I used to embrace my hangovers. I used to wear my bloodshot eyes as badges of honor, a reminder of how hard I had partied the night before, how far I was willing to push myself. I used to enjoy my next day on the couch, or the bed, or the bathroom floor, foolishly thinking that it was the price to be paid for having a good time. I used to honestly believe that the pain was necessary, the guilt and shame that accompanied it were just parts of life. I felt this was something I had to go through on a regular basis in order to feel some sort of emotion. Maybe not happiness or even good at all, but at least it felt real.
When I was in high school my life changed. No one died, I didn’t get sick, nothing outwardly tragic happened. I moved. I left the place that was familiar and comfortable for a place that was foreign and cold. Eagan's a cold place to newcomers. Not that big of a deal, I know. Tons of high school kids do it every year, a lot of my good friends moved in high school and were fine. Then there was me, I didn’t want to make friends, I didn’t want to fit in. So I didn’t. I taught myself how to be cold, how to get along alone, how to forget about caring. To largely forget about what it meant to be happy. And that’s still a huge part of my life. To be unfeeling, uncaring. If you don’t get attached, you don’t get hurt. Every young adult understands this lesson to some extent. When you don’t get too up in life you can’t fall that far. I fell that far in my own way, and never wanted it to happen again.
So time passed, and I made new friends, really good friends. I’m beyond fortunate to call some of the best people in the world my good friends. But I never let up with trying to keep myself distant, not caring, not being let down. And somewhere in towards the end of high school and the beginning of college I discovered alcohol. Here was an escape, a path allowing me to feel something, be it a euphoric high or a horribly depressing hangover. But at the same time, I didn’t have to get too close. I could always blame everything on being drunk. Drinking itself doesn’t interest me, it’s the being out of control, the allowing myself some emotion, and some feeling that I’m so into. I think it’s time I let go of alcohol and figured out how to feel something without 15-30 drinks beforehand. I have, even before drugs and alcohol, a really self-destructive streak. Maybe its for attention, I’m not entirely sure. I want to see how badly I can fuck up, to get someone, anyone to pay attention to me. Which leads me to doing incredibly stupid things. I am exceptionally talented at fucking up the good things I have going in my life. The worst part about it is that when I know that I’m fucking up, and I make no attempt to change my actions.
This last month has been a really horrible one. I’ve managed to offend just about every single one of my good friends. I’ve offended friends of friends. Cab drivers. It takes a lot to get kicked out of First Ave. Bartenders, servers and bouncers. Old friends and new alike, it’s made no difference. I’d met the most wonderful girl, the first new girl that I’ve met in so long who made me feel something, and I’ve completely pushed her out of my life. I was afraid. I was weak and immature, and as soon as things didn’t go exactly how I wanted them to, I freaked out. I was so mean, so hurtful, that it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t want to be friends at all, let alone something more.
I’m sorry to every single one of my friends. I’m sorry to my family. I’m sorry to the people I’ve hurt directly, and those I’ve ignored. I am a better person than this. You deserve better from me.
They say you have to hit rock bottom before you can get better, I think this is as far as I want to go.
A few years ago, I saw a psychiatrist for awhile, was on medications for depression and anxiety. Not a lot of people know that. Now a lot do, and I’m ok with that. I’d even recommend therapy to most people. I had a lot of family issues, I resented my parents for moving me in high school, and haven’t really gotten along with them since. I was having trouble with school, work, friends, and for the first time, drinking. The meds might have helped, maybe not, but I wasn’t really getting any better, so I ran away. That’s something I’ve learned, it’s easier not to get close to people, to allow them to get close to you if you’re not around them. So I ran, and felt better for awhile. Eventually things got worse, so I ran away again and got better.
When I take off, it’s because I can’t handle my situation anymore. School, family, friends, work, girls. I quit school because I couldn’t handle it. Not the work, just the routine, the normalcy, the fact that it made me a functioning person, it made me normal. I could only do it for so long before I started getting restless, drinking more, drinking harder. The same thing with my friends. My wonderful friends make me feel so good, better than I feel myself, I couldn’t handle them. There’s a really good Henry Rollins’ quote talking about his fans, strangers, who love his music, “I don’t like myself as much as they like me. How fucked up I am these days.” That’s exactly how I’ve felt for so long. I have such amazing friends, the best people in the world. I don’t like myself, so how can they like me? And so I drive them away, and if that doesn’t work then I run away.
I had always thought I was searching for a home, someplace I’d feel like I belong. Somewhere along the way I realized that you have to feel right inside before you can feel like you belong. I haven’t felt right on the inside for as long as I can remember, but I don’t feel like running anymore. So I’m not going to. This has to stop, I need to feel good again.
This is my declaration to everyone I know.
I’m going to be a better person. And I know it’s going to take time. I’m going to lay off the drinking to get trashed and out of control. I’m going to stop the destructive behavior as a way to get attention. I probably won’t go out very much for awhile, I don’t know that I can have just one beer or even a couple beers without having a dozen beers. I’m tired of my hangovers and the shame of trying to figure out just who I need to apologize to the next day. As ridiculous of a job as I have, I like it because it’s steady. I like the normalcy, the routine. It makes me feel like an adult. And I want to be a writer, so I’m going to work on that, but I’m going to keep this job too. I’m going to start working out more regularly, eating healthier too. I’m going to start going to church more regularly. I know that I probably don’t believe all of it, but I do know that it gives me a sense of peace, maybe it’s the routine, but maybe it’s something more. I’m going to be as sweet as I can to that girl, maybe it’s not too late. And if it is, I’m going to work on being alright with that. I’m going to get right with my family, they deserve better from me. I’m going to get right with myself.
I’m going to be a better person.
This is going to take time, but I’m going to work at it. I’m ready to be happy. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The Dragon
They’re messing around in her car, with the passenger seat all the way down. The engine is turned off and they stay warm from the steam that’s rising off their bodies and coating the windows with an opaque screen. There are people coming out from the bar, smoking cigarettes and shuddering in the cold. They notice movement in the car, but avert their eyes.
“We can’t make it another late night again,” he groans, “I’ve got to go to work in the morning.”
“I know,” she says, “I can’t show up with bloodshot eyes again.”
But she keeps straddling him, her leg jammed against the gearshift. She unzips his jeans and lets her fingers creep in through the opening. He looks around, thinking suddenly about the smokers outside and about how he’s showing skin.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “They can’t see us.” She turns and purses her chapped lips to breathe new frost onto the window. She is like a dragon from medieval Japan, smoke tendrils curling out from her nostrils.
He thinks about his wife at home and for a moment has the inexplicable urge to tell the story about how his wife almost caught him once, making out with a girl from the martial arts center. He draws his lips together to keep the words from coming out.
She tugs the hood of her coat up, so that a vast blanket of material covers their bodies. Her face disappears into darkness and the cloak begins to rise and fall. Her back and shoulders seem continuous with the outside, with the line of loitering smokers who clutch at their bodies and rock against the tipsy wind.
Soon, she crawls up the length of his body and whispers, “Next time, let’s do this at your place. I’ll spend the night.”
“Promise?” he murmurs. Then he studies her face for faults and resolves to slay the head of the dragon. Outside, the smokers shift in place, stumbling drunkenly against one another.
“We can’t make it another late night again,” he groans, “I’ve got to go to work in the morning.”
“I know,” she says, “I can’t show up with bloodshot eyes again.”
But she keeps straddling him, her leg jammed against the gearshift. She unzips his jeans and lets her fingers creep in through the opening. He looks around, thinking suddenly about the smokers outside and about how he’s showing skin.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “They can’t see us.” She turns and purses her chapped lips to breathe new frost onto the window. She is like a dragon from medieval Japan, smoke tendrils curling out from her nostrils.
He thinks about his wife at home and for a moment has the inexplicable urge to tell the story about how his wife almost caught him once, making out with a girl from the martial arts center. He draws his lips together to keep the words from coming out.
She tugs the hood of her coat up, so that a vast blanket of material covers their bodies. Her face disappears into darkness and the cloak begins to rise and fall. Her back and shoulders seem continuous with the outside, with the line of loitering smokers who clutch at their bodies and rock against the tipsy wind.
Soon, she crawls up the length of his body and whispers, “Next time, let’s do this at your place. I’ll spend the night.”
“Promise?” he murmurs. Then he studies her face for faults and resolves to slay the head of the dragon. Outside, the smokers shift in place, stumbling drunkenly against one another.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
my son
Tell me my son, why are you here?
Girl troubles Father, girl troubles.
So tell me my son, what are your troubles?
Fuck me Father, where do I start.
Well my son, you said you had girl problems, what are the roots of yours problems?
Troubles Father, I have Troubles, that’s a different story than problems.
You’re right my son, tell me of your troubles.
I’ll tell them to you Father, let’s sort this out together. Fuck me, I haven’t been to confession in ten years, but I can’t sort this out on my own, what can you do for me?
I can show you what you already know. I can lift the veil of confusion.
Father forgive me, but you have to understand my skepticism. I haven’t been to the church in ten years, but Father, I have read the newspapers in the interim. I understand about things, and about sins that the church has committed, but Father, I don’t condemn you, if your conscious is clear, that’s good enough for me.
Go ahead my Son.
Well Father, like I said, girl troubles. You see, I’m in love. Enamored, I have this crush. And it leaves me at a loss.
Some would say that this isn’t a trouble at all, more of a joyous occasion.
Not me Father. Don’t get me wrong, I love women, I love the way they smell and the way they smile, but I love women Father, plural. And it fits my lifestyle. I don’t know that I have the time or the patience, my lifestyle dictates a certain amount of discretion, and it’s just easier not to get too attached to a single broad.
What lifestyle is that my son, that your life would not be improved by the love of a good woman?
Let’s not get too deep here Father, the lifestyle isn’t what bothers me, it’s this love thing. I deal with a lot of unsavory characters, I tend to keep odd hours, I may not be the most…respectable of people. Let’s say this love thing did go somewhere, I’d be worried to meet her parents, I’m not the guy that parents would normally choose for their daughter to bring home.
Are you a criminal of some sort?
Not exactly, I just know a lot of people. I’ve kind of been on the edge of everything. And it is something I’m working on Father, I’ve done some moving around, and I’ve seen a lot of things, and I think I’m ready to become a respectable person, a grown up, if you will Father. But I’m not there yet. I’ve got a decent job, it’s a tough job, but the pay is decent, I live in a respectable place, and I have wonderful friends. I don’t keep in contact with those old friends, the ones that kept me on the edge of things, I’ve found writing Father, it helps for me to have a creative outlet, and I’m even fairly decent at it. But I’m sort of new to this respectable life. I like it, in fact it’s wonderful but its also unfamiliar. And what’s worse, this is the type of girl that a guy dreams about. I’m worried Father, that this is too good of a thing to pass up.
What is it that draws you to her?
Oh man Father, where do I start? She’s beautiful, and that’s initially what caught my eye. She’s a good friend of a good friend, so her references check out, I’ve had problems with dating shady girls in the past, so this is important to me now. Maybe she was too good to start, because all my boys had their eyes on her too. And I deferred, even after I heard that she wanted to get to know me better.
Why?
It’s cliché, but I honestly thought she was out of my league. It was a lot of easier to defer to my boys and let them take their shot.
On the one hand, it was good of you to respect your friends, on the other you come off as cowardly, my son.
Ho! No need to break my balls here Father, I know what I did. It wasn’t easy, but a large part of me was hoping that this girl and one of my friends would hit it off fantastically. Look at it this way, at the time, I didn’t even know her, I had just broken off a fairly unhealthy relationship and what’s more, I like to see my friends happy.
Justify it as you may, but I think if you look inside yourself, you’ll find that you were more scared than anything. Scared of this grown up life you’re trying to create, and how it all fits together. But go on, how do things play out with this girl? And you haven’t really answered my earlier question of what draws you to her.
Interesting. As for what draws me to her, that’s a bit more complicated. I like her because she’s strong, she’s independent with a touch of a stubborn streak. She’s so smart, and she’s done the school to job thing so well. I like her because she’s a professional, but she can still procrastinate. I like her because she likes music, even though it’s definitely different from most of the music I like. I like her because she likes to cuddle, and how her room smells, and how she holds onto me so tightly when she’s asleep. I like her because she likes me back.
This all sounds wonderful my son, where do the troubles come into play? Because unless you have a distorted view of her, it sounds like she likes you, and if she does then she’s going to accept you for who you are. This doesn’t sound like much trouble at all.
That’s just it Father, I don’t know. We have our days where everything seems so wonderful, and then a day later she seems to reject me. She is so busy, and so am I, but in different respects. Sometimes it’s hard to see each other. And it seems like if we can manage to get some quality time together, the next day she makes up for it by rejecting me. Sometimes we hang out in big groups, and she hardly acknowledges me. And then other times when we’re together, she makes me feel like the most special person in the world. It baffles me Father. The uncertainty hurts me. And what’s worse, I don’t usually open myself up to other people, I’m private and independent and stubborn too. I’ve been hurt pretty badly and so it’s a lot easier to keep things to myself, to stay guarded, to not get too close, not let anyone in. As consequence, I’m not used to this sort of thing. Though I don’t know for certain, I suspect she’s been hurt pretty badly too, and it makes her nervous to get close to me.
