You walk into the square of light
afforded us by the window.
You go from sepulchral to bronze
in three steps or less and I am
mute as virgin marble in an
impossible hall. Remember yourself this way, I silently
wish for you, but wishes are waterlogged things.
So you will forget all of
this before I can even note
your passing into the kitchen
where you are flesh once more and no
longer kicking down the doors
of heaven demanding with your
limbs graceful as whale bone to be
noticed. You dress and then leave.
This was ten years ago and long
still do I have before I can
witness another become light
like you did that day before me.
The closest I've come since is: once
I was struck by lightning in the
clavicle and although I don't
recall all the particulars,
I could swear something like you
was there, deflecting sun off its
shoulders. Another instance to note:
falling asleep at the wheel and
waking half-full of life beneath
a bent highway sign, "Exit Here,"
then, too, did I taste your silver.
Then, too, did I feel not enough.
Do you ever see me through
a lens too weak to capture my
shape accurately? Memory
is a half-hearted archivist,
but does he bring you scraps of me?
An elbow? An uneven eye?
My ethnic scent? The madness of
my sleep? (O, calisthenic dreamer!)
You are married now to a man
you would have hated ten years back.
Is the heart a snake that devours
itself? Have you bitten to the
part where I'm the villain? Ten years
from today you will wake up lost
for me. Ten years from today I'll
remember that day differently:
You walk into the fire of
day afforded by the window.
Frozen momentarily there,
I see you clearly for the first
time. You're as cruel in the mouth as
tree bark. I remember daily
injustices doled by your hand.
I bristle over the thought of
your skin on mine. Forget this, I
silently wish for myself. But
wishes are half-hearted vessels
built for failure like a wax-winged
phoenix, rising from the ashes
only to go tumbling hackles
over talons back to the dust.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Back Home
Normal Restrepo's wife killed herself in the most distressing way. Late in the evening, after he had gone to sleep, she sneaked out of bed and back into her day clothes. She walked all the way back into our tiny village, as they lived several kilometers outside of it, and let herself into Normal's butcher shop.
Normal was really named Frederico. I don't remember why or when everyone started calling him Normal and I've known him since we were seven. He isn't extraordinarily plain nor is he so exceptionally strange that the word normal should serve as an irritating joke that refuses to become irrelevant. Curiously, however, its origin has. I suppose it's just one of those things that simply is because it always has been. Similarly, my grandfather was nicknamed Freight but could never recall a reason why. Nobody in our family had ever worked in the transport business nor had an overwhelming affinity for it.
At the butcher shop, Normal's wife sliced herself horizontally at the wrists and on both sides of her throat with the cleaver. She then leaped off the single story roof of the shop, leaving behind a quirky trail of blood detailing her path from around the front counter, dawdling near the drain momentarily (possibly considering a courteous suicide before opting for one with more panache) and finally heading up the rotting back ladder to the roof. Both her ankles were broken in the fall and she dragged herself almost 50 meters before stopping forever just short of the central park.
Normal receded into the bottle the way most loving husbands in his situation would have. And I moved into Bogota shortly thereafter to work at Incré Diseño, a well-known architectural firm. I told, and still tell, this gruesome story with embarrassing frequency, but didn't have the right ending for several years. New friends or barroom acquaintances would blink back at me and ask, "Well, what happened next?"
In 1997, returning home for my uncle's funeral, I ran into Normal outside the hardware store where Doña Echevarria used to sell homemade slingshots. Normal looked good and fat. Much better than he had looked in the months after his wife's death all those years ago. He asked me if I remembered the slingshots and how we could never quite master them enough to hit anything with accuracy, the way our fathers claimed they had when they were children. I barely had a chance to think about it when he added, "Also, I solved the mystery of Paola's suicide."
I said, "I remember," in response to the slingshots, not really having a chance to register his grisly addendum.
"She was possessed by the devil," he said, "no butcher's wife would ever use a cleaver for a slice job."
I nodded, "You're absolutely right."
Normal was really named Frederico. I don't remember why or when everyone started calling him Normal and I've known him since we were seven. He isn't extraordinarily plain nor is he so exceptionally strange that the word normal should serve as an irritating joke that refuses to become irrelevant. Curiously, however, its origin has. I suppose it's just one of those things that simply is because it always has been. Similarly, my grandfather was nicknamed Freight but could never recall a reason why. Nobody in our family had ever worked in the transport business nor had an overwhelming affinity for it.
At the butcher shop, Normal's wife sliced herself horizontally at the wrists and on both sides of her throat with the cleaver. She then leaped off the single story roof of the shop, leaving behind a quirky trail of blood detailing her path from around the front counter, dawdling near the drain momentarily (possibly considering a courteous suicide before opting for one with more panache) and finally heading up the rotting back ladder to the roof. Both her ankles were broken in the fall and she dragged herself almost 50 meters before stopping forever just short of the central park.
