Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Tooth
Dear Erika,
We've known each other such a long time. Long enough that I know you've lost your big toenail more than once. In fact, you lost it the very first week I met you, after you dropped a table on it. But I don't know much about your teeth. Did you ever have braces? How old were you when you lost your first tooth? Did you ever get a tooth knocked out? I suppose you use whitening toothpaste. And I've seen Crest Whitestrips in your bathroom.
Take good care of your toofies.
Pamela
Dear Elizabeth,
I know you're a keen observer--it's the Virgo in you--fetching out the tiniest details and cataloging them in your brain. What do you notice about teeth? Have you ever thought about them? The stained ones, the uneven ones, the ones that are too big or too small? What kind of teeth does the walking man in Chicago have? Do you think the people at the clown house brush their teeth? With what? Balloon toothbrushes?
Pamela
Dear Doug,
Tooth. It's a funny sounding word. A double "o" brings humor to an otherwise mundane meaning. Say it. "Tooth." Extend the middle and croon a little. At the end, your tongue meets the back of your teeth and gets a little lispy. Some words are like instruments. They carry a melody all their own. Funny, I just realized the act of saying "tooth" involves the use of them. Maybe that's on purpose. Who, exactly, planned it that way?
Pamela
We've known each other such a long time. Long enough that I know you've lost your big toenail more than once. In fact, you lost it the very first week I met you, after you dropped a table on it. But I don't know much about your teeth. Did you ever have braces? How old were you when you lost your first tooth? Did you ever get a tooth knocked out? I suppose you use whitening toothpaste. And I've seen Crest Whitestrips in your bathroom.
Take good care of your toofies.
Pamela
Dear Elizabeth,
I know you're a keen observer--it's the Virgo in you--fetching out the tiniest details and cataloging them in your brain. What do you notice about teeth? Have you ever thought about them? The stained ones, the uneven ones, the ones that are too big or too small? What kind of teeth does the walking man in Chicago have? Do you think the people at the clown house brush their teeth? With what? Balloon toothbrushes?
Pamela
Dear Doug,
Tooth. It's a funny sounding word. A double "o" brings humor to an otherwise mundane meaning. Say it. "Tooth." Extend the middle and croon a little. At the end, your tongue meets the back of your teeth and gets a little lispy. Some words are like instruments. They carry a melody all their own. Funny, I just realized the act of saying "tooth" involves the use of them. Maybe that's on purpose. Who, exactly, planned it that way?
Pamela
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Burgerville on a sunny day
A warm, spring day in the PNW and Burgerville is hoppin'. The parking lot is jammed with contractors--their dry wall-caked boots and carhardts line up to feed. The cashiers call your name when your order is ready. Three men before me are all named Steve.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Bee carnage
inside the hive
bee carnage
Last weekend, I took the blue wooden top off the hive. Dead, mouldy bees were scattered about. Looking down into the hive, I could see honey dripping from the frames. It smelled sweet but tainted. It felt like walking into the scene of a mass murder. Bodies everywhere. I could imagine the bees in their final moments, crawling feebly to where they finally lay.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
New story, yet untitled, still unfinished
It was once a convent. In its heyday, it must have been imposing. Nuns in their black habits looking up to the wrought iron crucifix mounted to the roof as they came and went. Now it was just a three-story, rectangular red brick building with empty lots on both sides. The grass grew high in the summer and collected the trash that blew in from other parts of the neighborhood. That’s the thing about MollyOlga. It was the anchor of the neighborhood. The only building on a street of boarded up houses that had any life and it pulled everything toward it.
Four wide stone steps led to the front locked door. It was always a few degrees cooler at the top of the stairs. The doorbell made a shrill sound that hurt my ears, and usually summoned Duncan. He would let me in and then return silently to whatever it was he was doing.
You would think I’d most remember the paintings. It was an art school after all. But even more, I remember the smells. I learned to smell alizarin red, cobalt and ochre. The smell of ivory soap and the rusty tap water at the sink where you cleaned your brushes. The pungent fix solution from the darkroom. The smell of Bridget Robinson’s seldom-washed hair.
Bridget was a fixture on the second floor. She’d have already been there for an hour or two by the time I would arrive. She sat almost the whole day at a small table in between two floor-to-ceiling windows, only getting up to go the bathroom, I imagine, although I can’t really remember ever seeing her move.
Bridget would carefully choose one pastel and then another, working them into the thick cotton paper, stroke upon stroke, making tapestries of bright chalky color. She once drew seagulls resting on the shore. For anyone else a sedate subject, but her birds were giants, and she had them presiding over a raucous mosaic sea of red, violet and green. At noon, she’d pull out a crumpled paper lunch bag and without washing her hands, eat a bologna sandwich, dressed in the pigment residue from her fingers. It took me a long time to realize she was twice my age.
She was always the first person Molly would check on.
“Alright, Bridget?” Molly would stand and look over her shoulder.
“Yeaahh.”
“Nice. Very pretty.”
Molly loved Bridget. You could tell. They both saw the world the same way, I think. Even though Molly would never let me see her paintings, I could tell she saw things the world as big and magical.
The seed of the school sprouted sometime in the 60s when a group of neighborhood children knocked on Molly Bethel’s back door and asked her to teach them to paint. They kept coming. She used her own money to buy supplies and never asked for payment. Twenty-one years later, she and her friend Olga Lownie bought the former St. Boniface nunnery for $2,500 and called their new art school “MollyOlga.”
I loved the drive there. I’d leave my quiet white-bread town safely tucked 30 minutes away from Buffalo and head in on the 400, hitting the Thruway, then through the 190 toll booth requiring fifty cents to pass, and finally down to Locust Street where MollyOlga was located. I’d come off the ramp into the part of town called the “fruit belt” and you’d expect with a name like that the streets would be lined with the trees they were named for: locust, mulberry, peach, grape. Now I think of William Carlos Williams’ poem, “A Locust Tree in Flower”
Among
of
green
stiff
old
bright
broken
branch
come
white
sweet
May
again
But then I thought of Biblical plagues and it seemed appropriate because the street was stripped bare. But I didn’t care too much because it stripped me bare too and I was glad for it. I was a young white girl in her mother’s cast-off Nissan Sentra but I felt like maybe I could be anyone.
Molly tried to shape me. She tried to stop me from holding my paintbrush like a pencil and instead hold it with my forefinger and thumb so I could use my whole arm, and not just my wrist to paint.
Four wide stone steps led to the front locked door. It was always a few degrees cooler at the top of the stairs. The doorbell made a shrill sound that hurt my ears, and usually summoned Duncan. He would let me in and then return silently to whatever it was he was doing.
You would think I’d most remember the paintings. It was an art school after all. But even more, I remember the smells. I learned to smell alizarin red, cobalt and ochre. The smell of ivory soap and the rusty tap water at the sink where you cleaned your brushes. The pungent fix solution from the darkroom. The smell of Bridget Robinson’s seldom-washed hair.
Bridget was a fixture on the second floor. She’d have already been there for an hour or two by the time I would arrive. She sat almost the whole day at a small table in between two floor-to-ceiling windows, only getting up to go the bathroom, I imagine, although I can’t really remember ever seeing her move.
Bridget would carefully choose one pastel and then another, working them into the thick cotton paper, stroke upon stroke, making tapestries of bright chalky color. She once drew seagulls resting on the shore. For anyone else a sedate subject, but her birds were giants, and she had them presiding over a raucous mosaic sea of red, violet and green. At noon, she’d pull out a crumpled paper lunch bag and without washing her hands, eat a bologna sandwich, dressed in the pigment residue from her fingers. It took me a long time to realize she was twice my age.
She was always the first person Molly would check on.
“Alright, Bridget?” Molly would stand and look over her shoulder.
“Yeaahh.”
“Nice. Very pretty.”
Molly loved Bridget. You could tell. They both saw the world the same way, I think. Even though Molly would never let me see her paintings, I could tell she saw things the world as big and magical.
The seed of the school sprouted sometime in the 60s when a group of neighborhood children knocked on Molly Bethel’s back door and asked her to teach them to paint. They kept coming. She used her own money to buy supplies and never asked for payment. Twenty-one years later, she and her friend Olga Lownie bought the former St. Boniface nunnery for $2,500 and called their new art school “MollyOlga.”
I loved the drive there. I’d leave my quiet white-bread town safely tucked 30 minutes away from Buffalo and head in on the 400, hitting the Thruway, then through the 190 toll booth requiring fifty cents to pass, and finally down to Locust Street where MollyOlga was located. I’d come off the ramp into the part of town called the “fruit belt” and you’d expect with a name like that the streets would be lined with the trees they were named for: locust, mulberry, peach, grape. Now I think of William Carlos Williams’ poem, “A Locust Tree in Flower”
Among
of
green
stiff
old
bright
broken
branch
come
white
sweet
May
again
But then I thought of Biblical plagues and it seemed appropriate because the street was stripped bare. But I didn’t care too much because it stripped me bare too and I was glad for it. I was a young white girl in her mother’s cast-off Nissan Sentra but I felt like maybe I could be anyone.
Molly tried to shape me. She tried to stop me from holding my paintbrush like a pencil and instead hold it with my forefinger and thumb so I could use my whole arm, and not just my wrist to paint.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Thunder and lightning
It has thundered and lightning-ed two out of the three nights I've been in Chicago. After being away for years, the old nightmares started again last night: a tornado is coming. I am looking for shelter. Last night, I ran into a Safeway and headed to the back of the store away from the windows. But then I realized I forgot my brother. He was in the highrise across the street on the 40th floor. I needed to tell him to get out of the building.
Maybe the dream is telling me I'm worried I've left my family behind. Maybe I have. When I talk to my mother, she never asks me about myself. She doesn't know who I am. I might tell her about a movie I've seen recently, but that's it. She doesn't know me otherwise. We spend our time talking about her life. S. is easier. We have more in common. But still I feel so far away sometimes. If I just chose to live closer...in the same city even...where we could shop together, or eat in the same restaurants, or drive on the same roads, would we be closer? Why should I expect my mother to be any different than an old friend who I awkwardly begin a conversation with after 10 years apart?
I do like art. And so does S. We went to see Kelan Phil Cohran play at an almost non-descript Ethiopian restaurant. The chartreuse walls made it stand out. Phil was playing the thumb piano when we walked in, and from where we were standing, it didn't look like he was doing anything. Just rocking back and forth. But then he moved on to the trumpet and later the harp. He played for an hour, collected his tips like any street musician, and walked out the door without attracting the attention of anyone there. And maybe you don't know who he is, but jazz fans will, and you'd think they would applaud, or call out. Gather for autographs. But nope. Practically anonymous.
And then a day of walking from gallery to gallery in the early spring sun, before dropping me off at Northwestern for a business workshop. I get out of the car, and say goodbye, and I'm thinking as I stand in line to check in and see him drive away, "who am I?" and "who are we?" and "why do we know so little about one another?"
