ogeron

The truth was that she didn’t know how she felt, though that sounded silly and girlish. After all, if she didn’t know how she felt, who would? No, she had to decide exactly how she felt. She thought first about his touch and about how it had begun to feel tired and old. She had nothing against age, but this was different. Old was different. He seemed, too, to be less sure, less assertive. He waffled, sometimes, though he called it being “more thoughtful.” She always despised him – yes, despised – when he lost his confidence, acted weak, acted needy. Why the hate? Why so strong? Maybe because she didn’t want to be here and that made it even worse. Maybe because she could be needy and she hated that in herself. Who knew? It was time, though, now. She was waiting for him at the Starbucks. She would tell him, here. This was the best place. He walked in with a sadness in his eyes. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’m pregnant.” It would be their first child. They would name him Ogeron. It was his choice, the name. She would stay with him and try to change things. Her name was Sadie. She grew up with a cat named Exeter.

gibraltar

She had a parrot named Gibraltar that rode on her shoulder around the shop. She never used a nickname for him. Never Gibby. Or G-bird. Or ‘Tar. And she corrected those who tried. His name is Gibraltar, she would say. Gibraltar was three shades of green, with blue highlights and some flashes of orange. She didn’t know which type of parrot he was, only knew that he’d been smuggled in through Mexico (she was told) and that she’d bought him off the side of the road from a friendly man named Cochito, who also was selling pit bull puppies. Fifty dollars. One day, the old lady who worked for her in the shop, Junie, left the door open and Gibraltar flew out and away. Junie soothed herself by telling herself and anyone who asked that Gibraltar had been waiting for that moment and that now he was free. The next day, a small child named Rooney found a dead green bird with orange flashes in a backyard, about four blocks from the shop. Gibraltar’s owner was Magdalena. She’d graduated from Brown. She went on thinking, as Junie’d advised, that Gibraltar had flown to his liberty.

toluka

They say you don’t hear the bullet, but he did. He heard it whistle and whiz. In fact, he could repeat exactly what he’d heard. He’d heard it coming closer. Heard it slow, but just a bit. Heard it grunt when it bowled into his left thigh, then grind to a stop against his femur, and it, crack. Odd, he now considered, after all he’d read and caught from his friends, his pals, who were, now, standing over him, looking at him, eyes bulging, mouths open. And he wanted to tell them that, yes, he was able to hear the one that got him, that maybe that would help them. But, now, he felt himself move to the top, over himself, watching, now, from over himself. Over himself. He worried, suddenly, about Kenny Toon, the kid just in from Toluka and his wife, Mardi, who was pregnant. But all he could do was watch as they gaped at him. Before he exactly knew what was happening, he thought of his dog, back home in Topeka. He worried about Stuka. Stuka would miss him. Might even kill him. Stuka.

pablo

She is a 45-year-old virgin and the question isn’t why or what happened, but what will she do, tonight, how will it go tonight, what will happen tonight when they get to that point, again, because she wants him to have her. She’s ready. Better, she’s in love. But what happens if … What happens when … Maybe it would be best just to avoid it. Maybe it would be best to stop seeing him, now, before things got, what? Difficult? Why her? she thinks. What was it that she did wrong? It wasn’t supposed to be this way, her life. She looks down at her feet. Lies, there, her dog. It’s name is Pablo. He’s a Golden. Why Pablo, she can’t remember.

bonnie

She’d changed her name from Mathilde to Bonnie, six months before they found her body in the garage of the house on September Street, rolled into a faded WalMart rug and stuffed into a ceiling crawl space. She’d hated Mathilde. It made her feel ethnic and, besides, kids made fun of her for it. Funny thing was, she never really outgrew it or escaped it. It was like that with a name. You can change all you want, but what you are named is what you are and, sometimes, who you will be. She never really was Bonnie. Never really know how to be a Bonnie. But, to her credit, she did try. She was 23, when her boyfriend, Drago Vdmilic, killed her with a rusty machete. Her gravestone would read Mathilde Cartwright. Her parents knew no Bonnies. They hardly recognized her body.

friday night lights

He considered stopping for directions to the field, but as he continued the drive along the straight, flat highway, he saw it, as he saw them all, rising out of the horizon, the football field, the stadium lights, soon to be illuminating the night for miles and miles. He wondered, for a moment, what this great expanse would look like from the sky – nothing, nothing, nothing, then one here and one there, south Texas football, floodlit. What to do, where to go on Friday nights in the lower Rio Grande valley, and he wondered if this was what the writer meant by “Friday Night Lights,” that book about big-time Texas high school football. This wasn’t, where he was headed, that is, big-time Texas high school football. This was low country bragging rights played by teenagers named Juan and Carlos and Hugo – ooo-go -- and Rodrigo, with a few Dustins and Erics tossed in for small measure. But it was what they did on Friday night, nonetheless. And it was under the lights, always. For now, anyway.

