Stolen Breakfast

You can't be surprised if something stolen doesn't work. Or you can be surprised, but you cannot be upset. You have no rights in this scenario. I took the milk off the neighbor's front steps and cursed her name when it was spoiled. It ruined my coffee, ruined my cereal.

I wasn't supposed to steal the milk. She was supposed to be there. I was supposed to be caught in the act. This is how conversations are started. If I could only make her laugh.

But I saw that car parked out front and knew her morning schedule would be off. I wasn't going to be caught doing anything. Except throwing out my breakfast.

To Make Her Stay

"You'll be sorry," she told him. "You are. You are sorry."

He bowed his head to her. "I know," he said. "I know I am. I know I always will be."

She was in the doorway. "Do you?"

His head lifted. "Yes," he told her. "Of course."

It was enough to make her stay.

Sharper Still

I'd like to write the Great American Something, doesn't have to be a novel, doesn't have to be particularly long, but I'm afraid that the only thing I'll produce in the end is a bloodied sheet of paper because I cannot stop sharpening my pencil.

Grenko

Grenko, my old friend, took bottle after bottle of the bad liquor, one under his arm and one in each hand.

"Why must we have the bad liquor?" I asked Grenko. "We can afford something better, can't we?"

"It's tradition," was all he said.

It was, but still it made little sense to me. Tradition is the hurdle of common sense. "But Grenko," I said, "remember how unpleasant it is? The burn, the taste? Why must we make things more unpleasant than they need to be, if we have the power to do otherwise?"

He looked at me with such fact that I was a boy again. "It's tradition," he said, and we left.

No Signs of Life

It looked the way I thought an art studio would look. Big layout, big light, splotches of paint and dust leavings everywhere. Small kitchen area, small bed area, small living area. And where I presumed a dining would went, or should go, there was my stool and the sculptor's pole.

"Have a seat right over there," he told me. I'd answered his ad only the day before. He was looking for models, anyone, male, female, young, old, it didn't matter. No pay, but we got to keep the bust. I figured it would be something different.

I sat down and he got to work. He cut slabs of clay from a giant block and started slapping them on. It was fairly impressive, being able to see a head start to form after just a few large pieces of clay. But there it was, there was I. Several feet behind the sculptor was a mirror, much taller than floor length, that rested against the wall, and every now and then I caught a glimpse of his masterful fingers. With just a push, a pull, a smudge, a smear, he brought to life the curve of my nose, the dent of my ear, the troublesome smirk I try to hide.

He worked with alacrity and precision that it was strange to see him suddenly stop, perplexed, gazing first at me and then upon my clay visage, back and forth. He continued his work.

"Are you from Nebraska?" he asked me.

"No..." I replied. What an odd question. "Why do you ask?"

"Ah. It's just that I know a couple people from Nebraska, and you all have the same dead look behind your eyes."

I wasn't sure what to say. He didn't seem to be making a joke. He was, in fact, quite serious, the most serious he was all afternoon. But he kept working, found other imperfections over which he could exercise some control I suppose.

A few more pieces stripped away with various tools, another couple of hair slabs added and coiffed, and he stopped again. I let some time go by. He was staring at the head, but didn't seem to be looking at it.

"Is that it?" He didn't answer me. "Are you done?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm done. I'm... I'm sorry."

Strange, that he should be apologizing to me. "For what?"

"It's not exactly complete. But it's as complete as I can do. But I'm afraid I can't let you take it away."

"Oh," I said. The fact that I could take the bust away with me was what prompted me to answer the ad in the first place. "Well, may I look at it?" He took a breath in, and then nodded, solemnly it seemed to me, and walked away.

I saw the reflection of my clay face there in the mirror. I dismounted the stool to get a closer look. And then I saw. That he had put the small clay pieces for my eyeballs, but gave them no retinas, no pupils, no signs of life. Just small, grey, smooth almonds. I looked to the sculptor. His lip was quivering. He was lost somewhere. I looked back to the bust, taking in myself, the curves, the dents. My smirk and my empty eyes, making me look like something not of this world.

Time Flies

His father smiled.

"What?" the son asked.

"You look good with that cigar in your mouth. A little too good."

"Oh." He tried to hide his smile but couldn't.

"No, it's OK, it's OK," his father told him, "it's good. Just don't tell your mother." He promised not to. "And don't make a habit out of it." He promised that, too.

There was something that had been on his mind for years.

"Do you remember," he asked his father, "when I was nine, and we were up north. We were at the end of the dock, and you asked if I wanted to try it?"

His father chuckled. "No. Sounds like something I'd do though."

"I wanted to, but I was so nervous that you asked me, so I just said, 'No,' and ran back to the cabin." They shared a laugh. His father closed his smiling mouth tightly.

"Time flies."

He watched his son try again to blow a smoke ring. The boy was getting better.

"It sure does."

The Old World

The old man had a yearly book sale open to the public, so there was no reason for the boys to break in. But they figured they wouldn't be allowed into any part of the house, only the library (which they heard was on the first floor right by the side entrance) and maybe a couple of hallways. So, really, they had no choice.

He was a recluse, the old man, whatever his name was. A boogeyman, shut up in his giant yellow brick home, set amongst overgrown brush and tall, thinning trees. Stories about him circulated through the monkey bars: "I heard he murdered his family and they're in the basement." "I heard he murdered his family and he ate them." "I heard he murdered his family and skinned them and then used the skin to cover all his old books, and that's why he has those book sales. He's getting rid of the evidence!" "I heard he built the house with his own two hands." "I heard he's over a hundred!" "I heard his house used to be an insane asylum and then when they shut it down he refused to leave."

Indeed, it did look something of an insane asylum, or a least a fifth grader's idea of one. It was not homey in the slightest, certainly didn't look like any other home in the otherwise upper-middle class neighborhood. The yellow brick was faded and stained, and the structure was rectangular so that it resembled a brick itself. What few windows there were were tall and thin, not much more than six inches across. There were three pipes, hardly chimneys, that let out a constant stream of faint, pale smoke. A narrow gravel road led to all of this, and it could let one car go one way, or one the other. No cars seemed to go either way, however, and the only automobile in sight of the place was a rusted out Oldsmobile. No one ever saw anyone coming or going, save the annual book sale. Which is why our boys planned their intrusion.

