To Valerie: On Arrival in ____ County, Ohio,
Wish I’d sent this sooner, but I think I’m leaving. Polish neighbors keep me up nights with their talking, talking. I don’t know what they say, but it’s all vaguely threatening through the wall.
People eat in such peculiar manners. One woman held a fist of french fries the other day, she hoarded some in one hand while she ate from her plate with the other, and those fries weren’t otherwise going anywhere.
It’s nice to talk to you.
Dreams aren’t well. Bit of influenza, bit of Irish coffee, and they look like too-big backyard fireworks. Maybe that’s just when I shut my eyes. I shut them harder now. It would annoy you. I feel like it’s from staring at the sun when we were kids, but I couldn’t prove that.
When I wake up and squint the ceiling is a treasure map. The cracks and stains all lead to fortune, but I’m too tired to follow it, Val. Adventuring is for the child.
For aged, there’s only migration.
I’ll see you in words soon.
Hope all is well,
T.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
On Main, Two am, Wisdom
He’s all wobble. An intoxicated grin wallows on his face, and smudges of pink lipstick kiss the base of his white shirt over the groin. He stumbles like he just bare-knuckle boxed a bear. Victory and swagger in his arms. Moxie and manly in his puffed out chest. He’s experience without memory. Disgrace without shame.
Downtown is emptying. Folks move as a fog.
A car door slams. An engine gargles and spits. A lion with a laryngectomy, it limps off somewhere behind us.
He tells me he’s going to get those girls up ahead to come back with us. He wants to afterparty. He asks if my roommate will be in his bed. Then if we have a spare room. Then if the couch is comfortable enough.
The sidewalk sticks, stinks of cologne and vomit. Above us, the club we just left thumps its last song of the night. Headlights slip around the corner.
He calls himself Cowboy. Wears a Stetson and skin-tight jeans. Once he told me how he and his friend drew check-marks on their bedroom walls each time they got laid.
I pictured spearheads and dying tigers. Flint and pelts. Cave fires.
He pulls out his cell phone. Shows me a picture of a smiling blonde standing in a wood-paneled kitchen. She’s got a hand in her hair, hips jut to one side. He slides a finger over the phone and like a magic trick, her shirt is gone. Same smile. Same pose, topless.
The headlights pass by. He laughs. Pats my shoulder and stumbles ahead.
Like he knows something I don’t.
Downtown is emptying. Folks move as a fog.
A car door slams. An engine gargles and spits. A lion with a laryngectomy, it limps off somewhere behind us.
He tells me he’s going to get those girls up ahead to come back with us. He wants to afterparty. He asks if my roommate will be in his bed. Then if we have a spare room. Then if the couch is comfortable enough.
The sidewalk sticks, stinks of cologne and vomit. Above us, the club we just left thumps its last song of the night. Headlights slip around the corner.
He calls himself Cowboy. Wears a Stetson and skin-tight jeans. Once he told me how he and his friend drew check-marks on their bedroom walls each time they got laid.
I pictured spearheads and dying tigers. Flint and pelts. Cave fires.
He pulls out his cell phone. Shows me a picture of a smiling blonde standing in a wood-paneled kitchen. She’s got a hand in her hair, hips jut to one side. He slides a finger over the phone and like a magic trick, her shirt is gone. Same smile. Same pose, topless.
The headlights pass by. He laughs. Pats my shoulder and stumbles ahead.
Like he knows something I don’t.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Casino Trip - 1
Our trip's only forty miles old, but D turns the big grey wheel of the pickup and we lurch down an exit ramp going a hell of a lot faster than the signs suggest. L had already fallen asleep in the small backseat and gets thrown upward from the inertia. She wakes and bellows something about crashing and braces against my headrest. I cling to the door handle to keep from falling in D's lap, my insides shift, and the world brightens through the windshield. The road, the cars, the grass, are all at once bleached, licked to their white bones—and maybe it’s the valium—but I taste pennies, and the engine and the shouts and the wind just bubble and moan like we dove down a toilet. I'm yanked to my left, almost clean out of my high—and then I'm not—we're out of the turn and just going fast again.
