yes, I guess I do. Anyhow, I ground the one half by hand, just by turning it over and over and bit by bit it flaked away, and then added a lot of seasoning to it in order to try and draw out and complement all the natural flavorings.
-It’s truly divine.
-I’m so glad you like it. For my part, I prefer that dish there.
-Oh and what is this?
-You’ll have to trust me on this one, because I know you wouldn’t touch it if I told you.
-It must be something exotic.
-It’s definitely an import.
-I love the sauce.
-It’s really more of a glaze.
-Now what’s the difference?
-A glaze is baked on.
-I see. So what’s the secret?
-I guess I can tell you that I left the skin on.
-Is that why it looks so tanned?
-Precisely not!
-Oh! You got me.
-It’s very lean.
-Oh yes, this dish is. And sun dried to some degree.
-No kidding? I usually don’t go for sun dried.
-Nor I, but this was just too perfect to pass up.
-I agree. Oh, no wait, I got a hair.
-Oh my, how embarrassing!
-Now don’t fret. I see no sense in making a scene. It happens to the best of us.
-I was sure I got them all.
-These little ones are hard to spot.
-Now what about these little kabobs?
-To be honest, they are probably the fattiest finger foods you could find.
-Mmmmm. Magnificent. Here, hon. Try this.
-Wow, these are good. They’re so…
-Yes, what’s the word?
-Soft.
-Exactly! How’d you do that?
-Easy enough, I just left them alone. I let them ripen on the vine so to speak.
-Well it worked.
-Not really.
-What was that?
-Nothing, nothing. I’m glad you enjoy them, I never cared much for them myself, but they’re good with kids.
-Are they beer battered?
-The alcohol cooks out.
-You’ll have to get the recipe.
-I’m working on it love. By the way, where’s that young man who used to come around so often, what was his name?
-I’m sure I don’t know who you mean.
-Sure you do, tall fellow, quite handsome, you two were the best of friends.
-It’s not ringing a bell, but have you met my fiancé?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Five Days in the Life of a Samaritan
A Short Story
For an old man, a young boy, and a good friend.
Five Days in the Life of a Samaritan
I'm not feeling wholly well today. For some that's normal, but it's a departure for me. I walk up the subway stairs on my way to work and walk past the cripple on the landing which means I'm almost to the street. It seems to sap me today, the brief climb up the stairs, and there's still the hill to conquer to get to work; I probably should have skipped the gym. I'm wondering if it was last night's meal, or the three mocha's I had through the course of yesterday instead of viable sustenance that I'm paying for now.
By the end of the day the initial feeling of being somewhat sub-par vanishes in the wake of work. I walk up the building's stairs, through the halls of closed doors, and into the sweltering humidity of the 28-degree centigrade apartment that I'm calling home for the year, vaguely wondering if I'll be able to continue this plan of trying to live a cost-effective lifestyle until I've overcome the North American debt-culture of living that has been my mainstay the majority of my life. I take another cold shower, the second today, my make-shift air-conditioning alternative, sit down at the computer and play a couple hours of poker while downloading a new movie hoping the pirate kept his (or her) camera still, well-framed, and that the theater stays quiet in rapt appreciation of all the hard work and expense that went into the production of the latest Hollywood blockbuster.
I check my email and discover that I'm well on the way to accomplishing my goal of getting out of debt, for the second (and I swear the last) time in my life. I was debt-free before I went to Africa, albeit barely, and still far from living the requisite lifestyle to stay that way, but that four-month milestone proved life-changing in more ways than one. While it succeeding it plunging me back into substantial credit-card debt, primarily due to poor planning on my part, it simultaneously led me to the realization that the privilege to owe, that is the staple of the North American economy, is a wide open door that we're beckoned into by the lure of unnecessary creature comforts before it slams shut with the metallic (silver, gold, platinum if you're lucky) clang of a prison cell.
My alarm wakes me up and I'm feeling better today. I have my cereal for breakfast and head to the gym. I work out for the better part of an hour before heading back to get ready for work. There is a different beggar on the stairs leading from the the subway today, this man bowing, motionlessly prostrate, with a cardboard box in front of him littered with a few coins and I'm vaguely thankful that I don't have any money on me. He's still there in the same position six hours later after a shortened work day and I'm reminded that I need to go to the bank in order to pick up some groceries, just the staples: a couple of cartons of milk, some yogurt, and another box of cereal for the week. Maybe a dozen eggs if the guy on the corner is there.
On payday I send another thousand dollars (USD) home to continue making payments on my credit card debts. Probably three or four months left until I'm free and clear. Soon I'll have to confront my plans for the next stage of life; I'm six months into my year long contract. With a return tour I'll be able to save some money, build up a bank account, maintain a balance, and perhaps be able to afford to do some traveling besides. It's the cripple on the landing today. He's sitting with has back against the wall, one leg, his left, jutting out before him with an odd deformity misshaping the lower part which abruptly ends where it should continue with ankle foot and toes. His left hand is curled, not quite into a fist, more like a claw or a talon, since there are appendages missing that would give it a more human appearance. He's slumped over with wretched posture and as I hurry past him, half-way up the last segment of stairs I'm struck still in my tracks by the thought, the picture, of a little boy's face. I remember that I have some money in my pocket. I turn around and put one of the small denomination bills in front of the man before turning silently, quickly around, and continuing on to work.
The sermon on Sunday touched on the story of the Good Samaritan, in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 10, verses 25 through 37. I spend most of the capitulation of that well-known parable thinking. I think about New York City's homeless, I think about Africa, the pastor interrupts my thoughts dropping a statistic that there are an estimated one billion people who go hungry every day, that's about one sixth of the planet's human populace. I think about the old crippled man sitting at the subway on my way to work. I think about the boy. I think about the movie Schindler's List, about the ring he laments owning at the end. I question my motives, briefly struggling with whether or not I should be focused on my bank account at all once I get out of debt, and decide that the debate is one for a long dark night of the soul in the not too distant future. I feel guilty about the previous download so I go to the theater and pay for a repeat performance of a movie I've already (sort of) seen.
I'm listening to the I-pod a friend of mine gave me at the airport when I was on my way here to teach for the year. I'm listening to songs I like about love and loss and thinking about a young woman I used to know. A Rascal Flatts song comes on the shuffled thousand plus tracks, a new one I downloaded just recently, long after the life-defining separation I suffered some years ago now, but that still seems so relevant today for where I am and how I got here, called "Things that Matter". I think about the little boy again.
I'm sitting in a travel agency in Bujumbura, Burundi trying to arrange a flight home from Entebbe, Uganda to Johannesburg, South Africa and then finally to Washington D.C. where I can get a bus to New York. I'm sitting in a chair in front of the travel agent, an attractive young woman whom statistics would say has contracted some manner of STD, who is helping me in broken English because my attempts at some meager communications in my more fractured French proved futile, when I feel a light touch on my leg. It's a boy I passed on the street who has followed me into the agency. He's a cute kid, which is why he held my gaze for longer than I knew he should have in passing, and why I offered up a silent prayer on his behalf while briskly walking past him in the busy bustle of the Bujumbura streets. He has a round head, completely shorn, marked with a few small sores, but his perfectly symmetrical youthful face is mostly unmarred, except for a small scratch on his nose, and with big brown pleading eyes, his pouting mouth is pushing forth whimpering cries of "please mister, please" punctuated by the continual pawing on my leg, of a stump, sealed and scarred, cut short, just below his elbow, one of four, as all his limbs are incongruently missing, making his every movement a sort of writhing hobble, and he's still pawing at my leg and pleading with me but I have nothing to offer him, the crumpled bills in my pocket already part of the vacuum I owe to others, and even if I were to give him money, I know that he is a being manipulated as a tool for another, far more capable, and more hardened man than I, for I'm already on the verge of breaking, who will take what is given to the boy for his own gain. The woman travel agent is coming around the desk. She began by talking, progressed to almost yelling, and is now in the midst of physically removing the child, whose already fallen from being shoved away from me as I sit in numb, disbelieving, discomfort, a sullen, defeated Thinker on a swivel chair, dressed and healthy and whole, but now forever changed by the touch of a child who could have already perished in the filthy streets of a foreign city because I just sat there. But what could I have done?
