my stuff – Page 3

Some Sort of Weather

“Don’t know why?” she asked. “There’s no sun up in the sky!”

Ms. Potterson pointed anxiously at the clouds that had been cast over our little town of seven hundred thirty-seven for over a month now, sometimes raining down the dogs and cats and sometimes just menacing over like they were going to pick a fight but didn’t have the gall to go for the first shove. It was getting tiresome, to be sure, but what God did with his sky was not for us to judge, and even then some people started to feeling stressed over the whole thing. All I was asking was why she looked so down, but I should’ve known better.

“Stormy weather,” I muttered.

She turned away and gathered one of those children of hers, the rest bundled up in that car outside like they lived out of the old jalopy. She caught me looking at that sad old sight and then turned her back to me, clearly agitated, and walked out. She paused just before stepping out of the shop and into that rain.

“Since my man and I ain’t together… keeps rainin’ all the time,” then she left.

It was getting on and even though the grayness of those days made it tough to separate morning from day and day from dusk, it was clear dark was coming on. I had to start closing up soon but everyone was always waiting ‘til church was up to get out and rush into the shops before they closed. Being close to the only grocery in town made it wrong to lock up too early, and I wasn’t the depriving type.

Barry Johnson, a plumber who lived on Willow (near the old mill before it got tore down back in eighty-eight), he was watching that whole scene with Ms. Potterson and sort of shrugged, because he knew what I knew, which was that folks were allowed to be bothered these days. It was getting tough to get by here in town and only us old people and the kids too young to leave on their own remained. Seeing that kind of gap in a community, whole generations missing like that, well, it made me sad to think about. It was like when there were wars and we lost so many of the young folks, only this wasn’t no war against an enemy, just the times that we were in.

Barry walked up and dropped a loaf of bread and milk on the counter. “Life is bare, gloom and misery everywhere. Stormy weather…” and he trailed off when he heard the cash register ding open. He reached around in his front pockets, to pull out his cash I gathered, but wasn’t coming up with anything. He looked sort of concentrated like he was trying to will the money into his hand. I was worried he wasn’t going to have any cash and I’d have to have another tab on my hands (which ain’t easy to keep track of with so many as I had, try it sometime), but then his eyes lit up and he reached his right hand down into one those big side pockets that his trousers had on them. It was the type those carpenters need for tools and nails and all, and in old Barry’s case it seems it’s where he kept his change.

He chuckled and said, “Just can’t get my poor self together.” I smiled back as he counted the change in his hand and reached out to hand it to me, twisting his face a bit as he did. He’d been having some wrist trouble and I should’ve known to reach over my own self so he wouldn’t strain it.

“I’m weary all the time,” said Barry, then he furrowed his brows like he was trying to remember something as I pulled out his change. Maybe he’d finally remembered that he had my lawn mower (the Craftsman, mind you, not my old Honda that I’d had to use since he borrowed my good one).

“The time?” he asked.

I was tempted to ask about my lawn mower right then, but those kinds of things are better discussed during the week (and I made a note to myself to ask him that following Monday, believe you me). I pointed to the clock on the far wall and he looked over and nodded, then took his change, the loaf of bread, and milk, and put them all in that sack of his. He saluted to me (a queer sort of greeting and goodbye he’d taken to, which I thought was right respectful if anything), and headed out into the rain. As he walked out I noticed the queue was longer than the number of people still picking out stuff, and I quickly pointed Andy over to the door to flip the sign to CLOSED. He had been stacking empty boxes over by the door and was used to waiting for me to tell him when to close as dusk came on.

I then heard a sniffle, and “… so weary all the time.” It was Mrs. O’Haley, mulling over those words of Barry’s. She knew what they meant, given the time she’s had with those medical bills after her daughter, Lorrie, got the back surgery. Poor kid had fallen off a horse. Didn’t help any that her dad was in prison (who is not Mrs. O’Haley’s husband, another gentleman she was with before moving into town), riding out a sentence he got for selling those damn drugs near Johnny’s by the train tracks. He was no good for her, or anyone, but she’d gone on with him probably just like she’d gone on with that old husband of hers, except this time she got saddled with a kid, good kid mind you, and all the tribulations bound to come up.

We got to talking about it once as I helped her move her groceries into her car. “Since he went away, the blues walked in and met me,” she told me. I guess it was more she got to talking and I just moved the bags into the back of her stationwagon, me not being the talking type and all.

“Since he stays away, old rocking chair will get me. All I do is pray the Lord above will let me walk in the sun once more.” Suppose it was sort of poetic, what she was saying then, though not being one for all that flowery nonsense I never did bother with it. It’s just that with the weather we’d been having lately it seemed more appropriate than any thought I’d conjure up.

“Can’t go on, everything I had is gone, since my man and I ain’t together…” and she kept it up until I was done with her bags and clanged the bottom door of the stationwagon shut. She smiled politely and stepped toward her door, sort of stopped to look back at me, maybe to apologize or explain her rambling, I don’t know, then just waved and left. Mrs. O’Haley, young as she was, would find herself a good man. Even if he wasn’t here in town, and if it took her a lifetime, she would.

Anyhow, Lorrie’s surgery had been done in the city. She was sort of mobile now, using crutches and all, and Mrs. O’Haley had told me that the city doctors had told her she’d be having a tough enough time walking let alone riding horses. Poor kid.

Mrs. O’Haley was buying some carrots, peas, noodles, a few chicken breasts, and some bouillon cubes, and as she stacked them her wet coat was dripping water all over the counter. She looked at me exasperated and said, “stormy weather.” I just shook my hand and brought out the old rag I kept under the counter to wipe the drops off .

“Keeps rainin’ all the time,” I told her. “Keeps rainin’ all the time.”