Normal receded into the bottle the way most loving husbands in his situation would have. And I moved into Bogota shortly thereafter to work at Incré Diseño, a well-known architectural firm. I told, and still tell, this gruesome story with embarrassing frequency, but didn't have the right ending for several years. New friends or barroom acquaintances would blink back at me and ask, "Well, what happened next?"
In 1997, returning home for my uncle's funeral, I ran into Normal outside the hardware store where Doña Echevarria used to sell homemade slingshots. Normal looked good and fat. Much better than he had looked in the months after his wife's death all those years ago. He asked me if I remembered the slingshots and how we could never quite master them enough to hit anything with accuracy, the way our fathers claimed they had when they were children. I barely had a chance to think about it when he added, "Also, I solved the mystery of Paola's suicide."
I said, "I remember," in response to the slingshots, not really having a chance to register his grisly addendum.
"She was possessed by the devil," he said, "no butcher's wife would ever use a cleaver for a slice job."
I nodded, "You're absolutely right."
Monday, July 13, 2009
For Frank Mir, Re: Your Face
In the evening I sit and smile
at the day's creaking muscles and mind
its heft like a sack of flesh and marrow.
We're the same, in this way, day and me—
Big lumbering things wheedling the
time from an expanse that holds us fast.
Dinosaurs did something similar
in the Cretaceous Period where
they clung like moribund crash victims
to something so large and slippery,
it could only exist to frustrate.
When I chop lettuce, I think of this.
When Frank Mir's face explodes—raspberries
revolting against their delicate
prisons—at the hands of the cretin,
Brock Lesnar, I think of this. And I
weep for the dodo bird who was too
simple to know it was in peril.
I scream in dismay at the common
fleas's impossible task of eating
just a little. Careful! Don't raise the
alarm! I will marry someday and
tell my kids to sleep light because the
world always tiptoes. I'm afraid they'll
not understand. So I'll hold up the
lettuce (finely chopped) and a photo
of Frank Mir (before and after) to
illustrate how we are all ghosts and
we are walking side by side—dodos
angling for a hug from a cold
muzzle. They'll blink back at me confused.
I'll point at the picture and I'll throw
around the ribbons of lettuce. I'll
pantomime first the big bang and then
cells assembling themselves from dust.
I'll tap dance the erratic rhythm
of evolution, I'll show them my
sweat and say, "these are the continents
after Pangaea was no longer
a heart floating in the treacherous
blue. Now it's a broken heart where we
trawl for bits of bone, hoping to find
answers writ in deoxyribose
nucleic acid. But that's not the
point. The point is," and I'll gesture at
the lettuce that litters the corners.
Then their lips will shake like radio
waves and they'll cry. And I'll catch their tears
in my palms to mix with my sweat and
I'll say, "Shh, I know. But look. You're made
of the same stuff as the broken heart
of the world." This will only make them
wail. "Okay, okay," I'll say, "picture
this: electrons." And at this they'll leave.
In 1994, the New York
Rangers finally won the Stanley
Cup. I maintain that it had everything
to do with the tendency of
electrons to be reliably
spooky. And isn't that the truth? Don't
all things hinge upon atomic love
affairs? Like Arturo Gatti and
Micky Ward loved each other with their
fists? Like any great and long-lasting
love whose greatest affection is violence?
This is why the New York Rangers won.
This is why Micky Ward's Pangaea
is drifting apart across the blue.
This is why Frank Mir would not ever
win. This is why dinosaurs vanished.
The lettuce's electrons become
mine. A simpleton bird becomes the
dust. And I sit and smile at the day's
sober commute into the arms of
defeat. And I look at my hands and
wonder not if I'm vanishing, but
if ever I was. And every
night, I wait for the tiptoeing morn,
so I can assault it with all of
my evidence, and I can softly
say unto it, "This is what you have."
at the day's creaking muscles and mind
its heft like a sack of flesh and marrow.
We're the same, in this way, day and me—
Big lumbering things wheedling the
time from an expanse that holds us fast.
Dinosaurs did something similar
in the Cretaceous Period where
they clung like moribund crash victims
to something so large and slippery,
it could only exist to frustrate.
When I chop lettuce, I think of this.
When Frank Mir's face explodes—raspberries
revolting against their delicate
prisons—at the hands of the cretin,
Brock Lesnar, I think of this. And I
weep for the dodo bird who was too
simple to know it was in peril.
I scream in dismay at the common
fleas's impossible task of eating
just a little. Careful! Don't raise the
alarm! I will marry someday and
tell my kids to sleep light because the
world always tiptoes. I'm afraid they'll
not understand. So I'll hold up the
lettuce (finely chopped) and a photo
of Frank Mir (before and after) to
illustrate how we are all ghosts and
we are walking side by side—dodos
angling for a hug from a cold
muzzle. They'll blink back at me confused.
I'll point at the picture and I'll throw
around the ribbons of lettuce. I'll
pantomime first the big bang and then
cells assembling themselves from dust.