because

There was a shooting at school, the police officer said, then said, your son didn’t make it, and she tried to slow the room from spinning and her world from crashing, but the best she could do at the moment was to fall forward into the arms of the detective and try to keep her heart from either pounding through her chest or stopping, completely, and she remembered the last thing she said to him when he left for school, that morning. It was: I don’t want to hear any more from your teacher about you not paying attention, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t said that, but instead had said, I love you. His name was Henry and she was a single mom, because she’d made a mistake and had decided not to make everything worse. Henry had a dog, one she’d given him on his eighth birthday. Henry had named the friendly beast Butterfly, because, he said, just because.

Hank

His name is Hank and his master is the drive-thru taker at Chik-Fil-A, where the action only lags on Sundays, here, when it is closed in deference to the local churches, which might be nearly empty if the place were open, such is the popularity of the fast-food emporium. But back to Hank, who always waits near the door for his master to return, when it is time for him to return, that is, because Hank has a clock's sense of time, as do many dogs, though we don’t know that, because dogs are good at keeping some things secret. Anyway, tonight, Hank is getting a bit nervous, because his master, whom he only knows as Ed, is late, again, for the fourth straight night. Hank will keep his calm by going to Ed’s closet and foraging for a used sock with a good scent. Having found such a security item, Hank will curl up with it and wait, like the good dog that he is. Ed is 43 and single. His favorite food is pizza. (Hank does know these things.)

the game

When they were, well, younger, he was on the field and she was in the stands, watching him, hoping for him, hoping with him. It seemed so much simpler, then, because it was so much simpler. Everything seemed to be right in front of you, she thought. Now, things circled about, whispered around, snuck in under the cover of darkness, sprang on or upon when you least expected it. Now, things were different. She couldn’t help think that, as she sat in the stands, today, now, wondering just what had happened to them. Maybe they’d just been too young. Maybe they’d just dreamed too much. Maybe they’d not known enough to work at it, or been willing enough to work at it. The man next to her, he dressed in the team’s colors, yelled, “Kill ‘em; c’mon, kill ‘em,” and she remembered when they would yell that at him. She felt a need to leave, but she didn’t. There was a need to stay, also. So, she did. Her name was Grace. She had a dog named Waldo. She was resigned to living the rest of her life alone.

riding it out

She decided to stay behind because he’d just left and she felt as though nothing was of any use, even herself. The rain was hard – it sounded like hail was supposed to sound, she thought, though she’d never been in a hail storm. The wind whistled, mostly, accented by the slap of the front window – on the left – shutter which Earl’d loosened when he played Whiffle ball with Sonny in the front yard. She’d told them – him, Earl – that at some point it would become a problem. She turned on the radio. Everyone was supposed to move; evacuation was ordered. But she stayed. The only thing broadcasting was the alert to leave, to move. She didn’t care if she died, really, she thought, if the entire place just collapsed on top of her. She went to the kitchen counter and opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. She felt a warm sensation on her left foot. Dog tongue. She had an English bulldog. It’s name was Watson.

tremors

The building shook and he thought it was happening, again. That psychotic event, triggered by who knew what, that made everything tremble. Leftover from his time in Vietnam, in one of those tiger cages that the quote-unquote experts said didn’t really exist. But he knew the truth. He’d been in one. For months. Three. He’d counted the days. His wife, Marge, ran into the room to make sure he was ok. She was out of breath. “It’s ok,” she said. “It’s an earthquake, I heard it on the news, just now.” She put her arms around him, Marge, such a different woman than the one he’d married just before shipping off in March of 1966. Marge, who’d dedicated her life to helping him have one. “I love you,” he said, to her. “I know,” she answered. Everything was ok, now. For now. He’d been the star quarterback at Edson High, back in the day. She’d been a cheerleader. They’d been voted Most Likely to Marry. They had a dog named Quisno.

