The Cattle Chute

Evelyn had squeezed herself into a little box. It was more like a cattle chute, actually. Nobody was there to prod her onwards except herself and an imaginary clock that told her she had to keep going. She didn’t know where the chute led, and the light flashing off the metal siding distracted her so that she mostly forgot what was behind. But the feeling of the metal shifting beneath her feet, the sunlight blinding her as she turned the narrow bends, led her to suspect that there wasn’t anything at the end of that chute but a steep drop-off. Maybe there was a pit down there, filled with all the other people who had gotten to the ends of their own cattle chutes.

She remembered the slide at her elementary school playground. It was spiral and fitted together with metal scales that burned bare thighs when the sun was out. Bare-kneed children jostled one another at the top, pressing hard at her back when it was her turn so that she had to let go. She’d hear a boy launch just behind her and would be stricken with the realization that there was another girl just below. She’d think to herself that there was a fifty-fifty chance that at the bottom of the slide, she’d feel the rubber of her shoes smacking against that other girl’s head. And there was a fifty-fifty chance that the boy behind her would smack into hers.

Once, she had tried to slow herself down. Her shorts that day were riding up as she flew down the slide and she found that, by pressing her bare thighs against the metal, she was able to slow down the velocity of her own pudgy body. The friction created a resounding farting noise that her classmates claimed could be heard all the way over to the baseball diamond. The boy behind Evelyn had banged into her anyways, and then kicked her in his haste to turn and scramble back up the slide, complaining loudly about the smell. The other kids teased her cruelly about it until the snow came and buried the slide from view. Eventually they all forgot it ever happened and Evelyn never did it again; never tried to brake or control her speed. But now it seemed that she had been in the cattle chute for some time and she was starting to get worried about what she’d hit when she got to the end.

ex-wives

“One last thing folks, real quick. I want to you to complete a simple exercise with me here. I want everyone to close their eyes, go ahead, close them. Now I want you to visualize yourself five years from today. Where are you working? Where are you living? Who else do you see in your life? What do you do in your free time? Are you happy, are you successful? Open your eyes.” The face looked up at us like he had something monumental to share.

“Now go get it.”

The face beamed at us from the front of the lecture hall. Silence. Then a smattering of half-hearted applause echoed more forced than enthusiastic.

“Alright ladies and gentleman, that’s all I’ve got for you, you’ve all been a terrific audience, good luck with finals.” Anything more that he may have said was lost as eight hundred college students and a handful of professors got up to exit the auditorium. It was Friday afternoon, after all, and people had places to be. A couple of business school overachievers rushed to the front, eager to shake hands and make connections. Pricks.

What a fucking tool. Standing up there with his immaculate suit, his shit eating grin. I hated him before he even opened his mouth. Lecturing us about responsibility and drive. I wonder how much the school shelled out for this waste of time. I almost laughed out loud when he asked us to close our eyes and visualize our future, but then I realized that most of my fellow students were actually participating. Was I missing something?

Well, at least with most of my fellow scholars buying into this guy’s rubbish, I got the chance to fully appreciate that brunette one row back. Short dark hair, edgy, definitely the artist type. I bet she had dark eyes to match too, hot. I think she was in my dorm freshman year, but as with most of freshman year, that memory was a little fuzzy. I wonder what she’s into. If there was ever a time in my life when I needed to meet someone new, this was it.

“aye, Lonnie, what’s up man?” I turned towards the voice coming from the back of the auditorium.
“ah Kristian, not much mate, how you doing?”
“much better now that we’re done with that schmoo, and I’ll be better still when you buy me that that pint I won last night.” He said, grinning from ear to ear.
“fuck you, you Aussie fuck, let’s get drunk.”

Kristian. Orignially from Melbourne, Australia; he’d come to the university on some sort of crew scholarship. Kristian had lived in the freshman dorms, one floor above me with the rest of the athletes. This Aussie transplant was ambitious enough to get kicked off the crew team a month into his first semester of college for drug possession. Caught with marijuana three times in one month; weed he bought from me. Since then we’d been pretty solid friends the last four years or so, having our share of fun, usually staying a half-step ahead of trouble. While he’d lost his scholarship, he’d managed to avoid being kicked out of school, they figured the loss of athletics punishment enough. Kristian came from a rich family, generations of Australian sheep farmers or some such rubbish, and his parents were more than happy to pay for him to stay and get an American education. Kristian saw it as a chance to sleep with every American college girl he could meet, and with his boyish good looks, and that damn accent, he succeeded a lot more than he failed.

