Mischief Night

The street is lined with skeletons and American flags. Number 50 on Hannah Lane especially; adorned with giant spiders and spiderwebs, a family of jack-o'-lanterns, another of werewolves. One waited for me between two trees, scared me shitless. I was watching a passing car. A crow cawed over me.

I am a visitor. I am supposed to make myself feel at home, which I'm finding harder and harder these days. It seems I've spent too much time believing that home is a person or people. I don't think that's true anymore.

It's too warm here and my body doesn't know what to do with that. Before long I'll get out of this sun and back to what I know and I'm wondering if by then it will be too late. I'll stay inside sweaters and get my blood back to a good thickness. One day the skin will follow.

They do it up right here. I'll give them that. Ghosts hang from most trees. Banshees. The spirit of the thing. "Skull-de-sac." Ha ha ha.

That beautiful bonfire aroma hangs in the breeze, the evidence of local devastation. So much local devastation, in fact, one might think it indicates a broader problem. Maybe if something happening here is everywhere it requires more than sympathy. But I am also quite happy to pretend the neighbors are burning a very old Christmas tree.

They tell me about the kids, how Mischief Night is coming soon. We never had that growing up, I say. It's great, they tell me. You throw toilet paper in trees, throw eggs at houses, break plastic forks off in people's yards. Oh, I say, that happened to my neighbor growing up, I just assumed it was because the other kids didn't like him. No, they laugh, everyone does it. It happens to everyone. But I never did, and it never happened to me. I just waited around for the candy.

Baby Steps

I'm supposed to get things done but I'm cold. I'm wearing sandals but no socks, T-shirt but no sweater, windows open after the rain and a cool breeze blowing in. But the rest of the house is so goddamn hot what else am I supposed to do? There's music and movement coming from the living room. Stationing there is not an option. I will remain here, cold.

Self-care. Consciousness. These are the things I'm supposed to be practicing. I put on an album, a relisten of a relisten, but the strings and syncopation take me too far away and before long I'm lost. A drop of rain hits me on the arm.

Getting things done is a lot. Activities are hard. Being cold burns more calories. I've brushed my teeth twice today, once accidentally, but I can't shake the feeling of sleeping with your mouth open. There are some things that don't get shook so easily.

I'm not taking notes, which could be a good thing. In a few days' time I'll get asked how my week was, did anything come up, anything I want to talk about. And I won't have much to say, I'll have no notes which I'll say could be a good sign. That nothing was so bad I had to write it down. Nothing so bad I needed to remember it. But then you even end up forgetting the good things.

My father has been dead nearly ten years. Where does the time go? Soon it will have been a third of my life, then a quarter, then half, then most. I'm trying to learn to talk about him more. It would be nice to say his name without crying, without having to push all that down. To say his name and keep on going, maybe even with a smile. To remember all the good times before they're all forgotten, all lost. Where does the time go?

I'll get up soon and put on a sweater, put on socks, close the window. The music winds down and I know how this turns out. But it's baby steps.

Take Book Return

I'm on the long slow walk, through the snow and past the churches, to her place.

A shadow of me lurks slowly forward, growing and fading, until he is replaced by another, and then another, by a series of towering lamps.

And the figure catches me off guard, standing silently. I turn. A box, with a head and square body and looming human presence cast on the evening snow. Decorated with flowers, it reads TAKE BOOK RETURN.

So I tug on the frozen handle and peek inside. Unheard of children's stories, international espionage plots, getting rich in the 2010s. Nothing particularly wantable which is why I suppose they ended up here. A half-life of literature, bouncing lower and lower until it's nothing but dribbling cookbooks with all the good stuff ripped out.

There's a copy of over-dog-eared, over-underlined Henry James and I put it in my parka. Better to leave it empty and start from scratch. Or that's what I tell myself, as I have nothing to give, and check my watch, and keep walking.

Taking Things Apart

Charlie was a boy of seven, possibly eight, and definitely no more than nine. He had chocolate stains on his fingers and wore a skateboarding helmet when he rode his bike because he thought they looked cooler (he was mostly right). When he was called to dinner and it was mac and cheese and chicken nuggets he knew a babysitter wasn't far behind. His favorite books included The Way Things Work and one about castles his favorite uncle had given him. Charlie liked to take things apart and put them back together, though the putting back often took considerably more time.

