None of the buses worked anymore. Every time they fixed them, someone vandalized them again. Someone got into the depot and ruined their engines or stole their wheels. The entire budget for the buses had been exhausted, so there weren't any buses. None of them worked, so I didn't have a way to get to my job washing dishes and making salads and burning myself on the bread trays anymore. No one would drive me, and I didn't have a car. My grandma wouldn't drive me, and she kept her keys on her at all times. I didn't want to wrestle them from her, though she often goaded me into wrestling them from her. She had an empty swimming pool in her backyard. Every day, she would spit in it. Sometimes, she would pay me to spit in it. She would pay entire groups of people to spit in it because, after all, wouldn't it be some kind of record if you filled a swimming pool full of spit? I had no car. The reason I was working at the restaurant was to earn 2K to buy a 2K car and leave the town.
No bus, no ride, no car, so I had to wait for a boy, Graig, who rode his bike around the town all day. He never stopped riding--even in the incredible heat and sun, even when he was hungry, even when he had to defecate. Graig did not appreciate how much he depended on us in the town. We were the ones who held out sandwiches and water for him. We were the ones who gave him wipes. We were the ones who occasionally tackled him off his bike so that we could take off his shirt and slather him with sunscreen. Graig had fair skin, so if we didn't get him, then he'd have terrible scarlet burns on his face, his neck, and his arms. Somehow, even in the incredible sun, his legs remained pale.
Friday, August 26, 2011
WHO KNOWS BUT THAT, ON THE LOWER FREQUENCIES, I SPEAK FOR YOU?
How is a small hardware store related to Intolerable Circumstances? This store is on a street where the rent must be high. Many of the things in the store have dust on them. Things do not get sold often. The rent must be high, but the manager says that things are fine. He is not worried about having to close. He has a display with yellow whiffle bats and white whiffle balls. He sells odd looking toilet plungers--ones that look part accordion. It is not clear how a small hardware store is related to Intolerable Circumstances. The man who owns the store is the only employee. It does not seem he abuses himself. He does not stand in his doorway and shout abuse at those who walk by. Who walks by?
There is a wooden case with a glass top. In this case are pocket knives. They have dust on them. The owner has a key machine. He has this machine in his widow. On top of the key machine is a metal rack that has many blank keys on it. Where does he get his blank keys from? Many people would like to order so many blank keys. They represent possibility and promise. They are not dusty. The keys are not dusty. They hang on a rack that's above the key machine. The key machine is an ILCO Manual Key Machine. Many people have wondered about getting such a key machine. Maybe it would be possible to find one used online. If many people were to get such a machine, they would have to figure out where to get the blank keys. Once they got the blank keys and the machine, they would be able to practice making keys before they started to make keys for a living. Or maybe they would make keys gratis for their friends.
It is difficult to think of an Intolerable Circumstance that has to do with making a key. After all, if you are making a key, then you are inviting someone in. The ILCO Manual Key machine is orange. It is an orange that people don't use anymore when they are trying to make a product. It is the orange of a plastic YMCA basketball, and it has grime all over it from the owner of the hardware store. The grime must have come from his hands since he's the only one who works in the store. The key machine is in the window--and close enough to the door--so maybe some of the grime is from the outside. The owner's hand oils and the soot from exhaust outside make up the grime.
The owner faces the key machine. He has a key. He has a key that someone wants copied. He has a key. He screws it into the left side of the ILCO. He takes a blank key from the rack and screws the blank key into the right side of the ILCO. When he moves the left side of the ILCO, the side with the key that's to be copied, it moves the right side of the ILCO, the side with the blank key. He turns on the ILCO. He moves the left side, and when he moves the left side, he runs the teeth of the key that's to be copied over a guide. He runs the teeth over a guide. As he runs the teeth over a guide, the right side of the ILCO moves and cuts teeth into the blank key. He runs the teeth over the guide two or three times. He unscrews the new key--the key that just a few minutes ago was blank--and runs an electric brush over it. He buffs the new key. He takes edges off it. And so he's made a key. It costs $1.50 to have a key made.
He says he never makes bad keys, but he says to people to go home and try their keys and come back if the keys don't work. He does not ask them about their lives. He wears an apron. When was the last time he went to the beach? When was the last time he floated in the ocean? There is red seaweed in the ocean. There are millions of little bugs in the ocean. They get in your swimsuit. They pinch you a little. It doesn't hurt, but it is strange--when they pinch you.
The ILCO Manual Key Machine. It is manual because you must use your hands, your manos, to operate it. It does not take much skill to operate the machine, and the machine does not look as if it's very expensive. But maybe it isn't expensive. And how expensive is a blank key? Is it 50 cents? Less? If it is less--and if an ILCO Manual Key Machine--can be bought used and for cheap, then it might be a good idea to have a key machine of your own. It would enable you to make your own keys and to make keys for your friends and people you wouldn't mind letting themselves in. You could make keys for other people. There is a power line pole right near your house. You could make a high-quality sign that says I MAKE KEYS FOR $2. You could make that sign, and there you go. You could make keys out of your house. It would cost $2. Sure, people could go to the hardware store, but what is 50 cents? Let them come to you. You will make keys. The ILCO key machine cannot make keys that say DO NOT DUPLICATE because those keys are much more complicated. Special machines make those keys, so if you lose such keys, you need to get them some other way. They say DO NOT DUPLICATE but certainly there are times when they must be copied.