The pint he was referring to had been won last night at the bar, when he’d made the wild accusation that our server absolutely had to be wearing black panties. Kristian makes wild accusations like this sometimes, and I called him on it. Proceeding to chat up our server all night, he disappeared into the bathroom with her just before bar close. This was the first I’d seen of him since. Fucking Australian accents.

“safe to say you had a decent night?” I asked, knowing full well the answer I get as we left Wiley Hall and crossed the street towards Grandma's bar.
“fuck me mate,” he fairly moaned, “I think I met my future ex-wife,” Kristian was always meeting his future ex-wives. “speaking of though, you talk to Tasha?”
“naw man, I’m too mad. Anything I say now would come out a lot worse than it should.”

That bitch.

“dude, she cheated on you. You walked in on her and the other dude getting dressed, I would have cut his fucking head off. I’m not sure she deserves your understanding on this one.”

He had a point.

"fuck it man, maybe you should buy the first round."

Poke You In The Eye With It. My Shadow, That Is.

I had broken the spell of the man’s obession with my shadow. Travis stood now, crestfallen, against the brick and mortar tavern. A flourescent Budweiser light flickered behind the darkened glass at his shoulder.

“Susan,” he muttered, “Susan Whist.”

“We’ve all got our dark sides. I’m no different from anyone else,” I said.

The chocolate brown t-shirt he wore would have blended with his skin had it not been for the fresh stains of moisture beneath the collar. He spit once, now, but without the energy to expell the gob forcefully, it dribbled down his chin. I watched it slip into the shadows of his jawline.

My friend Bill emerged for a cigarette, noticing us as he cupped the lighter in his hand. “Everything ok out here, Susan?” he asked, with a wary edge to his voice.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Travis mimicked me. “Sho’ nuff, Bill. Everything be jess’ fine.”

“He givin’ you a hard time, Susan?”

“Naw. It’s ok.”

“’Cuz if he is, I can take care of him for you.”

Travis spit again, leaning over his belly this time, to spatter the pavement. “Watcha think, Susan? Black man can be dangerous once ya take the malt liquor outa his hands.”

He stared me straight in the eye now. Hurt. Defensive.

“Go on Susan, you know all ‘bout black men, don’t you? Why don’t you tell Bill here what all you know about black men?”

“I don’t know anything about black men, Travis.” I shrunk away from him, wishing Bill would go back inside. “Bill’s got better things to do.”

Exhaling, Bill flicked his cigarette into the gutter. “Susan, c’mon inside with me. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Travis slid heavily against the wall, intentionally blocking the windowless door. “How’s that commercial go? Love the shade you got? Not so hot.”

“Travis, just leave it alone. It’s nobody’s business but yours and mine.”

“That’s right. But tell me, Susan, what is it that you don’t want Bill here to know? That you like to dick-tease black men? Or that you’re a goddamn racist whore?”

“Allright, that’s enough. Susan, c’mon inside.”

“Shut up, Travis. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Susan. Inside. Now.”

Bill made as if to nudge Travis aside, but Travis had already stepped away. He walked purposefully into the street, despite approaching cars, and began to weave back and forth, as if he could not make up his mind to stay or go.

“Travis. Get outa the street!” I called, “The light’s green, dammit. Let those cars go!”

But Travis planted his feet wide, ignoring the cars that edged up cautiously behind him. The sound of automatic locks being flipped was audible.

“I’ll go, Susan, soon as you tell Bill and me why you ‘don’t feel right’ about bringing a black man home to your mama.”

“Travis.”

“Go ‘head, Susan. Tell us.”

“Fuckin’ A, Travis.”

“We’re listening.” Travis shrugged his shoulders. “You waiting for them to roll their windows down too?” He asked, gesturing towards the cars, “Want me to axe ‘em to roll their windows down so they can hear?”