Then there was Jessica; tall, blonde, loved basketball and horses, excellent at her multiplication tables. She came to school early and after she stayed late, with all the other kids whose parents had jobs that required this. She was the only one in her grade to have pierced ears, and she'd had them since she was five, which made them all the more special. She would have been the little girl all the boys had crushes on had she not been the one bullying them. She took lunch money, she shoved kids when she was sure she'd get away with it. During bombardment she aimed at heads and she usually got in trouble. Her parents gave money. Jessica was OK.

One day on the playground Charlie's friends called to him from the tire swing: "Charlie! Charlie! Come on! Spin us!" Charlie liked tire swings, they gave him the good kind of dizzy. So he ran over, fast, recess was almost over. And that's when Jessica stuck out her foot and sent his body flying into the air and hard onto the rubber chips that covered the ground. His face, though, that landed on the first wooden step to the monkey bars. Smashed his nose and blurred his vision, somehow not breaking his glasses or teeth or even splitting a lip. He got up and forewent the swing, being plenty dizzy as is. It hurt less than you'd think, and there was no blood. He mostly didn't understand. Jessica didn't seem to enjoy it all that much, she didn't laugh with a gaggle of friends. It was simply one of the many things she did.

The kids were called inside, they got drinks of water and went to the bathroom. Afterward they went to their desks and waited for the teacher. Charlie wiped his mouth on his hands and his hands on his pants, moving the water around. Jessica walked a few feet ahead of him, and as she turned into the class he saw the glimmer of her left ear's golden ring. An idea, an invitation, an impulse. He sat three seats behind her.

Jessica sat, putting the finishing scratches of her name on her desk. She wasn't looking at Charlie when he walked in (not that she would have anyway). There was a tug, hard, and a sting. She looked back to see Charlie sitting down, and brought her hand up to her ear to find the lobe missing. And there it sat, small and fatty on the top of her desk, earring and all. It hurt less than you'd think, but there was plenty of blood.

Pre-Show Announcement

Staring at the St-Germain, wondering what I'm doing here. Stuffed between a dozen barstools, six feet from a fat couple on their second round. But they're sipping cocktails and I'm downing Schlitz, and we're all paying these tourist prices. So you tell me: Who's less than?

I just paid seventy dollars American to sit on a stool for three hours. Not this one, the one upstairs, in the city's eponymous theatre for the Bard. Hard-pressed to find too many local actors on that stage though. The yokels in the seats, they don't care about credits, they care about the cities, and the city they care about is the one in New York. They're going to like them no matter what. They can't see the lack of talent like a talented person. Someday I'd like to work there. There were other seats, better ones. I decided to save that money, spend it on drinks, judging people. Half of the women are in fur coats, half the men in caps, the children begging for sugary nuts and overpriced plush toys in between texts, like swimmers coming up for oxygen.

"Know what you want?" I'm being pressured for a second drink. I check my watch, an hour left. The couple to my right excuse themselves to continue their various healthy habits outside. They'll be back, smelling of cheap tobacco and cold air. I say I need a minute. I don't need anymore time than what I've got. I'm not even sure what to do with what I have. I flip the menu over and order the priciest house cocktail and I don't look at what's inside.

There's a movie on, some stupid thing about a couple and the frat next door. The boys are impossibly ripped, their shirts impeccably tailored, the wife incredibly beautiful, the husband a fat old boor. It is a story that could only be told in a world created only by the people in this one. It screams there, vulgarity on vulgarity, as I drink my drink. It doesn't taste very good, but damn is it pretty.

Showtime. I get my check, leave my tip, case the joint. I leave more than I should but sometimes I'm too generous. As I get up I take a piece of chewing gum from my pocket, can't let those yokels know how close I am. And when my nose catches a whiff of my fingers it smells like cinnamon and asshole. The cinnamon's from my gum. The other I'm not so sure.

Qualifier

Molly was taking me around campus: "And there's the church and seminary;" "And there's the lighthouse museum;" "And there's sorority row." The houses that housed departments, the dining hall, it was small-town and old and lavish and simple. "Up there's where I lived," she said, "senior year. About a block." " They had to put a light in here," at an intersection, "because too many kids got hit." And there they were, these kids, inside their backpacks and hoods pulled up, braving against the nearby icy lake wind.

And I saw him outside the car window. "What is it?" she asked as I typed on my phone. "Nothing," I said, "an idea I just got." But really:

Are you back??