It was the last day of school. The report stated that Mitchell, the slightly older of the two, had convinced his friend, Robbie, that the break-in should happen and that it should happen that night. Robbie's house was only a few blocks away, so Mitchell told his parents he was sleeping over, and after several Coca-Colas and the sound of the parents' door closing the two boys sneaked out. They dressed all in black and brought one small blag with two flashlights and various tools they thought they might need. And, of course, a camera.

Mitchell said Robbie picked the lock, and Robbie said Mitchell picked it. Each described the other as the picking artist, but they both took turns trying to open the door as it was quite stuck even when unlocked. But after much picking and prying and pulling the boys ended up inside, just as they wanted to. Their flashlights revealed that the library was in fact right next to the side entrance, and it was filled to bursting with books. Novels, tomes, dictionaries, encyclopedias, stacks of old newspapers and National Geographics, political biographies and architectural manuals. Books about frigates, fly-fishing, gerrymandering, Japanese landscaping, the Cold War, all the wars the boys had learned about from school and their fathers plus many more of which they had never heard. Maps, atlases, made from a time when people thought the world was something else. Framed photographs of semi-nude beauties, black and white. There was even a globe that revealed bottles of liquor resting in the Southern Hemisphere. The boys had to hand it to the old man. It was impressive.

It was all they had time to explore. Mitchell said Robbie lit the match, Robbie said it was Mitchell. None of their parents or friends smoked and neither boy had ever been seen smoking, and if they had no one stepped forward to say so. But there was a match, and a cigarette, and carelessness around a map of the old world. Each boy suffered burns on his hands trying to put out the flames. If only either of them had thought to knock the fire to the floor and stamp it out. But that thought never occurred to them, and it only spread. Those crisp and tender parchments, the dry and bound leather, it all lights up rather quickly, each book handed off the flame to another. And before they knew it the smoke was multiplying and they couldn't breathe, were coughing, were light-headed, were out the door, slamming it behind them, were running with unknown terror back to the temporary safety of Robbie's home.

No one has rebuilt in the lot where the yellowed sanitarium stood. The overgrowth has continued to grow and grow, making the neighborhood a bit more wild. Some residents remember, but the newer ones drive and walk by without much knowledge or recognition. The children, though, their stories still continue to make their rounds: "I heard they were getting back at the old man for touching them." "I heard it was a dare!" "I heard they didn't think anybody would miss him." "I heard the guy set the fire himself! He just wanted someone else to take the blame. He was a crazy old man."

Snow Falls in August

When the luck runs out, when the wallets are empty and the bottles are dry, when the sun doesn't seem like it's ever going to set. When the hawks, they're circling, and they're coming more and more, when the horizon seems a little higher than it was a minute ago. When we've run for so long we have no other choice but to run faster. When the cops are asking about you, and they know I know something, but they have no choice but to let me go. When you're waiting by the telephone, waiting for the ring that you were told would come an hour ago. When food has no feel. When the bottles are still dry and we're a hundred pounds wet. When you've forgotten every other name but mine, and I've forgotten every other name but yours. When I cannot bear to look at you because it's too real. When cats chase dogs, snow falls in August, and colors are inverted, sending us through some acid trip universe. When our shoes fall apart and strip themselves from our feet, but it doesn't matter because we wore two pairs. When I help you stitch your wounds, and taste your blood when you're not looking. When I saw you do the same. When we're screaming at each other, and it lasts all night, and it lasts all year, when we don't think we're going to ever wake up. When there seem to be more tears than raindrops, when everything turns red, when I know that people can hear. When the children ask what's wrong, and when a plane seems like the only answer. When everything empty becomes full and everything full becomes empty, when I look at our bedroom and see only furniture. When they're isn't a cloud in the sky. When there is only silence. When I know the feel of your hair better than my own, when the cracks in your skin become words on a page. When safety isn't an option anymore, and lies become a little too easy. When the laughter strikes, when the windows shatter, when we're finally home. When the road rises up to meet you, just like they said it would. When we never let us go.

Neutralizer

I'll fix your oven. I'll come over and see what's what. I'll even drink your lemonade. I'll tell you what went wrong and where, and what you can do next time so you don't need a guy like me again. I'll put my own self out of business, that's how much I like you.

I could take your dog for a walk, too. If you needed somebody to do that. Dogs, they're not like cats, you gotta let them out and about. So if you're busy (and I know how busy you can get), give me a call. I'm not doing much of anything these days.

You've got cats, too? Do they all get along? Never mind, I'll feed those. I don't have to walk those, do I? I saw a woman walking a cat once. The wrong creature was being pleased. You gotta be careful about what you do these days, who you're really doing it for.

Let's see here, what else, what else... Dust! You got dust? I can get rid of that for you. Also grass, I can cut that. You need it mulched? You got a compost bin? Let me get you a nice compost bin. We're gonna make sure people around you know you care about the world.

You do care about the world, don't you? If you don't, please don't tell me. Let me think you do. Maybe that will be enough.

In fact, it's probably best not to tell me much about you at all. I've built you up so high anything you tell me, no matter how beautiful, will bring me down. I'm not proud of this. It simply is.

OK. This is what I think we should do:

Tell me the worst thing about yourself. Your deepest, darkest, worst thing about yourself. The one thing you always said you would take to your grave. The one thing you never told even your best friend in the entire world. The one thing you didn't even write in your journal, you were too afraid it would be found out. Tell me that one thing. You can trust me. I know you don't, but you can. I promise. Tell me that one thing and I will hate you for it. I will go away and hate you, alone, quietly, and bring you down piece by piece. But even this hatred, strong though it may be, will not be enough to actually bring me to hate you. I won't even dislike you. You will simply not be as magnificent as I thought you to be. Then, and only then, tell me all about you. Tell me every other thing. And I can build you back up, piece by piece, into what you deserve to be. Maybe you will get as high again. You probably will. You will probably only get higher and higher. All you have to do is trust me.

After that, I do not know. We can figure things out from there together. That's the point of this whole thing anyway. The together.

I will tuck you in at night. Read you a story. Sing you a song. Sing to you all through the night, until the sun comes up, until your eyelids rise. You will always hear nothing but music.

A Long, Hard Day

It had been a long journey. It's a fairly lengthy drive anyway—about twelve hours—but I never mind it. Even as a kid I liked long car trips. And I like making this one on my own; stopping only when I want, eating too many greasy burgers, singing along to whatever. I like that time alone.