I'll tap dance the erratic rhythm
of evolution, I'll show them my
sweat and say, "these are the continents
after Pangaea was no longer
a heart floating in the treacherous
blue. Now it's a broken heart where we
trawl for bits of bone, hoping to find
answers writ in deoxyribose
nucleic acid. But that's not the
point. The point is," and I'll gesture at
the lettuce that litters the corners.
Then their lips will shake like radio
waves and they'll cry. And I'll catch their tears
in my palms to mix with my sweat and
I'll say, "Shh, I know. But look. You're made
of the same stuff as the broken heart
of the world." This will only make them
wail. "Okay, okay," I'll say, "picture
this: electrons." And at this they'll leave.
In 1994, the New York
Rangers finally won the Stanley
Cup. I maintain that it had everything
to do with the tendency of
electrons to be reliably
spooky. And isn't that the truth? Don't
all things hinge upon atomic love
affairs? Like Arturo Gatti and
Micky Ward loved each other with their
fists? Like any great and long-lasting
love whose greatest affection is violence?
This is why the New York Rangers won.
This is why Micky Ward's Pangaea
is drifting apart across the blue.
This is why Frank Mir would not ever
win. This is why dinosaurs vanished.
The lettuce's electrons become
mine. A simpleton bird becomes the
dust. And I sit and smile at the day's
sober commute into the arms of
defeat. And I look at my hands and
wonder not if I'm vanishing, but
if ever I was. And every
night, I wait for the tiptoeing morn,
so I can assault it with all of
my evidence, and I can softly
say unto it, "This is what you have."
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Elf
What you lost (it was a thing) tumbled down the stairs with a great clatter. It reminded me of a car crash in a blender—fender bender frappé!
It woke me and I couldn't shake the ringing from my ears. Your first gift to me. How do you not remember any of this? You're a forgetful little thing. Are all of you like this?
Anyway, I followed the ringing that lingered like a scent hanged for being offensive, to where you were. You are a shuffling sort of a creature, in case that hasn't ever been mentioned to you, and so you shuffled along each nearly insurmountable stair, looking adorable. A tiny little man, slight as a teddy bear, as twisted in complexion as the trees in the yard. I decided to be best friends right there. Did I seem too eager? You have to remember this! I was much too eager when I plucked you up between my middle knuckles and carried you over to your thing. What a strange thing it was, much like a ball of water, shaking against the prison of its skin and jiggling offensively. And then you were gone. It was your source of power, I knew it immediately.
It woke me and I couldn't shake the ringing from my ears. Your first gift to me. How do you not remember any of this? You're a forgetful little thing. Are all of you like this?
Anyway, I followed the ringing that lingered like a scent hanged for being offensive, to where you were. You are a shuffling sort of a creature, in case that hasn't ever been mentioned to you, and so you shuffled along each nearly insurmountable stair, looking adorable. A tiny little man, slight as a teddy bear, as twisted in complexion as the trees in the yard. I decided to be best friends right there. Did I seem too eager? You have to remember this! I was much too eager when I plucked you up between my middle knuckles and carried you over to your thing. What a strange thing it was, much like a ball of water, shaking against the prison of its skin and jiggling offensively. And then you were gone. It was your source of power, I knew it immediately.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Adventures of Frog-Boy
Frog-Boy—not quite frog and not quite boy—sat contemplatively on a lily pad-shaped recliner. He looked toward the window. Past its glass pane, an oncoming storm gathered itself into a great gray fist. His eyes re-focused on the glass of the window. He now regarded the reflection of his own eyes and the mottled skin of his face. Today, he thought to himself, is really, really going to suck.
He pointed the TV remote at the wrong spot three times before it came alive. Then, dropping the remote into his lap, he shifted in his seat until he felt adequately sunk into the couch's plush cushioning.
"I am Frog-Boy," he said, "hear me nap."
At this, he shut the honey-dipped orbs of his eyes and fell asleep.
He pointed the TV remote at the wrong spot three times before it came alive. Then, dropping the remote into his lap, he shifted in his seat until he felt adequately sunk into the couch's plush cushioning.
"I am Frog-Boy," he said, "hear me nap."
At this, he shut the honey-dipped orbs of his eyes and fell asleep.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Determination.
The little worm caught the breeze and decided to himself that today was the day that he would slay a thousand dragons.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Greetings—A Woman's Perspective or a Room with a View of Everything but You
The light hesitated briefly before coming fully on. White splashed the room's forgotten corners, and—like a pie to the face—the memory of the night we practiced cart wheels on our knees was the first thing to greet me. I don't know why. Maybe I felt a little inept; a little chopped at the knees. The next thing was his scent. It must have clung for life, that month in solitude, to the inanimate furnishings pushed calculatedly into place to best illustrate to guests how we are visual, how we are wily and deranged.
It must have jumped for joy, the scent, upon being stirred by my presence (because a scent without a nose is like a memory without a heart to break: a useless hanging sort of thing). I hadn't been in here since, strangled by panic, I limped to my parent's front door, silently begging to be taken care of—because taken care of is what people need when they don't know what they need—and that was nearly a month ago.
