by Lou Beach
"WANT A SANDWICH? I got baloney, cheese, some of that Jewish bread." He still wore an apron in the kitchen, like a short-order cook, but couldn't peel an onion. I drew a bunny on the steamed-up window and followed the drips to the sill, looked into the yard where Ronnie used to chase me with a stick. It was full of gray snow, a couple of animal dents. "No, I ain't got time. I just dropped by, see how you were doing."
I'M THE ONLY DADDY in the carpool. Carpool Daddy. When it's my turn to drive, I want to kiss each Mommy and give her ass a little squeeze, tell her to have a nice day, that I can't wait to see her in the evening when I get home. The kid gets in the car, I pull away and watch Mommy in the rearview mirror. I memorize what she's wearing as she waves to us before going back inside.
SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL, fragile and afraid, a peacock in a hailstorm. We sat together on the couch, waiting for the car horn. It sounded at last and I held her hand as we pushed through the snow in the driveway. I turned away after I buckled her into the back seat. Don wouldn't look at me, but reached back, touched her knee. I watched them drive off, then walked back to the house, careful not to step into her footprints.
THERE IS A DEEP HOLE where the lies go. Not just downright falsehoods, but misaligned intentions, omissions of truth, innuendos, and the like. And don't go nosying up for a look-see, hear? Because there's a hand that will come up, quick as THAT! and grab your ankle or your coattail, see? And it won't let go, you'll be captive. And it won't let go, oh no no no.
WE ARE ON A RIDGE overlooking their encampment. Only women and children, the old and infirm, remain; the men are gone hunting or raiding. As I draw my saber and point it at the camp, I see the reflection of my horse's wild eye in the shiny metal. He knows there will be fire and screaming, the smell of blood and smoke before he can drink from the river.
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Blood, Jeff Bridges (0:25)
KISS ME A QUESTION, ask me again with your eyes and I'll answer with my fingers, trailing reasons down your spine. There's a theory behind your knees and a postulate in that sweet spot on your neck, and I'll respond to your query with a smooch and a holler, roll you up against the sink and wash your hair, make love till the plates fall off the shelf.
THE HOTEL WAS ON FIRE, the guests marooning out front in evening clothes, pajamas, wrapped in towels. The building was saved from major damage by an efficient and powerful overhead extinguisher system that also managed to ruin furniture and clothes and TVs and books and laptops. A sprinkler intervention took place in room 807 as I spread an ounce of coke on the table.
I HAD AN IDEA that lasted more than four hours. I called my doctor. He said it should be removed. I said that's a good idea. He said: "Which? Your idea or the removal?" I said: "I have no idea." He said: "Fine, then we'll bill your insurance."
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Idea, Dave Alvin (0:16)
I HAD NEVER used a chain saw. When I plunged it into the neck of the tree it stuck, and I pulled hard, fell backwards. The saw sliced off part of my scalp, deli style, on the way down, then sputtered, scuttled away like a mad crab. I passed out, woke later to a low growl. Lucky was lapping at the pool of blood next to my head. I was glad to see him, his yellow eyes.
THE ROAD CLUTCHES at the side of the mountain as if it's afraid of falling. Narrow and rocky, it winds up the eastern slope as the engine labors and gripes about the load. The exhaust mingles with the smell of the sea, which is beyond our view. Paul and I are hauling lumber to Norma's camp and will build her cabin, give her the chance to measure our worth, each of us hoping not to be the one who drives back down alone.
ANN O'DYNE, nurse, had healing hands, wee mitts sprung from the cuffs of her crisp white tunic. Her voice was gold, a brook in a meadow. It washed away fear and anger, discomfort and pain. She was the pride of the ward, the whole hospital, the surgeon's pal, the patient's savior. At home, her feet hurt, she drank, slept with a butcher, called talk-radio programs, ranted about illegal immigrants and the Jew-run media.
I LIVE IN THE POCKET of a bright paisley shirt —silk—and when the light is just so, I'm in my own private cathedral. I lie back and push out against the fabric with my feet, and the colored light falls in like kids' breakfast cereal. I lived in a canvas shirt once but the guy was always sweating so much it recalled that tent in Ireland near the sea where I first got this assignment.
IN '98 Pasker and I subcontracted to paint a suspension bridge that spanned the M'pozo River in Congo. One day while adjusting the compressor we saw thirty or forty paramilitary guys running our way with machetes and AK-47s. We were terrified, but as they got closer they began to laugh, pointing at the spreading wet stain on the front of Pasker's pants, and ran past us. Once again, Pasker had saved our lives.
THERE WAS A MAN on my lawn. I saw him through the window. He was sitting with his legs straight out in front of him, hands in lap, back very erect. I armed myself with a baseball bat, went outside. "What are you doing here?" I said. He smiled and said: "I am Right Angle Man." Relieved that he was harmless, I laughed, said: "Where is your cape?" He looked up at me. "I am not a superhero. Are you with the Yankees?"
I RISE at 3 A.M. to walk my bladder to the bathroom, then return to bed and wait for my face and pillow to come to an agreement. I lie on my right, my left, my stomach, my back, as if attempting an even tan, until I find the Goldilocks spot. The only sound is the hum of the planet, and the whistling and chirping of the little birds who live in my nostrils.