Maybe the dream is telling me I'm worried I've left my family behind. Maybe I have. When I talk to my mother, she never asks me about myself. She doesn't know who I am. I might tell her about a movie I've seen recently, but that's it. She doesn't know me otherwise. We spend our time talking about her life. S. is easier. We have more in common. But still I feel so far away sometimes. If I just chose to live closer...in the same city even...where we could shop together, or eat in the same restaurants, or drive on the same roads, would we be closer? Why should I expect my mother to be any different than an old friend who I awkwardly begin a conversation with after 10 years apart?
I do like art. And so does S. We went to see Kelan Phil Cohran play at an almost non-descript Ethiopian restaurant. The chartreuse walls made it stand out. Phil was playing the thumb piano when we walked in, and from where we were standing, it didn't look like he was doing anything. Just rocking back and forth. But then he moved on to the trumpet and later the harp. He played for an hour, collected his tips like any street musician, and walked out the door without attracting the attention of anyone there. And maybe you don't know who he is, but jazz fans will, and you'd think they would applaud, or call out. Gather for autographs. But nope. Practically anonymous.
And then a day of walking from gallery to gallery in the early spring sun, before dropping me off at Northwestern for a business workshop. I get out of the car, and say goodbye, and I'm thinking as I stand in line to check in and see him drive away, "who am I?" and "who are we?" and "why do we know so little about one another?"
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Bzzzzz...zzzzz..z....z.....
Tom was out to check on the hive yesterday. He proved my theory right. They are dead. We have a hive full of bee carcasses. It's been a very wet winter and they were infested by evil, honeybee-murdering mites.
I've been waiting to see some signs of life. Spring has arrived late here in Oregon. The apple trees are just starting to flower. But we've had a few warm days. I expected to see the scouts venture out into the sun. But it's been quiet. I even lobbed a stone against the side of the hive a few weeks back, to see if I could arouse the guard bees. But nope.
Poor little bees.
I've been waiting to see some signs of life. Spring has arrived late here in Oregon. The apple trees are just starting to flower. But we've had a few warm days. I expected to see the scouts venture out into the sun. But it's been quiet. I even lobbed a stone against the side of the hive a few weeks back, to see if I could arouse the guard bees. But nope.
Poor little bees.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Poetry
Origami in my brain,
worries keep folding up.
Stupid human worries.
Red, digital numbers burn
into the back of my retina:
It is 2:35 in the morning.
I will get up at six
and drive through the blue rain
in a sea of more red taillights.
Asphalt highways flow into
other asphalt highways and
the steel girders, concrete barriers
keep us all moving in the same direction.
Once I saw a grey ghost cross the highway.
A floating plastic bag
caught in the wind—
No—a great bird
sailed over four lanes of traffic
into a meager stand of trees
and I couldn't stop myself from crying.
I felt its bones in the cold,
the way it tucks its head underneath
its wing for warmth, the hum
of traffic ten feet away from
its nest. My stupid human problems.
Nothing in comparison to survival.
I am thankful for poetry,
that insomnia and birds
can lie in bed together
while I stay awake.
No storytelling road to follow.
No chain of logic because
this does not make sense
and not much does.
Tell stories to the whales
trapped underwater with the din
of motors and beating drills.
They swim up rivers and onto beaches
to find some peace.
worries keep folding up.
Stupid human worries.
Red, digital numbers burn
into the back of my retina:
It is 2:35 in the morning.
I will get up at six
and drive through the blue rain
in a sea of more red taillights.
Asphalt highways flow into
other asphalt highways and
the steel girders, concrete barriers
keep us all moving in the same direction.
Once I saw a grey ghost cross the highway.
A floating plastic bag
caught in the wind—
No—a great bird
sailed over four lanes of traffic
into a meager stand of trees
and I couldn't stop myself from crying.
I felt its bones in the cold,
the way it tucks its head underneath
its wing for warmth, the hum
of traffic ten feet away from
its nest. My stupid human problems.
Nothing in comparison to survival.
I am thankful for poetry,
that insomnia and birds
can lie in bed together
while I stay awake.
No storytelling road to follow.
No chain of logic because
this does not make sense
and not much does.
Tell stories to the whales
trapped underwater with the din
of motors and beating drills.
They swim up rivers and onto beaches
to find some peace.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Oh yeah, I forgot
Yesterday afternoon I got my mind back. I feel so much better.
I snuggled into the corner of the couch with a strong cup of irish breakfast tea and picked up a book of short stories I was given for my birthday. I flipped randomly to a story by Rick Bass called, "The Hermit's Story." It starts out simply enough: four people are sharing Thanksgiving together. They are eating pie and drinking wine. Then one of them tells a story that gets more and more fantastic as it goes on. Birds and dogs and stars and ice, and sleeping under a the icy skin of a lake where all the water has drained away. It was beautiful. There's no time in the story. The narrator tells us it was 12 years ago and then later tells us it was 20 years ago. And it made no sense. And I loved it.
After I read it I thought, "Oh yeah. I can write stories that don't make complete sense. I can write anything I want." I can write anything I want.
I've been stuck trying to tell this stupid story about this boring woman. I was trying to write it, because the boring character made the whole thing make sense. Some sales woman who has tried her whole life to get ahead but then one day realizes her whole life is meaningless. But it was boring, and I wasn't having any fun writing it, and I would keep freezing up and then trying just to push through, but then get frustrated and bored. I would think, "No one wants to read a story about a woman like this. And I don't really want to write it either." But I had two really strong images on either side of the story, and I needed the woman to connect them--to make the story logical.
Maybe I let this happen because a few weeks back, I gave a copy of Lost to an acquaintence. I didn't expect anything except for her to read it but she gave it back to me with written comments and everything. She didn't like the part toward the end where the girl dives down under the water and sees a whole town down at the bottom of the river. She wrote, " I could belive in the bat boy, but not the town at the bottom of the river." And when I read it, I thought, "Oh well...that's just her opinion" but I think it influenced me more than I realized. Because lately I've been trying to write stuff that's more "believable."
I don't want the girl to just swim back across the river. I want it to feel like she's getting dragged down by the river, the town is like the Sirens in the Odessey, tempting and dangerous, and she has to drag herself out of it.I'm not so interested in the logic as the feeling.
I hate logic in writing. I want to write the stuff that makes my heart hurt. The stuff that makes a wolf's howl form at the base of my throat. That's delightful. That's why I write. Oh yeah, I forgot. Thanks, Rick Bass, for reminding me.
I snuggled into the corner of the couch with a strong cup of irish breakfast tea and picked up a book of short stories I was given for my birthday. I flipped randomly to a story by Rick Bass called, "The Hermit's Story." It starts out simply enough: four people are sharing Thanksgiving together. They are eating pie and drinking wine. Then one of them tells a story that gets more and more fantastic as it goes on. Birds and dogs and stars and ice, and sleeping under a the icy skin of a lake where all the water has drained away. It was beautiful. There's no time in the story. The narrator tells us it was 12 years ago and then later tells us it was 20 years ago. And it made no sense. And I loved it.
After I read it I thought, "Oh yeah. I can write stories that don't make complete sense. I can write anything I want." I can write anything I want.
I've been stuck trying to tell this stupid story about this boring woman. I was trying to write it, because the boring character made the whole thing make sense. Some sales woman who has tried her whole life to get ahead but then one day realizes her whole life is meaningless. But it was boring, and I wasn't having any fun writing it, and I would keep freezing up and then trying just to push through, but then get frustrated and bored. I would think, "No one wants to read a story about a woman like this. And I don't really want to write it either." But I had two really strong images on either side of the story, and I needed the woman to connect them--to make the story logical.
Maybe I let this happen because a few weeks back, I gave a copy of Lost to an acquaintence. I didn't expect anything except for her to read it but she gave it back to me with written comments and everything. She didn't like the part toward the end where the girl dives down under the water and sees a whole town down at the bottom of the river. She wrote, " I could belive in the bat boy, but not the town at the bottom of the river." And when I read it, I thought, "Oh well...that's just her opinion" but I think it influenced me more than I realized. Because lately I've been trying to write stuff that's more "believable."
I don't want the girl to just swim back across the river. I want it to feel like she's getting dragged down by the river, the town is like the Sirens in the Odessey, tempting and dangerous, and she has to drag herself out of it.I'm not so interested in the logic as the feeling.
I hate logic in writing. I want to write the stuff that makes my heart hurt. The stuff that makes a wolf's howl form at the base of my throat. That's delightful. That's why I write. Oh yeah, I forgot. Thanks, Rick Bass, for reminding me.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Meditiation on an old photo
She has worn this dress, especially for today. It's the most expensive dress she's ever had--white, gauzy layers with delicate edging. She moves more gracefully in this dress, it seems. It makes her want to dance, and she'll have the chance soon. She'll enter through the doors of the magnificent hall and be surrounded by the most gallant gentlemen in all the county. Oh! She is taking a moment to get her breath before she goes, here in the garden next to a sculputure of a great white bird. It is beautiful and reminds her of everything she wants to be tonight, and everything she wants to feel. Like a wild bird she wants to be free to fly. She wants to be the creature that's most admired.
...
Like a wild bird, she wants to be free to fly. It's no fun in here with these parakeets. The cramped cage, the smelly, damp newspaper. She seems to be the only bird who minds, though. All the others are happily tinkling the bell or looking in the mirror. Paco is beaking his way up and down the right corner of the cage as usual. He never does anything else. She's the only bird that wants to be free. She dreams of nestling down in a patch of grass every night instead of the newspaper shreds she's got. Then she'd wake up to the sun and catch a wind current and just soar all day, riding one gust after another.
She once asked Polly about escaping. Had she ever tried it? Ever know anybird who did? She wanted to know the details. What's the best way to get past the shopkeeper Steve and his little Vietnamese girlfriend? Once you do that, how do you get past the big door? But Polly just stared at her with her beak wide open, so she hadn't brought it up since. Every night though, she dreams of being free.
...
He really did not owe an explanation to anyone. Certainly not her. She always wanted one though and she would keep asking and asking until she got one. Well this time he was gonna fix it so she couldn't ask. So that she'd never be able to ask again, as a matter of fact.
He started making a list. Shells from a tribe of hermit crabs, the eye of a newt (standard fare), the inner frond of a sword fern. Lots of purified water and the special words. That oughtta do it.
...
Like a wild bird, she wants to be free to fly. It's no fun in here with these parakeets. The cramped cage, the smelly, damp newspaper. She seems to be the only bird who minds, though. All the others are happily tinkling the bell or looking in the mirror. Paco is beaking his way up and down the right corner of the cage as usual. He never does anything else. She's the only bird that wants to be free. She dreams of nestling down in a patch of grass every night instead of the newspaper shreds she's got. Then she'd wake up to the sun and catch a wind current and just soar all day, riding one gust after another.