There is a wooden case with a glass top. In this case are pocket knives. They have dust on them. The owner has a key machine. He has this machine in his widow. On top of the key machine is a metal rack that has many blank keys on it. Where does he get his blank keys from? Many people would like to order so many blank keys. They represent possibility and promise. They are not dusty. The keys are not dusty. They hang on a rack that's above the key machine. The key machine is an ILCO Manual Key Machine. Many people have wondered about getting such a key machine. Maybe it would be possible to find one used online. If many people were to get such a machine, they would have to figure out where to get the blank keys. Once they got the blank keys and the machine, they would be able to practice making keys before they started to make keys for a living. Or maybe they would make keys gratis for their friends.
It is difficult to think of an Intolerable Circumstance that has to do with making a key. After all, if you are making a key, then you are inviting someone in. The ILCO Manual Key machine is orange. It is an orange that people don't use anymore when they are trying to make a product. It is the orange of a plastic YMCA basketball, and it has grime all over it from the owner of the hardware store. The grime must have come from his hands since he's the only one who works in the store. The key machine is in the window--and close enough to the door--so maybe some of the grime is from the outside. The owner's hand oils and the soot from exhaust outside make up the grime.
The owner faces the key machine. He has a key. He has a key that someone wants copied. He has a key. He screws it into the left side of the ILCO. He takes a blank key from the rack and screws the blank key into the right side of the ILCO. When he moves the left side of the ILCO, the side with the key that's to be copied, it moves the right side of the ILCO, the side with the blank key. He turns on the ILCO. He moves the left side, and when he moves the left side, he runs the teeth of the key that's to be copied over a guide. He runs the teeth over a guide. As he runs the teeth over a guide, the right side of the ILCO moves and cuts teeth into the blank key. He runs the teeth over the guide two or three times. He unscrews the new key--the key that just a few minutes ago was blank--and runs an electric brush over it. He buffs the new key. He takes edges off it. And so he's made a key. It costs $1.50 to have a key made.
He says he never makes bad keys, but he says to people to go home and try their keys and come back if the keys don't work. He does not ask them about their lives. He wears an apron. When was the last time he went to the beach? When was the last time he floated in the ocean? There is red seaweed in the ocean. There are millions of little bugs in the ocean. They get in your swimsuit. They pinch you a little. It doesn't hurt, but it is strange--when they pinch you.
The ILCO Manual Key Machine. It is manual because you must use your hands, your manos, to operate it. It does not take much skill to operate the machine, and the machine does not look as if it's very expensive. But maybe it isn't expensive. And how expensive is a blank key? Is it 50 cents? Less? If it is less--and if an ILCO Manual Key Machine--can be bought used and for cheap, then it might be a good idea to have a key machine of your own. It would enable you to make your own keys and to make keys for your friends and people you wouldn't mind letting themselves in. You could make keys for other people. There is a power line pole right near your house. You could make a high-quality sign that says I MAKE KEYS FOR $2. You could make that sign, and there you go. You could make keys out of your house. It would cost $2. Sure, people could go to the hardware store, but what is 50 cents? Let them come to you. You will make keys. The ILCO key machine cannot make keys that say DO NOT DUPLICATE because those keys are much more complicated. Special machines make those keys, so if you lose such keys, you need to get them some other way. They say DO NOT DUPLICATE but certainly there are times when they must be copied.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
WHAT IT IS
In the salvage bin at the grocery store, he finds slimy mushrooms, soft cucumbers, and wounded strawberries. He buys these things with pennies. He goes to have his hair cut at the salon--not the barbershop. His friends sometimes tease him for going to the salon, especially since he has so little hair. But he likes the salon because Sadie washes his hair before she cuts it. She gives him a scalp massage. It must be easy for her to massage his scalp because his baldness affords her so much access. As she massages him, he often asks her to tell him about vacations she'd like to take.
After she washes his hair, she cuts it. After she cuts it, she washes his hair again. When she washes his hair the second time, he asks her how her vacations were. She says she never took them, but he pleads with her to pretend and tell him what it was like. It's the second wash that he most loves because, when he used to go to the barbershop, the first thing he'd have to do when he got home would be to take a shower to rid himself of all the hair bits that were itching him. Sadie is seven months pregnant, and he relishes the feel of her pregnant stomach against his back when she cuts the hair at the back of his head. Or when she shaves his neck. He pretends he feels the baby kick him. He says, "Ooh--that was a good one." And Sadie says, "One what?" And he tells her it was a kick. When he used to go to the barbershop, he'd feel a belly against his back, too--only it would be the belly of the fat barber.
He buys his salvage vegetables and fruit.
He has his hair cut by Sadie.
After his haircut, he drives around the lake that's in town. He drives through the cemetery and tries to find the stones that have the oldest dates. He knows where all the newest dates are because he hasn't missed a burial in decades.
