Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Moths Around A Light



My life ricochets from marriage to marriage. In each of these, I’ll age a little more and understand life’s condition a little better. For one shining moment I’ll take center stage; but mostly I observe other people’s celebrations.

I am six – awkwardly, out of place – my oldest brother has just gotten married. I’m a live wire, physically incapable of standing still each time his photographer yells at me for ruining another shot. I try again – one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand – I twitch as he seems to purposely snap another picture. Once again, he yells. I sneak a glass of champagne, and then another. I soon have a blinding headache. My mother allows me to go to the airport with my aunt and uncle. My uncle is flying to Italy that night to visit his family. He is flying Alitalia: an airline I imagine that serves wine and has better food than most. We hurry. We breeze through the airport, to the gate where my uncle will disappear. No one is concerned with safety back then. My aunt and I remain near the cool glass looking out as the lights on the jet’s wings twinkle and we notice the plane laboriously pulling away from the terminal.

I’m a high school junior when my second oldest brother gets married. At the rehearsal party, I get drunk on cherry Vodka. My older cousin agrees to drive me home. My best friend and I hang out at my brother’s wedding. Amongst friends and family, it is a safe environment. We order drinks, though I’m still under age. My friend is more concerned with to my sister-in-law’s sister. She is cute in her bridesmaid’s gown and I’m jealous. She is younger than he is and doesn’t take life as seriously as he does. They have a good two month run – where, after his car breaks down, he’ll even walk miles through the snow to see her – until she breaks his heart. We’ll never talk about her or that day again.
It is hot and humid where I live. Swarms of mosquitos and moths flutter around my outside light on warm summer evenings. Many people focus on the insects closer to the light. They don’t notice the ones that operate on the periphery– left in dark trying to maneuver their way in closer to the light.

My older brother – tall and blond – gets married on an Albuquerque mountain. Initially, he asks me to be his best man. He and his future wife plan to fly me and the maid of honor, who I’ll never meet, out for the wedding. It doesn’t happen. My brother claims that the maid of honor started to act weird over the arrangement and he and his future wife decide to elope instead. A short bald Jewish guy in his sixties, who just happens to be visiting the mountain on the day of their wedding, replaces me as the best man. Years later: I travel out west with my girlfriend, and future wife. I will suffer from altitude sickness shortly after seeing another couple get married on that same mountain.

A few years later, my older brother acts as my best man. We have beer before my wedding. It’s a late wedding and we spend a few moments talking. It feels like any other day, until I say “It’s getting late, might as well go get married.” My wedding is informal. I wear a suit and a tie. My wife brags about how much she saved by buying a dress off the rack. We’re older. We cut out several unnecessary expenditures. Pretty soon we answer we do before adjourning to a gaudy oversized hall with plenty of food. I observe. People appear to enjoy themselves but I’m exhausted. It’s hard to imagine that by tomorrow night I’ll be on a cruise ship miles away from my life.

I’ve been looking at my outside light lately. There is a loose connection and sometimes the light works better than others. I watch the way that the outlying moths and mosquitos try to muscle their way into the light. There they’ll take center stage for an hour or two, before they burn out and disappear into the darkness again. I wonder, what is the life expectancy of one of these insects?
How do they mark the milestones in their lives? What have they learned from these events? How have they overcome their disappointments and at what moment do they change into something they weren’t.

originally published Blue Lotus Review Winter (12/14/15) 2015

http://bluelotusreview.com/2015/12/14/fiction-10/

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Getting a title



Obviously the title of this blog is a play on the Robert Frost poem. A few years back (7 to 10 by now) my wife and I stopped by Robert Frost's house but he wasn't home. I guess we were fifty years too late. I like the idea of taking the road less travelled, many times in my life I've stuck upon the well trod path, and sometimes I have only ventured in direction that I can't travel in life in my minds eye. An imagined life is a well lived life. At least I imagine that it is.