She once asked Polly about escaping. Had she ever tried it? Ever know anybird who did? She wanted to know the details. What's the best way to get past the shopkeeper Steve and his little Vietnamese girlfriend? Once you do that, how do you get past the big door? But Polly just stared at her with her beak wide open, so she hadn't brought it up since. Every night though, she dreams of being free.
...
He really did not owe an explanation to anyone. Certainly not her. She always wanted one though and she would keep asking and asking until she got one. Well this time he was gonna fix it so she couldn't ask. So that she'd never be able to ask again, as a matter of fact.
He started making a list. Shells from a tribe of hermit crabs, the eye of a newt (standard fare), the inner frond of a sword fern. Lots of purified water and the special words. That oughtta do it.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Positive reinforcement
I realized yesterday that the blog entries lately have been a wee bit too negative. So I'm gonna counteract that with a list of things that make me happy. I'll just keep adding them as they come to me.
1. Tortoise's song, "In Sarah, Mencken, Christ and Beethoven there were women and men." Both the title and the music. I was at the gym yesterday, and it slipped into the shuffle on my iPod. The title of the song is so long the iPod had to keep scrolling it.
2. Lovely, pale pink yarn from the softest, little alpaca lamb that ever lived. Eight dainty hanks arrived on my doorstep yesterday. I just wanted to shrink myself down to mouse-size so that I could use one of them as a bed.
3. I am the same age as Dave Chappelle.
1. Tortoise's song, "In Sarah, Mencken, Christ and Beethoven there were women and men." Both the title and the music. I was at the gym yesterday, and it slipped into the shuffle on my iPod. The title of the song is so long the iPod had to keep scrolling it.
2. Lovely, pale pink yarn from the softest, little alpaca lamb that ever lived. Eight dainty hanks arrived on my doorstep yesterday. I just wanted to shrink myself down to mouse-size so that I could use one of them as a bed.
3. I am the same age as Dave Chappelle.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
State of the union
I should be getting ready for work right now, but I just spent the last two days coddling my client, and so I'm not so eager to get back for another day of thinking about someone else's needs before mine.
My horoscope for the month says that I'm in the mood to upset the apple cart. That's for sure. As I sat in those meetings, I kept thinking, "Who am I?" I could be a kick-ass marketing guru. I'm good at it. I could funnel all my energy into my business career, make a ton of cash, and just stop struggling. Hell...gimme a BMW and a yearly vacation to Maui and a mind that does not question what it all means. A simple, quiet mind.
Or, I can be a writer.
I am not sure I can do both. So with yesterday marking the end of the thirty-first year of my life the reset button got pushed. This year, I need to spend some time building a life that supports my true self. Every night, I have to go to bed thinking about what I'm going to do the next day to be my true self. This is the end of the line for my marketing career. I'm not pushing for a job at Nike as a marketing exec. No. The world wants me to go that way, but no. I either make it as a writer or nothing.
My horoscope for the month says that I'm in the mood to upset the apple cart. That's for sure. As I sat in those meetings, I kept thinking, "Who am I?" I could be a kick-ass marketing guru. I'm good at it. I could funnel all my energy into my business career, make a ton of cash, and just stop struggling. Hell...gimme a BMW and a yearly vacation to Maui and a mind that does not question what it all means. A simple, quiet mind.
Or, I can be a writer.
I am not sure I can do both. So with yesterday marking the end of the thirty-first year of my life the reset button got pushed. This year, I need to spend some time building a life that supports my true self. Every night, I have to go to bed thinking about what I'm going to do the next day to be my true self. This is the end of the line for my marketing career. I'm not pushing for a job at Nike as a marketing exec. No. The world wants me to go that way, but no. I either make it as a writer or nothing.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
All this time we've known each other
Ryan returned the phone to the cradle.
"That was Chris. They're running a bit late."
"Oh well. I guess that gives us time to have a glass of wine before they get here. Loosen up a little bit," Renee said. She selected a bottle of red from the rack and took two glasses down from the cupboard.
"I'll just keep the oven on low. Hopefully dinner won't get too dried out."
Ryan sank onto the couch with a grunt. "I'm beat," he said. "I don't know why you invited them over on a Friday night anyway. I'm not sure I want to make conversation with anyone."
Renee sipped her wine. She had seen Laura at the gym a few days before. She was stepping into the shower after yoga class and realized it was Laura in the stall next to her. She never realized how slim Laura was. She always wore shapeless baggy clothes and old-man cardigans. Renee always thought of her as a homely woman. She wondered what Chris saw in her, because he was tall with dangerously rumpled hair and a deep, gravely voice. Renee had to devise a ruse everytime she saw him to keep him from noticing how she blushed. She couldn't help herself. It was practically instinct. He was so amazingly hot and what was he doing with a woman like Laura? She couldn't make sense of them as a couple.
But in the shower she noticed Laura's tiny waist and her two, perfectly shaped breasts. Renee hated her own. They always felt too large and pendulous. But it seemed Laura had the perfect body. Perhaps that explained it.
"Well, Ryan, it just came out. We were standing there in the shower and all of a sudden I was telling her about my new recipe for goat cheese and tomato quiche. They next thing I knew, we had plans for Friday."
"The shower, eh?" Ryan wiggled his eyebrows. "Well I just hope they bring some more wine. I'm going to need it."
Soon the doorbell rang and Ryan rose to answer it.
"Hey, guys! Come on in! Let me take your coats," he said.
"Nice place!" Laura said. "I don't think we've ever been here."
"You know, you're right" Renee said. "All this time we've known each other and I don't think we've ever gotten together, just the four of us."
"It's about time, then." Chris said. "Hey, we brought some wine." He handed the Renee the bottle.
"Thanks! Ryan and I already started. I'll pour you a glass. Make yourselves comfortable." She went into the kitchen to get two more glasses.
"It's a syrah," Laura called after her. "We just love syrahs."
Ryan was back from the bedroom where he has put their coats."Oh yeah?" he said. "We've tried them from time to time, but we tend to like pinots."
"I like beer," joked Chris. "Lots of beer and good, hard liquor." They all laughed.
"Everyone makes such a big deal about pinot noir," Laura said as Renee handed her the glass. "But it's just not exciting. We like wines that are bold."
"Laura's been into finding the cheapest bottle that still drinkable. Who knows? The bottle we brought could be $1.99," Chris said.
Laura shot him a look. "It's not. But there are lots of good, cheap syrahs out there for like, ten dollars."
"Well, I don't care how much it costs," joked Ryan. "I'll drink it!"
"Come on everyone, dinner is served." Renee said. They moved into the dining room and Renee brought the quiche out and set it on the table.
"Ooh! It smells wonderful." Laura said. "I like these plates too. Are they fiestaware?"
"Yes. My grandmother's. It's the original stuff." Renee said. She loved being able to say that. She always enjoyed setting the table, placing her bright cloth napkins and vintage water glasses beside her vintage dishes. She knew how to create atmosphere. She was always surprised when she went to other people's homes. They would turn on the overhead, fluorescent lights and use paper napkins. It was like eating in a cafeteria. But Renee liked to dim the lights, set out candles, and put on a good jazz CD. People always remarked on her good taste.
"Man, you won't believe what happened to me today," Ryan said as he served the quiche.
"Cut me a big piece," Chris said as he passed his plate.
"Would you pass the salad?" Laura asked. Renee handed her the salad in its hand-carved wood bowl with matching utensils.
"So, I call my credit card company to tell them to take this stupid fee off my statement. All the sudden this nine dollar fee appears on my statement for services or something. I don't know what it's for, but it pisses me off, you know?"
"Oh, I hate having to call the credit card company," Laura said.
"Well, I'm on the phone and it take me forever to get to a real person. I have to press one, then zero, then listen to another menu."
"Yadda, yadda," Renee said.
"Well, when a real, live person picks up, it's this woman from India or something! I could hardly understand her!" He said something in gibberish as if he was imitating a foreign language.
"That sound more like Chinese than Indian," Chris said.
Laura laughed and repeated the gibberish, "yingyangwongchong."
"Well, whatever. All that money I send to that company and they don't even have an American on the line. I just hung up. I couldn't stand it."
"Are you going to pay the fee?" Renee asked.
"Hell, no! I'm going to write them a letter," Ryan said.
Renee took a sip of her wine. She looked across the table at Chris. He had a five-o-clock shadow. Usually she liked Ryan to be clean shaven, but on Chris, a little stubble looked good. She wondered what it would feel like against her face. "Ooh. I'm starting to feel the wine. I'm all glowy," she said. She felt warm and like all her muscles were loose and flexible.
"Mmmm. Me too," Laura said.
"I should open another bottle," Ryan said. He got up and went into the kitchen.
"Women," said Chris. "It doesn't take much."
Laura started to giggle and touched his arm. "Remember last weekend? It didn't take much then, either."
"Oh, yeah?" Ryan had returned with a bottle of champagne. "This is all I could find." He popped the cork and filled each of their glasses. "You had a little too much, eh?"
"We had kind of a crazy time," Laura said. She was still giggling. "I can't stop laughing!" She took a sip of her champagne. She looked at Chris, and he shrugged his shoulders at her.
"Well...we were over at our friends' house for dinner. Clark and Mary. You've met them, right?"
Renee nodded. "We met them at your summer barbecue. Remember, Ryan?"
"I think so," He said.
"You might not know this about them, but they're kind of...swingers."
"No!" Renee shrieked.
"We've known for a long time, but we never really talk about it with them."
"So what happened?"
"Oh, Renee. You just love gossip." Ryan rolled his eyes.
"We were over there for dinner and we had a few bottles of wine between us. We were all a little loopy."
"It didn't help that we smoked a joint on the way over there," Chris said.
"So they have a hot tub and after dinner we all decide to go in. But of course we didn't bring our bathing suits, so we went in naked," Laura said. Renee noticed Laura was rubbing the inside of her husband's arm as she talked. She moved her hand quickly up to his elbow and back down to his wrist. She kicked Ryan under the table to try to get him to look at her, but he was transfixed.
"So," Ryan said. "What? Did you swap or something?" Laura squeezed Chris' arm.
"We dared Laura and Mary to kiss and they did," Chris said.
"That's it?"
"Ummm. Let's just say one thing did lead to another."
"Wow." Ryan drained his champagne.
"I don't know if I could ever do that. I just don't know," Renee said. She looked down at her lap. She didn't know what to say next. She could hear the fizzing of the chanpagne bubbles in the glass.
"Well, we certainly killed the conversation!" Chris said. He pressed his hands together.
"No, no...I was just thinking I should clear the table. We have tirimisu for dessert," Renee said.
She stood up and collected the dishes. In the kitchen, she put on the kettle for tea. She heard Chris and Ryan laughing from the dining room. "Laura's had enough, I think! Throw her in the drunk tank!"
Renee rinsed the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher. She carried the slices of tiramisu and a pot of tea out to the dining room on a tray. Laura had her head resting on the table.
Renee couldn't help yawning as poured each of them a cup. "I can't believe how tired I am," she said. "Ryan, you had a hard day. You must be tired too."
