Too Far Away to See

She was waiting for fireworks, not knowing that they'd already happened. She'd kept her eye to the same spot on the horizon, watching. But they were too far away to see, too far away to hear. There was a part of her that knew. Of course, she thought, why would I ever think I could see them from here? How could I? How could I?

She waited until morning. She gripped her blanket tight. And as the sun rose and daylight was a fact she told herself that was the reason. Of course, she thought, I could never see the fireworks by day. It isn't where I am. It's when I am.

How Are You Feeling

When I went it was right when SARS hit. As in, between takeoff and landing SARS became a thing. So suddenly the whole world was scared, disgusted, worried that they would be next. And what would happen when we came back?

Everyone wore a mask. Violently ill, wear a mask. Have a cough, wear a mask. Worried about either or both or anything in between, wear a mask. I got the impression some people wore masks just so they'd fit in. Everyone on their way to surgery.

We couldn't even see our parents when we returned. They whisked us into a debriefing room, took us down to face the reporters. And they poked and they prodded, "How bad is it?" "Were you scared you might catch it?" "Is anyone ill?" "How are you feeling?"

How are you feeling. We told them we felt fine. We told them the truth. How regular it was, how a crowd of white masks coming toward you was nothing to be alarmed about. But I realized, young as I was, that they weren't asking to make people feel better. They were asking to make them feel worse.

So-Called Sun

I remember you telling me that there was more to life than being unhappy all the time. That it was all a matter of perspective. The sun is always shining somewhere, some nonsense like that, all you have to do is find it. And I stand here repulsed, I really do.

What you do not understand is that for a person like me there is no trying. Trying does not enter into it. It is not through any fault of my own, I can choose it no more than I could choose to create this so-called sun you say exists. It is a fact, and one I cannot alter.

Take a drive. Read this book, it helps. You know what your problem is? Let me tell you about my day. Thinking about it that way won't help. Words of encouragement. Patronization disguised as patronage.

I'm not asking the impossible, I'm not asking the world. I'm asking that you use this sun to see things my way. To understand that there is a "my way," that there are a million more ways, that in fact most of the ways of the world are not yours. And that sometimes being unhappy is OK. And that, most of the time, it isn't what I want. Please sit with me. Please listen. Please, listen.

Shirts

Each morning he woke up staring at shirts, and each morning the alarm was set an hour early in case he stared too long. What would he do, who would he see? Would he have seen them before, and how long ago? How much time would be spent indoors, outside, in transit, in a grocery store or coffee shop and in what part of town? Would it rain? Was the risk high enough for an umbrella? Did he need anything extra, did he need an entire bag? Did he have too many shirts? Did he have not nearly enough? And eventually he thought so much about the day ahead he forgot all about the days that came before.

Emptied

Slipped on a patch of ice and down I went, and the garage can came tumbling after. My entire life in a week on the patchy driveway I shared with six other houses. Coffee grounds and pizza boxes, bottles I couldn't be bothered to recycle. Crumpled up bills and soggy paper napkins. I used so many paper napkins and never really knew it until then. All the things I'd thrown away brought up again and iced. I had to touch them, my leftovers, all those forgotten pieces, relive them in my soaked and aching hands and jettison them again. Sore on my ass, khakis stained with cold dirt, I threw a bottlecap into a pothole and wondered if it would ever, ever be fixed.

A Room After the Wedding

All she had to do was find one guy and stay in his room. "You taking me home or what?" It was as simple as that. A guy could never do it but a girl could, she could. And she had to, to save the hundred bucks. And wasn't it more fun that way, flying across the country for a weddin where you might not even have a room to spend the night? She was attractive, cute, smart, fun, a wild dancer. She could find some rented tux, some suit to take her home. Out of her comfort zone and into the fire.

The Quiet Time

After the guests have gone, the cold food's been put away, the last piece of bread, the last bit of salad. After we decide that there's vodka in there, after we decide to throw the rest of it away. After the music replays, the infomercials begin, after I've seen this one already. After today, after a week, after a whole year. The days that sneak up on you that begin again tomorrow. The early mornings and late evenings very much like this one, after the throws have been thrown and the last can wait. After I decide that enough is enough and never again and quickly so soon forget. After you make it home safe.