Bill lit another cigarette. His moment to come to the rescue had passed for the time being.

“You fuck. Fine. You wanna fucking know why? Fine. It’s not your goddamn skin color, that’s for sure.”

“Ok Susan, it’s the dick isn’t it? You afraid I’m gonna poke your mama in the eye with it?”

“Travis, I’m not bringin’ anyone home who can’t pronouce the fucking word ‘library.’ It’s not your goddamn skin color; it’s the shadow it casts. So don’t you goddamn get off callin’ me a racist whore. If you goddamn call me anything, you call me a classist ho, you mysogynistic fuck. And if you don’t goddamn know what that means, why don’t you go fuckin’ axe ‘em at the liberry.”

“C’mon Susan. Let’s go inside.” Bill took me by the shoulders and swiveled me towards the door.

From the street, Travis laughed, “My shadow, huh? Whaddya think, lady, you scared of my shadow too?” He drew his arms up above his head like a rearing bear and advanced toward the waiting car. The woman behind the wheel took fright and stepped on the gas, cutting across the curb in her haste to get away.

Travis chuckled as he swaggered away, “Shit, Susan. I’m scared of your shadow too.”

Gotta Go

“I’m so tired, so tired,” I say and think to myself that I would like to sink back into my dream, even though it made me sad. I remember dread and that something or someone horrible was about to turn the corner into my room. Something is still happening in my dream and I am going to miss it.

“I have to go potty,” she howls, her face scrunched in irritation, “I have to go potty now!” Margot has an unnaturally loud voice and I realize as she begins to claw at the blankets that I’m going to have to get up. She is insistent. I’m groggy. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it all the way to the bathroom.

Margot seizes me by the hand, “I’ve got to go” she whines with some immediacy. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.” My mind makes the decision for me, snaps itself out of sleep and the nest of tangled thoughts I lay in. We walk together towards the bathroom and cat eyes glint up at me as if to say, “Where have you been all this time? She has to go.” They look concerned and I think maybe I have been sleeping too long again.

We push aside the creaking wooden door and I stumble to a seated position on the toilet. My head is cloudy; it is pulling me down to the ground. I reach over to help Margot with her pants. Though she is dancing beside the bathtub, she has abandoned her air of urgency.

“No,” she slaps my hand away. She smirks and continues dancing.

“Come on,” I say, “you said you had to go.” Her little toddler legs pump up and down with delight. Mirth can be detected in her eyes. “I’m waiting for Horace and Florence,” Margot says. She indicates with an outstretched hand the prancing figures of her imaginary friends. “There’s a line,” she explains.

Hands

The day she graduated from college, he text messaged her. Standing on a wooden bench to see above the crowd of parents and students, she tore off her awkward cap and pulled at her stubborn polyester gown. She was looking for someone, anyone really to hug like all the others. But she only saw the shiny smiles of strangers. She didn’t want to look lonely high upon that bench, so she pulled out her cell phone and saw the message. It didn’t make sense.

The truth was that it wasn’t intended for her. Her name was nestled next to another name within a directory of numbers. It was an accident, a message meant for another girl whose name started with the letter E.

It was impossible for her to piece it together, to make sense of how it all began, how they always ended up in the same bed right before the birds began to stir. Staggering up stairs, clumsily collapsing under soft covers, they found themselves time after time tucked up in her room with all of their clothes on. Lying next to one another with the scratchy leg of his jeans pressed up against her cotton dress, they reached for one another’s hand. It was a simple gesture, a natural motion as if they had been reaching towards one another in the dark their entire lives. In the morning, neither of them said a word like an embarrassing one night stand that needed to be put out of their minds. They ate eggs and drank vodka tonics and felt their heads ache in the early afternoon.

Their meetings were never quite planned, never orchestrated or official. No pressure to impress, just casual drinking friends who wasted away late nights because they had nothing better to do. She liked him because he bought her drinks and never tried to kiss her. He stared at other women who swept through bar after bar, discussing the finer points of shapely asses, tits, and legs. When they weren’t together, he’d often find himself passed out in his bed with naked women whose names or hobbies he couldn’t quite recall. They’d pull the sheet over their breasts, eyes turned away from the afternoon light that tore at their blood shot eyes. They’d turn red, sheepish when they confessed they had a boyfriend.

