“Nice to meet you,” Kitty said, followed by Jody. There had been no expectation to hook up, which also made Iggy feel better, as Jody was not the most attractive girl he’d ever seen. The siblings waved Iggy off, and shot one last spray up in the air to light his path down the obscure, rocky driveway to pavement.
The next day was sunny on the Meramec, and Iggy had a hangover. He decided to float. He pulled on his trunks, rented a tube, and headed out, wading off shore into deeper water flow and getting snagged along the way on Missouri’s thorny equivalent to asparagus fern, the nasty plant that used to plague his childhood home’s yard. Iggy wondered if his mother had named him in honor of that irritating plant, because Iggy rhymed with spriggy and that sounded a lot like prickly. Iggy’s mom loved singing and rhyming like that—always the poet. Iggy then flashed back to his ex-girlfriend, Finnegan, who had claimed his name reminded her of an opera-singing bear bathing under a misty waterfall. Iggy liked that idea better, having no idea what it meant but missing Finnegan, who had left him for a woman. What could he have done about that? All the women I fall for are lesbians, he mused, wondering why. In fact, the very idea of lesbians aroused him on the spot, and he got a pup tent in his trunks despite the cold water as he plunged in. Too bad there were no women to be seen for miles, and that he was a total chicken when it came to propositioning them. He spinned his tube around to catch sun sparkles on the innocuous rapids. He would float all day down to another tube rental place, and shuttle back to his camp where he could jostle his pup tent in the privacy of his own larger shelter.
Iggy drifted alone for the first hour, contemplating the night before: his fury inflamed by savagery only to be tamed by a glimpse of authentic human decency, the unexpected sincerity of Jody’s confession. Then, he came upon a group of people whose tubes were tied together with ropes, and who had also tied nets to their tubes as makeshift beer coolers. Hey! they hollered, Float this way!
Iggy wafted down. Welcome! They yelled like cheerleaders at a varsity game. Whoo hoo! High fives! The likely homecoming queen was not Iggy’s type but was gorgeous in that wholesome midwestern way with long chestnut hair streaked blond. As she tossed him a can, Iggy caught it then dunked his head in the river, flipping his hair while forgetting that he had none.
“Where you headed, Wet Look?” she asked.
“Down to Minks Pass,” Iggy said. He made small talk with the girl, holding their tubes together to stay connected. People were mostly amicable in these parts, at least, but he didn’t know what it all added up to yet.
The tube crew snaked along, catching currents, hitting occasional rocks and diversifying, only to reconvene around the next bend. Twice, people flipped and everyone scrambled to get the man down back on board, a wobbly affair. Iggy rolled off his tube periodically to swim, and in shallower water he let his tube buttress his buns against boulder collisions. It was nice, this living in the present, listening to kids talk about their latest dramas without having to think back to being dumped by Finnegan, or of his parents, who he hadn’t called back in six months. Iggy was the youngest in his family to have declared bankruptcy after having maxed out seven credit cards. He was avoiding a permanent address to evade creditors, really, and badly wanted a second chance but didn’t know how he’d ever pay down the bills, though reduced from bankruptcy, without a decent job as opposed to the odd jobs he’d taken in recent years due to his meandering, itinerant schedule. If he stayed in one place, he’d be paying the government back into his forties. Then again, moving made it nearly impossible to meet another woman, not that he’d have the confidence to date with so much debt. He felt he had nothing to offer; he’d shaved his head to start anew but it actually made him feel even more denuded. The Wet Look nickname, ouch. All of this crossed his mind as the kids high fived and hollered, carousing until they swirled into the Minks Pass River Company’s eddy spot.
“Nice floating with you!” the girl said to Iggy, releasing their tubes for independent floats to the beach. Iggy accidentally spun into some shore grasses, but pretended he was checking for river life.
Snap. Iggy yanked his foot out of the water to find the whole tip of his big toe mangled. Blood dribbled down his throbbing foot. A snapping turtle got him after all. Fucking Meramec, he cursed under his breath, limping ashore, dragging his raft behind him. He was often verging on lithe, soulful summer days, literally bumping up against them, but never could quite pull off a single day of carefree tranquility. I’m out of this deadbeat place first thing tomorrow morning, Iggy told himself. The horror of enlightenment was too painful, and all Iggy immediately craved was a beach towel and a band-aid.