"That was Chris. They're running a bit late."
"Oh well. I guess that gives us time to have a glass of wine before they get here. Loosen up a little bit," Renee said. She selected a bottle of red from the rack and took two glasses down from the cupboard.
"I'll just keep the oven on low. Hopefully dinner won't get too dried out."
Ryan sank onto the couch with a grunt. "I'm beat," he said. "I don't know why you invited them over on a Friday night anyway. I'm not sure I want to make conversation with anyone."
Renee sipped her wine. She had seen Laura at the gym a few days before. She was stepping into the shower after yoga class and realized it was Laura in the stall next to her. She never realized how slim Laura was. She always wore shapeless baggy clothes and old-man cardigans. Renee always thought of her as a homely woman. She wondered what Chris saw in her, because he was tall with dangerously rumpled hair and a deep, gravely voice. Renee had to devise a ruse everytime she saw him to keep him from noticing how she blushed. She couldn't help herself. It was practically instinct. He was so amazingly hot and what was he doing with a woman like Laura? She couldn't make sense of them as a couple.
But in the shower she noticed Laura's tiny waist and her two, perfectly shaped breasts. Renee hated her own. They always felt too large and pendulous. But it seemed Laura had the perfect body. Perhaps that explained it.
"Well, Ryan, it just came out. We were standing there in the shower and all of a sudden I was telling her about my new recipe for goat cheese and tomato quiche. They next thing I knew, we had plans for Friday."
"The shower, eh?" Ryan wiggled his eyebrows. "Well I just hope they bring some more wine. I'm going to need it."
Soon the doorbell rang and Ryan rose to answer it.
"Hey, guys! Come on in! Let me take your coats," he said.
"Nice place!" Laura said. "I don't think we've ever been here."
"You know, you're right" Renee said. "All this time we've known each other and I don't think we've ever gotten together, just the four of us."
"It's about time, then." Chris said. "Hey, we brought some wine." He handed the Renee the bottle.
"Thanks! Ryan and I already started. I'll pour you a glass. Make yourselves comfortable." She went into the kitchen to get two more glasses.
"It's a syrah," Laura called after her. "We just love syrahs."
Ryan was back from the bedroom where he has put their coats."Oh yeah?" he said. "We've tried them from time to time, but we tend to like pinots."
"I like beer," joked Chris. "Lots of beer and good, hard liquor." They all laughed.
"Everyone makes such a big deal about pinot noir," Laura said as Renee handed her the glass. "But it's just not exciting. We like wines that are bold."
"Laura's been into finding the cheapest bottle that still drinkable. Who knows? The bottle we brought could be $1.99," Chris said.
Laura shot him a look. "It's not. But there are lots of good, cheap syrahs out there for like, ten dollars."
"Well, I don't care how much it costs," joked Ryan. "I'll drink it!"
"Come on everyone, dinner is served." Renee said. They moved into the dining room and Renee brought the quiche out and set it on the table.
"Ooh! It smells wonderful." Laura said. "I like these plates too. Are they fiestaware?"
"Yes. My grandmother's. It's the original stuff." Renee said. She loved being able to say that. She always enjoyed setting the table, placing her bright cloth napkins and vintage water glasses beside her vintage dishes. She knew how to create atmosphere. She was always surprised when she went to other people's homes. They would turn on the overhead, fluorescent lights and use paper napkins. It was like eating in a cafeteria. But Renee liked to dim the lights, set out candles, and put on a good jazz CD. People always remarked on her good taste.
"Man, you won't believe what happened to me today," Ryan said as he served the quiche.
"Cut me a big piece," Chris said as he passed his plate.
"Would you pass the salad?" Laura asked. Renee handed her the salad in its hand-carved wood bowl with matching utensils.
"So, I call my credit card company to tell them to take this stupid fee off my statement. All the sudden this nine dollar fee appears on my statement for services or something. I don't know what it's for, but it pisses me off, you know?"
"Oh, I hate having to call the credit card company," Laura said.
"Well, I'm on the phone and it take me forever to get to a real person. I have to press one, then zero, then listen to another menu."
"Yadda, yadda," Renee said.
"Well, when a real, live person picks up, it's this woman from India or something! I could hardly understand her!" He said something in gibberish as if he was imitating a foreign language.
"That sound more like Chinese than Indian," Chris said.
Laura laughed and repeated the gibberish, "yingyangwongchong."
"Well, whatever. All that money I send to that company and they don't even have an American on the line. I just hung up. I couldn't stand it."
"Are you going to pay the fee?" Renee asked.
"Hell, no! I'm going to write them a letter," Ryan said.
Renee took a sip of her wine. She looked across the table at Chris. He had a five-o-clock shadow. Usually she liked Ryan to be clean shaven, but on Chris, a little stubble looked good. She wondered what it would feel like against her face. "Ooh. I'm starting to feel the wine. I'm all glowy," she said. She felt warm and like all her muscles were loose and flexible.
"Mmmm. Me too," Laura said.
"I should open another bottle," Ryan said. He got up and went into the kitchen.
"Women," said Chris. "It doesn't take much."
Laura started to giggle and touched his arm. "Remember last weekend? It didn't take much then, either."
"Oh, yeah?" Ryan had returned with a bottle of champagne. "This is all I could find." He popped the cork and filled each of their glasses. "You had a little too much, eh?"
"We had kind of a crazy time," Laura said. She was still giggling. "I can't stop laughing!" She took a sip of her champagne. She looked at Chris, and he shrugged his shoulders at her.
"Well...we were over at our friends' house for dinner. Clark and Mary. You've met them, right?"
Renee nodded. "We met them at your summer barbecue. Remember, Ryan?"
"I think so," He said.
"You might not know this about them, but they're kind of...swingers."
"No!" Renee shrieked.
"We've known for a long time, but we never really talk about it with them."
"So what happened?"
"Oh, Renee. You just love gossip." Ryan rolled his eyes.
"We were over there for dinner and we had a few bottles of wine between us. We were all a little loopy."
"It didn't help that we smoked a joint on the way over there," Chris said.
"So they have a hot tub and after dinner we all decide to go in. But of course we didn't bring our bathing suits, so we went in naked," Laura said. Renee noticed Laura was rubbing the inside of her husband's arm as she talked. She moved her hand quickly up to his elbow and back down to his wrist. She kicked Ryan under the table to try to get him to look at her, but he was transfixed.
"So," Ryan said. "What? Did you swap or something?" Laura squeezed Chris' arm.
"We dared Laura and Mary to kiss and they did," Chris said.
"That's it?"
"Ummm. Let's just say one thing did lead to another."
"Wow." Ryan drained his champagne.
"I don't know if I could ever do that. I just don't know," Renee said. She looked down at her lap. She didn't know what to say next. She could hear the fizzing of the chanpagne bubbles in the glass.
"Well, we certainly killed the conversation!" Chris said. He pressed his hands together.
"No, no...I was just thinking I should clear the table. We have tirimisu for dessert," Renee said.
She stood up and collected the dishes. In the kitchen, she put on the kettle for tea. She heard Chris and Ryan laughing from the dining room. "Laura's had enough, I think! Throw her in the drunk tank!"
Renee rinsed the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher. She carried the slices of tiramisu and a pot of tea out to the dining room on a tray. Laura had her head resting on the table.
Renee couldn't help yawning as poured each of them a cup. "I can't believe how tired I am," she said. "Ryan, you had a hard day. You must be tired too."
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Portland: January
This doggy, soggy winter. It has rained more than 30 days straight and that means 10 more days and we're going Biblical. Even Noah only had to wait out 44. Spring is coming.
We go about our days medicated with coffee. It is a window that draws in whatever daylight exists out there between the raindrops. Movies and books a drug too--tricking us with the illusion of life and activity. There is something happening, somewhere in the world beyond these pillows and blankets which we burrow down into for whole months. They are a like a bandage on a wounded man. They keep us barely alive. We eat avacados and tomatoes from Southern California--a rude and brash cousin who has too much and appreciates nothing--the bright fruit injects a bit of summer into our winter days.
The dog sleeps in its chair and wakes once a day impatient to be put on a leash and led out into the wet night in search of the doggy news that is printed at the base of every sign post and shrub. My eyelashes catch drops of fog and I think perhaps I see a rainbow. A promise that June will soon be here with its roses and long, clear days. I hesitate to wipe my eyes so that I can live the dream a litte longer.
We go about our days medicated with coffee. It is a window that draws in whatever daylight exists out there between the raindrops. Movies and books a drug too--tricking us with the illusion of life and activity. There is something happening, somewhere in the world beyond these pillows and blankets which we burrow down into for whole months. They are a like a bandage on a wounded man. They keep us barely alive. We eat avacados and tomatoes from Southern California--a rude and brash cousin who has too much and appreciates nothing--the bright fruit injects a bit of summer into our winter days.
The dog sleeps in its chair and wakes once a day impatient to be put on a leash and led out into the wet night in search of the doggy news that is printed at the base of every sign post and shrub. My eyelashes catch drops of fog and I think perhaps I see a rainbow. A promise that June will soon be here with its roses and long, clear days. I hesitate to wipe my eyes so that I can live the dream a litte longer.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Fries, please
Being sick is lonely. The whole world continues on outside as I lie here in this bed. People go to work, kids go to school, stock boys stack apples and oranges into pyramids in the grocery store, truck drivers hauls their goods. All this happens as I lie here.
I remember last year when the Pope died. I felt so sorry for him. I knew what he was feeling. After so many years of being among throngs of adoring people he was sequestered away in a bare hospital room. He must have lay in bed listening to the whispers of his cardinals as they talked around him. No laughter, no joy, no life. Just a hushed contraction of time while they waited for him to die.
I am not going to die like the Pope, but I am so sick that I can’t go to school. At 8:15 each morning I can hear the middle schoolers gathering for the bus and then it drops them off everyday at 3:30. I used to wish my window would overlook the street so I could see them too. But wishing is useless.
On one side of the room I turn my head to see a blue chest of drawers with silver pulls. It is there everyday. A constant. I get bored of looking at it; I have looked at it so much. To the left is my window, which overlooks the side yard. So instead of watching kids get on the bus, or old people walking their dogs, I look out to see what is happening in the yard. An awful lot happens there. Birds and squirrels wander through, the leaves grow and change and drop of course. I don’t need to tell you. I notice everything though. Every shade of green grass—from its emerald lushness in the early spring to its weak, limey green at the end of the summer. I notice the weeds as they sprout up and the way the laurel hedges grow at least two feet each year.
I have a tutor that comes once a week now on Saturdays. He’s a timid man who looks nervously around the room at the pill bottles and syringes and the IV drip that stands at attention in the corner just in case. He must worry that he’s going to get what I have, though you can’t catch it. He sits across the room perched on the folding chair mom puts there for him and he talks loudly at me, as if it were my ears that are failing, not my lungs.
