by Robert Lopez
To say nothing of bedposts and slipknots.
If you do this, remember me to any perfect stranger once you arrive and tell them what I’ve always told you, that I know nothing. Tell them, in spite of this, I said take special care.
Always, please, take very special care.
Why We’re Trapped in a Failed System
SHE WAS SORRY FOR THE RAIN. I told her it wasn’t a problem, but I did my part and apologized for the trees. This sort of discourse continued for a couple of years. Then one morning I said not everything was our responsibility. She took exception rather vehemently. She said this is why we’re trapped in a failed system. She said this is why people commit desperate outrages against themselves and others. I wanted to argue with her, but I noticed that her eyebrows were misshapen as they performed calisthenics on her face. I can’t tell you how much this upset me. Sometimes I am far too sensitive and shouldn’t be allowed outside where there are other people. Not everybody knows this about me and those who do tend to shun me. To these people, I say clean up your own yard work and then get back to me. I hadn’t said this to her yet, but I was getting reading to. I always have to get into a particular mind-set to accomplish anything. Even making breakfast takes a half hour’s worth of silent meditation. I think she knew something was wrong at this point, because she stopped talking about why things were the way they were. I tried not to look, but it was clear her fingernails were uneven and unpolished. I told her I couldn’t take this anymore. I may’ve said this at a certain pitch, which I’m sure was unsettling. She picked up her head and looked at me square in the jaw. It was like this for a while, two people trapped in a failed system, trying to look at each other. I am here to report that I was the first to crumble, but what’s worse is, she couldn’t summon the humanity to place a hand anywhere on me as I wept.
A Cloud That Looks Like Jesus
I LEAVE THE HOUSE BECAUSE it’s a better chance of getting killed off out there all at once. I’m sure the apartment I live in is killing me off but it’s taking it’s time so far and it might take years to finish. Why I think this is my eyes always burn in the apartment and I cough a lot. I try to remember to buy eyedrops and cough medicine when I leave the house, but I almost never do remember. Why I don’t remember is I think about getting run over by trucks or shot to death by hoodlums instead. I see the trucks speeding by and imagine what it’d feel like to get run over by one. I’m sure it would hurt. I saw a movie once where a woman was run over by a truck and she lived on for about five minutes afterward. This woman was covered in blood and lying faceup on the concrete after she got run over by the truck. Actually, I think it was a city bus that ran her over, but what difference does that make after you’re already run over? Once you’re run over, it doesn’t matter what kind of vehicle did it to you. She didn’t understand what had happened or why it happened to her. This is something I know all about. I don’t need a city bus to run me over to not understand what happens to me and why. The list of things that I don’t understand about the world could fill up four city buses, if not more. I shouldn’t even get into it, so I won’t, except to say that I don’t know what it is in my apartment that’s killing me. There’s some kind of poison in there, coming in through the pipes or up from the basement or down from the roof. But I’d rather get into this woman, whose legs had been separated from the rest of her, I think. I was trying not to look, so I can’t say for sure what happened. It seemed that part of her had been severed, part of her was elsewhere. Maybe it was parts of her that were elsewhere. It wasn’t what I wanted to see, as I don’t like the sight of blood, of parts, of ripped-open innards. I imagine it’d be the same if I’m the one run over, that I wouldn’t want to look down and see what parts of me had been separated from the rest. I’d rather look straight up at the sky. Maybe it’s a cloud up there, a cloud that looks like something else, maybe a president or Jesus. I’ve never seen this kind of cloud, but I’ve heard other people do. I think that’d be a nice thing to see after getting run over. This woman that did get run over, though, she didn’t look up at the sky at all, let alone see a cloud that looked like Jesus up there. A young lady was trying to comfort the woman as she lay dying, the parts that remained intact. She cradled the dying woman’s head in her hands. I wonder if I get run over by a truck if someone would do this for me. I don’t think anyone’s ever cradled my head before, so it seems doubtful they’d start then. This woman that got run over, though, she had a nice head and I’m sure some people cradled it before the truck ran her over. People probably took strands of her hair and tucked them behind her ears. They probably smiled as they did this to her. This woman, it appeared as if she didn’t want to get run over by the truck that ran her over. It appeared that she had better things to do than get run over by a truck that day. My thing is, most days I don’t have anything better to do, so if I do get run over by a truck, I hope this comes across to whomever might see me lying there. I hope they realize that this man had nothing better to do today, so it’s just as well this truck ran him over. I hope they realize that this man’s apartment was killing him off anyway and that it was best to get it over with all at once. Maybe this’ll be the day that I finally do remember to buy eyedrops and cough medicine. Maybe the truck will run me over on my way home from the drugstore and the person that cradles my head in the street will go through my pockets for identification and find the drops and medicine. Maybe I’ll ask them to pour some drops into my eyes so they won’t burn as I look up at a cloud that looks like Jesus. Even still, I should think I’d like a hoodlum to come over and fire two rounds into my head rather than have this same hoodlum cradle me in his arms and then have this hoodlum pour eyedrops into my eyes so I could look up at the clouds. I should think I’d like everything to end all at once and forever should it come right down to it, so to hell with the cloud that looks like Jesus. Sometimes when I do go out into the street and walk around I try to eyeball the hoodlums to see if they’re really as tough as they seem, see if they want to throw a couple of shots my way because that’s preferable to getting run over by a bus, depending on their marksmanship. The list of what I don’t understand might take up twelve city buses, but I at least know that much about the world.
