Ten and Two

On the way home I noticed you kept checking your watch and calling me sir. You slowed down at greens when you thought they'd turn yellow and stopped when the yellows had yet to turn red. You had your hands at ten and two, which I was always taught but had never actually seen. I couldn't seem to hear the outside world. It was you, and it was me.

At my corner I said thank you, started to get out but something stopped me, a breath, by you, an inhalation just before a thought. I asked you what and saw your knuckles turn, I heard leather rubbing off into your palms at ten and two. I asked again. You looked at me. A year of unsaid sayings.

Your grip was lost, your gaze went to the road ahead of you, whoever you were headed next. And I got out, not knowing if I should, but knowing that I had to. I closed the door the way my mother always asked me to, I didn't slam. And the thing about your hands placed where they're supposed to be, there's enough room for your head to fall down slowly right between them.

Gin Joint

It was an "of all the gin joints" kind of moment. The lights were bright but I saw her in the back row. She was wearing this floppy hat she loved. She had said she was going to come but I thought, giving recent circumstances, that was off the books. Apparently not.

I took my time after curtain call, knowing she'd wait in the lobby. I'd like to say my heart wasn't hot, that it wasn't in my throat, that I wasn't nervous, that I could concentrate. I can't say any of that. I took a shot and told myself I had energy and could do this and took another shot and put on my coat.

I walked out and looked around. I looked to the couches and the groups of smiling audience. I waited by the bathrooms and checked my phone. I didn't see her anywhere, no hair of hers, no floppy hat. No text that told me how much she enjoyed the show, or even that it was clear everyone was having a lot of fun up there. I had another shot and then I left.

And there she was outside, standing on the curb. I saw the hat first. Then the familiar dress. Then the handsome guy whose arm she was playfully pushing. He looked at me, whoever he was, her cue to turn around. Oh my gosh, she told me, great job, so, so great. I thanked her, he said a version of the same, I thanked him. She asked me if I wanted to get a drink, in the slow and questioning way you ask someone who's already been drinking and might want to stop.

Did I want to stop? No. But go with them? Never. I made a polite goodbye and went in a direction I knew was wrong. It was cold but I felt warm inside, and even though it was a lie, it was something.

The Getaway

If something were to happen you know where to find me. I have a bag packed—this you know—and it's in the back of the closet, just like we talked about. I gas up the car every night and it never gets more than half empty. I have maps. I have cash. I have a stellar list of music lined up for wherever we take ourselves.

Because if something happens, we'll have to get away. We'll have to take ourselves, our lives, to places unknown and set shop up there. I'd like to keep my name, I'd like you to keep yours. But I know that's not realistic. I have a list of names. I like some of them fine.

If something were to happen we'd meet right where we said we would. Time would be of the essence, time would not be on our side. Time rarely it. It so rarely is.

But after things settled I think it'd be fine. Us, you and I, we'd be fine. I could start over like so many times before. I could be just about anyone or anything, I think, if I had to. And if something were to happen, if everything goes wrong, I'm glad I'd have you by my side. It would almost be romantic, if it weren't so terrifying.

Spectacle

I looked to the sky for refinement, you told me there'd be answers there. But I've received not one in these odd fifty years, my time expanding to the bursting point. POP! goes clarity, POP! goes truth, and here I'm left with no spectacles for these remaining days. Help me to see the way, get me off my ass and out the door and make some change. I'll keep living, I'll keep grinding on, but I've done my part and asked. Now someone, somewhere, up there, all around, has to lend a hand.

Scream

There is only
so much screaming
I can do

Before

I need you
to scream

For me.

Title and Content

I'll do the title if you do the content. I'll look into the future and see what exactly you might have to say. I'll take it and condense it and distill it and I'll give your thing a name. You'll think and think and say and say and all of that, and at the end you'll scratch your head and wonder what it is you've got. And I'll take all of your words, taking from the pleading look you'll send my way. And you might think I'm adding very little. And you'd be wrong. For nowadays they will not stop to wonder at the content. If the title doesn't grab them, that's the end.

Happy and You Know It

I walk in to tell you what I really think but you look so happy. And the people around you, they all look so happy. I don't know if I could get a crowd like this around me and still keep their smiles. I think my pocketbook would be lighter and you'd have a lot of looking at watches.

