Tag: my stuff

Frayed seams won’t come loose unless we pick at ‘em. This old seat, blue vinyl as cracked as my daddy’s feet, it’s our sea. Road’s lookin’ dull as a swamp, air hazin’ up. She likes it, the heat, just not the dry kind. Likes the sweat of it, you understand. Her head’s been on my shoulder since Truth or Consequences. Her legs are up next to her butt, curled like a crawdad. She’s got her toe nails done up in gray shine. Even got a pretty red dress on.

It’s tirin’ to my head. This drivin’ hot at night. We been coastin’ free since Santa Fe but it’s gonna get tough, gonna get real bad. In Mexico, if you ain’t dead you’re free.

Phoenix’s got this thing about lights. They don’t turn ‘em off at night, but they do somethin’ to make the stars shine brighter’n most big cities. It’s like the deserts all around there. I wanted to go there, find us a nice place to stay, somethin’ near a green park wasn’t all dried out. Took a bit of talkin’ for me to see that would be a damn dumb thing to do. Too many people, too many cops ‘n robbers. We ain’t bad, we don’t mix in right with any lot. Not the good folks, or the bad folks. We’re folks lookin’ for a little peace, somethin’ right in the world. Killin’ a man is like the way nature had it planned for us. You kill someone if you got to, steal if you got to, run if you got to. Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it. It’s on us, my girl ‘n me.

We’re runnin’ to Bisbee first. Quiet, way out on it’s own. We saw it on the map ‘n I remembered the name from an old movie. I didn’t say which because it was a cowboy movie, but hey, a place is a place. We’ll need to get situated a bit ‘n get ready for Mexico. Says she ready for it, but I don’t know. It ain’t no cake walk down there unless we got money, ‘n there ain’t much in that sad little purse of hers. Got all scraped up so it looks like an animal took to it. She’s got our lives in that purse, I’ve got our lives in this car.

If it ain’t the right thing to do, it’s the only thing. I’m gonna see us through the desert ‘n to the ocean where she won’t be worryin’ so much. I might find us some nice little jobs, un poquito bueno. See, my Spanish ain’t so bad either.

It’ll be alright. Gotta speak that way in some circumstances. It’ll be alright.

Frayed seams won’t come loose unless we pick at ‘em. This old seat, blue vinyl as cracked as my daddy’s feet, it’s our sea. Road’s lookin’ dull as a swamp, air hazin’ up. She likes it, the heat, just not the dry kind. Likes the sweat of it, you understand. Her head’s been on my shoulder since Truth or Consequences. Her legs are up next to her butt, curled like a crawdad. She’s got her toe nails done up in gray shine. Even got a pretty red dress on.

It’s tirin’ to my head. This drivin’ hot at night. We been coastin’ free since Santa Fe but it’s gonna get tough, gonna get real bad. In Mexico, if you ain’t dead you’re free.

Phoenix’s got this thing about lights. They don’t turn ‘em off at night, but they do somethin’ to make the stars shine brighter’n most big cities. It’s like the deserts all around there. I wanted to go there, find us a nice place to stay, somethin’ near a green park wasn’t all dried out. Took a bit of talkin’ for me to see that would be a damn dumb thing to do. Too many people, too many cops ‘n robbers. We ain’t bad, we don’t mix in right with any lot. Not the good folks, or the bad folks. We’re folks lookin’ for a little peace, somethin’ right in the world. Killin’ a man is like the way nature had it planned for us. You kill someone if you got to, steal if you got to, run if you got to. Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it. It’s on us, my girl ‘n me.

We’re runnin’ to Bisbee first. Quiet, way out on it’s own. We saw it on the map ‘n I remembered the name from an old movie. I didn’t say which because it was a cowboy movie, but hey, a place is a place. We’ll need to get situated a bit ‘n get ready for Mexico. Says she ready for it, but I don’t know. It ain’t no cake walk down there unless we got money, ‘n there ain’t much in that sad little purse of hers. Got all scraped up so it looks like an animal took to it. She’s got our lives in that purse, I’ve got our lives in this car.

If it ain’t the right thing to do, it’s the only thing. I’m gonna see us through the desert ‘n to the ocean where she won’t be worryin’ so much. I might find us some nice little jobs, un poquito bueno. See, my Spanish ain’t so bad either.