He bought her drinks with funny, fruity names she had never tried and eventually couldn’t even taste. Each one reminded him of a particular girl, a particular night, a particular article from the past. Sometimes he’d shout above the screechy guitars and the raucous thumping of wooden sticks on drum heads. He’d start to tell a story about the pink drink he placed in front of her, about a blonde with big tits who talked too much, a hippie who loved to talk about her period. She heard select phrases, clauses, losing coordinating conjunctions between major chords and keyboards that tried to sound like a violin.

He was an expert drunk driver who took side roads. He always got her home safely. So they made their way up the narrow stairs to her bedroom littered in dresses and tights, discarded panties shoved into the corner of her room. But her sheets were always clean as if she was expecting someone, anyone. Under the lacey comforter, they lay like stiff soldiers until he reached for her hand even though he had shoved the leggy girl’s phone number in his pocket, and she had flirted with the Jewish guy with the Buddy Holly glasses. He got her home safely; he stayed by her side with his rough construction worker hands interlocked with her soft, diminutive fingers. They both knew they could have pursued other forms of empty intimacy. He could have woken up next to the slim brunette with the red stilettos he fantasized about. She could have collected the geeky boy’s number on a slip of paper or scratched it into the cardboard of her empty cigarette pack. They knew they would never have a chance with one another, but he had a key to her house, to her car, and an empty hand that promised to hold hers through the night.

Fox Urine

“What you need to do is squirt some of this fox urine onto a piece of cardboard. That’ll get the squirrels outa there fast.”

This is what the guy at the camping store tells me. His name is John.

“It beats using a squirrel cage,” he adds, handing me the package. “You gotta use their own instincts against them.”

I read the directions on the back:

Spray ten to fifteen drops of authentic fox urine onto scent wick. Place wicks onto trail. The fox urine will mask human scent. Deer may even follow the trail straight to your hunting blind!

“So, they use this for hunting in the woods?” I ask.

“Yep,” says John, “Gets the deer every time.”

John assures me the stuff will work in a duplex too.

When I get home, I tear a sheet of cardboard into six pieces and saturate each piece with urine. The odor is strong and rank. My cat approaches to see what I’m doing and her tail bushes out with suspicion. She skitters away when the exhaust from a city bus fires.

Before I open the door to the attic, I listen. Usually they’re up there chasing each other across the loft. They sound like midget ballerinas, tumbling around on the floorboards. They’re quiet now, taking an afternoon nap.

Apprehensive, I enter the stairwell. They’ve torn the insulation to shreds. I’m worried that they’ll jump out at me from above. Rabid squirrels. Tenement squatters. Creepy fast moving things.

I don’t sense any movement but my own, though, and so I proceed. I lay the cardboard shims at regular intervals across the splintered floor. “Yaaaghh!” I scream out, hoping to scare them off, “Yaaaghh!”

There are clumps of insulation everywhere. Strands of it hang from the ceiling, rustling with each scream and bending shadows around my peripheral vision.

The next morning, the sun breaks into my bedroom. I awaken, sweating. This is usually their peak time for dancing, for their bony graceless rapping on the floor.

Today, it’s silent.

Confidence grips me, draws me out into the kitchen to fix myself a pot of coffee. I’m spooning out the grounds when I hear a quick clattering noise from above. I stop to listen, but hear nothing, so I turn the faucet on to fill the pot. Again, a loud clack-clack, clack-clack. It sounds like someone tap-dancing up there.

I turn the faucet off. Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clickety-clickety-clack. I open the attic door and edge myself up along the stairwell to peep over the ledge.

Clack-Clack. Clickety-Clickety-Clack Clack.

Peering into the darkness, I see nothing at first. Then gray shapes separate from the surrounding blackness. A sharp breath sounds, then a turn – click-clackety. A full-grown buck swivels towards me, a tuft of insulation hanging from his left antler.

“Yaaaghh!” I scream, and am afraid. This is a kamikaze deer, with no hope of survival up here. It’s got nothing to lose.

