I don't think that's the right answer" he paused and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Think about your patterns - about your past."
He was right, of course. Why is it that people outside of your life - not central to it in any doing kind of way - can see the patterns you are so diligently trying to hide from yourself? I looked back on my life.
Unhappy in a relationship? Marry the guy! It's easier (HA!) than breaking it off.
Unhappy in your marriage? Why grad school, a new house, a new job, a baby or two or three is just the ticket!!
Unhappy after your divorce? With your next relationship? Buy a house! because your permanance and insanity will solve the relationhip issue.
Unhappy again? Move! Don't want to move? Buy a puppy!
Unhappy in your job? Get a new one!
Wait. That last bit actually makes sense - but only if I'm unhappy because of the job not the relationships within it.
I thought for a moment.
It's the relationship, damn it.
I sighed and looked at him. He'd taken his glasses of and was cleaning them. They caught the sunlight just right and the room glowed with rainbow light. He grinned in recognition of my awareness "You're learning" he said, "you're learning."
Sunday, April 20, 2008
9 Ball, Corner Pocket
His hair hung over his face and his voice was so soft that if you hadn't been listening you would have missed his call. Cue lined up, push! Crack, thunder moving down the table - plonk. The nine slid into the corner pocket. He straightened, shook his head and satisfaction flew across his face.
He was a loner, a stranger to this town. She'd never seen him before. Another call, another shot, another plonk and one by one the balls fell just as he told them to. A crowd grew to watch the magic. Stella constantly delivering beers and nachos kept her eyes on the kid. He looked like a kid although she was sure that 'lanzo had checked his ID at the door.
The kid pocketed the modest fiver that he'd won by clearing the table as Cake, the best player in the county, ponied up a $20 and the magic started again.
This time the kid broke, sending the first ball into a pocket - stripes. Once again, without scratching or missing a beat the kid cleared the table. Cake, a big barrel of a man, picked up his twenty and handed it to the kid. "Double-er - nuttin? And I break?" he asked. The kid nodded and cake took the table racking the balls. The silence gave Stella a chance to study the kid under the guise of asking him what he wanted to drink.
He was tall - thin. Thin as a rail her grandma would have said. A shock of blond hair fell over his forehead and obscured his face. He had long narrow hands - piano players fingers, that held the cue carefully even as he slouched awaiting his turn. "Dew" he answered her query and shook his head at the offer of food.
___________________________
Often times he would go sit by the Minnesota River and throw rocks into the water for hours on end. Looking at him you wouldn't be able to tell whether he was sober or stoned - homeless or not - old or young. Well, that part wasn't really true. He was young, but he was older than he looked and that, when he thought about it, was what counted.
Today was a rare sunny March day. The wind was pushing the winter remnants of trash in swirls around the parking lot as he walked toward the river. He'd spent some of the money he'd won the previous day on food, a pack of cigarettes and a large bottle of Mountain Dew.
He reached the river and squatted on the bank. He nestled himself between the forked roots of a large cottonwood tree. The river, like time, rushed by. He paid it no attention.
As the sun set he grew aware of the stiffness in his body and the cool air gave him a chill. He didn't know where he went when his mind took off like that, but he was always thankful for his return. He stood, stretching, wondering about the time. He was hungry, so it had been awhile, but he hadn't moved, so he was pretty sure it hadn't been days.
He ran his hand through his hair, dirty, and across his face, stubbly, although he was so fair that he looked to be too young to shave.
_________________________________
He awoke in a cold sweat. It was the same dream and it always scared him. The thing was, with his eyes open he could never remember it. No matter how many times he planned to remember it coaching himself to keep his eyes closed, to keep still until it came back to him - he always jerked awake; heart pounding eyes flying open involuntarily. He'd grip the edge of his bedroll, orienting himself back to his body.
Afterwards - after his eyes opened - they would be no returning to sleep and he always knew that the dream heralded a call to move on. He'd been waiting for it. He'd been in the small town for the past three weeks. Longer than usual and many folks had started to recognize him and they had begun to seem familiar to him.
The only one he thought he'd miss was the girl in the bar. Stella her name tag had read. After his first night there she'd made a point of keeping his Mountain Dew filled and his ashtray empty. He'd never spoken to her, except that first day when he'd asked for a dew, but her quiet care taking had reminded him of his mother and he'd gone back to that bar. Not every night, but often enough to know her work hours.
He packed his things without fanfare, his movements small, tidy, borne of repetition. His long fingers pushing his few possessions into his pack. He headed south, toward the railroad yards at the edge of town. He'd check there for a lift first before walking to the truck stop at the highway. He preferred trains. The rolling sway was hypnotizing like the river current, but the slowing or stopping of the train almost always brought him back. And it was easier to figure out where he was if he'd been gone on a train.
