by Zach Powers
The park bench is hard and uncomfortable. It is covered with pigeon shit. I’m sitting on the only stretch of bench equal to or greater than the width of my ass not covered with pigeon shit. A woman jogs by. She is a jock and doesn’t seem interested in men who read. Maybe I should take up a sport. Badminton, perhaps. I am skinny, but not from exercising. Sometimes I sit on the park bench all day and forget to eat. I get up and run a lap around the bench. I sit, exhausted.
My favorite part of reading is the period. It is the simplest mark possible. I would read a whole book of them. An endless ellipsis. Or a single period, so large it extends beyond the edges of the page.
Three homeless men huddle on another park bench farther down the walkway. They are arguing with each other, but pause in their disagreement as the jogging woman approaches. They ask her for money. She smiles at them, but does not stop jogging. The homeless men resume their argument.
A new jogging woman approaches. She is not a jock. Her flesh is loose and whatever tone her muscles have is hidden beneath it. I set my book down, and as she passes I ask her for money. She pretends not to notice me, but there is no way she didn’t hear the question. She jogs more quickly.
One of the homeless men walks over. He is wearing an olive drab army jacket from the Vietnam era covered with unidentifiable stains. His wiry beard projects from his face like an alert porcupine. His gray eyes rest deep in leathery, lined skin. He leans close to me. He smells like a public restroom. Gesturing to the other homeless men, he tells me to stop stealing their shtick. I apologize and continue reading.
A bear approaches. The bear is on a leash, held at the other end by a young woman. It is not a bear, but a large dog. It is not bear-like at all except for its unusual size. The dog’s body is sleek and its presence noble. It is more like a horse than a bear.
I tell the woman I like her bear. She chuckles. The woman’s shorts are cut high so that the bottom of her ass hangs out just enough to suggest the whole thing. She wears a tank top, and I can see the strap of her bra, which is pink. She asks me what I’m reading. A book, I say, because I can’t remember the title. I have been paying attention only enough to know to turn the pages. I recall that the book contains many dates. A history book, I amend. She asks if I like history. More than the present. She chuckles again. This is what is called rapport.
She sits on the bench, not seeming to care about the pigeon shit everywhere. Her bear-dog sits in front of her. The three of us sit. The three homeless men, also sitting, watch us sit. They stop arguing to watch us. We are more interesting than their argument.
She asks me what I do. Mostly sit on this bench, I say.
I ask her what she does.
She answers. I wander with my dog from park to park in search of something that was lost. This is not necessarily something that I lost, but it has been left to me to search for it. What was lost is fundamental, something stitched into the fabric of the universe, black silk patterned with silver vines and shells and feathers and skulls. It is a sphere that starts from nothing, grows until it is several meters across, then shrinks back to nothing. To glimpse it, I think, would answer many questions.
She looks at me and I am uncomfortable. She is looking at me like I am the thing she is looking for. Her top lip is thin, but her bottom lip is swollen into a perpetual pout, one that is playful, taunting. Her bear-dog lies down and curls into itself. It forms a large hairy mound on the sidewalk. It makes a sound like a growl or a yawn. The sound is a little bit of both.
The woman’s eyes are deep and black. Silver light glints off their surface in a pattern like branches or bones. She blinks slowly. Her eyes do not leave mine. The irises grow. They swallow me. The park around me recedes. The bench loses its substance. I float above the sidewalk. The sidewalk disintegrates in a puff like baby powder. The gray powder fills the whole sky. The ground crumbles to nothing and I’m surrounded by grayness. I see the three homeless men fall away through the void until as specks they disappear. I inhale but there is no air.
A black sphere grows before me.
COCKPUNCHER
John Cockpuncher thrust out his hand toward me. I didn’t recognize the gesture and stared blankly at his extended arm. He laughed, good-naturedly, and explained the mechanics of the handshake. I smiled back, took his hand and shook it too hard, too fast. He laughed again and ushered me through the front door into his house.
The entryway was small and crowded with the rest of the Cockpunchers, lined up against the back wall like the family portrait that hung above their heads. The mother, Matilda, who insisted I call her Matty, stood between her son and daughter, Warren and Natalie. The three of them smiled at me. Matty came over and hugged me tightly. She smelled of baby powder and baked goods. Warren shook my hand, and I performed the gesture better on this, my second attempt. His grip was strong. He was the older child, a senior in high school, and already possessed an air of worldliness.
Natalie greeted me without moving forward. A smile flashed across her lips, puffy and pink. She blushed and lowered her gray-blue eyes. I followed her gaze to the floor, which was waxed to perfection, reflecting back over the wood grain an image of everything that rested on top.
Warren grabbed my suitcase, and I followed him into a hallway hung with photographs of younger versions of the children. In every picture they smiled. In every picture the sun was shining.