Only this time was a bit different. I planned to get going by eight, knowing full well I wouldn't leave before nine. But the night before some things had happened. I can't get into the specifics right now. Well, I can, but I guess I don't want to. Something... OK, something finally happened between us, but only right at the last minute. So I thought that our one last night together would turn into something special. It didn't, not really, but that's neither here nor there. We were all sitting together, the eight of us, and I kept waiting for her to say good night. I wanted to walk her to her room was the thing. And pretty soon it's eleven, it's midnight, it's one and it's two, and I've got to get up and get going in the morning, I still have some packing to do. My friends and I are having a good time, drinking and reminiscing, it's rare that we're all together in the same place at the same time. But it's getting to the point where enough's enough already.

Anyway, one by one people start peeling off, saying goodbye, heading out. But still she sticks around. It's four in the morning by the time she finally gets up to make an exit, and I find some excuse to leave with her (even though I'm sure everybody already knows). I walk with her, make some foolishly ill-timed confession that I'm not even sure was true, but it's not reciprocated anyway so it doesn't matter. It's doesn't kill the goodbye, but it sure taints it. I leave feeling like a putz. I finally get to bed at five. I get up at nine. I leave by eleven. And I'm exhausted.

Which wouldn't be a problem had it not been for the storm. Twelve or so hours gets stretched into fifteen. There's snow and wind and the sun sets early, and every thing just makes every other thing worse. Had it not been snowing, had it not been windy, had I left just a couple hours earlier and caught more of that sun, I wouldn't have been so anxious and sore and unapologetically curt.

I pull up outside my house and I see her right away. I see a figure, that is, and when I get out with my bag and start heading toward my door I see that it's a woman. Sitting on a chair on my front porch, a tattered rolling suitcase beside her, making herself right at home. Her eyes are closed. She doesn't see me coming.

"Can I help you?" I startle her awake.

"Oh, I was just resting," she answers, in a tone recognizing she isn't wanted.

"Uh-huh."

"I'm just weary. It's been a long walk."

"Well, you know, this isn't your home, and there are other places you can go. I've had a long, hard day and I don't really feel like coming home and dealing with you right now. It's not my job. Yeah?"

"I'll leave soon."

"You'll leave now. Please go."

I don't know if it was words, but she was holding back something. Maybe she was waiting for me to apologize. But when it was clear I hadn't the slightest intention of that she stood up, took hold of her suitcase handle, and slowly walked away. I went back to the sidewalk and watched her go down the street. I'm not sure why, maybe to make sure she was actually leaving, that she wasn't going to hide out a couple houses down and then come back after I went inside. It had stopped snowing by now, and for the first time I realized how bitterly cold it was. There was no snow, no wind, only the frigid, indifferent air moving in and around and through everything. Every few yards a streetlamp would illuminate her, proving she was still there.

One Night in Hollywood

"Put everything out on the lawn, including the wife. Go inside and have a nice long cry."

"Are milk and cookies a viable dinner option at 11:30? Good, because it's happening."

"You can always think of a reason to poison somebody. But a justifiable reason? Probably not."

"I snorted lines of fire in a canoe."

"When I burp it tastes like California."

"I have no appetite at all. Ice, pepper, and mustard."

"I love you dude, you're my bro, but I had to fuck your girlfriend."

"I'm sure of a lot of things but there's one thing I know—I know nothing."

"Not enough things are real."

"I used to feel so misunderstood until I saw iPod commercials."

"Everyone's the same height on a bed."

"Who you talking to? Who you talking to now? Oh, slippery slope..."

"We only go to church because my grandma thinks so."

"Not a big deal, Neal. Ugh, Neal, I hate him."

"That'll getcha far in the black market."

"I hope I like drinking this much tomorrow."

"You look at him the way I look at you. And I know the way I look at you."

"But you read. I mean I'm not talking to an idiot."

"They're ants! They have bird brains!"

"Four isn't that much under than five."

"This guy's a heffalump."

"No, when you love someone you can't get hard for anyone else. At least that's what it's like for me."

"He's doing all right. Doing the same thing everyone else is doing I guess."

"Get your icy hand off me."

"We're all unhappy. We're alive aren't we?"

Numbers and Numbers

Looking through name after name after name I start to get the sense that that's all these are. Names. Numbers and numbers. Not friends, not even acquaintances. But I'm holding onto them for some reason. Holding onto them for a reason like tonight, when I have to make myself scarce. They were supposed to come in handy, solve a problem, not create another. But perhaps I'm overthinking things.

I stop on one, and then another, another. I've reached out but hit nothing but silence and recorded messages. I've been doing this a good few hours now, and it's beginning to become depressing. Not in a deep and true and sad kind of way. But in a concerning way all the same.

And what if I were to call the wrong name? Making someone uncomfortable, getting laughter in return. What then? I wonder if I would delete the number then. I wonder if I would even hang up. Or if I would stay, hanging, hoping and convincing that, yes, in fact we are that good of friends. And what about my comfort? Doesn't that matter? Couldn't they be a bit more considerate?

When the time comes, and you're talking to yourself about a hypothetical situation, and it's getting you upset, and none of this really matters, that's when you head out on your own. Making new friends, finding a place where you can talk. Making your way slowly, slowly back home.

Circuit Board

I slide the window open and see the yellow-spotted grid, that circuit board below. The past's vision of what they thought the future might be. What would they have to say about it now? Would they speak a word? Would they be too dumbfounded? The man next to me smacks down almonds, following each with a force of wind through his loose lips, some sort of horse-noise. And as the wheels descend upon the tarmac I only think about how traversing this country by horse, now that would be something. There is no romance left in these giant metal birds I think. There is only entitlement and unwanted sounds, unwanted smells. Disconnect. But I suppose it does give you the view. Perspective. So that you can learn things as I have learned. Have these thoughts knocked from you as you and your fellow strangers come crashing down upon this lonely city.

So Lucky as I

Was the lightning woke me up. Great flash but no sound, dream of blackness then instant bright. Walk to the car and no umbrella means I forwent bathing. Only had one change of clothes anyhow. Drove through rain thick and thin that I might see you. Twenty, sometimes thirty under when I couldn't see. Busted wipers only whisk away so much, broken air kept the mugginess alive. Saw men not so lucky as I on the side of the road, never saw so many flashes. I had places to be. I had your side. And yet a healthy mixture of clouds and blue. Odd, that so much rain should bring so sunny a day.

