by Robert Lopez
I think the ceiling fan was important so Susan can smoke in the bathroom. She doesn’t let me watch her smoke anymore. I said something about watching her smoke and she took it the wrong way. I think I may’ve said it at one of the parties in front of a group of people I didn’t know. So now she smokes her cigarettes in the upstairs bathroom while I am downstairs eating sandwiches and wearing suits.
Certain patterns of behavior tend to repeat themselves, like history. I wouldn’t call it a vicious circle, though. I’d call it a vicious figure eight.
I am driving. She is sleeping and is beautiful when she sleeps. I’m not sure if I’m beautiful when I drive. I do look good in the suits Susan buys for me, though I’m not wearing one now. The gas tank is nearing empty so I will have to remember to fill it up. The singer on the radio is saying he’s the train they call the City of New Orleans. I don’t know how he is a train and not on a train but it’s a good song anyway. I’m calling her to tell her that when she goes to the driveway there will be nothing there for her to drive. After that I don’t know what I will say. We might discuss the calls or the drinking or the smoking or the people at the party. I’ll probably start by telling her that I’m in this car but am not the car itself. She will probably be confused. I almost never call from the car and almost never say anything out loud.
IN ALABAMA THE TUSCALOOSA
* * *
SOMEONE APPROACHED ME ON THE STREET. It was broad daylight, appalling.
Questions were put to me as if I might know something. The first had to do with my birthplace. I told them I couldn’t remember, that I’ve been told different things by different people.
Then they asked me if I was interested in making some extra money. I told them stories need to be verified. I told them I would look into it and get back to them. I said I needed more time.
Then they asked if I had any extra time on my hands. I told them I have carpal-tunnel syndrome. I said it hurts to even shake hands with someone; that I can’t even drink a glass of water. I said I have to use plastic cups and straws like a little girl.
By this time their expressions had changed. I think they wanted to go home now.
This is when they asked about my future. They said, are you ready for it? I told them even the wayside has fallen by the wayside here. I said take a look around you. I said I can’t see three feet in front of me. I said I was near-sighted or far-sighted, whichever one means you can’t see three feet in front of you. I said I shot an elephant in my pajamas once and then I said how he got in my pajamas I have no idea.
This is when they thanked me very much for the time and courtesy and told me to have a great day. I should’ve told them to go do the same, but I asked them to look into my eyes instead. I said which is it; please, tell me, am I near-sighted or far-sighted?
They didn’t even bother looking.
MAYBE THE LOVE OF A ONE-LUNGED WOMAN
* * *
PLAYING SOLITAIRE, NAKED AND DRUNK.
Not in a metaphorical sense but actually placing black eights beneath red nines while drinking Polish vodka and wearing no clothes.
The expensive Polish vodka was a gift, otherwise I wouldn’t be drinking it. But I can’t say where this particular deck of cards comes from. I can’t remember ever buying a deck of cards. They’re like umbrellas that way. The clothes I am not wearing vary in size and style. Mostly hand-me-upped jeans and polo shirts from my brother who is in the process of losing fifty pounds. We’re all proud of him.
There is a woman with one lung for whom I cannot speak. The doctors took the other lung when it was of no use to her, when it was doing more harm than good. This is one of those she had it coming deals because she smoked that one lung right into oblivion. The remaining lung has a lot of work ahead of it one imagines.
At some point the word overtaxed will be mentioned and that will be that.
Till then the sound of chronic wheezing.
And yes I’ve been drinking, but it goes right through me without food in my stomach. There is something wrong with my bladder, it’s embarrassing.
I have had relations with the one-lunged woman, the woman for whom I cannot speak. But all this happened when she was two-lunged. I don’t think I could carry on with someone missing a lung.
I haven’t spoken with her or for her since the operation. Someone had to tell me about it although I can’t remember who it was. It may have been my brother. He may have told me about her lung when he brought over the Polish vodka and two pairs of Wranglers.
How he found out I don’t know.
I lose my appetite every spring and eat only once a day. I rarely lose weight, although I could stand to lose a few pounds around the middle. When I tell my brother I could stand to lose a few pounds he scoffs the way fat people scoff at skinnier people who want to lose weight.
The one-lunged woman for whom I cannot speak told me so in no uncertain terms. She said, Don’t ever presume to speak for me.
I have since forgotten the circumstances that moved her to say that. Doubtless it was warranted. Apparently, I either don’t pay close attention or there’s something wrong with me.
There were other bones of contention, which falls under the—Tell me something I don’t know heading. The smoking was one of them, I think. I may have said something like, Better the devil you know, in reference to something important, which was probably a mistake.
I rely on platitudes under duress.
The red deck of cards is worn to a frazzle and a few cards have distinguishing marks. For instance, the ace of diamonds has a fold in one of the corners and the four of clubs has a slight tear.
I can deal fast and play fast. Speed Solitaire. I doubt anyone could play faster.