I talk myself through the story of my life quite frequently this way. Sometimes, I even talk to an imagined version of him. I say, "How dare you?" He says, "It just happened."
I wonder why he never says the things I want him to say. I always make him respond just the way he actually would were he here. What does that say about me?
I finished separating my things from his at about 7pm. I didn't cry once. I accomplished this by removing all emotion from the actions. Instead, I was practicing a technical skill. Like taking apart a lanyard or cable rope, strand by strand. I was a master of deft maneuvers. This could not be done by just anyone. One epileptic seizure is all it would take to blow this whole operation. So I concentrated on not convulsing.
The day after I finished extricating my material possessions from his, I was at the laundromat washing his scent off of my things. The clothes were easy enough to handle, but it was the bed sheets that were my undoing. I lifted a sheet from the basket, and our smell grabbed me right by the nostrils. There was nothing subtle about it. It just came leaping at my face, screaming "You will pay attention to me." So I did.
I looked at the sheets. And right there was our entire story.
There was our hair, tangled and inextricably entwined—an impossible rope no master of deft maneuvers could unbind. Then there were our eye lashes, staked into the fabric like mile markers in a race we knew we couldn't finish. And finally were our stains—of love or misery, of ecstasy or lament—serving to punctuate the story of two people who belonged to each other for just a little while.
It must have jumped for joy, the scent, upon being stirred by my presence (because a scent without a nose is like a memory without a heart to break: a useless hanging sort of thing). I hadn't been in here since, strangled by panic, I limped to my parent's front door, silently begging to be taken care of—because taken care of is what people need when they don't know what they need—and that was nearly a month ago.
I talk myself through the story of my life quite frequently this way. Sometimes, I even talk to an imagined version of him. I say, "How dare you?" He says, "It just happened."
I wonder why he never says the things I want him to say. I always make him respond just the way he actually would were he here. What does that say about me?
I finished separating my things from his at about 7pm. I didn't cry once. I accomplished this by removing all emotion from the actions. Instead, I was practicing a technical skill. Like taking apart a lanyard or cable rope, strand by strand. I was a master of deft maneuvers. This could not be done by just anyone. One epileptic seizure is all it would take to blow this whole operation. So I concentrated on not convulsing.
The day after I finished extricating my material possessions from his, I was at the laundromat washing his scent off of my things. The clothes were easy enough to handle, but it was the bed sheets that were my undoing. I lifted a sheet from the basket, and our smell grabbed me right by the nostrils. There was nothing subtle about it. It just came leaping at my face, screaming "You will pay attention to me." So I did.
I looked at the sheets. And right there was our entire story.
There was our hair, tangled and inextricably entwined—an impossible rope no master of deft maneuvers could unbind. Then there were our eye lashes, staked into the fabric like mile markers in a race we knew we couldn't finish. And finally were our stains—of love or misery, of ecstasy or lament—serving to punctuate the story of two people who belonged to each other for just a little while.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Faces
"What's so funny?" Dr. Nrwal asked.
"Everything," I said, "sincerely, everything."
"That's a lot to find funny, Mr. Johns."
"I have a great sense of humor, Doctor."
Riding home on the N47, I couldn't shake loose this tiny cluster of giggles that had lodged itself in my throat. Every so often, a bit would break off and escape as a clipped, spasmodic snort, but for the most part, the giggles just sat there simmering like a slow-cooked mash somewhere between my chin and chest. An elderly black woman smiled at me from across the aisle.
It was my 30th birthday and the doctor had just informed me I was—wholly, utterly, dismayingly—healthy.
The bus stopped and lurched forward at regular intervals. I let my body go limp when the driver hit the brakes and I bounced around like an unstrung marionette. The elderly black woman smiled a little more weakly. I found the skin around her mouth to be exquisite.
Outside, the snow was still falling. None of it was sticking. It was too warm. The snow instantly became whatever it is that it becomes between ice and water—a great big slush that permeated the stitching of your boots, slowly freezing you from the ground up. It inevitably ruined your day one precious calorie of heat by one.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and let my breath fog up the outline of my face. Just then, I became so intensely nostalgic for the tiny crater where my nose now was, that I imagined the bus suddenly skidding off the road, swerving to miss pedestrians before finally flipping over onto its side, disfiguring me once more. Possibly, the crash could tear the flesh of my nose off my face. At very least, I could pop an eye, its gelatinous innards running a satisfying streak down my jawline.
Still leaning against the glass, I let my vision focus on my reflection. So blue, my eyes. So smooth, my skin. So flawless, and yet so vile. I banged my head against the glass a little more furiously than I had intended. The elderly black woman shuffled her feet under her.
"Excuse me, young man?"
"I'm sorry, did I disturb you, ma'am?"