You just looked in that opened door. Just stood there. Scanned for expression, a story, but I got nothing in ways of that. Walked away without shutting the door, so in that way you let me in. Thought we could share a meal, but you'd eaten. Thought we could have us a talk, but you weren't much up for conversation. Thought we might end up talking to the dawn, words getting longer, beds anywhere, like we used to. But you climbed into your regular bed, even let me do the same. Faced opposite sides, only breathed, no words spoken. And all of this time rain, rain, rain. Was the thunder put me to sleep.

Rings

After the flood I started sneezing. I didn't want to tear up the carpet, but after replacing furniture, vacuuming, sucking up the water I could, it was really the last thing there was to do. You don't know where to start with a process like that. Or at least I didn't. So I took a knife, X-Acto, picked a spot near the corner by the fireplace, and made a cut. And I pulled. I pulled and ripped and pulled all weekend.

First I saw "Janice." Then "Sarah," "Susan," "Jeremy." Each accompanied by body outlines in yellow and blue, green or pink and smiles and hairstyles. Hands surrounded by the outlinings of other hands like the rings of a tree. Lives and children, a family on the floor. And as the piles of moldy carpet grew outside I found more. Hopscotch, castles, the dogs "Queenie" and "Popper."  The makings of some game, a race, a line with a start and finish and not much else between. It seems they had forgotten. It seems someone had wanted to forget.

I wasn't sure what to do. I assumed whatever was there I'd scrape off, replace, cover with more carpet. But it was already done once. Was it done by someone in the family? I didn't see the image of a father. There was a painting of a briefcase but no hand there to clutch it. Could someone have been painted out? Did they never get around to him?

My sneezing stopped when the carpet was gone. So that was something. But beyond that I cannot say. The furniture is still pushed up against the walls and windows. All these things were covered up once, for who knows how long. Who am I to cover them up again?

The Memorial

We were worried that it was gone. That in the buying of the business, in the exchanging between hands, that the memorial was lost. And in my alcohol-induced openness, yet not quite drunkeness, I would have stormed the establishment and burnt it to the ground.

But we turned into the parking lot. We rushed out of the car, key in ignition, engine slowly fuming, running to the door. And through the glass we saw the bench, the plaque which showed our father's name. Safe, in tact, whole. Sitting there in place, waiting for some weary soul to rest a while, thinking of what food they wanted to buy, thinking of nothing in particular.

We sat on it for a minute or two. She mentioned how before, when it was the old store, that she saw the bench and sat on it and could almost feel him there beside her. But now, with this new grocer in its place, she was certain he was gone. And I said no, no, he was still here, right next to us, complaining just as we were.

My sister and I got a bag of chips. Barbecue. We ate them on the way home, silent save the crunching. We were thinking too many thoughts to speak them aloud.

The Parties

I've licked off a decent amount of grapefruity white wine that I wiped up with my hand and people are looking at me now. Let them look, I cooked this goddamn swordfish and invited them into my goddamn home and if I want to lick spilled wine off my palm I'll do it. Sarah Wasserman, she's going to have a field day with this one. Come Monday every mom in a three-district radius will be whispering behind my back, texting behind my Subaru. The women here, this dinner group, they'll meet for the book club they think I don't know about. They'll meet at Starbucks to discuss the book, to talk about what meeting places they should have. They're perfectly content with accepting my invitations and sending nothing my way. I'll hear about the parties. The cocktail hours. The social gatherings. These housewives don't know me as well as they think they do.

I remember my parents. Their parties, their cocktail hours, their social gatherings. When they hosted friends I would be almost excited to go to sleep. I'd lie awake in bed and listen to the fury of jazz, the glasses toasting and clinking, the muted laughter of current affairs. Every sound and word was filtered through a hallway, fourteen steps, my middle school mind. They were stories that could be about almost anything. They were about life and love! Music! Theatre and dancing and travels abroad! They were romantic tales, and they were all of them real. And I know now that, yeah, sure, maybe they mentioned a few of those things. But those discussions, more than likely, contained more thoughts on dentists, mortgages, gas mileage, and how all these things applied to the neighbors. What they thought they heard. What they thought was going on. And it's no good. Or, at least, it's not as good as it could be.

The swordfish turned out well. Sarah did bring a delicious pear tart. Pauline will stay after everyone and help me do the dishes, and we'll have a little dishing of our own. This is what it is, and what it is will have to do.

Backlash

When your mother calls them "prophylactics," and then later clarifies them as "rubbers," that's when you truly know that, wow, we really were born in different eras. You realize this after you're done laughing, but you realize it all the same. Mother, you think that New York City is still overrun with crime and stabbings, an erotic cake gives you the willies, you act as if you've seen a ghost. It's a time when you had to work for things. A time when you said screw these bras, screw your standards. No, you don't need to ask my dad for my hand in marriage but I'm still not taking your name. I'm not staying home. I'm making my own goddamn name. You can have mine if you like. And you see these people, these girls today, and you see them going backwards. They're going backwards and it's almost like they're running, running back to these archaic values and superstitions you worked so hard to debunk. And you, child, you can understand why your mother would still use the language she used back then. She looks around, maybe a little sad, maybe a little down, and she realizes that she's worked so hard and hardly a goddamn thing has changed. So you, child, maybe you should stop laughing.

Bowl of Bullshit Green

I can't even eat this bullshit kale salad without dropping my fork on the ground. Just a bowl of bullshit green, kale and spinach and peas and broccoli and broken dreams and hardly any tomato because I waited too long and it got moldy. Shouldn't known better, I mean the only thing you can do with vegetables is eat them as quick as you can. Course in doing so you might end up with a dusty hairy fork, which is a situation I got on my hands right now. My body loathes this stuff so much it even rejects the utensils. That was my one clean fork.

So I guess what I gotta do is wash it off. Wash it off and down this stuff down the hatch. Down the hatch, drop a few pounds, get out the old gym shoes. Guess maybe I should get some new gym shoes. Guess maybe I should see if there's a gym in the area first. Guess I could stand to sweat a few beers out, the odd cheeseburger here and there, the entire Jack's pizzas. But it's so easy to eat an entire one of those things and really, if we're being honest with ourselves, which is an important thing nowadays to be, a whole one of those things is, like, two pieces of real pizza. Three tops. And that's a normal serving of pizza for most people, two to three pieces, and I've eaten and I've seen people eat way more than that so if I eat a single Jack's frozen pizza in one sitting then it's really not that big of a deal.