He looks at the Vietnam helicopters that are posed all over the town. The helicopters are no longer functional. Their working parts have been frozen by welders or filled in with cement.
Years ago, he could have been the one who delivered Sadie's baby, but he no longer practices medicine. Instead, he's devoted himself to finding a boyhood friend of his who disappeared fifteen years ago. He himself had dredged the lake with three types of dredgers. The first dredger was a weighted net. The next one had dull hooks on it. The last one had sharp, barbed hooks on it. He has hired several private detectives, none of whom have found anything. One detective, in fact, had the gall to say that he had made up the disappearance.
He fries his mushrooms and eats them. He eats his terrible strawberries. He slices his cucumber, takes off his shirt, lies on the couch in the parlor, and puts the slices on his chest. He imagines that each slice is someone kissing him. His wife comes home.
"Take those cucumbers off yourself," she tells him.
"I will not take these off," he says.
He continues to lie on the couch. A window opens, someone hunches through the open frame, and steps into the room. It's his boyhood friend--the one who had disappeared so many years ago. His friend wears a long wig, a bridesmaid's dress, and workboots.
"Let's get you a haircut," he says to his friend.
"Will you be my wife?" his friend says to him.
"He's already married," his wife says.
He plucks the cucumbers off his chest and asks if anyone present would like to kiss his places.
After she washes his hair, she cuts it. After she cuts it, she washes his hair again. When she washes his hair the second time, he asks her how her vacations were. She says she never took them, but he pleads with her to pretend and tell him what it was like. It's the second wash that he most loves because, when he used to go to the barbershop, the first thing he'd have to do when he got home would be to take a shower to rid himself of all the hair bits that were itching him. Sadie is seven months pregnant, and he relishes the feel of her pregnant stomach against his back when she cuts the hair at the back of his head. Or when she shaves his neck. He pretends he feels the baby kick him. He says, "Ooh--that was a good one." And Sadie says, "One what?" And he tells her it was a kick. When he used to go to the barbershop, he'd feel a belly against his back, too--only it would be the belly of the fat barber.
He buys his salvage vegetables and fruit.
He has his hair cut by Sadie.
After his haircut, he drives around the lake that's in town. He drives through the cemetery and tries to find the stones that have the oldest dates. He knows where all the newest dates are because he hasn't missed a burial in decades.
He looks at the Vietnam helicopters that are posed all over the town. The helicopters are no longer functional. Their working parts have been frozen by welders or filled in with cement.
Years ago, he could have been the one who delivered Sadie's baby, but he no longer practices medicine. Instead, he's devoted himself to finding a boyhood friend of his who disappeared fifteen years ago. He himself had dredged the lake with three types of dredgers. The first dredger was a weighted net. The next one had dull hooks on it. The last one had sharp, barbed hooks on it. He has hired several private detectives, none of whom have found anything. One detective, in fact, had the gall to say that he had made up the disappearance.
He fries his mushrooms and eats them. He eats his terrible strawberries. He slices his cucumber, takes off his shirt, lies on the couch in the parlor, and puts the slices on his chest. He imagines that each slice is someone kissing him. His wife comes home.
"Take those cucumbers off yourself," she tells him.
"I will not take these off," he says.
He continues to lie on the couch. A window opens, someone hunches through the open frame, and steps into the room. It's his boyhood friend--the one who had disappeared so many years ago. His friend wears a long wig, a bridesmaid's dress, and workboots.
"Let's get you a haircut," he says to his friend.
"Will you be my wife?" his friend says to him.
"He's already married," his wife says.
He plucks the cucumbers off his chest and asks if anyone present would like to kiss his places.
7 MWE: Not a single person was calm in the parade
He tried to sop up what he had spilled on the countertop. He tried to sop up a light green liquid that could have seeped right through the table and onto the floor at any time in the morning. We went to foul the well. We went to spit in the cistern. We weren't supposed to swim in the reservoir, but we still did. We didn't have swimsuits, so we tied t-shirts about our middles. We slept on a trampoline outside. It was a fine way to fall asleep slowly. Our goal was to fall asleep as slowly as possible--to take many hours. We found many comforters in the thrift store. For months, we collected comforters and threw them into our spare room. It became the most comfortable room in the house. We would open up the door, and comforters would slide out. Some of us would sleep on top of many comforters. Others of us would burrow into the center of the room. I stood on top of many comforters. I had a hammer thatIn I used to make a hole in the ceiling. The ceiling looked like cottage cheese. It came down in sheets. I looked in the newspaper and saw that the newspaper printers were trying to get rid of aluminum sheets. I drove a long distance. Her effect on me was not pacific. I had an attack in the middle of a field. It was not quite in the middle. I tried to belittle my sister, but she turned around and spat in a hole I had dug. It was no easy feat. It was not easy to tread water for so many hours, but I had no choice--especially if I wanted to put my head through a large mushroom.