At first he tried to do all sorts of work with me—math and science. But now we just read books and when he comes he talks about them. He yells his thoughts across the room for about an hour and then he gives me a new book for my assignment. He scurries out the door to where mom is waiting and I hear her say each week, “How’d it go?” while she writes him a check. I always wait to hear the sound of her ripping it from her checkbook—the perforations tearing with a satisfying zzzzip.
I feel bad for my mom. She feels bad about leaving me everyday but she has to go to work. She gets up before its light out to give me a bath and make me breakfast, give me my pills. She leaves a few hours later with nothing but a Ziploc bag full of Cheerios in her purse for her own breakfast. She leaves me propped up on pillows with the remote control in easy reach and kisses me on the cheek.
My favorite day of the week is when she reads me bits from the town Bee. She reads the articles about people we know or important things like that time when Wal-Mart wanted to open a store near the post office but everyone fought it. It comes every Thursday and she reads it out loud to me.
She gets especially into the articles about the mayor or the school board. Once, there was a proposal to build a skate ramp in the park and she was really upset about that. Half the town was for it, and the other half against. Some said at least it would get those boys out of the bank parking lots and movie theater steps where they were destroying property and scaring off senior citizens. The others said that skateboarding should just be banned altogether. Those kids were just waiting to crack their heads open and the town shouldn’t given them a legal place to go and do it.
I didn’t really care too much, because I was waiting for her to get to the school lunch schedule, which is my favorite part. Sometimes it’s grilled cheese on Monday, spaghetti on Tuesday and all the standard stuff. Sometimes the menu is out of the ordinary like the February when its African American history month they serve things like red beans and rice and okra. I’ve never had those but they sound good.
I wonder what it would be like to go to school. I would have a locker and eat in the cafeteria. I’d see the lunch lady every day in her hair net. She would ask me if I wanted peas of French fires and I would answer, “Fries, please.”
I’ve been at home so long that most of my friends have grown a whole foot or more by now. When I was first out of the hospital they would sometimes visit me, bringing flowers and had to be removed from the room right away, or candy that I couldn’t even open my mouth to eat. I remember my best friend, Michelle, with her long, brown hair and brown skin. Mom called her a “tomboy.” She came only once. She sat nest to my bed and didn’t say anything. Her mom and my mom were outside in the hall talking and she just sat there and stared at the floor. I couldn’t say anything either—I wanted to. I wanted to just say hi and ask her about Valentines Day and stuff. But finally her mom came and got her and she never came back.
I wonder if my friends ever think of me anymore or maybe they just pretend I moved away. I still remember how they looked. Timmy always had a runny nose, and Scott had the nicest freckles. I hated Amy and her bouncy, blonde curls. Cindy was tiny and had a funny laugh that always made me laugh too.
Mostly I think of Nathan. We always sat at the back of the bus together, even though boys and girls didn’t usually sit together. He had sandy brown hair and a scar on his chin from when he fell down the stairs as a little kid. He never did come to visit me, but he sent me a card with a big elephant on it that said, “Get Well Soon!”
I think of him everyday, especially when the Price is Right is over and the soap operas are on. They are never fun to watch. I think of the time he chased me during color tag in gym class. He didn’t chase any other girls except for me.
My friends probably do things like play sports after school and go to dances. If I were in school, I’d try out for the soccer team. That’s what Michelle plays. I know because sometimes the Bee has articles about how the team is doing so good. She is the star forward. I would be on the team too, and we would both be out there on the field and maybe it would be muddy that day so we’d come home from the game covered in mud. But it would be really fun and we would run hard anyway and be exact with our passes and outmaneuver the other team. We’d win, and then come in to the locker room cheering and excited. And on the way I’d see Nathan watching me from the crowd. And maybe he would have his driver’s license and wait for me so he could dive me home from the game.
Last year, mom read me a story about the homecoming floats. Each class would make a float on a theme, and the theme that time was fairy tales. One class made a Little Red Riding Hood float with a giant wolf’s head in a pink bonnet, and another class did Hansel and Gretel with a real gingerbread house and they threw candy to the crowd. I’d want to be one of the people throwing candy and watch the kids rush forward to pick up the peppermints and lollipops that fell to the ground.
There was a picture of Timmy in the paper too. He was homecoming king and there was a photo of him and his queen. They were wearing goofy tinfoil crowns. But I hardly recognized him. His note was bigger and it was like the whole shape of his head had changed. As if someone had pushed his jaw in and made his forehead stick out more. Maybe it was all the football he played. His neck was thick and he had hulking shoulders too. I wondered if he remembers coming to my birthday party once. He was the only boy I invited, and mom didn’t want him to come. But I invited him anyway.
Last night, I felt my lip split open. I sneezed and it tore open. There was nothing I could do until morning when mom checked in on me. By then, the blood was dried and my lip swollen twice its size. Sometimes it happens. It always hurts, but now I’m more used to living with it. I know that in the morning, mom will wipe it clean and apply Vaseline. She always makes me feel better.
I remember last year when the Pope died. I felt so sorry for him. I knew what he was feeling. After so many years of being among throngs of adoring people he was sequestered away in a bare hospital room. He must have lay in bed listening to the whispers of his cardinals as they talked around him. No laughter, no joy, no life. Just a hushed contraction of time while they waited for him to die.
I am not going to die like the Pope, but I am so sick that I can’t go to school. At 8:15 each morning I can hear the middle schoolers gathering for the bus and then it drops them off everyday at 3:30. I used to wish my window would overlook the street so I could see them too. But wishing is useless.
On one side of the room I turn my head to see a blue chest of drawers with silver pulls. It is there everyday. A constant. I get bored of looking at it; I have looked at it so much. To the left is my window, which overlooks the side yard. So instead of watching kids get on the bus, or old people walking their dogs, I look out to see what is happening in the yard. An awful lot happens there. Birds and squirrels wander through, the leaves grow and change and drop of course. I don’t need to tell you. I notice everything though. Every shade of green grass—from its emerald lushness in the early spring to its weak, limey green at the end of the summer. I notice the weeds as they sprout up and the way the laurel hedges grow at least two feet each year.
I have a tutor that comes once a week now on Saturdays. He’s a timid man who looks nervously around the room at the pill bottles and syringes and the IV drip that stands at attention in the corner just in case. He must worry that he’s going to get what I have, though you can’t catch it. He sits across the room perched on the folding chair mom puts there for him and he talks loudly at me, as if it were my ears that are failing, not my lungs.
At first he tried to do all sorts of work with me—math and science. But now we just read books and when he comes he talks about them. He yells his thoughts across the room for about an hour and then he gives me a new book for my assignment. He scurries out the door to where mom is waiting and I hear her say each week, “How’d it go?” while she writes him a check. I always wait to hear the sound of her ripping it from her checkbook—the perforations tearing with a satisfying zzzzip.
I feel bad for my mom. She feels bad about leaving me everyday but she has to go to work. She gets up before its light out to give me a bath and make me breakfast, give me my pills. She leaves a few hours later with nothing but a Ziploc bag full of Cheerios in her purse for her own breakfast. She leaves me propped up on pillows with the remote control in easy reach and kisses me on the cheek.
My favorite day of the week is when she reads me bits from the town Bee. She reads the articles about people we know or important things like that time when Wal-Mart wanted to open a store near the post office but everyone fought it. It comes every Thursday and she reads it out loud to me.
She gets especially into the articles about the mayor or the school board. Once, there was a proposal to build a skate ramp in the park and she was really upset about that. Half the town was for it, and the other half against. Some said at least it would get those boys out of the bank parking lots and movie theater steps where they were destroying property and scaring off senior citizens. The others said that skateboarding should just be banned altogether. Those kids were just waiting to crack their heads open and the town shouldn’t given them a legal place to go and do it.
I didn’t really care too much, because I was waiting for her to get to the school lunch schedule, which is my favorite part. Sometimes it’s grilled cheese on Monday, spaghetti on Tuesday and all the standard stuff. Sometimes the menu is out of the ordinary like the February when its African American history month they serve things like red beans and rice and okra. I’ve never had those but they sound good.
I wonder what it would be like to go to school. I would have a locker and eat in the cafeteria. I’d see the lunch lady every day in her hair net. She would ask me if I wanted peas of French fires and I would answer, “Fries, please.”
I’ve been at home so long that most of my friends have grown a whole foot or more by now. When I was first out of the hospital they would sometimes visit me, bringing flowers and had to be removed from the room right away, or candy that I couldn’t even open my mouth to eat. I remember my best friend, Michelle, with her long, brown hair and brown skin. Mom called her a “tomboy.” She came only once. She sat nest to my bed and didn’t say anything. Her mom and my mom were outside in the hall talking and she just sat there and stared at the floor. I couldn’t say anything either—I wanted to. I wanted to just say hi and ask her about Valentines Day and stuff. But finally her mom came and got her and she never came back.
I wonder if my friends ever think of me anymore or maybe they just pretend I moved away. I still remember how they looked. Timmy always had a runny nose, and Scott had the nicest freckles. I hated Amy and her bouncy, blonde curls. Cindy was tiny and had a funny laugh that always made me laugh too.
Mostly I think of Nathan. We always sat at the back of the bus together, even though boys and girls didn’t usually sit together. He had sandy brown hair and a scar on his chin from when he fell down the stairs as a little kid. He never did come to visit me, but he sent me a card with a big elephant on it that said, “Get Well Soon!”
I think of him everyday, especially when the Price is Right is over and the soap operas are on. They are never fun to watch. I think of the time he chased me during color tag in gym class. He didn’t chase any other girls except for me.
My friends probably do things like play sports after school and go to dances. If I were in school, I’d try out for the soccer team. That’s what Michelle plays. I know because sometimes the Bee has articles about how the team is doing so good. She is the star forward. I would be on the team too, and we would both be out there on the field and maybe it would be muddy that day so we’d come home from the game covered in mud. But it would be really fun and we would run hard anyway and be exact with our passes and outmaneuver the other team. We’d win, and then come in to the locker room cheering and excited. And on the way I’d see Nathan watching me from the crowd. And maybe he would have his driver’s license and wait for me so he could dive me home from the game.
Last year, mom read me a story about the homecoming floats. Each class would make a float on a theme, and the theme that time was fairy tales. One class made a Little Red Riding Hood float with a giant wolf’s head in a pink bonnet, and another class did Hansel and Gretel with a real gingerbread house and they threw candy to the crowd. I’d want to be one of the people throwing candy and watch the kids rush forward to pick up the peppermints and lollipops that fell to the ground.
There was a picture of Timmy in the paper too. He was homecoming king and there was a photo of him and his queen. They were wearing goofy tinfoil crowns. But I hardly recognized him. His note was bigger and it was like the whole shape of his head had changed. As if someone had pushed his jaw in and made his forehead stick out more. Maybe it was all the football he played. His neck was thick and he had hulking shoulders too. I wondered if he remembers coming to my birthday party once. He was the only boy I invited, and mom didn’t want him to come. But I invited him anyway.