I still gotta clean this fork. Just gotta wash to the sink, and walk the fork.

What I mind is the chewing, you know? It's the constant chewing. It's insane and it is constant. This is the kale I'm talking about in specific regards to. Kale just well it just never ends now does it, it's the neverending kale. Raw and tough and full of fiber for some reason. And the chew chew chewing it takes to just down a mouthful of the stuff well you're burning twice the calories at this point, which I guess is the general idea. But what I wouldn't give for a nice toasted bagel smothered in cream cheese and brown sugar right about now. Doesn't that sound good? Maybe if I eat all this forest before me I can treat myself to a little snagel for dessert only I just realized I don't even have all the ingredients.

It's things like that though, sink and beds and lights and the outside and places that seem so much farther away than they actually are in actuality when you just don't want to do it when it's the last thing on earth that you want to be doing right now. An inch becomes a foot becomes a mile becomes it might as well be on the bullshit moon, you'd have to get a spacesuit and strap yourself into a rocketship and blast yourself into the stratosphere or whatever sphere it is they keep the moon in from Cape Canaveral or wherever it is they do these things nowadays. Only they don't really do them nowadays do they because apparently we've learned all there is to learn about the infinite no we've got to pay our terrible athletes millions of dollars to do their jobs poorly and beat their wives.

That's what we called a toasted bagel with cream cheese and brown sugar in college, a snagel.

But I guess I gotta look at the big picture I actually gotta look at the forest instead of the trees whatever the phrase is. Ha I got a bowl of forest right here and I can't even look at it how am I supposed to look at the real thing? The real thing being of course a metaphorical thing as it were. But how am I supposed to look at that? When I'm still clutching this filthy pronged thing waxing on and off about my college snacks of yore? I'll tell you what I'm scared I'm going to walk right into that kitchen with that fork and do something drastic like I'm gonna take that fork I'm just gonna take that fork in there and turn the oven on and go get a Jack's. I mean it, I am not kidding around here, I'm too hungry to think that anything's funny anymore.

I don't know maybe I'm making mountains here. Maybe I enjoy feeling sorry for myself I don't know. You look in terms of the world today and what people have and what they don't have and I guess you could say that I got a lot. Or at least a lot to be thankful for. I'm able to go out and buy these vegetables without hesitation. Well I mean there was extreme hesitation, but only because I put it there. Most of these problems, I put them there didn't I? Most of these problems, we just lay them out before us. Don't we.

A Joke about Tea, and How You Can Do the Same

THE BACKSTORY

Last night my roommate offered me a cup of tea. It was around 11:30 PM and I wanted to go to bed soon. Having only caffeinated tea, I declined his offer. When he asked why (we often have tea) and I told him my reasoning, he offered me some tea of his own (the same kind I had, only decaffeinated). So I agreed. He boiled the water and got out two mugs with two teabags. I got out my honey (we often add honey to our tea) and a spoon. When the kettle whistled, he poured the water over the tea, I added the honey, and we steeped and stirred and drank.

THE JOKE

(My roommate and I walk from the kitchen to the living room, each carrying a mug of hot and honeyed green tea.)

ME: Thanks for teabagging me.

ROOMMATE: You're welcome. Thanks, honey.

WHY DOES THE JOKE WORK?

Good jokes, like good tea, need time to steep. The joke would never have worked had we tried to make it earlier. The boiling water of comedy needs to be flavored by the dried tea leaves of three to four minutes. It also helps if you add a little honey of we've-been-friends-for-almost-ten-years, and stir it with the spoon of homoerotic tension you have to which most of your friends can attest.

Now go and do likewise!

I Must Go, My Dandelion

Darling,

You are reading this and I am gone. This is my own version of a goodbye; original, no, impersonal, yes. But it is the one I have chosen and it will have to do for us both. Perhaps, in this one particular way, I am a coward.

Reading this, I suppose you will wonder what you have done wrong. Don't, please don't. It is a troubling thought and, moreover, an unnecessary one. You have done nothing wrong and I harbor no ill feelings toward you. There was no act of yours, singular or otherwise, that spurned my departure. I loved you as much as a man could love any child. You have always been beautiful, like fresh oxygen, giving off the highest kind of breath. You were always something that filled me. I am empty now, but not because of you. The truth is, I have been empty for quite some time.

This now, for me, will become difficult. I would like to take this moment to write about your mother. And, please know, this is the hardest thing I have ever done.

In the coming days you will hear certain things. You will read them, see them on the television, they will broadcast them on the radio. Neighbors will discuss them, relatives will call, reporters will show up at the house shoving microphones and notebooks in your face. People who never knew you and who will never know you will suddenly think they do. They will think their sympathy means understanding. They will call you "that poor girl." They will curse me.

What they will tell you is true. What you will read, and hear, and be told. It is all of it true.

I am sorry. I am not in much of a place to ask anything of you, but I hope that you will ignore what of it you can. You will not be able to ignore it all, you will have to listen to some things. You may even have to talk about it. It is the situation I've put you in. I have to take that with me, forever.

Please do not think me some kind of monster. I am not. At least, I do not think I am. And I refuse to let others paint me as that portrait. I have done monstrous things, yes, but do those few acts transform me into the beast itself? What about the birthdays, the parties, the gifts, the hugs and kisses and stories good night. The lullabies and popsicles, trips to the zoo and trips to the country. When we held hands and crossed the street. When you came to me, crying, hoping that I would make all of it better. When we said we loved each other. The years, the absolute years. Is all of it gone now? Does one heinous act erase a lifetime of good?

I pray to God, every night now, that it does not. And I know I have already asked one thing of you, but I will ask one more—Will you pray for me as well? Because I would like to stay. And try to make some sense of all of this. But I must go, my dandelion, and now you know why. And I hope that you will understand why I chose the coward's way out, to use a phrase I am sure you will hear. But they would be wrong, for my cowardice ends with this letter. I refuse to let them turn me into what they want me to be. But I am terrified that what they want me to be is what I've become. And, moreover, what I have always been.

William Percy French wrote these words:

"Remember me is all I ask,

        And yet

If the remembrance prove a task,

        Forget."

They seem quite fitting as final ones.

All my love,

D.