My room was small but impeccably clean, like it had never known dust. The window looked out onto the backyard where thick green grass and a well-manicured garden stretched to a whitewashed fence at the edge of the property. Warren put down my suitcase. I sat on the edge of the bed and sank into the padding. I commented on its softness, and Warren apologized, saying that because it was the guest room the mattress wasn’t as nice as the others in the house. He offered me the use of his own room, but I said it was no problem and that I’d not meant to complain. He smiled again, straight white teeth framed in a perfect crescent.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” he said. “Dinner’s at six. Hope you like meatloaf.”
“Of course.” I didn’t know what meatloaf was.
I closed the door and unpacked my suitcase. I found the chest-of-drawers empty and I placed my boxers and socks inside. The closet was bare but for two dozen wooden hangers. I had only T-shirts and jeans with me, so I hung them. I took out my toilet kit. I didn’t know where the bathroom was, so I put the kit on the end of the bed. Lastly, I removed The Jar and placed it on the nightstand. I shoved the now-empty suitcase into the bottom of the closet and slid the door shut.
The Jar caught the light coming in the window. I pushed it to the center of the nightstand on which there was also a framed photograph of the Cockpunchers. From my perspective it looked like they were trapped inside the glass. I thought about opening The Jar, letting them out. I wiped a smudge off The Jar with the bottom of my T-shirt, stood, and took my toilet kit to find the bathroom.
The tile was pure white, reflecting back the entire spectrum with a pearly sheen. It covered the floor and came halfway up the wall. The rest of the wall was painted a flat, pale blue. In the center of the floor rested a bathmat, the same color as the paint, with thick pile that swallowed up my feet.
In the mirror I found my hair matted and tangled after many days of travel. I ran my fingers through it and it fell mostly into place. It felt in need of washing.
Natalie’s blond head poked around the doorframe. Her eyes caught mine in the mirror. She blushed instantly. I turned and smiled at her. She looked down at the perfectly white floor.
“So you’re from another country?” she asked. Her voice was small, delicate.
“Yep.”
“And now you’re here.”
“Standing right in front of you.”
She pointed at the mirror. “And I’m standing right behind you.”
“Trapped in the glass.”
“Is that why you’re here? To trap us?”
“You’ve got it backwards.”
>
“I saw your jar.”
“Yeah, about that . . .”
She stepped fully into the doorway and faced me. “What’s in it?”
I smiled at her, turned, and put my toothbrush into the medicine cabinet. In the mirror I watched her walk away.
The meatloaf tasted delicious, like a hamburger with the ketchup cooked inside. I had a second helping and half of a third before the Cockpunchers told me to save room for dessert.
During the meal John asked about everyone’s day. While the kids were at school Matty had gone to a friend’s house to do some knitting. Warren had aced a test in Calculus and then led a productive football practice as the team’s quarterback. When Natalie was asked, she looked down at the white lace tablecloth.
“The same as usual,” she said.
John turned to me. “And what about your day?’
“I caught a plane to Azerbaijan, where I had an hour layover. From there I flew to Osaka where I caught a plane to Minsk. My connection in Minsk was delayed, so I took a nap in the terminal. I woke up just in time to board. We were stuck on the runway for another hour because of fog, but finally we took off and landed in Jakarta a few hours later. Then I flew to Burbank, on to Green Bay, south to Austin, to New Orleans, and then finally I got here.”
Matty chuckled. “What a long day.”
Dessert was pie baked with apples, sprinkled with powdered sugar across the top. As John cut each slice, steam rose from the still-hot innards and carried the warm, inviting scent across the room. I ate one piece and asked for another. Warren warned that I would get fat if I kept eating so much. His warnings did not dissuade me.
Matty cleared the plates from the table. I offered to help, but she refused to let me. So instead I sat in silence with the remaining Cockpunchers, looking over the floral centerpiece at each of them in turn. I grew tired as my body struggled to digest all the food I’d eaten.
Natalie looked up from the table and her eyes met mine for the first time since before dinner.
“What’s your country like?” she asked.
“It’s unremarkable, except there are yaks everywhere. I don’t understand why, but we have an overabundance of yaks. You take the elevator up a skyscraper, get off on the twenty-seventh floor, and there is a yak waiting for you. How did the yak get up there? Did it use the elevator? Did it climb the stairs? No one is ever sure, but they accept it.”
“And your family?” asked Warren.
“My parents died when I was young. My uncle raised me. He works with glass, making bottles and jars.”
“He makes them by hand?” asked John.
“It is the only way to make them. Such a vessel must be crafted with care.”
Natalie’s eyes widened. “And what does he put in the jars?”
“Oh, you know . . .”
That night in the unfamiliar softness of the bed I slept fitfully. I dreamed of a yak inside The Jar on the table beside me. It spoke to me in Natalie’s voice, asking questions about containers and the things contained within them. What do you put in a sock drawer? What do you put in a closet? What do you put in a condom?
I awoke with sweat on my face and an erection in my boxers. I waited a minute for the turgidity to subside, then went to the bathroom and splashed cool water over my eyes. When I looked in the mirror, the yak was there behind me. What do you put in Tupperware?
“Leftover pie,” I said to the reflection of the yak.
When I turned around, the yak was gone.
Back in the bedroom, there was no yak in The Jar, either.