She did not bite her nails. She cut all her nails to the quick. Right to the quick. She had to have all her nails cut close. She tried to cut the nails of her partner. It bothered her that his nails were longer. It bothered her that he wanted the nails on one hand to be long. He said he played the guitar and that he wanted the nails on his left hand to be long. But he did not play the guitar--at least, she never saw him play a guitar. She knew he didn't own one. And, since he is right handed, wouldn't that mean he would have to grow the nails on his right hand long? But he claimed that he played guitars in stores and that when he played them he played them left handed. She had a caniption fit. He vomited in the neighbor's pool. He watched his effluence bloom away from him. He worried he would catch his finger in the filter that was at the bottom of a pool. He had a pit bull mix that, when he threw rocks in the would, would fetch the rocks. He hated the sound of the dog having rocks in its mouth. The sound of the rocks in the dog's mouth reminded him of sunset. It reminded him of when he had a strange thought in a very dark room. He hung upside-down for ten minutes and then righted himself. He heard his blood. He wanted to listen to its blood because, sometimes in its rushing, it explained to him how he should assemble subterranean markings.
There were nuts in the eaves. There were snoozers in the house. They should have gotten up hours ago. She had to wake up the snoozers with a mix she had created. It was a pancake mix. It was not time to be noiseless when it was time for the snoozers to be up. She thought she should dig a moat around the house since the rains would come soon. She saw herself as a mote. She was with a moat because of the rains. Inside the water, she sprinkled oatmeal. She was at the seashore. She had not eaten breakfast, so she sprinkled oats in the water. She swam through her oats with her mouth open wide.
My sister would not eat her dinner. We found we could trick her. We asked her to sing a song-- one in which the lyrics were Open Wide Your Little Mouth. When she sang that song, she had no choice but to open her mouth wide. And every time her mouth opened wide, we crammed a forkful of something into her mouth.
My mother told me where she kept her night-blue nailpolish. It was in a location. It was hard to find. It was not hard to find. The nailpolish was in the attic. It was underneath a pile of spears. I brought the polish back to her, and she asked me to paint her nails. I had never painted nails before. She told me to be careful of the cuticles--not to get any on the cuticles. So I was careful. I painted her nails, some of which had become brittle. Just when I was about finished, I got some paint on her pinky's cuticle. My mother said, "That finishes it. Now you have to paint my fingers. Paint my fingers but beware my knuckles." I painted her fingers, and of course I could not avoid her knuckles. Once I got some paint on her knuckles, she said I might as well paint her entire hands. Her arms. He shoulders. She removed her nightgown and had me paint her chest--all with night-blue nailpolish. I was surprised to see three hairs in the center of my mothers chest. Three more hairs than I have. Would you like me to remove these, I thought, but then I remembered they were there because my father liked them. That must have been a large bottle of nailpolish! And it was. It came in a five-gallon container.
One the side of the five-gallon container, there was a warning. The warning was a cartoon that showed a baby falling into the container. I wondered if babies had fallen into five-gallon containers or paint or roofing tar. Five gallons of it. I called the companies, asking them if babies had fallen in. "Did you put that warning there because of something that happened? Or did you put it there because of incredible foresight?"
The pickle factory was closed because it poisoned us all. We couldn't ride the horse because everyone who rode it got a disease. We couldn't pet the cat because it bites. We couldn't cross the river because we were afraid. I sat on a wooden chair. The chair was slippery, so I fell off it. We were seeing who could sit on it the longest. I was lonely, so I hired some kids to paint my house. Whenever I felt lonely, I'd have a coat of paint put on the house. I would wrap thick ropes around my arms and legs.
She did not bite her nails. She cut all her nails to the quick. Right to the quick. She had to have all her nails cut close. She tried to cut the nails of her partner. It bothered her that his nails were longer. It bothered her that he wanted the nails on one hand to be long. He said he played the guitar and that he wanted the nails on his left hand to be long. But he did not play the guitar--at least, she never saw him play a guitar. She knew he didn't own one. And, since he is right handed, wouldn't that mean he would have to grow the nails on his right hand long? But he claimed that he played guitars in stores and that when he played them he played them left handed. She had a caniption fit. He vomited in the neighbor's pool. He watched his effluence bloom away from him. He worried he would catch his finger in the filter that was at the bottom of a pool. He had a pit bull mix that, when he threw rocks in the would, would fetch the rocks. He hated the sound of the dog having rocks in its mouth. The sound of the rocks in the dog's mouth reminded him of sunset. It reminded him of when he had a strange thought in a very dark room. He hung upside-down for ten minutes and then righted himself. He heard his blood. He wanted to listen to its blood because, sometimes in its rushing, it explained to him how he should assemble subterranean markings.
There were nuts in the eaves. There were snoozers in the house. They should have gotten up hours ago. She had to wake up the snoozers with a mix she had created. It was a pancake mix. It was not time to be noiseless when it was time for the snoozers to be up. She thought she should dig a moat around the house since the rains would come soon. She saw herself as a mote. She was with a moat because of the rains. Inside the water, she sprinkled oatmeal. She was at the seashore. She had not eaten breakfast, so she sprinkled oats in the water. She swam through her oats with her mouth open wide.
My sister would not eat her dinner. We found we could trick her. We asked her to sing a song-- one in which the lyrics were Open Wide Your Little Mouth. When she sang that song, she had no choice but to open her mouth wide. And every time her mouth opened wide, we crammed a forkful of something into her mouth.