It’ll be alright. Gotta speak that way in some circumstances. It’ll be alright.

It is the middle of the afternoon, about three o’ clock. Two students are walking along a wooded path.  It is a twisted path, leading this way and that, and is a popular place for people from the nearby college to spend hours ruminating over the mysteries of school, life, and the universe.  The two students walk side by side and the woman on the left is shorter than the other.  That one wears a pair of pink sweat pants and a yellow t-shirt.  The taller woman has dark chestnut hair, long and tied back over her gray shirt and matching shorts.

“Hey Julie,” says Robin in the sweat pants.

“Yea,” says Julie in the shorts, then adds, “what?”

“What do you suppose that man over there is doing?” She points to the pond sixty feet away under the far-reaching limbs of the poplar trees.  Their branches are ripe with a year’s worth of foliage, drooping low and ready to burst before the arrival of the autumn season. Leaves are reluctantly dying all around, settling on the surface of the water.

“He appears to be fishing,” says Julie.  Robin and Julie slowly walk by the pond, both of them looking at the man sitting on the fallen tree on the far end of the pond. His shoes are absent and the sleeves of his shirt are also notably missing. It is difficult to see his face as he is looking downward toward the water with great intensity.

“He looks to be in thrall. Are people mesmerized by fishing?”

“It’s possible.”

They approach the man and eventually stop, lightly catching their breath so as to not appear to need to breathe.

Julie is the first to regain her voice, and asks, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. Watching a man catch fish?” says Robin.

Julie looks at Robin and shakes her head. “Well, he’s not catching fish. He’s just sitting there.”

“So we’re watching a man sit, then,” says Julie.

“In a manner of speaking, but look at his hands. They are sorrowful hands.”

“He does seem despondent. Perhaps he intends to jump in.”

“Because his lover left him. Yes, I see it in the slump of his shoulders. He needs human sympathy. A sign that he is a member of the human comedy.”

Julie smiles and says, “Yes. Let’s inquire.”

They approach the young man sitting on a fallen tree alongside the pond.

“Excuse me, sir?” says Robin. The man turns to look at the two women standing behind him.

“Yea?” he says.

“May we ask, what are you doing?”

The young man looks forward again, then lowers his eyes to his pole. He turns back and lifts his fishing pole higher

“What’s it look like?” he says.  They shrug.

“Contemplating suicide?”

“Grieving?”

He looks at them, turns back to the water, and points.

“I lost my shoes.”

Robin chuckles. “Goodness, we thought you were despondent over the loss of a woman.”

“I’m alright with that,” he says. “I just don’t see why she had to go and throw my shoes into the water.”

It is the middle of the afternoon, about three o’ clock. Two students are walking along a wooded path.  It is a twisted path, leading this way and that, and is a popular place for people from the nearby college to spend hours ruminating over the mysteries of school, life, and the universe.  The two students walk side by side and the woman on the left is shorter than the other.  That one wears a pair of pink sweat pants and a yellow t-shirt.  The taller woman has dark chestnut hair, long and tied back over her gray shirt and matching shorts.

“Hey Julie,” says Robin in the sweat pants.

“Yea,” says Julie in the shorts, then adds, “what?”

“What do you suppose that man over there is doing?” She points to the pond sixty feet away under the far-reaching limbs of the poplar trees.  Their branches are ripe with a year’s worth of foliage, drooping low and ready to burst before the arrival of the autumn season. Leaves are reluctantly dying all around, settling on the surface of the water.

“He appears to be fishing,” says Julie.  Robin and Julie slowly walk by the pond, both of them looking at the man sitting on the fallen tree on the far end of the pond. His shoes are absent and the sleeves of his shirt are also notably missing. It is difficult to see his face as he is looking downward toward the water with great intensity.

“He looks to be in thrall. Are people mesmerized by fishing?”

“It’s possible.”

They approach the man and eventually stop, lightly catching their breath so as to not appear to need to breathe.

Julie is the first to regain her voice, and asks, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. Watching a man catch fish?” says Robin.

Julie looks at Robin and shakes her head. “Well, he’s not catching fish. He’s just sitting there.”

“So we’re watching a man sit, then,” says Julie.