She smiled again, a pretty sort of smile, in a more mature way, and paid what she owed. I was getting her change out and she brought her hand to my arm, patted it gently, and shook her head. We played this every time, me getting her change, and her refusing, telling me to keep it because I’ve been as kind as I have to her, helping her out when I can. At first I was refusing every way I could, of course, but we’d been here for some time now, and I just played my part so she could play hers.

By and by we got through the remaining customers: Mabel Bernstrom (Doc Bernstrom’s wife); Lefty; little Rita Huxley (girlfriend of the captain of our high school’s football team, the Badgers, and in fact same team Andy was on); George Winston; Ms. Durand (one of the few young teachers still in town); and, surprisingly, Lola Baxter. She lived up the block and never, ever came in herself, always asking for Andy to come by and drop off her groceries. She was in her nineties somewhere so we were glad to do it, but now here she was, our last customer and looking as spry as any old body I’d seen in there today, especially with that weather outside.

I grinned as she brought up what she was buying: Happy Soup for the Heart and Soul. It was something we were ordering out of a small business in Cincinnati and I liked the name of it more than anything, but I’d tried it myself more than once and it was right good, so we kept stocking it. They’d recently started putting some kind of songs or something right on the labels, which I got a kick out of even if I wasn’t into that flowery stuff, and sometimes I’d just sit on the box and read the labels when the new shipments came in every month (not many folks bought the stuff, you see).

Lola Baxter came up with two cans, one of which she held onto so she could read: “I walk around, heavy-hearted and sad. Night comes around and I’m still feelin’ bad.” She chuckled and handed it to me so I could put it in the bag for her. She wasn’t even wearing glasses when she did that.

I picked up the other can and read: “Rain pourin’ down, blindin’ every hope I had,” then just sort of scratched my ear and placed it in the bag with the other. It’s amusing that they put this stuff on soup labels, but they ought to at least make it a bit more cheersome. Those particular cans weren’t doing much for my soul, not much at all. But she just shrugged, Lola Baxter did, and whistled as she handed me her coins and I gave her the change. She seemed more cheery than I’d ever remembered, and walked back out into the rain toward her house up the block, her bag held under the big shawl she’d come in with.

Well by the time I’d finished with the customers, Andy’d finished with the rest of the shop. We’d gotten our routine down so good that I never had to tell him anything, that kid. Once we finished he’d usually ride his bike off after work, probably to visit Jean, his girlfriend of some odd years, but today he asked me if I’d give him a ride home. Sure, I told him, and we got into my old Marauder (still sharp and powerful as the day I’d bought her, better believe). Andy lived over on Woods Drive, on the other side of town, so I rightly guessed, I’m sure, that he wouldn’t want to ride a bike around in this rain. I wondered about it as we wrestled his bike into the trunk of my car, which thankfully fit since I’d just cleaned out all the old tools and things that I’d gathered up in there.

We got going and I don’t like guessing about folks so I asked him about it, him needing a ride.

“This pitterin’ and patterin’ and beatin’ and scatterin’…” he said, and I nodded. Some believe rain is a calmative but too much of it has just the opposite effect to my mind. Drives one wacky in the obscene amounts.

“Drives me mad,” said Andy, almost like he was reading my thoughts. He seemed down, more than the usual kind of down most folks were, so I figured I’d change the subject. I asked him how he and his girlfriend were getting on, and if she was going to make it out to see Andy and the rest of the Badgers play against the Wildcats the following weekend (not here of course, but over in Fitchburg, where it wasn’t raining every day). Andy just looked on out the window and didn’t answer right away, and I was going to ask if he’d heard me, but didn’t get a chance to.

“Love, love, love…” he said, real sarcastic. I asked what the problem was and he got into how Jean had broken up with him. I figured they’d had some row over something, but turns out Jean just wanted a boyfriend who had a car.

“Love…” he said, again. “This misery’s just too much for me.” I patted him on the shoulder as we crossed the bridge onto Woods Drive and up to the curb. He thanked me and apologized for being so dreary but I told him to think nothing of it, and not to worry over Jean. He’d find himself a nice, pretty girl in no time at all, football star and good guy as he was. He smiled lopsidedly and then got out, telling me to stay in and keep dry. I surely would miss him when he left to college in a couple years, and probably for good. No reason for a bright kid like that to stick around here.

For the ride home I figured I’d take the scenic route, since I was out on this side of town and all, and I drove up from Woods Drive to Middlefield, which cut through the old cranberry fields and then looped around along the ridge that overlooked the town. From there I could see it all, from the one end of town to the other, all the lights just starting to come on as the last brightness of the day faded down to dark, feeling even darker due to those clouds blocking out any chance of moonshine getting down to us. I hadn’t driven by the way in a while. I remembered how Marie and I used to stop along here for picnics, back in the old days, when we were young and more put together than I was feeling, especially after she passed. It also reminded me of why I stayed, the purpose of it. Some people had diamonds and photographs and such, and I did, too, but I had more than that to help me remember. I had every house and every tree, the whole town, reminding me of those days when we were happiest and the most trouble was getting ice cream off our hands after spending too long kissing out in the sun.

Eventually the road came back down and houses appeared again, until I was in the thick of the old part of town. Houses here were more rundown, though still respectable by any right. I was about to turn onto Randall to head back toward Main when I heard a loud explosion, least it seemed as such, and I was sure the engine had started acting up again, except immediately after I started to feel the road grinding up under my rear end and realized that I had blown a tire. I stopped to look out and sure enough, the rear driver’s side whitewall was out for the count, flat as a pancake. I got out then and went to the trunk to fetch the spare. Of course my rain-addled brain had forgot that the old spare tire was one of the things I’d taken out yesterday, looking to replace it in case a thing such as this happened.