When I was younger I read a biography of Thomas Wolfe. He was 6' 5" at a time when people weren't. I have been blessed with plenty of height as well. He grew up at 48 Spruce St. and I grew up at 46. He had a rocky relationship and I related when I went through my own travails, as probably people do when they grow up. He seemed to want to capture the world around him and so did I. I was amazed by the concrete coincidences I read about. I remember telling that to a poet one time who dismissed like "sure and then lightening struck and you were one in the same"; but I don't care, I still find the coincidences amazing and if any of his immense talent leaked through I'd be happy to receive the donation. I hope you enjoy the writing here, bloggers please link me, and please check back again as  I hope to be adding more material, and other interesting observation.

Thanks,

Gary.

Old Stuff

image: https://evenlodesfriend.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/writers-nbk-planning-22-04-2013-14-59-52-3648x2736.jpg


When I put together this blog I decided to include some old stuff that had been published. Some of it I'm proud of and others are officially cringe worthy. I've decided to include them here as they were originally published.

Things that I'd want to change I'd like to put a red circle around sections where I felt I'd lost the magic: hopefully to make better at some later date. I'd condense it, glue it, and once more redistribute it. Or, for one of the pieces, the start just isn't good enough - what the hell was I talking about there - and there is too much fat in the texture of the piece, but there are parts of it I really like. It is like hearing the voice of a younger me which at times I'd like to recapture that passion. Kind of a kernel of truth. When it was right it was really right; and when it wasn't it really wasn't. I'd just put something aside in hopes of changing it when I got to be a better writer. Some day soon.

Gary

Monday, November 16, 2015

Faith


Faith


Ted had gone back to the room.

We’d been on Paros for three days. I had sent my parents a post card of a Greek church at sunset. I had sent home to a few friends cards of half-naked women with their hair slicked back and their bottoms wetly transparent. The sights bled together. It was a religious experience.

Wake up to a cup of Greek coffee – half grinds and half water – and a piece of greasy bland pastry, bake on the beach all day, stay out all night; and do it all again the next day.

Time, space, and accountability had become irrelevant. Experience was the key. It broadened the horizons and prevented the scope from becoming too parochial.

I wrote on one card, “I’m hundreds of nautical miles from anywhere with hundreds of the nicest strangers I’ve ever met.”

I was on the sea wall with two of them. We had known each other for less than two days. On Paros that was long enough.

It was past three in the morning, and Chris had just turned thirty. He and Carol were from England, and I was their “Bloody Yank” friend.

Chris looked lost whenever Carol and I were talking. He was hard of hearing and relied on reading lips.

“Ted and I are leaving Paros tomorrow,” I told Carol.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You should go to Ios. That’s where we’re heading.”

“I want to go there, but Ted doesn’t.”

“Darling, you can do anything if it’s important enough to you.”

Life was more complex than that. There was always something to consider.”

The horizon was black and lifeless except for a flashing green electronic buoy at the mouth of the harbor.

“How long have you known Chris?” I asked.

“Actually, we just met. We were both planning to go to Greece. Some friends introduced us, and we decided to travel together and cut costs. I feel we’ve struck it off quite nicely.”

A ferry had turned the corner near the buoy and made for port – three stories, with its passengers moving about. It lit the sky like a coming event.

“If anything, I’m more protective of him than he is of me,” Carol added. “There’s times when he disappears. Chris’s sense of direction is bad, and he gets lost.”

“Hah?” Chris asked.

“I said, you know you have a bloody bad sense of direction, don’t you, darling?” Carol called to him.

I guess he did. He didn’t answer.

Carol looked at me and smirked. “I find myself shouting at every person I come in contact with.”

The ferry approached on a collision course with the dock. On both sides of the dock were moorings, semi-submerged battering rams, with thick planking hitched to them. The ship turned in a slow wide sweep. The engines reverse their polarity, the water bubbled beneath, and the boat continued to slip backwards. There was a pause, the dock lifted, the sound muffled, and the ferry stopped.

…the captain spoke in Greek, and then in English. Neither was comprehensible, except for the last line, “Any passengers proceeding along to Naxos should be prepared for immediate debarkation.”