Last night, I felt my lip split open. I sneezed and it tore open. There was nothing I could do until morning when mom checked in on me. By then, the blood was dried and my lip swollen twice its size. Sometimes it happens. It always hurts, but now I’m more used to living with it. I know that in the morning, mom will wipe it clean and apply Vaseline. She always makes me feel better.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Writing and other excretia
I've been home all week sick with the flu. A half-human, half-virus version of myself with chills and sweats, sore throat and mountains of mucus. Yuck. Being sick is such a drippy process. Every pore screams out, "I EXIST!" by excreting fluid.
In the midst of this, I got my first issue of Poets & Writers. I ordered it about two months ago. I was feeling good about the direction of "Lost." Praxis was about to come out. I suppose I was high on the idea of being a "real" writer and I thought the magazine would do me some good.
Maybe it was the phlegm, but it felt like it was P&W that was making me sick. EVERY $%^#& PAGE hosts an advertisement for an MFA program. The others hold ads for expensive residencies, and workshops. The articles are all written by writers that sit in cushy academic jobs. They spew analysis and intellectia. Rather than encourage struggling writers to keep going, it seems set up to discourage. This magazine is about the business of writing. It's not about the art of writing. It's about money, not love.
This past year I've accomplished a lot. I've written a few things I'm proud of. More importantly, I've kept writing. Every single week. No excuses. Whatever crap comes out. I'm there with my notebook. It may not seem like much, but it is. Just the commitment to keep going is huge for me. And the further I go, the more protective I feel about my art. I want to plug my ears when I hear other writers talking about blocks, or that they don't have enough time, or whatever. Even conversations about craft, or revisions are scary. I fear that anyone else's vision of what it means to be a writer--be it the almighty P&W or the Joe schmoe next to me--might infect my own and make me sick.
So...I think I'm going to donate my subscription to some local non-profit arts organization or something, if I can do that. Maybe there will come a time when I'm ready to dive into the business side of writing. But this year, my only resolution is to keep going.
In the midst of this, I got my first issue of Poets & Writers. I ordered it about two months ago. I was feeling good about the direction of "Lost." Praxis was about to come out. I suppose I was high on the idea of being a "real" writer and I thought the magazine would do me some good.
Maybe it was the phlegm, but it felt like it was P&W that was making me sick. EVERY $%^#& PAGE hosts an advertisement for an MFA program. The others hold ads for expensive residencies, and workshops. The articles are all written by writers that sit in cushy academic jobs. They spew analysis and intellectia. Rather than encourage struggling writers to keep going, it seems set up to discourage. This magazine is about the business of writing. It's not about the art of writing. It's about money, not love.
This past year I've accomplished a lot. I've written a few things I'm proud of. More importantly, I've kept writing. Every single week. No excuses. Whatever crap comes out. I'm there with my notebook. It may not seem like much, but it is. Just the commitment to keep going is huge for me. And the further I go, the more protective I feel about my art. I want to plug my ears when I hear other writers talking about blocks, or that they don't have enough time, or whatever. Even conversations about craft, or revisions are scary. I fear that anyone else's vision of what it means to be a writer--be it the almighty P&W or the Joe schmoe next to me--might infect my own and make me sick.
So...I think I'm going to donate my subscription to some local non-profit arts organization or something, if I can do that. Maybe there will come a time when I'm ready to dive into the business side of writing. But this year, my only resolution is to keep going.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Summertime in Union Station
As I walked here, coffee in hand, cookie balanced carefully on my journal, I passed men sitting on bus benches--men I knew not to look in the eye. For if I were to make eye contact they would try to talk to me. I draw this kind of attention wherever I go. Strange men with no boundaries like to see how far they can push me. I walked past the Greyhound station. The image of a dog, ever sprinting, made me dispair. We humans never let our fellow creatures rest. They must provide.
In the train station there are children. They are calling to each other like dogs in the night. They don't even know each other, I just realized, but one whines and then another calls back in response.
The great ceiling fans circulate. Are they whipping around to keep the air moving? Or to push the hot air down off the ceiling. Someone's feet smell. Not mine, I think. An old dot-matrix printer shrieks back and forth over a page. Tickets? Receipts for the day? A janitor comes by with a broom to brush the marble floors free of papers and dust. They miss the spaces underneath the massive wood benches. These spaces are perfect for little boys to crawl and hide away from their parents' eyes. They are small places where they can peek out on the world without being noticed. I hear little hands behind me. A boy is pulling himself up to peer over the bench at me.
Once this place was bustling, I'm sure. Many gates. Now they use just one.
It is quiet here. A man is talking on his cell phone--perhaps with someone who is right outside the station. "Why don't you come in here?" he asks. "It's probably a lot cooler in here than it is out there." He is wearing camoflauge shorts and a t-shirt with the arms cut off. He has a greying crew cut. He is absentmindedly jingling the keys in his pockets. His paunch sits on top of his thighs.
A woman hobbles by. She is wearing white platform flip-flops. Her toenails have been french manicured. It hurts her to walk, though she's not that old. Maybe 35? 40? No...she's older. 55 maybe. Her long, blond ponytail disguises her age.
The two are talking now. The train is late and they are both waiting for friends. She tells him that Union Pacific owns the tracks and Amtrak has to move out of the way if there is a UP train on the tracks. The toilets are backed up and there's a bad stench on the train. She knows this because the friend she is waiting for has called from a cellphone.
They begin talking about the recent shootings in Portland. The man is amazed that the shootings are downtown. He can guarantee they are over drugs. Innocent people can get hurt. He wants to buy a fifth wheel and move out to the desert with the coyotes. He says it "cay-oats." He also says, "shee-it."
He says he won't ride a Greyhound. I don't blame him. That damn exhausted dog on the side of every bus.
His laugh is high picthed like a maccaw. He says he quit smoking on April 12, 2002. He had to get the patch. 21 mg. 14 mg. 7 mg. He only had to take the 21 mg. patch and then he was quit. The patch stung his skin. He doesn't have the urges anymore. He hates the smell. But brags that if you buy the rolling tobacco you can save a lot of money. He went on a ten-day vacation with all his savings. Seventy-five dollars a month in a little kitty. He went to Crater Lake. He's spending this summer with his brother is Seattle. He hasn't seen his brother since his father died three years ago.
She keeps trying to butt in and say something, but he keeps piping up. Now he's talking about the Paul Allen Museum. He used to see Heart, Loverboy. Rush was the best concert he's ever seen in his whole life. He's seen REO Speedwagon and Santana in '76. He drank whisky and got loaded. Now that he's older he's amazed at what kids get in trouble for now. His trouble was getting drunk and playing chicken. Nowadays, the kids don't know how to have fun. They have fights, beatings, weapons.
A train is coming in from California. Only ticked passengers are allowed on the platform. The low rumble of the train and the bells clanging alert us all to its arrival. Everyone has gone outside to wait for it. The brakes are squealing. It takes so long for the train to fully stop.
People are flooding the station. They are wheeling bags behind them. A young girl stops to take off her sweatshirt. A blind woman is led by a golden retriever. The man in camoflauge shorts is still without his friend. He is pacing. The hobbling woman has dissapeared.
Against the side of the train the sun casts shadows of the people on the platform. The shadows move like squat, hunched versions of their other selves.
In the train station there are children. They are calling to each other like dogs in the night. They don't even know each other, I just realized, but one whines and then another calls back in response.
The great ceiling fans circulate. Are they whipping around to keep the air moving? Or to push the hot air down off the ceiling. Someone's feet smell. Not mine, I think. An old dot-matrix printer shrieks back and forth over a page. Tickets? Receipts for the day? A janitor comes by with a broom to brush the marble floors free of papers and dust. They miss the spaces underneath the massive wood benches. These spaces are perfect for little boys to crawl and hide away from their parents' eyes. They are small places where they can peek out on the world without being noticed. I hear little hands behind me. A boy is pulling himself up to peer over the bench at me.
Once this place was bustling, I'm sure. Many gates. Now they use just one.
It is quiet here. A man is talking on his cell phone--perhaps with someone who is right outside the station. "Why don't you come in here?" he asks. "It's probably a lot cooler in here than it is out there." He is wearing camoflauge shorts and a t-shirt with the arms cut off. He has a greying crew cut. He is absentmindedly jingling the keys in his pockets. His paunch sits on top of his thighs.
A woman hobbles by. She is wearing white platform flip-flops. Her toenails have been french manicured. It hurts her to walk, though she's not that old. Maybe 35? 40? No...she's older. 55 maybe. Her long, blond ponytail disguises her age.
The two are talking now. The train is late and they are both waiting for friends. She tells him that Union Pacific owns the tracks and Amtrak has to move out of the way if there is a UP train on the tracks. The toilets are backed up and there's a bad stench on the train. She knows this because the friend she is waiting for has called from a cellphone.
They begin talking about the recent shootings in Portland. The man is amazed that the shootings are downtown. He can guarantee they are over drugs. Innocent people can get hurt. He wants to buy a fifth wheel and move out to the desert with the coyotes. He says it "cay-oats." He also says, "shee-it."
He says he won't ride a Greyhound. I don't blame him. That damn exhausted dog on the side of every bus.
His laugh is high picthed like a maccaw. He says he quit smoking on April 12, 2002. He had to get the patch. 21 mg. 14 mg. 7 mg. He only had to take the 21 mg. patch and then he was quit. The patch stung his skin. He doesn't have the urges anymore. He hates the smell. But brags that if you buy the rolling tobacco you can save a lot of money. He went on a ten-day vacation with all his savings. Seventy-five dollars a month in a little kitty. He went to Crater Lake. He's spending this summer with his brother is Seattle. He hasn't seen his brother since his father died three years ago.
She keeps trying to butt in and say something, but he keeps piping up. Now he's talking about the Paul Allen Museum. He used to see Heart, Loverboy. Rush was the best concert he's ever seen in his whole life. He's seen REO Speedwagon and Santana in '76. He drank whisky and got loaded. Now that he's older he's amazed at what kids get in trouble for now. His trouble was getting drunk and playing chicken. Nowadays, the kids don't know how to have fun. They have fights, beatings, weapons.
A train is coming in from California. Only ticked passengers are allowed on the platform. The low rumble of the train and the bells clanging alert us all to its arrival. Everyone has gone outside to wait for it. The brakes are squealing. It takes so long for the train to fully stop.
People are flooding the station. They are wheeling bags behind them. A young girl stops to take off her sweatshirt. A blind woman is led by a golden retriever. The man in camoflauge shorts is still without his friend. He is pacing. The hobbling woman has dissapeared.
Against the side of the train the sun casts shadows of the people on the platform. The shadows move like squat, hunched versions of their other selves.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Sluts
We’re going on Burt’s boat today and you’re going…no ifs ands or buts about it, “she said.
