Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again. Emil M. Cioran (b. 1911), Rumanian–born French philosopher. "Strangled Thoughts," sct. 2, The New Gods (1969, trans. 1974).
CONTENTS Something About a Train Wreck and a Long-Kept Secret Fault Lines Late Again Window You’ve Seen Their Faces Memorabilia Early Morning Dreams Next to Godliness Rat Ebb Tide The Din Neurosis The Sequel “Emptiness Filled with Insistence” My Armadillo Almost a Man Under Fire: Eleven 66-Word Flashes The Ends Justify the Means Her Way Days Before an Incident
5 6 8 9 10 12 13 15 18 21 22 23 26 29 31 32 33 35 37 40
Something About a Train Wreck and a LongKept Secret When decorated soldier Captain Colter Stevens wakes up in the body of an unknown man, he discovers he's part of a mission to find the bomber of a Chicago commuter train and the murderer of a curator at the Louvre. In an assignment unlike any he's ever known, he learns he's part of a sinister government secret that has been protected since the days of Christ, a program that enables him to cross over into another man's identity in the last 8 minutes of his life. With a second, much larger target threatening to kill millions in downtown Chicago, the granddaughter of one of the victims and Robert Langdon, a famed symbologist, help Colter re-live the incident over and over again, gathering clues each time becoming both suspects and detectives, until they can all claim the resolution of the mystery of who is behind the bombs, the murder in the museum, and the stunning secret of the ages, and also prevent the next attack. This mash-up is filled with mind-befuddling twists and a modicum of suspense, but not nearly so many as in the books, which ended every chapter in cliff-hangers that did not transfer smoothly into the screen version. Still, if you’ve got four and a half hours to spare, you may enjoy the popcorn, and the French woman looks lovely, though not so charming as she did in the movie that originally attracted our attention--the one with all the bright Dick Tracy primary colors.
Fault Lines Ana showed me a light blue bruise on her left arm, and told me a student who burst through a door had accidently whammed her a few days earlier. “It looked worse yesterday,” she said, “So I guess it’s getting better.” I had just shared a smoke with one of the young women down visiting from Monterrey Campus, the one who still bore scar lines on her forearms from when she used to cut herself, the same student who used to leave me love notes folded into their own enveloping little rectangles. Those notes would alternately praise my dynamics and complain about the sameness of the assignments I handed out. Ana, who had had Terese in her class the semester before I did, had asked me to go easy on her. “Trouble at home that’s beyond our fixing,” she said. As I noted her mending bruise, I was reminded how student problems become teacher problems, as much for the unregarded teachers of English as for the truly dedicated and variously commended individuals who taught the important subjects. Terese, who now smoked because her fiancé did, had told me she was soon to step into a high-paying position in the Office of International Relations, and had come back to the Chiapas Campus to pick up some needed papers. She also asked if I would write a letter of recommendation. The constancia seemed like overkill as she had already obtained the job she was seeking. When I mentioned that I had not seen her younger sister in some time, she told me Paulina was studying in Germany for a year, and would return to get her diploma after a couple of ultimate classes. Both such plain-looking girls, they would never have to worry about their appearances as they matured into women because they came from an oldmoneyed family. Her fiancé would never worry either. His name was Angel, and Terese referred to him as mi angelito, but if truth be told, it appeared they were role playing. The thin brown hairlines on her arm were always in evidence, and I assumed she did not think about them much. Ana is a beautiful woman, voluptuous in a way that does not come off like working at it. Paler-skinned in parts usually covered by sleeves, her ten-peso sized blue spot almost looked sexy. Her one fault is the tendency to share bits of gossip, and an intermittent directness that sometimes reverberates beyond its worth. “You’ve been smoking,” she said. “Did you see Terese out back? I know she always liked you.” “As a matter of fact, I did,” I admitted. There are times I enjoy winning, and too often I have felt I could not live up to her prior term mothering. “They won’t last. I see them divorcing after maybe two years.” She was a good winner, but a terrible loser, and it was only in such situations she might crack
wise or snap back unthinking, but I am not beyond parrying a foul shot, and replied, “I hope your arm feels better by the weekend.” Our roles are now reversed once again. I used to work for her, although I never completed my tasks in a timely manner, assuming privilege of previous leadership, subconsciously or otherwise, and lately she had been responding in kind. She admitted she did not care much for my assistant, a position that had been created when I was asked to return to the post after five years among the drones. “It’s nothing.” She brushed it off. “If your young Romeo waltzes by Terese, she and her angelito might not even make it to the altar. He’s a charmer, that one.” I was going to ask if that door had hit her head instead of her arm, but there was her blueness doubtlessly declaring her rectitude. I was having issues of my own with young Romeo, and recalling a teacher who had been sent packing after a little too much congeniality with female students, but they were issues I had decided not to discuss with my beautiful ex-boss. I was not even certain they existed or whether I had imagined them into being. I was still smarting over being told I would have an assistant to help me through problems that had once repositioned me. I thought I had overcome them while droning. “Well,” Ana said, “I’d better be off. I have tons of papers to grade.” “Take care,” I said as she headed towards the back court. She would be going to her car, and I knew she would check to see if our visitors were still hanging around. If she stopped to chat with them, it was a certainty there would be some nervous sleeve-tugging occurring.
This one was revised slightly and sent to Robert Morschel (Mulled Vine):
Late Again by Michael D. Brown “Damn you, Mort,” my father often said, “You’re late again. I believe you’re gonna be late for your own funeral.” And so it was. Flying into JFK, it was ten to eight, and I knew yet again I wasn’t going to be on time. Fortunately, fifteen minutes after hitting the ground, I was already in the back of a limo heading into the city, and kept trying to cross my fingers but could not manage to do so. I hoped I would not be horrendously at fault in keeping everyone waiting. All through the ride, I kept justifying, convincing myself that there had been several last minute details and anyone in my situation would be grateful for the opportunity to have them taken care of. When I got to the place, in a totally unfamiliar neighborhood by the way, everyone was milling around looking pie-eyed as if needing to blame their discomfort on someone, anyone, and I really did not want that someone to be me. Not this time. I purposely brushed against the little table with the book on it, causing the book to fall, pages riffling, to the parqueted floor, and while everyone was distracted by that unexpected occurrence, I drifted to the front of the room and slipped into the rosewood box, took one last whiff of the abundance of fragrant floral arrangements, though no longer able to smell anything, and closed my eyes, expecting to hear the first sobs emanating from my cousin Zoe, who did not disappoint. “Oh, God,” she murmured, “I can’t believe we were talking on the phone just two weeks ago.” I was more than gratified when her mother, my Aunt Mae, proclaimed how wonderful the mortician had made me look, “As if he were just lying there sleeping.”—my peaceful repose only slightly marred by the sight of my dearly departed father hovering above me, shaking his head.
bio: Michael, who is, by day, the Coordinator of Languages at a prestigious school in southern Mexico, uses whatever free time he can find in the evenings and on weekends to manage MuDJoB at http://www.mudjob.blogspot.mx/ where he posts his own writing and the work of many other fine writers.
Window Glad to catch you. Saw you were on-line, but was finishing up some business. Noticed my battery was dying and thought I’d let you know I’m almost home. Did you change your nickname? I thought you were Blackbird. You caught me off-guard. Just for this trip. A joke my boss told me. Offguard, you sound tired. I’ve been writing all morning. She seemed to be rubbing her earlobe as if it hurt. Then he saw she was displaying a new pair of earrings. Those are nice. You like? Was thinking of you when I bought them. What time are you arriving? I’ll pick you up at the airport. Should be there in about hour and a half. He just had time to type: See you then…, before her face disappeared and he was advised: You may not get a response to your message. Gal_goes_into_a_bar@hotmail.com appears to be offline. He closed her window. Then he closed the other window without saying goodbye, zipped up his pants and went to have a cigarette before taking a shower.