Sorry, D says, have to pee.
L says she refuses to die in Michigan, grabs her purse off the floor, rummages the contents to make sure nothing spilled out.
I see a baseball cap on the center console near the emergency brake and realize it’s mine. Takes a bit of effort but I manage it onto my head and melt back into the leather seat. I finger the air conditioning vent to blow at my new position.
It’s a good ways into a perfectly wasted Saturday. The summer’s just starting to give up. And this afternoon I wake up to L in a black satin dress tapping open toed pumps, putting lipstick on over the kitchen sink—her thick hair in chocolate waves, falling over one side of her face. She doesn’t even look at me, just says we’re going to gamble tonight—and so here we are, skipping dinner and more leftover muscle relaxants to drive to a Detroit casino and piss away our rent.
D checks the gas gauge, then the mirror, fidgets with the radio till it comes back around to the original station, then turns to L in the backseat but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are off the road the whole time.
In any other circumstance I’d be getting nervous.
In the side mirror I see L wipe drool from her cheek. She leans back and stares out her tiny side window.
At the exit we took there’s nothing but trees, mostly in the distance, but also big gangs of them that rush up close to the road with black branches that spark through rigid little leaves. I’m trying to follow one branch every group we pass, rolling my cheek against the leather, straining to keep focus, but all I get is a few crisp moments, photographs that smear as soon as my eyes touch them.
The leaves are falling. It’s funny, I don’t remember from childhood, not specifically anyway, when the leaves are supposed to fall. But early September feels—early. I’d think there’s still time to grow.
Soon the trees are gone. Replaced by gas stations and semis and IHOPs. The air conditioning smells of diesel and asphalt and microwaved chicken. The sight and noise of it shift too quickly, like I’ve been shuffled into an unpleasant dream. Heavy engines idle. Horns growl like dinosaurs. Far off truckers in big overalls and mesh caps slam doors, waddle to their cabs with coffee cups, paper sacks. Their bodies wander the parking lots like clay—too stiff, too fat, too old. They are skeletons, fossils trudging through tar. Not people.
D makes a joke, something about L finding a new man here. She doesn’t respond.
***
Sorry, D says, have to pee.
L says she refuses to die in Michigan, grabs her purse off the floor, rummages the contents to make sure nothing spilled out.
I see a baseball cap on the center console near the emergency brake and realize it’s mine. Takes a bit of effort but I manage it onto my head and melt back into the leather seat. I finger the air conditioning vent to blow at my new position.
It’s a good ways into a perfectly wasted Saturday. The summer’s just starting to give up. And this afternoon I wake up to L in a black satin dress tapping open toed pumps, putting lipstick on over the kitchen sink—her thick hair in chocolate waves, falling over one side of her face. She doesn’t even look at me, just says we’re going to gamble tonight—and so here we are, skipping dinner and more leftover muscle relaxants to drive to a Detroit casino and piss away our rent.
D checks the gas gauge, then the mirror, fidgets with the radio till it comes back around to the original station, then turns to L in the backseat but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are off the road the whole time.
In any other circumstance I’d be getting nervous.
In the side mirror I see L wipe drool from her cheek. She leans back and stares out her tiny side window.
At the exit we took there’s nothing but trees, mostly in the distance, but also big gangs of them that rush up close to the road with black branches that spark through rigid little leaves. I’m trying to follow one branch every group we pass, rolling my cheek against the leather, straining to keep focus, but all I get is a few crisp moments, photographs that smear as soon as my eyes touch them.
The leaves are falling. It’s funny, I don’t remember from childhood, not specifically anyway, when the leaves are supposed to fall. But early September feels—early. I’d think there’s still time to grow.
Soon the trees are gone. Replaced by gas stations and semis and IHOPs. The air conditioning smells of diesel and asphalt and microwaved chicken. The sight and noise of it shift too quickly, like I’ve been shuffled into an unpleasant dream. Heavy engines idle. Horns growl like dinosaurs. Far off truckers in big overalls and mesh caps slam doors, waddle to their cabs with coffee cups, paper sacks. Their bodies wander the parking lots like clay—too stiff, too fat, too old. They are skeletons, fossils trudging through tar. Not people.