first class

He settled into his first-seat and the woman next to him, a stranger, turned to him and said, in a low, somewhat raspy voice, “Would you like to have sex with me?” and he was at first stunned, then only speechless, then rather suspicious, then simply confused, and, finally, interested. “I’ve done this before,” she said, adding, “I have the protection, if you don’t,” and he sat back for a moment and wondered if he was dreaming, because she was very attractive and much younger, and he thought, “Why not? Still … wait,” though he didn’t say it, exactly. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “and that’s part of your problem – you think way too much,” and he wondered, again, how she knew him so well, and in the quiet she said, “We must, of course, wait until take-off and the fasten-seatbelt light is extinguished,” and they did. When he returned to his seat, he didn’t know what to say or what to think. Maybe he was in love. He was, of course, a guy. His name was Edwin. He was a corn feed salesman from Wichita. At home they called him Louie. She was a kindergarten teacher from Lubbock. Her students called her Miss Swanson.

library cop

His name is Carlos Gracia and he is the cop assigned to the local library and, think about this: kids, today, assume, it is assumed, that this is normal, that a police officer walks a regular beat around libraries and their grounds. Back when Officer Gracia’s grandparents visited the library, and they did, often, by the way, there was little need for an armed presence among the shelves. But, he is here, Patrolman Gracia, and, unlike the officer who regularly shoes the beat, he actually smiles at the library patrons. Perhaps he does this for a reason: To keep them off guard, or put them so, so to speak, in case they are planning something nefarious. Or perhaps he’s just a nicer guy. Patrolman Gracia – his friends call him Chooey – his duties end at 6 p.m., at which time he will head home to a dinner of Tyson honey-glazed chicken wings, Ore-Ida French fries and an evening of “Law & Order: SVU.” Now, though, he paces the spaces with a quiet fervor. He drives a ’98 Mustang he bought at auction and has a pet parrot named Job. He kinda likes his job.

1 sentence

She was sitting across from him at the bagel shop and they were talking about life, the good parts, as singles, and at their age, to boot, and she said, “And having the bed all to myself!” and he thought about the time since his divorce and how he still slept on one side, only, and how it must be that he was saving the other side for someone, and even though he nodded to her affirmation, he felt a flash of hope, for at least that sliver of an instant.

heart felt

It’s not like you can decide whom your heart loves,
she told herself, because
it loves whomever it wants to love.
How do I react to that?
That’s where the deciding comes in. I can decide to love, or decide to fight whom I love. Fighting it
is more difficult, she knew,
because fighting it was/is denying it and
the
heart
does not like to be denied. It needs more than denial;
it
needs
convincing. And when was the last time
you were able
to convince
your
heart?
Like … never?

1 day

If he could go back one day, it would be to that day that she said she was leaving and he would block the door, block her way, tell her that what they had and what they could have was, well, was that of which he’d dreamed and he would ask her to stop for a moment and dream, too. This was his whole life, the dream of his entire existence, which, at that time, consisted of almost 20 years. He would tell her that he would love her and protect her and grow with her and that he would swear to her eternal fidelity. He knows how she would react, this second time, as she did the first: she would smile, kiss him on the cheek and tell him, tell him, tell him, that she loved him, but that she needed to go. And he would be struck silent, again. And he would cry, again, weep silently. And he would move forward, again, with her being gone, because that it what he did – moved forward. He would give her a piece of his heart, which he never would request be returned. So, she left with a bit of him, took away a part of him, and would think of him often, but not the way he thought of her. Sadly, she knew.

answer me this

She told him that the Universe
unfolds as it is meant, and he appreciates her
input and her belief, or her Belief, as it is,
but he’s not sure
that he does, believe her Belief, because he always thought that
the ones God loved were those who
helped
themselves. Problem is, he doesn’t know
what
to
do, so her extrapolation seems the best answer, at
this time:
Wait. But move, still. Do not tarry, just
be patient. What is
supposed to happen … will. But,
he thinks,
what
if
it
doesn’t?

redroofin

It was always the moment he finished that she felt so alone. It wasn’t so much because she was left wanting and waiting. Well, some of that. But it was more the disconnecting that followed, the mental and spiritual separation. Up ‘til then. Fuck, yes! God, she loved what he did and how he did it. But, in the end, always, it came to that, and she always was left with this question: Is that my sacrifice? Is that what I need to let go? Will it always be so? She was tired of the questions, mostly because she didn’t have the answers. There was that one time, when she came through without feeling so abandoned. It was in Dover, New Hampshire. One night. They were stuck in a Red Roof Inn. Car troubles. And it was snowing like crazy. And that night, for whatever reason, it was different. For the past six years she’d been chasing that – a snowy, blizzardy Red Roof in Dover, New Hampshire. And he didn’t even know.