You’ve Seen Their Faces Erskine had scolded her once before for artfully arranging objects around a poverty stricken woman before taking what she meant to be a telling photograph, and at the time Margaret was taken aback by his remarks, thinking that was what an artist did to make art. Found art was a new wrinkle to her, now that she was involved in photo-journalism. When the moment was right in recognizing irony, there could be no argument as to manipulation. They were now ostensibly committed to documentation which was not to be regarded as propaganda. Still, she did not remind him of his former stance when it came to putting words into the mouths of her subjects. Erskine was a writer after all. Still riding high on the success of the theatrical version of his Tobacco Road, there was no stopping him. He believed he had found the true sound of America. It was not long before she joined him in contriving voices to caption her pictures. She had her own celebrity to maintain, and if he could profit by bringing attention to the plight and proclivities of poor, illiterate dirt farmers, who was she to say he was wrong? Though it rankled that he had once implied that what she did was false, now that he claimed the same actions taken upon text were merely enhancement, she began to see his point of view, and sought opportunities with a vengeance. They had gone to Louisville to take pictures of the flood victims, and on that cold winter day in 1937 when they happened upon a breadline of average looking
people standing under a billboard featuring a white middle-class family taking to the road in their sporty new automobile, she saw irony in the juxtaposition of the row of black faces underneath and the bags and baskets these people carried. The caption on the sign negated the need for either Margaret herself or Erskine to come up with something though she believed he would want to anyway. Always ready with her flashbulbs in place, she caught the scene, and for a brief moment felt she had trumped her husband because, truth to tell, without the caption in place there was nothing so remarkable about the people standing there save for the difference in the color of their skin from the shiny white faces gleaming above. Without the words the irony merely stemmed from a racist attitude she had always stated she could not abide. Later, when their book met with criticism even from the redoubtable Dorothea Lange, Margaret was crushed. It was as if the critics had seen through the veneer. Having forgotten what raced through her mind that dreary morning in Louisville, she had taken a great liking to that one particular photo and forever after kept it in mind when she attempted to exonerate herself of contrivance of any kind. But take a look, and after you have seen the faces, ask yourself, "Where is the irony?" What is the biggest difference between the people at ground level and those above, besides the fact that one group is standing and the other riding? Without their baskets in hand, you might not even guess for what the former were waiting, though a little knowledge of history reminds you they had to wait for it for another thirty years.
Erskine Caldwell moved to Maine in 1926 where he began writing for various journals including the New Masses and the Yale Review. He also published several novels but it was not until Tobacco Road (1932), a novel about the plight of poor sharecroppers, that critics began to take notice of his work. Dramatized by Jack Kirkland in 1933, it made American theatre history when it ran for over seven years on Broadway. His next novel, God's Little Acre (1933) was also about poor whites living in the rural South. Both novels dealt with social injustice and many people objected to the impression it gave of America. When the New York Society for the Prevention of Vice tried to stop God's Little Acre from being sold, Caldwell took the case to court and with the testimony of critics such as H. L. Mencken and Sherwood Anderson, won his case. In 1936 Caldwell met and married the photographer, Margaret Bourke-White. They collaborated on four books, including You Have Seen Their Faces (1937), a documentary account of impoverished living conditions in the South. The book was later criticized for its left-wing bias and upset whites in the Deep South with its passionate attack on racism. Carl Mydans of Life Magazine later said that: "Margaret Bourke-White's social awareness was clear and obvious. All the editors at the magazine were aware of her commitment to social causes."
Memorabilia … I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather— Well, I forget the rest. from Memorabilia by Robert Browning I am tired of having to prove my qualification over and again. Yet, once more I proffer a shaky promise to investigate possibilities and make good on my investment. A stray dog looked at us with sad appearing, mournful eyes as if making commentary on the choosing of our path, as if to say she had tread that way, and losing her pups, discovered it led to no place anyone would want to reside. Memory is the mother of all fire. The further removed it is from the spark, the brighter it burns, but briefly, for without feeding afresh, the flames are diminished, then, and sputter, dying. A friend suggested to me, “If you’re so unhappy there, why don’t you go home?” I did not respond with either of the thoughts running through my mind, the first being that home no longer existed, and the other that I stood tenuously in the middle of a track that had not run its course. Soon enough, however, the downed flag came into view. Try as I might, I could not produce the transcript, based as it was on a fallacious scenario. What had taken years, many years, to build had been constructed with faulty materials, and when the contract was requested for review, by an independent auditor, the edifice began to tremble. I had always known it would, but never when. All those tremors were signs I should have heeded, coming as I did from a place where the ground is solid and hardly ever causes worry. Still, I lingered over finding a solution, and was distracted by bright hues and melodious rhythms, often coming up a winner, forgetting joy and defeat may resonate as briefly as the memory of fire. On the return trip, I noted an eviscerated dog’s corpse scattered in pieces across the road. The overall impression was one of dull red, no longer the color of blood, and I wondered for a moment if it was the same sentry who had warned us at the start of our journey. I leave you all now to play the game as best you may. I have a friend to help me find my way, and so, we head to Paris and another life I never led. This time, this place, ignite something onto which I can and will hold. It is late, and I am tired, as I have stated, but the beauty here is that the realization will come when it no longer has consequences over which I must be concerned.
Early Morning Dreams Dreams are today's answers to tomorrow's questions. --Edgar Cayce The radio's alarm is set for 5:30 A.M. which is about when the sun rises at this time of year, but almost every morning I wake a half-hour before sunrise and have to pee. This prompts the cat, who is sleeping on top of the blanket and whenever I get up she thinks it is time for her to eat. Sometimes I feed her after taking care of my business but the problem there is after she eats she always has to take care of her business and all I want to do is go pee and slip back into bed for another half hour. If the cat uses her litter box, the smell wafts in and keeps me awake. Plus, as clean as she is about herself, there is something unsavory about her coming back into bed with me after that and nuzzling right up near my face. The gray light coming in the window induces the strangest half-dreams. There's never enough time to get into the REM stage so I'm not sure the scenarios that play out truly qualify as dreams. I guess it's more like wishful thinking. Some of my best ideas come during that half hour before sunrise and then, when I finally get out of bed and start to get ready for work, I test their logicality. Much of the time the plots are full of holes and only seemed to make sense through the haze of sleep, but the kernel is there, and it's usually fixable. Now, I think all fiction is based on the writer's life. When writers say, "Oh, this has never happened to me. I made this all up. Why do you think it’s called fiction?" I say, "It's called fiction so you can express your desire to make things happen the way you want them to and then step back and deny any actual involvement in the situation. The main character is gay because you are or because you've thought about what it would be like to be. The same goes for choosing to write about murderers or spies or any other preoccupation or persuasion." Dreams that occur during the night, real dreams, hardly ever stand up to analysis because we have so little say in their plots. That's why they are so open to interpretation. Our subconscious minds are trying to tell us something. We are trying to work out issues we may not have even thought we had. But the little stories that play on the back of our eyelids during that half hour before sunrise-they're the ones to watch out for. Consciousness has had most of the input. Catholic children learn that thinking about committing a sin makes one as culpable as actually doing the deed, and you don't want to see the white light at this stage because it just may be your time and you haven't had a chance to brush
your teeth or comb your hair. Fortunately, you have had a chance to pee before going on the long journey, but it will be of little consolation if you're not coming back. So, as you have a little say in the theatrics of that early morning hour, make it count. Read up on lucid dreaming before going to bed, ponder an alternate life and fly if you feel like doing so. Don’t worry about the absence of a net or the strength of cables. You won’t need them. But try not to disturb the cat.