D makes a joke, something about L finding a new man here. She doesn’t respond.
***
Monday, September 6, 2010
So, from out of my front door come two girls. I'm smoking on the cement front porch, and they come bubbling out the door smelling like tequila and melted candy. I don't know them, never saw them before, and they're stems, bit young even for a college town. They see me to their left and giggle, wobble, one grabs a handrail for balance.
Hi, they say.
—Hi.
Again, I don't know them, certain D or L don't either, and they've just spilled out my door at 7 pm on a Saturday like some surprise that came with the house—a leaking faucet, broken water heater.
One laughs, stumbles to her right toward the steps, and I tense up, expect to watch her fall sideways and bounce off the sidewalk. She plants her left foot and throws her arms out like she’s walking a tightrope, legs crossed like an ironing board.
I realize I’m doing nothing to help.
The girl not in the process of falling shakes her head and lets it hang loose, face toward the porch. You’re not Ted either, she tells me. She asks where I am hiding Ted.
I could have sworn I locked the back door. And if I did, I have no clue how they got in the house.
I tell them I don’t know Ted. I try to keep from laughing.
The one regains balance and stands straight, leaning her ass against the porch railing. When she does, a strap on her tank-top slips, rides down her bicep and her small left breast leaks out. I can feel my face tighten. My hands reach for my pockets, fingers grasping keys. I look to her friend, give a twitch and motion toward the nipple.
The girl looks to her side and groans, swipes a drunk hand up and cups her friend’s breast. Her face wrinkles like a pillow case.
“What, are you fuckin’ gay?” she demands.
She tells her exposed friend to get down the steps, and they stumble off, apparently disgusted.
The front door opens again, this time D poking his head out. He watches the girls until they disappear, turning down the next street.
“Who the hell is Ted?” he asks.
I say I have no idea.
“Well,” D says, “whoever he is, Ted’s a lucky fucker.”
I say nothing..
Hi, they say.
—Hi.
Again, I don't know them, certain D or L don't either, and they've just spilled out my door at 7 pm on a Saturday like some surprise that came with the house—a leaking faucet, broken water heater.
One laughs, stumbles to her right toward the steps, and I tense up, expect to watch her fall sideways and bounce off the sidewalk. She plants her left foot and throws her arms out like she’s walking a tightrope, legs crossed like an ironing board.
I realize I’m doing nothing to help.
The girl not in the process of falling shakes her head and lets it hang loose, face toward the porch. You’re not Ted either, she tells me. She asks where I am hiding Ted.
I could have sworn I locked the back door. And if I did, I have no clue how they got in the house.
I tell them I don’t know Ted. I try to keep from laughing.
The one regains balance and stands straight, leaning her ass against the porch railing. When she does, a strap on her tank-top slips, rides down her bicep and her small left breast leaks out. I can feel my face tighten. My hands reach for my pockets, fingers grasping keys. I look to her friend, give a twitch and motion toward the nipple.
The girl looks to her side and groans, swipes a drunk hand up and cups her friend’s breast. Her face wrinkles like a pillow case.
“What, are you fuckin’ gay?” she demands.
She tells her exposed friend to get down the steps, and they stumble off, apparently disgusted.
The front door opens again, this time D poking his head out. He watches the girls until they disappear, turning down the next street.
“Who the hell is Ted?” he asks.
I say I have no idea.
“Well,” D says, “whoever he is, Ted’s a lucky fucker.”
I say nothing..
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Unmentionables
Where do we want to eat?—the first words L says upon opening the door, before we can see her, before she can see us or even know if we are home.
D is in his downstairs bedroom, playing a computer game. I’m in the den playing the same game. Neither of us answer.
Outside, the grass is eight inches too high.
Through an open doorway I see L’s keys arc to the couch, strike the cushion with a muted rattle. Following the keys, the clean steel of a stethoscope glints in the window light, lands on the adjacent cushion. Its black tubing uncoils, slumps over the edge. L’s footsteps thud up the out-of-sight stairway. Again she asks where we want to eat, shouts it this time, feigning indignation.