I rolled onto my side in the bed, and I saw Natalie peeking in around the edge of the door. I felt a new stirring in my boxers.
“How did that yak get here?” she asked.
“No one is ever sure,” I said. “It’s best to just accept it.”
The next day I followed Warren and Natalie to the bus stop. The air was cold and it stung my face. Warren had lent me a jacket. It was too large and the sleeves hung down past my hands.
The bus arrived. The door opened and Warren got on first. He sat with a friend in the second row. I followed Natalie to the back. The other students looked at me then looked away like they hadn’t been looking in the first place. They all wore stocking caps. I moved more quickly to escape their gazes and bumped into Natalie. She had stopped by the last row. There was a yak in the seat to the left. She sat down on the right and I sat next to her. What do you put in a school bus? asked the yak.
I ignored it.
School was long and boring. One teacher droned on about the meaning of a book, the next about algebra, the next about mitochondria. The other students doodled in notebooks or stared out windows at the freedom that awaited them at the sound of the bell. Natalie looked down at her desk.
I followed her through the crowded hall. Lockers slammed on either side of us like cymbal crashes. The fluorescent light made me queasy.
The last class of the day was history, and the teacher took a special interest in me. He made me sit up front, and as soon as everyone else was seated he made me stand and introduce myself.
“Why don’t you tell us about where you come from,” he said.
“There’s not much to tell. My country is far away from here. Seventy-two hours by plane. The land is mountainous and arid except for the rainy season when white clouds cover the whole sky. People speak one of seventy-two different dialects, though they all share a common word for glass. Glass is the primary export. You have probably encountered our glass before, in the windows of your churches or the moonroofs of your minivans.”
“And jars,” said Natalie from her seat in the back.
“And jars,” I said, “and bottles and various glassware.”
I sat down. The teacher thanked me and then began explaining the political history of my country. I was fascinated because I had never heard it before. The teacher told of kings and queens and princes and the plots and poisons that had killed them. He told us why the current democracy was much better, and he used the word freedom over and over.
When we got home the house was empty. Natalie pulled the dangling end of the chain around her neck from the confines of her shirt. A key hung from it. She unlocked the door and led us inside.
“Mom’s off knitting,” she said. “Dad’s at work. Warren’s at football practice.”
Natalie locked the door. She walked across the room and lit the gas fireplace.
I moved toward the hallway to go to my room, but she stepped in front of me.
The house was not empty. There was a yak peering from the hallway. What do you put in a cockpit? asked the yak. What do you put in a trunk?
“What’s in the jar?” asked Natalie.
“It looks empty,” I said.
“But it’s not.”
She stepped toward me. She smelled of pure white flowers. The yak was gone.
That night I dreamt of a yak in The Jar. It moaned in Natalie’s voice.
I awoke to the sound of the lawnmower. Outside the window Warren was cutting the grass while John and Matty tended the garden, though I saw no flaw with the present state of the yard. The sun was shining. There was no thermometer but I was sure it was 72 degrees.
I rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. Still half-asleep I brushed my teeth. Natalie came in, but I didn’t notice. She reached around me and slid her hand across my crotch. I jumped.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re all outside.”
There was a yak in the bathtub. What do you put in a hat? What do you put in a pocket?
The yak jumped up and down in the bathtub. What do you put in a mouth?
Natalie reached back and closed the door. She turned me around by the shoulders. She sank to her knees.
I spent the rest of the morning in my bedroom, staring out the window. John and Warren finished the yardwork and Matty picked up her trowel and walked to the house. I heard them come in the door, move around inside. One by one they went to the bathroom and showered off
the sweat and the dirt.
I rested my hand on top of The Jar. Through my fingertips I sensed a faint thrum. Something invisible was moving inside. It tapped at the lid.
“What’s in the jar?” asked Natalie.
She had entered the room and stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. I saw her as a distorted reflection in the glass of The Jar. The thrumming grew stronger. It made a sound.
“It’s trying to get out,” she said. “What’s in the jar?”
“It’s knowledge, or so my uncle told me.”
She walked around me and put her hand on top of mine.
“What is there to know?” She gestured out the window. “Grass isn’t that green. No one aces calculus. Nobody knits anymore. There’s no such thing as love.”
I looked at her pale blue eyes without looking into them.
She kissed me on the cheek. “What we have is better.”
“What we have is real?” I asked.
“Open the jar and find out.”
A yak poked its head out from under the bed. What do you put in a bottle? What do you put in a jar?
We sank into the softness of the bed, and I cradled The Jar in my lap between us. The glass felt warm even though the air in the room was cool. Natalie took my hand and touched the tip of her tongue to my palm. She set my hand on top of The Jar. She grinned like she couldn’t help it.
I twisted off the aluminum lid. It hissed and a large white flower bloomed from the space inside. The petals were wavy and delicate, their edges soft like down. It smelled of baby powder and baked goods. The flower finished growing and sat still for a moment. Then in a puff it turned to white mist and streamed out the bedroom door as if on a fierce wind. Natalie laughed out loud.
The sound of shattering glass returned from the hallway.
