esther's journal-6

MONDAY, September 18: The start of a new school year is the best time. It’s the feeling of promise, I think. It’s the start of the journey, which really is what it is – a journey. We start out here and end up there. With any luck, we all arrive at the end together, somehow. I had all four of my classes, today, and I did what I usually do, at the start: try to figure out who won’t make it to the end. We never all get there.

One of the new sophomores in my B Block, Samuel Roberts, is an early guess. His entrance profile isn’t very strong and he seems a bit of an odd duckling. Not a great combination, though kids like that sometimes surprise you, too. They blossom. Margie – hard “g” – Wozniak in C Block is interesting. She's got that sneaky look about her. A bit too nice, a bit too mature. I already had to talk to her about her cleavage. She’s going to be trouble. I’m not saying she’s a lock to leave, but I’ve picked out girls before like her.

I’m a bit worried, too, about the new biology teacher. He’s really odd. Self-conscious. Needy. Clingy. If he gets through the year, he won’t make it through two. Then, it hit me. Maybe I’ll be the one, this year, who doesn’t make it to the finish line. I held the thought for a moment, then let it go. I felt it leave me, release from me. That was a healthy feeling. It made me smile. I’m going to end on that note. It’s a positive one, I think.

are father

He’d built a
family, or at least
he thought
he’d
done that, but now and then he’s not so sure, so
he calls
or e-mails,
or texts
or anything to catch
a
word, to catch
a voice,
to connect, again, to reconnect, again,
and
to make it seem,
again, whole. He understands
that
things change, that
families spread
out
and
about, that they begin to expand in their
own
directions,
with their
own directions,
and around their own connections, but on days when
he feels
the sting of it being gone,
or of not being
right there,
he needs reminders and he
wonders
if they know
of
his
insecurity, which embarrasses
him,
of course, that insecurity, if it really is that, for he thinks,
too,
that maybe it’s
just
loneliness.
And he doesn’t
want
them
to know that – that he’s
lonely – for they have their
own
things
and worries
and concerns
and stuff – their own families, or at least lives.
Theirs.
Not his.

her name is maria

Her name is Maria, of course, and she walks with a slight limp, now. She’s a housekeeper at the hotel – a maid. She’s in her late 30s and much of her youthful beauty is beginning to fade. She was captivatingly gorgeous in her 20s – dark eyes; black hair; thin, angular face. She even had a mystery about her. Most girls – women – that age don’t, of course. What they’ve got is what you see. It’s all part of the plan. But not her. Not hers. She always held something back, inside, deep down. But that’s gone, now, and she knows it. She’s not sure who took it – him? Them? Life? What’s replaced it is a resolute, some might say requisite sorrow. It’s in her eyes. You see it clearly, if you look closely enough. It’s in her smile, too, though she thinks she hides it with that. She doesn’t tell anyone about it, about what’s gone, because what’s the use? Everyone loses something, don’t they? She just ended up losing her joy. She’s in Room 129, now, cleaning the toilet so she has enough money to buy toilet cleaning goods for her own home, where she will head in a few hours to clean one more toilet. She understands the redundancy, but doesn’t question it, at least not anymore. Tonight, after dinner and the dishes, she will make love to her most recent Johnny and wait for that moment when he will turn her away and then pull her close and hold her for just a moment. He won’t, of course. He never does. They never do. Still, she will hold her breath and wait. She always does.

shuless meaux

She’s got her shoes off, sunglasses pushed up, cell phone pressed to her ear. “You had the x-rays, right?” she asks, shifting her feet, then: “Exactly. Are you working, still?” She listens, now, tapping her bare feet on the concourse rug, a mottled green, matching the airline’s curious choice of décor. “Correctly,” she reports, scratching her foot. “I like that.” No smile. Her mouth’s a straight line. She slides her feet into her shoes, then out again. She nods, now. “I like that, too. How did the brunch go?” Across the way, the flight from Las Vegas arrives, led by a striking blonde in sequinned jeans, followed by a tall guy in a black “Titleist” hat. He purses his lips. “Anyway, strange, strange,” she says. “I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to go Sunday. I’ll call Murray, tomorrow. At least it’s not Saturday.” She says, “Talk to you soon,” then closes the call. Her mouth’s still a straight line. Come to think of it, it never changed. Her shoes are on, now, in case you wondered, heels pushed down. She’s thinking about her favorite show – “The Biggest Loser.” Her second favorite is "The Colbert Report," but only because she thinks he's being serious.

the end

“You don’t want to get involved with me,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
"Because. It’s not good. It’s just not good. I’m not good.”
“That’s crazy. You are good.”
“It’s not. You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
She shook her head, gently. “Not nearly.”
“Then, tell me.”
“I can’t – and I won’t.” She started packing her briefcase.
“You could.”

She looked at him. Her eyes were damp. He smiled, gently. He had no idea, what she meant, how she meant it – “You don’t want to get involved” -- but he took it as a challenge.

“Yes. I could. But I won’t.”
“Don’t you have to tell someone?”
“People already know, some of them.”
“But you won’t tell me.”

It was a statement; he was careful to make sure it was a statement. Why, he didn’t exactly know. But it was important. It felt important.

“Yes. I won’t. Tell you.”

He looked down, away, took her hand in his. She stood. Her fingers curled around his. “In the end it will be far too painful,” she said.

“In the end?”
“Yes,” she said. “In the end.” For she already knew the ending. She always did; she always had.

“It’s starting to snow,” he said.
“Snow makes things pretty,” she said. “Most things.”

it is her job

It is her job, she tells herself. She wears a buckskin vest (faux buckskin, of course) and a white cowboy hat tipped back, way back, showing off her silver bangs. She stands in front of the escalator for six hours, Tuesday through Saturday, give or take a minute or two, depending, usually, on how long she spends in the bathroom, hiding, mostly, from the reflections she sees of herself in the windows and mirrors that show her just what has become of her dignity. It is a job, she tells herself, though it is not much of one. “Where’s Gate 16?” “Is there a bathroom, nearby?” “Baggage claim? Which way?” She was once a teacher or a seamstress or a sales clerk in a downtown boutique and then she retired. Now she answers questions posed by mostly overweight tourists in jeans and t-shirts and Nikes and baseball caps and, yes, faux buckskin vests. It seems like a job, she tells herself, even though most of the passing idiots could, if they had a shred of intelligence or gumption or initiative, answer all the questions she answers just by looking at the goddamn signs. It is her only job, she tells herself, and thinks, again, now, almost longingly, about going home and putting up her feet and watching the daytime version of “Deal or No Deal,” like she used to before the market crashed her 401K and Bernie Whatshisname got outed. She does love that Howie Mandel. Always did.

little no peep

I know where I am
I tell
myself: I am here. But
if I
didn’t tell anyone,
no one would
know, so, see, I feel
a bit like that tree
in
the
forest
that might or might
not
make a sound when it
falls.
And I wonder:
does it care, really?
Or is
making
the noise
the payoff for giving of
limb and life?
And, while I’m at it,
is it just as
narcissistic of the poplar or elm or maple
or evergreen to consider
it’s relevance
as
do
I?
Not being sure
if you’re even
making a sound
is
not
an easy thing to be hearing
a brain ponder on a
Tuesday
afternoon
in March
on the floor
of
an
airport
in
Colorado, especially
when the brain is yours –
or close enough to it
for government work.
It sometimes makes
you want
to
scream: Just
to
see if anyone is listening. Well, maybe not
here.