"No, I don't mind. God knows I feel in my heart like banging my head against the wall for days sometimes. I just mean, are you okay? It seems to be that nobody's ever asking anybody if they're okay these days. It's like you could be walking down the street on fire and people would say, 'Oh, that old schtick,' and they'd keep on walking just the same as if they hadn't seen anything at all. But, young man, you look distressed! You really do. I know you'll probably say you're okay, but I can see for myself. You are certainly not okay."
"You're right ma'am. I've just been feeling a little out of sorts for the last seven years."
"Oh dear. Seven years, you say? Forgive me, if I'm wrong, but are you involved in..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"My God. I've never seen one like you. You're stunning."
"Yes, ma'am. I know. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
The bus stopped abruptly.
"This is my stop, ma'am."
"Everything," I said, "sincerely, everything."
"That's a lot to find funny, Mr. Johns."
"I have a great sense of humor, Doctor."
Riding home on the N47, I couldn't shake loose this tiny cluster of giggles that had lodged itself in my throat. Every so often, a bit would break off and escape as a clipped, spasmodic snort, but for the most part, the giggles just sat there simmering like a slow-cooked mash somewhere between my chin and chest. An elderly black woman smiled at me from across the aisle.
It was my 30th birthday and the doctor had just informed me I was—wholly, utterly, dismayingly—healthy.
The bus stopped and lurched forward at regular intervals. I let my body go limp when the driver hit the brakes and I bounced around like an unstrung marionette. The elderly black woman smiled a little more weakly. I found the skin around her mouth to be exquisite.
Outside, the snow was still falling. None of it was sticking. It was too warm. The snow instantly became whatever it is that it becomes between ice and water—a great big slush that permeated the stitching of your boots, slowly freezing you from the ground up. It inevitably ruined your day one precious calorie of heat by one.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and let my breath fog up the outline of my face. Just then, I became so intensely nostalgic for the tiny crater where my nose now was, that I imagined the bus suddenly skidding off the road, swerving to miss pedestrians before finally flipping over onto its side, disfiguring me once more. Possibly, the crash could tear the flesh of my nose off my face. At very least, I could pop an eye, its gelatinous innards running a satisfying streak down my jawline.
Still leaning against the glass, I let my vision focus on my reflection. So blue, my eyes. So smooth, my skin. So flawless, and yet so vile. I banged my head against the glass a little more furiously than I had intended. The elderly black woman shuffled her feet under her.
"Excuse me, young man?"
"I'm sorry, did I disturb you, ma'am?"
"No, I don't mind. God knows I feel in my heart like banging my head against the wall for days sometimes. I just mean, are you okay? It seems to be that nobody's ever asking anybody if they're okay these days. It's like you could be walking down the street on fire and people would say, 'Oh, that old schtick,' and they'd keep on walking just the same as if they hadn't seen anything at all. But, young man, you look distressed! You really do. I know you'll probably say you're okay, but I can see for myself. You are certainly not okay."
"You're right ma'am. I've just been feeling a little out of sorts for the last seven years."
"Oh dear. Seven years, you say? Forgive me, if I'm wrong, but are you involved in..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"My God. I've never seen one like you. You're stunning."
"Yes, ma'am. I know. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
The bus stopped abruptly.
"This is my stop, ma'am."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Vlad in the Shit
"That's quite a big game to be talking, for such a little guy. Do me a favor? Keep talking."
"I will."
"Good."
"Your mother's a whore."
For a moment, neither Vlad nor the much larger man moved a hair. They stood there by the beat-up wood of the bar, with the sounds of the place just cascading over everything. This place was dirty. How we ended up squaring off against the Irish boys in this place, I don't remember. It was that sort of place. It soaked into your skin, made you act a certain way. It made you feel dangerous. And we were drenched in it. Especially Vlad. He looked tough standing his ground against this sandpaper-faced brute, but a second later he was on his back. At least four flannel clad individuals were blurs of fists and elbows coming up and down again at his shape. Somewhere between the jukebox and the rest room is where he ended up. A John Mellencamp song came on, and I decided I was going to do something stupid.
"Hey. Fucktart."
The Irish boys turned toward the sound of my voice.
"How about a fair fight? Or are you all going for a quick bathroom break together, maybe play with each other in the stalls a bit?"
Now, in my not-quite limited experience with barroom brawls, I've found that a well placed quip can do wonders for disarming the bomb of an ugly situation. This is why I was surprised when none of the Irish fellows cracked the edge of a smile. It was just rage in their eyes. I thought to myself, this is a huge mistake. A smaller guy, about my size came right for me. Possibly, he didn't notice I was holding a glass mug in each fist. Possibly, he just didn't care. I got him right in the temple with the mug in my right, and it didn't even break. There was a satisfying thud that sprung the other boys straight into action. Now there were five.