Time for Such a Word

When you speak of the word you say I'll hear it in silence. But in that time I know myself the best. I know what silence is, I can wrap my head around it. What I need is the word in noise, in chaos, in cacophony. To cut through the madness and bring clarity and reason. To tell me why it is so noisy, how it got that way. Until then, you keep your words to yourself. Let me enjoy my silence in peace.

Constellation

Orion's dad had a belt, too, I bet. I'll teach you to shine so right, I'll teach you to twinkle you faggot. After that how could he not light the way? How could he not be history?

He probably worked at a faraway moon near a black hole, Orion's dad. The outskirts of the galaxy, millions of miles past where most stars worked. Where only re toughest, the bluest, the most desperate of stars worked. He probably trudged to work every morning, the prospect of being sucked and collapsed into nothingness on his mind. He probably saw a lot of good stars go out that way. Imagine that thought greeting you each cosmic day.

Orion asks him too many questions. What are we made of? What do you do? Where is all of this going? And his dad gets tired, gets more tired, gets angry. When I grow up I want to be a constellation. You think you can just be a constellation? You think that's how this shit works? You have to kiss some stardust to get ahead in this universe. It's goddamn difficult, and it's difficult every day. And there's Orion, just shining and shining, growing brighter and brighter, having stories written about him. And off he goes to work, knowing that if he died no one would know for years.

If Anyone

Take me with you, she pleaded. No, he said. I don't even know where I'm going. Who knows where I'll be, what I'll be doing, who I'll want by my side, if anyone. But, surely, she said, I could be by your side until that time. Until you tell me to leave. But you see, he explained, I'm telling you to leave me now. And if you cannot now, you'll never then.

Invasion

I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was when she slept. So at peace, so natural, so herself. But then I would have to admit I was watching her. Small price to pay, I suppose, to pay her the compliment. And the invasion a small price to hear it.

Roller Rink

I never had my fun at the roller rink. So I bought it to make it fun. But after trying and trying I realized I just didn't like roller rinks. I didn't like skating, and I didn't like the people who skated. And there's nothing wrong with that. But then again, there's nothing wrong with buying roller rinks and razing them to the ground.

Crash

"Every time our lines meet I think I'm gonna crash." It was a nice thing for him to say, whoever he was, to whomever he was talking. And though I didn't recognize him from myself I could tell he meant well. I meant well. That I only had to figure things out and I had plenty of time to do it. And her line, where was it? Was I so certain I could see it at all? I was so embarrassed. I muttered something else and decided he would be who I was tonight. And she could wait, even though she shouldn't.

The Friends That They Walked in With

And his hand in hers is rough and her nails dig into his. The slightest of discomforts, familiarities, something to remember. She was there with someone else and so was he, friends, though they didn't know it at the time. When you walk in with someone you walk in with everything. There was a decision to be made, the ratio of alcohol to ice water, conversation and aloofness, things were getting complicated. And if you'd asked him how his night was going he would act like he didn't hear to buy himself some time. And she had multiple trips to the bathroom to text her best friend what she should do. And the friends that they walked in with talked and got along just fine, had things in common, said words at the same time, made plans to meet up on another night. And the music grew louder, and the air was hot, and so much was said with so little, the smallest look, and that's what they were afraid of.

We're All Rudolph Really

There's a moment early on in Rankin/Bass's Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Clarice, a young doe, tells Rudolph he's cute. He cries out "She think I'm cute! She thinks I'm cuuuuute!" and flies off the ground. That is love and adolescence. That is it perfectly encapsulated.

And then he lands, and moments later the dirt falls off his nose and everyone laughs at him. Rudolph, with his stupid red nose. Look at him. What a loser. What a joke. And what a perfect encapsulation, too.

What Are the Odds

"See, the problem," he said, "is that this city is filled with too many people who went to college together. They have their friends, they're keeping their relationships, because they don't know they're terrible."

"Well," she said, "that's not exactly fair. You don't know that they're all terrible."

"Think about your college boyfriends."

"'K."

"Do you still wish you were with any of them?"

"God no."

"So—"

"But," she said, "you can't apply that to everyone. Each relationship is different."

"Ew," he said. "Gross that you said that."

"Agreed."

"Think about the person you were. Are you that person now? I know I'm definitely not."