So you say hi and throw your arms around me, and I say hi and thank you for inviting me. You say you're glad I could come and you say it like you mean it. And it dawns on me that you say what you mean. You seem sincere because you are, and we're not playing the same game because it's not a game at all.

And eventually I start to smile, too. And these people, they're not so bad. They're pretty good. And everyone likes everyone and everyone is happy everyone made it. They're happy, and they made it. And I leave not exactly the same, but with an idea of how I might me.

Good and Gone

And since I've gotten good at it I watch you walk away. Your stride and ponytail, your effervescent step. I close my eyes as you make the sidewalk yours and, yes, I hear you go. And, still, I stand there, and my eyes are closed. If I am nowhere near you are you still gone?

Some Hearts

"The heart wants what it wants" is the mantra of a weak man. The heart doesn't have a brain but you do, supposedly, and sometimes it needs to teach your heart a lesson. And if it will not learn sometimes you have to beat it into submission, broken though it already is. But some hearts won't learn any other way.

And don't feel bad. It'll heal. And so you will. And you'll be down this road again.

Donor

I've struggled long and hard as to what's better, gutting a building and remaking it from within or tearing it down and building one completely new. Because I've walked into remodeled libraries and houses and restaurants, and I've set foot in new churches and bookstores and restaurants. And I supposed one isn't necessarily better than the other, but I want it to be. Because the books are never in the same place for me, but they're in the same place for the kids. And this isn't where I prayed, but it's where you might. And I don't like the idea of my organs inside another living person, but if I'm dead and gone who's to say I know what's right?

The Last of the Honey

My startup disk is almost full.

I have so much more I want to say to you.

...

I think you're great wonderful pretty beautiful pretty magic magical everything

Start again. I think you're... You're... I think you are...

My startup disk is almost full.

I remember when I saw you first, so let's start there. I remember where it was, a farmers market. You were looking at zucchini and we both had bags of bread we were eating. I saw honey sticks sticking out of your jeans pocket. I thought you were a sight to see. I think you're—

My startup disk is almost full, I know, I know. I think you're marvelous. Wondrous. All those older words that we don't use much anymore, but that mean more than the ones we do. Starlight. Uncorruptable. You were a fantasy and I grasped that summer morning onto all the things I thought you were.

...

You were mine, once, briefly. I imagined I was yours. Only one bag of bread and we could share it. Fighting over the last of the honey. Zucchini, and apples, and the brightest lettuce.

...

I have so much more I want to say to you.

My startup disk is full.

Primary

When it was mine to lose and all my fault I said I never needed you. I took it out, completely on my own, as if I was the only man on earth. Prometheus is walking up that hill, but at least he's getting to the top before that boulder slides back down again. My boulder slides down right on me and here I go I'm fine. Solid mighty rock crushing my bones, making a dust far coarser than anything you'd find under these weary feet. When it was mine, I never had to call it what it was. Never had to say its name or gesture this or that. Nights were blue and mornings red and every time I saw you I saw the sun. But I couldn't tell you that, so I squinted my eyes.

Deli Woman

A woman sitting in a Jewish deli by herself. It is near three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Her purse on the table, a neutral clutch, by a cup of coffee by a plate of food. A hot open face real roast turkey sandwich, stuffing and mashed potatoes and thick creamy gravy to boot. Taking her time with her knife and fork, addressing the mountain of food with measured elegance and appetite. Steam rises from the homey plate, just like someone's mother used to make. The woman wipes the corners of her mouth with her plain white napkin, as it gets stained more and more with shades of itself.

A young server comes to the table, asking if there's anything else she can get, anything else the woman wants, is everything all right, how is everything. The sandwich half eaten, steam is subsiding, gravy congealing. A translucent yellow yellow plastic cup holds water and melting ice, a cup of coffee grows cool and cold. The woman looks at her meal and purse and the empty chair across from her. She looks up at the server whose name is Ann. She shakes her head. The coffee is freshened and the meal sits untouched. It's grown too much for her, it won't be reheated, and the check will not be paid for some time.

On Me

He stood there not knowing what to say. He'd asked about their schools and jobs and where and how they met, and did they all fly in from the same place, and how was the bride's dress and the groom's tuxedo, and what is Austin like anyway. After that it was only the piano player and the heat from the fire tornado. So he did the only thing you can do in a situation like that, and he bought a round of shots.