The tour continued. The bakery, the brunch, the music hall. "I've been up here once before," I was trying to make conversation, get back to normal. "A few years ago. I got ice cream." She named a place. "No." She named another. "No." And another. "No," I said, "that wasn't it."

***

He played with the creamer, building a tower, three ones tall, in different arrangements but there's only so many to be made.

"I'm here."

"Are you back?"

"I'm here."

It was a start. I reminded myself that very little is very good when it's starting out. Answers take patience. "OK." Acknowledgment, acceptance, building blocks toward progress. "Did you tell anyone?"

He opened a creamer and poured it in his mug. The second went in and then the third, until the patterned liquid flirted with spillage. He raised it, hands focused through the trembling, and brought it to his lips. He drank half. "I," he started as he set down the mug, "I didn't really think to."

"OK." Mine sat there, black and cooling. I wondered where all these diners got the same beige mugs.

The bells on the front door rang, a new man walked in. Stef jerked to the sound, eyes widening at whoever might be there. The violence of the motion and the sloshing of his drink all pointed to someone who did not want to be found. He followed the man with his eyes to a booth two in front of ours. When he was satisfied he turned to me and I asked, "Why did you come back?"

"I..."

The waitress saw his cup half-full and came to refill. She was unable to stop the flow after his hand darted out over the top, pouring hot regular over and through his fingers. "Oh my god!" she said. "I'm so sorry! Are you OK?!" His hand, still trembling, clutched the top of his common mug, fingers tight and shaking as he stared down at the table.

"We're fine," I said, after too much silence. She left unsure and I cleaned up with paper napkins.

It had been three years since he'd left with scarce goodbyes. Careful sentences filled with buzzwords: "work;" "world;" "money." I imagined it was those things that brought him back as well. There was never anything dark about him but always things unknown. And now here sat a much older version, as if each year for me was three for him, a decade passed between us. He had bags and greys and veins that showed. He wore a frayed green-colored jacket, which to me always rang out help.

Another man walked in, ring-ring, and sat at a booth two behind. "I have to go," he said. Even I have to admit that when the man saw Stef move to go, he seemed unsure that he wanted to stay. But things are placed easily in my head. I grabbed him by his well-worn arm. "It was good to see you," he said, and with that and a bell he was gone.

The waitress stopped by. "You sure he was OK?" I looked at the mug, the spots of coffee, the three empty creamers. And next to them, though I couldn't be sure, what looked like marks made from four fingernails. "Just the check, please," I said.

***

"It was built before the movie came out, obviously. But after that they remade it to try and make it feel like that. They threw a few big dinners, these feasts, lots of courses and tablecloths and candles. But after a while people just lost interest. It's kind of cool."

"Uh-huh," I said. A roll of the eyes got me to add, "I bet it's really beautiful inside. Do they let townspeople in?"

We drove along the lake, headed back for the highway. "I'll have to take you back sometime," Molly said, "and give you a proper tour. It's too cold right now. But maybe in the spring."

"Maybe." We came to a red light and she scowled. "I'm sorry," I said, "I really would like to see it. But it's hard for me to get as excited as you about a place I've never known. It's your great qualifier, but for me it's just another school."

"If it was yours you'd feel differently." I agreed with her.

So This is the New Year

And as we waited to get rid of this failure and nonsense, they played songs sixty seconds at a time. No one got comfortable, no on danced. We entered the year with question marks and quarrels, ultra lights and light beers. And as young men shouted to us walking as the women took the car, we thought about how strange it was that everything should feel the same.

Me, Bird

When I make this face I turn into a bird. I did it once at 7 AM and it stuck forever. My arms become wings and my feet become bird feet. I fly away with the sun. I never melt, I never go home. I turn. Ack into myself when I make this face, and then the night goes on. Again I might be a bird, I might be something else. I don't know when I'll be me.

Big City Shut it Down

This is a big city, you'll never find her.

What do you know?

I know this is a big city, and you're inching your way toward stalker.

Shut it.

Made for TV movie.

Stop.

Time not served.

That's not even a thing.

You'll make it a thing. They'll write books about you. Songs about you.

Shut it.

TV movies, Jack, TV movies. Name your washed-up actor. Hope you've had good haircuts.

They never show the whole story.

People don't want whole stories. They want interesting stories. They want blood. What do you want?

I don't know.

Yes, you do.

Shut it.

Shut it.

Shut it.

Down.

Yes.