I stop at the old man on the stairs. I cannot speak his language. I don't know how best to help him. I put the largest denomination of bill I can in front of him, which still isn't all that much, and walk away, not feeling good at all, just feeling like a stranger in this land.
For an old man, a young boy, and a good friend.
Five Days in the Life of a Samaritan
I'm not feeling wholly well today. For some that's normal, but it's a departure for me. I walk up the subway stairs on my way to work and walk past the cripple on the landing which means I'm almost to the street. It seems to sap me today, the brief climb up the stairs, and there's still the hill to conquer to get to work; I probably should have skipped the gym. I'm wondering if it was last night's meal, or the three mocha's I had through the course of yesterday instead of viable sustenance that I'm paying for now.
By the end of the day the initial feeling of being somewhat sub-par vanishes in the wake of work. I walk up the building's stairs, through the halls of closed doors, and into the sweltering humidity of the 28-degree centigrade apartment that I'm calling home for the year, vaguely wondering if I'll be able to continue this plan of trying to live a cost-effective lifestyle until I've overcome the North American debt-culture of living that has been my mainstay the majority of my life. I take another cold shower, the second today, my make-shift air-conditioning alternative, sit down at the computer and play a couple hours of poker while downloading a new movie hoping the pirate kept his (or her) camera still, well-framed, and that the theater stays quiet in rapt appreciation of all the hard work and expense that went into the production of the latest Hollywood blockbuster.
I check my email and discover that I'm well on the way to accomplishing my goal of getting out of debt, for the second (and I swear the last) time in my life. I was debt-free before I went to Africa, albeit barely, and still far from living the requisite lifestyle to stay that way, but that four-month milestone proved life-changing in more ways than one. While it succeeding it plunging me back into substantial credit-card debt, primarily due to poor planning on my part, it simultaneously led me to the realization that the privilege to owe, that is the staple of the North American economy, is a wide open door that we're beckoned into by the lure of unnecessary creature comforts before it slams shut with the metallic (silver, gold, platinum if you're lucky) clang of a prison cell.
My alarm wakes me up and I'm feeling better today. I have my cereal for breakfast and head to the gym. I work out for the better part of an hour before heading back to get ready for work. There is a different beggar on the stairs leading from the the subway today, this man bowing, motionlessly prostrate, with a cardboard box in front of him littered with a few coins and I'm vaguely thankful that I don't have any money on me. He's still there in the same position six hours later after a shortened work day and I'm reminded that I need to go to the bank in order to pick up some groceries, just the staples: a couple of cartons of milk, some yogurt, and another box of cereal for the week. Maybe a dozen eggs if the guy on the corner is there.
On payday I send another thousand dollars (USD) home to continue making payments on my credit card debts. Probably three or four months left until I'm free and clear. Soon I'll have to confront my plans for the next stage of life; I'm six months into my year long contract. With a return tour I'll be able to save some money, build up a bank account, maintain a balance, and perhaps be able to afford to do some traveling besides. It's the cripple on the landing today. He's sitting with has back against the wall, one leg, his left, jutting out before him with an odd deformity misshaping the lower part which abruptly ends where it should continue with ankle foot and toes. His left hand is curled, not quite into a fist, more like a claw or a talon, since there are appendages missing that would give it a more human appearance. He's slumped over with wretched posture and as I hurry past him, half-way up the last segment of stairs I'm struck still in my tracks by the thought, the picture, of a little boy's face. I remember that I have some money in my pocket. I turn around and put one of the small denomination bills in front of the man before turning silently, quickly around, and continuing on to work.
The sermon on Sunday touched on the story of the Good Samaritan, in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 10, verses 25 through 37. I spend most of the capitulation of that well-known parable thinking. I think about New York City's homeless, I think about Africa, the pastor interrupts my thoughts dropping a statistic that there are an estimated one billion people who go hungry every day, that's about one sixth of the planet's human populace. I think about the old crippled man sitting at the subway on my way to work. I think about the boy. I think about the movie Schindler's List, about the ring he laments owning at the end. I question my motives, briefly struggling with whether or not I should be focused on my bank account at all once I get out of debt, and decide that the debate is one for a long dark night of the soul in the not too distant future. I feel guilty about the previous download so I go to the theater and pay for a repeat performance of a movie I've already (sort of) seen.
I'm listening to the I-pod a friend of mine gave me at the airport when I was on my way here to teach for the year. I'm listening to songs I like about love and loss and thinking about a young woman I used to know. A Rascal Flatts song comes on the shuffled thousand plus tracks, a new one I downloaded just recently, long after the life-defining separation I suffered some years ago now, but that still seems so relevant today for where I am and how I got here, called "Things that Matter". I think about the little boy again.
I'm sitting in a travel agency in Bujumbura, Burundi trying to arrange a flight home from Entebbe, Uganda to Johannesburg, South Africa and then finally to Washington D.C. where I can get a bus to New York. I'm sitting in a chair in front of the travel agent, an attractive young woman whom statistics would say has contracted some manner of STD, who is helping me in broken English because my attempts at some meager communications in my more fractured French proved futile, when I feel a light touch on my leg. It's a boy I passed on the street who has followed me into the agency. He's a cute kid, which is why he held my gaze for longer than I knew he should have in passing, and why I offered up a silent prayer on his behalf while briskly walking past him in the busy bustle of the Bujumbura streets. He has a round head, completely shorn, marked with a few small sores, but his perfectly symmetrical youthful face is mostly unmarred, except for a small scratch on his nose, and with big brown pleading eyes, his pouting mouth is pushing forth whimpering cries of "please mister, please" punctuated by the continual pawing on my leg, of a stump, sealed and scarred, cut short, just below his elbow, one of four, as all his limbs are incongruently missing, making his every movement a sort of writhing hobble, and he's still pawing at my leg and pleading with me but I have nothing to offer him, the crumpled bills in my pocket already part of the vacuum I owe to others, and even if I were to give him money, I know that he is a being manipulated as a tool for another, far more capable, and more hardened man than I, for I'm already on the verge of breaking, who will take what is given to the boy for his own gain. The woman travel agent is coming around the desk. She began by talking, progressed to almost yelling, and is now in the midst of physically removing the child, whose already fallen from being shoved away from me as I sit in numb, disbelieving, discomfort, a sullen, defeated Thinker on a swivel chair, dressed and healthy and whole, but now forever changed by the touch of a child who could have already perished in the filthy streets of a foreign city because I just sat there. But what could I have done?
I stop at the old man on the stairs. I cannot speak his language. I don't know how best to help him. I put the largest denomination of bill I can in front of him, which still isn't all that much, and walk away, not feeling good at all, just feeling like a stranger in this land.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
June 16th (In memorium)
June 16.
“Sideways?”
And then I start crying again and the line of communication shorts out.