Next to Godliness True knowledge exists in knowing that you know nothing. --Socrates Only after the winds finally died down did I realize winter had passed into spring. I no longer notice buds and birdsong. Or I do, but not in the expectant ways I used to. My interest in Eastern studies tells me I am supposed to, but then that interest is a holdover from our time together, and I am no longer certain of its attraction. I am grateful that neither of us were comfortable with the concept of making children as I would now be stumbling around in the debris of another halffinished project, having to answer for my incapability with no one else to blame, and it’s not as if I have role models to go by. On a windless day, I recalled my mother punishing me in a supermarket once for having bit into unbought apples. At first I was mortified in front of two strangers. Then, having put on my best feel-sorry-for-me face, letting tears well without spilling, and expecting at least a tut-tut from one of them, I was doubly disappointed to hear her say, “Children!” in a tone that I knew sided with my mother, while the other woman busied herself with choosing ripe and unbitten apples from the pile in an all too obvious manner. I suppose you were likewise expressing disappointment on that day late in January when you told me you thought it best to remain with your wife, but you waited so long to come to the decision, I wondered if it was a half-assed attempt at a New Year’s resolution, and I had nothing at home to console me other than papers from the office to review and half a bottle of brandy left over from Christmas that would provide a poor stand-in for dinner. Insanity is doing the same thing in the same way and expecting a different outcome. --Chinese proverb Life continues on the ninth floor as if nothing has changed, and truly, for many nothing has. We sit in our tiny cubicles, personalized only to the point allowed by discretion, which means no more than three vacation photos, and no more than five family members preferably contained within two shots, and a small to-do list that is noticed by those authorized to delegate tasks. Good sense tells the singles not to pin up pictures of significant others in order to avoid having to make up stories when those others become insignificant. The marrieds lunch together as they share common problems over which to commiserate. The singles disperse and for forty minutes they are only reachable on their Blackberries, if there is ever
any need to do so. Lately, I have been “lunching” at McCann’s alone, and losing my religion in pretty much my own fashion. Why I keep returning to the office expecting major changes have occurred during my absence is beyond me, but I fortify myself every afternoon for such an occasion, looking at happier days in the privacy of my wallet, and for only minutes at a time. I never could commit to hanging photos on my board. The great question is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with failure. --Chinese proverb Thirty clean executive-types, including twelve women, eating yogurt or salad for lunch, or practicing tai-chi, watched four dirty youths, one of whom was a girl wearing torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, beat up what appeared to be a homeless man, also dirty and in need of a shave, who repeatedly called out, “Ayudenme, por favor,” though none of the thirty seemed to be able to break their concentration long enough to go to his aid even as he sat in a crumpled heap rubbing his bruises, and attempting to stop his nose from bleeding while the kids ran off laughing, having taken nothing from him but apparently enjoying the sheer maliciousness of the mayhem they had committed. Admittedly, any of the people on their break might have caused problems for themselves in returning late to work because of the recent sanctions against extended lunch hours during a bad economy. The reputation of a thousand years may be determined by the conduct of one hour. --Japanese proverb Thirsty, very thirsty, I made six trips to the cooler, but there did not seem to be enough water in the world to quench my inquietude. Why this day of all days, when I thought I had learned to live my solitary life without feeling concern over the lack of friendly pats on the back or elbow nudges, I could not say at first, but as the afternoon wore on, I became certain it was due to hearing the talk about the man in the park and the tone of the story as it was told at the cooler. I wanted to shout. I wanted to hit somebody and knock the amusement out of them, but I had not been witness to the incident, sitting in McCann’s as I was, and staring at my useless cell phone. I was looking for that feng shui application called Portable Happy Placement, but could not find it. As the sun climbed high in the sky banishing the winter winds, I was sitting under a dusty fan in a darkened bar letting unvented anger fester, knowing I had letters to respond to upon my return to the office and building up a strong grudge against those more than likely happy recipients, clients and customers, who are always right.
In the midst of great joy, do not promise anyone anything. In the midst of great anger, do not answer anyone’s letter. --Chinese proverb In my after lunch haze, I stared at what was essentially a blank white screen, but I could have sworn I saw the pixels dancing. Been listening to too much REM after salad-dinners and evening beverages, and taking courage from Michael Stipe’s slashing of the air with lyrics that give no quarter. When shit flies your way, you have nothing to do but duck, scoop up the droppings, and fling a good load back at the source of your disgruntlement. It is unfortunate when innocent bystanders get smeared, but the sounds of laughter I could discern reminded me bystanders are not always innocent. Cleanliness of body and spirit is a virtue, to be sure, but on this passionless spring day I felt about as far from godliness as one can possibly get and still find reasons to proceed with the task at hand. In a haste to cleanse myself, and more likely to preserve the job providing my livelihood, I pulled out my wallet, took one last look at our smiling faces, then, began tearing my anger into insignificance.
Rat "It sounds mercenary and it smacks of rats leaving the sinking ship. But get real, when everyone is bailing out, you don't want to be the last man standing. " --Robbie Fowler
I was so tired that Saturday the rat came to stay. It was hot. I was living in southern Mexico, well into my second life. I had had to go into school early to apply an exam that had been postponed from the week before. Only nine people showed up but I tried to assure myself that it is never a wasted trip (all the way across town) so long as somebody is there for the learning or the testing. When I finally arrived home, after spending three hours at Plaza Crystal, I took a shower, opened my laptop and put the chronological CD I had compiled of pop MP3s from The Chordettes beseeching Mr. Sandman through Air Supply confirming I'm All Out of Love on the player. I lay on the studio bed to close my eyes for just a bit before starting to grade the pile of papers which had backed up on me, and promptly drifted off into some other time frame. I slept through the ‘Fifties and awoke to Ray Charles. In my dream, I attended a Broadway show for which I had won tickets, lotterystyle, and had an argument with my brother who died in Vietnam. I was at a party and just about to meet my future ex-wife when Ray Charles reminded me to, “Hit the Road, Jack.” I got up to take a pee and discovered the water was low and I had to turn on the bomb, but was reluctant to go out back of the house because it was already dark, and I’d had trouble with rats lately. There was half a bottle of warm Coke on the table, and an opened pack of cigarettes. I tried to convince myself they would be enough until morning even if I did get up and work a while. It was 9: 30. I had slept for almost five hours. I never drink water from the tap here in this place, but if I wanted to wash my hands or even flush the toilet, I’d have to go out back and it would be later and visitors would be more likely. So I set my resolve and went downstairs.