What these guys didn't realize is that I've much more experience in getting the piss beat out of me by multiple parties than singly. I find that the more people there are trying to get a piece of you, the greater the chances are that not a one will really be able to put too much power into it. Arms get tangled, fists get deflected—it's a much uglier thing to watch than to actually be at the bottom of. When I dropped, the mugs in my fists smashed against the cement floor. Now they were a jagged mess of thick angular glass. I cut, slashed and stabbed their knees and thighs until they backed off. One of the boys got it real bad. The blood flowed like a burst pipe on the inside of his leg.
"What the fuck did you do that for? What the fuck is the matter with you? Somebody call a fucking ambulance!"
"Go fuck your mothers, you fucking pussies!" I yelled.
"Geez Christ, man, calm down. Get your buddy and take a fucking hike, huh? Before the cops show."
It was then that I remembered Vlad. I scanned the floor before seeing him sitting at one of the tables near the entrance. The bastard was just drinking a beer, gingerly as anything. As if he were waiting for me to finish up in the rest room or something.
And that's the way the sonofabitch always was. He had a knack for the setting things into motion part of things, but he was always ducking out mid-shitstorm and leaving the mess for some poor moron who happened to call himself a friend that day. It was impressive, really.
"I will."
"Good."
"Your mother's a whore."
For a moment, neither Vlad nor the much larger man moved a hair. They stood there by the beat-up wood of the bar, with the sounds of the place just cascading over everything. This place was dirty. How we ended up squaring off against the Irish boys in this place, I don't remember. It was that sort of place. It soaked into your skin, made you act a certain way. It made you feel dangerous. And we were drenched in it. Especially Vlad. He looked tough standing his ground against this sandpaper-faced brute, but a second later he was on his back. At least four flannel clad individuals were blurs of fists and elbows coming up and down again at his shape. Somewhere between the jukebox and the rest room is where he ended up. A John Mellencamp song came on, and I decided I was going to do something stupid.
"Hey. Fucktart."
The Irish boys turned toward the sound of my voice.
"How about a fair fight? Or are you all going for a quick bathroom break together, maybe play with each other in the stalls a bit?"
Now, in my not-quite limited experience with barroom brawls, I've found that a well placed quip can do wonders for disarming the bomb of an ugly situation. This is why I was surprised when none of the Irish fellows cracked the edge of a smile. It was just rage in their eyes. I thought to myself, this is a huge mistake. A smaller guy, about my size came right for me. Possibly, he didn't notice I was holding a glass mug in each fist. Possibly, he just didn't care. I got him right in the temple with the mug in my right, and it didn't even break. There was a satisfying thud that sprung the other boys straight into action. Now there were five.
What these guys didn't realize is that I've much more experience in getting the piss beat out of me by multiple parties than singly. I find that the more people there are trying to get a piece of you, the greater the chances are that not a one will really be able to put too much power into it. Arms get tangled, fists get deflected—it's a much uglier thing to watch than to actually be at the bottom of. When I dropped, the mugs in my fists smashed against the cement floor. Now they were a jagged mess of thick angular glass. I cut, slashed and stabbed their knees and thighs until they backed off. One of the boys got it real bad. The blood flowed like a burst pipe on the inside of his leg.
"What the fuck did you do that for? What the fuck is the matter with you? Somebody call a fucking ambulance!"
"Go fuck your mothers, you fucking pussies!" I yelled.
"Geez Christ, man, calm down. Get your buddy and take a fucking hike, huh? Before the cops show."
It was then that I remembered Vlad. I scanned the floor before seeing him sitting at one of the tables near the entrance. The bastard was just drinking a beer, gingerly as anything. As if he were waiting for me to finish up in the rest room or something.
And that's the way the sonofabitch always was. He had a knack for the setting things into motion part of things, but he was always ducking out mid-shitstorm and leaving the mess for some poor moron who happened to call himself a friend that day. It was impressive, really.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Andres
Andres stepped into a tangle of light, looked above him to the sparse canopy of trees for a moment, and then sat down. He pitched his wide-brimmed hat back onto the crown of his head. Behind him, he heard the dogs tied to the cement wash basins snoring loudly in the shade. He cocked his head toward them for a minute before looking ahead to where the trees stretched out toward the inevitable meniscus of the valley.
Just past the useless palm and bursera trees, the land sloped gently down, seemingly forever, spanning acre upon acre of coffee fields before settling into the cradle of the valley. There, a small stream carried an endless brigade of leaves and twigs off to the river.
Andres sat there, illuminated in patches where the canopy allowed, and wondered aloud, "Where are you, you little fucker?"
Just past the useless palm and bursera trees, the land sloped gently down, seemingly forever, spanning acre upon acre of coffee fields before settling into the cradle of the valley. There, a small stream carried an endless brigade of leaves and twigs off to the river.
Andres sat there, illuminated in patches where the canopy allowed, and wondered aloud, "Where are you, you little fucker?"