Broke

I dropped the bottle and it broke and I was disappointed. Whenever a bottle or glass breaks I want it to be because I smashed it on the ground or chucked it at the wall, not because it slipped through my fingers. But I never smash a bottle and I never chuck a glass, and so I am always disappointed.

I unspooled paper towels onto my hand and finished off the roll. Transferring the wad to underneath my foot, I glided out in circles over my kitchen floor. Give me my Olympic gold.

I want my anger to mean something. I want it to sink in. If I'm going to a dark place let me do it my way, let me bring a little light, a little pain, and a little broken glass.

When We Stopped Being Happy

When we stopped being happy things were great. The weight was lifted off our shoulders, not to mention the other parts of our bodies. We didn't have to worry about pleasing each other or anybody else, but if we did that was fine. Bedtimes and rise-and-shines shifted as they did. We weren't angry at things anymore. We ate when we were hungry, and we drank to wash things down. We didn't force the happiness, and it didn't always come. But when it did it was good and true and right. A little goes a long way.

Summer

Summer is my full moon. After the thaw, as the days get longer and the skirts get shorter, I transform into a seething, drooling, hairy fool.

Hypnotized by the swinging pendulum of a ponytail, its rhythm chanting back in my direction, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope...

I should have stayed behind.

A Mask for Winter

It rained that day. The snow melted and padded the land for the rain. Slush and grime. And then cold, a damned sudden drop. Thick and cold and frozen. And then snow, a layer light and beautiful, a winter mask.

They couldn't see, they didn't know. They felt as though this day had come before. And indeed it had, and it would again. Were they prepared? No. What did they learn? Nothing. The glass and metal twisted and broke, the clothes were black. Tears froze midstream down each cheek. Flowers, and flowers, and flowers. The same thing.

No More Christmas

No more cookies, no more socks, no more bows on every box. No more paper trails and chunks, no more morning Christmas funks. No more chimney, no more sweep, no more sleepy souls to keep. No more merry, no more light. No more "It will be all right" to tell my children as they go. And no more anything but no.

Miss Direction

He asked for another and I said nothing, just poured. He said to join him, I did. He asked me what my name was, I told him what I always say. He stuck around and stuck around and I cleaned twice as slow. He fell down and I picked him back up, we'd do it all again. His laugh was thick, it had to be. He asked me to point him home, I sent him on his way, never knowing where, but he keeps coming back.

Blood and Snow

They waited for the snow to come, but it was only rain. It was warm and then it turned, it froze and the world was slick. They skidded and swerved and were bested by embankments. Innocents died, tears were cried, obituaries flowed like blood. And the blood was as thick as snow.

7/10

A poor showing, poor showing, a very poor showing indeed. Only seven out of ten films guessed based on one letter of font alone. Should have been at least a nine and I was expecting ten. What good is a mind if it cannot capture these things? I remember what you ate fifteen years ago, I remember some brother's car. I remember the look on the woman's face who made my pasta back at school, and the olive oil and garlic she'd add in copious amounts. But I guess letters escape me, or escape me all but average. I should be happy with seven out of ten. If you could go through life doing seven out of ten things rights they'd hail you a god. You'd find yourself with T-shirts, hats, and frisbees, golden idols, sacrifices. Average, when you think on it, is really quite incredibly remarkable.

Driverby

He looked at me like I was crazy. Probably thought he was the only one who did that. Oh no, gentle driverby, we all scream out into the void. We are all lost. Honing our howls for the hounds of hell.

O! darkness!

O! tragedy!

O! life!

Ointments

You have tall socks and you're playing games on my device and your fingers are smudgy with butter. Head to toe in lotions and oils and balms and salves. It's the winter, everyone's dry, drier still for all your ointment confiscation.

Get them safely across the pond. Figure out the pattern. Start all over when too many have died. The crisscrossed paths shining forth from the overhead light jump out like some modern painting I hate. Maybe now I know why. I'm just cross myself. It's dry, I itch, and I always scratch too much.

Chosen People

I woke up at seven because God hates me. That's not true, we're the chosen people. Or, at least, we were.

I gave you one hour and then I couldn't help it. I was restless and my restlessness needs someplace to go. You were mad, it was clear, even mad at me in your sleep. I'd put my arm around you and you'd throw it off. Subconscious tells all.

You asked me how I slept, how I felt, if I was feeling better. You got me a glass of water, just got it felt the dryness in the room and acted accordingly. And when I said you were mad at me in your sleep you said, What the hell do I know?