It started off such a beautiful day. I was still technically scheduled to work at three but I was hoping that Sam was going to call me and take the shift. It was a three to eleven desk shift. I hate desk shifts. I spent the morning deleting spam from my e-mail, hovering longer than my conscience would care to admit over the free cyber escorts before clicking them into the trash in a fit of righteous anger. Love doesn’t do such things. And I was in love. I managed to spare the story in my inbox though. Sam calls. My cell phone is in my room and I don’t hear the Nokia rendition of Fur Elise before its too late. He leaves a message though. It was a message of him hanging up. I recall that I should really change my answering machine intro of “Hello? Hello? Oh hey… um, look, I’m gonna have to call you back… I’m in a rough spot… leave a message” BEEP. For some it’s clever… the first time. I can understand why I get so few calls from friends. I wait for the phone to ring again but it doesn’t, and it’s about twelve thirty and I’ve been cooped up in this house too long already; if I don’t get out and into the sunshine it’ll be the death of me. He calls again while I’m shaving. I’m shaving because I don’t yet know that Sam will take the shift. This time he leaves a message. It begins, “You jerk” as most do when the caller realizes that after so many rings the answer is identical. He says he’ll take the shift though. So far so good.
I head into town planning to make good of my gift, this beautiful sunny day free to enjoy, and not just in my own selfish pursuits; there are stories I need to read for class, a summer class, a good class, but still. I head to campus where I can utilize free printing. I secure my reading from cyberspace, bringing it to planet earth. I stuff it into my bag with the two others and head out to the midday sun, the basketball courts, to play when I should have been working.
The first half hour I’m alone. I don’t really mind. The sun is beating on my back as I dribble and toss the ball around. The net is short. I’m sinking more than I usually would. I hear a couple of girls laughing and giggling on a swing set. I smile to myself hearing their laughter. I like her laugh. I toss up another and another and before too long I’m sharing the court with some nationhood kids. I stop now after every few shots and watch the three of them playing on the other net. They speak the language, albeit a slightly more elementary dialect. One calls for a pass, the other fouls and the ball goes out. It’s two on one and they’re playing make it take it. A car pulls up and some slightly older guys step out with a ball. There are the three children, the eldest no older than thirteen or so, on the one net, and me on the other. They shoot on mine and we share. One offers a game of twenty-one. I’m in a fairly sociable mood so I go along. I ask for their rules. The basic game is fairly universal, he offers taps, no outs and two point scoring. I agree and inquire to clearing. Off rim. The game begins. I don’t win. At the end, introductions are made and the two drive off as three more drive up. They too join me to start but eventually go to muscle the children off the court. I want to offer the kids a game but they go off in another direction. Across the field two curly-haired brunettes appear. The older is a woman. The younger is her son. She approaches me and asks if I’d play a game with them. Sure I would. She asks me if I am any good. I reply as my experience leads me to believe, having just got whooped on by a coworker yesterday who stands a good six inches shorter than I do, that I am not. My first shot rebounded right into the woman’s eye, contorting an arm on her glasses. I let them win. By the time we’re finished the other side of the court has grown to five. I respectfully decline another game with the woman and her son and as soon as I step off the court the other side explodes over the half court to claim the whole. The son and mother walk away. I am asked to join for a full court three on three. I say I’ll just need a few. I take a drink and rest. Introductions are made first. We play. I am on the winning team this time. I thank them all for the game and I leave with my ball and bag. I stop at the fountain to get the taste of sweat out of my mouth. It’s almost four.
I get no answer when I call so I leave a message.
“I know you probably have plans tonight, but I was just wondering if I could give you a hand at work or if you were going to be around later, or what. I’m essentially just trying to see what you’re up to… to see what I’m up to. Let me know.”
I go to Starbucks and forgo my usual extra-strong Chai Latte, for a venti cold blended citrus something-or-other. It’s good. I cross the street and get a couple of BLTs at the deli before returning to Starbucks and parking myself in the shade of one of their patio umbrellas. A woman meets a friend and they have a conversation about something three feet away from me. I spend most of the time watching the woman’s daughter who clings to her mother’s leg until she is lifted into her mother’s arms to play with her mother’s wallet and keys before being returned to the ground to cling once again to her mother’s leg. She looks at me and smiles, the little girl. I smile and wave with four pistoning fingers and she hides her face in her mother’s shorts and doesn’t look at me again.
Across the street a blonde pulls into a meter spot with a shiny silver CLK. I wouldn’t have known or cared what a CLK Benz was or how it differed from any other Mercedes, or high end luxury coupe for that matter, a couple years ago, but I’ve been working at a hotel resort as a valet since then. It was the car that first caught my eye. Although, whenever I see blonde hair I find myself hoping it’s her. It isn’t though. This young lady is decked out in some tight sporty outfit to go comfortably with her tight sporty car. I finish my meal and go to my own car. I turn up the main street, geographically anyhow, since it slopes upward almost all through town, and I stop at the Citgo to gas up. Citgo has the cheapest gas. From there I go to Shop Rite recalling some essentials I need to get: deodorant, some other impotent acne-fighting face wash scam pads, and toothpaste. While I’m there I pick up some cereal and Soy milk too, since Dad and the Mrs. are on vacation with their kids and I have to fend for myself food wise.
After that I head back down through town. I turn north at the crossroad, heading towards her place. I turn off of the road to open the lines of communication. My car stalls at Boces and I send her a text message.
“Are my assumptions accurate?”
After a couple of songs of no response, I rummage through a few CD cases to find the country music compilation of 186 MP3s. I remove the R&B, Hip Hop, Rap CD and put the former in. She is the one who opened my ears to country music. She still hasn’t answered my call after Travis Tritt’s “Best of Intentions” and I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just go home and do some reading and writing. I decide to give her a call.
“Hello?”
I love hearing her “Hello?”s.
“Sorry to pester you…”
“You’re not pestering me. I haven’t even gotten any messages from you.”
“Then you have two. One voice. One text.”
“You better hurry up, my phone’s going to go dead.”
“I was just wondering what you were up to tonight, if you needed a hand at work before your evening plans.”
“How did you know I was going to work?”
“You said something about cleaning last night.”
“Well there was too much to do for one night so I’m home now. And I may have plans at eight.”
It was almost six. That gave me two hours. It wasn’t really much of a choice but I sat in silence for a minute in anticipation anyhow.
“Hello?”
There it was.
“I’ll see you soon then.”
Up the road, colloquially this time, headed north, since north is still a horizontal plane and I wasn’t literally flying, just cruising a few miles over the posted 55, until her turnoff. I passed the old covered bridge spanning the river, or is it still the straight this far north? Anyhow, I was thinking that maybe two hours is enough to take a walk over the bridge to the power lines, something I’ve heard about and been wanting to do with her for some time but we’ve never quite gotten around to yet. I pulled into her driveway and my car stalled again. She hates my car. It’s a 1990 Lincoln Town Car that I picked up for two grand. It had less then 50 thousand miles on it. It has been nothing but trouble and it’s a cluttered mess full of my uniforms and schoolwork. I’m the only one who rides in the thing anyway, so I figure I’m excused.
I go to the front door and tap gently. It’s open. I enter. I take off my shoes and whisper around but there is nobody home. I leave. I look around outside, but the gardens are void of human population, as are the garage and the backyard. I go to my car to get some reading material. I hear voices. I wander down to her brother and sister-in-law’s home, a trailer where I’d spent a number of nights before the newly arrived addition, a hundred yards or so down the street, again geometrically, as this street too descends rather steeply.
They are all there congregated on the porch. The first words out of her mouth are…
“Is it black history month?”
This is because I’m wearing a comfortable button down collared t-shirt that is black and tan, and wonderfully cool in the summer time, thin enough to breath and able to open up in a breeze, which she somehow associates with African American-ness. I’ve never really understood it and I vocalize such.
“No, actually. Black history month is February. This is just a comfortable shirt that has nothing to do with racial associations of any kind.”