THE NURSE LEFT. Ann's eyes were closed so I dumped her meds into my shirt pocket, snapped it shut. I looked around the room, put her laptop in my backpack. I leaned over to give her a goodbye peck on the forehead. She smelled like her next bath was going to be in the Ganges. Her eyes flew open, she grabbed my wrist and said: "Ronnie, give me a smoke."
THERE IS A PLACE I visit, where no one else goes. The rocks are slippery and sharp, the drop to the dark sea below makes me dizzy. The sun never muscles its way through the gang of clouds that hover overhead, shedding a mist that plasters my thin hair to my head, makes me turn up my collar. No, you can't go with me, I don't want a sandwich to take, thermos of hot chocolate, though your asking may keep me home.
SHE LOVED SECRETS, stole magazines, makeup, sauntered through the office pulling at the hem of her sweater, hiding her hips. Her hands were pudgy and dainty, dimpled like a doll's, always used a paper napkin to hold her fried chicken. "Hello, Jerome," she purred as I put down my briefcase, hung up my coat, "what's on YOUR agenda today?" "Regulators coming in." "I can help!" she said. "I can help."
THE RHUBARB grows in wild patches against the wooden fence separating our backyard from that of Mrs. Bonkowski next door. I snap a stalk and dip it in sugar, gnaw and suck on it until my teeth hurt. Divisions of plastic army men engage in battle with pill bugs and earwigs in the rhubarb forest, the dirt on my knees and elbows testimony to the conflict. A truce is called for dinner; peace prevails.
THERE'S A GLASS on the nightstand, a smear of lipstick along the rim. It is empty. On the dresser, an assortment of bracelets, earrings, her wedding band, a framed photo of her father in uniform. There is a stain on the bedspread, peeking out from beneath the suitcase that lies open, ready to receive. She pulls hard at the closet door, which has stuck ever since they moved here. He's never gotten around to fixing it.
SHINBONE AND NUSBAUM sit in a rear booth facing the door, able to see whoever walks in. They are patient, serious, comfortable sitting for long stretches eating pie and drinking cold coffee. Shinbone looks at Nusbaum. "Hey, Nussy, you heard about the Jew what fell offa Hoover Dam?" Nusbaum picks something out of his cup, flicks it at the window, where it splats and slides to the sill. "Shut up, Bone," he says.
THE TRAIN pulls into Jawbone at 1:07. I'm on the platform waiting
for you but the only passengers off the car are three old farmers. I stand there for a while, look around, hoping you'll appear out of the heat. The engine chugs off into the dust and I retreat to the Red Dog, drink until I'm numb, then stumble past the livery barn to lie down on the tracks. I put my ear to the rail, close my eyes and listen for you.
"DON'T DRINK the tap water," she said with science in her eyes. I ran out the back door to the fields and started husking. I was overwhelmed with affection for the kernels festooning the shucked ears. I lay down between the stalks, pressed my face to the deep soft earth and inhaled. There is no other life.
I CAN'T HEAR YOU, my thumb's up my ass. The phone is ringing, someone's at the door. I'm not getting up. Don't bother writing. Sure—call whomever you want. Gather your friends and stir some stink, I have lace hankies. You drive to work and buy cans of beans, mark an X where told, your pages are numbered. I don't have to listen. I own the ocean.
CRAWFOOT stood outside of Sloans, hand up for a cab. His face was punctuated by a cigar, and a redhead hung on his arm like a comma. He'd approached her after his third Dewars and water. "You make a barstool look like a throne." She looked him over, suppressed a smile. "Yeah? You make wearing a raincoat look like a felony." He lit her cigarette, loosened his tie and sat down next to her, bumped her knee.
THE OTHERS are already on Main. I'm still here looking for my hat. I search everywhere and finally find it in your closet. I rush out and jump on Bucky, his flank rippling with anticipation. We get in formation just as the band starts booming and we strut down the street. The riders wave to the crowd, smiles all around. I see you up ahead on the platform, next to the mayor, and something starts to hurt in my chest.
THE ELEVATOR IS BROKEN. I lug a bag of groceries up the metal stairs to the eighth floor. Halfway there the soggy bottom of the bag breaks, releases a fusillade of cat food cans that go clanking and bouncing below. I sigh and sit, feel as empty as the bag. I stare at the white curdles of cottage cheese from the burst container, now on my shoes, and think this is what angel vomit must look like.
A BIRD LIVES ON MY HEAD, nests in my hair, pecks at my scalp. A finch, I believe. When I go out in public I cover it with a hat, so it's away from prying eyes and cats who would climb my body to catch it. Sometimes on the bus I notice others wearing hats, and if there are seeds or an errant feather on their shoulders, I nod and smile and preen.
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Finch, Jeff Bridges (0:36)
WE WERE on a tour boat in Boston Harbor. A candy wrapper escaped from some kid's hand, scuttled our way across the deck. Russell pinned it with his boot, bent over, picked it up. A gust of wind snatched it from him, sent it out over the water. An old woman said: "Shame on you, littering." My brother's neck went red. He got that look that could clear a barroom in Quincy. He sighed, winked at me. "Yes, ma'am," he said.