My mother told me where she kept her night-blue nailpolish. It was in a location. It was hard to find. It was not hard to find. The nailpolish was in the attic. It was underneath a pile of spears. I brought the polish back to her, and she asked me to paint her nails. I had never painted nails before. She told me to be careful of the cuticles--not to get any on the cuticles. So I was careful. I painted her nails, some of which had become brittle. Just when I was about finished, I got some paint on her pinky's cuticle. My mother said, "That finishes it. Now you have to paint my fingers. Paint my fingers but beware my knuckles." I painted her fingers, and of course I could not avoid her knuckles. Once I got some paint on her knuckles, she said I might as well paint her entire hands. Her arms. He shoulders. She removed her nightgown and had me paint her chest--all with night-blue nailpolish. I was surprised to see three hairs in the center of my mothers chest. Three more hairs than I have. Would you like me to remove these, I thought, but then I remembered they were there because my father liked them. That must have been a large bottle of nailpolish! And it was. It came in a five-gallon container.
One the side of the five-gallon container, there was a warning. The warning was a cartoon that showed a baby falling into the container. I wondered if babies had fallen into five-gallon containers or paint or roofing tar. Five gallons of it. I called the companies, asking them if babies had fallen in. "Did you put that warning there because of something that happened? Or did you put it there because of incredible foresight?"
The pickle factory was closed because it poisoned us all. We couldn't ride the horse because everyone who rode it got a disease. We couldn't pet the cat because it bites. We couldn't cross the river because we were afraid. I sat on a wooden chair. The chair was slippery, so I fell off it. We were seeing who could sit on it the longest. I was lonely, so I hired some kids to paint my house. Whenever I felt lonely, I'd have a coat of paint put on the house. I would wrap thick ropes around my arms and legs.
WHAT IT IS
I have just one headlight. I have not registered my car because my license is suspended. Though I'm worried about the police pulling me over, I drive to work anyway because no buses run at two or three AM. Earlier today, I started digging a hole for my trailer. I have an Airstream trailer--one of those long, silver, hot-dog-shaped ones that were popular in the 70s. The trailer has a skylight on its top. If I make my hole deep enough, and if I bury the trailer as I want to, then I will make sure that the skylight serves as a hatch. That's how I'll get into my trailer once it's buried. I'd be able to live underground then, and I'm sure that if I were to live underground, it would be quiet.
There's a warrant for my arrest--but not for anything violent. Just one headlight. On my way to work just before three AM, I see a patrol car, so I flash it with my one light, and it flashes me back. I'm not sure why patrol cars never pull me over so long as I flash them with my one light. Maybe it's because my flash is blatant. It's as if my flash says, "Yes, I'm aware of my delinquency, but, believe me, I will take care of it." Or maybe I don't get pulled over because it's one of my job's perks.
And I am aware of my delinquency. I'm aware that I owe my children thousands of dollars of back child support. I am aware that their mother is still dead and that they live with their sick and old grandmother in the suburbs. I'm aware that they don't want to visit me because, as my son says, "Your domicile is not fit for habitation." The last time I visited my kids in the suburbs, I was impressed by how clear their complexions were. I myself remember picking and squeezing through years of cystic acne. When I visited, I saw that my son had taken to taming magpies. He would steal them from their mothers when they were young and raise them as his own to do his bidding, which was mostly that he wanted them to bring him coins and jewelry.
I was surprised that my son decided to tell me his terrible secret about how he best tamed his magpies. I didn't expect him to tell me anything--let alone his best secret. He told me that when the magpies were little, he would break one of their legs. They never remembered he was the one who broke their legs, of course, and they probably also didn't remember that he was the one who brought them back to health. He made sure, though, that their legs never completely healed. All his tame magpies had limps, and it was painful for me to see how loyal they were to him, how they brought him things they could barely carry from far away. They brought him coins and bracelets. They brought him rings.
"I once saw a bird of mine peck a woman until she gave it her pendant," he told me.
My son. My son also told me that someone was tying gold ribbon around lit cigarettes so that his birds would pick them up and bring them to him. My son wasn't sure if this person who planted the cigarettes was trying to be his friend or if this person was already his enemy.
"Is this person trying to give me gifts of lit cigarettes? Or is this person trying to burn me down?" my son asked.
I told him I couldn't tell him--only that it wasn't I who was doing it. I sometimes saw limping magpies near my trailer in the city, and I wondered if my son had sent them to take my coins. I did, after all, owe my children thousands.
I don't know much about my daughter except that she administers dialysis to her grandmother three times a day. I know that she rides her bike fast and without a helmet. It is not my place to tell her to wear a helmet.
I arrive at work. I have a simple job. It's to clean a bar from three AM to seven AM. The bar, by law, is supposed to close at two, but it stays open for an hour extra because that's when all the police come in to drink. The owner of the bar knows that I have stopped drinking. He likes to tell the police that he'll give them free drinks if they can force me to drink.
"Free drinks for anyone who can get this waste to drink," the owner says. He says this tonight.