I ran back into the car and sat down then thought for a bit about what I’d do, figuring I’d have to knock on someone’s house here to get to a phone, and that’s when she appeared. Mrs. O’Haley, in the same dress she’d been wearing earlier and an umbrella, was at my window, knocking lightly. I rolled down the window to listen to her explain that she’d heard a loud noise and came out to check, and that the big lavender house on the corner was hers.

“Can’t go on,” I said. “Everything I had is gone.” I pointed out to the empty trunk and she nodded and pulled at my sleeve for me to get on out of the rain. I locked up and followed her onto the porch where we shook off what we could, then she invited me into the hall so that I could use her phone.

“Stormy weather!” I growled, because I’d had just about enough of all this. I didn’t mean to scare her or nothing but I was just plain angry now, angry that Andy’d been broken up with and soup labels had melancholy sayings and Barry was hurting for a proper set of jobs (which you’d think the rain would help with and not make more difficult), that Ms. Potterson and Mrs. O’Haley were alone, and that my Marauder, beautiful car I tell you, was out there getting worn down by all that damn rain. She opened the screen door to the living room and let me in, with me apologizing all the way for being so damn ornery and stepping all over her nice rug that way I was. She told me to forget it and showed me where the phone was.

As I dialed the number she asked if I’d had dinner, and I told her no, though it wouldn’t take me long to cook up some of yesterday’s fried chicken (which I’d bought from Johnny’s because the barbecue and fried chicken were top of the best despite it being a shady place). I think Mrs. O’Haley was going to say something else when Mack at the gas station picked up. I told him I needed a tow from Randall to my place because of that flat, and he said sure, though he’d just sat down to dinner with his two kids. I wasn’t going to go rushing him out here so I told him not to worry, and to come and look for me in front of Mrs. O’Haley’s when he was ready.

I’d just put the phone down when Mrs. O’Haley asked me to stay for dinner. I was feeling right improper just then, imposing on a single lady and all, not to mention making a mess of her nice rug, but Mrs. O’Haley, she wouldn’t have it, and took my hand in hers when she insisted I stop being ridiculous. It was soft, her hand, but sort of foreign, like a warm blanket after it’d been warmed up by someone else. I told her I didn’t feel right, this kind of impropriety, but again she told me not to be ridiculous and that they had more food than they could finish.

“Since my man and I ain’t together,” she said. I sort of pursed my lips and took her hand, which she used to lead and set me at the table in her kitchen. Lorrie came in and smiled, saying she was glad to see me, and apologizing to her mom for not being able to help set the table. Mrs. O’Haley just shushed her and went on about finishing dinner as we sat quietly at the table.

Lorrie and me sat and didn’t speak much for a bit, just listening (least I was) to the pot in the kitchen bubble up, and Mrs. O’Haley clicking her shoes on the tiles as she walked between chopping vegetables and stirring the pot. The sound of the rain outside was getting louder, loudest I’d heard it I think.

“Keeps rainin’ all the time…” said Lorrie, and I nodded.

“Keeps rainin’ all the time.”

The Promise of Prayer

Bert had a nice way about him in bed, but he was moving into territory reserved for years Elsa had yet to experience and at this time did not want to explore. His manners were nice, his eyes pleaded when he didn’t speak. She pleaded, too, but far more openly. There were moments when that felt wonderful.

So, needless to say, she cut him loose.

Elsa tells herself that she will never give a fuck again. She painted it in red spray paint on a wall outside the wood chip factory. She prays in the direction of the wood chip factory when she feels good again. When she drives to work or school she has to pass the wood chip factory and blesses her forehead, chest, and stomach with a light tap from her right index finger. Elsa prays that she will find the strength to be alone.

She keeps a bottle of the worst whiskey in a cabinet in her bedroom, which remains locked at all times. Her roommates, Poe and Mary, would steal her whiskey. They are in a relationship of proximity with one another and Elsa does not trust them to give each other reason, as they are like her in the way of sense. She keeps only one bottle at a time and does not purchase the next until she is done with the extant whiskey. This is a rule that must be kept.

Elsa walks to her classes in denim pants and large sweaters, regardless of season. She doesn’t know any other way. She attends her Poli. Sci. class at nine o’ clock in the mornings of Monday and Wednesday. Bert is in that class and she does say hello to him but only because it would be rude not to. Bert says hello back and seems to portray the very model of masculine stoicism. Elsa accepts this because he will not pester and she will be allowed to concentrate on classes.

In Poli. Sci. the professor’s name is Klein, and Elsa wants to fuck him. She recognizes it as attraction and considers the reasons to herself until he is done pronouncing and declaring before her and, in her imagination, for her. She does not say goodbye to Bert.

Work for Elsa is about pizza. She does not make the pizza, but she does ring up the pizza. Mexican men in the kitchen make it. One, named Alberto, thinks she would be a nice girl for his nephew, whom he calls Humberto. Elsa does not show interest but wonders what he might be like as the nephew of a pizza man.

Elsa goes to work for four hours on Mondays and Wednesdays. She gets asked about the tattoo on her neck frequently, and always by boys. She tells them it’s a dove. She neglects the most interesting part of the story, which is that she got the tattoo to impress the tattoo artist.

Now you know things about Elsa.

She speaks to her manager like he’s the prince of thieves. Respect, but no trust.

-I’m not going to be able to close next Monday.

-Why?

-I have an appointment at the doctor’s after class. I’m sorry.

-One week’s notice? You know to give me two weeks, Elsa.

-Yes. It just came up suddenly.

Her manager shakes his head and brings out a worksheet in triplicate held down by a clipboard.

-You’ll have to ask Allyson to work a double.