We are often attracted to those with whom we share common bonds. It seems to me that you like her because you’re the same, but that she also possesses a lot of qualities that you wish to possess yourself. You wish to learn from her.
You make me out to be so selfish Father.
That’s not it at all. You wish to better yourself, so that in turn you can be better for her. You’re trying to be apart of her world, it’s only natural that you would want to fit in.
That’s hardly reassuring. So now what?
Give her time. It sounds like you two have something special going on here. It would be a shame not to put yourself into it, not to give it a fair shot. Wait for her, she’ll figure herself out.
Yea, thanks Father, that’s what she said.
She sounds like a smart woman.
Girl troubles Father, girl troubles.
So tell me my son, what are your troubles?
Fuck me Father, where do I start.
Well my son, you said you had girl problems, what are the roots of yours problems?
Troubles Father, I have Troubles, that’s a different story than problems.
You’re right my son, tell me of your troubles.
I’ll tell them to you Father, let’s sort this out together. Fuck me, I haven’t been to confession in ten years, but I can’t sort this out on my own, what can you do for me?
I can show you what you already know. I can lift the veil of confusion.
Father forgive me, but you have to understand my skepticism. I haven’t been to the church in ten years, but Father, I have read the newspapers in the interim. I understand about things, and about sins that the church has committed, but Father, I don’t condemn you, if your conscious is clear, that’s good enough for me.
Go ahead my Son.
Well Father, like I said, girl troubles. You see, I’m in love. Enamored, I have this crush. And it leaves me at a loss.
Some would say that this isn’t a trouble at all, more of a joyous occasion.
Not me Father. Don’t get me wrong, I love women, I love the way they smell and the way they smile, but I love women Father, plural. And it fits my lifestyle. I don’t know that I have the time or the patience, my lifestyle dictates a certain amount of discretion, and it’s just easier not to get too attached to a single broad.
What lifestyle is that my son, that your life would not be improved by the love of a good woman?
Let’s not get too deep here Father, the lifestyle isn’t what bothers me, it’s this love thing. I deal with a lot of unsavory characters, I tend to keep odd hours, I may not be the most…respectable of people. Let’s say this love thing did go somewhere, I’d be worried to meet her parents, I’m not the guy that parents would normally choose for their daughter to bring home.
Are you a criminal of some sort?
Not exactly, I just know a lot of people. I’ve kind of been on the edge of everything. And it is something I’m working on Father, I’ve done some moving around, and I’ve seen a lot of things, and I think I’m ready to become a respectable person, a grown up, if you will Father. But I’m not there yet. I’ve got a decent job, it’s a tough job, but the pay is decent, I live in a respectable place, and I have wonderful friends. I don’t keep in contact with those old friends, the ones that kept me on the edge of things, I’ve found writing Father, it helps for me to have a creative outlet, and I’m even fairly decent at it. But I’m sort of new to this respectable life. I like it, in fact it’s wonderful but its also unfamiliar. And what’s worse, this is the type of girl that a guy dreams about. I’m worried Father, that this is too good of a thing to pass up.
What is it that draws you to her?
Oh man Father, where do I start? She’s beautiful, and that’s initially what caught my eye. She’s a good friend of a good friend, so her references check out, I’ve had problems with dating shady girls in the past, so this is important to me now. Maybe she was too good to start, because all my boys had their eyes on her too. And I deferred, even after I heard that she wanted to get to know me better.
Why?
It’s cliché, but I honestly thought she was out of my league. It was a lot of easier to defer to my boys and let them take their shot.
On the one hand, it was good of you to respect your friends, on the other you come off as cowardly, my son.
Ho! No need to break my balls here Father, I know what I did. It wasn’t easy, but a large part of me was hoping that this girl and one of my friends would hit it off fantastically. Look at it this way, at the time, I didn’t even know her, I had just broken off a fairly unhealthy relationship and what’s more, I like to see my friends happy.
Justify it as you may, but I think if you look inside yourself, you’ll find that you were more scared than anything. Scared of this grown up life you’re trying to create, and how it all fits together. But go on, how do things play out with this girl? And you haven’t really answered my earlier question of what draws you to her.
Interesting. As for what draws me to her, that’s a bit more complicated. I like her because she’s strong, she’s independent with a touch of a stubborn streak. She’s so smart, and she’s done the school to job thing so well. I like her because she’s a professional, but she can still procrastinate. I like her because she likes music, even though it’s definitely different from most of the music I like. I like her because she likes to cuddle, and how her room smells, and how she holds onto me so tightly when she’s asleep. I like her because she likes me back.
This all sounds wonderful my son, where do the troubles come into play? Because unless you have a distorted view of her, it sounds like she likes you, and if she does then she’s going to accept you for who you are. This doesn’t sound like much trouble at all.
That’s just it Father, I don’t know. We have our days where everything seems so wonderful, and then a day later she seems to reject me. She is so busy, and so am I, but in different respects. Sometimes it’s hard to see each other. And it seems like if we can manage to get some quality time together, the next day she makes up for it by rejecting me. Sometimes we hang out in big groups, and she hardly acknowledges me. And then other times when we’re together, she makes me feel like the most special person in the world. It baffles me Father. The uncertainty hurts me. And what’s worse, I don’t usually open myself up to other people, I’m private and independent and stubborn too. I’ve been hurt pretty badly and so it’s a lot easier to keep things to myself, to stay guarded, to not get too close, not let anyone in. As consequence, I’m not used to this sort of thing. Though I don’t know for certain, I suspect she’s been hurt pretty badly too, and it makes her nervous to get close to me.
We are often attracted to those with whom we share common bonds. It seems to me that you like her because you’re the same, but that she also possesses a lot of qualities that you wish to possess yourself. You wish to learn from her.
You make me out to be so selfish Father.
That’s not it at all. You wish to better yourself, so that in turn you can be better for her. You’re trying to be apart of her world, it’s only natural that you would want to fit in.
That’s hardly reassuring. So now what?
Give her time. It sounds like you two have something special going on here. It would be a shame not to put yourself into it, not to give it a fair shot. Wait for her, she’ll figure herself out.
Yea, thanks Father, that’s what she said.
She sounds like a smart woman.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Christmas Sweaters
Eric and Liv have snuck outside to enjoy a smoke break. Christmas lights adorn the roof of their parents’ house and the wholesome sound of music and laughter can be heard inside. Eric is in his late forties. His sister Liv is in her early forties.
Eric: Want to try a menthol? I roll my own now.
Liv: Sure. I used to smoke Salems.
Eric: Me too.
Liv: I know. I used to steal yours when we were kids.
Eric: I guess I knew that. Cheaper to roll your own nowadays, though.
Liv: Doesn’t Mom smoke anymore?
Eric: Nope. She quit. Gave it up three years ago, I think.
Liv: Funny. I can’t keep up with this stuff when we only see each other once a year.
Eric: Yeah. It’s a nice Christmas party, though.
Liv: Yeah. I’m getting a kick out of Dad’s reindeer sweater. I can’t believe she got him to wear that.
Eric: You and Don still together?
Liv: No. Not for a long time. Are you still seeing Madeline?
Eric: It’s almost ten years, now.
Liv: Serious? Ten years?
Eric: Yep. Ten years and three abortions.
Liv: Ouch. That’s hard.
Eric: Yep. Good thing, though. I’m too old for that now. And they would have had weird defects, you know, extra arms and stuff like that.
Liv: What?
Eric: Yep. Madeline’s a crack whore. She doesn’t need to have crack babies around.
Liv: Oh. Really? A crack whore?
Eric: Yeah. I pay her for sex. We have sex. I give her cash. She goes out and buys crack. It works, though. It’s more fun that way. There are no expectations. Better than being married.
Liv: Oh. Sure. No reindeer sweaters, I suppose.
Eric: Yep. It’s the anticipation, too.
Liv: So. Three abortions? They’re…So, she’s…Would you say that you’re monogamous?
Eric: Yep. At least, I think so. Want to be careful, you know. Don’t want to spread anything around. Of course, spreading things around isn’t as bad as catching something.
Liv: But three abortions?
Eric: Yeah. Condom broke. My fault – we rushed and she wasn’t completely lubricated.
Liv: Oh. Well. I guess we don’t need to go into too much detail. Ten years is a long time. I’d like to meet Madeline sometime.
Eric: Well, I can’t really bring her to the Christmas parties. What with the kids and Mom and all.
Liv: No. Some other time then?
Eric: Sure. My place is a mess, though. We’d have to meet at a restaurant or something.
Liv: Ok.
Eric: Just don’t call her a crack whore to her face. She wouldn’t like that.
Liv: Yeah, well. I guess we should get in, huh? They’ll want to start opening presents, I suppose.
Eric: Want to try a menthol? I roll my own now.
Liv: Sure. I used to smoke Salems.
Eric: Me too.
Liv: I know. I used to steal yours when we were kids.
Eric: I guess I knew that. Cheaper to roll your own nowadays, though.
Liv: Doesn’t Mom smoke anymore?
Eric: Nope. She quit. Gave it up three years ago, I think.
Liv: Funny. I can’t keep up with this stuff when we only see each other once a year.
Eric: Yeah. It’s a nice Christmas party, though.
Liv: Yeah. I’m getting a kick out of Dad’s reindeer sweater. I can’t believe she got him to wear that.
Eric: You and Don still together?
Liv: No. Not for a long time. Are you still seeing Madeline?
Eric: It’s almost ten years, now.
Liv: Serious? Ten years?
Eric: Yep. Ten years and three abortions.
Liv: Ouch. That’s hard.
Eric: Yep. Good thing, though. I’m too old for that now. And they would have had weird defects, you know, extra arms and stuff like that.
Liv: What?
Eric: Yep. Madeline’s a crack whore. She doesn’t need to have crack babies around.
Liv: Oh. Really? A crack whore?
Eric: Yeah. I pay her for sex. We have sex. I give her cash. She goes out and buys crack. It works, though. It’s more fun that way. There are no expectations. Better than being married.
Liv: Oh. Sure. No reindeer sweaters, I suppose.
Eric: Yep. It’s the anticipation, too.
Liv: So. Three abortions? They’re…So, she’s…Would you say that you’re monogamous?
Eric: Yep. At least, I think so. Want to be careful, you know. Don’t want to spread anything around. Of course, spreading things around isn’t as bad as catching something.
Liv: But three abortions?
Eric: Yeah. Condom broke. My fault – we rushed and she wasn’t completely lubricated.
Liv: Oh. Well. I guess we don’t need to go into too much detail. Ten years is a long time. I’d like to meet Madeline sometime.
Eric: Well, I can’t really bring her to the Christmas parties. What with the kids and Mom and all.
Liv: No. Some other time then?
Eric: Sure. My place is a mess, though. We’d have to meet at a restaurant or something.
Liv: Ok.
Eric: Just don’t call her a crack whore to her face. She wouldn’t like that.
Liv: Yeah, well. I guess we should get in, huh? They’ll want to start opening presents, I suppose.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Playing the Spoons
I make the superintendent open the door on Christmas. Derek has been missing for several days, neglecting to show up at parties with shrimp cocktail and artichoke dip. He missed the kid’s holiday concert. I just plainly missed him.
Last Monday was the last time I saw him. We ate cheap ice cream in his new apartment. He only had one bowl and two spoons. He scooped the fluffy pink and green ice cream into the bowl for me and onto the lid of the container for him.
“For experienced ice cream addicts,” he said pointing to his makeshift bowl.
“Don’t eat it all,” I playfully said. “I plan on coming by this weekend to finish it, Mr. Addict.”
I lit a cigarette with my final match and took bites between drags. “Where’s the ashtray?” I asked.
“Oh… you’re eating out of it. I washed it though,” he responded with perfect timing like we were in some Laurel and Hardy routine.
We listened to Johnny Cash and Nick Cave. Derek picked up his old Silvertone and played me a new song with no lyrics. His upright bass was standing in the corner. His new place had no rugs, only beige tiles with a few squares of blue haphazardly thrown in. It used to be a nursing home but now it was an apartment building for people with disabilities. The walls were toothpaste white. He had a single bed tucked in behind the bathroom door. Balled up in the corner was a tiny blue throw that shed bits of lint. I wondered how he stayed warm at night, but he liked to sleep in his wool overcoat, and the apartment air burned hot from skinny radiators nestled into the baseboards. This was his first place since we broke up last year. His first place that wasn’t under lock and key or supervised by nurses who watched him swallow his psych meds in paper cups. He finally had his own stove, which he used to light my cigarette.
“I hate electric stoves!” he said as he jammed the end of my cigarette onto the screaming red coil. It took forever to light, but he was patient despite the tremor in his hands. He wore a new western shirt, black with silver embroidery. It was the most elaborate in his collection, swirling figure eights melding into flowers with pearly buttons. His hair was shaggy, hanging awkwardly over his the rim of his square glasses.
On Christmas I wait as the Super takes the sluggish elevator to apartment 216. I wait in the lobby on a scratchy plaid chair. I had tried to visit Derek all weekend, looking up towards his window when he wouldn’t answer his door. All the other residents were jealous because he had a corner apartment with perfect sun, though he complained about the constant whir of the elevator. I saw that he had put up new chiffon curtains and houseplants lined the window sill, soaking up the highly coveted winter sun.