The great equalizer, the great friend-maker, a brief absence followed by a tray of shots was always met with heaping great howlings of joy. Then it was a night of what's your name agains and the next one's on mes. And that is exactly what happened. The cries and the laughter, the counting and slams, the Lara on the back and the three free light beers. A girl touched his arm, and touched it again and left her hand. And all this happiness took was an extra forty dollars.

Abuser

Like a beaten dog, or spouse, or almost anything, he kept going back to her. But this idea of her, a picture, framed in his mind just above his consciousness. And then no, no, he'd draw himself away, shun the thing, go over and over again in his mind the things she'd said to him not all that long ago. Stop, he'd tell himself, stop, he'd say. But he couldn't, or he didn't want to, and that's always enough. And none of t was her fault, she was no abuser, she knew very little of this. But he imagined what she might say, her look at the picture and hear it talk, telling him no, and no, and no again. Asking him to stop.

Full Circle

I see it up there watching me like a painting in a museum. Following me down the sidewalk, under construction, gravel and packed tan dirt dusting my new loafers. It's dark out and it's big and it's dolloped in the sky nearly full, and it gets me thinking.

I take out my phone, scroll to your name, hover dangerously close. Sometimes I swear my skin doesn't even touch the screen and it still goes, it might do it now, and what a time for it to happen. It's too late and I'm too foolish and I can search when I get home. It looks full though. But maybe it will be full tomorrow. Waxing or waning or who knows what.

It happened again, it always does. Practice something enough and eventually you'll get good at it. Well, I'm good at falling for unavailable girls. Someone call Gladwell and tell him I put my ten thousand hours in. Someone get me on a talk show as an expert. Someone put me in Webster's under dope.

It doesn't bother me anymore. Used to, but can't see a point in it. I could sit and whine and complain about them and me and why do I do and say the things I've done and said. Maybe I should, maybe that's growth. Growing's painful, though. I'm all right with being a stunted, love-filled, painless old man. I'll get mine eventually. Until that time, I've got plenty of laughing to do.

Box

I wait outside for half an hour before telling her I'm here. She says to come up and when she lets me in asks me what took me so long. I tell her traffic, she tells me I don't drive, I tell her I took a cab, and round and round we go.

The place is clean, the air smells sweet. Then I think it's maybe a little too clean, a little to sweet, a little too crime scene. I ask how she's been, busy, friends in town, parents, anything that might give credence to this habitat. She walks into the bedroom, her bedroom, as she tells me no. I want to follow so badly and I almost do, but I conquer my habit as she returns with the box.

The Box. The Box of Stuff. Everyone has one, sooner or later. I check through it without looking, the thing that keeps me reading on the same page forever and ever. She tells me it's all there, I tell her I know, she tells me it's all there again. And it's true. It is all there. All of it's there in this box.

I move slowly to the door while compassing with my eyes; a jacket, some shoes, anything. The sweetness is sickly at this point, the unfortunate amalgamation of pine and lemon and fresh spring and perfume. Or intentional. I see nothing. Maybe I'm not looking close enough.

The obligatory it was good to see you. The pause and then decision against the hug. The long dark of Moria back to my friend's couch. I have so much there already. And there's nothing in here I really need. And I could set it down, but I might go hurtling into the stratosphere.

Selfless

Touched by a single selfless act and filled with that newfound sense of all being right with the world, he walked to the corner store to buy a series of lottery tickets. Ten, he thought, would suffice. The numbers would be picked randomly and the odds stacked against him, although today was a day where odds didn't seem to matter much. Possibly a day, he thought, where they even seemed to be for him. And what would he do with his winnings? What sorts of good would he put forth unto the world? Those were the kinds of things that were difficult to grasp, even with his disposition and bolstered happiness. A thing that had been done for him was shifting to a thing he would be doing for himself. And to people like this, such days as these, the good ones, seem few and far between.

Palpitations

At night he would go to bed early and wake when the world was still silent. He held many of his hours during that time, using them to clean and write and iron his forlorn shirts. And then, after a productive if not altogether energetic time, he went back to bed. He didn't need energy then, that would come later.