The front ramp recoiled in slow electronic increments while the passengers waited behind in the drowsy glow of the lower deck.

It took guts to arrive at this time. Or had it been dumb luck?

Ted and I had arrived here from Athens at ten AM. The Greeks had been there to meet our ferry, take our hands, and walk us through every detail – at prices that made us blush.

The dock was now deserted. The Greeks hadn’t waited for the late ferry; with their maps and photos and in the Pidgin English, “You need room.”

Once the night air permeated the whitewashed plaster, the town was one long sweep of blue. The houses had a uniformity about them like a sub-division within a complex. The guest houses looked no different from the residential ones, and the caretakers were home in bed.

One alley led to another alley; another alley to a third alley; and by the third alley they’d be lost.

Remove the roofs, and the town unfolded like a nativity pop-out book. In the middle of the town was a glowing Coke machine which dispensed beer as well as soft drinks. We had found that out last night.

The concession machine was the red push pin that held the pop-out town to its cork bulletin board.

…and I thought of a woman who had befriended us on the train from Patras. She had said that Ted and I were “good travelers.”

I wore her praise like a badge.

The rules were clear: anxiety was the common enemy. A situations wasn’t desperate until your mind distorted it. Change was the foundation for true stability.

New experience was the momentary salve for the many ailments, and boredom was lingering death. All the answers were on the horizon, and I continued to mine the source. Call it faith.

We got up and left. Paros was refilling. The town was in motion. Some come. Some go. It never ended.

Try and Catch it.

“Maybe we can remain out a little longer,” Carol said. “I’ve got some vodka in my backpack and Chris could get his guitar…”

…and I could enter the maze again, and search for the Coke machine that dispenses the holy ale.

The departing ferry was heading toward the buoy and the open sea.

“…you should hear Chris sing, he’s quite wonderful.”

“Hah?”

“I said, you know you have a wonderful voice, don’t you, darling?”

I guess he did. He didn’t answer her again.


# # # # #


The three of us sat on the landing that connected the sidewalk to the beach. The water line was only a few feet from it.

Late night after the bars had closed, there was a continued flow of people on the main street. A fluctuating audience had gathered on the sidewalk above us.

One guy flopped on a bench directly over us hadn’t moved for over fifteen minutes. He was either drunk or asleep or just off the ferry.

The later it became, the smaller the audience. Eventually, it was just the three of us and our friend on the bench.

Carol looked shyer than she was. She was smiling at me, and I knew.

“Chris, play some Bob,” Carol demanded. “Can you play some Bob? Like you did last night.”

He smiled. He could and did play some Bob.

“Oh, to be stuck inside of Mobile

  With the Memphis blues again.”

“I told you he was wonderful,” Carol said.

I was holding her hand.

I looked up to see a musician who I’d seen earlier, and his girlfriend was standing on the sidewalk over us. Carol saw them, too.

Chris hadn’t noticed them.

“It didn’t take her long to find someone,” Carol continued.

I didn’t want her to dwell on it. I rubbed her back. Her eyes looked at me with drowsy contentment and she smiled crookedly. The irony struck me as funny.

The ovation startled Chris. The musician asked if he could have a turn, and Chris handed him his guitar.

There was no hesitation to the singer, and he played bravely.

Carol, quietly but concisely, undercut his bravado. “Chris’s voice is better, don’t you think?”

Earlier, I had enjoyed the singer’s style, but tonight he was drunk, and his presentation was lousy.

I didn’t answer her.

After the musician finished, he declared, “I have come to Paros from Ireland to live forever.”

Chris was disappearing within a conversation again.

I told the musician that I’d seen him at a café.

“What did ya think?”

“I thought you were really good.”

His face glowed. His reaction was overblown. I couldn’t tell if it was a put on.

“Don’t tell him that,” his girlfriend whispered. “His ego is big enough.”

“I’m not paid by the café,” the Irish continued. “But the people take care of me.”