driving her crazy

If only he’d seen it this way, earlier. It would’ve saved him yeads. But, then, they’d never been down this road. Right lane ends, ahead. Merge left. She was a mergerightaway driver. He fancied smaller cars and drove right as long as possible, before finding an opening into which to squeeze. Not rudely, mind you. But politely, which is not to say the dozens he’d passed felt very good about him. And it did bother her, him being like, that: in a hurry; always looking a short-cut; celebrating his successes. It made her nervous and otherwise. And when she thought about, which she still did, she rationalized it this way: he was a squeezer. When she went looking for another him, and she did, she made sure she found one who, too, was a mergerightaway driver. It just made things easier. His name was Walt, her first husband. Hers was Imelda. She was Catholic and read the Bible, every day. She had a dog named Stuka.

melissawantslove

She is trying on-line dating, again. It was either that, or hang out in bars or try meeting someone at church – and she was sure that she didn’t want to meet someone at church. Do someone in a church, sometime, maybe, but meet – no. She’d had limited success during previous on-line subscriptions, but most of the men were either boring, bald, overweight or just icky – or all four. What’re the odds, she asked herself that she might actually meet someone with a brain, someone who kept himself in good condition and someone who was, heck, cute or handsome or sexy – and why not! She deserved that. And, quite, frankly, if she happened to meet someone like that, well, maybe he deserved her. Winks were out. Guys who posed with their dogs – same. Guys who … hell, this was a crapshoot. Still, Gloria’d found someone, and she was in Dallas and he was in Glouchester, Mass. And he moved there. Ok, she had a big boobs. But, still? Or was it just time to give up on romance? She did like her life. Might be chancy, someone who might screw it up. But, yes, she did want someone to wake up with – or, as her high school English teacher, the dreamy Mr. Sparke, would say: “…with whom to wake.” She looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. Enough for the night. Her “date” name was Melissawantslove. Caucasian. 5-7. Income – TBD. She was a catch.

aarp-ok'ed

“I told somebody about you, today,” she said, and he felt a spark of what he used to feel, what he wanted to feel, because the news was unsolicited and because it spoke of much more than the simple statement. “She said you were AARP-approved,” she said of what her friend had said, and he started to get defensive, in his own mind, never with her, he felt, or at least hoped, because there it was again: age; difference; fate; reality. She was young, younger than a woman he’d imagined loving at this late date. But he did and there was no answer to that, but to let it go, to her her go. And he was still working on those.

rufus

Her father decided to buy her a dog, just to do something. After all, it was his weekend with her. What kind? he asked. She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure, either, that this was the best way to buy a dog, to just go out and find one, especially at the pet food store, where she’d heard that they boosted dogs from puppy mills. Let’s go to the rescue, she said, so they did and a lady named Beatice, who had crazy red hair and an eagle tattoo and one dangly earring, helped them, bringing out three dogs who needed adoption. Your mother won’t like a dog this big, he said, surveying the lot, and she knew he was right, but the she looked into the eyes of a dog named Rufus and said that he was the one she wanted. Why him? the father asked. Because he reminds me of loneliness, she said. That doesn’t sound like a good reason, the father said, and she shrugged and said, well, I think it is. So, Rufus, it was. On the way back to her mom’s house, Rufus fell asleep in the back seat of the dad's car with his head in her lap. Nevermore, she said quietly to him. Nevermore.

interruptus

I want you to fuck me, she said. No kissing, no groping, none of that dick-around stuff. I just want you hard and inside me. Can you do that? Can you? she asked a second time, while lifting her skirt to her waist with one hand and pulling down her panties and removing them over the black heels with the other. (She kept on the heels.) If you can’t, I’ll find someone who can. You get first crack. You interested? She put her hand on her hip, hooded her eyes, a bit, then twirled the black panties on her forefinger. I’ll even let you tell everyone that you fucked me. If you want. She grabbed the panties with two hands, now, and held them up, under her eyes. I need to know, she said. He looked up at the clock. It was six. Dinner. He needed to fix it. The kids would be hungry. He switched a period to a semi-colon, quit the file, closed his computer. He stood. He was sweating a bit. Well, maybe more than a bit. Chicken casserole coming up.

a shower

She steps into the shower and turns up her face to the spray that forms rivers which cascade down her body, across all the soft spots, across and down the gentle curves and even into those hidden areas that she once opened to him. He remembers some of them, now, with the picture of her in his head, soaking her hair, and recalling, too, how she came to bed with her hair still damp and fresh from her washing and its softness, and how cool it felt against his skin and how it enveloped him without suffocation when she slipped onto his body and kissed his lips and how it, her dampened hair, darkened out everything but her warmth. He remembers, too, the urgency of her breathing, or, better yet, how it became urgent, and how her lips would slide to his neck and remain there, her face buried there, in a resignation, sort of, or was it a surrender, or was it the innocence of a true love? Or was it just in the fleeting of a moment they both knew would someday not return. They would consummate her cleansing, then, with a cleansing consummation. And he wrote it so, now, because there was a spirituality to it that seemed that way – pure, honest, true. Then, he hears a voice over a loudspeaker that says, “The library is closing in 10 minutes," and he stops writing and thinking about ... her. Again.

if at all ...