I didn’t see anything moving, but I wasn’t convinced that something hadn’t slipped past me and I would discover the plastic bread wrapper chewed and a corner of the loaf missing in the morning. I put the Coke in the little fridge to chill some of the warm out of it and went back upstairs, figuring if something furry began investigating in my kitchen I wouldn’t hear it under the music. Now Skeeter Davis was asking if they didn't know this was The End of the World. I wondered how I could have slept for so many hours and woke up still in the ‘Sixties. Then thought I had spent far too many nights downloading old songs. I reckoned the CD could play for another couple of hours and it wouldn’t take me up to the time I had decided to move to Chiapas. It wouldn’t even take me to the time Alma and I split up. That much was by artful design. I never recorded those songs. She had always told me she hated her life in Mexico. I could see why almost upon meeting her for the first time. She was sophisticated, an art lover, a business major who had trained herself to speak perfect English. In those days, I had never even vacationed here and from her poverty-laced stories thought I probably never would. Who could have seen that I would one day be sharing a house with a guy in Tuxtla Gutierrez? A guy who’s never around. Who has a full social life and plenty to do, and all those stories of deprivation, though ostensibly true had proven to have extenuating circumstances. I had left the bomb working a little too long and only realized it when during a pause in the string of memories I heard water gurgling outside in the street, meaning the tank on the roof had overflowed and the excess was running off. So I had to go down to the damp, dank yard once again to pull the plug. By this time Johnny Cash was falling, “…down, down, down into a burning ring of fire.” I paused and smiled when I realized I must have been entering college then. Another couple of hours and I’d be dropping out to go work in the paper making factory. What a time I had there in Brooklyn, in those disco-inundated nights and sweaty, underpaid days, working hard to get nowhere and listening to sage advice from old, overweight George Sklar, who would shortly die of a heart attack while eating one of his wife’s greasy burgers. I didn’t even know I had a mission in those days, but I did store George’s philosophy in snatches of my favorite songs. The daylight songs, of course, the ones we heard from the tinny little radio in the lunchroom. You couldn’t associate anything meaningful with what I was listening to at night. That music was created for a different purpose. I still didn’t see anything moving when I re-entered the kitchen and locked the back door, but as I said, I take a lot of convincing, and so hurried back upstairs. My housemate is a 39 year-old Tuxtleco who, though he pays half the rent on the house, still lives, to all intents and purposes, at home with mom and dad. That’s the way of things here in Mexico. I sometimes think, boy, you haven’t seen
anything of the world. You’re settling for this life, and for better or worse, I made my own choice. Several women have drifted through these days, mostly friends of his friends, but none of them with Alma’s drive. I graded papers for about an hour and a half until a rash of Beatles’ songs reminded me that Alma would soon be walking into my life and the music would end. I was getting hungry, and thought I’d have a peanut butter sandwich and finish off that Coke. However, when I went down and reached for the bread, I noticed it had already been got at. There was a sizeable chunk missing. I didn’t feel like opening another can of beans, so I took the jar of peanut butter, a spoon and the soda and headed back upstairs. I closed my bedroom door. It was warm in the room and I knew the fan would not cool it off sufficiently even with the window opened. But the Coke was cool now, and I’d go back to sleep soon. I had another CD to plop onto the player. The late ‘Nineties were bearable. I could deal with the rat in the morning.
Ebb Tide Great waves of sadness that came in with the tide now with it return to the sea. No joy comes in their place; only the waves’ reflux. There is emptiness now where sadness dwelt. A cavernous shell of a soul longs for sadness to return. It was something at least. I will not speak of God. This emptiness is unbearable, whereas the sadness could be borne. In pain, one felt alive. Empty, one feels nothing, perhaps the greater pain. If only the ebb tide could be grasped as it flows, if one could be pulled along with it to a new place— doubtless a place of pain, but one that could be learned. Days passed and the feeling was learned, was absorbed through the roots until the soul said, "Yes, this I can live with." Fate said then, "You will not. For everything that comes must leave. It is a way of learning. Take nothing for granted except: that which you accept will be taken." The wind dies and the water recedes. It laps the shore as if it will rise, but it is only a tease. On each return it only approaches nearly as close but recedes further and further. Here is a secret. The water will return in full but it will not be the same. It will be from parts somewhere vastly different. It may bring sorrow, but it will be a new kind of sorrow of a different provenance. Or it may bring joy, but again, it will not be the joy that preceded yesterday's. Can one ever be ready for what the waves bring? A wag said, "If you want to make God laugh, just make plans." The tide of happenstance is God's joke. I vowed I would not mention Him, but had to because I wanted to get to the angels. In the eerie silence of ebb tide before the wind picks up, if you listen intently, you can hear the murmur of angels. They have an inkling of God's intentions, but they are not allowed to speak unless they are called as messengers, and that happens so rarely; hardly ever anymore, in a world waiting to be called to judgment. Be reminded: when the tide is high, life will be rich with emotion, sadness, joy, fulfillment or loss, but in the interim we cannot know what to expect, we can only wait and see. If you go alone to a beach at the edge of the world and sit long gazing toward the sea, and even if you can hear the slightest murmuring of the angels when the tide is at ebb, you will never be prepared for what may come in with the waves tomorrow
The Din The television volume was on high, at least 25. “But, Evelyn, you sleep all the time!” “Only to avoid the draft from the swinging door.” “Sweetie,…” “Don’t touch me. There’s no quickie sex here. No on-again-off-again, got-fifteenminutes-between-meetings, try-to-keep-her-quiet sex here. Get it from someone else, but, you get it—I go, and the gravy train ends.” The gigolo undone. Almost the story of my life, Theresa thought. “Bull shit. Bull shit,” kept ringing in her ears. Her own words from two hours earlier. From across the courtyard, the discordant sound of one of the Mexican pop songs being rehearsed by the as yet unprofessional neighbor’s band came to layer itself over Evelyn’s retribution on the television. Theresa sat watching a tiny bodied, long-legged spider weaving its web in the corner where the windowed wall met the bare one. What a waste of time, she thought, as she could also see the little gecko who would soon make dinner of the spider, only a short distance away. “Bull shit. Bull shit,” still reverberating. Through the window, with its makeshift curtain tied back, which was on an angle to the living room, she could see Armando’s leg dangling from the couch. He was oblivious to Evelyn’s melodrama. She didn’t know it then, but he had stopped breathing fifteen minutes earlier. She would be told that he had died of alcoholic poisoning by a relative a week later over the telephone. She thought for tonight she would rather not sleep here and went upstairs to pack a little bag. She would check into the Sheraton near the plaza. In the morning, she would purchase a one-way ticket back to New York on the last of her Mexican pesos. With her overnighter in hand, she clicked off the television. On her way out, she noticed Armando was not snoring, but her thoughts turned in another direction as the raucous neighbors finished rehearsing and the sound of crickets filled the courtyard.
Neurosis So, I’m sitting in a chair at the end table at Angie’s party because I smoke and most of the others do not and I ask my friend Bill to change seats with me so I can sit next to Elly and speak with her about what is bothering her. Earlier in the day, between classes, she had told me she was troubled, very troubled, about something, and I suggested we could discuss it at Angie’s. When we engage, the first thing I have to mention is how beautiful she looks with her longer hair, but that I can see by the way she keeps pulling and twisting it, it is obvious she plans to have it cut short again. She nods and thanks me for the compliment before we get into her problem. It seems one of the students who do social service for their scholarship, and with whom she has previously worked has been unilaterally assigned by my young assistant to work with Inez, a teacher with whom Elly used to feel much closer, but has lately grown away from. The reasons for their separation are various, but chief among them is that since Elly stepped down from the post I was promoted into, she sees intrigue everywhere, and she is not totally off in this because I can feel it, too. The group of English teachers who formed a close faction, Mexicans who learned the language and native speakers from the United States alike, in earlier days, are now aligning themselves with whomever they sense can do the most to help them preserve their jobs. This means several who used to consider themselves close friends are now wary of each other, and watch what they say in most situations. I, myself, inherited twenty-five year-old Alberto, fresh out of university, in a position that did not exist before, and am always aware of his eagerness to get ahead at any cost. Most of the other teachers have found him difficult to like, and it was in an attempt to exert authority that he wholeheartedly took on the job of assigning students as helpers. I had had a moment with him over this when he told me of the two students he had placed with me, and I reassigned them, choosing my own favorites, most likely out of sheer cussedness and not liking an underling to be telling me how my job would go. Anyway, Elly and I clear up the student issue. She tells me she no longer wants the girl to work with her, and I am guessing for the same reasons I had in changing my “two assigned helpers.” “I don’t like Alberto,” she says, “He takes too much for granted.” “Well, you know,” I say, “I never wanted this job. I wanted you to stay on as coordinator,” and she is already shaking her head, indicating that that would have been impossible, “And I find it hard to get along with him also. Try sitting in the same office with someone like that for several hours a day.”