"I guess I'm not either," she said. "But neither were they. The boyfriends. They're probably all changed now, too."

"OK."

"So wouldn't it make sense to stay in it and grow together?"

"No one wants to grow together when you're twenty. I couldn't care less about growing when I was twenty. Did you care about growing when you were twenty?"

"Well..."

"No, of course you didn't. You know what you did care about?"

"What...?"

"Say it. Come on, say it."

"...I cared about sex—"

"She cared about sex, ladies and gentlemen!"

"But that's included in the growth! That's not a separate part. You want all parts growing."

"Ooh, yes indeed you do."

"Ew," she said, "shut up."

"OK, so growing," he said, "that's fine, I'll agree with you, OK, I'm all for growing. But to decide to grow with someone at age twenty, before you've really seen anything or done anything or gone anywhere is stupid. And not only stupid, but a disservice, it's a disservice to you and your partner."

"I never liked the word partner."

"Yeah," he said, "neither did I."

"But what if that's the person you're meant to be with?"

"The odds of that are so, so, so, so small."

"But they exist."

"Well, of course they exist," he said. "They're odds, they exist everywhere for everything. But those odds... You don't know the world. You think you do. But you don't. And the you find out that you never really can. You're still a kid, and staying with the girl from your philosophy class who you made out with at some frat row party, because you like the same music, and you're both staying in the city, and you're both from the Midwest. It's a foolish way to live your life."

"Yeah, but that's what you are at twenty," she said. "A fool."

"It's just... It's a big city. And there's so many people. And everywhere you look someone's holding someone's hand. And it's a difficult thing to break into, you know?"

"Yeah. Well. Here," she said. "I'll hold your hand."

Me to a Father

I walked over to the escalator. There were two men in yellow vests standing in front of it. An orange sign I didn't make out. "This thing safe?" I asked.

"I'd put my kids on it," the mustached one said.

"Ha," I said. "Do you like your kids?"

He looked at me. "You're not a parent, are you?"

I looked at him, and took the stairs.

Great Big Gordon

"What a fat load that Great Big Gordon is." Dara watched Gordon dragging through the hallway, a Jansport strap sliding off of one shoulder. "This guy's a heffalump."

"A tubby-tubby-two-by-four," added Jennalee, and all the girls snickered in agreement and chanted it as he walked past. "Tubby-tubby-two-by-four! Tubby-tubby-two-by-four!" Gordon kept his head down. He knew better than to look where he was going.

He was the kid who read a book as he walked to class with a backpack filled with everything he'd need for the day. His locker was empty, save for a few loose papers and some crumbs from a month-old snack. Stopping there meant stopping in between Chelsea Albany and Mark Finster, listening to them talk, watching them kiss, because he couldn't help himself. And when he wasn't reading he ran to class. And he wore headphones. The kids wondered and whispered about what he was listening to—

"probably his parents having sex"

"probably weird nature noises"

"probably some terrible song that he played himself"

"I bet he plays a wooden flute"

—but if they could hear it they would realize it was nothing. Really, it was easier for him if he wore the headphones. It was easier for them.

Gordon was large for his age, he was hefty. At some point during the middle of last year an awful boy named Kyle referred to him as "Great Big Gordon" (after commenting about his extra pizza slice at lunch) and the name stuck. Perhaps it was the alliterative g sound. Perhaps it was the sledgehammer cruelty of children. But when Gordon went home he was given things like chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and it wasn't his fault. Is a child supposed to say no when asked if he wants pop with dinner?

Gordon got good grades. Gordon played video games. Gordon played the clarinet at home. Sometimes his mouth got dry because he'd breath through it too much. Sometimes he had nightmares about sinking into the ground, all the way through the earth, and when he'd emerge on the other side he would be the only person there. He asked his parents for a dog. "What, are you gonna walk him?" Gordon drew pictures before he went to sleep. He wrote stories. One was about a boy, exactly like him in every way.

Kyle bumped into him in the hall, hard enough to knock him down. "Watch where you're going, Great Big Gooorrrrrdooonnnnn!" Kyle laughed. Mark was with him and he laughed, too. Gordon had wanted noise-canceling headphones but they were too expensive.