There was some more chatter about my attire before she walked back up to her house. I stayed and engaged in some small talk with her brother and sister in law. I feel guilty whenever I’m around them now. I used to frequent their house almost daily. They provided me with an escape from my own, and although I’m still in need of such a haven, ever since I started abandoning their hospitality and friendship for hers, and their having a beautiful newborn child to raise, I’ve felt like a terrible imposition on them both. Albeit my PS2 is still there as a relic of friendlier times. I mention that I may stop back later in the evening to pick it up so I could have a means of amusement while Dad is away with his family. A friend of theirs pulls up as I am about to depart which results in my lingering longer to admire the friend’s new Ram 2500 V8 short bed pickup. It was a nice piece of machinery. I can only vaguely appreciate and entertain such things so I stayed for as long as my sense of politeness dictated and sauntered up to see her.
I tapped on the door again and entered. She threw an orange at me. She misses and repeats the procedure several times, with the same orange, the only orange, while I’m untying my shoes again and anticipating a bloody nose or something until she lands it on my back with a dull thud. She picks it up again.
“I hope you’re going to eat that.”
“Eww. Are you kidding? It’s been rolling around on the floor, by the shoes, and by you… I’m not going to eat it. That’s disgusting.”
She put it back on the counter. I took it and began the arduous task of peeling it. It was one of those oranges you have to peel at least twice over, first picking the rind off one piece at a time, then the white sub-dermal layer just so you can peel the slices properly.
“The highest concentration of C is in the white stuff.”
I flick another peeling into the compost bucket, the forward left.
“I know.”
“Of course you do. Heaven forbid I tell you something you don’t already know!”
Of course, I have learned countless lessons from her, vocal and otherwise, but she’s rather antagonistic tonight. I let her know I think so.
“Me? You’ve done nothing but verbally assault me since you opened your mouth today!”
“What?”
“The shirt.”
“It’s not a black shirt. I’m sorry if I don’t agree with your racial discrimination.”
“I wasn’t discriminating.”
“What would you call it then?”
“I associate that type of shirt with Anthony, ok? Anthony is black. Therefore…”
“It’s a black shirt? Whatever.”
I shouldn’t have said that. She hates “Whatever”. She gets frustrated and opens the fridge. She starts pulling out the perishables looted from the estate she cleans up, and out, among other things.
“I’m a Robin Hood of the fridge. What’s a knish?”
“I don’t know.”
She holds out a pastry.
“It has apple and something in it.”
I keep struggling with my orange. It wasn’t very big to begin with and it keeps getting smaller as the layers are shorn away by my picking fingernails.
“Do you like pesto?”
“I don’t know. What is it.”
“It’s green stuff. It has garlic and… I don’t know. Just try some.”
“No, thank you.”
I look at the container: Buddhapesto.
“As in Buddha?”
“As in Budapest.”
“It has a picture of Buddha and it’s from Woodstock NY.”
“Well I’m having this and pasta. Do you want some?”
I think about it for a second and realize that this is the simplest question I have yet been asked and that nothing I have said so far has been well received. I say something about pasta but I say “pasta” wrong and we digress into a linguistic lesson. I give her the first of my orange slices, then the second. She declines anything further.
I go into the adjacent room and start reading. She follows me in and turns on the TV. Will and Grace. Her phone rings. A few minutes pass before she returns to her chair. I go back to the kitchen to check the water.
“How much would you like? A cup?”
“I don’t know. I’ll do it.”
She turns off the TV. I go back to reading. She appears beside me.
“Is that stapled?”
I clutch the loose papers tighter.
“No. It isn’t.”
She grabs them herself. The top sheet is crinkling as we both hold the pages in static potential.
“Just let me throw them across the room and I’ll leave you alone.”
She’s smiling at the possibility of having me do anything but read. Which I can’t understand because I wouldn’t be reading if she weren’t preoccupied with TV or boiling water or phone conversations. Nor do I grasp the antithesis to my appreciation for reading. One of the first intimacies I shared with her was reading aloud The Princess Bride when she wasn’t feeling well, which continued well beyond recovery. I started The Hobbit too, but she finished that and most of The Lord of the Rings trilogy herself.
“It isn’t mine. I have to return it to the author critiqued. If you don’t mind.”
She releases the story and returns to the kitchen. I emerge out of guilt and curiosity and she is draining the noodles in the sink. Steam rushes up as she pulls as far away as she can, her arms, holding the pot, adjoined at her shoulders. I wish we were as close as we used to be.
I go to the bathroom and when I return she is stirring green tinged noodles.
“Did you use the whole thing?”
“No. And what kind of way is that to ask?”
My tone was presumptuous and I apologized. She said I wasn’t sorry. She may have been right. She picks up a scoop and lets it slide off the spoon back into the pot. She looks disgusted.
“I don’t think I want any. Help yourself.”
I take a bowl and a fork and two scoops then return to the TV room, sitting on the bed. It used to be her grandfather’s room. I still can’t feel comfortable sitting on the bed. He hasn’t been gone long enough and I can still smell him in the room, especially on the bed. I sit there facing the TV out of habit. We used to sit together. She comes in with a bowl of her own and illuminates the TV with the push of a button.
“Friends is on.”
It’s the one where Joey and Ross talk dirty to each other. I eat, then I try to read.
“Thank you. For dinner.”
“It’s too greasy.”
“Well, I didn’t mind it. And I appreciate it. So, thank you.”
“Help yourself to more.”
“No thank you.”
I go to put my dish in the sink and hers as well. She says she may have more so only mine ends up in the sink. I leave hers on the counter. I drink some water, and then return to my position reading on the bed.
I think of how far we’ve digressed. And how I’ve come so close to giving up, especially since I’m holding on to nothing more than dreams and ideals that I’ve fabricated from the threads of my own past.
She turns the TV off before Friends is over and I know something is wrong. I put down the story I wasn’t reading and look at her. Her blond hair is glowing from the light running through it, courtesy of the sun, low in the sky, shining through the window behind her. I look at her, glowing from the radiance of the sun and I smile. Remembering all of the things that I use to stoke the hope smoldering inside me that she may love me one day. I lie back on the bed and bask in her shadow.
“I am going out at eight.”
“I figured.”
Silence. I brood in her shadow. It’s often that delicate, my state of being, that the news of my denial, or someone else’s privilege, is enough to douse my hope and cause steam to rise.
“I can’t believe we have nothing to talk about. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I could say a lot of things.”
“Say them.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”
“Always an excuse. There’s no time, it’s too late, not on the phone…”
“I haven’t used too late in a while.
“True. Still.”
“It wouldn’t be anything new, anyway.”
She gets up and begins to walk away, I presume to the shower.
“Have a good night.”
“You too.”
“I doubt it.”
It was stupid to say, but she freed me a long time ago from most of my defensive inhibitions, which led to the honesty that seems to get me into so much trouble these days. That’s what happens when your best friend, the one you confide in, your source for comfort, is simultaneously the one you love, thus your inspiration and joy, and thereby the cause of all the frustrations and hurts that come with the preliminaries of any relationship, even one-sided ones, and all this is articulated as best you can in late-night/early morning bed-side conversations, resulting in similar frustrations, joys, and pains suffered by the beloved best friend at learning the heart and mind of a friend she doesn’t love, at least not in that way.
She sighs and leaves. I hear water running and I get up. She’s standing at the sink doing the dishes. “I was going to do my dishes while you were in the shower.”
“There was only one.”
She was referring to “my dishes” as the one that I used to eat. I was referring to “my dishes” as my stake in the claim on the chore as a whole. Communication with me is seldom bridged.
I refilled the water bottle in my bag from her Brita. She was headed towards the bathroom now and I watched her go. But she didn’t go. She stopped at the doorway.
“Maybe we should just stop seeing each other.”
She was looking for a response from me. I thought my lack of response was response enough.