Trucks were how he'd ended up in Southern' Minnesota in March. He'd gotten to Chicago by train, but the rail yards were too well secured; patrolled by dogs he couldn't find to befriend; and so he'd gotten a ride with a trucker in February. It was early March before he'd figured out where he was. Trains, yep, trains were easier.
He was a loner, a stranger to this town. She'd never seen him before. Another call, another shot, another plonk and one by one the balls fell just as he told them to. A crowd grew to watch the magic. Stella constantly delivering beers and nachos kept her eyes on the kid. He looked like a kid although she was sure that 'lanzo had checked his ID at the door.
The kid pocketed the modest fiver that he'd won by clearing the table as Cake, the best player in the county, ponied up a $20 and the magic started again.
This time the kid broke, sending the first ball into a pocket - stripes. Once again, without scratching or missing a beat the kid cleared the table. Cake, a big barrel of a man, picked up his twenty and handed it to the kid. "Double-er - nuttin? And I break?" he asked. The kid nodded and cake took the table racking the balls. The silence gave Stella a chance to study the kid under the guise of asking him what he wanted to drink.
He was tall - thin. Thin as a rail her grandma would have said. A shock of blond hair fell over his forehead and obscured his face. He had long narrow hands - piano players fingers, that held the cue carefully even as he slouched awaiting his turn. "Dew" he answered her query and shook his head at the offer of food.
___________________________
Often times he would go sit by the Minnesota River and throw rocks into the water for hours on end. Looking at him you wouldn't be able to tell whether he was sober or stoned - homeless or not - old or young. Well, that part wasn't really true. He was young, but he was older than he looked and that, when he thought about it, was what counted.
Today was a rare sunny March day. The wind was pushing the winter remnants of trash in swirls around the parking lot as he walked toward the river. He'd spent some of the money he'd won the previous day on food, a pack of cigarettes and a large bottle of Mountain Dew.
He reached the river and squatted on the bank. He nestled himself between the forked roots of a large cottonwood tree. The river, like time, rushed by. He paid it no attention.
As the sun set he grew aware of the stiffness in his body and the cool air gave him a chill. He didn't know where he went when his mind took off like that, but he was always thankful for his return. He stood, stretching, wondering about the time. He was hungry, so it had been awhile, but he hadn't moved, so he was pretty sure it hadn't been days.
He ran his hand through his hair, dirty, and across his face, stubbly, although he was so fair that he looked to be too young to shave.
_________________________________
He awoke in a cold sweat. It was the same dream and it always scared him. The thing was, with his eyes open he could never remember it. No matter how many times he planned to remember it coaching himself to keep his eyes closed, to keep still until it came back to him - he always jerked awake; heart pounding eyes flying open involuntarily. He'd grip the edge of his bedroll, orienting himself back to his body.
Afterwards - after his eyes opened - they would be no returning to sleep and he always knew that the dream heralded a call to move on. He'd been waiting for it. He'd been in the small town for the past three weeks. Longer than usual and many folks had started to recognize him and they had begun to seem familiar to him.
The only one he thought he'd miss was the girl in the bar. Stella her name tag had read. After his first night there she'd made a point of keeping his Mountain Dew filled and his ashtray empty. He'd never spoken to her, except that first day when he'd asked for a dew, but her quiet care taking had reminded him of his mother and he'd gone back to that bar. Not every night, but often enough to know her work hours.
He packed his things without fanfare, his movements small, tidy, borne of repetition. His long fingers pushing his few possessions into his pack. He headed south, toward the railroad yards at the edge of town. He'd check there for a lift first before walking to the truck stop at the highway. He preferred trains. The rolling sway was hypnotizing like the river current, but the slowing or stopping of the train almost always brought him back. And it was easier to figure out where he was if he'd been gone on a train.
Trucks were how he'd ended up in Southern' Minnesota in March. He'd gotten to Chicago by train, but the rail yards were too well secured; patrolled by dogs he couldn't find to befriend; and so he'd gotten a ride with a trucker in February. It was early March before he'd figured out where he was. Trains, yep, trains were easier.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Cold Air, Blue Sky.
Cold air, blue sky. My own slice of heaven. Lying on my bed with the air conditioner blowing full blast across my body, I kept my eyes on the patch of blue sky that I could see through the sky light.
I felt my body sink into the firmness of my bed. My mind drifted but my eyes fixed hard on the patch of blue.