Christine and Grace, Naturally
I HAVE TO TALK TO CHRISTINE about Grace, but I won’t talk to Grace about Christine. I have talked to Christine about Grace before and it has always been a good experience, I’ve always learned something. Talking to Christine about Grace is easy. I would even say it comes naturally, though I don’t think talking comes naturally to either one of us. I’m talking now about me and Christine, not me and Grace or Grace and Christine. Grace is a natural talker, but you can’t talk to her about Christine. If you know anything about Grace, then this is what you should know about her. Christine is a different story unless it comes from Grace, which it shouldn’t. You shouldn’t talk to Grace about Christine and the reasons are obvious. I won’t even spell out the reasons they are that obvious. But Christine isn’t a natural talker and sometimes she’s barely one at all. I have been around Christine for hours at a time without hearing word one from her. Sometimes you have to ask Christine a specific question to get her talking, but then you can’t shut her up is the problem. I remember once I asked Christine for the time and she performed a monologue about the plight of honeybees instead. She went on and on about the honeybees, how they were dying off in record numbers and how the bees were flying away and not coming back, that keepers would find boxes empty of adult bees except for a live queen. She said this was unacceptable because bees play a crucial role as pollinators and we rely on honeybees to keep commercial agriculture productive. She said about a third of our foods comes from these honeybees, including apples and nuts and summer fruits like blueberries and strawberries, and even alfalfa, and guar bean. I tried to ask her about alfalfa and guar bean and if berries were considered fruits, but once Christine is in the middle like this, you can’t ask her anything. She went on to say that bees
contribute billions of dollars to our crop production and that the losses are unprecedented and fast. This is what Christine told me when I asked for the time and I believed her. That’s one of the reasons you want to talk to Christine because she knows what she’s talking about. I’m not sure Grace knows anything about honeybees, which proves something, I’m sure. Now please don’t get me wrong on this, Grace is a lovely woman and she is not inconsiderable, but I’m not sure talking to her about anything is a good experience, particularly when it comes to Christine. But that’s not the real reason you shouldn’t talk to Grace about Christine and everyone know this. I don’t have to spell it out and this is a good thing. I’m not sure I like talking to either of them, as I’m not much of a talker myself. But later today I do have to talk to Christine about Grace. There’s no avoiding it. All of us are worried about Grace and we have to do something while there’s still time, because Grace is worth the effort. Just yesterday I was reminded of this. I saw Grace at the supermarket buying groceries and she was giving a dollar to one of the local kids for their annual bake sale fund-raiser. You won’t ever see me or Christine giving a dollar to the local kids for their fund-raiser and that’s the difference between Grace and the rest of us. This trumps everything, as far as I’m concerned, including the plight of honeybees and whom you can talk about and with whom. Grace is better than all of us put together, which is why we love Grace and want to do everything we can to save her.
Big People Everywhere
THE WOMAN IS BIG but she is not beautiful. I am somebody that likes beautiful women, regardless of size, in fact, for a long time I thought the bigger the better, but not like this. She is big like the sun is big, like the sky is big, like the mountains out in Colorado are big. I am facedown and naked on the table except for a towel draped across my middle, afraid of how big she is and disappointed that she is not beautiful.
I should probably make a few things clear before we go any further, but I have no idea what. Perhaps it is enough to say that I am a good person, that I hold the door open for total strangers. Also, I don’t think anyone is afraid of meeting me in a dark alley.
Beyond that, I’ll say there comes a time in every man’s life.
The woman is over me. I have my eyes closed and my head nestled into that headspace at the head of the table. I can hear that she’s rubbing her hands together. Sometimes they ask if you want oil, but sometimes they don’t. I suppose some are considerate that way, thinking maybe you don’t want to walk around smelling like you have recently visited the rub and tug, or worse, go home that way to the wife or what have you. I don’t have a wife or what have you, so maybe the big woman has guessed this about me, maybe it’s a judgment call. She has an accent, though she tries to bury it. I think maybe she comes from Australia or New Zealand or someplace like that. I only know this because I have a neighbor who comes from that part of the world and tries to bury the accent, so I recognize it. I’ve asked my neighbor why she tries to bury the accent and she says it’s out of shame. I’ve asked her what’s shameful about it and she says it’s too shameful to talk about.
I think maybe everything is too shameful to talk about.
I have never been there, to Australia or New Zealand, have never been anywhere, not even Colorado. I know about the mountains because I went to school and I watch television like everyone else. Human beings have no business being up in the air, which is why I haven’t been places. Another reason I haven’t been anywhere is I haven’t been invited. The rest of the world seems fine with me staying put, holding down the fort. Perhaps they don’t think I’d make for a good guest, but they’re probably mistaken about this. I’d probably stay for only a night or two because I get restless. People love you when they know you’re leaving soon. I heard that in a song once and the singer sounded like he’d been a few places, had worn out a welcome or two.