-I do?

-It’s your problem to resolve.

Elsa nods and walks out to resume closing the register. She counts the twenties, the tens, the fives, the ones, the fifty cent pieces, the quarters, the dimes, the nickles, and the pennies. Her register is good.

She calls Allyson to ask her if she will please cover her shift the following Monday.

-Yes. I know. I can’t change the appointment. I understand that I owe you. Okay. Bye.

Elsa drives home and opens the cabinet. She sits in bed with her headphones over her scalp and falls asleep when all the whiskey is vanished.

You don’t know this, but Elsa dreams. She dreams that she is running from people and animals. She is always running somewhere and they follow her everywhere so she runs on. She runs from one side of the country to the other and always with different people behind her. She is sometimes wearing a red robe and sometimes nothing at all, except not naked but a floating head, still running ahead of her pursuers. When she stops dreaming, Elsa goes back to sleep.

She rises in her bed with her lips dry and acrid. She removes the headphones before she sees that it is noon and she missed her morning English class. With little time to shower and drive to school she forgoes school and drives to the liquor store for one more bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and drives away with two more. She returns to find Poe on the living room couch, playing a video game.

-What is that?

Poe’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he explains that this is a new game from Japan in which he must successfully date a girl and win her heart.

-Do you have sex with her in the game?

-Yea, but it’s about getting her to love you. Then you have sex.

-What if you just want to have sex?

-That’s not how the game works. If you do the wrong things you fail and start over.

Elsa walks into her room and places one bottle in the cabinet. She takes a towel from her closet and enters the bathroom to run a bath. When the foam is well above the top of the tub she removes her clothes, holds the other bottle of whiskey in her hand, and slides in. The water envelops her. She rests and rubs her free hand over her belly until she dreams again.

The Promise of Prayer

So, needless to say, she cut him loose.

Now you know things about Elsa.

She speaks to her manager like he’s the prince of thieves. Respect, but no trust.

-I’m not going to be able to close next Monday.

-Why?

-I have an appointment at the doctor’s after class. I’m sorry.

-One week’s notice? You know to give me two weeks, Elsa.

-Yes. It just came up suddenly.

Her manager shakes his head and brings out a worksheet in triplicate held down by a clipboard.

-You’ll have to ask Allyson to work a double.

-I do?

-It’s your problem to resolve.

She calls Allyson to ask her if she will please cover her shift the following Monday.

-Yes. I know. I can’t change the appointment. I understand that I owe you. Okay. Bye.

Elsa drives home and opens the cabinet. She sits in bed with her headphones over her scalp and falls asleep when all the whiskey is vanished.

-What is that?

Poe’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he explains that this is a new game from Japan in which he must successfully date a girl and win her heart.

-Do you have sex with her in the game?

-Yea, but it’s about getting her to love you. Then you have sex.

-What if you just want to have sex?

-That’s not how the game works. If you do the wrong things you fail and start over.

Transmission

I need to get going. My car needs to get dropped off at the transmission shop. I need to do it. I gotta go. But let me—just let me talk about this girl I saw yesterday. It was sort of warm. I was south on El Camino looking for a place that sells fresh plums. And rubber necking all over. Headed south, right. I’m driving and, brother, shoot an arrow through my heart. Fuckin’ kill me ‘cause I wanna die with this as the last thing in my head. I see this girl, right. I mean, goddamn. Just kill me. I see this girl riding her bike—old Schwinn, purple or blue—she’s riding but sort of stopped. She’s riding in some sort of figure eight. She’s looking southways through a honkin’ big pair of sunglasses. Forehead to nose sort of thing. She’s not close but I can see she’s got one of those nice noses and mouths. She’s got her lips colored some sort of red. Not real red, but like an orange-red. Goddamn, they were dick- sucking lips if I’ve ever seen them. Thirty feet away I’d say. Her hair was flat and limp-like, like at the beach. Whole thing was like being at the boardwalk when I was a teenager. This girl’s tanned as milk and coffee. Dark hair’s streaming along behind her back and she’s got on not much of anything. Black straps-type thing up top and shorts as short as the tops of her legs. Kind of girl you might say’s got bird legs and she’d get angry over it. So she’s in her figure eight and pedaling in this dreamlike way and looking so damn pretty that I got all twisted up and like nothing would be good again unless I had her. I turn around at the closest U-turn and she was gone. For one last look, you know. I get to my motel and call a girl over for a couple of hours. Still thinking of bird legs and lips. The girl I called shows up and she’s nice, but I stand up and she puts her purse down. I give her the money and she asks right here and I’m nodding, yes, here. She smiles in that fake sort of way so I close my eyes and then I’m back on the street with bird legs and it’s just us. She’s got her big sunglasses on. The sun’s shining off her shoulders and her thighs. It’s all so bright that I block out the shine and I’m just feeling the warmth of her mouth. I’m letting her come at me but then my hands are in her hair. It’s like the man is gone or something. I just want to feel all the way inside so I’m going at bird legs harder and her eyes tear up through her glasses somehow until she pushes me away to catch a breath. She’s got those shorts that she takes off but I just tell her to stay where she is. And those dick-sucking lips, brother, they shine brighter than anything when I put myself back inside and hold her flat beach hair until there’s nothing left of me but sounds I can’t conjure up outside being there with her. I think of her riding home on her bike and tell the nice girl I called that she can go. I give her more before she leaves. Anyway, I really gotta take my car to the transmission shop. I’ll see ya ‘round.