HER MOUTH is a hammer. I kiss it and fall, pummeled, to the floor, crawl to my corner and rest. She summons me later to mix a drink, plait her hair, massage her feet. I am clumsy—she cuts my cheek with a toenail, presses her big toes into my eye sockets. I lie there shamed, foot-faced and humbled, her all-natural organic toy, and wait.
I SIT IN THIS ROOM in the castle's turret and fashion animals out of twigs and string. I stop and get up from my stool and look out the window. I can see the fortress wall and the farmlands and orchards and the sea beyond, and at times, a ship on the water. When it rains, I can only see as far as the farmlands, where an ox stands still in the downpour. Just as it does when the sky is clear.
I WAKE with headache. Anchored at my eyebrows, it spreads back like the tentacles of a jellyfish to sting and poison my brain. It hurts to see, everything the color of smokers' teeth. I close my eyes, full of sand. My ears enroll a hum, a steady electric signal from the past, a history lesson I can't make out. My fingers are lead soldiers, stripped of paint, heavy and dull. Hello! I must be dying. My chin is a stump.
THE FIRE AND SMOKE drive me to the window. Only a two-story drop, but I'm sure to break my leg if I hit the ground. I start my new gig at the Ice Capades next week (Snoopy) and I don't want to jeopardize it. If I can land on the awning of the grocery next door it might break my fall. I leap and hit the awning, tear through it and collapse onto a crate of tomatoes. Mrs. Liu runs out. "Hello, Tony," she says and claps her hands.
THE SKY—blue, flat, clear—sits on a hard horizon below which is green meadow puckered with yellow flowers, filling the bottom of the frame. In the smack center sits a red chair, wood unadorned, vibrating against the blue and green. A black bird lights on the seat, shits a splotch of white, departs on the diagonal. A painting.
HIS HANDS jump into the bowl, the ground meat, to join the conversation going on with the raw egg, onions, the salt and pepper. He squeezes it all through his fingers and wonders if his brain would feel like this if he grabbed it from behind. Cooking calms him, makes him introspective. This is Life, he thinks. You put a lot of stuff together, smoosh it around, and pretty soon you've got a bunch of meatballs.
HE SAID the questions were merely routine, the sort always asked during a homicide investigation. He kept looking at my shoes, then over my shoulder into the kitchen where I kept knives on a magnetic board, the points always up. The wet rags on the floor seemed to interest him. I invited him in, asked if he'd like some coffee, look at an album of photographs, some of which showed the slain neighbor wearing pajamas.
"THE NEW swim coach is really nice, Daddy. He likes to give my neck and shoulders a massage when I get out of the pool." She smiles at me, her hair still wet. "Do you know the phone number of the PE Department at school?" I say. "Oh, can we invite him over for dinner?" I put the phone down. "Do your homework. Daddy's going out for a while."
"WHAT'CHA WANNA go on a game show for?" She was disinclined to answer, thought it obvious, but said, "To win money and prizes and shit." She ran a wet finger around the rim of her glass, couldn't make it sing. He continued ironing the napkins. "You gonna wear a costume?" She turned slowly, found his eyes hovering in the iron's steam, stared until he looked away. "I do not intend to make a fool of myself."
I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH THE KING. Well, actually he was a grade ahead, but I'd see him in the halls surrounded by his bodyguards disguised as varsity football players, as if no one knew who he was, for crissakes. He always arrived late and left early, sat alone in the cafeteria. I felt sorry for him and one time approached him at lunch, offered him my sweet roll. He said something in French, then closed his eyes.
SHE WAS INDISCRIMINATE in her taste for jewelry. Paste, carats, costume, it was all glam flocking. She was like a magpie, hoarding sparkles in a box. Every day she put on earrings, necklaces, brooches, bangles, bracelets, and pins, none of which matched; an upended Christmas display held together by some hair and a dress from the bottom of a closet with a burned-out light.
THE LONG CARGO SHIP pulls itself across the ocean and comes to rest at the port. In the morning it stands upright on its hind legs and with resolve heads toward the business district and settles into the middle of the block. It removes its raincoat and folds it, puts it on the roof of the community center, then opens its doors to share the wares that braved the waves. This is Legend. This is IKEA.
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IKEA, Ian McShane (0:26)
I STOLE a car once, a Buick Riviera that had a dent in the door, a puckered triangle where the paint went all funny. I used to steal a lot of things back then, magazines, school supplies, cigarettes, clothes, beer. I work downtown now, have a family, am an honest citizen. Yesterday I saw that long-ago car in a lot, touched the wounded door and felt a rush of joy, an awareness of a heavenly Fagin watching over me.
LITTLE FLUFF knocks over the dish of milk. "Naughty, naughty," says Mo
ther Kitty. "You may not go out to play." Little Fluff begins to cry. Mother Kitty wipes her tears and says: "If you promise to be more careful in the future, you may join your friends outside." Little Fluff promises and runs outside, where Mitsy and Binks are setting fire to some trash and smoking the marijuana cigarette.