I wait on the stiff chairs, looking at the lobby phone that makes only outgoing calls. It looks like an old office phone, all beige and dingy with blackened marks from the countless residents who grip its plastic neck. The curly cord trails down like a tendril, brushing the red, thinning lobby carpet. I could see Derek sitting in this same spot, talking to me while his nervous foot kicked the cord, watching it swing back and forth. He was waiting for some money to get a cell phone so people could get in touch with him. I wanted to get in touch with him. It was Christmas, and he never came for the free coffee or crappy cookies.
In between the entry doors, the Super coaxes me in as residents funnel in and out with packages, sodas, and cigarettes.
“I’m sorry. He has passed,” he says as he stares at the entry rug covered with slush and sand. The whirlwind of time makes no sense, filling the following minutes with flashing blue lights and an incoherent phone call to his mother smothered in sobs. I hear the Super on the phone saying that he was sure Derek was dead. “He is green,” he tries to whisper to the police. I can hear my heart pounding in my head, saying no, saying that I just saw him, saying that he promised to leave some ice cream for me. I hear the blue and the red of the ambulance lights and the footsteps of paramedics with heavy black bags. The whir of the elevator. The gray gurney with squeaky wheels. The voices of the cops called out on Christmas asking me what happened, do I know what happened.
The cops find needles in his apartment. They find heroin. They find a tourniquet. They find only one of Derek’s two spoons lying next to his lifeless body all crumpled up on his new area rug he bought at Ikea. The other spoon is shining and polished, standing upright in the dish drainer, waiting for me like he promised.
Last Monday was the last time I saw him. We ate cheap ice cream in his new apartment. He only had one bowl and two spoons. He scooped the fluffy pink and green ice cream into the bowl for me and onto the lid of the container for him.
“For experienced ice cream addicts,” he said pointing to his makeshift bowl.
“Don’t eat it all,” I playfully said. “I plan on coming by this weekend to finish it, Mr. Addict.”
I lit a cigarette with my final match and took bites between drags. “Where’s the ashtray?” I asked.
“Oh… you’re eating out of it. I washed it though,” he responded with perfect timing like we were in some Laurel and Hardy routine.
We listened to Johnny Cash and Nick Cave. Derek picked up his old Silvertone and played me a new song with no lyrics. His upright bass was standing in the corner. His new place had no rugs, only beige tiles with a few squares of blue haphazardly thrown in. It used to be a nursing home but now it was an apartment building for people with disabilities. The walls were toothpaste white. He had a single bed tucked in behind the bathroom door. Balled up in the corner was a tiny blue throw that shed bits of lint. I wondered how he stayed warm at night, but he liked to sleep in his wool overcoat, and the apartment air burned hot from skinny radiators nestled into the baseboards. This was his first place since we broke up last year. His first place that wasn’t under lock and key or supervised by nurses who watched him swallow his psych meds in paper cups. He finally had his own stove, which he used to light my cigarette.
“I hate electric stoves!” he said as he jammed the end of my cigarette onto the screaming red coil. It took forever to light, but he was patient despite the tremor in his hands. He wore a new western shirt, black with silver embroidery. It was the most elaborate in his collection, swirling figure eights melding into flowers with pearly buttons. His hair was shaggy, hanging awkwardly over his the rim of his square glasses.
On Christmas I wait as the Super takes the sluggish elevator to apartment 216. I wait in the lobby on a scratchy plaid chair. I had tried to visit Derek all weekend, looking up towards his window when he wouldn’t answer his door. All the other residents were jealous because he had a corner apartment with perfect sun, though he complained about the constant whir of the elevator. I saw that he had put up new chiffon curtains and houseplants lined the window sill, soaking up the highly coveted winter sun.
I wait on the stiff chairs, looking at the lobby phone that makes only outgoing calls. It looks like an old office phone, all beige and dingy with blackened marks from the countless residents who grip its plastic neck. The curly cord trails down like a tendril, brushing the red, thinning lobby carpet. I could see Derek sitting in this same spot, talking to me while his nervous foot kicked the cord, watching it swing back and forth. He was waiting for some money to get a cell phone so people could get in touch with him. I wanted to get in touch with him. It was Christmas, and he never came for the free coffee or crappy cookies.
In between the entry doors, the Super coaxes me in as residents funnel in and out with packages, sodas, and cigarettes.
“I’m sorry. He has passed,” he says as he stares at the entry rug covered with slush and sand. The whirlwind of time makes no sense, filling the following minutes with flashing blue lights and an incoherent phone call to his mother smothered in sobs. I hear the Super on the phone saying that he was sure Derek was dead. “He is green,” he tries to whisper to the police. I can hear my heart pounding in my head, saying no, saying that I just saw him, saying that he promised to leave some ice cream for me. I hear the blue and the red of the ambulance lights and the footsteps of paramedics with heavy black bags. The whir of the elevator. The gray gurney with squeaky wheels. The voices of the cops called out on Christmas asking me what happened, do I know what happened.
The cops find needles in his apartment. They find heroin. They find a tourniquet. They find only one of Derek’s two spoons lying next to his lifeless body all crumpled up on his new area rug he bought at Ikea. The other spoon is shining and polished, standing upright in the dish drainer, waiting for me like he promised.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Hooks
“Come on! You’re not handing them to me fast enough,” Joey says. Under his breath I can faintly hear a string of muffled swear words. We are putting up the fake tree with the sparse spears of tinsel. We stick each thin branch onto the plastic trunk. It looks anorexic and patchy, like all of its hair had fallen out during chemo. We awkwardly string up lights to fill in the gaps.
Fuck, Nye” he screams. He just stepped on a ruby toned bulb I left on the floor. It shattered into pieces like a delicate bird’s egg, paper thin and vulnerable.
I unwrap the tissue paper covered in pictures of candy canes and snowmen. I pull out each ornament. Joey sits on the couch nursing his foot as I hang the Mexican tin stars up, careful not to step on the shattered bulb. The hangers are made of wrapping paper ribbon that that has become brittle and faded. My ex-husband and I bought those our first Christmas. The plastic lobster and the one eyed panda Ray and I bought during an abnormally warm winter. We hardly fought then. The goofy bride and groom smothered with yellow glitter we got right before he packed up his CD collection and cutlery set.
The years have piled up since the Mexican ornaments. My ex-husband and I sent out fifty-three holiday cards that year. We deliberated over what type of card to get, settling on something funny and traditional. We got even more cards in return, our apartment mail box stuffed with colored envelopes from well wishers. Ray and I picked up a generic box of cards from the drugstore and mailed them out a few days before Christmas. A dozen or so envelopes came addressed to us.
It is the night before Christmas. I didn’t send any cards out this year and only two came in the mail. One was from a realtor. The other from an old high school friend who writes letters from the perspective of her cats. Only my name was written on the front in cheery ink. I contemplate this as I put the last ornament on the tree: a pile of plastic grapes.
“Look Joey, the Tree of Failure. Each one tells the story of the demise of my previous relationships. Good thing we haven’t gotten any ornaments,” I say.
“You’re depressing, Nye. You can ruin just about anything,” he says as he goes upstairs to watch TV with a can of beer in his hand.
“Merry fucking Christmas to you, too!” I shout as I flip out all the lights. I stare at the brilliant bulbs as they dance and make shadows on the ceiling. In some ways it seems fitting to see all of my memories hanging from metal hooks.
In the morning, Joey acts like nothing happened. He has daytime amnesia, forgetting harsh words said during the night. He buys me coffee when his anger has eroded. He’s humming a festive holiday song.
“It snowed! I thought we’d have a brown, patchy Christmas. But look,” he sings as he points out the window. Big clumps of snow fall, making a sickly plopping sound on the sidewalk. The tree’s branches are heavy with the slushy mixture, their naked fingertips brushing the ground. He hands me a peppermint mocha and plants a kiss on my forehead, but all I can think about is what ornament I am going to buy in honor of him.
.
Fuck, Nye” he screams. He just stepped on a ruby toned bulb I left on the floor. It shattered into pieces like a delicate bird’s egg, paper thin and vulnerable.
I unwrap the tissue paper covered in pictures of candy canes and snowmen. I pull out each ornament. Joey sits on the couch nursing his foot as I hang the Mexican tin stars up, careful not to step on the shattered bulb. The hangers are made of wrapping paper ribbon that that has become brittle and faded. My ex-husband and I bought those our first Christmas. The plastic lobster and the one eyed panda Ray and I bought during an abnormally warm winter. We hardly fought then. The goofy bride and groom smothered with yellow glitter we got right before he packed up his CD collection and cutlery set.
The years have piled up since the Mexican ornaments. My ex-husband and I sent out fifty-three holiday cards that year. We deliberated over what type of card to get, settling on something funny and traditional. We got even more cards in return, our apartment mail box stuffed with colored envelopes from well wishers. Ray and I picked up a generic box of cards from the drugstore and mailed them out a few days before Christmas. A dozen or so envelopes came addressed to us.
It is the night before Christmas. I didn’t send any cards out this year and only two came in the mail. One was from a realtor. The other from an old high school friend who writes letters from the perspective of her cats. Only my name was written on the front in cheery ink. I contemplate this as I put the last ornament on the tree: a pile of plastic grapes.
“Look Joey, the Tree of Failure. Each one tells the story of the demise of my previous relationships. Good thing we haven’t gotten any ornaments,” I say.
“You’re depressing, Nye. You can ruin just about anything,” he says as he goes upstairs to watch TV with a can of beer in his hand.
“Merry fucking Christmas to you, too!” I shout as I flip out all the lights. I stare at the brilliant bulbs as they dance and make shadows on the ceiling. In some ways it seems fitting to see all of my memories hanging from metal hooks.
In the morning, Joey acts like nothing happened. He has daytime amnesia, forgetting harsh words said during the night. He buys me coffee when his anger has eroded. He’s humming a festive holiday song.
“It snowed! I thought we’d have a brown, patchy Christmas. But look,” he sings as he points out the window. Big clumps of snow fall, making a sickly plopping sound on the sidewalk. The tree’s branches are heavy with the slushy mixture, their naked fingertips brushing the ground. He hands me a peppermint mocha and plants a kiss on my forehead, but all I can think about is what ornament I am going to buy in honor of him.
.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Burden of Sentiment
I printed off the proof of our correspondence on copper tinted parchment paper. I was making a book documenting the affair Kris and I had last spring. The pages stacked up quickly, eating all of the blackened ink in my printer. Page after page of desperate emails whose poetic, grandiose words clung to one another. I photocopied all of her poems and notes and lists she wrote in her stick figure style of handwriting. I copied the covers of pamphlets and liner notes from our favorite bands that she gave me. I neatly stacked everything that could be replicated from our past and spent all night putting them in order chronologically.
I wanted to re-read them, but the burden of sentiment felt smothering. So I pushed our emaciated romance onto slips of paper. I tied them all up with shiny, holiday ribbons and sent them to her instead.
I wanted to re-read them, but the burden of sentiment felt smothering. So I pushed our emaciated romance onto slips of paper. I tied them all up with shiny, holiday ribbons and sent them to her instead.
Monday, December 11, 2006
The Kindergarten Tour
Two women in their 30s are walking through the halls of elementary school. Susan is the parent volunteer hosting the tour, which is just now concluding. Pamela is a mother on the tour.
Susan: Did you have any other questions?
Pamela: I don’t think so. Thanks for taking the time to tell us about the school.
Susan: Actually, I’d like to just talk to you a second, because our girls would be going into kindergarten together.
Pamela: Sure.
Susan: My daughter was born in August and I’m so glad, if you’re looking at early admission for your daughter, that she won’t be the youngest in the class.
Pamela: Right. Mine was born in September – just two weeks after the cut-off.
Susan: I know. I’ve just been feeling, you know, like everyone thinks I’m pushing her or something.
Pamela: Yeah. I know, but kids are just ready for school at different times.
Susan: Oh, I know. I’m glad someone’s on the same page as I am.
Pamela: But your older daughter. She’s in first grade here and she really likes the program?
Susan: Oh, absolutely. And I always feel safe about her being here. Especially since, you know, I was really surprised to find out that fifty percent of the kids are in the free lunch program.
Pamela: Yeah?
Susan: I know. Isn’t that amazing? Fifty percent of the kids. And it’s so funny, because you look around and you can’t really tell which ones they are. Well, some of them stick out. Some of them, you know, I think that their parents aren’t speaking English around the house because they’re not giving them any help with their homework.
Pamela: Really.
Susan: Yeah. Fifty percent of the kids in poverty. It’s like, I hope they’re getting something to eat at home. I hope they have food to eat. And clothing. I mean, somebody should do something about that.
Pamela: Oh sure.
Susan: But you know, you just can’t tell with most of them. Aside from those few, you wouldn’t know which ones are living in poverty.
Pamela: Right. They blend right in. Just like the Jews.
Susan: Yeah -What?
Pamela: Oh, never mind. I’m so glad our girls look like they’re getting along. It’ll be so much fun for them to be friends next year.