Transmission

The Sea Curse

For Brianna

“Pardon me,” said the fine looking man in his very fine business suit. Dark suit, too, with a bold red tie to call attention to his middles. He had a shining leather case in his left hand that looked like it was bought at a Sears or some place. He was tensing his right hand like his fingers had a score to settle with his palm. I wasn’t sure what such a man would be doing on the bus in the hottest August since that August when a bunch of old people died. It might have been two thousand four, but I don’t think so. Maybe two thousand seven. Back then, the same as now, no man in a very fine suit would be on a bus anyway.

“What?” I asked.

“I have a peculiar itch, here on the back of my arm. Would you mind terribly if I scratched it?”

I was sitting across from the guy. We were at the back and the next closest person was an old Indian lady sitting by herself in the middle next to a big green graffiti. She was wearing one of those frumpy purple dresses with an orange scarf wrapped all around her. Her face was to the front because when you look to the front there’s only the bus driver and there’s little chance of catching his eyes with yours.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” I told the man in the suit. He would have scratched and that would have been that. But he didn’t scratch, and instead of squirming his arm around all funny he started squirming his neck all funny.

“Oh, wonderful, now it’s on my neck. Mind if I scratch it, miss?”

“Do what you want. Don’t need to ask.”

“But I do,” he said. “I wish to God I didn’t. You see, I suffer from a peculiar condition.”

I turned to the front of the bus and told him I don’t care.

“Goodness, you should! You see, my itch gets worse and moves around if people around me show no interest in my itch. It’s a peculiar condition that I have suffered for some time.” He leaned closer to me and pursed his thin, wide lips. “In fact, it’s a magical condition. A sea curse! But, my doctor tells me that it is a fascinating case, and that I may be featured in a journal. He doesn’t believe it to be of magical origins, of course, and insists that it is a psychological condition. I know better. But I must say, it’s rather exciting, truth be told. But yes, the itch itself. It is very troubling, I’m sorry. But please, you need to care about my itch.”

I knew he was crazy as soon as I saw him. No one wears a suit on the bus in August.

“I’m not interested in your crazy itch,” I told him.

He sighed and looked around, then walked toward the Indian lady, trying to explain to her what he’d just said to me. She stared at him blankly and said “no” over and over again until the man in the business suit stood and approached the driver.

They say you shouldn’t walk up to the driver or talk to him, and sometimes that’s not true because what’s wrong with a nice chat? This driver wasn’t having it, though, and the man came back and sat down across from me again.

“Why will no one care about my itch! Miss, please, can you explain why?”

“Your head problems aren’t my problems.” I got up to go sit closer to the bus driver and the old Indian lady and he grabbed my arm and would not let go. His hand was sweaty and now that he was closer I could see he was sweating all over. His face had little bumps running all down to his chin.

“Please, all I ask is that you care about my itch. Please?”

“You get your goddamn hand off me!” I tried to shake him off but he wouldn’t budge. His case fell to the floor at his feet when he leaned to hold on. I pulled harder and he just kept on holding tighter still.

“Oh it’s all across my shin now! Miss, simply tell me that I may scratch! For the love of God. This is the last time I will ask you.”

“Driver!” I yelled. “Stop the bus! This old guy is going crazy.” The old Indian lady stared.

The driver glanced in the mirror and yelled out, “Hey! Let go of her!”

The man in the business suit held tight. He looked at me with a sad expression in his eyes, like his wife had just told him she wanted a divorce. He held on and I stood and tried to get away. All while the bus driver yelled and the old Indian lady huddled in her corner, finally looking frightened as hell, probably more frightened than even I looked.

The bus stopped eventually and the driver opened the doors. He talked into a radio and I couldn’t hear him, but this finally got the man in the business suit to let go and step away. He still looked sad and I just stumbled away to the back, so I never saw him walk to the front and leave the bus. I never even heard footsteps. He simply appeared outside, glanced back at us—at me—and walked away.

The old Indian lady and I looked at each other. Then the driver and I looked at each other. Then he asked me if I was alright, and I said I felt okay. He closed the doors and talked on the radio again. I just sat down and waited for the bus to start again so I could feel the engine and calm down. I wanted to get his face out of my mind, and his thin, ugly mouth. I wanted to get home to Jim.

I looked at the ground and saw that the man in the business suit left his leather case on the ground. The case had slid under the seat. I figured the man in the business suit might want it back, even if he’s crazy, but I was so angry that I decided in that moment that it would be better if I took his stupid case. I don’t know why. I made sure no one was looking and slid the case out onto the stairs for the back exit with my foot.

I did not move the rest of the way. The old Indian lady did not move either. We both stared at the windows, and no one else got on the bus. Outside, it was getting dark. When we arrived at my stop I stood, and the driver asked, again, if I was okay. I smiled to reassure him. The old Indian lady continued to stare at the windows. I stepped to the back and, when they stopped looking, kicked the leather case out onto into the gutter and stepped out after it. The bus drove away, leaving me and the case on the sidewalk.

The case was wide, cracked along the joint where the top flipped open. When I picked it up it weighed what a leather case might weigh, and when I opened it, there was nothing but a few sheets of paper. The smell from the case was strange, sort of like a mildew. I picked up the papers and saw that the inside of the case was lined with a crusty green coat of seaweed. I began to feel strange about all of this. I felt like I felt inside the bus.

The papers were white, but crisp. They had been soaked in water and then dried. There was something written on both sides, in English, and in a strange ink that didn’t run even after it was soaked in water. The lettering was perfect, like art, and I don’t know why I noticed but it looked beautiful. I could tell that each paper was written in a different hand. I could not read it there in the dying light, so I moved to the bus bench beneath a street lamp and sat down.