“I understand there is a lot to do,” she says, “You know that’s why I stepped down, but this kid is too much. You need to tell him where to get off.” I don’t say to her that I don’t appreciate her issuing directives. I am concentrating on how her long dark hair falls on her shoulders. “Ramon,” that’s our Director, “told me you never let him do anything,” she says. While I am trying to figure out why she is giving me two opposing points of view, she goes on to explain, “I’m just saying you also need to watch who you trust. I know you get along with Ramon, but the kid is also sucking up to him, and you may be asked to allow Alberto a freer hand in spite of his pushiness. Did you know a group of them,” and she emphasizes the word clearly indicating they are in the enemy camp, “went out together, and had such a great time, that Ramon’s wife had to talk about it on FaceBook?” Then before she has time to go into more detail, or I can ask another question, Angie comes by and draws her away to introduce her to a friend visiting from Austria. Now, all sorts of things are going through my mind. I have to realize that Elly is suffering sour grapes over the bad move, which she initiated, but which did not turn out to her advantage when her Master’s scholarship was discontinued, but I think, too, there must be some truth in what she has told me. I recall the triangular meeting among Ramon, Alberto, and myself when the big boss expressed dissatisfaction over the way the two of us were not getting along, and at that time he told Alberto that I was the superior in charge and that due to my many years of experience in teaching at the school, he must follow my lead. He was not to sign letters as the representative of the department; he was not to make decisions on his own about how things should be handled, and so forth. I believed then that my authority was without question, and had since been giving him more and more chores to handle in an effort to make it clear that so long as he played the game correctly, he could be trusted. This belief, too, is now in question. Later, snagging a ride home with Bill, I complain about the situation and tell him I am thinking of handing in notice. “Stop acting like a diva,” he says to me, “Knowing what’s going on gives you an advantage. Don’t act stupid.” “But, I don’t know,” I say, “Someone is lying to me, and I don’t know who. I didn’t leave the rat race in New York to come down here and spend seven years playing at teaching only to find I’m in the same game.” “Who do you think is lying?” he asks. “If Ramon is placating me by telling Alberto to stay in line, and then hanging out with the kid, where all sorts of deals can occur, he’s lying to me. If Alberto is ostensibly watching his step, and then taking things too far when given the odd task, he’s being false, and quietly continuing to attempt a backstabbing, and…” “And? something worse?”
“And if none of this is happening this way, then my old friend Elly, who by the way is looking very good these days, is lying about what she claims to have been told. I don’t even want to think I can’t trust her.” “Have you checked FaceBook?” Bill asks, and I can almost swear there is a smile forming on his lips. “Yes. I signed in on my Blackberry. That’s another thing. How come I saw your name on one of the response comments?” “I ran into that group of jimopes at Zapata’s. I just said hello and kept going, but I’m not burning any bridges the way you seem to be planning to do. This guy’s a kid for chrissake. He’ll get in too deep, and hang himself one of these days.” “Yeah, but I’m getting too old for this shit. I don’t want to wait out the time it’ll take for that to happen. If it ever does. And just knowing there’s all this intrigue going on makes me want to crawl in a hole and die.” “Pfft. Pussy,” he says. “By the way, Elly—she’s no great shakes, for all her good looks. Crazy as a hatter, and a bit neurotic. You’re not missing anything there.” “You mean, you two…?” And then I do see a full smile when he says, “Give me one of your cigarettes, will you? I’ve been good all night, and I’m dying for a smoke.”
The Sequel Russell Crowe, walking on deck, meets a woman dressed in the flouncy skirts of Colonial times. He too is dressed in a costume of the past, the outfit he wore in Master and Commander which took place during the Napoleonic Wars and had nothing to do with Colonial America. It suddenly dawns on him he must be in a sequel to that film, or Hollywood’s version of a sequel, which doesn’t always adhere to the conceits of the original story. A consummate actor up to any challenge, he steps into character and asks the woman, whom he does not recognize, but nonetheless admires for her lack of artifice, if he may help her in any way. She responds in the negative, thanks him for the uneventful crossing, and says she did not experience the mal de mer customary on long voyages. Russell tips his tricorner, says, “At your service, ma’am,” and walks aft. A moment later he recalls there were no women on board in the first film, but figures it will make a nice piece of acting if he turns to quietly survey this attractive female. However, when he pivots, she is nowhere to be seen. There is only the empty deck. Perhaps she was a mirage, the scriptwriter’s way of letting the audience know although the ship is filled with solitary males, at least the captain still has manly desires. If that’s what it was, Russell applauds the unobtrusive effect. His reverie is disturbed by the voice of a deckhand coming from one of the portals. It is Chris Rock who says without humor, “Captain, New York is in sight. Shall we prepare to dock and go ashore?” “Eh?” he responds, thinking that like several comedians before him, Rock must have taken a serious role like this to get his shot at a supporting Oscar. “Why certainly.” Chris makes a gesture at tipping his hat while saying, “Yes sir,” but bareheaded, his action only parallels Russell’s of a few minutes earlier. Nice comic touch, he thinks. Everything cyclical but subtle. Soon all the men are on deck but the focus is on Russell behind the man steering. Through his eyes we see the low skyline of Olde New York coming into view. Though impressively reconstructed, he’s thinking, this is not how the story goes. He cannot remember how the script develops, and doesn’t recall this scene from the O’Brian books, but not wanting to appear difficult or incompetent, he remains in character and displays a look he hopes expresses longing, or better – knowing anticipation.
Blunt cut to the men disembarking. Many are meandering off to discover the place, but a carriage is waiting for Russell and his firstmate, who has no lines. Maturin is not around, must have gone to research the flora and fauna. Chris Rock puts the captain’s things on top of the carriage along with a little bundle which is his own then climbs up to sit next to the driver. He glances back to see the leather bags and his little red kerchief-tied bundle. These things make their own statement through juxtaposition. Our attention is soon diverted by the authenticity of the town, appearing more real than Scorcese’s Gangs of New York but oddly, though not disconcertingly, anachronistic for the time period we thought we were in. This is New York of perhaps 1870. Playing fast and loose with history, the designers have gone through great pains to make everything look authentic albeit for another story. The carriage approaches a square. Chris notices a statue he assumes to be a pilgrim and remembers in the present day a statue of George Washington stands there. “Oh my, will you look at that,” he says aloud. However, as the carriage rounds the statue it disappears so only the plinth remains visible, as if the carriage’s movement has brought everyone a little further back in time before there was a monument to either. The streets of the town are festooned for a coming or recent celebration. There are garlands of flowers strung from building to building. But people in top hats and tails are going about their work as if festivity were the furthest thing from their minds. In a window of one of the wooden buildings we see the face of the woman Russell had met on the ship. She looks sad. The hint of a smile as she eyes the passing carriage tells us she is hoping for release from a desperate situation. These men from elsewhere may be her salvation. Inside the carriage we see Russell, the face of stoicism. He’s hoping someone will arrive to cue him on his next lines. It is strange indeed no one has called, “Cut,” in a long time, but grown weary of being known as difficult he will not be the one to break the mood. Cut to the interior of an old building. Chris and a friend, whom we hadn’t seen before, are waiting outside an office where the captain has gone to speak to someone. On the door is a placard with the name B. Luhrman. Chris says to his friend, “I think this other door leads to the roof. I’m going to see how the place looks from above.” The other man says, “Better be careful not to change anything. You know how altering the past can affect the future.” Chris looks at him as if to ask, “What are you talking about?” then shrugs and proceeds through the door. Alone in the hallway, the man fidgets and paces. Now is when the viewer begins to question the sanity of everyone involved in this piece. We, like him, feel on the
outside of knowing. If things are to proceed any further, an explanation has to come from someone, before the fourth wall fully materializes At that moment, Russell comes out of the office. “Where is he?” he asks. “Sir,” the man sputters, “Captain, sir, he went through that door to have a look from the roof.” “Oh my god! He shouldn’t have..” “I told him, sir, to be careful. I told him he could affect history. I said…” “Stop gibbering, man. That’s not the problem,” Russell says, “We haven’t gone back in time.” “Sir?” “It’s just been made clear to me we’re in a sequel occurring in an alternate universe. I don’t think there’s any way out.” Suddenly, Luhrman announces from behind his door, “That’s right captain and remember my advice regarding sunscreen,” followed by the voice of a castrato singing something unfathomable offstage.