Susan: Did you have any other questions?
Pamela: I don’t think so. Thanks for taking the time to tell us about the school.
Susan: Actually, I’d like to just talk to you a second, because our girls would be going into kindergarten together.
Pamela: Sure.
Susan: My daughter was born in August and I’m so glad, if you’re looking at early admission for your daughter, that she won’t be the youngest in the class.
Pamela: Right. Mine was born in September – just two weeks after the cut-off.
Susan: I know. I’ve just been feeling, you know, like everyone thinks I’m pushing her or something.
Pamela: Yeah. I know, but kids are just ready for school at different times.
Susan: Oh, I know. I’m glad someone’s on the same page as I am.
Pamela: But your older daughter. She’s in first grade here and she really likes the program?
Susan: Oh, absolutely. And I always feel safe about her being here. Especially since, you know, I was really surprised to find out that fifty percent of the kids are in the free lunch program.
Pamela: Yeah?
Susan: I know. Isn’t that amazing? Fifty percent of the kids. And it’s so funny, because you look around and you can’t really tell which ones they are. Well, some of them stick out. Some of them, you know, I think that their parents aren’t speaking English around the house because they’re not giving them any help with their homework.
Pamela: Really.
Susan: Yeah. Fifty percent of the kids in poverty. It’s like, I hope they’re getting something to eat at home. I hope they have food to eat. And clothing. I mean, somebody should do something about that.
Pamela: Oh sure.
Susan: But you know, you just can’t tell with most of them. Aside from those few, you wouldn’t know which ones are living in poverty.
Pamela: Right. They blend right in. Just like the Jews.
Susan: Yeah -What?
Pamela: Oh, never mind. I’m so glad our girls look like they’re getting along. It’ll be so much fun for them to be friends next year.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Confined
I’m jacked on espresso shots listening to the same song over and over again. It has been making me cry for over a week now. But the repeat button has been firmly pressed down by my heavy fingers. I’m thinking about putting masking tape over it. My hand is tired of holding it down.
I’m tired. I’ve been hunching again in that depressed way. My body is advertising to the world my dissatisfaction with life since the sun has slipped behind winter’s flat, gray veil. James is getting ready to go to the zoo with his son. I think the zoo is sad enough in the summer.
“I hate Z-O-O-S,” I spell so little Ian cannot understand what I am saying. He’s hopping around naked making monkey sounds.
“You hate everything,” James says.
Last night, we had to go to the Hollidazzle parade, a feast of blinking Christmas lights affixed to floats advertising local businesses. Mascots with twisted faces waved violently at the kids. I don’t know why they kept laughing and didn’t run away. The man behind me smoked a cigar the whole time and kept taking pictures with his digital camera while his son drooled in the stroller. I played with my cell phone like I had important phone calls to make. Volunteers in plush costumes acted out fairy tales. The Pied Piper lulled little kids dressed up in rat costumes. They held onto one another’s tails that looked like strips of bacon.
“Gross! They look like they’re squeezing slabs of meat,” I said. James turned, little Ian fastened tightly in his arms.
“You get freaked out by the weirdest things. They’re cute,” he scowled. I was ruining their fun father-son adventure. Standing in my fur coat and combat boots, I looked out of place in a crowd of parents and kids clapping and shouting wildly. I wondered where all these people lining the downtown sidewalks come from. They looked mass produced, all bundled up in fleece hats and ski mittens. Mass produced people producing more people who thought the Wicked Witch of the West wasn’t scary as she waved her sickly skinny fingers and rode an adult sized tricycle.
“How do they keep their instruments from freezing to their lips,” I said to James as the U of M Alumni Marching Band marched past. I felt like a little kid pulling on daddy’s jacket for attention as he turned and rolled his eyes.
They are finally gone to see the animals locked in cages. The safari animals are surely confined to some desert dome. I wonder if monkeys like the cold or where Sparky the Seal goes when his summer splashing shows are on hiatus. The only thing I liked about the Como Zoo was the crappy carnival rides with rusty bolts and tattooed carnies. I heard that they rehabbed the place since then with shiny new machines that take tokens instead. The toothless guys have been replaced with college kids and stay-at-home moms who don’t want to stay at home anymore.
I listen to the same song that retells the story of a relationship taking its final gasp of air. It reminds me of how when you die, you can still expel air from your lungs. James won’t listen to the song, doesn’t understand why I repetitively do if it makes me cry and curl up and go to sleep at 9:00.
This weekend was the first time he has had his son in over a year, and all I can do is cry. He doesn’t understand why I hate parades and zoos and tinker toys.
Either do I.
I’m tired. I’ve been hunching again in that depressed way. My body is advertising to the world my dissatisfaction with life since the sun has slipped behind winter’s flat, gray veil. James is getting ready to go to the zoo with his son. I think the zoo is sad enough in the summer.
“I hate Z-O-O-S,” I spell so little Ian cannot understand what I am saying. He’s hopping around naked making monkey sounds.
“You hate everything,” James says.
Last night, we had to go to the Hollidazzle parade, a feast of blinking Christmas lights affixed to floats advertising local businesses. Mascots with twisted faces waved violently at the kids. I don’t know why they kept laughing and didn’t run away. The man behind me smoked a cigar the whole time and kept taking pictures with his digital camera while his son drooled in the stroller. I played with my cell phone like I had important phone calls to make. Volunteers in plush costumes acted out fairy tales. The Pied Piper lulled little kids dressed up in rat costumes. They held onto one another’s tails that looked like strips of bacon.
“Gross! They look like they’re squeezing slabs of meat,” I said. James turned, little Ian fastened tightly in his arms.
“You get freaked out by the weirdest things. They’re cute,” he scowled. I was ruining their fun father-son adventure. Standing in my fur coat and combat boots, I looked out of place in a crowd of parents and kids clapping and shouting wildly. I wondered where all these people lining the downtown sidewalks come from. They looked mass produced, all bundled up in fleece hats and ski mittens. Mass produced people producing more people who thought the Wicked Witch of the West wasn’t scary as she waved her sickly skinny fingers and rode an adult sized tricycle.
“How do they keep their instruments from freezing to their lips,” I said to James as the U of M Alumni Marching Band marched past. I felt like a little kid pulling on daddy’s jacket for attention as he turned and rolled his eyes.
They are finally gone to see the animals locked in cages. The safari animals are surely confined to some desert dome. I wonder if monkeys like the cold or where Sparky the Seal goes when his summer splashing shows are on hiatus. The only thing I liked about the Como Zoo was the crappy carnival rides with rusty bolts and tattooed carnies. I heard that they rehabbed the place since then with shiny new machines that take tokens instead. The toothless guys have been replaced with college kids and stay-at-home moms who don’t want to stay at home anymore.
I listen to the same song that retells the story of a relationship taking its final gasp of air. It reminds me of how when you die, you can still expel air from your lungs. James won’t listen to the song, doesn’t understand why I repetitively do if it makes me cry and curl up and go to sleep at 9:00.
This weekend was the first time he has had his son in over a year, and all I can do is cry. He doesn’t understand why I hate parades and zoos and tinker toys.
Either do I.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
The Billy Goat Dilemma
Two mothers are waiting in the hallway to pick their kids up at pre-school.
Karen: I wanted to talk to you about the kids’ shareformance next week. I was talking to Megan and, since our three are going to be the three Billy goats, we were thinking of trying to coordinate costumes.
Margaret: Yeah?
Karen: Well, what we were thinking is that we didn’t want it to end up that, you know, that the kids would get upset if one of the other Billy goats had a fancy costume and they didn’t, you know.
Margaret: huh. Well, I’ve already made Sissy’s costume.
Karen: Well, we were just thinking of coordinating so that it didn’t get to be a big deal. I guess we just didn’t want there to be a difference, you know, in the quality of the costume. We didn’t want any of the kids to feel bad about it.
Margaret: Oh, sure. Well, no. Nobody should feel bad about their costumes. I made one for Sissy already, but it’s pretty simple.
Karen: Like what?
Margaret: I just took one of her old sweatshirts and sewed some ears onto the hood, put a little tail on it.
Karen: Well, we were sort of thinking that, since we’re not all equally good at stuff like that, that we would just do something like make ears out of a paper bag or something.
Margaret: uhuh. That would work. It’s just that I’ve already made the costume. It’s pretty simple. It didn’t take too long to do. I found a couple horns to put on the hood. It’s fairly low key.
Karen: well. It’s just..Oh, the kids are coming out here. Maybe I can call you and we can talk about it later. It’s just that it would be nice to coordinate costumes.
Margaret: uhuh
Karen: see, we were thinking that paper bags would be easy.
Margaret: uhuh.
Karen: and that way all the kids would be wearing the same things
Margaret: uhuh.
Karen: you know how kids are
Margaret: hmm. So, what you’re saying is that you want me to throw away the work that I put into this so that my daughter can wear a paper bag on her head?
Karen: Well, the idea was that the three Billy goats would all have matching costumes.
Margaret: So you’re saying that I should send my daughter the message that she should constantly compare what she’s wearing to what the other kids are wearing, and that her goal, as a girl, is to never stick out?
Karen: I mean, it’s just that the paper bags. That’s something we could all do.
Margaret: So you’re saying that I should forget about teaching my daughter to do her best in everything she puts her hand to, that she should tone down her abilities to match the abilities of the other kids in her classes?
Karen: No. No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just worried that the other girls will be upset if there’s a huge difference in their costumes.
Margaret: Well, I don’t know what to say.
Karen: Perhaps we could --
Margaret : -- I just know that when Sissy’s in third grade, I’m NOT going to ask her to throw the spelling test to make the kid behind her feel better about herself. When she’s in high school, I’m NOT going to ask her to date a dorky guy just because all her friends are dating similar kinds of dorky guys. And when she’s in college, I’m NOT going to ask her to be half-assed about writing her research papers just because all the other kids are doing half-assed papers. I’m sorry. I am NOT going to ask my daughter to wear a paper bag over her head just because you can’t get your shit together long enough to make your own kid a goddamn decent costume. I would suggest that you either take sewing lessons or teach your daughter to spend less time worrying about what everyone else is doing.
The classroom door opens and both mothers hasten to paste smiles on their faces. Sissy! What’d you learn today?
Karen: Hi there, cutie. Oh, Julie, what happened to your dress? Did you spill juice?
Margaret: ok Sissy, say goodbye to Julie. We’ve got places to go, things to do.
Karen: Well, I’ll call you later Margaret, and we can figure out what to do about costumes.
Blackout
Karen: I wanted to talk to you about the kids’ shareformance next week. I was talking to Megan and, since our three are going to be the three Billy goats, we were thinking of trying to coordinate costumes.
Margaret: Yeah?
Karen: Well, what we were thinking is that we didn’t want it to end up that, you know, that the kids would get upset if one of the other Billy goats had a fancy costume and they didn’t, you know.
Margaret: huh. Well, I’ve already made Sissy’s costume.
Karen: Well, we were just thinking of coordinating so that it didn’t get to be a big deal. I guess we just didn’t want there to be a difference, you know, in the quality of the costume. We didn’t want any of the kids to feel bad about it.
Margaret: Oh, sure. Well, no. Nobody should feel bad about their costumes. I made one for Sissy already, but it’s pretty simple.
Karen: Like what?
Margaret: I just took one of her old sweatshirts and sewed some ears onto the hood, put a little tail on it.
Karen: Well, we were sort of thinking that, since we’re not all equally good at stuff like that, that we would just do something like make ears out of a paper bag or something.
Margaret: uhuh. That would work. It’s just that I’ve already made the costume. It’s pretty simple. It didn’t take too long to do. I found a couple horns to put on the hood. It’s fairly low key.
Karen: well. It’s just..Oh, the kids are coming out here. Maybe I can call you and we can talk about it later. It’s just that it would be nice to coordinate costumes.
Margaret: uhuh
Karen: see, we were thinking that paper bags would be easy.
Margaret: uhuh.
Karen: and that way all the kids would be wearing the same things
Margaret: uhuh.
Karen: you know how kids are
Margaret: hmm. So, what you’re saying is that you want me to throw away the work that I put into this so that my daughter can wear a paper bag on her head?
Karen: Well, the idea was that the three Billy goats would all have matching costumes.
Margaret: So you’re saying that I should send my daughter the message that she should constantly compare what she’s wearing to what the other kids are wearing, and that her goal, as a girl, is to never stick out?
Karen: I mean, it’s just that the paper bags. That’s something we could all do.
Margaret: So you’re saying that I should forget about teaching my daughter to do her best in everything she puts her hand to, that she should tone down her abilities to match the abilities of the other kids in her classes?
Karen: No. No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just worried that the other girls will be upset if there’s a huge difference in their costumes.
Margaret: Well, I don’t know what to say.
Karen: Perhaps we could --
Margaret : -- I just know that when Sissy’s in third grade, I’m NOT going to ask her to throw the spelling test to make the kid behind her feel better about herself. When she’s in high school, I’m NOT going to ask her to date a dorky guy just because all her friends are dating similar kinds of dorky guys. And when she’s in college, I’m NOT going to ask her to be half-assed about writing her research papers just because all the other kids are doing half-assed papers. I’m sorry. I am NOT going to ask my daughter to wear a paper bag over her head just because you can’t get your shit together long enough to make your own kid a goddamn decent costume. I would suggest that you either take sewing lessons or teach your daughter to spend less time worrying about what everyone else is doing.