***

Have you heard the tale of the mermaid beneath the tree? She lies in sleep forever, beneath the sun that dries her wispy hair, beneath the moon that soaks into her flesh, beneath the dirt that takes the life from her and feeds it to the trees and worms and gulls and eagles. Her life was in the ocean, in the cold and frigid waters of the coast so near the man that brought her up to land. She began her life so tiny, a small fragment of a thing, floating among thousands of her siblings to and fro with the ocean’s current. Her mother and father, long forgotten, having floated away, their love momentous and exquisite in its simplicity, a meeting of a pair of long, elegant ocean angels, guided by the moon, their long limbs wisping about, out and in, spreading from the soft and semi-visible bells that were their bodies, propelled to each other not by currents but by will and senses that told them: I see you. They met and felt the jolts, each other’s presence, a natural progression from no presence to presence and then engagement and release, spawning their children, the angels of the ocean, the nonexistent swarms that seldom last above the surface. The mermaid’s mother and father, long forgotten, were the foundation of her universe. The mermaid wandered, lost, taken in by no one but the ocean’s caress and beatings, avoiding the dangers and threats of the predators that lurked about, seeking a quick and easy meal. The mermaid knew none of this, of course. She did not know she was, and did not know they were. As time passed, she changed. The mermaid was released from her small, tentacled form into a larger shape, like her mother and father, small and simple. She grew, then. Grew and grew, larger and larger, seeking out the small creatures in the darkness and drawn only by the ocean’s will and the movement of her small and growing body. Her wisps became longer and longer. The mermaid was pulled along with swarms of others for days, weeks, and as she grew she felt the surge, the call, like her mother and father, like all the others. She felt the jolts in the water and responded to the presence. She engaged and she released, and something happened. Something new, that she could not understand, a great force that overtook her and would never be seen again by anyone, as such things only happen once, if the universe is pleased. She felt. She knew she was. But she was unable to respond to this new type of feeling. She was still an angel of the ocean, still like the rest, except for the feeling trapped within her. The mermaid floated onward, feeling, until at last she floated closer than all of the others to the land, where she was taken, and died, settling on the surface of a swath of seaweed.

***

The man’s mother never knew him, having disappeared days after his birth. The man’s name was Guardia, a child of men, named by his father and grandfather, for they could predict he would be a large and formidable figure. They were slight men and unable to become pillars of the community, as they were only fishermen with no boats of their own. But with Guardia to help them, they would catch many fish, many turtles, many sharks. Guardia grew as they predicted. He grew large and strong, overtaking other rowers even as a boy and going farther and farther out into the reefs with each passing year. In time he became the greatest fisherman the villagers had ever known. With the strength of his back and power of his arms, he fished out giants, beasts with long, spiked noses and thick tentacles that would have choked a lesser man to death. He tore the beasts apart with his hands and beat them back until they lay helpless in his boat. They sold for much in the market, and as they predicted, he brought the family wealth, prosperity, and a standing in the community that was highest of all the people. When it came time to step into manhood, Guardia courted a girl whose family lived in a small house by the shore. He wedded her and took her into his home to be his wife. He loved her and she did as he asked, for he was a man of great standing and earned her love.

***

Ana Vela lived alone and today exists in a place where you and I cannot enter. Her soul was like flowers, and like flowers it had its times of beauty and times of frigid sadness when nothing grew. She showed me her soul many times but never in the frigid times. She would not allow me. So it went that I did not know her well, not in the way that a woman should be known. Even now there are nights when I rise, leaving my slumbering wife alone in bed, and walk out toward the sea. When she asks why I walk out at night, I tell her that the effort of bringing in the day’s catch has fallen on me heavily, or that the meal from that evening did not sit well in my stomach. And my wife, lovely as she is, believes my every word.

Ana lived alone, supporting herself with the meager earnings from shelled and beaded necklaces she sold at the faraway markets, where people bought such things and did not make them with their own hands. She did this endlessly, created and disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, but always returned to her cottage. She mended everything herself, fixed her own roof, fished her own food, and refused men that came to court her even as time passed and lines began to appear along her forehead, at the edges of the seams of her eyes, and her mouth. Many men tried, but she refused them all. It was believed that she had a man in the faraway markets, someone who pleased her and provided her with something the village men lacked. Some said she would become a lonesome witch, but I did not believe in such nonsense. She was simply a woman. My evening walks eventually extended later and later into the evenings. That is the time when I met Ana Vela. She was sitting on a rock far from the village beach, looking into the sand. I did not think it right to meet a woman alone in the evening, whether by chance or as intended, but I would not be rude.

Hello, I told her.

She turned and did not smile initially, but recognized me and showed it with her eyes.

Hello, Guardia, she said. It is a beautiful evening, isn’t it?

Very much so, I told her, but I would advise you to be careful. The tide is high.

Are you worried about me?

I turned to the ocean. I am simply advising, I said. Be wary.

Your name is Guardia, she said. You protect people, your family, and even someone like me, alone out here on a rock, looking at this little miracle.

What miracle? I asked.

She stood and motioned for me to follow and pointed to the sand. I stepped closer and looked over the rock to see a pile of sea grass and a strange shape lying on top of it.

What is this? I asked.

A sea angel. Come here, look.

I stepped closer still, now curious, and saw that it was one of the bloated sea jellies that we so often encountered near the surface. This one was large, several paces across and with long, thin tendrils, the tips wavering in the surface of the water.

She blessed me, said Ana, and I turned to her.

How can this thing bless you?

Ana showed me her arm and revealed a purple mark on her arm. She blessed me before she passed.

You should see the doctor, I told her. You should seek medication.

She did not know, Guardia. She just wanted to feel. But, I will make sure it is attended.