It had been raining and grey for so long. And it was so hot and humid that the windows sweated and fogged even if they were sheltered from the pouring rain. For a time, stranded in my house by the rising water of the creek, I'd felt like Noah. A check of the calendar, a flick of the wrist on the 'net and I was immediately assured hat it had been four not 40 days. Still..... Blue sky.
Some time later I awoke. The patch of blue had given way to black and I could see the moon playing hide and seek among misty clouds. I shrugged into my robe and stepped out onto the deck. Steamy. Humid and steamy. The grass in my back yard seemed to have grown a foot in the past four days. Mowing would be on the list for tomorrow, I thought, and prayed for a cool breezy afternoon. The sweat that formed on my skin, though, didn't cool me even at this late hour and I knew my wish was denied. Sighing, I stepped back into my sanctuary and shut the door against the oppressive heat.
Orange juice and eggs later, I switched on the TV. Predictably, it was all about the weather - absurd temperatures and high humidity - better than 70% - bathed the continent. More rain was coming. So much water.
Since the ice caps melted drought had not been a problem. Flooding though, particularly on the coast and in the lower lying central plains, had been fatal for more people and domestic animals than even Al Gore had foreseen....
I felt my body sink into the firmness of my bed. My mind drifted but my eyes fixed hard on the patch of blue.
It had been raining and grey for so long. And it was so hot and humid that the windows sweated and fogged even if they were sheltered from the pouring rain. For a time, stranded in my house by the rising water of the creek, I'd felt like Noah. A check of the calendar, a flick of the wrist on the 'net and I was immediately assured hat it had been four not 40 days. Still..... Blue sky.
Some time later I awoke. The patch of blue had given way to black and I could see the moon playing hide and seek among misty clouds. I shrugged into my robe and stepped out onto the deck. Steamy. Humid and steamy. The grass in my back yard seemed to have grown a foot in the past four days. Mowing would be on the list for tomorrow, I thought, and prayed for a cool breezy afternoon. The sweat that formed on my skin, though, didn't cool me even at this late hour and I knew my wish was denied. Sighing, I stepped back into my sanctuary and shut the door against the oppressive heat.
Orange juice and eggs later, I switched on the TV. Predictably, it was all about the weather - absurd temperatures and high humidity - better than 70% - bathed the continent. More rain was coming. So much water.
Since the ice caps melted drought had not been a problem. Flooding though, particularly on the coast and in the lower lying central plains, had been fatal for more people and domestic animals than even Al Gore had foreseen....
His soul died....
He chopped the onions and held back tears. He'd blame them on the onions if they broke forth while Mary was around. The usual breakfast ritual had become so ingrained - so accustomed to it that without thinking, he'd come down to the kitchen, opened the garden door and started pulling out the food until... he remembered.
A week. Had it only been a week? He stopped chopping and rested his hip against her stool. He slumped into his memory.
The dogs playing in the garden. Zoey chasing them out the door and down the path to the chicken coop. Returning with fresh eggs ready for omelet making. A typical Saturday morning. Since she was an infant Saturday breakfasts had been their job. She had, early on, become an omelet connoisseur. In fact, he smiled at the memory, the chickens had been her idea " 'Cause then, Dad, we can always have really fresh eggs for our omelets!"
Together they had researched chickens and egg laying. Learning how to get a permit to raise them here in town. Even at 8 Zoey had been able to talk anyone into anything. They had gone to their neighbors and he had listened as she convinced them to sigh the permit application she'd printed in her best third grade penmanship.
So last Saturday she'd brought the eggs in and, for the first time ever, she sat down on the overstuffed chair on the porch rather than coming in and taking up her perch on the stool. He'd checked on her and found her pale, running a temperature. He'd given her a blanket and finished the omelets on his own. When he returned with steaming plates, she was asleep but something wasn't right. He sat with her a moment before going to the phone.
"Mary? It's Jeff. Zoey's sick. Can you come with us to Urgent Care?"
Mary, his sister, was the closest thing to a mom that Zoey had ever had.
By the time she arrived, Zoey was unresponsive, he'd bundled her up in a blanket and was standing at the street Zoey limp in his arms. Mary took one look at his face and stomped on the gas - skipping Urgent Care and going straight to the Emergency Room.
The rest of the morning was a blur... but even now - even as a memory - he could still feel his soul slipping with Zoey's as though down a drain. And then, when they came to tell him, he knew and he felt as though his soul had died.
A week. Had it only been a week? He stopped chopping and rested his hip against her stool. He slumped into his memory.