The classroom door opens and both mothers hasten to paste smiles on their faces. Sissy! What’d you learn today?
Karen: Hi there, cutie. Oh, Julie, what happened to your dress? Did you spill juice?
Margaret: ok Sissy, say goodbye to Julie. We’ve got places to go, things to do.
Karen: Well, I’ll call you later Margaret, and we can figure out what to do about costumes.
Blackout
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Talk To Don
About three months ago, a friend of mine threw a party at her house. Although I usually don’t like to go to these kinds of things, I went out of a sense of obligation, determined to stay for at least a beer and a courtesy chat. It was one of those awkward kinds of gatherings, where the host worries whether enough people will show to make it “an event,” where those in attendance cling desperately to the first person they recognize, and where the chatter is directed mainly by the posturing of a few individuals who have decided to make the night theirs.
As I stood in the crowded entryway, sipping somewhat too frequently from my plastic cup, I happened to mention to someone that I was applying to the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Minnesota. “You are?” she exclaimed, and with a magical twist of her arm, drew towards her a lumpy looking fellow from out of the corner, “well then you HAVE to talk to Don, here. He’s our resident writer.” She disappeared, leaving him to shuffle and look embarrassed. Grudgingly, he said, “Not published, yet. I’ve got three completed manuscripts and a stack of rejection letters.”
I told him a little bit about my struggle with writing the personal statement and how challenging I found the whole process of defining the desire to write. “If it were you applying,” I asked, “what do you think you’d say?”
He thought for a moment, “Well, why do you want to write? I mean, do you want to be a writer because you like to write, or because you have something to say?”
Fair enough. The question made me pause.
See, I like to write. There is something inherently pleasurable in the process of recording and refining thoughts, organizing them first in one way, then another. There is something interesting in the challenge of translating experience into a clinking chain of words that readers can use to grasp onto. But that in itself is not sufficient reason to become a writer. That is what things like journals and letters are for.
I do have things to say as well. I have in my small life managed to construct for myself a rather complicated code of ethics and explanations. Behind every small act lies the shadow of a much larger significance. Everything means something, and it all fits together into a complex jigsaw of motivations and cogitative movements. A fair amount of my time is spent looking for that threshold moment of an idea, exploring the relationships between things and people and why happenings play out in the way that they do. Of course, that in itself is also not a sufficient reason to become a writer, though it is a perfectly good reason to become an analyst, a social scientist, or an historian.
Don was still waiting there with his either/or question lingering in the air. I panicked and blurted out, “I guess I have lots of things to say. I mean, not like a burning social issue or anything concrete like that, but, you know…”
I stopped and made myself return the question, “Why do you write?”
Don swept a suddenly indifferent glance over me and replied, “Because that’s the only time I get to talk to myself.” Then he walked away and I understood that I had been dismissed.
As I stood in the crowded entryway, sipping somewhat too frequently from my plastic cup, I happened to mention to someone that I was applying to the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Minnesota. “You are?” she exclaimed, and with a magical twist of her arm, drew towards her a lumpy looking fellow from out of the corner, “well then you HAVE to talk to Don, here. He’s our resident writer.” She disappeared, leaving him to shuffle and look embarrassed. Grudgingly, he said, “Not published, yet. I’ve got three completed manuscripts and a stack of rejection letters.”
I told him a little bit about my struggle with writing the personal statement and how challenging I found the whole process of defining the desire to write. “If it were you applying,” I asked, “what do you think you’d say?”
He thought for a moment, “Well, why do you want to write? I mean, do you want to be a writer because you like to write, or because you have something to say?”
Fair enough. The question made me pause.
See, I like to write. There is something inherently pleasurable in the process of recording and refining thoughts, organizing them first in one way, then another. There is something interesting in the challenge of translating experience into a clinking chain of words that readers can use to grasp onto. But that in itself is not sufficient reason to become a writer. That is what things like journals and letters are for.
I do have things to say as well. I have in my small life managed to construct for myself a rather complicated code of ethics and explanations. Behind every small act lies the shadow of a much larger significance. Everything means something, and it all fits together into a complex jigsaw of motivations and cogitative movements. A fair amount of my time is spent looking for that threshold moment of an idea, exploring the relationships between things and people and why happenings play out in the way that they do. Of course, that in itself is also not a sufficient reason to become a writer, though it is a perfectly good reason to become an analyst, a social scientist, or an historian.
Don was still waiting there with his either/or question lingering in the air. I panicked and blurted out, “I guess I have lots of things to say. I mean, not like a burning social issue or anything concrete like that, but, you know…”
I stopped and made myself return the question, “Why do you write?”
Don swept a suddenly indifferent glance over me and replied, “Because that’s the only time I get to talk to myself.” Then he walked away and I understood that I had been dismissed.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Intensive Care
I went to the hospital today to visit my Dad. I’m not exactly sure why I went, what that movement was motivated by. In part, curiosity, in part obligation. Perhaps more than a little desire to see him prone in bed or weak or to see some sort of imagined deathbed confessional. Perhaps a little out of the desire to see how my stepmother, Trish, would be in that situation.
In any case, I went down there and found him in the intensive care unit. The staff seemed a little apprehensive about me being there and only allotted me a small amount of time with him. They had to verify that I was his daughter. At first, I thought something bad had happened, but they reassured me that things had gone well.
I visited briefly with my sleeping father, touched his hand and counted the tubes in him. He startled at one point and opened his eyes to look at me. I asked him how he felt and he just closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. Not good, apparently. That’s when they kicked me out so that they could do work on him. I left two magazines and a Get Well card for him.
I asked the nurse if I could come back again in the afternoon. She hesitated and said perhaps I ought to talk to his wife about visiting arrangements. I asked if she was around and the nurse said I could look for her in the cafeteria.
I went down to the cafeteria and bought a coffee, then found Trish at a table in the corner. I slid around the table and sat down with her. Trish looked agitated.
Trish explained that the surgery had gone fine, but they had had to use the bypass machine on him, meaning that his blood was being mechanically pumped around in there. She said that sometimes patients like that have a hard time recovering their full mental acuity. Other than that, things were going well.
Except for one thing.
Enter Audrey.
Audrey, according to Trish, first appeared as a rosette form. Or rather, one day Trish had found a rosette form in the kitchen and asked Dad where it had come from. Dad said Audrey had dropped it off one day for him. Audrey, Dad told Trish, was an old friend from school.
Audrey, Trish assured me, was very homely, with fat rolls, and big coke bottle glasses. She was a widow with a gambling problem and would stop by the house on weekdays on her way to or from Mystic Lake casino. She only drops by when Trish is at work.
Last Thanksgiving, there was a knock at the door. Trish was preparing a small meal for just the two of them, and was therefore surprised that anyone would stop over. She opened the door and there was this fat, homely, coke-bottle glasses kind of person who introduced herself as Audrey.
She welcomed Audrey in and sent her down to the basement where Dad was working on his computer. When Audrey came up to leave, Trish asked her to wait a moment and ran downstairs to ask Dad if it was ok if she invited her to dinner at five. Dad agreed and so Audrey went to Mystic Lake and then returned a few hours later.
As they chatted over dinner, Audrey talked a great deal about this grocery store clerk named Charlie, who as Trish put it, sounded like a real loser. “He sounds like a real loser,” Trish said to her, “why don’t you join a social group and meet someone who’s actually worthwhile?” Audrey giggled and said that’s what Dad was always telling her too.
At this point, I interrupted Trish and asked her if she believed Audrey was having an affair with Dad. She said that she liked to tease him about it, called Audrey his “girlfriend” and stuff and that it was highly possible, since it was odd she only came over while Trish was at work.
But, Trish added, Audrey was quite homely. And anyways, she wasn’t really worried about what two seventy-year olds would be getting up to in the middle of the day at her house. And anyways, Audrey hadn’t seen her all made up and in high draconian gear. If she saw her like that, she’d know better than to mess with the likes of her.
Even so, Trish said, maybe I’d better go talk to the nurses about restricting visitor privileges.
In any case, I went down there and found him in the intensive care unit. The staff seemed a little apprehensive about me being there and only allotted me a small amount of time with him. They had to verify that I was his daughter. At first, I thought something bad had happened, but they reassured me that things had gone well.
I visited briefly with my sleeping father, touched his hand and counted the tubes in him. He startled at one point and opened his eyes to look at me. I asked him how he felt and he just closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. Not good, apparently. That’s when they kicked me out so that they could do work on him. I left two magazines and a Get Well card for him.
I asked the nurse if I could come back again in the afternoon. She hesitated and said perhaps I ought to talk to his wife about visiting arrangements. I asked if she was around and the nurse said I could look for her in the cafeteria.
I went down to the cafeteria and bought a coffee, then found Trish at a table in the corner. I slid around the table and sat down with her. Trish looked agitated.
Trish explained that the surgery had gone fine, but they had had to use the bypass machine on him, meaning that his blood was being mechanically pumped around in there. She said that sometimes patients like that have a hard time recovering their full mental acuity. Other than that, things were going well.
Except for one thing.
Enter Audrey.
Audrey, according to Trish, first appeared as a rosette form. Or rather, one day Trish had found a rosette form in the kitchen and asked Dad where it had come from. Dad said Audrey had dropped it off one day for him. Audrey, Dad told Trish, was an old friend from school.
Audrey, Trish assured me, was very homely, with fat rolls, and big coke bottle glasses. She was a widow with a gambling problem and would stop by the house on weekdays on her way to or from Mystic Lake casino. She only drops by when Trish is at work.
Last Thanksgiving, there was a knock at the door. Trish was preparing a small meal for just the two of them, and was therefore surprised that anyone would stop over. She opened the door and there was this fat, homely, coke-bottle glasses kind of person who introduced herself as Audrey.
She welcomed Audrey in and sent her down to the basement where Dad was working on his computer. When Audrey came up to leave, Trish asked her to wait a moment and ran downstairs to ask Dad if it was ok if she invited her to dinner at five. Dad agreed and so Audrey went to Mystic Lake and then returned a few hours later.
As they chatted over dinner, Audrey talked a great deal about this grocery store clerk named Charlie, who as Trish put it, sounded like a real loser. “He sounds like a real loser,” Trish said to her, “why don’t you join a social group and meet someone who’s actually worthwhile?” Audrey giggled and said that’s what Dad was always telling her too.
At this point, I interrupted Trish and asked her if she believed Audrey was having an affair with Dad. She said that she liked to tease him about it, called Audrey his “girlfriend” and stuff and that it was highly possible, since it was odd she only came over while Trish was at work.
But, Trish added, Audrey was quite homely. And anyways, she wasn’t really worried about what two seventy-year olds would be getting up to in the middle of the day at her house. And anyways, Audrey hadn’t seen her all made up and in high draconian gear. If she saw her like that, she’d know better than to mess with the likes of her.
Even so, Trish said, maybe I’d better go talk to the nurses about restricting visitor privileges.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
a hug
A gentle knock at the door interrupted the comfortable stillness of my uptown studio. I wasn’t expecting visitors, though my visitors rarely announced their intended arrival. I gave it a moment; I was in no mood to deal with another aspiring novelist or disgruntled student from my writing classes at the city college. I had my own problems. The knock came again, this time more persistent. There was urgency in this knock, it had the character hardly befitting a timid student. I was suddenly intrigued by this knock that shattered the comfortable silence of a humid Sunday evening.
“Hang on, I’m coming,” I directed toward the knock at the door. A quick glance in the mirror told me what I already knew; I wasn’t getting any younger. An aspiring writer, quickly approaching thirty, but my eyes were decades older after abuse from the perpetual party scene. Those days were behind me, and all I had to show for it was a couple of rotten stories picked up by obscure, independent lit mags and my writing classes at the city college. My dreams had faded, as had most of my friendships, let alone my relationships. It was romantic to be a writer with a dream in your early 20s, it was pathetic not to have anything significant published ten years later with the dream nearly erased. I was alone in every sense of the word.
I opened the door, and my heart stopped. It was her. I remember the exact moment I watched her leave for the last time at Los Angeles’s Union Station. I remember the way we held each other, promising safe trips, and frequent calls, holding each other so tightly, never intending to let go. I remember the sadness I felt in watching her turn to get on a train that would take her to San Diego. I remember the emptiness consuming my entire being when I got on the plane to go home to Minneapolis. I remember the pain in knowing that it would be months before I could hold her again. I remember the shock, the anger, the heartbreak when she told me a week later that I was too far away to be a practical love interest, and besides, she had met someone else. This was eight years ago, we hadn’t spoken since.
“Sean…” she spoke my name softly. She was still striking, looking much younger than I, though only a couple years between us, and my cute, charming girl next door whom I had fallen ridiculously in love with had grown into a confident, beautiful woman. And she was standing in my door.