What if there was a way to
bring them
closer together? A way that might work, a way
that was magical, but yet demanded that there be
a tit-for-tat, in exchange? What if
she could move closer if she surrendered
years of possibility, years of promise, years
of what might be? What if he would
move back if he
gave up years of what was,
of what elated and surprised or what
thrilled and fulfilled? And how much of both?
If it were an even sacrifice? But what
if one had to forgo more
than
another? What then? Who would be
willing to do that? And, perhaps more importantly,
who would be able to deal with the
knowing
of what one had given up for the other?
Perhaps it’s best that neither of both
is
at
all
possible.

leslie

It was when she turned up missing that all his problems began. Alive. There. In front of him. He could trust her. He did trust her. For 12 years. And she him. Now, everything would come out. All of it. Before, they would’ve covered for one another. Now, he had to make a choice – come clean, or build a story that would wash. He hadn’t much time. Minutes, probably. Within them, his phone would buzz. It would be Henna or the police or the reporters. Henna he could handle. She would believe what she wanted to believe and that was that they were ok, the two of them. The police ranged from being dumb to just being polite. And most of them wanted him to like them. He had that sort of cachet. The reporters? He thought for a minute. Them, too, he could handle. And why not? They reported what he said. He loosened his tie, sat back in his chair, nodded slowly, to himself. His phone vibrated; he checked the number. He didn’t recognize it, but this was the wrong time to be ignoring a call. “Hello?” “Dad,” Leslie said, “I’m using Nancy’s phone. Can I stay at her house for a while?” “Yes. Sure.” “Thanks, dad. Bye.” “Wait …” But she’d hung up, already. Gone. He wondered when he would see her again. Maybe never.

nooodles

The dog wandered across the street. It was lost, or at least losing itself, and innocently, in the heat of the sweltering afternoon. A man came up to it, tried to pet it, but the dog ignored him, almost politely, kept going, down the alley, toward the back of the thrift shop, stopping, but only for a moment, before moving on, toward the main street. Traffic was busy, there, hectic; it was Friday afternoon. The dog paused for a moment, then attempted to cross. Two cars stopped. Then another. And another. The fifth didn’t. It was an old model Toyota, driven by a 83-year-old woman, Mazie Wolcott. She never knew what she’d hit and, in fact, kept going, oblivious. Four blocks over, a nine-year-old girl borrowed her mother’s cell phone and sent out a text message to family and friends about her dog being missing. Nooodles – three o’s – was its name. It had never gone off, before. She hoped someone would find him. Her name was Alicia.

rat-a-tat-tat

Toni Zamboni had 19 tattoos
by the time she was almost sixteen,
an eagle, a heart, a harp and a fish,
a turtle, a tortoise, James Dean.

A walrus, a wizard, a Jesus, the sun,
An angel, a dove and a man with a shoe,
A skull with a noose, a mean Dr. Seuss
And 13 fat llamas and 1 skinny gnu.

Her father disowned her, her mother did, too,
her boyfriend, he just wondered why,
she had zebras and snakes and a dozen red hens
but no vow, “Earle’s my love ‘til I die.”

Then a funny thing happened one dark, cloudy day
As she sat in Liv’s “Ink-4-U Store,”
Awaiting the tat of a privatest part,
when she wondered if, yes! less was more.

So proud was she that she stood up and cheered
For herself in the midd’e of the place,
Fright’ning five artists and Liv, in mid-draw,
And she said, “I know I’ve got space …

“To put those three words on my back, thigh or butt,
or my cheek, or my jaw, neck or ear,
to finish the message, it will be complete,
those final three words must appear.”

And, so, they did ... with a heron, a horse and a grizzly bear
And a picture of Beiber with all of his hair,
A Chinese translation, a pack of french fries
And a skinny old cat and her skinny nine lives.