History of Offices

When I showed up at work I knew word had gotten around. The people who never look at me were looking at me, and the people who usually do were finding reasons to turn away. That's the tell-tale you get when a rumor's spread. Or the truth. No one's coffee is that interesting.

I'd hardly set down my bag when, "Hey, is it true? Tell me it's true." Ben had walked over to me, set a cup of coffee down on my desk. "I figure you'd want to stay away from the kitchen, anywhere people were congregating, you know."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Well." He was so surprised, the fact that I wasn't acting more strangely. Should I have called in sick? Should I be sneaking around? Should I be wearing a sandwich board with all the facts on it? Should I deny the whole thing? Should I quit altogether? "You know. I mean you know. The office isn't too sure what to think."

"What's to think?" I fucked the boss during last night's party. "Nobody got shot, Ben, nobody died."

"So it's true!" His excitement got the better of him but he quickly reigned it in. Again, as if nobody in the history of offices had ever done what people do. "Oh man. Oh man. That's incredible. I mean that's insane. Who made the first move?" I didn't want to answer that question and he could tell by my look. "OK, OK, OK." He leaned in closer to me and I knew exactly what he was going to ask. "What was Sewell like?"

I sipped my coffee-cream-lots-of-sugar and shrugged. "It was sex. It was good sex, Ben. That's all you're going to get."

"Ha!" Good thing I had picked up my mug otherwise his slap of my desk would've knocked it all over the keyboard. "It was good. I knew it. That's great, that's really great."

Nobody on the phone cared whether or not I slept with my boss. They didn't know. I was still doing my job and doing it well. But Yolanda, she usually comes around and asks what I want for lunch, even though I don't usually order anything. She didn't come around today. I'd walk by clusters of three or four people, unable to hear what they were saying, but figuring its subject was me when they saw me and went silent. They were probably wondering whether or not this meant special treatment, if that's the reason I survived the cutbacks a few months ago, how long had this been going on, how long would this continue, who did what and to whom first, all those things people like to make important. I just want to know who Sewell had told. We didn't discuss whether or not we should tell anyone because we're not children, this isn't high school, although maybe it is. But I figured neither of us would, or at least not tell anybody in the office. It isn't a big deal. But that viewpoint only seems to be held by me. And it's so much easier not to deal with these kinds of things.

I might call in sick tomorrow. I do have some things I would like to get done, and after work I'm always so tired.

Happy Birthday to Me

It's my birthday and my girlfriend's parents didn't call me. I don't know why I expected them to, I guess I thought we were that kind of close but maybe we aren't. I'm pretty sure I called her on her birthday, the mom, and I email him all the time, or at least he emails me and I email him back without feeling like it's a chore. We have a lot in common. But not even an email! Sorry. Not even one email. I at least expected one of those stupid e-cards, or maybe a text, Hey pal, have a good one. I don't think it's that hard.

Oh my god, maybe they know something I don't. Maybe Chelsea's going to break up with me, and they know she's going to break up with me, but her mom said something like, "Sweetie, wait until after his birthday," and her dad said "You know what, that's a good idea, don't ruin his birthday." That is exactly the kind of advice they would give. So that must mean it's happening soon. They know it's my birthday and they want to say Happy Birthday, but they know that this is the last birthday we'll ever have together and they feel too awkward about it.

That probably means she's breaking up with me tomorrow! This is going to ruin everything! I can't enjoy my birthday now! I never liked birthdays all that much but congratulations, Chelsea, you've managed to make them even worse. I bet she gets me something real shitty. Something I already have or something she knows I don't like, something she's always wanted me to like or something like that. Some CD for some band I hate. One last way to stick it in me. What did I ever see in her?

I miss her already.

A Winter's Day

Like those winter days where you look out your window, the sun is shining, everything is glowing white, and it looks so beautiful, it looks warm out there. Then you open the door and no, it's not warm, it's forty below. She was a charmer, in the way a con artist is a charmer. She took you in with this and that and then wham! This is my ex-wife we're talking about, this is Cheryl. Why do I feel like all ex-wives are named Cheryl?

But it's like, it was always winter, wasn't it? What, suddenly you think a miracle's gonna happen and it's gonna be, what, seventy, eighty degrees out? The snow's still there, genius. Does it look like it's melting? No! So why suddenly do you think that just because the sun is out that means something? That don't mean nothing, never has and never will. Sorry, that doesn't mean anything.

She threw me—she threw me—a surprise birthday party last year. Last holiday we ever spent together if that counts as a holiday. Invited all my friends, cooked, baked, provided an ample supply of beer, the whole nine yards and all that. But then she's complaining throughout the whole event, about the noise, about the trash and the dishes piling up. I was so surprised when the thing happened and people were jumping out and she looked so happy, ya know? To be doing something nice for me. But that wasn't gonna stop her from calling Lyle an idiot, or Danny a drunk, or when is Nate gonna marry that girl of his already, and what do you mean Wesley is still looking for a job. It's like she rounded us all up into that barrel so she could shoot us one by one. I didn't understand it. She knew who I was and knew my friends and still she did this. Now why, I ask you, would someone do such a thing? Huh? But there's some women out there and I guess that's what they do. Expressly put on this planet to make lives living hells. In their blood, deep within the roots like some unholy ancient sacrament.

No, that's not fair. It wasn't all times like that, how could it have been? But she'd find ways to turn something good into something bad. She'd smile at you and then she'd do that. Needle right at the point of weakness and then give off this look that said Who, me? Real innocent-like. And chances are I woulda left her, had she not up and left me first. And sure. Sure I miss her. Heck, I miss her every day. They make coats, don't they?

Pulverized

Shattered like a mirror, pieces of a platter sharp and disconnected. Green, brown, yellow, earthy and natural tones turned dark from dirt and the oncoming blood. Blood creeping, oozing, steadily from the shell. The legs still full, untouched, as if they had been added after. The head, I hoped, had quickly found its way inside, instead of being knocked off by the car. Instead of being pulverized. I hoped the head was tucked away, safe and sound and snug. So the creature didn't have to see what happened. So the last thing it saw was its home. I saw it, and that was enough.

I had tried to help. I even had somewhere to be, I was meeting an old friend for coffee and was running late. But I saw the animal slowly crossing the street, trying to make it to that other side. I pulled over, I stopped, I got out. I was careful to stay away from the head, just in case it was a biter, I wasn't familiar with all the various kinds. So I picked it up. I didn't want it to be run over. I thought I was helping. But the turtle didn't know one way or the other, and when I picked him off the pavement he was frightened, of course he was. And as any turtle would in that situation, he relieved himself on me.