The dogs playing in the garden. Zoey chasing them out the door and down the path to the chicken coop. Returning with fresh eggs ready for omelet making. A typical Saturday morning. Since she was an infant Saturday breakfasts had been their job. She had, early on, become an omelet connoisseur. In fact, he smiled at the memory, the chickens had been her idea " 'Cause then, Dad, we can always have really fresh eggs for our omelets!"
Together they had researched chickens and egg laying. Learning how to get a permit to raise them here in town. Even at 8 Zoey had been able to talk anyone into anything. They had gone to their neighbors and he had listened as she convinced them to sigh the permit application she'd printed in her best third grade penmanship.
So last Saturday she'd brought the eggs in and, for the first time ever, she sat down on the overstuffed chair on the porch rather than coming in and taking up her perch on the stool. He'd checked on her and found her pale, running a temperature. He'd given her a blanket and finished the omelets on his own. When he returned with steaming plates, she was asleep but something wasn't right. He sat with her a moment before going to the phone.
"Mary? It's Jeff. Zoey's sick. Can you come with us to Urgent Care?"
Mary, his sister, was the closest thing to a mom that Zoey had ever had.
By the time she arrived, Zoey was unresponsive, he'd bundled her up in a blanket and was standing at the street Zoey limp in his arms. Mary took one look at his face and stomped on the gas - skipping Urgent Care and going straight to the Emergency Room.
The rest of the morning was a blur... but even now - even as a memory - he could still feel his soul slipping with Zoey's as though down a drain. And then, when they came to tell him, he knew and he felt as though his soul had died.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Sometimes
Sometimes in the morning
I lie awake
listening
to the dawn
rustling the covers
arousing the birds.
I smell the night air
Still rich with our scent
Feel the warmth
of your breath
on my cheek and the
weight
of your limbs
entwined with mine
I employ the
newness of my
senses before
their exposure to the sun
tarnishes them
and renders me
worn and jaded
to the dark
of the night
again.
I lie awake
listening
to the dawn
rustling the covers
arousing the birds.
I smell the night air
Still rich with our scent
Feel the warmth
of your breath
on my cheek and the
weight
of your limbs
entwined with mine
I employ the
newness of my
senses before
their exposure to the sun
tarnishes them
and renders me
worn and jaded
to the dark
of the night
again.
Train Ride
The last thing she wanted to do was get on that train, but she had no choice-it was the only way to get back home, and she DID want to go home. Still, she hesitated. Bookie and Wolf started yelling at her as the train jerked to life
"C'mon! If yer comin!!"
"Here we go!!"
"C'mon!"
She came to life with the sound of their voices and she realized they were slipping away down the track.
"COMING!!" she yelled suddenly wanting with all her might to be on that train.
The train was gaining speed and she ran along beside to catch up to the open door.
Bookie stuck his big black hand out and she grabbed it after slinging her kit into the darkness behind him.
"On 3" he called "1 - 2 - 3 - JUMP!" and she complied flying into the boxcar like a fish reeled in by an exuberant boy.
"Queenie," he said " I didn't think you would make it girl. Good 'un." He flashed a smile at her as Wolf struck a match and lit his hand rolled cigarette. The match eliminated his face - the darkness of his beard over shot with his oddly yellow eyes. It was his eyes that gave him his name - that and his silence.
Wolf and Bookie had been riding the rails for close to 30 years. They'd taken her under their protection when she'd been brought to the hobo camp by a dealer. Queenie they called her because her years as a scoliosis survivor had given her a ram-rod straight back. That was the only regal thing about her. Still, they had noticed and the accepted and protected her. A single woman on her own in their world was either an addict or a camp whore and she was neither. She was a college kid who had slipped out of her life - abducted by the lure of anonymity and perceived independence of life outside of the box.
Queenie settled back against her burlap bag of belongings. She curled her hand around the bottle Bookie passed her, took a swallow and began to sing. Wolf closed his eyes and Bookie smiled as she sang them through the darkness and into the dawns light.
By noon the next day they were in Iowa. She could feel the fall cold sneaking in underneath her as they pushed northward.
She nudged Bookie with her foot and he opened one eye. "Soon" she said. He sat up stretching a bit and looked at her "You sure, girl?"
Queenie nodded and then smiled - lighting her eyes with her certainty.
"Good, you're sure." he said catching her excitement "Okay, just remember to roll."
The train slowed as it entered Ames and when she saw the campus rail sign she crouched by the door. Then she was flying through the air. She hit the ground hard and her wind left her as she fell and rolled as Bookie had told her. As her breath came back it took a minute for her to realize that she'd stopped - that it was the train that carried the motion forward while she laid still. She lifted her head and waved at Bookie watching her from his perch in the boxcar now picking up speed on its way out of Ames.