There's a warrant for my arrest--but not for anything violent. Just one headlight. On my way to work just before three AM, I see a patrol car, so I flash it with my one light, and it flashes me back. I'm not sure why patrol cars never pull me over so long as I flash them with my one light. Maybe it's because my flash is blatant. It's as if my flash says, "Yes, I'm aware of my delinquency, but, believe me, I will take care of it." Or maybe I don't get pulled over because it's one of my job's perks.
And I am aware of my delinquency. I'm aware that I owe my children thousands of dollars of back child support. I am aware that their mother is still dead and that they live with their sick and old grandmother in the suburbs. I'm aware that they don't want to visit me because, as my son says, "Your domicile is not fit for habitation." The last time I visited my kids in the suburbs, I was impressed by how clear their complexions were. I myself remember picking and squeezing through years of cystic acne. When I visited, I saw that my son had taken to taming magpies. He would steal them from their mothers when they were young and raise them as his own to do his bidding, which was mostly that he wanted them to bring him coins and jewelry.
I was surprised that my son decided to tell me his terrible secret about how he best tamed his magpies. I didn't expect him to tell me anything--let alone his best secret. He told me that when the magpies were little, he would break one of their legs. They never remembered he was the one who broke their legs, of course, and they probably also didn't remember that he was the one who brought them back to health. He made sure, though, that their legs never completely healed. All his tame magpies had limps, and it was painful for me to see how loyal they were to him, how they brought him things they could barely carry from far away. They brought him coins and bracelets. They brought him rings.
"I once saw a bird of mine peck a woman until she gave it her pendant," he told me.
My son. My son also told me that someone was tying gold ribbon around lit cigarettes so that his birds would pick them up and bring them to him. My son wasn't sure if this person who planted the cigarettes was trying to be his friend or if this person was already his enemy.
"Is this person trying to give me gifts of lit cigarettes? Or is this person trying to burn me down?" my son asked.
I told him I couldn't tell him--only that it wasn't I who was doing it. I sometimes saw limping magpies near my trailer in the city, and I wondered if my son had sent them to take my coins. I did, after all, owe my children thousands.
I don't know much about my daughter except that she administers dialysis to her grandmother three times a day. I know that she rides her bike fast and without a helmet. It is not my place to tell her to wear a helmet.
I arrive at work. I have a simple job. It's to clean a bar from three AM to seven AM. The bar, by law, is supposed to close at two, but it stays open for an hour extra because that's when all the police come in to drink. The owner of the bar knows that I have stopped drinking. He likes to tell the police that he'll give them free drinks if they can force me to drink.
"Free drinks for anyone who can get this waste to drink," the owner says. He says this tonight.
Monday, August 8, 2011
WHAT IT IS
We had a going-away party for ourselves, but I thought of it as a going-astray party. We invited people from our work over, but once they were in our small apartment, I saw it was more of a trap than a party for everyone. We did not provide enough food or drink, for one thing. There were bottles of wine, but I had hidden them in the fake closet that had the heater in it. After everyone left, she spat on me, and the spit was purple because we had been drinking the wine. Her otherwise white teeth were gray because of the wine. She thought a lot about teeth. She liked them straight and white, and mine were neither of those things, so I worried when I saw her looking at my teeth.
At the going-away party, one of my friends got stuck in a wall. Somehow, he had been looking at one of my posters, only to find himself in a wall. I had to remove a panel underneath the sink to get into the wall and find him. I slid along, inside the wall, until I found my friend, who then urgently asked me for all the names of the people at the party. I whispered the names to him, though I wasn't sure of some of her friends' names. And, even if I knew the names of her friends, I was unsure of the pronunciation--that is, if I should stress the syllable before the last one or an earlier syllable.
She spat on me after everyone had left. She was upset because, once everyone left, I opened up bottles of wine and began to make omelets. She was upset because I left our bedroom door open when I cooked the omelets. She hated the smell of food--"kitchen smells," she called them--in our bedroom. Her name was Sycamore, which was odd because that was my name, too. She spat a purple wad onto me. She cried, and as she cried, she produced amazing quantities of snot, which she collected and cupped in her hand before wiping them on me.
She screamed that I shouldn't have gone to my friend in the wall. I should have left him there to die. I should have left him there and called the landlord to dispose of him. I shouldn't have told him everyone's names, and she was certain that, when we were in the wall, we had talked about other women and how we wanted to be with them instead of anyone else. She said we laughed about all this, and I told her I couldn't remember laughing. There were great blotches of wax in the carpet of our bedroom because, the other night, trying to be romantic, we had lit candles only to forget them. That happened the other night. Sycamore pronounced "wax" as "waz."
I tried to open the window in our bedroom. I wanted to escape, but she grabbed me and pulled me back in. I couldn't help but to laugh, and she said, see, that's just how you laughed about the women with your friend in the wall. I realized that, yes, we had spoken about women in the wall. I realized I had laughed. I made a confession to her, and tornado sirens sounded outside. That summer, we had heard the sirens so much that we didn't take them seriously anymore. The first time we had heard them, we had responded and scuttled into the basement of someone's house across the road. We didn't know the person--it was an old man--and we begged him to let us in. We begged him to let us in his basement. He had stacks and stacks of board games in his basement. He had hundreds of pairs of athletic cleats. We later learned that, like some kind of scary human magpie, he broke into homes and stole board games. He broke into school gyms and locker rooms and stole cleats. He told us that the best day of his life was when a pregnant woman cut his hair. He told us that when she shaved his neck he felt her big belly on his back. He didn't feel a kick, but it would have been nice to feel one.