“In a manner of speaking, but look at his hands. They are sorrowful hands.”

“He does seem despondent. Perhaps he intends to jump in.”

“Because his lover left him. Yes, I see it in the slump of his shoulders. He needs human sympathy. A sign that he is a member of the human comedy.”

Julie smiles and says, “Yes. Let’s inquire.”

They approach the young man sitting on a fallen tree alongside the pond.

“Excuse me, sir?” says Robin. The man turns to look at the two women standing behind him.

“Yea?” he says.

“May we ask, what are you doing?”

The young man looks forward again, then lowers his eyes to his pole. He turns back and lifts his fishing pole higher

“What’s it look like?” he says.  They shrug.

“Contemplating suicide?”

“Grieving?”

He looks at them, turns back to the water, and points.

“I lost my shoes.”

Robin chuckles. “Goodness, we thought you were despondent over the loss of a woman.”

“I’m alright with that,” he says. “I just don’t see why she had to go and throw my shoes into the water.”

Taking possession is a matter of laying one’s hands on one’s genitals. Similarly, laying one’s hands on a partner’s genitals. In the case of men, the flaccid penis and loose scrotum may be held in the hand and massaged between the fingers and palm. With women, rubbing one’s hand over the labia may suffice, but insertion of a finger or two into the vagina is a more definitive action.

This information is not relayed to either of the two young people lying in a field at the age of thirteen, and so they do not touch after sex, but instead lie together and physically apart. In the space of fifteen minutes they both lose what is commonly referred to as virginity, or purity, or innocence. The fall from grace is sudden. There is no uplift, no rise to glory. There is an acquirement of sensory knowledge. When the two young people dress, they do not watch each other. When they see each other again they have nettles in their hair and clothing. One of them gathers the blanket and they walk together, having finally made contact again at the joining of their hands.

In the field, which is in a rural locality near you, there was once a forest. It was removed in favor of farm land. The young people are unaware of this. They do not consider that the grass on which they briefly fornicated was not always there. The grass, soil, and layers of rock below them contain generations of decayed material. As a measure of sanitation, they wipe the lubrication they produced on the grass. Their material joins the fertile, barren land.

They walk in silence and occasionally smile. All questions of comfort and current state of being are past. They avoided the midday heat, but there is a pleasant warmth which engulfs them. It will take on special meaning for them, as will the land they know of in their memories.

Taking possession is a matter of laying one’s hands on one’s genitals. Similarly, laying one’s hands on a partner’s genitals. In the case of men, the flaccid penis and loose scrotum may be held in the hand and massaged between the fingers and palm. With women, rubbing one’s hand over the labia may suffice, but insertion of a finger or two into the vagina is a more definitive action.

This information is not relayed to either of the two young people lying in a field at the age of thirteen, and so they do not touch after sex, but instead lie together and physically apart. In the space of fifteen minutes they both lose what is commonly referred to as virginity, or purity, or innocence. The fall from grace is sudden. There is no uplift, no rise to glory. There is an acquirement of sensory knowledge. When the two young people dress, they do not watch each other. When they see each other again they have nettles in their hair and clothing. One of them gathers the blanket and they walk together, having finally made contact again at the joining of their hands.

In the field, which is in a rural locality near you, there was once a forest. It was removed in favor of farm land. The young people are unaware of this. They do not consider that the grass on which they briefly fornicated was not always there. The grass, soil, and layers of rock below them contain generations of decayed material. As a measure of sanitation, they wipe the lubrication they produced on the grass. Their material joins the fertile, barren land.

They walk in silence and occasionally smile. All questions of comfort and current state of being are past. They avoided the midday heat, but there is a pleasant warmth which engulfs them. It will take on special meaning for them, as will the land they know of in their memories.

“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”

“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”

The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.

“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.

“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Says you.”

They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.

“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”

“I might want something else.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”

“Some things are just expected.”

“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.

“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”

“It’s in my head.”

“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”

“Of course. Where else?”

They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.

“I don’t understand being hurt by a relative stranger’s rejection.”

“In this world, we care more about strangers’ opinions. They are less biased.”