“Emptiness Filled with Insistence� This afternoon, I was reading a biography of Gertrude Stein, and when I came to a section that told about her brother Leo, the critic and art collector, my mind started to wander and I recalled my odd relationship with Sally Leonard. Five years ago I was intimidated by Sally. Well, I respected her superior intellect. She was almost ready to retire then. I think she told me she was fifty-eight, a psychiatrist, and a member of the American Philatelic Society and at that time I think her stamp collection numbered in the 60,000s. The way I met her was by talking to the doorman and mentioning having just renewed my interest in stamp collecting, something I had done as a kid. He told me someone in the building was also a collector and he would give her my apartment number if I wanted. I told him go ahead, why not, I wanted to meet other people who were into it. That evening, she rang my bell. I invited her in and we talked for an hour or so. She sat on my dining room floor explaining things to me like how I could always tell stamps that belonged to republics of the Soviet Union because they had letters on them in the Cyrillic alphabet that looked like CCCP and NOYTA and how stamps from Taiwan differed from those from mainland China because those from the Peoples Republic had an ideogram resembling a wishbone, the symbol for man, pronounced ren, but I only had to concern myself with that on the earlier issues because the later stamps now said China in the English alphabet and the sets were numbered. She was a free spirit and her hair was unkempt and she reminded of nothing so much as a wilted flower child, but she sounded very intelligent. She told me I should join the APS and I would get circuits on approval. It was a good way to fill up my collection cheaply and it was a very secure procedure. *
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The difference in our ages precluded us becoming very friendly but every once in a while I would see her in the lobby on my way out to work or coming home, and I remember when she told me she had officially retired. She was looking forward to more time at home and not having to see patients. They all had so many problems. She said at times she felt like she might bug out. *
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About a year ago I had a problem with the APS. Someone from the Society called me and told me the next person on the Peoples’ Republic of China circuit did not receive the booklets I had looked at and sent on. He was a Chinese with a post office box for an address and I had my suspicions. The stamps were valuable. I called Sally and asked her advice, because whenever I received a circuit from PRC she was always the prior recipient and this particular time I had foolishly forgotten to save the priority mail insurance receipt. She told me in her soft-spoken solicitous way, “It’s a test. To teach you to follow the instructions. Why don’t you call the APS and tell them the number and maybe they can track it down without the actual receipt?” “And if they can’t?” I asked. “Well,” she said, “It couldn’t cost you more than a hundred dollars. That’s all it was insured for.” I felt like one of her patients. It was not what I wanted to hear. I was able to clear my responsibility with the APS with a phone call, but after that I asked them not to send me anymore stamps from China. My collection was pretty full and I didn’t want to be responsible for something that expensive again. As I say, that was a year ago. *
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I closed the Stein book and went downstairs to buy some lunch in the new Garden of Eden gourmet food shop that recently opened in our building’s ground floor. It is filled with the delicious aromas of all kinds of exotic foods, fruits and baked items, meats and poultry, cooked and ready to go. I bought some three potato salad and some roast beef and when I entered the lobby I ran into Sally Leonard. I was a little taken back by how she looked. Her teeth were all discolored and her hair was still unkempt but now it was completely gray. It looked dirty and she had put on quite a bit of weight. She was wearing an ill-fitting down jacket with food stains on it. “You cost me five dollars,” she said, and it sounded like an accusation. “How’s that?” I asked. I really didn’t want to stand there and talk. I wanted to come upstairs and have my roast beef. She went on to explain since I wasn’t on the Chinese circuit anymore, she had to walk all the way over to Fourth Avenue to the Post Office to insure her package and send it on to the next person on the list instead of leaving it with the doorman for me. I asked her how many stamps she had now and she told me she had stopped counting when she went over 100,000. “How do you catalog them all?” I asked.
“Well, I haven’t gotten around to doing that,” she said. “They’re all in shoeboxes. Some of my friends who are dealers tell me I should, especially if I want to sell them, and I may have to soon. I’m running out of money. I guess I was just bored and looking for something to do when I started collecting them, but it’s like an addiction, you know?” All I came up with was, “Oh?” “Yes,” she said, “I just paid October’s rent.” That really surprised me. It was not the kind of thing I expected from her.
My Armadillo I went to the market to buy me a pig. Jiggety-jig. Jiggety-jig. But when I got there, the cupboard was bare. Diggedy-dare. Diggedy-dare. The man at the counter said, "Boy, what's your pleasure?" "An oinker," I said, with a smile for good measure. "Ain't no porkers in sight," he replied with a cough, "How 'bout an armadillo? The price is half off. It's truly a bargain. You'll be doin' just fine." I couldn't resist--bad habit of mine. Tell me I'm saving, I'll buy things I don't need. You know where the sales are? I'll follow; you lead, But give me a moment before we go shopping, I have to feed and walk Army. He sure keeps me hopping. I'm not sleeping well lately--he's cranky and creaks, And I ain't had no bacon in five or six weeks.