“Why are you here?” I asked, feeling cheated. At the time I was absolutely convinced that there is one perfect match for everyone in this world, and I had known it in my soul that she was the match made for me. It had taken me years to get over her, to forget how beautiful, how wonderful she was. How special she made me feel about myself. To forget that last weekend we spent together in LA. I had successfully buried her in the depths of my subconscious, I had placed her on a corner shelf in a dark closet located on the outer most edge of my being. And suddenly she was at my door.
Her face had a determined look on it. It was obvious she had rehearsed what was about to come next, but her eyes told me she was struggling with the words.
“Sean, I’m getting married next month. I needed to do so with a clean heart. I needed to see you again.” Her voice was trembling now, I wondered what she was afraid of. She was the one who’d broken things off with me, I was completely in love, I was completely blindsided.
“I had to see you again,” she repeated, a little stronger this time “to make sure the feeling was gone, that I made the right decision.” This sounded very scripted, her eyes were seconds away from tears. She was so beautiful. It had taken me so long to forget her. I wondered if she had any idea of the pain she’d caused me. Of those sleepless nights when I replayed every conversation, every interaction, every emotion that I felt for her, that I had assumed we felt for each other. I wondered if she knew at all of the endless hours I put in on my bike, driving myself onward, aimlessly around the city, my legs burning in hopes that my heart would stop hurting, never succeeding.
Suddenly she burst forward into my little studio and threw her arms around me, pulling me close, holding me tightly.
“God, I’ve missed you” she whispered. My arms remained at my sides, neither embracing her, nor rejecting her embrace.
I got lost in her hug, her small yet powerful arms holding me, just as she had years before. The smell of her hair was the same, the feeling was the same, and then I was back in LA. I remember how that entire weekend she had hugged me without notice, holding me tightly as I returned her embrace with equal force and passion.
We’d lived so far apart and our times together were so occasional that we made our affection as tangible and as frequent as possible. We’d held each other so tightly back then, as if by not letting go we could escape reality. That she’d never go back to San Diego, that I would never leave for Minneapolis.
To me, her hugs had been an affirmation of her love for me. I was fully and whole heartedly in love with this girl, and to hold her close meant that everything was right in the world. I could get lost in her hugs, consumed by her passion. To her, I could only guess that her hugs had been a way of saying goodbye. Of giving me a little piece of herself to remember her by when she would inevitably break my heart. Which she inevitably did, one week later.
“You have to go,” I said, with more conviction than I could possibly feel. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“But…” she started to protest.
“No, leave.” I snapped, quietly but firmly. She looked up at me with those adorable eyes that I will forever be in love with. I could feel the sadness, I knew it all too well, it was the sadness of rejection that comes from being told that the passion you share for another person won’t be returned. Her sadness was my own, eight years ago. She turned and headed down the stairway of my building, pausing, she took one last look at me and without a word she was gone.
The greatest thing that had ever happened in my life had just left me for the second time.
“Hang on, I’m coming,” I directed toward the knock at the door. A quick glance in the mirror told me what I already knew; I wasn’t getting any younger. An aspiring writer, quickly approaching thirty, but my eyes were decades older after abuse from the perpetual party scene. Those days were behind me, and all I had to show for it was a couple of rotten stories picked up by obscure, independent lit mags and my writing classes at the city college. My dreams had faded, as had most of my friendships, let alone my relationships. It was romantic to be a writer with a dream in your early 20s, it was pathetic not to have anything significant published ten years later with the dream nearly erased. I was alone in every sense of the word.
I opened the door, and my heart stopped. It was her. I remember the exact moment I watched her leave for the last time at Los Angeles’s Union Station. I remember the way we held each other, promising safe trips, and frequent calls, holding each other so tightly, never intending to let go. I remember the sadness I felt in watching her turn to get on a train that would take her to San Diego. I remember the emptiness consuming my entire being when I got on the plane to go home to Minneapolis. I remember the pain in knowing that it would be months before I could hold her again. I remember the shock, the anger, the heartbreak when she told me a week later that I was too far away to be a practical love interest, and besides, she had met someone else. This was eight years ago, we hadn’t spoken since.
“Sean…” she spoke my name softly. She was still striking, looking much younger than I, though only a couple years between us, and my cute, charming girl next door whom I had fallen ridiculously in love with had grown into a confident, beautiful woman. And she was standing in my door.
“Why are you here?” I asked, feeling cheated. At the time I was absolutely convinced that there is one perfect match for everyone in this world, and I had known it in my soul that she was the match made for me. It had taken me years to get over her, to forget how beautiful, how wonderful she was. How special she made me feel about myself. To forget that last weekend we spent together in LA. I had successfully buried her in the depths of my subconscious, I had placed her on a corner shelf in a dark closet located on the outer most edge of my being. And suddenly she was at my door.
Her face had a determined look on it. It was obvious she had rehearsed what was about to come next, but her eyes told me she was struggling with the words.
“Sean, I’m getting married next month. I needed to do so with a clean heart. I needed to see you again.” Her voice was trembling now, I wondered what she was afraid of. She was the one who’d broken things off with me, I was completely in love, I was completely blindsided.
“I had to see you again,” she repeated, a little stronger this time “to make sure the feeling was gone, that I made the right decision.” This sounded very scripted, her eyes were seconds away from tears. She was so beautiful. It had taken me so long to forget her. I wondered if she had any idea of the pain she’d caused me. Of those sleepless nights when I replayed every conversation, every interaction, every emotion that I felt for her, that I had assumed we felt for each other. I wondered if she knew at all of the endless hours I put in on my bike, driving myself onward, aimlessly around the city, my legs burning in hopes that my heart would stop hurting, never succeeding.
Suddenly she burst forward into my little studio and threw her arms around me, pulling me close, holding me tightly.
“God, I’ve missed you” she whispered. My arms remained at my sides, neither embracing her, nor rejecting her embrace.
I got lost in her hug, her small yet powerful arms holding me, just as she had years before. The smell of her hair was the same, the feeling was the same, and then I was back in LA. I remember how that entire weekend she had hugged me without notice, holding me tightly as I returned her embrace with equal force and passion.
We’d lived so far apart and our times together were so occasional that we made our affection as tangible and as frequent as possible. We’d held each other so tightly back then, as if by not letting go we could escape reality. That she’d never go back to San Diego, that I would never leave for Minneapolis.
To me, her hugs had been an affirmation of her love for me. I was fully and whole heartedly in love with this girl, and to hold her close meant that everything was right in the world. I could get lost in her hugs, consumed by her passion. To her, I could only guess that her hugs had been a way of saying goodbye. Of giving me a little piece of herself to remember her by when she would inevitably break my heart. Which she inevitably did, one week later.
“You have to go,” I said, with more conviction than I could possibly feel. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“But…” she started to protest.
“No, leave.” I snapped, quietly but firmly. She looked up at me with those adorable eyes that I will forever be in love with. I could feel the sadness, I knew it all too well, it was the sadness of rejection that comes from being told that the passion you share for another person won’t be returned. Her sadness was my own, eight years ago. She turned and headed down the stairway of my building, pausing, she took one last look at me and without a word she was gone.
The greatest thing that had ever happened in my life had just left me for the second time.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Alignment with the Columnar Spine of the Universe
When I was younger, I used to drop acid because I enjoyed the fruity bursts of reflection that would bombard my consciousness as if they were so many cherry bombs in the hands of idle schoolboys. As an exercise, I tried to keep notes on cigarette foils and the backs of notebooks, but thoughts flooded past me like the rush of interplanetary travel and I never could keep up. At peak time, I could get lost in the bathroom for hours, watching the contrasting patterns of bathroom tiles and hand towel ribbing reveal to me profound momentary truths about the universe.
I recall my first time dropping acid. It was with a guy I didn’t know so well, but he was dating a girl I knew who used to be a next door neighbor of that little boy that got kidnapped up in the northern suburbs. You know, the one they never found, but there was always talk that the parents were involved in some kind of secret cult and the kid got offered up in some kind of ceremony. Anyway, this guy and I, we planted ourselves underneath a bridge that spanned two adjoining lakes: Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles. There was car traffic on top, then a small path underneath where joggers and bikers were kept separate from one another by a thin white line that ran along the pavement.
We dropped at almost midnight, then curled up together at a side of the tunnel, watching the world go by as if we were reliving a more passive enactment of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The intensity of the dose made my body tense into a coil. I don’t believe I could have stood up, even if I’d had the inclination to. I was a marionette, strings contracted into a tangle.
Like a flight to Europe, the peak and subsequent easing took about seven hours, which we spent entirely under this bridge. What was remarkable, from our position dead center, was that dawn and dusk were frozen at opposite ends of the tunnel, as if they had been pasted on at the mouths if each stony arch. Looking left, I saw the rosy nostalgia of evening settling down with a dark blush. To the right was the hopeful eye of the morning peeking shyly at us.
Each time I shifted position, I could feel the hefty stirrings of my circadian rhythms as they tried to accommodate the time change. If I alternated head positions quickly - left-right, left-right, left-right – I felt woozy, felt as though radical philosophical displacements were happening in the very liquids of my inner ear. Felt as though I were a sliver in the hand of god, a hair caught in the eye of the whirring of the universe. Here I was, an auxiliary verb at best – no – like a minor dialectical inflection of an auxiliary verb - between the mighty posturing of the two substantial nouns that begin and end the day – dawn and dusk. Dusk and dawn. Left and right and my thoughts tumbling over into the secret of this tunnel, where startled joggers were even then glancing at us over their shoulders as they mended this broken seam in time with their wagging legs.
I recall my first time dropping acid. It was with a guy I didn’t know so well, but he was dating a girl I knew who used to be a next door neighbor of that little boy that got kidnapped up in the northern suburbs. You know, the one they never found, but there was always talk that the parents were involved in some kind of secret cult and the kid got offered up in some kind of ceremony. Anyway, this guy and I, we planted ourselves underneath a bridge that spanned two adjoining lakes: Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles. There was car traffic on top, then a small path underneath where joggers and bikers were kept separate from one another by a thin white line that ran along the pavement.
We dropped at almost midnight, then curled up together at a side of the tunnel, watching the world go by as if we were reliving a more passive enactment of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The intensity of the dose made my body tense into a coil. I don’t believe I could have stood up, even if I’d had the inclination to. I was a marionette, strings contracted into a tangle.
Like a flight to Europe, the peak and subsequent easing took about seven hours, which we spent entirely under this bridge. What was remarkable, from our position dead center, was that dawn and dusk were frozen at opposite ends of the tunnel, as if they had been pasted on at the mouths if each stony arch. Looking left, I saw the rosy nostalgia of evening settling down with a dark blush. To the right was the hopeful eye of the morning peeking shyly at us.
Each time I shifted position, I could feel the hefty stirrings of my circadian rhythms as they tried to accommodate the time change. If I alternated head positions quickly - left-right, left-right, left-right – I felt woozy, felt as though radical philosophical displacements were happening in the very liquids of my inner ear. Felt as though I were a sliver in the hand of god, a hair caught in the eye of the whirring of the universe. Here I was, an auxiliary verb at best – no – like a minor dialectical inflection of an auxiliary verb - between the mighty posturing of the two substantial nouns that begin and end the day – dawn and dusk. Dusk and dawn. Left and right and my thoughts tumbling over into the secret of this tunnel, where startled joggers were even then glancing at us over their shoulders as they mended this broken seam in time with their wagging legs.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Falling Down
I ask mom to send me Oxycontins through the mail when I get my nose done. I’m afraid to ask the doctors for too much pain meds. Afraid they’ll think I am some sort of addict. But I really hate pain. I am a total wimp about it.
For a month now, all I can think about is that crazy doc in his sterile lab coats. I think he has a big mustache like a push broom, all stiff and wiry and brown. I pray he’ll cover it with one of those white paper masks so I can’t see it. I’m afraid it will have crumbs on it from a muffin or something. I can see it all now: First, a fat nurse will pump in anesthesia through my right arm, the one with the biggest vein. Then the mustached doc will crack my nose. I hear I’ll get black eyes and finger marks on my face from his latex gloved hands pressing into my jaw. Then, he’ll pack my nose with gauze for a week so their handiwork won’t collapse. I don’t want to look like Michael Jackson.
I’m gonna call them before the surgery and act real scared. We’ll I don’t need to act, cuz I am. I want to talk to them about pain management. Might as well get the best drugs I can, right? When I broke my foot doing a cartwheel in high heels near the Target Center this summer, I went in to the clinic and stood my ground.
“Let’s discuss pain management,” I said in a cool, collected voice. My hands didn’t shake even though my heart pounded. It didn’t pound nearly as much as my foot with the streaky olive green and purple bruises that pushed greedily towards my toes. It looked like raw steak, really. I learned that cartwheels in high heels aren’t a good idea, and that bruises take on a life of their own. And that general practitioners give out stronger pain meds than specialists. Specialists are fucking judgmental and controlling, doling out enough Percocet for the weekend like the gatekeeper or something.
“So, I have to have this nose surgery. I need some pain pills,” I tell my mom. I’m fishing a little, dropping my line with confidence and control.
“As long as they’re doing your nose, tell ‘em to make it cute,” she laughs.
“Well, it’s gonna suck. I hear it’s horrible as an adult. I’ll be laid up for a week or more and they won’t give me anything. I’m sure of it.”