At the going-away party, one of my friends got stuck in a wall. Somehow, he had been looking at one of my posters, only to find himself in a wall. I had to remove a panel underneath the sink to get into the wall and find him. I slid along, inside the wall, until I found my friend, who then urgently asked me for all the names of the people at the party. I whispered the names to him, though I wasn't sure of some of her friends' names. And, even if I knew the names of her friends, I was unsure of the pronunciation--that is, if I should stress the syllable before the last one or an earlier syllable.
She spat on me after everyone had left. She was upset because, once everyone left, I opened up bottles of wine and began to make omelets. She was upset because I left our bedroom door open when I cooked the omelets. She hated the smell of food--"kitchen smells," she called them--in our bedroom. Her name was Sycamore, which was odd because that was my name, too. She spat a purple wad onto me. She cried, and as she cried, she produced amazing quantities of snot, which she collected and cupped in her hand before wiping them on me.
She screamed that I shouldn't have gone to my friend in the wall. I should have left him there to die. I should have left him there and called the landlord to dispose of him. I shouldn't have told him everyone's names, and she was certain that, when we were in the wall, we had talked about other women and how we wanted to be with them instead of anyone else. She said we laughed about all this, and I told her I couldn't remember laughing. There were great blotches of wax in the carpet of our bedroom because, the other night, trying to be romantic, we had lit candles only to forget them. That happened the other night. Sycamore pronounced "wax" as "waz."
I tried to open the window in our bedroom. I wanted to escape, but she grabbed me and pulled me back in. I couldn't help but to laugh, and she said, see, that's just how you laughed about the women with your friend in the wall. I realized that, yes, we had spoken about women in the wall. I realized I had laughed. I made a confession to her, and tornado sirens sounded outside. That summer, we had heard the sirens so much that we didn't take them seriously anymore. The first time we had heard them, we had responded and scuttled into the basement of someone's house across the road. We didn't know the person--it was an old man--and we begged him to let us in. We begged him to let us in his basement. He had stacks and stacks of board games in his basement. He had hundreds of pairs of athletic cleats. We later learned that, like some kind of scary human magpie, he broke into homes and stole board games. He broke into school gyms and locker rooms and stole cleats. He told us that the best day of his life was when a pregnant woman cut his hair. He told us that when she shaved his neck he felt her big belly on his back. He didn't feel a kick, but it would have been nice to feel one.
7 MWE: The ninny was sailing his ship across the junkyard
She did not have much to make soup. She cut up some garlic and cooked it in oil with herbs. She added water and let it simmer for half an hour. That was her soup. She had some dough, so she tossed rubs of dough in her soup. She made dumplings. She coddled an egg in her soup. She had chickens. Yesterday, she had given her chicken mussel shells to eat. It started to rain. She had been bucket bathing for months. It started to rain, so she took off her clothes, stood in the rain, and soaped herself up. She expected it to stop raining when she was still soapy, but it rained and rained and gave her plenty of time to rinse. After the rain, she took her mussel shells to stomp on. After she stomped her mussels shell, she called to her chickens by calling churrras. Churrras. All the chickens came to her and started pecking at the shells. Two days ago, she had gotten drunk and had thrown a log at her chickens. She had only wanted to frighten one of them, but when she threw the log, she accidentally hurt one gravely. She had to kill it, even though she didn't want to kill it. To cut off its head, she slipped it into an orange traffic cone. The head of the chicken stuck out of the pointed end of the traffic cone. The chicken was easy to kill when it was in the cone. All she had to do was chop off its head with a hatchet. After chopping off the chicken's head, she submerged it in boiling water so that she'd be able to pull out its feathers. If she didn't keep it in the water long enough, then the feathers wouldn't come out easily. If she kept it in for too long, then skin would come off with feathers. There'd be a mess. She had to keep the chicken in the water for just the right amount of time.
The young people who got drunk in the square weren't too smart. The square was paved with rock. Under to rock, there were supposed to be many bodies. These were bodies of people who were buried with animals. Many people were buried with animals. They were dead, and then live animals were buried with them. In this square. The young people were nitwits. They were dolts. They were ignoramuses. They were simpletons. They were not too intelligent. They would buy a bottle of cheap cola, and they would buy a bottle of cheap port. Many times, I saw them pour out half the bottle of cola before they poured some port into that same bottle. Why don't you drink the cola, I thought. Why do you waste the cola? Why don't you have a third container? You have a third container to pour some cola and some port in. In which to pour. So they get drunk on their wine and cola. It's something to see them throw themselves around the square. To make money for more port, they sell postcards to tourists. They buy the postcards for one coin and sell them to tourists for two coins. Or, better yet, they steal the cards because the cards are so easy to steal. They steal them and sell them to tourists for two coins. They buy the port. They buy the cola. They mix the two and have a drink. They have drinks because they are on the square. They piss against rock walls in gold light at the end of the day.