MILLENIUM CHILL
Sweaters dangled from every surface. I had three maxed-out dressers, but sweaters still cascaded down everything. Sleeves were falling off my bookshelf ledges, and a sweater pile in the corner collapsed silently to the floor like a dead knitted octopus. Sweaters were shoved under the bed’s covers, and they lined the bathroom towel rack. I found a sweater wedged behind the wok in the kitchen cabinet, and two were plopped on the entryway table. There were three sweaters slung over my desk chair, if I needed one while seated. Four sweaters hung on the coat rack, and one was stuffed between some couch cushions.
From any location in my house I could reach a sweater just in case. In case of what? I asked myself. How many sweaters does one woman need? I looked around my apartment and decided I’d gone crazy owning so many sweaters. There are only so many sweaters a body can pile onto itself. Am I really that cold? Grabbing and folding a sweater out of respect for this remarkably comfortable knittery, I peered under the bed and saw a sweater bunched up, collecting dust bunnies.
It was the middle of winter but it was time for spring-cleaning. I’m sure people who are used to winter often clean in the cold, that this is not a novel idea. But I’d never had gray skies for months straight or considered so often what to wear. I needed more sweaters than I used to. I felt like I’d just moved to Antarctica, though I’d only moved cross-country. I couldn’t then bear to part with any sweaters, because their warmth reminded me of the golden sun. I drank some pomegranate juice to prep for major sweater folding.
After folding ten, I wanted an icy shot of vodka to cheers myself for surviving winter. I looked to the clock; only noon. I don’t take vodka shots that early; I’m too paranoid about getting drunk in winter daytime. People in northern countries are notorious for passing winter in drunken stupors, and I don’t want to fall prey. But what else is there to do, when it’s dark half the year, than to toast the melancholy sky until it disappears?
I put on some Cajun music, chugged two glasses of water instead of vodka, and aimed to work until all sweaters were hidden from view. I hadn’t heard Cajun music in a while, but it always gets me fired up. It made me want to sit on the porch, stare at alligators, and sweat. It sizzled. I took two aspirin with two more glasses of water. I stretched. I wanted to kill the headache induced from my noticing the sloppy sweaters. Then I put quite a few more away.
Humming along to Cajun songs, folding sweaters, and shoving them into drawers, I left the curtains tied open to let in what little daylight existed. Halfway through the job, I looked to the window and noticed an old woman staring in. She squinted, head leaning in, not quite pressing against the glass. Was she admiring my sweater collection? I went to the front door and opened it.
“Hello, ma’am,” I said. She was shivering under a scrawny black shawl.
“Hello, little girl,” she said, even though I am mother-aged.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I am cold,” she moaned. “Old, and cold. Could you spare a sweater, my dear?” She had an overbite, and yellow teeth peeked over her bottom lip as she talked.
“Of course,” I said. I would survive minus a sweater. “I’ll be right back.”
It seemed a trap. But I’d expect more a trap taking something from a stranger. She wasn’t giving. I opened my bottom dresser drawer and chose a black one. There were
three other black sweaters and, besides, this one made me look gaunt. I walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped out.
“Here you go,” I said. “I hope it fits.”
“Bless you, my child,” she said, pulling it immediately on. I said goodbye and closed the door.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that I just happened to be putting sweaters away, and this woman peeped in and guilt-tripped me into giving her one?” I said to my best friend, Elise, on the phone the following week.
“People get cold where you live,” Elise said. “There are lots of old women there who need sweaters.”
I nibbled a bagel chip. “What’s she doing with that sweater now?” I mused, picturing it bundled with string on a chalked-out pentagram in the dirt, deep in the woods.
“She’s probably wearing it,” Elise said.
“She’s doing more than wearing it,” I said. “Trust me.”
“Call the police,” Elise said. “A woman is wearing a sweater.”