He thought, once upon his youth, that tired was the only true way to live, running just enough on steadfast fumes. There was too much to do, too much to think, and nowhere near the minutes he needed. So the coffee multiplied, the sleeping dwindled, and our hero was left with far too few memories.

Until one day: No. He woke and saw the bedsheets barely shifted, the sign of a hard and impenetrable slumber, a sign that was becoming as commonplace as his caffeinated palpitations. He legs lagged and his skin sagged and the bags under his eyes looked like bruises. This was his lifestyle beating him up, his ass being kicked by his own bad decisions. Until he flung the sheets from the bed, screamed and screamed loudly, and made up his mind to do less. But do it better.

History Class

The bus never showed. He'd gotten to his stop at the usual time, it was unlikely he'd missed it. It began to rain and he waited across the street under some thin trees. But the bus didn't come and he got soaked. He walked back home and told his father he needed a ride to school. He liked his outfit and didn't change, wet though he was.

The halls were empty. There was usually some stray kids, older kids, without first hour milling about by lockers, but not today. The televisions were all turned on, but not to the morning announcements. It was the news, something breaking, though he didn't stop to see what it was. He got a late pass and was uninformed, and he walked into a hushed history class.

The television was on. All eyes locked on it. Thick black smoke, thick grey smoke, broken metal, people frantic and frozen and scared and dumbfounded. Two airplanes and no mistake. The lesson plan was out on hold. What implications would this have on them, the rest of the world, the rest of time? Who would do such a thing? This was something that happened to other people in other parts of the world. It did not happen here.

The tone marked the end of class and slowly students left. Teachers would be lenient towards stragglers that day. They would all be teaching the same thing, make believing they had any answers at all. And soon it was just his teacher and him, standing and watching, only a brief moment before the next hour took their desks. And together they watched the tower fall. Neither of them knew what to say. They could only watch the wreckage.

Work in Law

Sterling bought me a drink, whoever he was. I think he came with a girl someone went to school with, some girl who studied psychology. Spent the entire night wondering if people were reading into what I was saying. And me, not even bothering to think about the words that were coming out of my mouth. I don't know, maybe not, but it seems like a dangerous combination.

But he seemed stand-up enough and free drinks are free drinks. He had nothing to do with psychology or psychiatry, nothing aside from his connection to the girl, the woman, a future doctor. I thought about where they lived in relation to me. What did I study? Where have I gone?

But Sterling was here and he bought me a drink. He said he worked in law, about to start at a firm, something to do with lawyers. I asked him what he meant and he couldn't clarify, he was a paralegal and that was enough. But he was happy to have a job and he was buying the drinks. I never need more that that. He'll get his check eventually, he'll go home to his spaghetti. He'll figure out what side of the law he's really on.

I Couldn't Help but Notice

I couldn't help but notice that her belt matched her glasses and her earrings matched her shoes. I wanted so badly to tell her that I'd seen it, these little details that took her however long. Maybe she just threw them on, maybe it was by accident. Maybe she stood for hours in the store and more at home and tried combination after combination until she was struck just so.

I walked up to her and, Hi, I said. She hesitated and she said hello. I couldn't help but notice, and I spelled everything out. Oh, she said, really? She looked at her belt and her shoes, her eye scanned the periphery of her rims, the earrings she took at my word. It's really lovely, I said. She smiled and said thank you.

The light turned green, she started walking and I started walking, too. But two steps in I turned around, abrupt and swinging, and stood idle by a coffee shop until she'd gone away. I didn't want her to think I was following. I didn't want her to think I needed more from her. In a perfect world she went home and maybe late that night took off her earrings and looked at her kicked-off shoes near her closet. And then she briefly thinks of me before she washes her face or reads, and then forgets.

Somewhere I Can't See

Stuck around in a crowded room wondering if everyone's all right, wondering if they're thinking the same as me. Most people are a dime a dozen and why can't that be just as true for sympathies. I get dragged in time and time again and I think I can't be the only one who's wanting out. But I keep my mouth shut, I know better.

Jazz starts and it's coming from somewhere I can't see. I think it's live but with speaker advances you can never be too sure. A woman sings something about love over cymbal and snare. I guess it isn't such an awful place to be.