The supermarket aisle, the breads one, was full of smell. Margaret sniffed. Seven steps behind her was the wiry young suitor, whose name was Jorge. They knew each other’s naked bodies and so they were not strangers in that sense.

“But, who gives a shit? It’s nobody important in life. It’s a fly. Sometimes you swat, sometimes you don’t. There is no consequence.” His hands held a loaf of tough sourdough. It smelled ripe. He placed it in the plastic shopping cart he pulled along behind him.

“The fly dies. Isn’t that a consequence?” Margaret was inspecting a series of blueberry loaves. Her hands glided along the plastic, all seemingly identical. She chose one. She smiled at Jorge as she walked toward him. “We aren’t flies, anyway. Your comparison is stupid.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Says you.”

They rejoined and commenced into the grains aisle to look for acceptable rice. Margaret’s manicured nails tapped on cardboard boxes. Yellow flashes in Jorge’s eyes as he watched her meander from one to another.

“You always choose the same one.” He reached out and grabbed a box. “Near East Rice Pilaf Spanish Rice. Done.”

“I might want something else.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t even ask.”

“Some things are just expected.”

“Like rice.” She picked up the box in the cart, read its words. Satisfied, she returned the box and took control of the cart.

“I think that’s it. We should bring lists.”

“It’s in my head.”

“Everything, Jorge? Everything you need is in your head?”

“Of course. Where else?”

They walked together toward an empty register. His heels struck first, struck hard. The space between his strides was long and precise. She flowed beside him. Somehow, they kept in step.

“I am here.”

“In the hallway?”

She laughs hysterically. “Not in the hallway.”

Her voice shifts and I know she’s moved. I feel compelled to charge around like a bull, swinging my arms and huffing big sighs everywhere. I would knock down the pictures hung in dark mahogany frames. The vase on the small table next to the kitchen entry would undoubtedly be shattered. I might clip my wrist against the low ceiling fan. These things I can live with. I don’t do it because I might accidentally hit her.

“You’re leading me into a wall. I’ll break through a wall if I have to.” I often think I can punch through things that I probably cannot. It happens when nothing of me has ever been broken.

I can feel that sunlight is streaming in, somehow, through the thicket of still bare branches that hover in air outside of our oversized living room window. My bare knee bumps the quilted arm of our corduroy couch, the one purchased from a couple who advertised on craigslist. We never met him, but she was there when we picked it up and loaded it onto the rented pick-up truck. She was very loud, joking bawdily the way I only know men to do. I imagined her working at a bar but I never did ask. When we dragged the couch out she didn’t mind that we knicked a doorframe with the wooden corner of the couch. We drove away sweaty, as this was in the summer, and took a nap on it together before it was even off the truck. We slept too long and I browned a bit while she tomatoed. I touched her even when she complained.

The couch was the thing we bought together. Everything else, furniture and electronics and even toiletries, belonged to one or the other. Even the bed was mine before it was ours. That kind of thing you just get so used to that you never want to change it.

I don’t walk with my arms out, like an idiot. I keep them low but do not stoop my back. I listen for little signs in the air, like feeling ripples in water. The bookshelf is on my right if the couch has just been on my right and I know that the bedroom is close, but she will not be there. Too obvious. I turn instead toward the garage. When I step inside I hear a shuffle and smile.

“You are predictable.”

“Am I?” It comes from outside. She’s in the yard. She wants to play outdoors.

Old oil and grit seep into the spaces between my toes until I am on the other side of the garage, by the door. I listen again. It is country silent. Bird calls and insect flight, but nothing else. I pause for a moment to consider the neighbors but overcome the nag to take a step onto the concrete. It is warm for a spring day. It feels moist. Still rigid in posture, I step out onto the path and listen again. I could walk straight ahead onto the lawn but feel threatened. It is more unpredictable outside. The lawn and its mushrooms, crab grass, dog and raccoon shit. Our dog might be around but he usually wanders into the field next to our property during the day. She knows this. Otherwise, he would give her away.

For now, I remain on the concrete. I follow the edge, feeling the drop-off into the grass with my toes. A breeze caresses the mane I’ve been threatening to cut for weeks to tease her. She prefers it long. In winter, when I stop shaving and allow my hair to become truly wooly, we pretend we live in Alaska. I step on a sharp rock and yelp out, “tshit!” She laughs again and now I know she’s out near the edge of the lawn, nearest to the field.