Almost a Man A secret is a funny thing. Uncle Jack and Marti and I arrived with the children at the Bensons’ apartment at about three. It was going to be a surprise party for my little brother Raymond. Uncle Jack always remembered birthdays just like Mom and Dad used to. On the way up the stairs, I remarked, “I wish someone would do this for me.” Uncle Jack said, “You’re almost a man, Philip.” I was fourteen. “This one’s only four,” he added, trying, I guess, not to spoil the surprise for Raymond, who on hearing the word four seemed to know he was being talked about. Nobody answered the door. We walked in and the place seemed deserted. It was so quiet. We soon found everyone sitting around the dining room table or lying on the floor. At first I thought they were all sleeping, which seemed a strange thing to do at a party. The children with colorful hats on sat slumped forward onto the table. I checked their pulses as I had been trained to do in my Phys. Ed. class. They were all right, just unconscious. The two women, Mrs. Benson and her grown daughter Marion also seemed to be comatose. Then I saw a pair of legs. Ernest Benson had no pulse. He lay in the corner against a smaller table, halfway behind the chair in which he usually sat. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn’t breathing. Alison had tears welling, and Marti, with her hand over her mouth, backed out of the room; then ushered Raymond and Alison toward one of the back bedrooms, as there came a knock on the door. Uncle Jack went to see who was knocking and I picked up the telephone to call the police. Uncle Jack opened the door, but there did not appear to be anyone on the other side. Suddenly, he clutched at his chest and fell to the floor. As the door slammed shut, I could see no one in the hall. I didn’t know where Marti had gone with the children and I could not move. I tried to call out Uncle Jack’s name, but my throat was dry and produced no sound. I stood rooted to the spot with the telephone receiver in my hand. Not sure what to do next, I stood there a long time. Somewhere very far away I heard a voice saying, “There appears to be a receiver off the hook. Please hang up the telephone, then lift the receiver and dial your number…There appears to be a receiver off the hook…
Under Fire: Eleven 66-Word Flashes BIRDSONG I passed the field while walking the last kilometer. A shout came from the main building, but nobody appeared at the door. A bird on the wing announced the beginning of September, treasure in store, but could it not amend its promise? Part of me wanted it to be right, yet I could not look away from the dead goat overtaken by a swarm of flies. POWER FAILURE When the lights went out, I was approaching the first stair. It would soon be time to divide the immense quantity of literature on the subject, and pick or pass on a weapon. I was aware the ink had dried some time ago, and no longer provided coherent information by which to choose. I would have to return to our roots to invoke a sensible gesture. AN ACCIDENTAL EFFICIENCY The convenience afforded by the disappearance of a partner with great capacity to guard the past and predict a fortuitous future was serendipitous. It would now fall to me to make my own decisions of any size, and have to stand by them, thereby resurrecting a skill I had not used in ages. I had not yet learned to dole out trust in a cautious way. THEN SEE THE INVISIBLE The note was a reproduction, and I wondered who had received the original. In the cool evening there would be a delay, of which any thinking person would disapprove, but was it better or worse that a challenge would be issued in the heat of the following day? A moving shadow caused me to believe I was not alone, and two stated points did not coincide. A SHOW OF GOOD FAITH She claimed to be special in a sea of agents for the army, and had had to thicken her skin to begin working against destructive forces. I tried to be the gentleman I thought I was. In a show of good faith, we made an exchange. She showed me classified photos; I clarified the obstructed clause. We both had a new partner with whom to work. BEFORE THE SOUND AND THE FURY Inside the compound, in a rare moment of avoidance, we watched a television comedy with the sound turned off. She let me pour the wine, and ate her steak sometimes with, sometimes without a fork. I could be as patient as required under
the circumstances. We both knew the fighting would again commence forthwith, but there was nothing we or anyone could do to stem it. A REFLECTIVE MOMENT IN BLACK AND WHITE At noon, a commercial came on. A soldier was speaking to a spoon he held. I raised the volume to hear him say, “When I was younger…” but quickly silenced him again. No doubt, in his confusion, he was about to express a particular conflict of interests. In my mind, I could not combine the two abstractions of the war outside and inanity on the screen. PLANNING UNDER THE RESTRAINT OF AN IMPERFECT DECISION We spent the day assessing damage, and then we had to consult with The Officer in Charge. She put in her request for ownership of a small abandoned house. The paperwork would be held off until next summer. “This’ll be over by then, and we won’t remember things clearly,” she said, loosening a shoulder strap, “But we’re compatible at the moment. Today was a good day.” LIE WITH DOGS, AND YOU GET UP WITH FLEAS In the dirty, crowded hall where we made contact and attempted to deceive the locals, and they would appoint a functionary liaison, I heard strains of an old tune waltzing with radio static, and tried to take a measure of their commitment. “Would you kick an ailing mongrel,” Ali asked. I lowered my eyes. He smiled. “Nine-oh-nine, at the café.” “I’ll be there,” I said reluctantly. THIS SONG’S GOT NO TITLE, JUST WORDS AND A TUNE The days lengthen. An agent or three disappear. Safety is in decline. The winning is slight. Concurrent with the malaise, our closeness increases. She finishes cleaning a gun and caps the polish. “Do you trust Ali? Do you trust me?” she asks. “No. Well, yes,” I reply. “Where were you last night between nine and ten? If you’ll forgive my curiosity?” Truth has already been obscured.
AFTERMATH After that horrific act of revenge, the command came through, “Remove yourselves in a discrete way as quickly as possible.” A bladder of poison burst, and trust in even the closest of friends evaporated. Did the sweeping away of a growing dependence teach us anything? The message, missed, lay under that pile of dusty rubble. I noted that house was still abandoned, wondering who had shouted.
The Ends Justify the Means She had sat in the tub writing in a journal alternating with visits to the basin to cough up no more than a phlegmy sputum. She wondered how he could converse with a neighbor while she showed evidence of deteriorating health. Did she not rate as an entity? Was her till empty? Those rare times when he would shave lately, she would find hairs in the sink, and it was frustrating to think he had lost all interest in trying to work things out between them. *
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Their network was shattered and it was a shame. Though if you asked either to explain what shamed them the most they would be hard pressed to come up with an answer.They met for coffee and discussed how best to confine the bleeding. At that point it was still low, but it could not be stemmed. They had a draft ready to be executed. He might enjoy the promised calm quietude, and she would prefer to continue listening to the bird song mimicking contentment, but a correction was in order and they would have to agree on some points. *
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The length of his resistance would further enable his impatience. Like a disembodied claw or shed snakeskin his loyalty returned to the wild. There was one hour when they seemed copacetic, but as the music and mayhem of the rioting outside increased in volume, he knew he was a descendent of cavemen, and she? Was she any more civilized, with her talk of torts and measures and sixty-forty splits? *
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He felt her hesitation when they closed the cottage for the winter. He had always known her type, even in their dating days, all proper and accustomed to nesting behavior. Whence came this false energy, this need to be in motion? She had been no lover of controversy, and now she was ready to screw him into the ground. He could only imagine it came from the others, her so-called friends, those unhappy souls so willing to share their misery. *
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Andrea sat to one side, listening, like an iPod person self-possessed. Perhaps it was her pride, but she would attempt to carry the burden of their relationship while Ben tried to enforce his rights with Marian. She could only guess at how he might astonish both with the force in which he drove the spade into the ground of what had been lost. If he wanted to express his conviction, he could do no better than act as a one man burial squad, but as the minutes dragged on, and her third coffee grew cold, she wondered if he had asked her to accompany him to this, whatever this meeting was. For moral support or to hint to her that he would not be placed in this position again at some future time when they themselves might grow weary of each other? Whichever his purpose, she was impressed for the nonce, but maintained a non-interested expression, turned up her player drowning the noise outside and in. *
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Marian asked herself how Ben had had the temerity to bring this chicken along to their ostensibly private session, and had in the back of her mind that she must do some housecleaning when they had finished with the business at hand, for she would keep the house. That much she knew. The bimbo would have to work out a fresh agenda. She wondered why she couldn’t just let it go. All that hair in the sink, the stark reminder of his recently imperceptible presence. Every transgression and oversight noted in her journal should keep her from becoming trapped another time, but there again, she doubted she would foster a resolve. Everything that went into the beginning parts came back to bite one’s ass at the finale, but weren’t the bite marks an indication of strength earned? She noted the weakening of his stance as he blotted yet another minor point. No need for lawyers yet. Entropy was at work.