She was in the doldrums. The dumps. She was told that she did not hit the ball right. She was dull. She was insipid. She was prosaic. She wanted to hit a cymbal with a sausage in order to hear if it would re-create the sound her grandfather made when he hit his head on a brass bannister. The empty and stupid box. The sadness at the end of Sunday. The excrement packed neatly away for later inspection. She got her comeuppance.
To honor the memory of her father, she tied a kite string around his grave. She held onto the other end. The other end was a yellow plastic spool with handles. She had to pay out the spool to go to other places. The one end was tied around her father's gravestone. The other end was a spool. She had to pay it out. She would get asked on dates, but she couldn't go anywhere on a motorcycle or a car because she wasn't able to pay out her kite string fast enough. "Leave the kite string," some guy told her. This guy told her earlier that he had to get all his fillings taken out of his teeth and replaced because they were telling his mind odd things. "There must be some off metal in them," he said, "because the metal gives me strange ideas." But, later, he told her to leave her kite string and the memory of her father. He wanted her to ride on the back of his motorcycle. He wanted her to lie on the road so that he could try to jump her. He wanted her to come with him to steal strawberries from an old farmer. The farmer did not have a shotgun. That's the old cliche. Instead, the farmer had an atl-atl with which he would launch spears. It was beautiful to see him launch a spear. Many strawberry thieves would pause to see him launch a spear at them. He had a jai-alai glove. My father had a jai-alai mitt. If I misbehaved, I was to put myself against the brick wall that separated our property from the property of my best friend's mother. My father would launch bitter mangoes at me. My friend and I tried to sell those mangoes, but they made so many people unhappy. Instead, we had to go into canals and steal mangoes that drooped over into the canal. We stole many mangoes, and each one sold for a dollar. My father used the jai-alai mitt to throw mangoes at me. They left bruises on me. One hit me on the back of my neck and stunned me. One hit me on my right side--right on my live--and put me on the ground. My father yelled at me that I was faking it. But I wasn't faking it. My friend and I would sneak onto a golf course at night. We would drench balls with glowing liquid and hit the balls.
The young people who got drunk in the square weren't too smart. The square was paved with rock. Under to rock, there were supposed to be many bodies. These were bodies of people who were buried with animals. Many people were buried with animals. They were dead, and then live animals were buried with them. In this square. The young people were nitwits. They were dolts. They were ignoramuses. They were simpletons. They were not too intelligent. They would buy a bottle of cheap cola, and they would buy a bottle of cheap port. Many times, I saw them pour out half the bottle of cola before they poured some port into that same bottle. Why don't you drink the cola, I thought. Why do you waste the cola? Why don't you have a third container? You have a third container to pour some cola and some port in. In which to pour. So they get drunk on their wine and cola. It's something to see them throw themselves around the square. To make money for more port, they sell postcards to tourists. They buy the postcards for one coin and sell them to tourists for two coins. Or, better yet, they steal the cards because the cards are so easy to steal. They steal them and sell them to tourists for two coins. They buy the port. They buy the cola. They mix the two and have a drink. They have drinks because they are on the square. They piss against rock walls in gold light at the end of the day.
She was in the doldrums. The dumps. She was told that she did not hit the ball right. She was dull. She was insipid. She was prosaic. She wanted to hit a cymbal with a sausage in order to hear if it would re-create the sound her grandfather made when he hit his head on a brass bannister. The empty and stupid box. The sadness at the end of Sunday. The excrement packed neatly away for later inspection. She got her comeuppance.
To honor the memory of her father, she tied a kite string around his grave. She held onto the other end. The other end was a yellow plastic spool with handles. She had to pay out the spool to go to other places. The one end was tied around her father's gravestone. The other end was a spool. She had to pay it out. She would get asked on dates, but she couldn't go anywhere on a motorcycle or a car because she wasn't able to pay out her kite string fast enough. "Leave the kite string," some guy told her. This guy told her earlier that he had to get all his fillings taken out of his teeth and replaced because they were telling his mind odd things. "There must be some off metal in them," he said, "because the metal gives me strange ideas." But, later, he told her to leave her kite string and the memory of her father. He wanted her to ride on the back of his motorcycle. He wanted her to lie on the road so that he could try to jump her. He wanted her to come with him to steal strawberries from an old farmer. The farmer did not have a shotgun. That's the old cliche. Instead, the farmer had an atl-atl with which he would launch spears. It was beautiful to see him launch a spear. Many strawberry thieves would pause to see him launch a spear at them. He had a jai-alai glove. My father had a jai-alai mitt. If I misbehaved, I was to put myself against the brick wall that separated our property from the property of my best friend's mother. My father would launch bitter mangoes at me. My friend and I tried to sell those mangoes, but they made so many people unhappy. Instead, we had to go into canals and steal mangoes that drooped over into the canal. We stole many mangoes, and each one sold for a dollar. My father used the jai-alai mitt to throw mangoes at me. They left bruises on me. One hit me on the back of my neck and stunned me. One hit me on my right side--right on my live--and put me on the ground. My father yelled at me that I was faking it. But I wasn't faking it. My friend and I would sneak onto a golf course at night. We would drench balls with glowing liquid and hit the balls.
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