“Yaaaghh!” I scream again. It’s looking at me like it knows something I don’t know. I raise my arms above my head, trying to make it appear as if I have antlers. Then I run downstairs and slam the door.

The walls here are like cardboard.

My downstairs neighbor is banging on the ceiling. Through the pipes I hear him screaming. “Cut out that racket! What the hell are you doing up there?”

The Shave

“My princess,” Gerry says with a dramatic sweep of his hand, “Your throne awaits.” Sheila sits on the toilet, the palms of her hands rubbing against her pants, trying to get the sweat off. It was an honor to be in his bathroom, sitting on her make shift throne, watching him perform his ritual.

This moment was hard for the both of them. Each had made sacrifices, pushing through their fears and handicaps in order to reach the second story bathroom. The narrow stairs were cramped, peeling yellow wallpaper brushing against some of the wooden steps. Sheila’s large frame and lame leg made it difficult to reach the top. She was afraid her knee would buckle and imagined herself tumbling backwards down the stairwell with no one to catch her.

Gerry had not let anyone in his house in the ten years since he found his mother dead on the couch. He never forgot the way her head lolled back like she was snoring, a book of large print crosswords in her lap. It taken him hours to pick up the phone and call an ambulance. When they came, he played with the doorknob and deadbolt for fifteen minutes, clicking the cold metal back and forth before letting them in. There was no way the gurney could be rolled through the labyrinth of papers, cups, and magazines Gerry had so carefully placed around the house. The paramedics had to carry her limp body rolled in an afghan out the door, knocking down a stack of newspapers on the way out.

They ran into each other in the middle of the night at the 24-hour store. She haunted the aisles when she was sleepless and lonely, looking for small items to rip-off, slipping them into her calico cloth purse. He was there only out of necessity, stocking up on toiletries, Styrofoam cups and gummy bears. If there was ever a moment where Fate’s hand pushed them together, that was it. Gerry hadn’t been to the store in over four months.

His shopping cart was full. Sheila’s was empty except for a lamp shaped like a wagon wheel she considered buying every time she was there. She shuffled around the store with it in her cart, but neglected to get it because it wouldn’t fit into her purse.
They had a shared history before she was crippled and overweight, before he looked like a homeless train hopper, wearing three flannels at once over his thinning overalls. They dated for a few months thirty years prior, making it once in the back of Sheila’s Honda hatchback at the drive-in. The drive-in closed and became horse ranch, but the tall white screen remained like a ghost.

What was said was unimportant. Gerry had never forgotten her, was able to see her younger face hidden behind the fat. She had been his only lover and could still feel the warmth of her body in his mind. She somehow was able to recognize him underneath his untrimmed beard as the strange man she dated before her crappy marriage.

He opens the old medicine cabinet and begins removing the necessary items: shaving cream, a new razor blade still in the package, miniature Band-Aids, after-shave. He pulls an old towel from the bottom of the bathtub, a place he uses as a closet since he never takes baths or showers. He fears large quantities of water, hates the feel of water streaming out of the showerhead like blunt tipped spears against his skin. He only uses folded washcloths dipped in a bowl to clean up.

Sheila watches him prepare like a meticulous doctor before heart surgery. His hands are steady and smooth as he begins to cut his beard with the silver scissors. His coarse hair falls into the sink, onto the ceramic floor in loose piles, mixing with the hair leftover from his last shave. His face tells time, not by the crisscrossing lines but by which stage of growth his beard is in. Every six weeks he shaves clean.
She watches him, feeling guilty and turned on like she is peering into a strangers window while they have sex.

She sees Gerry in all of his vulnerability, narrow strips of flesh exposed like an airplane runway. One smooth line cascading upon another until the light from the naked bulb overhead reflects against his wet skin.

He sees Sheila’s image in the mirror as he shaves, fleshy and fat. He dips his razor into the bowl of water, shaving cream and stubble rising to the top like cream. He wonders how the paramedics will get her out if she ever dies. He doesn’t want anymore newspaper towers tumbling, scattering his life’s work all over the hardwood floor.

a 12 step start

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.