***

He was like the rest of them. He knew little of life outside the village, spoke of fishing and the weather and the latest squabble in the market. But he was strong, and he held much power in the village, and I could see that he would not waver. He called me a fool the night we met. He called me beautiful the night we sat on the same rock, the one nearest to the angel, and discussed his family, the child in his wife’s womb, the world as he described it, full of responsibility and realities that he was concerned with. In truth, his life was more complicated than I imagined. When he asked me of my life, my dealings in the markets at the harbor, I answered simply. I sold necklaces, I stayed at inns, I purchased flutes. He enjoyed my flute collection the night that he came to my house. Like a small boy, he picked them up and played, or pretended to play, and walked around, as if in march with the village musicians. It delighted me to see his mind free of the burdens.

***

What do you see in the ocean? Mermaids or fish?

And why do I have to choose, Ana?

Don’t think about it. If you’re the type who thinks you are going to bore me.

Fish, then.

She stood and removed her dress, beneath which she had not even a strip of clothing. With a smile that was more a girl playing than a woman seducing, she ran and threw herself into the water.

Come here, Guardia. Mermaids are out here. A mermaid is waiting for you, but only in the sea!

***

His lust was evident often as we sat together in my house, sometimes silently or sometimes talking about things that mattered little but filled the space between us. The first night of lust, he came closer, spoke of the beauty of my eyes, my voice, the passion with which I created my products. To him, a simple fisherman after all, it was miraculous. He could not see that my necklaces were his fishing nets and poles. The second night, we sat on stools made of old wooden stumps and looked out at the village, where his wife and unborn child slept. He reached out to me and placed his hand on my thigh, and felt me quiver slightly. He did not remove his hand. The third night, we lay in bed, whispering. He asked me who I am. I told him who he wanted.

***

Her body was cold, even in bed, beneath me. I kissed her face, saw her eyes partially close as I lay on top of her and loved her, entered into her with such passion as I had not felt before. She did not remain silent or still, but called out to me, for me, and in her voice I heard the sea, a hiss and crash that aroused me and lifted me higher, hardened me to painful heights. She wrapped herself around me, pressed her heels into my back, and in her voice I heard a whimper, and knew, then, that I would be bound to Ana. All my accomplishments, my work, my life, would be informed and guided by our every moment, beginning with the blessing, and all else mattered little. We lay together in silence as often as we could, listening to the breaths, pressing our lips against each others’ and in places that I never knew one could kiss. An entire body, all flesh, meant to be adored, meant to be loved

***

Ana passed several weeks after our first night together as man and woman, and every night until then was spent with her. When asked by my wife where I was going at nights, I explained that the night brought fish of such enormity that I would become a king in the village if I could catch them. I began to notice the white sleeve Ana wore, which she scratched frequently.

I asked her to reveal what she hid. Just scratch my arm for me, please? she asked.

This is ridiculous. Show me your arm, I said, and when she did not, I reached out. When I pulled away the white fabric I saw a sickening mass of purple and red flesh. Her blessing, as she continued to call it.

She had been blessed by the angel of the sea. I buried her beneath two trees near her cottage. I was no longer concerned with the village, or their thoughts and gossip. I buried her in a place where her spirit could look across the sea, if she wished it.

***

I died with him at my side. Farther still, I could hear the angels in the water.

***

It was cold. I was shivering, and I thought I could hear the ocean somewhere, but it couldn’t be because I was nowhere near it. I thought I could feel my arm itch. I put it out of my mind and put the papers back in the case. The walk home was quiet. Sometimes a dog, sometimes the sound of a passing car, and oddly, no people. When I arrived, Jim was in the living room, watching a sitcom. I could hear the laugh track. Everything sounded like the ocean.

I wanted to fall apart.

He called out. “Anna, that you?”

“Yes. Hi, honey. Sorry I’m late.”

“I was getting worried. You alright?”

“Yes,” I was alright. I no longer wanted to tell him about the man on the bus, or the case, or the mermaid, so I placed it in the linen closet and went to the living room. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. We watched television. I felt an itch on my arm.

“Jim. Scratch my arm, please?”

“Hm?” I gestured to my left arm. He reached out and scraped his fingers across my skin. I felt better.

I dreamt I was a jellyfish. My tentacles were long and beautiful, and instead of trailing behind me they enveloped me, like the hair of a medusa, like the seaweed along the bottom of the ocean. I could not do anything besides move with the current. My body quivered and bulbed in and out, and I glowed when light from the surface shone down on me. There was no thinking. Just being and feeling.

I woke up soon after the dream and sat in the living room. I could hear the ocean again. It washed in and out of the space, like the indecisive wind. My thoughts were scattered and I felt like I needed to look at the papers again. I pulled them out and noticed something I had missed before when I was in the darkness. It was a pen. It was small, worn, made of some kind of wood. The tip appeared dry but left a sharp dot on the back of my hand. The dot looked like it soaked into my skin so deeply that I doubted I would ever be able to remove it. The man in the business suit’s words came back to me: sea curse. I don’t think he understood.

I pulled out the last sheet of paper and looked at it. The words were there. I could feel them even if I could not see them. I took the pen in my hand and wrote.

A blessing.

The dot made me sleepy, and I returned to bed. The ocean whispered to me all the while.

Glass

“One and a quarter.”

He paid with a one, two dimes, and a nickle. It was offered as a pious man gives penitence. He wouldn’t have been out of place before an altar of the church. The clerk accepted the currency and parsed each piece into its compartment. He watched as his money returned to the fold and sighed on the inside. He took the brown paper bag and exited the store.

“Parsimonious fuckery,” he said, staring off toward the lake. He needed to walk several miles to return to the den he shared with three other men and two women. His sleeves hung loosely and draped over his hands like drags of meat at a marketplace. The bag became partially absorbed in his clothes. He was a walking rag. No pigeons flew in the open when the wind was high and he walked. People in overcoats stepped around him. His dominance of the sidewalk cleared a path to Michigan.