“What do you want me to say to that? Sure?”
“I can’t deal with this tension every time I see you. Like you having a bad night just because I’m going out. I don’t want to be responsible for your misery.”
“You’re not. I am.”
“I am too if I’m the cause of your brooding.”
“I am the cause of my brooding. And it’s only because you’re the best part of my day that your absence makes me miserable.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to be responsible for this.”
“I’m telling you you’re not. I’ll get over it. I’ll get over you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. When I have to. When you make a decision. When you go and start dating other people I think I may truly absorb the fact that there’s no chance for me, for us.”
“So you’re just going to wait? Like this? Sulking whenever I’m out with a friend?”
“You’re worth waiting for. And I don’t want to force you into making a decision. Especially one we’ll both regret.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No is my decision.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there is no chance for us. Not like this. No.”
“So that’s it then.”
“I guess so.”
“Well that was anti-climactic.”
After about a minute of sinking in, it was too much for me. My eyes welled up and released the abundance. First down the right cheek, then the left.
“I guess it could have been worse; I could have bought you a ring.”
I went to the bathroom and got some TP to soak up the fluid collecting on my lips. I thought of how similar sweat tasted playing ball. Since she’s always pointing out how much of a pansy I am anyway, I decide to do most of my crying in the other room, perched up on her grandfather’s bed. When I’ve gathered control of myself, enough to conceivably leave without need of being mopped up after, I pass back through the kitchen to the front door. She’s sitting at the kitchen table. She too is upset. That’s the worst part about the whole ordeal now, I hurt her, and there’s nothing I can do to comfort her except leave.
“You have a good night then.”
I close the door gently behind me. I walk to my car, and decide against going right away. I was always told not to drive emotionally impaired. I went into the loft of the barn that I had been in the throes of transforming into a summer hothouse gym. It already had a weight bench with some free weights and an eighty-pound punching bag. It was easy to stop crying while I was slugging at the vinyl covered sand mass, but when it collapsed from its mount onto the floor with considerable ruckus, I had to take another minute to breathe and cry.
I went down to her brother’s place to see he, his wife, and his newborn daughter having dinner outside.
I managed to rush out an explanation of the cacophony I caused, and say that I was going to grab my PS2 for a few days. I went into their trailer just in time to choke back some emotional outburst and look at the tangled mess of wires behind the TV, stereo, VCR, AM/FM receiver, PS2, speakers setup, and decided on just carting home a few DVDs instead.
“Just decided on some movies, I have enough DVD players at home.”
I assume my red puffy eyes spoke enough evidence of my trauma for them not to inquire, or I was that good at masking injury, either way, they were most pleasant about me rushing in, out, and away.
They called after me not to be such a stranger and I almost laughed. I managed a wave and a nod instead as I headed back up to my car.
In the car a new wave hit me, silent this time, the steady quiet stream down the windows when the thunder has subsided. It was now almost eight. Perfect timing I thought. She’s probably half way to her rendezvous. I started up the car and headed home. Back on 213 I cut left to park across the street from the covered wooden bridge. I made it to the commemorative plaque and saw the hearts engraved in the boards full of dates and initials before I decided to turn back. Crossing the street a yellow pickup came cruising towards me and I thought of how easy it would be to commit vehicular suicide. That was a recurring daydream all the way home, at least until I passed the Ice Cream shack on route to my father’s house and caught a glimpse of the sun setting over the ridge. I scrolled through my outgoing text messages for one of my memories.
“It is a beautiful sunset… especially sideways.”
I use it often when I want to share a sunset without her, either because I’m at work, or otherwise separated. I figure it’s a big sky and wherever we are, it’s something we can share. Besides, I’ve never received a negating response. It goes back to Long Beach Island, the Jersey shore, almost nine months ago now. The day before her family was supposed to leave was the day Gramps died. When they went to the shore after the funeral, it was a sobering ordeal, much quieter than previous holidays. I remember sitting with her watching the sunset, facing the bay. We were sitting on a wooden bench, smacking mosquitoes. She had her head on my shoulder. I broke the silence:
“It’s a beautiful sunset.”
“Especially sideways.”
I tilted my head to the side as well.
“You’re not kidding.”
“No, I know.”
Shortly afterwards we went inside. The few short days while I was there we went for walks along the beach, woke up early to watch the sun rise from the ocean’s depths, collected shells and sea glass, and held each other in the surf. I think I was far too happy in mourning, in spite of the other friend of hers hanging around, an ex boyfriend, who stayed with her longer than I did.
Driving along I refused to tilt my head. So I erased the message beyond the ellipses (…) and pushed send. It was a beautiful sunset after all.
Her response came almost instantly. When I got home I went through my text message inbox, reading the ones I saved for whatever meaning I had imbued them with.
“I miss you already.” Nov. 11. 23:51. I was just driving home from spending a day with her.
“Can I have 1 more kiss?” Nov. 14. 23:28. I had just gotten to my car. I went back to her room, happy to oblige. A substantial break occurs, both in our relationship and our text messaging, and I probably erased some more sentimental ones in my despair.
“I still miss you” March 18. 02:40. I was in Canada, visiting my mother. I still think I missed her more. I’m sure I texted so.
“I came across a kiss here with you name on it. I’ll try to save it for you.” April 1, 2003. 12:10. I was in French class.
“Could you invest it in an interest bearing account?” I wrote back. That was the night of the Tim McGraw concert. I didn’t go. She went with the same ex and another couple. She came home drunk wearing his baseball cap. I know that her and I never kissed again after that. Another month of absence and miscommunication, intended by her to give me some time, without letting me know, leads to a larger rift between us. It’s at the edge of this chasm where I stood today when the earth shook and I fell into the void.
“You can always make me smile… :-)” June 10. 16:59. Less than one week ago… I can’t remember what joke I made to deserve it, but I wish it were true now.
As much as I want to let everything that has welled up inside go, now that I’m in an empty house, I’m bound by the fact that I’m less comfortable here, than at her home, where I felt more at home than any place since my parents’ divorce. It’s gone now. I should have went to work. I’ve broken another home. And now there’s nothing I can do. I grab my shirt sleeves and stretch the garment tight across my back and the seams split. I gather the seams in my hand and I pull the shirt across my back again until the fibers are rent apart, sundered. Then I turn on my computer and cry letters and words while they’re still fresh, since tears won’t do. Should I ever give her this to read, I’ll bind it for her in that shirt.
My phone beeps beside me.
“Sideways?”
This is the second time her textual inquiry has come.
I look outside and night has fallen. I still don’t tilt my head.
“The sun has set.”
“Sideways?”
And then I start crying again and the line of communication shorts out.
It started off such a beautiful day. I was still technically scheduled to work at three but I was hoping that Sam was going to call me and take the shift. It was a three to eleven desk shift. I hate desk shifts. I spent the morning deleting spam from my e-mail, hovering longer than my conscience would care to admit over the free cyber escorts before clicking them into the trash in a fit of righteous anger. Love doesn’t do such things. And I was in love. I managed to spare the story in my inbox though. Sam calls. My cell phone is in my room and I don’t hear the Nokia rendition of Fur Elise before its too late. He leaves a message though. It was a message of him hanging up. I recall that I should really change my answering machine intro of “Hello? Hello? Oh hey… um, look, I’m gonna have to call you back… I’m in a rough spot… leave a message” BEEP. For some it’s clever… the first time. I can understand why I get so few calls from friends. I wait for the phone to ring again but it doesn’t, and it’s about twelve thirty and I’ve been cooped up in this house too long already; if I don’t get out and into the sunshine it’ll be the death of me. He calls again while I’m shaving. I’m shaving because I don’t yet know that Sam will take the shift. This time he leaves a message. It begins, “You jerk” as most do when the caller realizes that after so many rings the answer is identical. He says he’ll take the shift though. So far so good.