She babbles on about her new friend, a claustrophobic guy who hoards magazines and licks the bottom of cardboard Chinese boxes clean. He doesn’t want to waste anything. She dated him thirty years ago before his motorcycle accident. She says he was strange even before his skull smashed onto the pavement, before his brain swelled up like a silver dirigible, before the docs wrapped his head in white cotton.
She keeps on, chatting quickly like a racecar heading for a new record down a smooth strip of a racetrack. Her frantic rhythm lulls me, makes me start thinking about the “Jack and Jill” nursery rhyme. There’s a part where Jack fixes his head with vinegar and paper. Boy, he was stupid to fall down a hill in the first place. He deserves a broken head. So does my mom’s friend.
“I gotta go, mom. I’ll talk to you later,” I say, sleepy from the rhythm of her pressured speech, and the rhyming last words I recite in my head as Jack tumbles down from the well.
“Three. I’ll send you three,” she says with a matter of fact tone.
“Promise? Don’t forget,” I say, somewhat excited.
She assures me that she won’t. But she’s forgotten my own birthday before despite the fact she bitches about how awful it was the day I was born. Maybe they’ll get here before the surgery, like a belated birthday present wrapped up in pink tissue paper. Maybe I’ll take them right away, just in case. Just to calm my nerves.
For a month now, all I can think about is that crazy doc in his sterile lab coats. I think he has a big mustache like a push broom, all stiff and wiry and brown. I pray he’ll cover it with one of those white paper masks so I can’t see it. I’m afraid it will have crumbs on it from a muffin or something. I can see it all now: First, a fat nurse will pump in anesthesia through my right arm, the one with the biggest vein. Then the mustached doc will crack my nose. I hear I’ll get black eyes and finger marks on my face from his latex gloved hands pressing into my jaw. Then, he’ll pack my nose with gauze for a week so their handiwork won’t collapse. I don’t want to look like Michael Jackson.
I’m gonna call them before the surgery and act real scared. We’ll I don’t need to act, cuz I am. I want to talk to them about pain management. Might as well get the best drugs I can, right? When I broke my foot doing a cartwheel in high heels near the Target Center this summer, I went in to the clinic and stood my ground.
“Let’s discuss pain management,” I said in a cool, collected voice. My hands didn’t shake even though my heart pounded. It didn’t pound nearly as much as my foot with the streaky olive green and purple bruises that pushed greedily towards my toes. It looked like raw steak, really. I learned that cartwheels in high heels aren’t a good idea, and that bruises take on a life of their own. And that general practitioners give out stronger pain meds than specialists. Specialists are fucking judgmental and controlling, doling out enough Percocet for the weekend like the gatekeeper or something.
“So, I have to have this nose surgery. I need some pain pills,” I tell my mom. I’m fishing a little, dropping my line with confidence and control.
“As long as they’re doing your nose, tell ‘em to make it cute,” she laughs.
“Well, it’s gonna suck. I hear it’s horrible as an adult. I’ll be laid up for a week or more and they won’t give me anything. I’m sure of it.”
She babbles on about her new friend, a claustrophobic guy who hoards magazines and licks the bottom of cardboard Chinese boxes clean. He doesn’t want to waste anything. She dated him thirty years ago before his motorcycle accident. She says he was strange even before his skull smashed onto the pavement, before his brain swelled up like a silver dirigible, before the docs wrapped his head in white cotton.
She keeps on, chatting quickly like a racecar heading for a new record down a smooth strip of a racetrack. Her frantic rhythm lulls me, makes me start thinking about the “Jack and Jill” nursery rhyme. There’s a part where Jack fixes his head with vinegar and paper. Boy, he was stupid to fall down a hill in the first place. He deserves a broken head. So does my mom’s friend.
“I gotta go, mom. I’ll talk to you later,” I say, sleepy from the rhythm of her pressured speech, and the rhyming last words I recite in my head as Jack tumbles down from the well.
“Three. I’ll send you three,” she says with a matter of fact tone.
“Promise? Don’t forget,” I say, somewhat excited.
She assures me that she won’t. But she’s forgotten my own birthday before despite the fact she bitches about how awful it was the day I was born. Maybe they’ll get here before the surgery, like a belated birthday present wrapped up in pink tissue paper. Maybe I’ll take them right away, just in case. Just to calm my nerves.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
This overnight shift is killing me. Slowly, at an almost imperceptible pace, my mind is eroding and my back is breaking. Fourteen hours on the line, seven days a week for nineteen straight days. My fingers are worn to the bone from the assembly line, and I've grown hard to the touch of those I used to love. My eyes are bloodshot from endless hours of florescent lighting and lack of sleep. My nostrils burn from acidic vapors left over by chemicals we use to clean the floors, and also from the speed I inhale to stay awake on double shifts. And while I haven't yet confirmed it, I suspect my teeth are rotting from endless cups of coffee I drain to combat the headaches I get when I try to quit drinking coffee. It's a vicious cycle, but somehow it seems fitting. I am twenty-four years old, my doctor says that if I keep this life up, I won't live to see thirty. I'm shooting for twenty-seven, an age good enough for Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix. If it was good enough for them, I don't see any reason it isn't good enough for me.
None of that matters as the whistle blows, eleven am, quitting time, and for the first time in nearly three weeks, I have tomorrow off. Nevermind that I've been up for nearly twenty hours, I'm going out for a drink. In fact, I'm going out for drinks, plural. I'm going to drink until I can't drink anymore, and then I'm going to have one more for the road. After that, I'm going to stumble back to my crappy little apartment off Lyndale, and I'm going to sleep for fifteen or so hours straight.
As I go through the turnstiles and out to the Union parking lot, my mouth waters, and I start to get a bit of energy from some hidden reserve. Fucking eh, I'm going to have a drink. Lots of drinks. And then tomorrow off, fucking eh right.
The drive home passes in usual fashion. I am too tired to notice anything on the road and probably shouldn't be driving in the first place, but I make it, I always do. 55 to 62 to 35W, get off on Lake and over to Lyndale. No problem. The CC Club stands out like an oasis in the desert, a beacon of hope, the Promised Land. Fucking eh, Beauty, Perfection in the form of a dive bar in South Minneapolis.
The inside is dark and on the cool side of things. Not a soul in the place save a few hip businessmen hiding out from the corporate monster, and a couple of old men that frequent all dive bars during all hours of operation. Old men posing as professional drinkers, old men with yellow livers, living off disability checks, paying their rent and staying as drunk as possible. Barflys. Ignoring them all, I get a stool dead in the middle of the taps, let there be no mistake, I am on a mission. I am going to get fucked up.
"Hey Keep, how about some whiskey, Canadian stuff, and a Premo to chase," I say, and it feels good. Real good. At this point I feel almost human. Two glasses appear on the heavy oak bar in front of me, a small one of dark amber fire, and a pint sized one of a honey colored extinguisher. I smile because it's been awhile, and because I need this. I need this drink more than I need food or sleep, more than companionship, more than oxygen. I need this drink to forget about my crappy life, and my crappy job, and my god-awful apartment. I need this drink to forget that I haven't been to church in a year and haven't talked to my family in months. I need it to forget about that beautiful girl, the one I was scared to commit to, to one who loved me way more than I've ever loved myself. I need this drink to forget about going back to school, to forget my dreams of writing, to forget that I've pretty much already forgotten what it feels like to be happy.
I raise the small glass of fire and look to the ceiling, I nod, because I always do, and slam the fire down my throat and the glass onto the bar. It makes a satisfying thud, the startled businessmen look up briefly; the Barflys never move, they've heard my sound a million times before. Twenty-four down, three to go.
None of that matters as the whistle blows, eleven am, quitting time, and for the first time in nearly three weeks, I have tomorrow off. Nevermind that I've been up for nearly twenty hours, I'm going out for a drink. In fact, I'm going out for drinks, plural. I'm going to drink until I can't drink anymore, and then I'm going to have one more for the road. After that, I'm going to stumble back to my crappy little apartment off Lyndale, and I'm going to sleep for fifteen or so hours straight.
As I go through the turnstiles and out to the Union parking lot, my mouth waters, and I start to get a bit of energy from some hidden reserve. Fucking eh, I'm going to have a drink. Lots of drinks. And then tomorrow off, fucking eh right.
The drive home passes in usual fashion. I am too tired to notice anything on the road and probably shouldn't be driving in the first place, but I make it, I always do. 55 to 62 to 35W, get off on Lake and over to Lyndale. No problem. The CC Club stands out like an oasis in the desert, a beacon of hope, the Promised Land. Fucking eh, Beauty, Perfection in the form of a dive bar in South Minneapolis.
The inside is dark and on the cool side of things. Not a soul in the place save a few hip businessmen hiding out from the corporate monster, and a couple of old men that frequent all dive bars during all hours of operation. Old men posing as professional drinkers, old men with yellow livers, living off disability checks, paying their rent and staying as drunk as possible. Barflys. Ignoring them all, I get a stool dead in the middle of the taps, let there be no mistake, I am on a mission. I am going to get fucked up.
"Hey Keep, how about some whiskey, Canadian stuff, and a Premo to chase," I say, and it feels good. Real good. At this point I feel almost human. Two glasses appear on the heavy oak bar in front of me, a small one of dark amber fire, and a pint sized one of a honey colored extinguisher. I smile because it's been awhile, and because I need this. I need this drink more than I need food or sleep, more than companionship, more than oxygen. I need this drink to forget about my crappy life, and my crappy job, and my god-awful apartment. I need this drink to forget that I haven't been to church in a year and haven't talked to my family in months. I need it to forget about that beautiful girl, the one I was scared to commit to, to one who loved me way more than I've ever loved myself. I need this drink to forget about going back to school, to forget my dreams of writing, to forget that I've pretty much already forgotten what it feels like to be happy.
I raise the small glass of fire and look to the ceiling, I nod, because I always do, and slam the fire down my throat and the glass onto the bar. It makes a satisfying thud, the startled businessmen look up briefly; the Barflys never move, they've heard my sound a million times before. Twenty-four down, three to go.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Emily's First Portrait
Although I was not technically covered by insurance, when I was about five months along, Rick was able to hook me up with an obstetrician at the woman’s prison, some miles down the road from where he worked. They weighed me and prodded at me and pushed down so hard on my stomach that for a second I worried that the pressure would squeeze Emily right out of me. Then they put on these rubber gloves and reached up inside of me – much further than you’d think they’d be able to go - to see if they could feel her head and they rubbed gook on my stomach so that I could listen to the heartbeat. It was cool, but all that pushing and reaching around in there like I was some kind of animal hurt dreadfully. It was sort of humiliating, actually. But finally, they did an ultrasound and gave me a few copies to keep of the picture.
It was Emily’s first portrait – black and white, the baby herself contained in a sort of conical shape - a far cry from the weekday specials at JC Pennys, but it was my first real look at her. You could make out her two little hands, her mouth, nose, even two little black slits where you could presume her eyes to be. The picture was more conceptual than anything – there was a grainy, streaky quality to the image that left much wanting in terms of detail.
The interesting thing about it was that, if you held the picture up sideways, a scene suddenly formed. The narrow end of the cone (or the upper end of my womb), from which much light projected, suddenly became a window glowing with warmth. The baby herself in profile took on a sad, ghoulish appearance, with one arm raised as if to knock against the window while she herself hovered slightly above in the darkness, looking down. She seemed so alone in there, seemed to long for whatever it was she saw on the other side. Her lips were parted slightly, and I could tell from the distribution of shadow that her eyes were set deep back into her skull. Beautiful and unearthly; a child who was already a ghost.
It was Emily’s first portrait – black and white, the baby herself contained in a sort of conical shape - a far cry from the weekday specials at JC Pennys, but it was my first real look at her. You could make out her two little hands, her mouth, nose, even two little black slits where you could presume her eyes to be. The picture was more conceptual than anything – there was a grainy, streaky quality to the image that left much wanting in terms of detail.
The interesting thing about it was that, if you held the picture up sideways, a scene suddenly formed. The narrow end of the cone (or the upper end of my womb), from which much light projected, suddenly became a window glowing with warmth. The baby herself in profile took on a sad, ghoulish appearance, with one arm raised as if to knock against the window while she herself hovered slightly above in the darkness, looking down. She seemed so alone in there, seemed to long for whatever it was she saw on the other side. Her lips were parted slightly, and I could tell from the distribution of shadow that her eyes were set deep back into her skull. Beautiful and unearthly; a child who was already a ghost.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Aborted
Karli had been aborting his child for months. It was the result of T shaped surgical steel wrapped in copper like a piece of jewelry found at yuppie art fairs. The IUD prevented carrying a fetus, but not getting pregnant. An abortion once a month.
Andy spent the weekend playing a video game. It had a fleet of cartoon army men– like the dime store, plastic kind she used to have as a kid. The hard, grenade colored ones her father used to step on barefoot and swear, “Fuck! Fucking kids!” She didn’t understand why Andy didn’t buy the real ones. Instead, he lived in an animated backyard with neon green leaves and phony ant hills and tree trunks straight out of a “Winnie the Pooh” book. Manufactured men with machine guns that shot pixilated bullets. They groaned distorted groans like a dying alley cat whose head was shoved into a tin can by some neighborhood toughs. She was aborting his child and all he could do was play video games.