Of course.

after life

She saw it all, when they put her under. And she remembered it, perfectly, when she woke. The light. The calm. The sense of self, true self, real self. She knew who she was and, more importantly, why she was. But why her, she wondered, and the thought bothered her, taxed her, almost obsessed her in the succeeding days. So, she prayed, daily, and usually more, whenever the thought crossed her mind, which was so very often. I need to tell someone, she thought, someone who would understand. But everyone was too busy. And not in ways that seemed frivolous. There were kids to tend and relationships to mend and jobs – real life. So, she finally decided that she would tell no one, at least not for the time being. She would deal with the knowing as though it were her hardship, though ironically, she understood, and with a gentle smile. At times she almost wished she didn’t know. But she did. And maybe it was that the others just would be surprised. And that wasn’t so bad, either.

you can call it Al

“I can’t think of you, like that, anymore,” she said, and he said, “But you do,” and she answered, “I don’t,” and he said, “You do,” and she knew that he was right, because she did, and, worse, she tried to ignore it, or deny it. “It’s alright,” he said, but she looked away and said, “No, it isn’t,” and he said, “It’s not going away,” and she said … nothing, for she could think of nothing to say. “This is a dream,” he said to her, for it was, and she hoped that he was right, because it seemed all too real. “Please, leave me alone,” she said, and he said, “I have nothing to do with this, this is all you,” and she tried to wake herself up, because things always seemed better when she was awake and she would move and do things. He said, “I love …”, and, then, he was … gone. She woke, and sat. It was 6:17. Ayem. She felt herself, and she felt moist and warm. It was a nice feeling. But why? The dog barked. His name was Spencer. He’d named him. She’d wanted to call it Al.

what's in a name?

The dog looked up, with those dog eyes that seem to ask “Why?” but she didn’t have an answer, or at least one that she wanted to share, even with him, it. She stopped for a moment and collected her thoughts. She needed to cover her tracks: where she was; whom she’d seen; what she’d said. He was due in a few minutes. Home from work. She needed to slow down. Things were moving way too fast. Him. Then. There. Where? Jesus, Christ. She took a deep breath, then nodded her head, more slowly. She would be all right. She would be ok. She was a good person. She’d had no choice, she kept telling herself, and finally believing her own voice. “Hey, babe,” he said as he arrived. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips. Her name was Elise. His was Roger. The dead lover was Alex.

the beach

I’m going to pitch my tent on
the beach,
he thought,
and
watch the stars come out, while
the gulf
rushes into its highest tide,
and the rest
of
the world sleeps. He will sleep, too,
he understood, but only
to the sound
of the waves. He will think of her
as the darkness
falls, of the quiet and
the silence
and the stillness,
when they lay,
together. He will think of her, but she
will not
think of him,
for she no longer feels
the stillness, nor
the silence, nor
the solitude of
... them.

what if ...

Everyone is either searching for something or is dead. He believes this and it makes him a bit nervous, anxious, because he doesn’t know for what, whom or that which he searches. He thinks for a moment, then wonders: What if I already found it and didn’t know? This is his paranoia, his guilt, and he curses himself, again, for being so Catholic. Guilt is such a stultifying thing. Worse than paranoia. Much. So, he frees himself from both by assuming that he’s not yet found it. A lover once said to him, “All who search are not lost,” and he saw it on a t-shirt, later, which mean, of course, that it must be true. So, perhaps he’s a searcher. Perhaps that’s his calling, he thinks, wondering if everyone has a calling. He wishes he could talk with someone about this, but his friends, mostly co-workers, have families and he knows, from experience, how families usurp thinking. His phone vibrates; he keeps it on vibrate. It allows him to stop thinking, for a moment. So, he does. He can think later about it. If so.

away

“Do you remember
our first kiss,” she asked, and he said, “No,”
and she felt her heart shrink, a bit, because
she
remembered
it so well. “You asked if you
could kiss me,” she said, and he shrugged, with
an embarrassed, apologetic smile, because he
was that sort of sincere. “You
actually
asked,” she said, and he felt good about that,
because it was important to her, that,
but he wasn’t
sure why it was so important to her
that
he
remember, as she did. Then, he saw it
in
her
eyes. “If I ask you again,” he asked, “will it make up
for my forgetting?” and she smiled
a sad smile and said, “No,” then shrugged and
turned away, a bit, not too much, because she wanted him to
love her,
but,
still,
away she turned,
enough, enough.

gone

It is the one curve on her body that he remembers. Her cheek. Her breast. Her stomach. He has an idea about those. But this one he knows. It is the part, the place, as she lay flat, between the small of her back and the back of her thigh. He remembers the times, moving his hand across the curve, as if trying to make it an indelible memory, in which he may have succeeded, which sometimes brings a gentle smile to his face. It is not a sexual memory, though it could be; the sex they had was wonderful. It’s more a knowing, a comfort, a beauty, a calm. It’s the kind of feeling some might liken to coming home. Perhaps that’s why he misses it so. It was like that, and he’s away now.