“Shut up,” I said, noshing another chip. “I’m going to find out what she’s up to.”
The next day the lady returned. She peered in the same window, through light snowfall, squinting with her hand as a visor. I didn’t open the door at first, but ten minutes later she still stared in. I got a grip—the worst she could do was bang my shin with her cane. I opened the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said. “But I don’t have anymore sweaters for you. There’s a thrift store a couple blocks down.”
“I don’t need a sweater, dear,” she said. She pulled at her black sweater sleeve, and displayed it under the shawl. “You gave me one. But I wonder if you have any bagel chips?”
“Bagel chips?” I asked. “I don’t have any. The bagel store is near the thrift store,” I said.
“Excuse my nosiness,” she said. “But I walked by yesterday and couldn’t help but notice that you were eating bagel chips while you spoke on the phone. I thought you might have a few leftover for a little old lady who’s too frail to bake her own.” Her long silver hair ends blew in the wind from beneath the scarf tied over her head.
Was this a joke?
“I ate them all,” I said, feeling guilty for not saving her some.
“Woe is me!” she cried. “What shall I eat?”
I mentally rummaged the pantry. I didn’t want anyone starving.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, closing the door.
The pantry contained a few sundry items that wouldn’t alone make good meals. Dried beans, mustard, cardamom pods. I had two hundred sweaters but not a single can of soup. I found some pasta and took it to the door.
“Go make some spaghetti,” I said to her. She snatched the noodles out of my hands.
“God bless you, my child!” she yelled, and scurried down the block. I watched her turn the corner before I shut the door.
I installed thick velvet curtains patterned with fleur-de-lys, and vowed to keep them closed until this lady chose a new begging route. I might as well have been moving into a cinderblock bunker, it would be so dark with the curtains cutting out the already dim winter light. But I couldn’t have homeless people stopping by. Once the drapes were up I went outside, and I couldn’t see in. Pride surged through me, sweet triumph. But back inside, staring at the fleur-de-lys repeating in diagonal rows, I felt snooty. Keep Out Old Ladies, fleur-de-lys say. My senile grandma came to mind. As she would have said, What makes you so high and mighty?
I took the curtains down. They wouldn’t solve this. I’d sensed the woman’s presence staring at the closed curtains from outside. I felt sorry for her; she looked so helpless. I called Elise, and after chatting, told her that the old woman might as well just move in. I’m a Yes addict. Elise said it could be worse.
“Worse than what?” I asked.
“Being homeless,” Elise said.
“We’re lucky, aren’t we?” I asked.
My mind drifted to a week prior, when I was so naïvely putting sweaters away, singing Cajun songs, oblivious to the world of poverty and famine.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep giving her stuff.”
Elise and I hung up. Maybe Elise was in cahoots with the old woman.
I dreamed of an elephant who wore metal sandals—bronze coins strapped on. He blasted through the wall on his way into my living room, letting in cold winds that froze my cat and the houseplants. That elephant, on television, usually represents the family’s drug addict or past history of abuse. I figured it was easy to analyze. The elephant sauntering through my house was thunderous and disruptive, but there was a certain novelty in having an elephant visit. Maybe it was an honor? I couldn’t decide. He stuck his trunk out at me. I put a spaghetti package in it that he curled up into his mouth, plastic and all. Then I opened another package and shoved single strands of spaghetti straight up his trunk, the long way. He blinked his eyelashes, signifying pleasure. It reminded me of how boys used to stick pencils up their noses in class.
The woman showed up three days after the elephant. I went to the door and opened it; there was no use pretending. She made eye contact then glanced down at my outfit, as if deciding what item to ask for.
“Make it quick,” I said. “I’m busy.” She didn’t need to know I had been putting butterfly stickers on a letter to Elise. My patience dwindled even though I was supposed to nurture the elephant. She squinted at me and waved her cane at something.
“Tell me what you need.”
The woman had a handbag this time. She dug through it and removed a list, presumably full of necessary items.
“I don’t know how I live without these few basics,” she said.