D wants to eat on the moon, he shouts. I yell pizza, take a sip of my soda, lean to my left and readjust the box fan on the floor. It’s no use, only swampy air.
My t-shirt peels from the black desk chair. I stand and stretch. L retreats back down the stairway, cursing at the heat, still in her bright blue scrubs.
At the restaurant we split a fourteen inch. D pays and picks off the pepperoni.
L shouldn’t talk about them, but she does. She calls them Georgie, Grab-Ass, Old Sandra. Ginger, Larry-B, and Witch. All of them, residents at the Crestfield Home where L works nights as a nurse. All of them, disabled in some way. All of them, without family to care.
L shouldn’t talk about them, but she tells us how Witch punched one of the aides and claimed L had done it. How Larry-B wanders from his room at night, screaming, begging for someone to call his long-dead wife, to tell her he’s ready to go home, then pees in the hallway. How Grab-Ass has no legs past the knee, open wounds where they had carved out gangrene all the way to the patella—and how, whenever the nurses roll him to clean or change bandages, his nubby fingers slide up between their legs.
It’s not like he’s dangerous, though, L tells us. She shakes her head. We would be aching for sexual connection, too, in that condition, she says.
Grab-Ass is thirty-seven years old. At least twenty years younger than any other resident. Most suffer dementia, Alzheimer’s, age-related disabilities—but Grab-Ass has his marbles and some measure of youth, L says—just hasn’t got legs, or teeth, or a penis. L says it’s the strangest thing, to have testicles with no apparent penis, some developmental disorder she hasn’t learned the name of yet.
I finish my third slice of pizza and slurp down the last of my soda.
L tips, leaves a few crumpled ones from her pocket, and I drive us home.
In our driveway, an orange cat with bobbed tail sits, blocks my parking spot. D points his finger out the passenger window, hand in the shape of a gun, yells “Bang, Bang, Bang, Kitty!” but it isn’t intimidated. It takes the car horn and few engine revs before the cat saunters out of the way. D and I complain about the cat on and off until nightfall.
Upstairs in my bedroom, the air has cooled. East-facing windows ensure that in the morning, the sheets will be heavy with sweat, and I will spend another day in escape of circumstance, bent in front of my computer screen, chugging soda, box fan at my side. D will tell me his plans to mow the yard, that it will cool down tomorrow, it’ll be the best time to do it.
I sneak a cigarette, perched on the widow sill, breathing smoke into the dark air.
I sleep—and I shouldn’t talk about them—but in my dreams, soft gaunt hands fall upon my chest, young women with thin red hair lean down and drift over me, whisper that it’s ok—and my fingers slip between their legs—and their faces, in changeless granite smiles, welcome me.
D is in his downstairs bedroom, playing a computer game. I’m in the den playing the same game. Neither of us answer.
Outside, the grass is eight inches too high.
Through an open doorway I see L’s keys arc to the couch, strike the cushion with a muted rattle. Following the keys, the clean steel of a stethoscope glints in the window light, lands on the adjacent cushion. Its black tubing uncoils, slumps over the edge. L’s footsteps thud up the out-of-sight stairway. Again she asks where we want to eat, shouts it this time, feigning indignation.
D wants to eat on the moon, he shouts. I yell pizza, take a sip of my soda, lean to my left and readjust the box fan on the floor. It’s no use, only swampy air.
My t-shirt peels from the black desk chair. I stand and stretch. L retreats back down the stairway, cursing at the heat, still in her bright blue scrubs.
At the restaurant we split a fourteen inch. D pays and picks off the pepperoni.
L shouldn’t talk about them, but she does. She calls them Georgie, Grab-Ass, Old Sandra. Ginger, Larry-B, and Witch. All of them, residents at the Crestfield Home where L works nights as a nurse. All of them, disabled in some way. All of them, without family to care.