Rufus

He watched her walk to the far shelf, where the coffees were shelved and then he watched as she scanned the selections, picking up one brand, replacing it, picking up another and studying it, then replacing that one, too. Such mundane movements that seemed somehow graceful and expressive, alluring and somehow innocent. She caught him watching her and he blushed. “Are you watching me?” she asked, and he shrugged, bashfully, and said nothing, then blushed, again, nodded, because he couldn’t lie to her. “I love you,” she said, and he said nothing, again, but she smiled, because she knew. “I think I’ll wait on the coffee,” she said, “The prices are better at the uptown store.” Then, she moved close to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek and whispered, “I love it when you watch me. I can feel it and I like the feeling.” For some reason, he wanted to ask her if she ever watched him, but he didn’t. He was afraid to ask. Maybe some other time, he figured. Some other time. Later. Maybe. Her name was Andrea. His was Sam. They would be married for 23 years, soon after which she would file for divorce, citing irreconcilable difference, singular. Their dog was named Rufus. She got him.

hmm

What goes around, comes
around, except,
when it
doesn’t, which would
mean
that
it goes, where? There? Over there? Waaaaaay
over yonder? In the past,
if
it
could? He considered this perplexity
with some
acknowledgement of
complexity, then decided
it was best if he just
didn’t
use
clichés, at all, and, better yet, avoided
redundancies, like – oops, such as –
at
all, when in trail
of
avoid and the like.
Or similar.
Be it therefore
known.
Amen,
can I have an?

visitation

The pelican appeared
to him in his sleep, speaking
in perfect English, which he found not so
surprising, for some reason, at
all, and it said, only,
“Be true,” and he awoke, not suddenly,
but after some
time, and sat – not up, but just – and
said, back, “Yes.”
Then, he lay,
again – not down, but just – and
stared at the ceiling for minutes, then
hours, then
fell back
asleep.
He awoke at the alarm
and
remembered
nothing, as was supposed
to
be.

roselyn

She slipped into the bathroom, into a stall, took a deep breath, and slipped off her panties, folded them, put them in her purse. She’d never done anything like this, that. Never. In high school she’d been named Miss Goody Two-Shoes. That was years ago, now, but time hadn’t made her any more daring. Until tonight. And it hadn’t been time, tonight, either. It’d been the young – well, relatively – boy at the bar and the few drinks she’d downed to bolster her courage. She’d decided an hour ago to have sex with him. Just like that. She sucked in a deep breath, now, checked her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, pushed her hair back, but in a sexy, willing way. Would she respect herself in the morning? Maybe not. But she didn’t really care, right now. She just wanted to fuck him. Or have him fuck her. However it went would be ok. Her name was Roselyn. She was a teacher. At a Catholic school. Of course.

anonymity

He'd fired the bullet that put him down, but it wasn’t until hours later, at least not until they’d reached the carrier, that he realized that it would be the shot fired in anonymity. Someone who decades earlier would’ve been celebrated as America’s greatest hero, would take his deed to the grave with him. He found it odd to be thinking like that, now, even though they’d been briefed before, earlier, about the after, about what would happen after, success or no. He sat back in the tiny stateroom where he’d been sequestered since they’d arrive back aboard. No one. Just him. They’d all been separated. They would convene, later, somewhere else. Then, they would celebrate their success. He looked forward to that moment. They could talk about it. But only them. And, for the first time in his life, he needed to talk to someone. It would be his lifelong curse – the wanting. He wondered how he would deal with it. He wondered how well he would deal with it.

draft pick

He was called onstage and he entered, tall, thick, smiling, waving to his mother, in the crowd, knowing something that no one else knew – no one. He was afraid. He was always afraid. Always. He sometimes spent so much energy showing otherwise that sometimes he just collapsed into sleep from exhaustion. And, now, it was going to get even worse, and that’s why he was afraid. In a short moment, his name would be called, again, as the third pick in the 2011 National Football League draft. And he wanted to do anything but play football, anymore. But what was he to do? Everyone expected him to play. Everyone expected him to make it big and provide for his mother, who’d sacrificed for him, though she rarely let him forget it. But how could he ever go back home if he didn’t? He couldn’t. So, he was stuck. Jarron Stone, the kid next him from Auburn – yes, they were all just kids – elbowed him gently in the side, shot him a wink and a brotherly smile and he smiled back, making sure it masked what he really felt. What he really felt was the sinking weight of despair. He was smart enough to understand the irony: Enough money, power and fame to maybe free him forever; enough money, power and fame, to make escape impossible. He wanted to cry. He didn’t. He wasn’t allowed. He’d never been allowed.