I head into town planning to make good of my gift, this beautiful sunny day free to enjoy, and not just in my own selfish pursuits; there are stories I need to read for class, a summer class, a good class, but still. I head to campus where I can utilize free printing. I secure my reading from cyberspace, bringing it to planet earth. I stuff it into my bag with the two others and head out to the midday sun, the basketball courts, to play when I should have been working.
The first half hour I’m alone. I don’t really mind. The sun is beating on my back as I dribble and toss the ball around. The net is short. I’m sinking more than I usually would. I hear a couple of girls laughing and giggling on a swing set. I smile to myself hearing their laughter. I like her laugh. I toss up another and another and before too long I’m sharing the court with some nationhood kids. I stop now after every few shots and watch the three of them playing on the other net. They speak the language, albeit a slightly more elementary dialect. One calls for a pass, the other fouls and the ball goes out. It’s two on one and they’re playing make it take it. A car pulls up and some slightly older guys step out with a ball. There are the three children, the eldest no older than thirteen or so, on the one net, and me on the other. They shoot on mine and we share. One offers a game of twenty-one. I’m in a fairly sociable mood so I go along. I ask for their rules. The basic game is fairly universal, he offers taps, no outs and two point scoring. I agree and inquire to clearing. Off rim. The game begins. I don’t win. At the end, introductions are made and the two drive off as three more drive up. They too join me to start but eventually go to muscle the children off the court. I want to offer the kids a game but they go off in another direction. Across the field two curly-haired brunettes appear. The older is a woman. The younger is her son. She approaches me and asks if I’d play a game with them. Sure I would. She asks me if I am any good. I reply as my experience leads me to believe, having just got whooped on by a coworker yesterday who stands a good six inches shorter than I do, that I am not. My first shot rebounded right into the woman’s eye, contorting an arm on her glasses. I let them win. By the time we’re finished the other side of the court has grown to five. I respectfully decline another game with the woman and her son and as soon as I step off the court the other side explodes over the half court to claim the whole. The son and mother walk away. I am asked to join for a full court three on three. I say I’ll just need a few. I take a drink and rest. Introductions are made first. We play. I am on the winning team this time. I thank them all for the game and I leave with my ball and bag. I stop at the fountain to get the taste of sweat out of my mouth. It’s almost four.
I get no answer when I call so I leave a message.
“I know you probably have plans tonight, but I was just wondering if I could give you a hand at work or if you were going to be around later, or what. I’m essentially just trying to see what you’re up to… to see what I’m up to. Let me know.”
I go to Starbucks and forgo my usual extra-strong Chai Latte, for a venti cold blended citrus something-or-other. It’s good. I cross the street and get a couple of BLTs at the deli before returning to Starbucks and parking myself in the shade of one of their patio umbrellas. A woman meets a friend and they have a conversation about something three feet away from me. I spend most of the time watching the woman’s daughter who clings to her mother’s leg until she is lifted into her mother’s arms to play with her mother’s wallet and keys before being returned to the ground to cling once again to her mother’s leg. She looks at me and smiles, the little girl. I smile and wave with four pistoning fingers and she hides her face in her mother’s shorts and doesn’t look at me again.
Across the street a blonde pulls into a meter spot with a shiny silver CLK. I wouldn’t have known or cared what a CLK Benz was or how it differed from any other Mercedes, or high end luxury coupe for that matter, a couple years ago, but I’ve been working at a hotel resort as a valet since then. It was the car that first caught my eye. Although, whenever I see blonde hair I find myself hoping it’s her. It isn’t though. This young lady is decked out in some tight sporty outfit to go comfortably with her tight sporty car. I finish my meal and go to my own car. I turn up the main street, geographically anyhow, since it slopes upward almost all through town, and I stop at the Citgo to gas up. Citgo has the cheapest gas. From there I go to Shop Rite recalling some essentials I need to get: deodorant, some other impotent acne-fighting face wash scam pads, and toothpaste. While I’m there I pick up some cereal and Soy milk too, since Dad and the Mrs. are on vacation with their kids and I have to fend for myself food wise.
After that I head back down through town. I turn north at the crossroad, heading towards her place. I turn off of the road to open the lines of communication. My car stalls at Boces and I send her a text message.
“Are my assumptions accurate?”
After a couple of songs of no response, I rummage through a few CD cases to find the country music compilation of 186 MP3s. I remove the R&B, Hip Hop, Rap CD and put the former in. She is the one who opened my ears to country music. She still hasn’t answered my call after Travis Tritt’s “Best of Intentions” and I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just go home and do some reading and writing. I decide to give her a call.
“Hello?”
I love hearing her “Hello?”s.
“Sorry to pester you…”
“You’re not pestering me. I haven’t even gotten any messages from you.”
“Then you have two. One voice. One text.”
“You better hurry up, my phone’s going to go dead.”
“I was just wondering what you were up to tonight, if you needed a hand at work before your evening plans.”
“How did you know I was going to work?”
“You said something about cleaning last night.”
“Well there was too much to do for one night so I’m home now. And I may have plans at eight.”
It was almost six. That gave me two hours. It wasn’t really much of a choice but I sat in silence for a minute in anticipation anyhow.
“Hello?”
There it was.
“I’ll see you soon then.”
Up the road, colloquially this time, headed north, since north is still a horizontal plane and I wasn’t literally flying, just cruising a few miles over the posted 55, until her turnoff. I passed the old covered bridge spanning the river, or is it still the straight this far north? Anyhow, I was thinking that maybe two hours is enough to take a walk over the bridge to the power lines, something I’ve heard about and been wanting to do with her for some time but we’ve never quite gotten around to yet. I pulled into her driveway and my car stalled again. She hates my car. It’s a 1990 Lincoln Town Car that I picked up for two grand. It had less then 50 thousand miles on it. It has been nothing but trouble and it’s a cluttered mess full of my uniforms and schoolwork. I’m the only one who rides in the thing anyway, so I figure I’m excused.
I go to the front door and tap gently. It’s open. I enter. I take off my shoes and whisper around but there is nobody home. I leave. I look around outside, but the gardens are void of human population, as are the garage and the backyard. I go to my car to get some reading material. I hear voices. I wander down to her brother and sister-in-law’s home, a trailer where I’d spent a number of nights before the newly arrived addition, a hundred yards or so down the street, again geometrically, as this street too descends rather steeply.
They are all there congregated on the porch. The first words out of her mouth are…
“Is it black history month?”
This is because I’m wearing a comfortable button down collared t-shirt that is black and tan, and wonderfully cool in the summer time, thin enough to breath and able to open up in a breeze, which she somehow associates with African American-ness. I’ve never really understood it and I vocalize such.
“No, actually. Black history month is February. This is just a comfortable shirt that has nothing to do with racial associations of any kind.”
There was some more chatter about my attire before she walked back up to her house. I stayed and engaged in some small talk with her brother and sister in law. I feel guilty whenever I’m around them now. I used to frequent their house almost daily. They provided me with an escape from my own, and although I’m still in need of such a haven, ever since I started abandoning their hospitality and friendship for hers, and their having a beautiful newborn child to raise, I’ve felt like a terrible imposition on them both. Albeit my PS2 is still there as a relic of friendlier times. I mention that I may stop back later in the evening to pick it up so I could have a means of amusement while Dad is away with his family. A friend of theirs pulls up as I am about to depart which results in my lingering longer to admire the friend’s new Ram 2500 V8 short bed pickup. It was a nice piece of machinery. I can only vaguely appreciate and entertain such things so I stayed for as long as my sense of politeness dictated and sauntered up to see her.