He handed Chris back his guitar and lit a cigarette.

Carol wasted no time, “Do Bojangles, Chris. Will you play Bojangles? For me?”

She was such a brat, but I liked the way her skin felt.

Chris played Mr. Bojangles while the Irish musician smoked his cigarettes and tapped his feet.

“I don’t know why he listens,” Carol said. “I figure he likes it when I’m a bitch.”

We kissed. I stroked the brown hair from near her temples.

The Australian girl watched us. What she saw was evident. It was what they all came to Greece for – one suspended romantic interlude.

She and her boyfriend left. Chris wanted to leave, too. Carol wouldn’t let him. He sang, and sometimes Carol and I made out. At other times I held her while watching the sea. The sky was changing from black – black to gray – black, and it was still overcast.

…and Chris had finished again. He sat up and said “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, Chris, don’t be a fuddy duddy all your life. You promised you’d play until dawn, don’t you remember?”

He hadn’t promised her that.

“It’s your birthday,” she prodded, “and you did promise.”

He remained, and she seemed energized by it.


# # # # #


It wasn’t quite dawn when Chris left.

Nothing had moved in the streets for hours. Above us, the guy on the bench was lifeless. It was growing brighter in sections, and with each passing section we lost privacy.

I kissed the bridge of Carol’s nose. Then her closed eyelids. They tasted of salt, and my teeth ground beach sand.

“What are you doing to me?” she asked.

Nothinnng…What do you think I’m doing?”

We made out hard and almost rolled off the landing. It felt unnatural this late in the morning.”

“Come on, let’s go,” I said, taking Carol’s hand.

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

I hadn’t decided yet, but I knew we couldn’t remain here.

We cut across the landing and nearly stepped on another couple curled up in a sleeping bag on the opposite side. Oops, I’d missed them totally…Some privacy.

Two dogs, one twice the size of the other, followed us, the smaller dog lagging behind.

We walked for nearly twenty minutes among the hills that overlooked the sea, foaming in the rocks below. We climbed some concrete steps. I supported Carol when the path fell away sharply.

She made fun of my American accent and told me that her mother had spent lots of money so that she could learn proper English.

I laughed at her.

“I didn’t realize that ‘bloody’ was such an integral part of the English language.”

Her eyes were in love, and she smiled crookedly again. “Bloody right it is.”

She had such a vain streak. She went on defending herself. Insisting that she could speak properly if she chose to.

Several times, Carol confronted the dogs with a stormy “ohey.”

The little dog would sit and look longingly. The bigger dog ignored her.

Eventually, the little dog followed too.

“That seems to be working really well,” I said to her.

“I can’t help it if they don’t understand Greek.”

The path went inland, and we took a different track that headed back toward the coast, by a donkey, eating, and a dog who chased until his extra long leash snapped back his head, leaving him desperately flailing at the air and baring his sharp yellow teeth.

“I hope he chokes,” I said.

The little dog sat on his haunches and looked hurt that we were leaving him behind. The bigger dog remained bothersomely loyal.

…on a deserted beach we undid one another while the dog settled at our feet.

Carol’s tan lines were yellow, the color of faded bruises. Her eyes were filled with tension. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and I lost sight of her.

By the time we finished, the tension had drained and Carol got up to go swimming.

“Where are my knickers?” she asked, fishing through her belongings.

“You don’t need them.”

“I want my knickers.”

She found them and slid them on, ignoring my unbiased advice.

“Cute yellow knickers.”

“I have many different colored knickers.”

It was chilly and deafeningly quiet in our inlet. Bright, but overcast. I wondered how long it’d be before people started arriving.

Carol continued, “One guy at the club is always asking, “So, Carol, what color knickers you got on today?”

One faceless guy who knew she had different colors – a guy who didn’t exist.

She nonchalantly walked to the ocean. Stooping over in the surf, she ran water up one arm and then the other.

A breeze curled back my hair. I was overtired. I longed for this public beach to be closed. I wanted to sleep there all morning.