Her Way 1967 “Marge,” Ray said, “When was the last time you saw Ernie?” She was lowering the volume of the radio. “That jimope,” she said. “I haven’t seen your brother in a dog’s age. Last time I brought the boys over to your mother’s, she told me he hadn’t paid her a visit in over six months. “I told her she was well off because all he ever does is ask for money he never intends to pay back. He pisses it all away on booze and at the track. Never pays attention to anything going on in the world. Won’t even look at the pictures in a newspaper. And he calls me dumb.” “Well, that’s what I came to tell you about. I don’t know how to say this, but Ernie…” “No. Ray, no…” she interrupted, her cheeks coloring. “I’m afraid so. They found him in a doorway of one of the abandoned buildings near Mom’s place.” “Not Red. No…” “I guess he’d been trying to get in out of the cold. He’d been gone about three days by that time. It was cirrhosis.” She glanced at the radio playing songs from Frank Sinatra’s television special the month before. When he sang, “The world still is the same. You’re never gonna change it…” she lost control. “It can’t be,” she sobbed, “His fortieth birthday’s next week.” “I’m so sorry Marge. Is there anything I can do?” “There’s nothing anyone could do,” she said, “Now or then. We tried so many times.” *
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1952 Someone popped a few nickels in the jukebox, and The Voice started singing: There are those who can leave love or take it Love to them is just what they make it A young sailor tapped the shoulder of the dark haired beauty who seemed rapt in the conversation passing between two old codgers. She did not appear to be
contributing, rather, merely listening, and nodding when one of them directed a sentence toward her. “Would you care to dance?” the sailor asked. “You’re Red’s brother, aren’t you? The one in the Navy. Good looks run in the family.” “You seem like a nice girl, Marge. You could do a whole lot better than Ernie. He’s my brother and all, but he’s bad news, and if you hook up with him, he’ll cause you heartache for sure.” “I’m not such a nice girl. All this is just for show. I come from a very oldfashioned family, with a father who punishes our every indiscretion. I’ve served my time, and refuse to live under his thumb. Perhaps that’s why I like Red so much. He doesn’t take any bullshit from anybody.” “When he’s drinking.” “Yeah, well, there is that. I think he’ll straighten up and fly right when the baby comes.” “He got you pregnant?” “I got myself pregnant, with his help. I told you I wasn’t such a nice girl.” And still I fall in love too easily I fall in love too fast The song finished, and so did their dancing. “Raymond,” she said, “Your name has a nice ring to it. That would probably be much better than Ernest, Junior.” *
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1955 “Married two years, of which we’ve spent eighteen months separated. You hardly see the baby, and won’t acknowledge the one on the way. Couldn’t expect you to, not being certain it’s yours.” [click] Love has lost its meaning and so have the stars. “Remember how you never wanted to play this new Scrabble game,? I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, Red. I’d forgotten you never learned to read.” Nothing’s what it once used to be. “Went to the movies with a girlfriend and couldn’t believe when the kids jumped up to dance to Rock Around the Clock. Never saw anything like that before, and wanted to join them. Would have been difficult with this big belly, but still, I had the yen.” Song birds say it’s spring. I don’t believe them. “I’m not the teenager I was. “Churchill resigned, but I have a feeling he’ll be back. “They’re taking down the Third Avenue El. That we’ll never ride again.” Once love was king, but kings can be wrong.
“A program’s coming on the television called The $64,000 Question. What I wouldn’t give to have a go at that, even though I’m not smart enough to win anything big as you’ve told me often enough. It’s a new age. The War’s been over for ten years, and it’s about time for a change. We’re all due for a hearty laugh.” A smile will help hide the ache in my heart. [click] “It’s late, and I was wondering if you’d stay tonight.” * 1959
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Days Before an Incident She was sweet-faced, silver-haired, imperturbable, as plump fingers turned the pages of her novel every afternoon on the bus going downtown. The roughnecks would laugh a little too loud and their girlfriends would howl at most of what they said as if they were dating the world’s top comedians. Occasionally, they disturbed other passengers, but the old doll never seemed to notice. Leonard silently fumed. He had never been like that as a youth. Sure, he had done some offcolor things, but never in an ostentatious way. He wondered why the bus driver didn’t stop the bus and throw them off when they got like that. They were daily passengers – too old for school, likely not yet working, piking off parents – and frequently boarded through the back door of the crowded bus, fare-beaters acting haughty because it was easy. One morning, he was sitting beside the woman. He glanced down at her book, and took in the words, “…and then you stole into her room and took advantage of the situation, didn’t you, Mr. Dodd?” Agatha Christie or some such. She looked the type. “Do they bother you?” she asked. “Excuse me.” “I only ask because you look as if you’re ready to boil.” “They’re punks. For two cents, I’d…” “They’re just kids. We were kids. Could anybody tell you anything when you were that age?” “I never provoked people just for the sake of trying to amuse my friends.” “I see.” She returned to reading, not speaking until the bus reached her stop. Then, she excused herself to pass Leonard, and as she did, said, “My name is Martha. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” She got off and walked westward, but not far, when one of the roughnecks stuck his head out the window and called out, “See you tomorrow, Martha.” Leonard glared at him. The kid said, “Oh sorry, man, don’t wanna step on your toes. She’s a little old for me anyway.” Leonard said, “Don’t you respect your elders?” The kid pointed to his tee-shirt which read QUESTION AUTHORITY. “Smart ass,” Leonard said. The kid laughed. His friends laughed. Their girlfriends laughed.
Leonard had never enjoyed being the butt of a joke. In days gone by that kind of thing would have been enough for him to take action. He promised himself if he ever came up against this punk while he was alone, he’d make him sorry for laughing. Leonard got off on 34th Street, and the kid wolf-whistled through the window at him. He did not turn around as the bus continued toward the Village. His annoyance fazed him less in the open air. He should be thankful to the kids for one thing. His response to their activity had caused the old doll to break the ice. She must have been a stunner at one time, not so long ago. He recalled his being quite the ladies man, never finding difficulty making small talk. How she unsettled him. He watched her reading every day without ever screwing up courage to start a conversation. He was losing his touch, no doubt, and at only fifty-nine. He figured she might have a couple of years on him, but kept herself in good shape – stylish hair silver-white in a way that doesn’t occur naturally. And she just let bothersome noise flow past – he envied her calm, lacking in his own character. Next morning, she was in a window seat, but someone was already next to her. He tipped his hat when she looked up. She smiled. A few of the kids got on two stops later, but not the wiseguy. He and his girlfriend came onboard three stops further down. It was not intentional, but Leonard’s foot, a little too far out in the aisle, caused the gangly youth to stumble. His friends laughed as he almost fell. Righting himself, he looked a little foolish. When he screwed up his mouth in annoyance, they stopped laughing immediately. Leonard said, “Jesus, I’m sorry.” Intentional, or not, Leonard had triggered a situation. They were enemies. Rather than attempting to move toward the back, the tough stood over him and crooked his leg slightly, pressing his knee into Leonard’s thigh. He couldn’t move because the man in the window seat was huge. When his thigh started to throb, Leonard said, “Do you mind?” “Jesus, I’m sorry,” said the kid, imitating him, “But if you weren’t sitting next to Fatso, it wouldn’t be a problem.” “Hey,” said the other man. “Watch it, kid,” Leonard said, “You’re going too far.” “I’m going to the Village. Where are you going?” the kid said. “A nursing home?” “The hell you say. I’m old enough to be your father.” “Exactly my point. We put the old man in a home when he started acting feeble.”
“Feeble? Why you punk,” Leonard said. He raised himself with difficulty and backhanded the kid across his jaw, forgetting he wore a signet ring, and regretted his action immediately. The kid’s face was knocked sideways. He lost his grip on the overhead bar and fell onto people behind him. Through the gap, Leonard saw Martha. She was not smiling. Before the kid was on his feet again, a bruise was already evident. The driver called out, “What the hell is going on back there?” “You’re dead,” the kid said to Leonard. “You’re dead, old man.” The driver stopped the vehicle and wended through the passengers to assess the ruckus. Tall and broad, he said, “Son, I think you should switch buses,” and doled out transfers. He didn’t argue, but as he exited, said with a smirk, “You should’ve warned your boyfriend not to mess with us, Martha.” That was too much and Leonard started towards the exit also, but felt a tugging on his jacket. Martha was shaking her head. He looked at the kids getting off and looked back at her. Other passengers were staring at him. Several options crossed his mind.