I was startled. It was not traumatic, but still unexpected, and to this day I don't know why I reacted the way I did. Why I didn't run across to the other side, why I didn't just set it down. Why I threw the thing in the air, to the very place from where he was crawling away. And the car came so suddenly, from down the road, from nowhere. It was over in an instant. Or, at least it was, I should say, for him.

Were You What That Sound Was?

It was in the small hours, those few that you could call very late or incredibly early. I could not sleep. Could've been the coffee I had after supper, could've been that the fan wasn't doing its job properly. My father taught me once to imagine my body filling up with warm sand, slowly, starting at the toes, slowly working its way up, growing and multiplying into my arms and neck, warm sand filling my body. Sometimes that would do the trick. But not tonight. Tonight it was making things worse. I was hot, I was restless, I was awake.

I got out of bed and poured myself a nightcap, permitting myself to put in a little more liquid, a little less ice. I went to the living room then, and a good thing I did, because I'd left the window open. I always lock the one window I open because there's a tear in the screen, and it's also an easy thing to remove. It is a typically safe place, where I live, but every little bit helps. Finally I could feel the cool air sweeping across the room and I sat down in my chair. I felt the ice on the other side of my glass and tried to relax. And it was working. For a time.

It was on my mind that I should start the sand again, that I wouldn't mind spending another night in this chair, what first I heard it. Something came in with the breeze from I don't know where. A voice, something far off or down the road, I wasn't sure. A woman's, maybe a young man's, someone going over notes on paper, from memory, maybe in a house not too far from mine. What were they doing, singing at this hour of the night? Practicing for a concert or a show, an audition, just for the sake of it, for the satisfaction? Singing to some small baby, a loved one beside them. Singing because they, like me, could not seem to drift away and leave this day behind. I tried to decipher the tune. There was a lilt, a sobering sadness to it, a lullaby perhaps. At first I remembered it as a song my mother used to sing, old blues, a jazz standard, something that had the melancholy qualities of love deep within it. But, no, that wasn't quite right. And the more I listened to it the more I felt that there was something not quite right. It wasn't a tune I had ever heard before. The voice drew me in as a siren would, but instead of deep sensual longing I felt dread, despair, as if I was being serenaded by a banshee.

Before I knew it I was standing, walking, following the sound to the open window. The moon was enormous, it looked as if it was descending on us all, so blood orange you'd almost think it was the sun. And as I stared into the man's face I heard the voice grow. Not louder, no, but fuller, thicker, richer. It was not deep, yet not particularly high, and strains would carry on after they'd been sung and disappear over new ones, making it seem as though the one voice was two. I had left my drink next to my chair. I was awake. I am quite sure I was awake. And then I was out the front door.

Determined to find this soloist I walked in the direction whence I thought it came. I made my way down the street, north, hoping that the voice would seem closer, or at least clearer. As much as I wanted to know the source of the music I also wanted—needed—to hear the words. To know what was being sung. One does not play merely any music at this hour. The street was dark, the lamps were out, the moon made everything glow, threw off its burnt rays and made everything a dark hell. My pace quickened, my gait lengthened, and soon I was running. Stopping in front of windows, halting anytime my eye caught a light still on, hoping that a silhouette would tell me everything. Wind picked up, the oaks rustled alive, there was such whistling and commotion I feared that the music would be lost to me forever. But then, almost as if he, she, it had heard me, the weather subsided and I was faced with a long, dark note. I was close.

I stopped and closed my eyes, removing a sense to strengthen another. Yes, I was close! Hands outstretched, I shuffled my feet, carefully walking blindly, letting my ears act as divining rods. And the sound grew, it was working, I could hear the voice and the voice was near. But still I could not make out the words. No matter, soon I would be able to confront this person and ask why, ask what, ask all the questions to which I desperately needed answers. My shuffles became full-fledged steps and I lowered my arms in confidence, walking tall in the dark with my eyes calmly shut. My breath was staggered and pulsated, a smile the width of my face could hardly contain. I felt like a child again waiting for Christmas morning. I had stopped trying to discern lyric from lyric, partially from giddiness, partially from fear. The sound was almost unbearable now, I could feel light start to sneak in under my lashes, and I knew once I opened them I would be face to face with my mysterious artist. And then, as I filled my lungs and took a firm stance on the ground, as I prepared to open my eyes, it was gone. There was only silence.

I opened my eyes. I had found my way to an alley, I do not know where. The creeping light, I now saw, was just a lamp attached to the brick, fifty or so feet away. And illumined underneath it was a phonograph. An old dusty box, a rusted horn, a crank handle. I approached it glumly, as I realized what I had been chasing had been nothing more than a record. But as I stopped above the old thing I saw that there was no record on it. Nothing on it but dust. No indication that it had been touched or moved. And nowhere for anyone to escape. I sat beside it, beaten, foolish. I stared at it and wondered. Could it be? Is it impossible? Was I really as restless as I had thought? I sat there staring until the sun replaced the moon. I sat there wondering if I should leave the phonograph in the alley or if I should take it home. In the end I realized that it didn't matter one way or the other. I realized that it would haunt me wherever it was.

In the Time It Takes to Write This

You're going to call me one of these days. Asking if the words you're reading, if they're about you.

What do you mean, I'll say, and you'll say, You know what. 

And I will. I'll be playing it innocent. And I guess I could give you the truth. I'm assuming that's what you're calling for, because you rarely call. But this is important and you want answers. And I could give you that truth, all of them, but there's a reason I'm writing these things. And perhaps I haven't changed enough. A great man once told me, Fictionalize, but I didn't really listen, which is why, I suppose, that he is great and I am not. I haven't quite learned how to change the things I want to change.

I know the day is coming. I knew it was coming, could see it from early on. That's the risk you run when you don't fictionalize. But in the time it takes to write this I'll have thought of some fantastic lie. Don't worry. It will sound like the truth.

A Genuine Pooch

I was filtering through online photographs of actresses. I am looking for actresses to put in a picture I'm making, but that's neither here nor there. It serves mostly as a way of letting you know that it was part of my job, the filtering and looking and going through, that I had good reason and wasn't just doing it for the sake of doing it, or because I'm lonely or what have you. I'm producing a picture and I'm in need of talent. I'm looking for something a little special this time.