I knew I would have to go, but I felt there was no reason I shouldn’t show my displeasure anyway. It was stupid. A whole Saturday wasted with some creepy old guy, my mom and dumb little brother.
“Well, can I at least go to Amy’s tonight? Will we be back in time for that, or are we gonna have to sleep out there too?”
She wasn’t listening to me anymore. “Go get your suit on and get a towel,” she said as she padded into the bathroom.
It was embarrassing realty, my mom dating. She was probably in there shaving her legs, or douching or something gross. Whatever women do to get ready for dates.
Burt. We had to spend the day with guy out of all the other losers. Burt was an old guy name. I had seen him once or twice at the neighborhood block parties and I guess he looked pretty normal, but Burt was a name for guys who wore white loafers with plaid polyester pants.
I picked up the phone and dialed Amy’s number.
Hi, Amy. Yeah…I can’t come over today.”
“Oh that’s too bad. Sara’s coming over at noon, and so are Brett and Joel.”
Crap! I was going to miss seeing Joel? Amy liked him, I knew it and now they were going to be together all day? I mean, I was prettier, but Amy was sluttier and guys like sluts. I bet they would be going out by the time I got back tonight.
“Well, yeah. My mom’s making me go out on some stupid boat with her boyfriend. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Burt pulled up in the driveway pulling his boat on a trailer behind his big maroon Oldsmobile. He got out of the car and walked toward our front door. He didn’t know I was spying on him. I wanted to see him pick his teeth or adjust himself or something, so I could prove he was exactly the loser I thought he was, but he just walked up to the door and rang the bell like any other guy.
“PamSteve!” my mother yelled when she heard the bell, and came rushing to answer the door. She ran into me still standing behind the window curtain.
“What are you doing? Go get ready!”
I started to walk up the stairs, her perfume in my nose. Ew. She had perfume on for Burt.
“Wait,” she called after me. “How do I look?” She was wearing preppy white shorts and bright white Keds. She kept them that way by throwing them in the wash with a cup of bleach every week. They always smelled like chlorine. She had long legs, that luckily I inherited, and they looked tan against her white clothes.
“You look good, I guess.”
I hated the men my mom dated. They were always ugly stupid men. Ron Laetner, that creep. He already had a live-in girlfriend who he wouldn’t marry but he was still after my mom. Most of the time she talked tough about him saying she wasn’t interested in a guy who wasn’t available but I knew she had her hopes up anyway. There were others too, Ben, who had a wife, and John whose wife had died but it was still weird because he was my science teacher in seventh grade.
I climbed into the back of Burt’s car and dug down in my bag for my walkman.
“Hi kids,” Burt said as he smiled wide at me and my brother. “This is going to be a fun day, huh?”
“Yeah!” shouted Stephen. I didn’t say anything. I just put my headphones on and turned up the volume. This day was gonna suck, but at least I could listen to INXS and dream about Joel.
There we were, swimming in Amy’s pool. It was night but the pool lights were on illuminating the surface from below. Amy and Sara and Brett were having a diving contest, but Joel was sitting with me…
No, no…
There we were up at Amy’s house and it was night, and Joel, Brett and Sara were there too. We decided to play hide-and-go-seek in the woods behind the house and Joel was it. I ran and hid behind a big tree. Joel found me first but didn’t want to go find the others. Instead he wanted to stay there with me.
“Brett is going to find Sara,” he said.
“What about Amy?”
“Who cares about her,” he said and then kissed me.
I daydreamed that one a couple of times over while staring out the window of the car. Stephen was kicking the back of mom’s seat and fiddling with the power window switches.
“Up. Down. Up. Down,” he said to himself.
Mom yelled, “Will you stop that, Stephen Edward!” and then she turned back to Burt, who you could tell was trying hard to ignore the fact that Stephen was likely leaving scuff marks all over the leather interior and sticky prints on the door. He was red-faced, but attempting to smile.
“So, Pam, your mom tells me you’re real good in school,” he said.
“I guess so.” What did he expect me to say?
“Well that’s good.” Mom smiled at him and then looked back across the seat at me.
“And she’s a real good swimmer too, right honey?” she said. “She’s even on the swim team.”
“Yeah. I swim the free and fly.”
“Well great! There will be plenty of water for swimming today,” he chuckled. He obviously didn’t get what I meant by swimming the fly. There’s no way you’d swim the fly in the middle of Lake Erie. I didn’t want to swim in Lake Erie anyway. The only swimming I wanted to do was in Amy’s pool.
We got to the marina and my mom, Steve and I stood on the dock as we watched Burt back the trailer with the boat down into the water. He was having a hard time angling the boat just right so that it wouldn’t hit the concrete berms on either side. Since it was July, I wondered why his boat wasn’t already in the water. It was clear he didn’t do this too much.
Finally he had the boat in the water and we all climbed in. My mom carried a cooler full of pop and sandwiches. I sat facing the rear and pretended to be interested in all the other boats. Stephen got into the seat next to Burt and watched him drive. We motored slowly out of the marina and into the open water and then Burt opened it up. He was trying to impress my mom by going as fast as he could and making sharp turns. Stephen was screaming and mom was hanging on to him tight. My hair was flying in my face, but I acted like I didn’t care and just sat there.
Burt anchored the boat a quarter mile off shore from what looked to be a sandy beach. Several other boats were nearby. They were mostly families out for the afternoon—dads drinking Millers from the can and moms watching their kids dive off the backs of the boats and splash around in the Lake.
Except one boat. There were four boys on the boat. Two of them looked older, like maybe in high school. And the other two looked like they were my age. No parents. They were doing cannonballs off the boat and yelling swear words as they hit the water.
“Douchebag!” Splash!
“Pud wacker!” Splash!
“Dickweed!” Splash!
Aw man, and they were cute too. One even looked a little like Joel. I couldn’t believe I was here with my mom and her ugly boyfriend and they were probably going to think he was my dad and see me over here and thing I was a dorky baby to be out here on a Saturday with my parents.
“Do you want an orange pop?” I looked around to see that Burt was holding his hand out, offering me an orange Shasta.
“No, no. I’m not…thirsty,” I said.
“Why don’t you go swimming, honey?” mom said. She was helping Stephen put on his arm floaties.
“No. I’m…cold. I’m going to go lay in the sun.” I heard her sigh. I don’t know what she expected from me. Did she want me to play happy family or something?
I spread my towel out on the flat bow of the boat and laid down on it, closing my eyes. I hoped those boys hadn’t seen me, and if they did, maybe they thought I was cute or something. Maybe I did see the blond one looking at me? Oh but then he would have seen my mom and Burt too, and my brother with diving mask and floaties jumping into the water and doggie paddling around.
I sucked my stomach in to make it look as flat as possible and propped my legs up so they didn’t look like fat sausages. I could hear mom and Burt at the back of the boat.
“I should really watch him swim. The water is deep here,” I heard her say.
“”Just come here. Nothing is going to happen.” Burt was whining.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the boys were not sitting on the side of the boat laughing and talking. Were they talking about me? I heard one of them say something like “purple,” and I had a bathing suit with purple stripes on it. I didn’t move. I didn’t want them to think I cared or noticed.
“Pam, come get a sandwich,” my mom yelled.” I heard the boys laughing. My mom was making me look stupid. I tried to ignore her, but she climbed up around the boat’s windshield to the bow and stood over me.
“Come get something to eat.” She was stern and wide-eyed.
I’m not hungry.” I closed my eyes again. She crouched down.
You’re being a little brat,” she said quietly through clenched teeth.
“I am not. I’m just laying here.”
“Exactly.” She gripped my wrist and yanked me up. “Now come and sit with us.”
Burt was tight-lipped and strained to keep a cheery note in his voice.
“Do you want baloney, or peanut-butter?” she asked me.
“Peanut-butter,” I mumbled, just as Stephen spilled Coke all over the floor of the boat.
“Goddamn it!” yelled Burt. He scrambled to grab a roll of paper towels before the pop soaked into the red indoor/outdoor carpeting. “This boat is practically new and it wasn’t cheap either!” he yelled at my mom.
“Here, let me do that,” mom said and got down on her hands and knees and took the paper towels from him. Burt stood up and walked to the front of the boat where Stephen and I were sitting. Stephen was crying. He clutched the remains of his soda in one hand and wiped his nose with the other. Burt glared at us and then looked back to watch my mother who was doing her best to mop up the mess.
I could see that maybe his boat wasn’t cheap, but he had hoped my mother would be and he had little use for the two kids she had towed along. So I stared straight at the back of his head, the whole time silently repeating over and over, you’re an ass, you’re an ass, hoping he would feel those words come out through my eyes and strike his heart.
.
“Let’s just go,” he said and hauled in the anchor.
Everyone was quiet the whole way home. Burt switched on the radio and listened to the Yankees and Red Sox game while mom stared out the window. Stephen was asleep; his head rolled forward and bobbed around with the bumps in the road. I bunched up my towel and wedged it in the corner next to him and then pushed him over so he would lean against it.
When we pulled into our driveway, I got out of the car and ran into the house without saying anything. I was hoping Amy and Sara would still be around, so I picked up the phone to call Amy’s house. I could hear my mom from the kitchen as I dialed.
“I can’t just leave my kids and go off with you Burt!” What was he still doing here? I hung up the phone. I hoped she wasn’t going to invite him to dinner. If that’s what she was doing, I wasn’t going to stick around.
“Come on, let’s just go out. Just the two of us. There’s no reason today should be ruined just because of your kids. They can take care of themselves. Let’s go out and have some fun.” Burt said.
“I think you should leave.”
I heard the door slam and Burt’s car start and pull out of the driveway. I tiptoed down the stairs and poked my head around the corner. Mom had the fridge open and was pouring herself a glass of white wine.
“I can see you,” she said, her back turned to me. I stepped out from behind the wall and sat down at the kitchen table.
“You were a real brat today,” she said.
“Sorry.” I could tell she was mad. I had ruined her date with one of the only unmarried men who had asked her out so far. I wondered if she was going to ground me.
She went to the freezer for an ice cube and dropped it into her glass. She sat down next to me and took a big sip.
“I’m not that mad at you.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I brought you guys along for a reason. I didn’t really want to be out there alone with him. I know you were just trying to protect me.”
“Ha. Yeah.” I stood up to go to my room. I really hadn’t been thinking of her at all. But she thought I had been. I couldn’t believe she was happy I ruined her date.
“Amy called and left a message. You should probably call her back.”
“Yeah. Well…mom?” She looked up at me,
“Maybe we can just all go out to dinner tonight? Just the three of us.”
“Sure,” she smiled.
I knew I would have to go, but I felt there was no reason I shouldn’t show my displeasure anyway. It was stupid. A whole Saturday wasted with some creepy old guy, my mom and dumb little brother.
“Well, can I at least go to Amy’s tonight? Will we be back in time for that, or are we gonna have to sleep out there too?”
She wasn’t listening to me anymore. “Go get your suit on and get a towel,” she said as she padded into the bathroom.