Queenie stood and picked up her burlap bag. She shook out her hair and brushed the grass off of her soiled jeans. She turned toward campus and Queenie became Jera as she stepped back into her college student life.
"C'mon! If yer comin!!"
"Here we go!!"
"C'mon!"
She came to life with the sound of their voices and she realized they were slipping away down the track.
"COMING!!" she yelled suddenly wanting with all her might to be on that train.
The train was gaining speed and she ran along beside to catch up to the open door.
Bookie stuck his big black hand out and she grabbed it after slinging her kit into the darkness behind him.
"On 3" he called "1 - 2 - 3 - JUMP!" and she complied flying into the boxcar like a fish reeled in by an exuberant boy.
"Queenie," he said " I didn't think you would make it girl. Good 'un." He flashed a smile at her as Wolf struck a match and lit his hand rolled cigarette. The match eliminated his face - the darkness of his beard over shot with his oddly yellow eyes. It was his eyes that gave him his name - that and his silence.
Wolf and Bookie had been riding the rails for close to 30 years. They'd taken her under their protection when she'd been brought to the hobo camp by a dealer. Queenie they called her because her years as a scoliosis survivor had given her a ram-rod straight back. That was the only regal thing about her. Still, they had noticed and the accepted and protected her. A single woman on her own in their world was either an addict or a camp whore and she was neither. She was a college kid who had slipped out of her life - abducted by the lure of anonymity and perceived independence of life outside of the box.
Queenie settled back against her burlap bag of belongings. She curled her hand around the bottle Bookie passed her, took a swallow and began to sing. Wolf closed his eyes and Bookie smiled as she sang them through the darkness and into the dawns light.
By noon the next day they were in Iowa. She could feel the fall cold sneaking in underneath her as they pushed northward.
She nudged Bookie with her foot and he opened one eye. "Soon" she said. He sat up stretching a bit and looked at her "You sure, girl?"
Queenie nodded and then smiled - lighting her eyes with her certainty.
"Good, you're sure." he said catching her excitement "Okay, just remember to roll."
The train slowed as it entered Ames and when she saw the campus rail sign she crouched by the door. Then she was flying through the air. She hit the ground hard and her wind left her as she fell and rolled as Bookie had told her. As her breath came back it took a minute for her to realize that she'd stopped - that it was the train that carried the motion forward while she laid still. She lifted her head and waved at Bookie watching her from his perch in the boxcar now picking up speed on its way out of Ames.
Queenie stood and picked up her burlap bag. She shook out her hair and brushed the grass off of her soiled jeans. She turned toward campus and Queenie became Jera as she stepped back into her college student life.
Grief
The card had been mailed 12 years ago and had I received it then, things would have been so different. I opened it. The paper - air mail paper thin as onion skin - was brown with age and crackled beneath my finger tips.
Dear Jen,
I got your card yesterday. My darling, I miss you, too. Call the embassy when you get this and we'll work out the distance issue. We can be together always.
All my love,
Allen
Tears tracked slowly down my face. I'd written him telling him I loved him--that I couldn't go back to just friends, that I would give up my teaching job if he'd have me in Gambia. But, if that wasn't what he wanted, to let me go - to let me continue my life with out him in peace.
I'd waited a month after I thought he'd have gotten my card. Then another month. I don't remember eating during that time, but I do remember not breathing every time I opened the mail box. Day-after-day. Nothing.
So I'd gone on being single. Being me. Living with mom, taking over the house when she died. Teaching at the elementary school I'd attended as a child. Solitary life. Not a wife.
At 42 I no longer held my breath when I checked the mail. I'd long since stopped expecting a reply - just as I'd long since stopped living - just existing.
Dear Jen,
I got your card yesterday. My darling, I miss you, too. Call the embassy when you get this and we'll work out the distance issue. We can be together always.
All my love,
Allen
Tears tracked slowly down my face. I'd written him telling him I loved him--that I couldn't go back to just friends, that I would give up my teaching job if he'd have me in Gambia. But, if that wasn't what he wanted, to let me go - to let me continue my life with out him in peace.
I'd waited a month after I thought he'd have gotten my card. Then another month. I don't remember eating during that time, but I do remember not breathing every time I opened the mail box. Day-after-day. Nothing.
So I'd gone on being single. Being me. Living with mom, taking over the house when she died. Teaching at the elementary school I'd attended as a child. Solitary life. Not a wife.
At 42 I no longer held my breath when I checked the mail. I'd long since stopped expecting a reply - just as I'd long since stopped living - just existing.
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