I tapped on the door again and entered. She threw an orange at me. She misses and repeats the procedure several times, with the same orange, the only orange, while I’m untying my shoes again and anticipating a bloody nose or something until she lands it on my back with a dull thud. She picks it up again.
“I hope you’re going to eat that.”
“Eww. Are you kidding? It’s been rolling around on the floor, by the shoes, and by you… I’m not going to eat it. That’s disgusting.”
She put it back on the counter. I took it and began the arduous task of peeling it. It was one of those oranges you have to peel at least twice over, first picking the rind off one piece at a time, then the white sub-dermal layer just so you can peel the slices properly.
“The highest concentration of C is in the white stuff.”
I flick another peeling into the compost bucket, the forward left.
“I know.”
“Of course you do. Heaven forbid I tell you something you don’t already know!”
Of course, I have learned countless lessons from her, vocal and otherwise, but she’s rather antagonistic tonight. I let her know I think so.
“Me? You’ve done nothing but verbally assault me since you opened your mouth today!”
“What?”
“The shirt.”
“It’s not a black shirt. I’m sorry if I don’t agree with your racial discrimination.”
“I wasn’t discriminating.”
“What would you call it then?”
“I associate that type of shirt with Anthony, ok? Anthony is black. Therefore…”
“It’s a black shirt? Whatever.”
I shouldn’t have said that. She hates “Whatever”. She gets frustrated and opens the fridge. She starts pulling out the perishables looted from the estate she cleans up, and out, among other things.
“I’m a Robin Hood of the fridge. What’s a knish?”
“I don’t know.”
She holds out a pastry.
“It has apple and something in it.”
I keep struggling with my orange. It wasn’t very big to begin with and it keeps getting smaller as the layers are shorn away by my picking fingernails.
“Do you like pesto?”
“I don’t know. What is it.”
“It’s green stuff. It has garlic and… I don’t know. Just try some.”
“No, thank you.”
I look at the container: Buddhapesto.
“As in Buddha?”
“As in Budapest.”
“It has a picture of Buddha and it’s from Woodstock NY.”
“Well I’m having this and pasta. Do you want some?”
I think about it for a second and realize that this is the simplest question I have yet been asked and that nothing I have said so far has been well received. I say something about pasta but I say “pasta” wrong and we digress into a linguistic lesson. I give her the first of my orange slices, then the second. She declines anything further.
I go into the adjacent room and start reading. She follows me in and turns on the TV. Will and Grace. Her phone rings. A few minutes pass before she returns to her chair. I go back to the kitchen to check the water.
“How much would you like? A cup?”
“I don’t know. I’ll do it.”
She turns off the TV. I go back to reading. She appears beside me.
“Is that stapled?”
I clutch the loose papers tighter.
“No. It isn’t.”
She grabs them herself. The top sheet is crinkling as we both hold the pages in static potential.
“Just let me throw them across the room and I’ll leave you alone.”
She’s smiling at the possibility of having me do anything but read. Which I can’t understand because I wouldn’t be reading if she weren’t preoccupied with TV or boiling water or phone conversations. Nor do I grasp the antithesis to my appreciation for reading. One of the first intimacies I shared with her was reading aloud The Princess Bride when she wasn’t feeling well, which continued well beyond recovery. I started The Hobbit too, but she finished that and most of The Lord of the Rings trilogy herself.
“It isn’t mine. I have to return it to the author critiqued. If you don’t mind.”
She releases the story and returns to the kitchen. I emerge out of guilt and curiosity and she is draining the noodles in the sink. Steam rushes up as she pulls as far away as she can, her arms, holding the pot, adjoined at her shoulders. I wish we were as close as we used to be.
I go to the bathroom and when I return she is stirring green tinged noodles.
“Did you use the whole thing?”
“No. And what kind of way is that to ask?”
My tone was presumptuous and I apologized. She said I wasn’t sorry. She may have been right. She picks up a scoop and lets it slide off the spoon back into the pot. She looks disgusted.
“I don’t think I want any. Help yourself.”
I take a bowl and a fork and two scoops then return to the TV room, sitting on the bed. It used to be her grandfather’s room. I still can’t feel comfortable sitting on the bed. He hasn’t been gone long enough and I can still smell him in the room, especially on the bed. I sit there facing the TV out of habit. We used to sit together. She comes in with a bowl of her own and illuminates the TV with the push of a button.
“Friends is on.”
It’s the one where Joey and Ross talk dirty to each other. I eat, then I try to read.
“Thank you. For dinner.”
“It’s too greasy.”
“Well, I didn’t mind it. And I appreciate it. So, thank you.”
“Help yourself to more.”
“No thank you.”
I go to put my dish in the sink and hers as well. She says she may have more so only mine ends up in the sink. I leave hers on the counter. I drink some water, and then return to my position reading on the bed.
I think of how far we’ve digressed. And how I’ve come so close to giving up, especially since I’m holding on to nothing more than dreams and ideals that I’ve fabricated from the threads of my own past.
She turns the TV off before Friends is over and I know something is wrong. I put down the story I wasn’t reading and look at her. Her blond hair is glowing from the light running through it, courtesy of the sun, low in the sky, shining through the window behind her. I look at her, glowing from the radiance of the sun and I smile. Remembering all of the things that I use to stoke the hope smoldering inside me that she may love me one day. I lie back on the bed and bask in her shadow.
“I am going out at eight.”
“I figured.”
Silence. I brood in her shadow. It’s often that delicate, my state of being, that the news of my denial, or someone else’s privilege, is enough to douse my hope and cause steam to rise.
“I can’t believe we have nothing to talk about. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I could say a lot of things.”
“Say them.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”
“Always an excuse. There’s no time, it’s too late, not on the phone…”
“I haven’t used too late in a while.
“True. Still.”
“It wouldn’t be anything new, anyway.”
She gets up and begins to walk away, I presume to the shower.
“Have a good night.”
“You too.”
“I doubt it.”
It was stupid to say, but she freed me a long time ago from most of my defensive inhibitions, which led to the honesty that seems to get me into so much trouble these days. That’s what happens when your best friend, the one you confide in, your source for comfort, is simultaneously the one you love, thus your inspiration and joy, and thereby the cause of all the frustrations and hurts that come with the preliminaries of any relationship, even one-sided ones, and all this is articulated as best you can in late-night/early morning bed-side conversations, resulting in similar frustrations, joys, and pains suffered by the beloved best friend at learning the heart and mind of a friend she doesn’t love, at least not in that way.
She sighs and leaves. I hear water running and I get up. She’s standing at the sink doing the dishes. “I was going to do my dishes while you were in the shower.”
“There was only one.”
She was referring to “my dishes” as the one that I used to eat. I was referring to “my dishes” as my stake in the claim on the chore as a whole. Communication with me is seldom bridged.
I refilled the water bottle in my bag from her Brita. She was headed towards the bathroom now and I watched her go. But she didn’t go. She stopped at the doorway.
“Maybe we should just stop seeing each other.”
She was looking for a response from me. I thought my lack of response was response enough.
“What do you want me to say to that? Sure?”
“I can’t deal with this tension every time I see you. Like you having a bad night just because I’m going out. I don’t want to be responsible for your misery.”
“You’re not. I am.”
“I am too if I’m the cause of your brooding.”
“I am the cause of my brooding. And it’s only because you’re the best part of my day that your absence makes me miserable.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to be responsible for this.”
“I’m telling you you’re not. I’ll get over it. I’ll get over you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. When I have to. When you make a decision. When you go and start dating other people I think I may truly absorb the fact that there’s no chance for me, for us.”
“So you’re just going to wait? Like this? Sulking whenever I’m out with a friend?”