L shouldn’t talk about them, but she tells us how Witch punched one of the aides and claimed L had done it. How Larry-B wanders from his room at night, screaming, begging for someone to call his long-dead wife, to tell her he’s ready to go home, then pees in the hallway. How Grab-Ass has no legs past the knee, open wounds where they had carved out gangrene all the way to the patella—and how, whenever the nurses roll him to clean or change bandages, his nubby fingers slide up between their legs.
It’s not like he’s dangerous, though, L tells us. She shakes her head. We would be aching for sexual connection, too, in that condition, she says.
Grab-Ass is thirty-seven years old. At least twenty years younger than any other resident. Most suffer dementia, Alzheimer’s, age-related disabilities—but Grab-Ass has his marbles and some measure of youth, L says—just hasn’t got legs, or teeth, or a penis. L says it’s the strangest thing, to have testicles with no apparent penis, some developmental disorder she hasn’t learned the name of yet.
I finish my third slice of pizza and slurp down the last of my soda.
L tips, leaves a few crumpled ones from her pocket, and I drive us home.
In our driveway, an orange cat with bobbed tail sits, blocks my parking spot. D points his finger out the passenger window, hand in the shape of a gun, yells “Bang, Bang, Bang, Kitty!” but it isn’t intimidated. It takes the car horn and few engine revs before the cat saunters out of the way. D and I complain about the cat on and off until nightfall.
Upstairs in my bedroom, the air has cooled. East-facing windows ensure that in the morning, the sheets will be heavy with sweat, and I will spend another day in escape of circumstance, bent in front of my computer screen, chugging soda, box fan at my side. D will tell me his plans to mow the yard, that it will cool down tomorrow, it’ll be the best time to do it.
I sneak a cigarette, perched on the widow sill, breathing smoke into the dark air.
I sleep—and I shouldn’t talk about them—but in my dreams, soft gaunt hands fall upon my chest, young women with thin red hair lean down and drift over me, whisper that it’s ok—and my fingers slip between their legs—and their faces, in changeless granite smiles, welcome me.
What Fall Aren't Leaves
The bedrooms are half painted. The floors—kitchen, bathroom—scuffed already.
L sets a box atop a gravel-colored counter. She wipes dust from her fingers onto sky blue sweatpants. Tiny ants, maybe termites, march in line to the sink drain.
Outside, D thumps an open palm on the worn white door. He is still without his key.
At night, rabbits munch grass and weed alike in the backyard, and a skunk is slickly determined to rummage our trash. I hear the bags tumble as I step to the porch for a cigarette. To my right, the light of the elementary school and nearby street lamps blend to cast a yellow glow on our street corner. The school's glass doors shine. It's 12:17 am, and two children are running its halls.
Flat, wide pods flutter down from our trees. Three of them, behind the house. D tells me they are Maple. Seeds the size of small leaves. Large enough to signal autumn in the mind of a tired smoker. Nature's sleight of hand—but tomorrow will be ninety degrees, as will the day after.
The skunk struts from behind the old garage. I flick the cigarette butt his direction, and he darts to the neighbor's bushes.
L is gone. At T's or R's or M's apartment. Her bedroom door, left open just enough to see that no one's inside.
I don't sleep, and by morning the skunk becomes three different cats—black, orange, gray—and I don't notice but the children are gone, and the school's lights are out, and D shuffles out to the back porch, his eyes, deep stagnant pools. Yes, he tells me, they are definitely Maple trees. See how the seeds resemble torn wings? See how they spin in descent? The whole of the yard, blanketed by seeds.
"The bedrooms are half painted," I say to D.
"None of these are gunna grow," he says.
L sets a box atop a gravel-colored counter. She wipes dust from her fingers onto sky blue sweatpants. Tiny ants, maybe termites, march in line to the sink drain.
Outside, D thumps an open palm on the worn white door. He is still without his key.
At night, rabbits munch grass and weed alike in the backyard, and a skunk is slickly determined to rummage our trash. I hear the bags tumble as I step to the porch for a cigarette. To my right, the light of the elementary school and nearby street lamps blend to cast a yellow glow on our street corner. The school's glass doors shine. It's 12:17 am, and two children are running its halls.