His next class was English. They were reading Romeo & Juliet. He was the first one there and saw all the character names written on the chalkboard. They were supposed to sign up to read a part if they wanted. He had practiced reading aloud in his room the night before. He wanted to know the words going in, he wanted it to make sense. Gordon took the chalk in his hand, rubbing it between his thumb and finger, the point of almost breakage.

The teacher, his favorite, Mrs. DiFranco, walked into the room. "Ah, young Gordon," she said, with her large boots and her long scarf. "Who are you going to be?"

Outstretched

And the way his hand outstretched, implying I needed any help at all. Just five spread fingers there laughing at me, the incredulous extra push forward they made when I didn't take them. And maybe I wanted to be on the ground, maybe I was happy there, maybe that's where I belonged. And who was he to say I needed to get back up. And what was this sudden fascination people had with helping anyway. When did the world become such a bright and shining place. When was everything everyone did worthy of praise and admiration. And when did I get to be like this, hurt and lonely on a cold hard floor. His hand still asked for mine. It was not going anywhere. I hated him for that.

Droplets

I thought that glasses would protect my eyes. That ther elements would knock against them, be disheartened. That they would offer some sort of protection. But the truth is they are like cages. Trapping rain droplets, specks and bugs, debris and air. And then there's no way for anything to get out, and I poke and prod at my eyes as if there were nothing there. The scratches, some, must be my fingernails, even though that probably isn't true.

There have been times where I've been swimming, and coming up for air I open my eyes. And for a moment everything is clear. The droplets sharpen, they make everything so clear. And for a moment I believe I can see. But then I blink and everything is changes. The world is the blur it once was, it's how it always is.

Overheard on Birds

"Birds are very strange. The way they stand is very strange. Have you ever watched them walk? It's weird.

...

Birds also can't control their sphincters. That makes them as light as possible. That's why they shit on everyone from the sky. I don't think they're going to want shoes.

...

I'm not paying for that. I will cut your funding.

...

It's not that I don't like birds. I'm opposed to shoes for birds. Those are two entirely different things.

...

No, I haven't read 'The Lorax' in a long time. And I've never watched the movie. Maybe I'll do that tonight.

...

Oh. Well, maybe I'll watch a different movie then. That sucks. I like 'The Lorax.'

...

Sure.

...

Hi, Kevin!

...

Oh. You got me. Your Kevin voice is pretty good."

Before You Get Hit by a Car

"Hello?"

"Cassie, hi, it's me, it's, uh, Jordan." I forget that we all know who's calling now.

"Hey, Jordan, what's up?"

"Um, I just, uh, I just almost got hit by a car—"

"Oh my god!"

"—I think—?"

"Oh my god, are you OK?"

"Yeah. Well, I mean, I'm talking on the phone."

"Oh, right."

"Yeah. So, um..."

"Yeah?" I'm out of breath, I'm dizzy, I think I'm dizzy, I'm impulsive and rash and without plan. "You... sure you're OK, Jor?" I love it when she calls me Jor. I'm not OK. Maybe I am.

"Yeah, no, yeah, it's just—I'm fine. Really, I am."

"OK," she said, "good."

"It's just a thing like that... I mean, it really came close to hitting me, Cass, like, really close."

"It sounds awful."

"And, uh... I mean, I guess I don't know what would've happened had it hit me, you know, I don't know if I would've broken some... legs, or worse, you know..."

"Yeah."

"Or, like... died. Right? I mean, I could've died."

"Right."

"Potentially."

"Was it going that fast?"

"It was going really fast."

"Oh my god."

"So anyway, I..." Just take a deep breath and get it over with. You've been pulling on this bandage for years. "Anything could happen, you know? At any time. You can be crossing the street and... bam." Nothing. Silence. "And after I crossed the street, and almost went bam, I wanted to..." breath, "call you and say that you... you mean a lot to me." Close enough. "And that's the kind of thing you tell someone before you get hit by a car."

More nothing. More silence. And then.

"That's really sweet, Jordan."

If only I could see how she was saying it.

"Yeah. Well. Couldn't hurt, I figured."

If only I hadn't waited so long.

"Yeah."

If only.

"I gotta run now, actually—"

"Oh, oh yeah, sure—"

"Sorry."

"No, no, no, it's fine, yeah. Yeah."