Monday, February 2, 2009
All Night
All night, sleeping, I push unreal creatures off my chest. They're wild things come to lick the salts from my skin. I smile at first as a corrugated tongue sweeps my collarbone clean. Then, becoming aware of the danger of fangs, I attempt to scream the raw tones of human distress. The sound reaches my ears as a muted grunt, the same low groan that escaped my body as a boy writhing in the sand beneath a dock with a girl who was more woman than child. Now, I am hyper-aware of the weight on me. Its expansiveness feels as large as the dark behind my eyelids. Mercifully, I'm able to break the hold of sleep. The scream that I wanted is finally released. And I look around only to find the bedroom still and quiet as the slivers of moonlight that paint my legs gray.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hurricanes to be cont
The wind bent the few trees we could see from the basement window. Branches tipped invisible hats to friends beyond the horizon. I lit the scented candle on the sill, took one last look at the outside, and lowered the blinds behind it.
"It's my turn again already? I'm running out of jokes." I said.
"It's okay. One last one. We'll save the rest for later." She responded.
"Okay, here's a tame one my grandmother used to tell. So there's a couple of barnyard animals out to eat at a restaurant and the waiter says, 'So, what’ll it be?' And the one says, 'I know what I want but I feel sort of dumb ordering it.' And the other says, 'Well I know what I want but I feel sort of fat ordering it.' And after a lot of bickering and back and forth, the waiter finally says, 'Well, if I may be so bold, everyone here is expecting you, sir, to make an ass of yourself and you, sir, to make a pig of yourself, so I'm pretty sure you're in the clear."
"That's cute." And she smiled like a pageant winner: all teeth, no soul.
"Well it's not the best joke, but it's the first one I've ever known, so there it is and that makes it special, I suppose."
After that, we went silent for a while. She sat there on the pool table knocking the cue ball into the 9 ball. I settled into the loveseat I had against the east wall, across from the TV that wasn’t working. It was just that way for a bit and I didn’t really mind it. The sound of the wind beating up against the side of the house and the low rumble of the cue ball on the felt were a lullaby. I could have done without the inevitable clack of the cue against the 9 as they met, but I didn’t want to ask Elsa to stop. I knew that once she was done with the pool balls, she’d want to start up talking again. And sure as I sit here now telling the events of this day, the very second that woman lost interest in the cue ball, she turned back to me.
“So, do you think it’s a hurricane?”
“I think that’s just crazy, now. Hurricanes don’t just appear out of nowhere. People track them. There are warnings. People have jobs where they just sit all day and watch weather patterns. Besides, hurricanes don’t just drop out of the sky. This storm would have come through from somewhere. Chances are if we haven’t heard about this storm coming, it probably isn’t much to worry about.”
“Sounds like something to be worrying about. You hear it out there?”
“Yes, I hear it. I’m not deaf. I hear it. It’s just a lot of wind.”
We went quiet again after that, but the damage had been done. I took off my boots and socks. I rubbed them into the carpet to try to tickle my feet. It was a trick I learned from coach back when I was playing ball. During states, I was cramping real bad, and the salt pills weren’t putting a dent in any of it. Coach said, tickle yourself. It releases a chemical in your brain that soothes you out, he said. I’d been doing it ever since that, anytime I needed a little extra help. Just then, I remembered that we left everything out.
“Shit, Elsa, I have to go bring the stuff in, I’ll be right back.”
“But the food’s probably ruined all anyway.”
“I couldn’t care less about the food, but we got about 50 beers out there, now hold on and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you stay here, I’ll be back.”
I opened the door that leads to the back stairs and heard a high whistling sweeping through the dark. It was drafty and I could already feel that the temperature had dropped some. The truth is, I could give a shit about a few beers, but my own eyes needed to see what was tearing through here.
Before I stepped out, I could almost convince myself that it was just a storm, but crossing the threshold and stepping out, exposing myself to it, I knew this was not ordinary, and my heart beat into my throat.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but when I was able to steal a look around on my way to the cooler, it was the trees that scared me. They were rocking around in that wind like they could be swept away at any moment, bent like overgrown hunchbacks stooping to get under something.
I picked up the cooler and thought to myself, “Please. Dear God, please, let Roberta and Neil get back from the market all right.”
They’d been gone for almost two hours now and there was only about 5 miles to the store from the house. We needed limes for the Coronas because we weren’t anticipating Elsa and Neil being so insistent on having them with their beer. Otherwise, I would have bought all that fancy stuff the day before when I picked up their ridiculous Mexican beer at the Food Lion. Elsa just about threw a fit when I said we were finished with the only two limes I bought.
“Two limes?” she asked, “You only bought two limes for all this Corona? Well that won’t do. Neil why don’t you run the market, pick us up some limes?”
“I’ll go too,” said Roberta, “I want to grab a few things for dessert.”
God I just wanted Roberta to be back now.
"It's my turn again already? I'm running out of jokes." I said.
"It's okay. One last one. We'll save the rest for later." She responded.