It was embarrassing realty, my mom dating. She was probably in there shaving her legs, or douching or something gross. Whatever women do to get ready for dates.
Burt. We had to spend the day with guy out of all the other losers. Burt was an old guy name. I had seen him once or twice at the neighborhood block parties and I guess he looked pretty normal, but Burt was a name for guys who wore white loafers with plaid polyester pants.
I picked up the phone and dialed Amy’s number.
Hi, Amy. Yeah…I can’t come over today.”
“Oh that’s too bad. Sara’s coming over at noon, and so are Brett and Joel.”
Crap! I was going to miss seeing Joel? Amy liked him, I knew it and now they were going to be together all day? I mean, I was prettier, but Amy was sluttier and guys like sluts. I bet they would be going out by the time I got back tonight.
“Well, yeah. My mom’s making me go out on some stupid boat with her boyfriend. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Burt pulled up in the driveway pulling his boat on a trailer behind his big maroon Oldsmobile. He got out of the car and walked toward our front door. He didn’t know I was spying on him. I wanted to see him pick his teeth or adjust himself or something, so I could prove he was exactly the loser I thought he was, but he just walked up to the door and rang the bell like any other guy.
“PamSteve!” my mother yelled when she heard the bell, and came rushing to answer the door. She ran into me still standing behind the window curtain.
“What are you doing? Go get ready!”
I started to walk up the stairs, her perfume in my nose. Ew. She had perfume on for Burt.
“Wait,” she called after me. “How do I look?” She was wearing preppy white shorts and bright white Keds. She kept them that way by throwing them in the wash with a cup of bleach every week. They always smelled like chlorine. She had long legs, that luckily I inherited, and they looked tan against her white clothes.
“You look good, I guess.”
I hated the men my mom dated. They were always ugly stupid men. Ron Laetner, that creep. He already had a live-in girlfriend who he wouldn’t marry but he was still after my mom. Most of the time she talked tough about him saying she wasn’t interested in a guy who wasn’t available but I knew she had her hopes up anyway. There were others too, Ben, who had a wife, and John whose wife had died but it was still weird because he was my science teacher in seventh grade.
I climbed into the back of Burt’s car and dug down in my bag for my walkman.
“Hi kids,” Burt said as he smiled wide at me and my brother. “This is going to be a fun day, huh?”
“Yeah!” shouted Stephen. I didn’t say anything. I just put my headphones on and turned up the volume. This day was gonna suck, but at least I could listen to INXS and dream about Joel.
There we were, swimming in Amy’s pool. It was night but the pool lights were on illuminating the surface from below. Amy and Sara and Brett were having a diving contest, but Joel was sitting with me…
No, no…
There we were up at Amy’s house and it was night, and Joel, Brett and Sara were there too. We decided to play hide-and-go-seek in the woods behind the house and Joel was it. I ran and hid behind a big tree. Joel found me first but didn’t want to go find the others. Instead he wanted to stay there with me.
“Brett is going to find Sara,” he said.
“What about Amy?”
“Who cares about her,” he said and then kissed me.
I daydreamed that one a couple of times over while staring out the window of the car. Stephen was kicking the back of mom’s seat and fiddling with the power window switches.
“Up. Down. Up. Down,” he said to himself.
Mom yelled, “Will you stop that, Stephen Edward!” and then she turned back to Burt, who you could tell was trying hard to ignore the fact that Stephen was likely leaving scuff marks all over the leather interior and sticky prints on the door. He was red-faced, but attempting to smile.
“So, Pam, your mom tells me you’re real good in school,” he said.
“I guess so.” What did he expect me to say?
“Well that’s good.” Mom smiled at him and then looked back across the seat at me.
“And she’s a real good swimmer too, right honey?” she said. “She’s even on the swim team.”
“Yeah. I swim the free and fly.”
“Well great! There will be plenty of water for swimming today,” he chuckled. He obviously didn’t get what I meant by swimming the fly. There’s no way you’d swim the fly in the middle of Lake Erie. I didn’t want to swim in Lake Erie anyway. The only swimming I wanted to do was in Amy’s pool.
We got to the marina and my mom, Steve and I stood on the dock as we watched Burt back the trailer with the boat down into the water. He was having a hard time angling the boat just right so that it wouldn’t hit the concrete berms on either side. Since it was July, I wondered why his boat wasn’t already in the water. It was clear he didn’t do this too much.
Finally he had the boat in the water and we all climbed in. My mom carried a cooler full of pop and sandwiches. I sat facing the rear and pretended to be interested in all the other boats. Stephen got into the seat next to Burt and watched him drive. We motored slowly out of the marina and into the open water and then Burt opened it up. He was trying to impress my mom by going as fast as he could and making sharp turns. Stephen was screaming and mom was hanging on to him tight. My hair was flying in my face, but I acted like I didn’t care and just sat there.
Burt anchored the boat a quarter mile off shore from what looked to be a sandy beach. Several other boats were nearby. They were mostly families out for the afternoon—dads drinking Millers from the can and moms watching their kids dive off the backs of the boats and splash around in the Lake.
Except one boat. There were four boys on the boat. Two of them looked older, like maybe in high school. And the other two looked like they were my age. No parents. They were doing cannonballs off the boat and yelling swear words as they hit the water.
“Douchebag!” Splash!
“Pud wacker!” Splash!
“Dickweed!” Splash!
Aw man, and they were cute too. One even looked a little like Joel. I couldn’t believe I was here with my mom and her ugly boyfriend and they were probably going to think he was my dad and see me over here and thing I was a dorky baby to be out here on a Saturday with my parents.
“Do you want an orange pop?” I looked around to see that Burt was holding his hand out, offering me an orange Shasta.
“No, no. I’m not…thirsty,” I said.
“Why don’t you go swimming, honey?” mom said. She was helping Stephen put on his arm floaties.
“No. I’m…cold. I’m going to go lay in the sun.” I heard her sigh. I don’t know what she expected from me. Did she want me to play happy family or something?
I spread my towel out on the flat bow of the boat and laid down on it, closing my eyes. I hoped those boys hadn’t seen me, and if they did, maybe they thought I was cute or something. Maybe I did see the blond one looking at me? Oh but then he would have seen my mom and Burt too, and my brother with diving mask and floaties jumping into the water and doggie paddling around.
I sucked my stomach in to make it look as flat as possible and propped my legs up so they didn’t look like fat sausages. I could hear mom and Burt at the back of the boat.
“I should really watch him swim. The water is deep here,” I heard her say.
“”Just come here. Nothing is going to happen.” Burt was whining.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the boys were not sitting on the side of the boat laughing and talking. Were they talking about me? I heard one of them say something like “purple,” and I had a bathing suit with purple stripes on it. I didn’t move. I didn’t want them to think I cared or noticed.
“Pam, come get a sandwich,” my mom yelled.” I heard the boys laughing. My mom was making me look stupid. I tried to ignore her, but she climbed up around the boat’s windshield to the bow and stood over me.
“Come get something to eat.” She was stern and wide-eyed.
I’m not hungry.” I closed my eyes again. She crouched down.
You’re being a little brat,” she said quietly through clenched teeth.
“I am not. I’m just laying here.”
“Exactly.” She gripped my wrist and yanked me up. “Now come and sit with us.”
Burt was tight-lipped and strained to keep a cheery note in his voice.
“Do you want baloney, or peanut-butter?” she asked me.
“Peanut-butter,” I mumbled, just as Stephen spilled Coke all over the floor of the boat.
“Goddamn it!” yelled Burt. He scrambled to grab a roll of paper towels before the pop soaked into the red indoor/outdoor carpeting. “This boat is practically new and it wasn’t cheap either!” he yelled at my mom.
“Here, let me do that,” mom said and got down on her hands and knees and took the paper towels from him. Burt stood up and walked to the front of the boat where Stephen and I were sitting. Stephen was crying. He clutched the remains of his soda in one hand and wiped his nose with the other. Burt glared at us and then looked back to watch my mother who was doing her best to mop up the mess.
I could see that maybe his boat wasn’t cheap, but he had hoped my mother would be and he had little use for the two kids she had towed along. So I stared straight at the back of his head, the whole time silently repeating over and over, you’re an ass, you’re an ass, hoping he would feel those words come out through my eyes and strike his heart.
.
“Let’s just go,” he said and hauled in the anchor.
Everyone was quiet the whole way home. Burt switched on the radio and listened to the Yankees and Red Sox game while mom stared out the window. Stephen was asleep; his head rolled forward and bobbed around with the bumps in the road. I bunched up my towel and wedged it in the corner next to him and then pushed him over so he would lean against it.
When we pulled into our driveway, I got out of the car and ran into the house without saying anything. I was hoping Amy and Sara would still be around, so I picked up the phone to call Amy’s house. I could hear my mom from the kitchen as I dialed.
“I can’t just leave my kids and go off with you Burt!” What was he still doing here? I hung up the phone. I hoped she wasn’t going to invite him to dinner. If that’s what she was doing, I wasn’t going to stick around.
“Come on, let’s just go out. Just the two of us. There’s no reason today should be ruined just because of your kids. They can take care of themselves. Let’s go out and have some fun.” Burt said.
“I think you should leave.”
I heard the door slam and Burt’s car start and pull out of the driveway. I tiptoed down the stairs and poked my head around the corner. Mom had the fridge open and was pouring herself a glass of white wine.
“I can see you,” she said, her back turned to me. I stepped out from behind the wall and sat down at the kitchen table.
“You were a real brat today,” she said.
“Sorry.” I could tell she was mad. I had ruined her date with one of the only unmarried men who had asked her out so far. I wondered if she was going to ground me.
She went to the freezer for an ice cube and dropped it into her glass. She sat down next to me and took a big sip.
“I’m not that mad at you.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I brought you guys along for a reason. I didn’t really want to be out there alone with him. I know you were just trying to protect me.”
“Ha. Yeah.” I stood up to go to my room. I really hadn’t been thinking of her at all. But she thought I had been. I couldn’t believe she was happy I ruined her date.
“Amy called and left a message. You should probably call her back.”
“Yeah. Well…mom?” She looked up at me,
“Maybe we can just all go out to dinner tonight? Just the three of us.”
“Sure,” she smiled.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Discovery
She climbed once
to the pulpit
to be tempted by the devil.
On her way
she saw small signs
that said don't go.
A tree bent low to the ground.
It loved the earth,
a momma's boy.
And great ravens overhead
calling at her,
perhaps mocking her
from their black bellies.
She rose past them
with sweaty palms.
She was amazed her feet
knew how to caress every rock
into supporting her.
to the pulpit
to be tempted by the devil.
On her way
she saw small signs
that said don't go.
A tree bent low to the ground.
It loved the earth,
a momma's boy.
And great ravens overhead
calling at her,
perhaps mocking her
from their black bellies.
She rose past them
with sweaty palms.
She was amazed her feet
knew how to caress every rock
into supporting her.
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