The only interruptions come when I have to go to the bathroom, which is often.
I don’t know why I’m naked.
When you win at Solitaire, whom have you defeated and what have you won is a question I cannot answer.
Maybe the right to say out loud what you’re thinking because there’s nobody there to tell you otherwise.
Or maybe the love of a one-lunged woman.
The Polish vodka is gone now. I’m into canned beer. I put on my brother’s pants and one of his shirts.
The one-lunged woman is doing as well as can be expected. She has therapy three times a week and is exercising and all the rest of it. I’m told she looks like hell.
That her one-lungedness is the only thing that distinguishes her and me from anyone else is a fact I am acutely aware of. It is our fold in the corner.
I’ve decided to make tuna fish. I’ve decided to dice an onion and toast some bread.
These are the first decisions I’ve made since I decided to take off my clothes and drink and play Solitaire probably two days ago now. Although it was more like I found myself naked and drinking and playing Solitaire.
I win the last game I play despite having to deal with two red threes and two red fours on the flop. The key move was the black jack rearing his devilish head when I was down to the last card. I knew the game was winnable at that point, and after 12 losses in a row, I suppose you can say I had it coming.
I leave the cards there in the middle of the floor, all spread out, all in order.
FULL FRONT NUDITY
* * *
NATALIE'S PENCHANT FOR TALKING TO PEOPLE OUT OF EARSHOT and expecting them to hold up their end of the conversation drives me to the bottle of vodka chilling in the freezer. Why vodka doesn’t freeze is another thing I don’t know but should. I imagine the answer is simple. But it is too late in the game to ask questions that beget simple answers.
Otherwise she expects me to be privy to the conversations that take place in her head. She’ll come in and say, “Did you put it away?” or “Do you think he knows what he’s talking about?”
A few nights ago I watched her sleeping. I saw her eyes moving back and forth beneath her eyelids, like she was trying to find someone through the windows of a passing train.
There’s something wrong with her.
I’m mixing 7up with the vodka when Natalie calls from the bedroom. She is taking her clothes off while she putters. I think she thinks we have plans. She catches a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror and examines her backside, gives it a slap and watches the skin ripple. She turns around. She says out loud, Full frontal nudity, then skips off into the bathroom.
IN A BOAT ABOUT TO DROWN
* * *
BOAT'S DON'T DROWN. PEOPLE DROWN. Boats sink. Something happens, then boats take on water, then they sink. They sink right to the bottom. The people on the boat try to keep the boat from sinking. They take measures. They use words like bow, stern, starboard and port. These words mean front, rear, right, and left. They use these words all the time, even when the boat is not sinking. When the boat is sinking they take measures. They make calls. They might even bail water. Then they put on lifejackets. Then they float around until someone comes by to pick them up. The people who come by to pick them up are called rescuers. They know to come by because they have been signaled. They are signaled through direct radio contact or by Morse code. Morse code, in telegraphy, is a series of dots and dashes that indicate different letters of the alphabet. S.O.S is the most famous code sent, which means Save Our Ship. People say it doesn’t actually mean Save Our Ship but what do they know. Mayday means the same thing. Why is not clear. It might have something to do with French. Rescuers are given positions of longitude and latitude. They say that rats are the first ones off a sinking ship, but unless they are extraordinary swimmers it does them little good. The rats are neither here nor there. The people rescued are called survivors. They are called the lucky ones. The unlucky ones are called victims. These are the people who are subject to float around with no one coming by to pick them up. Sharks attack them or the sun beats down on them or else it is freezing cold and they get what is called hypothermia. Hypothermia is a state of reduced body temperature wherein all bodily functions are slowed. Then they freeze to death. Then they are recovered. People can either be rescued or recovered. Survivors or victims. However, there are victims who are never recovered, their bodies. These are the people lost at sea. There are songs written about them. Boats are lost at sea, too. They are mentioned in the same songs. Drowning is different. Drowning is for people who can’t swim or who can no longer swim due to injury or exhaustion, or people who choose not to swim. Something happens, then they take on water, then they drown. They sink right to the bottom. The water can be deep or shallow, rough or calm. There is little difference. Water fills the lungs making life at first difficult, then impossible, to sustain.
PRIAPISM
* * *
THE MAN HAS AN ERECTION AND THE WOMAN IS LOCKED IN THE BATHROOM. The children are downstairs playing with toys. The dog is in the yard. The back door has been left open and the light in the hallway is on and so is the television in the living room. There is a roast in the oven. The kitchen table is set.
The man loses his erection. The woman emerges from the bathroom. She is clothed.
It’s gone away.
I was in the bathroom.
What were you doing in there?
I was doing what I do in there.
That again.
What’s gone away?