I spy her, this redhead, in an airy blouse with some airhead dope. We meet eyes when she enters but that could be anything. I'm surrounded by plants and pop art and people with jobs. Everyone seems to know someone and I'm wondering if there's something I missed. We meet eyes again, red and me. Her beau doesn't notice and it's possible neither does she.

Every song is about love. Not just tonight, but all-time. There isn't a single song that ain't about the stuff, and suddenly I understand all about sadness and suicide and why desperate people do desperate things. Or if I don't understand I sure do sympathize, and that can be just as true.

We meet eyes as I'm going to the bathroom. She's alone and she raises her eyebrows, maybe she raises something more. I try not to think too into it, I try not to think too much, I think too much, it's s problem. Her beau is at a stall and I sidle up next to him. He says he can't wait to get home, he got dragged here, he hates jazz music. That's what he calls it, jazz music. I say he's free to go at anytime. He walks out without washing his hands. I wash mine hard enough for both of us.

He's taken my advice and he's taken red with it. A guitar rains down from a corner of the room, a bass steps in, a woman croons for someone she'll never hold the same way again. And whether or not they're here is irrelevant. That kind of thing, it's always here.

Harry Fills in the Blanks

Harry got rest and consumed live cultures. He bought and read the newspaper and supported public television. He biked into town, he swam at the health club. When he began balding Harry took it in stride. Harry kept up the piano and was teaching himself how to play his grandfather's banjo. He went to church when he felt lost and kept his thoughts in a journal. Harry looked at the weather, he looked at thread counts, he looked at women on the street and looked away quickly. Harry gave his house a stiff cleaning every month and a good once-over every other week. He believed in feng shui, natural light, and a balance to things. Harry held strong views and changed them when the facts said to. He called his parents, he brought reusable bags, he had a small collection of French movie posters. When seasons changed he put away one wardrobe and took out another. When there were massacres he cried. He went to the beach alone and to the bar with friends. And as they paired off two by two, Harry walked home gracefully. Waiting for him would be two Advil, a glass of water, and a big not quite big enough for two but more than enough for one.

Strange Deals

I heard voices coming from down the stairs. I checked my clock and it blinked twelve. "Honey?" I said. Whoever spoke got quieter. I walked to the top of the stairs. "Honey?" They were muted. A light from the kitchen, a ghost to me now. I stepped back to the bed and crawled into my side. This could have fit a family. It could for another person. And then I heard the voices again, strange deals lulling me to sleep.

Clear Glass

God closes a door he opens a window, they tell me. Well it better be a big fuckin' window, with no matches or locks or anything. And I don't wanna be guessing if it's night or day, I want clean and clear glass. And to be honest I don't know why's he gotta shut the door in the first place if he opens the window anyway. Don't they all lead to the same place? We just wanna get out.

Slow Stop

She drove until there was no gas. The car slid slowly to a stop just like she thought it would. And she thought she would escape it all. But she got out and took a breath and took in her surroundings. And every sense was filled with had fumes. She couldn't escape anything.

In the Tunnels

See you in the tunnels, I said, although I knew that wasn't exactly true. They might follow for a while, they might go right along, but eventually they will lose sight of me, and I them. They'll flash their lights around and say, Where'd he go? He was here a second ago. Did you see him? Didn't you?

I'll be far ahead. Or maybe not. But I will not be seen. You don't always have to be so far ahead to be unseen, it takes less work than you'd imagine. Most of that work, in fact, is done by them. They'll slow down because they think just going is enough. It isn't. The tunnels are long, and dark, and they go on forever. Keep your light on, keep your light ahead, and keep up.

I Called for Order

I called for order but no one listened. Voices grew louder and their words grew more incomprehensible. I was in the belly of the beast and I was alone. Reason went out the window, nothing rhymes with anything, I was left scratching my head until I hit my skull. And I could not tell, as I screamed, if I got smaller or they got bigger, or if it only seemed that way. I called for order as I drowned, and they killed each other, they killed each other.

Warning

He asked me where I was going and what was there. He told me why he pulled me over, that I was going too fast. I said I hadn't realized, which was a lie. He said he was only giving me a warning and he'd been right back after he processed it. A few minutes later he did come back, gave me my licensed, and smiled. I drove a bit more careful that day.

There's another universe where I'm lying on a cold morgue slab.