“I… I’m as tired as my old balls.”

The rains threatened him like everyone else did.

His knees wobbled when the wind rose up out of Randolph Street. He stepped behind a corner and inhaled. He inhaled several times. Two minutes, three minutes, seven. He pressed against the building. It felt to him like he was drowning. He inhaled again and stopped when he nearly dropped the bag onto the ground.

“Jesus, mother of Mercy. Jesus cry.”

The wind continued. He turned onto Randolph and walked east. He could feel Etta already. She always waited for him. They slept together, her with her large breasts to his back and his coat wrapped around her. He walked to Etta’s warmth.

The birds all stayed out of sight when the winds were bad. They hid in cracks and corners. Sometimes, some damn fool bird didn’t hide. It died.

His old coat was nice for hiding inside of. Himself and all manner of things. His old flask that he washed with gutter water. A turban of cotton. Candy from the store. Forks, spoons. A knife he found once by the yacht harbor. He took it, assumed ownership. His pants worked as pants and this season’s winter boots were rubber. Those he bought off of Rory, who wasn’t at the den this season. He died.

There were cars lined up at Michigan Ave. Eye to eye cars. He crossed between them. The crosswalk sign holders held up a hand and made him stop. There were kids in bright puffy jackets and their parents. There were runners in spandex. There were suits and more overcoats.

He walked under the crossway where it was dark, to the same building and the same gap between the concrete foundation pylons. He walked further in with his hands against the cold and wet walls until he saw the light from the fire. He looked for Etta first and saw her. She was bundled. Her hat was on down her face so that most of her eyes weren’t there. All the rest but Finch were around the fire.

He walked over to Etta and sat.

“Didja, didja get it?”

“Yeap, I got it here.”

He lifted the paper bag and handed it to Etta. She ripped it open and held the bottle in her hand. The aspirin clinked as she shook it.

She grinned wide.

“You’re good to me, Jeffrey.”

He leaned in and kissed her wrinkled temple.

“Remember to save the bottle.”

Glass

“One and a quarter.”

“I… I’m as tired as my old balls.”

The rains threatened him like everyone else did.

“Jesus, mother of Mercy. Jesus cry.”

The birds all stayed out of sight when the winds were bad. They hid in cracks and corners. Sometimes, some damn fool bird didn’t hide. It died.

He walked over to Etta and sat.

“Didja, didja get it?”

“Yeap, I got it here.”

He lifted the paper bag and handed it to Etta. She ripped it open and held the bottle in her hand. The aspirin clinked as she shook it.

She grinned wide.

“You’re good to me, Jeffrey.”

He leaned in and kissed her wrinkled temple.

“Remember to save the bottle.”

The first thing

The first thing about this girl is her nails. They are coated in glitter. It’s the gold kind. Next, her red hair. Simple braidwork, loose travel strands. Then her face. She’s pretty and about sixteen years old. She’s the slightest presence in the world seated next to me. Her knees are like twigs.

She commences to do phone things and I turn to a book. It’s to do with a young woman coming into her own as a passionate, desirous person. She’s desired by various members of my gender, as is the way of things. Her thoughts interest me more than her actions.

Some hours in I’ve placed my book in the seat pocket. My shoulder aches. I’m well aware of the activities of those around me even as I feign interest in the flashing red light outside the window. The kid in front of me is flying a F-18 beneath his reading light. His dark-haired mother is asleep. Behind me I can hear the muffled laugh track of the sitcom playing on the overhead televisions. The girl next to me has been doodling on her left arm. She lifts it toward the seat ahead of her with her fist clenched.

-Do you do tattoos?

She laugh-sighs and retracts it to the safety of her lap.

-Oh, no. I’m just bored.

-And you’ve run out of space.

-Yea, I guess so.

-It’s good work.

-Oh, thank you.

-Can I ask you a favor?

She hesitates as anyone with sense should.

-Um, okay.

-Would you draw something for me?

-Oh, well I don’t have anything to draw on.

There’s a barf bag peeking out from the seat pocket. It isn’t what I had in mind.

-Well.

I lift my right sleeve to show her my wrist.

-What do you think? Nothing fancy.

She smiles and nods.

-Are you sure? I’m not an artist or anything.

-Sure am.

-Okay then.

-Cool.

She lifts her pen over the tendons and pauses.

-What kind of drawing?

-Anything. Whatever looks good to you. Like yours.

She presses the ballpoint to my skin and proceeds.

We discuss destinations, things we do as she works on my arm. She plays water polo. She started four weeks ago and still finds it difficult to stay afloat with the strength of her legs. I used to swim until the autumnal downpours. My shoulder really bothered me when I was in the water for too long.

I watch her glittery fingers work across my skin. The designs are reminiscient of Japanese whirlpools.

-Do you only draw on arms?

-Sometimes on my notes.

-You should try a blank canvas. This is good work.

-Maybe.

-At least now I know what I’ll look like when I get drunk and wake up with a tattoo on my wrist.

And she laughs.

When she finishes she removes the phone from her bag and photographs the elaborate piece on her arm. She turns to me.

-May I?

I lift my right wrist into the light. She captures a portion from my lower palm to the first quarter of my forearm. The ink has begun to lose its shimmer. She may have drawn an ornate octopus.

I look at my wrist in the light.

-This is awesome. Thank you.

-Your welcome.

She returns the phone to her bag. I lay the back of my closed hand on my book and stretch my neck toward the ceiling.

I glance at my wrist when we’re off the plane and she’s gone. I listen to the clipping feet and conversations. I think of her in a busy parlor with a tattoo needle in hand. I start to feel fatherly of her. She’s going to go through things and I want her to make it to the other side.