This is why I make only half-hour appointments, even though the full hour is a better deal.
Maybe if someone invited me along someplace, I’d join them, but all of it depends on any number of variables, X factors. Everything depends upon red wheelbarrows and incomprehensible shit like that. Until I can figure this out, people know where they can find me. Until then, I remain grounded.
That’s what my neighbor said to me once, after I asked if she’d like to get a drink sometime. She said, It depends, and I said, On what? And she said, So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow. I disagreed with her, said I can understand things depending on weather or health or how much sleep you didn’t get the night before, but not farm implements. She said I was funny and that she was busy, that she had family in town visiting and then she was going out of town herself for a few weekends but maybe when she got back and things settled down.
I told her I’d ask again if I could remember, said I was only talking about a drink, not painting a house together.
I wanted to make it seem as if I hadn’t given this much thought. The truth is I hadn’t given it much thought, so it was important that I make this clear.
The advertisement said the masseuse was beautiful, said she was stunning and strong. Most claim to be in their late thirties, but you overlook the lie because you don’t want to visit a younger girl. There’s so much they don’t know about the business and you cannot teach them, it’s not what you pay for. Also, they haven’t filled out yet, haven’t let themselves go. So I am always on the lookout for the ones claiming to be in their late thirties, big and beautiful. I have seen these kinds of women, the big beautiful ones, have been inside their apartments, have forked over fifty dollars for a half hour’s worth of time and effort and have been happy to do so. Pretty works on anyone and I am fine with this. My neighbor is pretty but not at all big. In fact, if you lined up these two women side by side, you’d have a hard time believing they were the same species. What I’m saying is, I harbor no prejudices when it comes to pretty, but I do like it when they’re pretty, whether they be neighbors I might have a drink with, perhaps leading to house painting, or a massive woman who should be able to provide a little relief and comfort in this time of perpetual need.
When they’re not pretty, it makes me want to test them, ask if they’ll do some crazy shit, figuring they have to compensate somehow. But I never do this. I always wind up walking away, in my pocket three or four requests that would make a seasoned provider blush.
Also, I say please and thank you and am always polite with everyone. I talk to my mother on the telephone once a week. I never tell off-color jokes and sometimes I give a dollar to street musicians.
Now they all say they’re beautiful in the ads. These are the ones you find in the back of the alternative newspapers. There are always too many to go through, which is why when you find a good one you hold on to her, but then you get bored after four or five visits and think maybe someone else can do a better job. The someone else is never any better, though, only someone else, something different, and sometimes it’s enough, at least on the way there it is. It’s always about the way there, that’s the best part of it.
Some have elaborate instructions for security purposes. They want you to describe what you’re wearing, stand in front of a particular building across the street from them so they can get a look at you, see if you’re an ax murderer. I’m not sure what that would look like from across a city street, I’ve never seen anyone on the street with an ax, can’t see how they can ever turn someone away without one. Maybe they take pictures of you when you’re across the street like this. Maybe they have some kind of system in place that alerts the authorities and says, yes, this is the maniac who butchered me.
Once I did a little dance while being visually patted down, something between a salsa and the hokey pokey.
I didn’t actually do this. I thought about doing it, thought it would be funny, but I don’t dance. I’m not insane.
I can’t remember who the last one that checked me out like this was. I think she said I was good-looking. Not all of them say this, though you’d think otherw
ise. The truth is, I am good-looking, which surprises some people. Most people don’t recognize this about me. I don’t mind, as I’m not good-looking enough to care one way or another.
I think I remember that she was pretty herself, claimed to have great feet, which wasn’t the case. That’s all you have to look at when you’re facedown. It’s important that they’re feet are presentable, polished nails, et cetera.
What happens on the table is always a letdown.
I see the neighbor from time to time outside my building. She has a dog that is small and a cross between two breeds that should’ve left well enough alone. I say nice things about the dog, but I don’t mean them. I have even petted the dog a few times, have crouched down to do so. I don’t know what it says about me or what it says about her, that she can love an ugly dog and that I can pretend to.
I think the neighbor is a high school teacher or was one once. I think she works in a bar now, but maybe she does both. I’ve heard her reference both jobs. I have trouble keeping certain details straight, but I’m good at pretending I know what’s going on. Actually, I’m not sure I’m good at this, but no one has ever called me out, accused me of not paying attention, being self-absorbed or any kind of similar wrongdoing.
Sometimes I run into her on the way back from a massage. I’m not sure if the conversation is awkward. I always think women know exactly what you’ve been up to all the time, particularly if you’ve just had an orgasm.
So, what have you been up to?
Just out for a walk.
Are you sure about this? Is there something you need to tell me?
I never say things like I’m only human and is it so wrong, no one is getting hurt, it’s a victimless crime and it shouldn’t even be against the law and yes, I know, sometimes some of the Chinese girls are shipped over in crates and could be considered slaves or indentured servants, but even then I always remember to tip them extra, and this way they can buy their freedom and live fulfilling and productive lives. It’s really for their benefit more than anything else.