"Okay, here's a tame one my grandmother used to tell. So there's a couple of barnyard animals out to eat at a restaurant and the waiter says, 'So, what’ll it be?' And the one says, 'I know what I want but I feel sort of dumb ordering it.' And the other says, 'Well I know what I want but I feel sort of fat ordering it.' And after a lot of bickering and back and forth, the waiter finally says, 'Well, if I may be so bold, everyone here is expecting you, sir, to make an ass of yourself and you, sir, to make a pig of yourself, so I'm pretty sure you're in the clear."
"That's cute." And she smiled like a pageant winner: all teeth, no soul.
"Well it's not the best joke, but it's the first one I've ever known, so there it is and that makes it special, I suppose."
After that, we went silent for a while. She sat there on the pool table knocking the cue ball into the 9 ball. I settled into the loveseat I had against the east wall, across from the TV that wasn’t working. It was just that way for a bit and I didn’t really mind it. The sound of the wind beating up against the side of the house and the low rumble of the cue ball on the felt were a lullaby. I could have done without the inevitable clack of the cue against the 9 as they met, but I didn’t want to ask Elsa to stop. I knew that once she was done with the pool balls, she’d want to start up talking again. And sure as I sit here now telling the events of this day, the very second that woman lost interest in the cue ball, she turned back to me.
“So, do you think it’s a hurricane?”
“I think that’s just crazy, now. Hurricanes don’t just appear out of nowhere. People track them. There are warnings. People have jobs where they just sit all day and watch weather patterns. Besides, hurricanes don’t just drop out of the sky. This storm would have come through from somewhere. Chances are if we haven’t heard about this storm coming, it probably isn’t much to worry about.”
“Sounds like something to be worrying about. You hear it out there?”
“Yes, I hear it. I’m not deaf. I hear it. It’s just a lot of wind.”
We went quiet again after that, but the damage had been done. I took off my boots and socks. I rubbed them into the carpet to try to tickle my feet. It was a trick I learned from coach back when I was playing ball. During states, I was cramping real bad, and the salt pills weren’t putting a dent in any of it. Coach said, tickle yourself. It releases a chemical in your brain that soothes you out, he said. I’d been doing it ever since that, anytime I needed a little extra help. Just then, I remembered that we left everything out.
“Shit, Elsa, I have to go bring the stuff in, I’ll be right back.”
“But the food’s probably ruined all anyway.”
“I couldn’t care less about the food, but we got about 50 beers out there, now hold on and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you stay here, I’ll be back.”
I opened the door that leads to the back stairs and heard a high whistling sweeping through the dark. It was drafty and I could already feel that the temperature had dropped some. The truth is, I could give a shit about a few beers, but my own eyes needed to see what was tearing through here.
Before I stepped out, I could almost convince myself that it was just a storm, but crossing the threshold and stepping out, exposing myself to it, I knew this was not ordinary, and my heart beat into my throat.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but when I was able to steal a look around on my way to the cooler, it was the trees that scared me. They were rocking around in that wind like they could be swept away at any moment, bent like overgrown hunchbacks stooping to get under something.
I picked up the cooler and thought to myself, “Please. Dear God, please, let Roberta and Neil get back from the market all right.”
They’d been gone for almost two hours now and there was only about 5 miles to the store from the house. We needed limes for the Coronas because we weren’t anticipating Elsa and Neil being so insistent on having them with their beer. Otherwise, I would have bought all that fancy stuff the day before when I picked up their ridiculous Mexican beer at the Food Lion. Elsa just about threw a fit when I said we were finished with the only two limes I bought.
“Two limes?” she asked, “You only bought two limes for all this Corona? Well that won’t do. Neil why don’t you run the market, pick us up some limes?”
“I’ll go too,” said Roberta, “I want to grab a few things for dessert.”
God I just wanted Roberta to be back now.
Monday, January 5, 2009
This is the Morning
By three, I'll be half-crazy with anticipation.
I like knowing things that nobody else does.
That's why I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone.
Today the world will end.
How?
We will be ripped to infinitesimal shreds by werewolves of neon light.
Big hulking things like you see when you rub your eyes too hard.
They'll come from between things,
like a cut opened on a prizefighter's forehead.
And they'll be a swarm on us.
Little minotaurs breaking us up atom by atom,
they'll shake us free of our hold on life.
Some of us will be spared.
The ones that don't mind skulking where they've always been:
between things.
We'll be turned to the darkness that holds nothing in its place.
We will be the great soup of night.
And even black holes will burn brighter and hotter than we.
I like knowing things that nobody else does.
That's why I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone.
Today the world will end.
How?
We will be ripped to infinitesimal shreds by werewolves of neon light.
Big hulking things like you see when you rub your eyes too hard.
They'll come from between things,
like a cut opened on a prizefighter's forehead.
And they'll be a swarm on us.
Little minotaurs breaking us up atom by atom,
they'll shake us free of our hold on life.
Some of us will be spared.
The ones that don't mind skulking where they've always been:
between things.
We'll be turned to the darkness that holds nothing in its place.
We will be the great soup of night.
And even black holes will burn brighter and hotter than we.
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