Flat, wide pods flutter down from our trees. Three of them, behind the house. D tells me they are Maple. Seeds the size of small leaves. Large enough to signal autumn in the mind of a tired smoker. Nature's sleight of hand—but tomorrow will be ninety degrees, as will the day after.
The skunk struts from behind the old garage. I flick the cigarette butt his direction, and he darts to the neighbor's bushes.
L is gone. At T's or R's or M's apartment. Her bedroom door, left open just enough to see that no one's inside.
I don't sleep, and by morning the skunk becomes three different cats—black, orange, gray—and I don't notice but the children are gone, and the school's lights are out, and D shuffles out to the back porch, his eyes, deep stagnant pools. Yes, he tells me, they are definitely Maple trees. See how the seeds resemble torn wings? See how they spin in descent? The whole of the yard, blanketed by seeds.
"The bedrooms are half painted," I say to D.
"None of these are gunna grow," he says.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
One Early Digression
To Ronald D. Boire, President and CEO, Brookstone Inc.
I ran over one of your magazines with a lawnmower yesterday. No malice was intended. The wind just walked it into the mower's path. It wasn't purely accidental, though—something I am ashamed to admit. I did have ample time to react, but the youthful anticipation of all that shredded confetti overwhelmed better sense.
A credit to your company: the magazine nearly jammed the blade.
I want to say, it was only afterward that I knew what magazine it was. Lifting the bits of paper from the cut grass, I noticed a large chunk of the cover, the letters—okston—clearly visible.
L. told me that it could only be a Brookstone. D. examined the font and agreed. It was a hard realization.
Important to note: none of us here at 325 N. Summit Street subscribe to your magazine. It was, unfortunately, delivered for a previous tenant, and left on the porch, where the wind cruelly flung it to its fate. Its intended subscriber, a Ms. Allison Kottrise, would want to know its whereabouts, I'm sure. If she happens to leave a forwarding address, I would be more than happy to write and explain the situation, so please feel free to enclose that information in your response.
One last thing: should you, in error, send future issues of your magazine to 325 N. Summit Street, Bowling Green, OH, 43402, L. would be delighted to browse your products. On a shredded corner of page 23, she remarked how ergonomical the UV-C Sanitizing Wand, proven to kill up to 99.9% of certain bacteria on household surfaces, appeared to be. It is exciting to see a normally bulky Ultraviolet sanitizing wand come with such clean lines and a clever hand-grip. Yes, L. is nodding.
Yours,
Jason Woodrow Carnahan
I ran over one of your magazines with a lawnmower yesterday. No malice was intended. The wind just walked it into the mower's path. It wasn't purely accidental, though—something I am ashamed to admit. I did have ample time to react, but the youthful anticipation of all that shredded confetti overwhelmed better sense.
A credit to your company: the magazine nearly jammed the blade.
I want to say, it was only afterward that I knew what magazine it was. Lifting the bits of paper from the cut grass, I noticed a large chunk of the cover, the letters—okston—clearly visible.
L. told me that it could only be a Brookstone. D. examined the font and agreed. It was a hard realization.
Important to note: none of us here at 325 N. Summit Street subscribe to your magazine. It was, unfortunately, delivered for a previous tenant, and left on the porch, where the wind cruelly flung it to its fate. Its intended subscriber, a Ms. Allison Kottrise, would want to know its whereabouts, I'm sure. If she happens to leave a forwarding address, I would be more than happy to write and explain the situation, so please feel free to enclose that information in your response.
One last thing: should you, in error, send future issues of your magazine to 325 N. Summit Street, Bowling Green, OH, 43402, L. would be delighted to browse your products. On a shredded corner of page 23, she remarked how ergonomical the UV-C Sanitizing Wand, proven to kill up to 99.9% of certain bacteria on household surfaces, appeared to be. It is exciting to see a normally bulky Ultraviolet sanitizing wand come with such clean lines and a clever hand-grip. Yes, L. is nodding.
Yours,
Jason Woodrow Carnahan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)