"But uh..." She could say anything. She could say absolutely anything in this moment. "Thanks for calling," she chose. "I'm glad you're OK."

"Ha. Yeah," I say. "Me, too."

A Little Filth

It's a smell I only know as "my unwashed head." My nose burrowed deep inside my winter hat. I know of no other place it exits. But if I smelled it anywhere else, somehow I would know. I'd think, Ah yes, that's my head, all right, that's my unwashed skull and hair.

They say—or, well, I remember being told—that you can't notice your own scent. Each of us, clean, has our own odor, our own neutral, and it can be quite difficult, if not impossible, to pick out your own. But as soon as you add a little filth there is no mistaking it. Yourself. Or, that's what I've found. Yes, some combination of the dirt and the skin and the sweat and the fibers keeps my coming back for more.

I don't spend all day at my desk smelling my old hats. I'm not groping my musk in the bathroom. I am simply trying to understand what makes me me, to become better acquainted with all the things that I am, the inside and the out. Surely I cannot be alone in that. Surely you, too, have slid a finger in between your toes, a shirt sleeve under your nostril, and thought, There I am.

Buddy

I wake up and he's on my chest looking at me. Feed me, he's purring. So I get up and feed him.

Minutes later he's on my morning paper. I'm reading about the gallery I won't make it to, trying to put together half sentences he's blocked.

Black coffee, the bathroom, his paw under the door.

Trying on ties. This one? No. How about this one? Next. How about now? Yeah, that's the one. Now stay home. Can't, buddy, I've got work to do.

What would he say if he could answer the phone? Does he like being left alone all day? Do I?

He's waiting by the mailboxes when I get home. Starts to dart in front of my car. I slam on the brakes. Was there a bump?

Open the door. There he's waiting. Jumps up onto my lap What took you so long? Slowly, slowly, I drive to the garage. Feed me, he's purring. Feed me, I say.

Profile

She works in marketing. Her name is Maggie and she works in marketing. Maggie the marketer likes wine. After a hard day of marketing Maggie likes to go home and have a glass of wine (or six!). She goes home and has wine and her dog is also there. The dog is cute and she loves it more than anything. Dogs are so much better than boyfriends. Boyfriends might want wine, and although the dog might also want wine Maggie doesn't have to give it any. She wants all the wine for herself. It was a hard day of marketing.

Maggie likes adventures. She likes shenanigans. She might even be looking for a partner in crime (she is!). She is a laid back girl who likes to laugh, have fun with her friends and family, and can keep up with you when it comes to sports. She may even like a rival team! She lifts, and hangs out with her girlfriends, and has traveled but would love to travel more. She has a serious case of wanderlust. She is trying to get to thirty countries before turning thirty. She is on number twenty-four (glasses of wine, that is!). She is also a whiskey girl.

R.I.P. Bennie 1992-2013 you are home now she will never forget you.

Maggie thinks people shouldn't take life too seriously. Maggie thinks you should be yourself because everybody else is already taken. Maggie thinks that if you can't stand her at her worst then you don't deserve her at her best. Maggie thinks you should be the change you want to see in the world. Maggie thinks she was born to run. Maggie thinks she's just Jenny from the block. Maggie thinks she donut know and she donut care. Maggie thinks Bueller... Bueller...?

She is blessed to have some of the greatest and craziest friends in the world and she doesn't even know where she'd be without them. Sometimes they go out and party and sometimes they just like to stay in and chill. Sometimes she chills by herself (unless you count the wine). Life is short and precious and you can't afford to waste any of it. Maggie is classy, sassy, and a bit smart assy. She has one of those black dresses where part of the front is mesh and she likes to wear it out with her girls. Marketing may be hard sometimes but it's worth it to know that she's making a paycheck.

Maggie takes care of herself. You have to work hard if you want to play hard! She runs, lifts, and is looking for someone to run and lift with her. She likes to do yoga at the planetarium. She looks up at the stars and planets and thinks that she should get a new pair of leggings with stars and planets on them.

Don't freak out, those little boys are just her nephews. Although she is a proud dog mama. He's so cute and adopted!

Suburban raised, city living, wine pizza skiing plane music wine sun swimming baseball basketball football wine dog dog wine dog wine burger taco wine.