At least fifty things, including potted plants, a furry pet, and several hundred sweaters. A television set. A red carpet. A tan corduroy blazer. Green galoshes. A desk. My life. Stalking me, she’d memorized my possessions.
“Go away,” I said, attempting to shut the door. The woman wedged her cane into the crack.
“I will die,” said the woman, “if you don’t help me. It’s so cold outside.” She put her hands together, praying to me.
I looked at the heavy elephant-blue clouds dotting the sky. A steely wind gust blew by, and the woman shivered, even through her shawl and new sweater.
“I am not a genie,” I said. “I will give you one thing off this list. Decide fast. It’s too cold to stand here with the door open.”
“I want your cat,” she said.
“You can’t have my cat,” I said. “Choose something else.”
“Your hands.”
“They’re attached to my arms.”
We settled on a set of silverware and a heat lamp. As she walked away I pictured her in a warm, well-lit hovel, twirling hot spaghetti with a fork. I went inside and re-hung the curtains.
I thought drapery kept your house warm, but that night I fell asleep with the comforter pulled up over my face. Three sweaters were layered over my pajamas. My toes ached through their wool socks. In the middle of the night I got up to check the thermometer: 29 degrees. Cranking the heat hadn’t helped. I wanted to shed sweaters in general but tonight I needed every one of them. Sure, this justified my sweater obsession. But I was tired of wearing so many clothes. I lay in bed with my eyes open, and my cat huddled under the covers next to my thigh to thaw.
I dozed. When I woke up the first time, I was in an ice hotel, rolling in furs. The cat was an orange tiger sleeping on a white tiger skin rug at the foot of my bed. Feline stripes coagulated into jail bars. I fell back asleep, and the next time I woke up I was a penguin, huddled en masse with millions of other penguins as blizzards threatened our bird fortress. Looking down, an egg teetered on my webbed feet, and I struggled to tuck it into my chest feathers. Claustrophobic. I passed back out. Next morning, entering the kitchen to make coffee, icicles lined the sink faucet where water had trickled. I dialed the landlady and told her the heater was broken.
It must have been a curse. The cold house was punishment for my lack of sympathy. I was going to
freeze my ass off for the rest of my life in an eternally frigid hell. Contemplating this, I realized I was tied to that woman by body temperature. She was now home, in her hovel, staying toasty. My simultaneous struggle to get hot only drew us psychically closer. It’s only hell if I believe it to be so. Cut the cord. I tugged at my purple pullover and set it on the kitchen counter. Then I unzipped the snowflake cardigan. The turtleneck came off, then the long-johns. Slippers kicked off, socks, and lastly my underwear, until I stood there nude. Goosebumps took over. It was the coldest I’ve been in this century, and the chill was magnificent.
PURA VIDA
“Sloths? I’m on it,” Joanne said, hanging up with her editor. She was on the way to her bedroom, practically sprinting towards the closet door to read the travel list she kept tacked up there. Ten essentials for her valise: Big round sunglasses, steno pad, pens, phone charger… She made this list after discovering that Joan Didion kept one. What Would Joan Do? she often asked herself. This assignment entailed flying a few countries south to pet sloths, and she vowed to cover the sloth story as if her life was on the line.
Joanne had just finished a feature on Alaskan giant vegetable farming. She was proud of it, though it was no Pulitzer nominee. For it, Joanne had tracked one farmer’s journey from farm plot to county fair during Alaska’s short, potent growing season. During summer there, round-the-clock, steroidal sunlight makes cabbages and pumpkins, among other things, grow to the size of economy cars. This time her editor assigned her a weekend in Costa Rica, not to cover the annual Ridley Sea turtle breeding like every other sentimental glossy magazine on the planet, but to visit a sloth hospital. At the height of turtle coverage, the sloth hospital was the spin. This clinic adopted orphaned sloths, who in turn performed human therapy. Joanne’s job was to discover how these sloths healed humans with their dark, charming eyes. Packing for the trip could have gone smoothly, were it not for Joanne’s roommates—her two pesky sisters. They were unemployed performance artists who, at the most inopportune times, tainted Joanne’s dutiful existence.
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