“You’re worth waiting for. And I don’t want to force you into making a decision. Especially one we’ll both regret.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No is my decision.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there is no chance for us. Not like this. No.”
“So that’s it then.”
“I guess so.”
“Well that was anti-climactic.”
After about a minute of sinking in, it was too much for me. My eyes welled up and released the abundance. First down the right cheek, then the left.
“I guess it could have been worse; I could have bought you a ring.”
I went to the bathroom and got some TP to soak up the fluid collecting on my lips. I thought of how similar sweat tasted playing ball. Since she’s always pointing out how much of a pansy I am anyway, I decide to do most of my crying in the other room, perched up on her grandfather’s bed. When I’ve gathered control of myself, enough to conceivably leave without need of being mopped up after, I pass back through the kitchen to the front door. She’s sitting at the kitchen table. She too is upset. That’s the worst part about the whole ordeal now, I hurt her, and there’s nothing I can do to comfort her except leave.
“You have a good night then.”
I close the door gently behind me. I walk to my car, and decide against going right away. I was always told not to drive emotionally impaired. I went into the loft of the barn that I had been in the throes of transforming into a summer hothouse gym. It already had a weight bench with some free weights and an eighty-pound punching bag. It was easy to stop crying while I was slugging at the vinyl covered sand mass, but when it collapsed from its mount onto the floor with considerable ruckus, I had to take another minute to breathe and cry.
I went down to her brother’s place to see he, his wife, and his newborn daughter having dinner outside.
I managed to rush out an explanation of the cacophony I caused, and say that I was going to grab my PS2 for a few days. I went into their trailer just in time to choke back some emotional outburst and look at the tangled mess of wires behind the TV, stereo, VCR, AM/FM receiver, PS2, speakers setup, and decided on just carting home a few DVDs instead.
“Just decided on some movies, I have enough DVD players at home.”
I assume my red puffy eyes spoke enough evidence of my trauma for them not to inquire, or I was that good at masking injury, either way, they were most pleasant about me rushing in, out, and away.
They called after me not to be such a stranger and I almost laughed. I managed a wave and a nod instead as I headed back up to my car.
In the car a new wave hit me, silent this time, the steady quiet stream down the windows when the thunder has subsided. It was now almost eight. Perfect timing I thought. She’s probably half way to her rendezvous. I started up the car and headed home. Back on 213 I cut left to park across the street from the covered wooden bridge. I made it to the commemorative plaque and saw the hearts engraved in the boards full of dates and initials before I decided to turn back. Crossing the street a yellow pickup came cruising towards me and I thought of how easy it would be to commit vehicular suicide. That was a recurring daydream all the way home, at least until I passed the Ice Cream shack on route to my father’s house and caught a glimpse of the sun setting over the ridge. I scrolled through my outgoing text messages for one of my memories.
“It is a beautiful sunset… especially sideways.”
I use it often when I want to share a sunset without her, either because I’m at work, or otherwise separated. I figure it’s a big sky and wherever we are, it’s something we can share. Besides, I’ve never received a negating response. It goes back to Long Beach Island, the Jersey shore, almost nine months ago now. The day before her family was supposed to leave was the day Gramps died. When they went to the shore after the funeral, it was a sobering ordeal, much quieter than previous holidays. I remember sitting with her watching the sunset, facing the bay. We were sitting on a wooden bench, smacking mosquitoes. She had her head on my shoulder. I broke the silence:
“It’s a beautiful sunset.”
“Especially sideways.”
I tilted my head to the side as well.
“You’re not kidding.”
“No, I know.”
Shortly afterwards we went inside. The few short days while I was there we went for walks along the beach, woke up early to watch the sun rise from the ocean’s depths, collected shells and sea glass, and held each other in the surf. I think I was far too happy in mourning, in spite of the other friend of hers hanging around, an ex boyfriend, who stayed with her longer than I did.
Driving along I refused to tilt my head. So I erased the message beyond the ellipses (…) and pushed send. It was a beautiful sunset after all.
Her response came almost instantly. When I got home I went through my text message inbox, reading the ones I saved for whatever meaning I had imbued them with.
“I miss you already.” Nov. 11. 23:51. I was just driving home from spending a day with her.
“Can I have 1 more kiss?” Nov. 14. 23:28. I had just gotten to my car. I went back to her room, happy to oblige. A substantial break occurs, both in our relationship and our text messaging, and I probably erased some more sentimental ones in my despair.
“I still miss you” March 18. 02:40. I was in Canada, visiting my mother. I still think I missed her more. I’m sure I texted so.
“I came across a kiss here with you name on it. I’ll try to save it for you.” April 1, 2003. 12:10. I was in French class.
“Could you invest it in an interest bearing account?” I wrote back. That was the night of the Tim McGraw concert. I didn’t go. She went with the same ex and another couple. She came home drunk wearing his baseball cap. I know that her and I never kissed again after that. Another month of absence and miscommunication, intended by her to give me some time, without letting me know, leads to a larger rift between us. It’s at the edge of this chasm where I stood today when the earth shook and I fell into the void.
“You can always make me smile… :-)” June 10. 16:59. Less than one week ago… I can’t remember what joke I made to deserve it, but I wish it were true now.
As much as I want to let everything that has welled up inside go, now that I’m in an empty house, I’m bound by the fact that I’m less comfortable here, than at her home, where I felt more at home than any place since my parents’ divorce. It’s gone now. I should have went to work. I’ve broken another home. And now there’s nothing I can do. I grab my shirt sleeves and stretch the garment tight across my back and the seams split. I gather the seams in my hand and I pull the shirt across my back again until the fibers are rent apart, sundered. Then I turn on my computer and cry letters and words while they’re still fresh, since tears won’t do. Should I ever give her this to read, I’ll bind it for her in that shirt.
My phone beeps beside me.
“Sideways?”
This is the second time her textual inquiry has come.
I look outside and night has fallen. I still don’t tilt my head.
“The sun has set.”
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Church Hill Sonnets (VII of VII)
Sonnet LII (Church Hill VII)
Walking back beneath the bowed boughs above,
Climbing the hill I descended amazed,
Trying to escape the beauty I razed,
Hands torn from wielding this axe with no glove,
Seeking no leaf, nor return of my dove,
And finding no sign of God to be praised,
My mechanized body has become crazed,
Tired and defeated with no faith in love.
I drop the instrument guilty of death
That I swung to fell the tree of my life
That I climbed in search of my love, my wife,
For the axe is dull and I’m out of breath.
I can no longer tread this steep incline;
Whose are these steps that are making mine?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Church Hill Sonnets (VI of VII)
Sonnet LI (Church Hill VI)
I gather my dreams from where they are strewn.
I tidy the mess I made in my haste,
Take one last look in the light of the moon,
And turn to return to my life of waste.
The portal swings open of your accord.
You pass with a smile, your family trailing,
You all are now home and I feel abhorred
Found in the branches I have been scaling
And snapped budding twigs to blossom no more;
There will be a poorer harvest this year
Unless someone tends to the limbs I tore.
I’m ashamed to have become what I fear.
Sap runs down the hilt of the axe I hold
And sticks to my hands out here in the cold.
Church Hill Sonnets (V of VII)
Sonnet L (Church Hill V)
My journey ends in your room on your bed.
To no other end but rest from my mind.
I lie, covered by the claims that I’ve said.
I sleep, toss and turn; your flannel sheets bind.
From this cocoon I will stir and awake,
Slice a current in the sea I'm swimming,
I will carve in this deception I make
A hollow to collect limbs I'm trimming.
I hear the scratching peeling paint away,
The bark, from Woofy, pawing at your door,
He whines and cries until he gets his way,
Then looking at me, falls onto the floor.
I don’t want to hold the axe in my hand
That will fell the tree of this precious land.
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