grasping for ...

There is a loneliness in her eyes that he wants to fix, for he is a fixer. But he knows that fixing only gets him in trouble. So, he puts away the idea and thinks this, instead: she has the soul of a poet, it seems. She writes with her smile and the way her eyes shine at times, though not enough, he thinks, too, for she knows that her eyes give her away, betray her. So she looks away, then back, never lingering too long on his, never allowing him to see too deeply, too clearly into her. He sleeps apart from her and leaves later. And he wonders how she might feel in his grasp, or if he could even grasp her. So, he wonders, too, if pulling her to him is even possible.

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.