the smoking gun

She sat, waiting, trying to put things together, to piece things together. Everything had happened so fast. He had come at her and she had pulled the gun from her purse. She’d packed it there for a reason. She knew he’d come at her, again. Hadn’t he always? But what was she to tell them, him, the detective, or whomever, when they would ask her, because they would. Was all this premeditated? Did she plan for it to happen this way, so she could kill him? Yes. Maybe. Perhaps. And he had it coming. She hadn’t been the only one, by him. But what now? What about her and her children? What about them? They would take them from her. At least for a bit. And they would be so frightened. And they would use them against her, to make her talk, to get her to say things. She knew how they did. She had friends. She watched TV. She felt her breathing grow shallow. She had to move, had to make a decision, had to … go. She would wake the kids, put them in the car and just drive. Go. Fast. Away. Leave him here. Be gone when the cops arrived, looking for her, or whomever made the call. The barrel of the gun was still warm. For some reason she found that odd. She placed it against her cheek. It felt good, comforting. She put it in her purse and headed for the kids’ bedrooms, to wake them, stepping over him, motherfucker.

knowing

In the shadows and dimness, he finally could see clearly, and he felt a tiny shudder ripple through his breathing. She was gone. She was next to him, that close to him, but she was gone. It was the kind of prescient moment that terrified him, because he knew they were always right, those singular moments, always truthful, in all ways irreconcilable. They’d talked about trying to salvage what they’d had and he’d tried to ignore the glint of knowing he’d seen in her eyes when she said that she’d make the effort. But, now, it was clear to him. At this very moment. In the darkness. In the silence. In the stillness. He could still hear her breathe. He could feel her body sigh and relax. But he couldn’t move closer, nor reach out to hold her or even touch her. She was gone. From him. It took all the strength he had to force himself to stay in bed, to let things seem as though they were the same, to pretend, to say nothing, for the moment. So, he did. And she slept.

TEXTING

Ch. 23: How texting is changing my life.

I was never a master of catching an eye, but it was maybe the best of my decidedly lame late-night moves. Then, a few nights ago, sitting at the bar at an underground bistro, at a moment or two in approach of the witching hour, I began looking around the room, trying to catch a babe’s eye with that “I’ll come thither look,” and all the babes – all four of them – were face down, texting. Not an eye out of eight to be caught. Used to be I could rely on a woman being stuck with the clientele of the moment – the later the moment the better, of course -- and pretty much going through the same assessment as me: Would I be able to respect myself in the morning? (Probably not.) No more, Keem-o-sabe. Oh, for the bad ol’ days.

Ch. 24: How texting is changing my life.

So, I pull into a wind-blown gas station on a deserted stretch of I-59, between New Orleans and Houston and spot a group of motorcycle riders. They’ve got crotch rockets. They’ve got colors. They’re outfitted in leather. They’re all burly, all tall, and all of the African-American persuasion. In all, they might have struck a rather imposing air -- yes? And they’re all … texting, thumbs flying across mini-keys like teenage girls. So, what did I do? I pulled my robin’s egg blue Toyota Yaris right into their midst. Unintimidated. Unbent and bowed. The freedom to be me.

(Click)

Sometimes, the door slams.
Sometimes, it shuts.
Sometimes, it just closes ... quietly.

rumblings on a sunday night

A sadness, a desperation seems to hang
in
the air.
Hope wanes. Again.
Unemployment. Debt.
Poverty. Starvation.
War. Terror.
Spin. Fib. Outright
deceit. But there is a civility
to all of that, now, unlike
the 60s, as if no one is really willing
to get
his or her
hands dirty. The
Weathermen weren’t afraid.
The Panthers.
The SDS.
Best, yet, ordinary citizens did something. Young
people.
But, now, either we’ve
learned from those acts of the passed, or
we’ve forgotten them.
(Or, ever worse, never’d learned
of them.)
Every now and then
I joke that the revolution
is coming.
But I don’t think it is.
I don’t think we
have
it
in
us. And maybe
that’s the saddest thing
of
all, because it’s not the end of
an empire,
it’s the passing of a spirit.