Or watch sports. Smoke pot. Anything but talk to her. “I get sick of talking. It’s not even in my top 100 things to do. We talk enough, really,” he said when she tried to communicate with him. He kept frantically pushing his fingers onto the candy colored buttons of the controller instead.
Years ago, Karli took a Greyhound bus precisely to avoid silence. She left Indiana with the brown, paper bag landscape and water towers she never could climb. She shoved some clothes into a duffle bag of her father’s along with stationary, good pens with smooth, rolling ink, and an address book full of everyone she’d ever met in her young life. Names of people she may or may not write, whose addresses no longer existed, whose phone numbers might be long disconnected. She collected their names written in colored ink like butterflies pinned to felt by their thorax or yellowed stamps carefully pasted in soft covered books.
The people might not even remember her blowing through town, changing high school after high school, changing her hair from brown to jet black to purple. She couldn’t believe how often she moved, how many school desks she sat in when there was only a handful of schools in the Elkhart. But she still fantasized sending one or two of them letters about her travels, how the bus smelled of the Scotchgard they used to huff in junior high, how a boy on leave from the army tried to feel her up in the back seat near Chicago. She’d leave the return address blank just to add a little mystery to their boring, small town life full of crushed beer cans and joints and dead end jobs.
She came to Minneapolis full of the naivety of a small town girl, with a wide eyed glow that reflected off the mirrored sky scrapers towering above the dusty, bum infested bus station. Carcasses of smoked cigarettes lined the sidewalks, flanked tiny, decorative fruit trees intended to spruce up the declining downtown. Instead of long stretches of toll roads and county roads, she saw snaking freeway ramps crowded with commuters.
But her cosmopolitan dream of smoke filled coffee shops with crappy, dumpster couches and forgotten table lamps came crashing down quickly. The icy stillness of Minnesotans stagnated her mind, her hopes of late night literary discussions gave way to staring out coffee shop windows at people bustling around in their boxed in worlds. She discovered the concept of personal space, distance, stand back at least five feet when talking. Smile, nod, but don’t ever show your teeth. She stared out windows just like she used to back home, only with a different landscape.
She left to avoid men in flannels and work boots, swollen bellies and snot nosed kids with nothing to do but huff glue behind the wood shed, boys and girls exploring each others bodies long before puberty waved its wand void of magic. But now she sat in her apartment watching Andy violently tap away on the plastic keypad, tethered to the TV by a plastic umbilical cord, his cigarette butts stamped out in a soap dish instead of an ashtray.
“I am slowly aborting your child again,” she said, this time to herself.
Andy spent the weekend playing a video game. It had a fleet of cartoon army men– like the dime store, plastic kind she used to have as a kid. The hard, grenade colored ones her father used to step on barefoot and swear, “Fuck! Fucking kids!” She didn’t understand why Andy didn’t buy the real ones. Instead, he lived in an animated backyard with neon green leaves and phony ant hills and tree trunks straight out of a “Winnie the Pooh” book. Manufactured men with machine guns that shot pixilated bullets. They groaned distorted groans like a dying alley cat whose head was shoved into a tin can by some neighborhood toughs. She was aborting his child and all he could do was play video games.
Or watch sports. Smoke pot. Anything but talk to her. “I get sick of talking. It’s not even in my top 100 things to do. We talk enough, really,” he said when she tried to communicate with him. He kept frantically pushing his fingers onto the candy colored buttons of the controller instead.
Years ago, Karli took a Greyhound bus precisely to avoid silence. She left Indiana with the brown, paper bag landscape and water towers she never could climb. She shoved some clothes into a duffle bag of her father’s along with stationary, good pens with smooth, rolling ink, and an address book full of everyone she’d ever met in her young life. Names of people she may or may not write, whose addresses no longer existed, whose phone numbers might be long disconnected. She collected their names written in colored ink like butterflies pinned to felt by their thorax or yellowed stamps carefully pasted in soft covered books.
The people might not even remember her blowing through town, changing high school after high school, changing her hair from brown to jet black to purple. She couldn’t believe how often she moved, how many school desks she sat in when there was only a handful of schools in the Elkhart. But she still fantasized sending one or two of them letters about her travels, how the bus smelled of the Scotchgard they used to huff in junior high, how a boy on leave from the army tried to feel her up in the back seat near Chicago. She’d leave the return address blank just to add a little mystery to their boring, small town life full of crushed beer cans and joints and dead end jobs.
She came to Minneapolis full of the naivety of a small town girl, with a wide eyed glow that reflected off the mirrored sky scrapers towering above the dusty, bum infested bus station. Carcasses of smoked cigarettes lined the sidewalks, flanked tiny, decorative fruit trees intended to spruce up the declining downtown. Instead of long stretches of toll roads and county roads, she saw snaking freeway ramps crowded with commuters.
But her cosmopolitan dream of smoke filled coffee shops with crappy, dumpster couches and forgotten table lamps came crashing down quickly. The icy stillness of Minnesotans stagnated her mind, her hopes of late night literary discussions gave way to staring out coffee shop windows at people bustling around in their boxed in worlds. She discovered the concept of personal space, distance, stand back at least five feet when talking. Smile, nod, but don’t ever show your teeth. She stared out windows just like she used to back home, only with a different landscape.
She left to avoid men in flannels and work boots, swollen bellies and snot nosed kids with nothing to do but huff glue behind the wood shed, boys and girls exploring each others bodies long before puberty waved its wand void of magic. But now she sat in her apartment watching Andy violently tap away on the plastic keypad, tethered to the TV by a plastic umbilical cord, his cigarette butts stamped out in a soap dish instead of an ashtray.
“I am slowly aborting your child again,” she said, this time to herself.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
The Back Seat
I named my daughter after my dead grandmother. It bothered people, because it hadn’t been so long since she died and it made people feel uncomfortable to say her name like that, so soon after she died.
This morning I picked up an old friend of hers who needed a ride to the store. Mrs. Solberg’s a proper lady, with a heavy European accent. She’s eighty years old and wears a corset. She dyes her hair platinum blond. From a distance, she looks like Marilyn Monroe, but up close you can tell she’s old.
Mrs. Solberg climbed into my car and looked at me with watery eyes before she turned to address my daughter, strapped into a child-seat in the back. She hesitated before she said, “Hello Augusta.”
I don’t think she knew she hesitated, but I could hear the silence smacking between her lips, along with all those old memories of petty quarrels and attempts at one-upmanship. I knew she hesitated because she was thinking about my grandmother and how she was dead.
Last year they drank coffee together and raised their eyebrows in unison. And that made her think of her own daughter who was also dead, but not yet commemorated by a wide-eyed three year old in the backseat of someone’s car.
I didn’t ask Mrs. Solberg to use the seatbelt, but she buckled herself in anyway before we left the driveway.
This morning I picked up an old friend of hers who needed a ride to the store. Mrs. Solberg’s a proper lady, with a heavy European accent. She’s eighty years old and wears a corset. She dyes her hair platinum blond. From a distance, she looks like Marilyn Monroe, but up close you can tell she’s old.
Mrs. Solberg climbed into my car and looked at me with watery eyes before she turned to address my daughter, strapped into a child-seat in the back. She hesitated before she said, “Hello Augusta.”
I don’t think she knew she hesitated, but I could hear the silence smacking between her lips, along with all those old memories of petty quarrels and attempts at one-upmanship. I knew she hesitated because she was thinking about my grandmother and how she was dead.
Last year they drank coffee together and raised their eyebrows in unison. And that made her think of her own daughter who was also dead, but not yet commemorated by a wide-eyed three year old in the backseat of someone’s car.
I didn’t ask Mrs. Solberg to use the seatbelt, but she buckled herself in anyway before we left the driveway.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Negatives
It is the picture of the bride and groom in black and white that holds Juliet’s attention. She stares at it in the art museum, her eyes wandering over the scene again and again. She chooses it over the pictures of the Tattooed Lady, the Human Pincushion, the shirtless midget smoking in his bed with a half bottle of brandy on the bed stand. The groom in his wool suit presses the bride in her fluffy, white gown against the hotel lobby wall. The wallpaper is cheap. The doorjambs are chipped and broken. The groom presses the bride in this narrow, cheap hallway, his lips jamming against the side of her face. Her eyes are wide, pure white like the tulle veil that attaches to her stylish black hair. Her eyes are made up with perfectly lacquered eyelashes and kohl eyeliner.
The portrait reminds Juliet of the cardboard box left behind the dumpster near her brownstone apartment on Franklin Avenue. It had a company’s logo on the side – something about freshness and fruit written in cheery, orange ink. She didn’t think it had been there too long because the sides weren’t rain soaked from the drizzly, gray rain of autumn. Sitting on her radiator, she spied the box from her third story window that looked over the alley, and the metal dumpster filled with her neighbor’s trash. She knew their trash but never their names.
The box looked out of place. It wasn’t the first or the last of the month. She couldn’t see the familiar torn armchairs or broken television sets left behind by renters escaping to another part of the city. The urge to look inside forced her to run barefoot down three flights of stairs lined in cheap apartment carpet that scratched the soles of her feet. She stood on the damp disorder of the alley without fear of broken glass or sharp stones. Juliet thumbed through stacks of magazines neatly placed in the fruit box – Popular Mechanics, Better Homes and Gardens, Family Circle. She pulled each one out and laid them out in the center of the alley like a quilt. All the address labels had been torn off. Underneath a National Geographic from the 1970s, she saw a magazine with a black and white cover. It looked like a Russian Futurist painting with a large black square lined in white. It was untitled.
She pulled back the cover. The spine was weak, suffering from the spidery lines and creases of wear. Pictures were lined up like film from the old photo booths at the mall - a succession of black and white snapshots, one on top of another. She saw a van, some men, a street not unlike the one she lived on with parking meters and paper bags balled up into the gutter. She thumbed through the pages, watching the strips come to life like a film or the flip animation books she used to play with as a kid. Men. A conversion van. Meters. Bricks. A woman. A woman being grabbed by the men. A struggle. An empty warehouse. A naked woman tied with ropes that hung from a rafter. A naked woman with burns on her wrists from struggling to break free. Suspended above the dusty floor, her weight pressed down towards the ground like an exclamation mark. Her mouth was covered in thick slices of duct tape that reflected the heavy, overhead shop lights. It was the bound woman’s eyes that burned their image onto Juliet’s memory. Her eyes that looked to the left, towards the steel barred door. Her eyes wide and stark white, but colored with fear.
Standing in the museum, Juliet sees the black and white photos perfectly framed and hung at eye level. Little squares lined up just like in a photo booth. And at the end of the strip, hung up in corner, is the bride in white whose eyes mirror the anonymous girl staring at the coldness of a barred, metal door.
The portrait reminds Juliet of the cardboard box left behind the dumpster near her brownstone apartment on Franklin Avenue. It had a company’s logo on the side – something about freshness and fruit written in cheery, orange ink. She didn’t think it had been there too long because the sides weren’t rain soaked from the drizzly, gray rain of autumn. Sitting on her radiator, she spied the box from her third story window that looked over the alley, and the metal dumpster filled with her neighbor’s trash. She knew their trash but never their names.
The box looked out of place. It wasn’t the first or the last of the month. She couldn’t see the familiar torn armchairs or broken television sets left behind by renters escaping to another part of the city. The urge to look inside forced her to run barefoot down three flights of stairs lined in cheap apartment carpet that scratched the soles of her feet. She stood on the damp disorder of the alley without fear of broken glass or sharp stones. Juliet thumbed through stacks of magazines neatly placed in the fruit box – Popular Mechanics, Better Homes and Gardens, Family Circle. She pulled each one out and laid them out in the center of the alley like a quilt. All the address labels had been torn off. Underneath a National Geographic from the 1970s, she saw a magazine with a black and white cover. It looked like a Russian Futurist painting with a large black square lined in white. It was untitled.
She pulled back the cover. The spine was weak, suffering from the spidery lines and creases of wear. Pictures were lined up like film from the old photo booths at the mall - a succession of black and white snapshots, one on top of another. She saw a van, some men, a street not unlike the one she lived on with parking meters and paper bags balled up into the gutter. She thumbed through the pages, watching the strips come to life like a film or the flip animation books she used to play with as a kid. Men. A conversion van. Meters. Bricks. A woman. A woman being grabbed by the men. A struggle. An empty warehouse. A naked woman tied with ropes that hung from a rafter. A naked woman with burns on her wrists from struggling to break free. Suspended above the dusty floor, her weight pressed down towards the ground like an exclamation mark. Her mouth was covered in thick slices of duct tape that reflected the heavy, overhead shop lights. It was the bound woman’s eyes that burned their image onto Juliet’s memory. Her eyes that looked to the left, towards the steel barred door. Her eyes wide and stark white, but colored with fear.
Standing in the museum, Juliet sees the black and white photos perfectly framed and hung at eye level. Little squares lined up just like in a photo booth. And at the end of the strip, hung up in corner, is the bride in white whose eyes mirror the anonymous girl staring at the coldness of a barred, metal door.
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