Maggie doesn't know. She has no idea. And neither does Maggie. And neither does Maggie. And neither does Maggie. And neither does Maggie.

Take Part

He plays along. He's got nothing better to do than to eat cereal and watch bake-off reruns. They're a world apart, it's easy to type a few letters and seem interested. He doesn't care enough to not take part and that, he has found, is the key. It's not that you need to care enough to do it, you need to not care enough not to. And so he can type in the words and say what she wants and maybe he even gets something out of it. Happiness? No. Satisfaction? Not quite. But it's something, something is there. And he realizes that, for better or worse, he'll have to do it again in order to put a name to it.

Waiting

Every morning I'm waking up colder. The weather is changing, my heat doesn't work. It's something I prefer, going to bed cold, piling blankets on top. But the blankets aren't working. The warmth doesn't come. It doesn't stay like it used to. It leaves little by little every night. And so begins the waiting. Because there's only so many blankets I own. Only so much heat that comes out. Only so many layers I can wear before they all start splitting. And so I will wake up colder and colder, next to a side of the bed still cool.

A Most Unfortunate Infinity

Surely someone would have said something by now. Surely I would have noticed. But people are nice, and often too nice, so a thing like this might slip through the cracks. They may push it down.

A spot. A balding spot. Right there at the back of my head, right where they are on all the other heads of all the other sad men. I spent so much time worrying about whether I was losing hair from the front I didn't even think to check for the back. I didn't think about the back at all. Hoisted!

I grab my wife's hand mirror and lock the bathroom door quietly, so as not to arouse suspicion. I stand in front of the vanity, hold the mirror in back, creating a most unfortunate infinity. Spots and spots wind on forever, forming a trail, mocking my heredity, leading to my shame.

Perhaps it isn't really there. Perhaps it is only the place where my hair parts, the place where the hairs naturally split up and go their separate ways. Quickly I part other sections, getting them in the mirror as best I can. But none of them, no, none of them look as thinned as that damned spot.

Did she know? Had she noticed? Was she, too, trying to tell herself it wasn't there? Was she looking for a way to break it to me? Was she wondering why I hadn't said something about it? Was she really that blind? Did she care about me at all?

I put the mirror back in the drawer, the brush and hair ties on top as they were. I am going about this as if I've done something wrong. And though, of course, I had no choice in the matter, I can't help feeling it. I can't feel any other way.

That Kind of Night

Notes and outgoing calls. Things people said and things I thought of. Too many texts, too many true things. That was the kind of night it was. Not the kind you plan for because can you really? You're out with a couple friends and suddenly you've met the owner of a Mexican restaurant and he's passing out tequila shots. Not the kind you shoot, the kind you sip, the good stuff. And you always have one in your hand because he keeps passing them out, his restaurant is doing very well. Flashes of things you said to pretty girls, you liked her coat, it was like a cool Santa Claus coat, and your friend said you're blowing it but that's all you wanted to say. Can't a guy compliment a girl on her coat without wanting anything in return? The place has changed, it's not how you remember it, the music is louder, the people are more. Everything starts to wash together and suddenly you're in a loft in SoHo. The car home is going to cost a lot, you didn't attract anyone and you're not crashing here, you think these guys, they might like you a little too much. But it's OK, everyone is living and alive. And if you keep drinking water and stay up just a little longer you might not feel like dying. You might even see the sun rise.

Good Things and Bad

Good things come to those who wait.

Sometimes.

Sometimes good things come to those instantly. Sometimes the people aren't waiting. Sometimes they wait forever inside an average life. Sometimes good things happen to very bad people. They make them happen. They want them more. Maybe they don't.

Then bad things come to those who wait. Bad things come at a moment's notice. Bad things happen to good people, bad people, precautions or no. Badness does not discriminate. It likes to fuck with people.

Preparation only goes so far. Living a good life only does so much. Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans? No. Life is you making those plans. Life is what happens. And you cannot try to find the meaning. You must make your own. That's the real power, the power we don't always realize we have.

We're part of the universe. It's easy to forget.

Cold Earth

It's the first time I've been in a bed in months. It's harder than I remember it being. You think the ground is hard, the cement, the cold earth. There can be nothing harder than someone else's mattress, someone else's sheets. A unnatural and more personal way of reminding you you don't belong.