“I’m glad my pain amuses you!”

“Do you see me?” she asks, and I turn away from her obvious direction.

“I sense you.”

I hear her soft footsteps, each one further than the last. My arms tense as I step onto the prickly grass.

“Where you are is here. When you jump, I hear.” I say silly shit and walk toward her. The edge of the lawn is marked by a series of pink concrete blocks, and beyond them is rough grass, twigs, rocks, and probably dead things. Though consumed by darkness, I feel everything. She wanders into the field, where I know she will stay and wait. Knowing is the thing we give each other.

Every step is careful. I hope she doesn’t see me stoop a little as I step on some sharp things.

“I am here.”

“In the hallway?”

She laughs hysterically. “Not in the hallway.”

Her voice shifts and I know she’s moved. I feel compelled to charge around like a bull, swinging my arms and huffing big sighs everywhere. I would knock down the pictures hung in dark mahogany frames. The vase on the small table next to the kitchen entry would undoubtedly be shattered. I might clip my wrist against the low ceiling fan. These things I can live with. I don’t do it because I might accidentally hit her.

“You’re leading me into a wall. I’ll break through a wall if I have to.” I often think I can punch through things that I probably cannot. It happens when nothing of me has ever been broken.

I can feel that sunlight is streaming in, somehow, through the thicket of still bare branches that hover in air outside of our oversized living room window. My bare knee bumps the quilted arm of our corduroy couch, the one purchased from a couple who advertised on craigslist. We never met him, but she was there when we picked it up and loaded it onto the rented pick-up truck. She was very loud, joking bawdily the way I only know men to do. I imagined her working at a bar but I never did ask. When we dragged the couch out she didn’t mind that we knicked a doorframe with the wooden corner of the couch. We drove away sweaty, as this was in the summer, and took a nap on it together before it was even off the truck. We slept too long and I browned a bit while she tomatoed. I touched her even when she complained.

The couch was the thing we bought together. Everything else, furniture and electronics and even toiletries, belonged to one or the other. Even the bed was mine before it was ours. That kind of thing you just get so used to that you never want to change it.

I don’t walk with my arms out, like an idiot. I keep them low but do not stoop my back. I listen for little signs in the air, like feeling ripples in water. The bookshelf is on my right if the couch has just been on my right and I know that the bedroom is close, but she will not be there. Too obvious. I turn instead toward the garage. When I step inside I hear a shuffle and smile.

“You are predictable.”

“Am I?” It comes from outside. She’s in the yard. She wants to play outdoors.

Old oil and grit seep into the spaces between my toes until I am on the other side of the garage, by the door. I listen again. It is country silent. Bird calls and insect flight, but nothing else. I pause for a moment to consider the neighbors but overcome the nag to take a step onto the concrete. It is warm for a spring day. It feels moist. Still rigid in posture, I step out onto the path and listen again. I could walk straight ahead onto the lawn but feel threatened. It is more unpredictable outside. The lawn and its mushrooms, crab grass, dog and raccoon shit. Our dog might be around but he usually wanders into the field next to our property during the day. She knows this. Otherwise, he would give her away.

For now, I remain on the concrete. I follow the edge, feeling the drop-off into the grass with my toes. A breeze caresses the mane I’ve been threatening to cut for weeks to tease her. She prefers it long. In winter, when I stop shaving and allow my hair to become truly wooly, we pretend we live in Alaska. I step on a sharp rock and yelp out, “tshit!” She laughs again and now I know she’s out near the edge of the lawn, nearest to the field.

“I’m glad my pain amuses you!”

“Do you see me?” she asks, and I turn away from her obvious direction.

“I sense you.”

I hear her soft footsteps, each one further than the last. My arms tense as I step onto the prickly grass.

“Where you are is here. When you jump, I hear.” I say silly shit and walk toward her. The edge of the lawn is marked by a series of pink concrete blocks, and beyond them is rough grass, twigs, rocks, and probably dead things. Though consumed by darkness, I feel everything. She wanders into the field, where I know she will stay and wait. Knowing is the thing we give each other.

Every step is careful. I hope she doesn’t see me stoop a little as I step on some sharp things.