The man has something that looks like an erection but doesn’t feel like an erection. It doesn’t feel like anything. It feels like it belongs to someone else. It is someone else’s erection. The woman is locked in the bathroom. The children are playing with the dog in the yard. There is a new pool out there. The children and the dog are swimming and throwing balls around for each other to retrieve. The back door has been left open. The light in the hallway is on and so is the television in the living room. There is a roast in the oven. The kitchen table is set.
The man knocks on the bathroom door.
I have an erection.
What? I am in the bathroom.
When are you coming out?
Do you need to use the bathroom?
Why can’t you hear me?
I’m drying my hair.
You’re what?
I’m in the bathroom drying my hair.
I thought it was something else.
What did you say?
I have someone else’s erection out here.
The man has an erection. He has one. There is nothing noteworthy about the erection. It’s his. The woman is locked in the bathroom. There’s no telling what she’s doing in there. She is always in there and no one knows what she does. There are no children downstairs playing with toys. The man and woman are barren. They tried this position and that one, mornings with her on top, evenings with them sideways, boxers, vitamins, supplements, acupuncture, appointments, specialists, tests. They sought second and third opinions. The dog is in the yard. The back door has been left open. The light is on in the hallway but not the television in the living room. The house is quiet. There is nothing in the oven. The kitchen table is not set.
The man studies his erection. He assigns it a 6 on a ten-point scale. It is purple and angry but leans left toward pathetic. The woman comes from the bathroom naked except for a towel wrapped round her head.
Is dinner almost ready?
I think so.
I’m not even that hungry.
Neither am I.
I’ll go check then.
The man has an erection. He has one and there is no reason for it. The woman is locked in the bathroom. The lock is new. The woman had a locksmith over and he put a lock on. The man came home one day to a new lock on the bathroom door. There is a roast in the oven. The man bought the roast at the supermarket and not the butcher’s. The man and butcher had a consultation this time last year. The butcher bled the man’s nose in front of two old ladies and a brisket. This is what happened. The woman read an article in a magazine concerning protein and sperm count. The man was not to eat meat for two months. The butcher misunderstood the man, what he’d said regarding meat and sperm count. Then the consultation. The light is on in the hallway and so is the television in the living room. The kitchen table is set.
The man hides his erection under his shirt. The woman comes from the bathroom without clothes.
What is this?
I’m ready.
You checked yourself?
I’m ripe.
You did the thing with the thing?
Stay right there.
I shall.
Whose is this?
The man has an erection, but barely. There is not much this erection could be expected to do. It resembles a magazine that fell into the bath and died there. The woman is locked in the bathroom. Before, one could walk in on another in the middle of anything, in the middle of functions. This only happened once or twice, but it happened. The dog was put down last year. The dog was old and had to be put down.
The man knocks on the bathroom door.
Will you come out of there already?
I don’t appreciate this.
What don’t you appreciate?
This.
The man has an erection. This is his compass erection. This is the one that can take an eye out at twenty paces. There is no reason for this one to come along now. No magazine, no denied proteins, no minerals, no prolonged abstinence could explain this erection. The woman is locked in the bathroom. She is in there. The back door has been left open. The children are in the pool swimming and playing ball. The roast is burning in the oven. The kitchen table is set.
The man contemplates his erection. He wants to paint it different colors, colors an Indian chief would wear during battle. The woman emerges from the bathroom wearing a nightgown.
Where is the dog?
In the yard?
Are you asking me or telling me?
The dog is in the yard.
Is dinner almost ready?
Dinner.
The man has an erection. The one you wake up in the middle of the night with. This is the erection that’s useless. The erection tha
t also has to urinate and good luck in there with that. The woman is locked in the bathroom. She might be painting it some too-brilliant color. There are stirrers, brushes, and rollers splayed about and the smell of paint coming from the bathroom. It smells like a mistake. The dog is eating what’s left of the roast in the yard. He jumped onto the table and snatched it away. He is good at this. The back door is left wide open. The children are out back watching the dog eat what’s left of the roast though they are thought to be downstairs.
The man is toying with his erection. The woman comes from the bathroom wearing a leather corset and sailor’s cap.
Is that for me?
Aye, captain.
They proceed in orderly fashion.
The man has an erection. The woman is locked in the bathroom. The light is on in the hallway. The television is on in the living room. The oven is on and the back door is left open. This time last year the man and woman had a consultation over the electric bill, over the locksmith and over the paint. Everything was always on or open or locked or foul and the man blamed the woman for this. He threatened to bleed her nose in front of the children and dog.
The man flaunts his erection. The woman comes from the bathroom in a terrycloth robe and regards the man.
What are you doing?
I’m not sure.
The man does not have an erection. He is impotent. He has been impotent for years. They tried pornography, protein, lingerie, herbs, surrogates, specialists, strings. They sought second and third opinions. The woman is locked in the bathroom. There is no dog or yard or back door left open. No roast. The kitchen table is not set.
The man looks at the bathroom door but says nothing. He has a string wrapped round his penis. The woman emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing.