Anyway, to pick back up, I was looking through the agency's online site, through their rows and rows of talented women young and old, and all of a sudden I see a dog. Not an ugly woman mind you (although I saw those, too, or women with character I should say). No, I mean an honest-to-goodness canine, a Rex (or Molly, as the case was), a genuine pooch. Just there, amongst the women, stuck in a pile of human beings. It seemed at once pretty funny and not quite right. There was a joke in there somewhere but I'm too much of a gentleman to search it out.

So I thought the next day—the time at which I was perusing being after hours—I would give them a ring and ask more about this Molly creature.

"Hello, Elite Models and Talent."

"Hello, yeah, this is Rudolph Gaffer. I'm a producer working on a picture and you have a dog?"

There was a silence. "Excuse me?"

"A dog, Molly, that you represent? I was looking through the women on your site and there was a dog in there."

"Oh," said the nice young lady at the other end, "that's the owner's dog."

"Well, does it book work? Why's it on there?"

"It's booked a few things, Mr. uh..."

I do not like repeating my name, I said it once, it's not that common, should be easy to remember. "Listen how do you feel about sticking a dog in there amongst the actors? Amongst the women no less."

"Molly's a girl dog, so—"

"That shouldn't matter," is what I said to her and it really shouldn't. "If it books, OK then, put her up. If it's just there to make me laugh, OK, fine, it did that. But it's strange. Just having one dog on there."

"Sir, unless you'd like me to direct your call..." And she just kind of trailed off like that. I guess she didn't want to tell me that she was planning on hanging up on me. I guess she was sweet like that.

"No, no, no, that's fine, I just have one more question, think you can help me?"

A stressful "I'll try."

"You sound like a sweet girl, I'm guessing you do a little bit of acting yourself?"

"Um, yes...?"

"You ever been in an adult film?"

Click. Hey, we all gotta make a living. You, me, dogs, everybody.

Whole Hide

Laurie didn't understand how her friends were all up and moving about like they were. Hadn't they had the same night as she, brilliant choice after brilliant choice? She'd fallen asleep on the couch, pants on, shoes miraculously off. Her hair was so matted and tangled she was seriously considered chopping it all off.

Brunch was at the usual place before they all headed back to the city. Her friends all got Bloody Marys, which again she could not fathom. She understood hair of the dog, but to her another drop of the stuff seemed more like the whole hide. The eggs were oily, the sauce was thick, the salad made her think she was feeling better. In fact, when she was asked as such, she told them yes.

But in the car things changed. As the other girls in the backseat fell asleep Laurie noticed that whenever she closed her eyes she felt nauseated. She felt every bump and pothole, she saw blurs and squiggles that were not there flying past her. She thought she might be able to fall asleep before the queasiness overtook her, but thought it better not to risk it. So she faded in and out, catching her falling eyelids, trying hard to fight what came naturally. She forced those lids open, straining the eye muscles as she did, looking up far too high, and it worsened the feeling. She had quiet gas which relieved her some. She had blue Gatorade and hoped that it was working.

Then her mouth began to water and she knew this was the end. She politely—overly so, they would laugh about it after the fact—asked that the car be pulled over to the side of the road because she was going to be sick. Speeding cars kept coming up too close together on the right and for a moment she thought she'd have to go, right there, in the car, on the back of the seat or in a shirt that she'd just throw to the side of the road. But the car managed to pull off and she managed to hop the rail and run a few steps before light blue liquid and pieces of meals came hurtling out of her mouth and nostrils. One big explosion, followed by a second. And although the relief was immediate it tainted her favorite color of Gatorade. What was she supposed to drink on these mornings now? "Should have had that hair of the dog," one of her friends said.

The rest of the car ride was uneventful. Laurie looked at the half-drunk beverage in between her feet. She thought of the used paper towels she left at the scene. The brunch that was delicious, that she enjoyed and paid for, all gone. She started worrying that she brought some of the mess back into the car, that it was baking in the sun somehow and embedded in the fibers of her jeans, and almost said something, before she realized that, no, it just passed through her nose those two times. Leaving a trail of itself behind, masking every other scent for the rest of the day.

Broken Over

Sitting out on the deck I saw what they were talking about. The trees lining the yard, separating my property from theirs, half of them were gone now. They'd told me of the tornado, the stereotypic train whistle, that thunderous noise. They'd fallen to the floor under a supporting arch, hearing the tenants above them scrambling for some sort of safety. One of them claimed to have slept through it, though none of them could understand how that was possible. I don't know. I wasn't there.

The fact is that three of the trees were now gone. And though they were nothing spectacular they provided the sense of seclusion that we were buying into. That this land, these waters, they made us special and slightly better. But now half of the lining trees were gone, the other half with bended branches, large chunks chainsawed off, half organic and half unnatural. There wasn't a single branch left that wasn't broken over and disjointed. It doesn't take much to take a scene of serenity and make it grotesque.

So now I can see into their yard and they can see into mine. And as I sit here on my deck, coffee in hand, talking to you, sun rising, I can look over and easily see them there. I don't know why. It makes me sad.

A Little Outside Help

It's only now I've realized my voodoo doll has been staring at me. It's been resting in place since I got here three years ago and I haven't moved it, so it's been staring at me all this time. Its large white teeth, its dark black head, its technicolor garb and gold sparkle eyes. These sparkles have been fixed on me for a thousand days.

I bought it at a flea market in New Orleans. It came with instructions, a small bag around its neck, two white-headed pins. White pins for good, black pins for evil, but the black pins you must provide yourself. They're not going to be a party in that kind of thing. Or maybe that's just what they want the tourists to think. They want us to think that they believe in this sort of thing. No stranger than any other belief I guess. What do I know?

The directions are long gone now, but it would be easy enough to look some up. Might as well, that doll isn't doing anything just sitting there staring at me. Or maybe it is.

That's what I'll do. Find some directions. Snip a piece of hair or put whatever I need to in the bag. Stick it with its pins. Get the energy going in the right place. A little outside help never hurts. I'm a little worried it'll work too well for good, and that I'll be tempted to go shopping for a bag of black pins. Guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I'd like to believe it's real. That the woman who sold me this doll believes in it, in everything behind it, that I wasn't just another bum jerk looking for spiritual knickknacks. But I guess her belief only gets me so far. If it's going to work, the belief's got to be all mine.