We were leaving Paros later that day.

In the distance Carol was bouncing in waist-deep water, brown, topless and half-frozen.

In the further distance a fishing boat was heading to sea. What a way to start a morning.

Carol came out after fifteen minutes, all goosebumps. She wore a gilded chain which combined with the shimmer of the water beading upon her brown skin to make her look like a sun goddess. Today, she was mine… “What color knickers you got on today, Carol?” “Yellow,” I’d say “Now shoo.”

“There’s a lady watching us,” Carol said.

“I hope she’s enjoying herself.”

“She probably thinks we’re on our honeymoon.”

I was exhausted, and the words came tripping from my mouth.”

“Probably.”

Sure enough, off in the distance was a stick figure dressed in black watching from her balcony with quiet disapproval.

I collapsed into the sand. So this was the honeymoon for our half-marriage. Imagine. The lawyers would have a field day.


# # # # #


We dressed and headed back to town. The dog trailed us again. I put my hand in her back pocket and squeezed her for sensation.

Carol was saying that the dog was following me, and I said that he was following her. We were both punchy and giddy and bumped and wisecracked along the trail.

I called her a brat; she made fun of my accent again.

“Come to Ios, darling,” she said. “We’ll make the most of the few hours we have together.”

“I want to. God, how I want to. And I think I’ll be there. But I can’t promise it.”

“Anyway, you’ll know where Chris and I will be, and I know you can work it out if it means enough to you. I believe in you.”

When we separated, the dog followed her. I could imagine her muttering beneath her breath, “Bloody stupid dog.”

Ted heard me come in. After ten minutes he sat up on his elbow. He had had five hours sleep, and I hadn’t been to bed yet – who wanted to go sailing?

I wanted to stay on Paros. I liked it here.

He asked some vague questions about the night before. I told him about Chris’s concert and the musician we’d both seen at the café.

Then I crushed him. “Ted, I’m going to Ios.”

“I thought we hadn’t decided.”

“I’m going to Ios.”

He didn’t know what to say, and I rolled away and pretended to try to sleep.

He was so angry with me that he rattled things around the room. I didn’t say another word.

After fifteen minutes, he grew accustomed to the idea and asked if I knew what time the ferry left Ios. Anything I wanted.


# # # # #


The seascape was psychedelic orange-black. The sun was low and orange, and the non-distinct islands were ashen black.

The engines were puttering, and the ship was moving too slowly. We had left Naxos, almost an hour ago it seemed, and I hoped Ios would soon appear on the horizon. Ferry rides were slow, boring and relaxing. My eyes were closing.

The heat which had baked us when we left Paros was gone. I took out my warmest sweatshirt from my backpack and pulled it over my head. I was still cold.

Ted was wearing a brown sweatshirt with a hood that came to a point on top of his head. He looked ridiculous. He also looked cold, and I felt responsible.

A tall, good looking woman was standing near the railing of the bow. The wind cut off the ocean, and her red sweatshirt rattled and furled in around her. She stared into nothing for several minutes.

Finally, I exchanged a look and a smile with her. She made me feel less like the selfish bastard I was.

Her boyfriend returned with two coffees. I think they were French or Dutch. We had little in common except in traveling we transcended international limitations. We didn’t speak, but momentary glance said everything there was to say.

I had to have faith that Ios was out there, somewhere, and it’d be as good to me as Paros had been. Time and experience were slowly easing my guilt.

I hoped we wouldn’t be arriving on Ios too late.

Initially published in Crazy Quilt June, 1992

In Stages


http://antiqueinterior.xyz/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/dark-creepy-basement-amazing-style-dark-basement.jpg 
In Stages


She tried to swing. I held her wrist until her face turned red and her knuckles went white.

“You’d better be careful. I’m pretty strong. I’ll give you a good bruise. And I bite too.”

I loved her hair. Shiny and dark. It was the first thing I went for whenever we were playing. It would slither between my fingers. Sometimes I’d pull it and her face would wrinkle.

“At times I think you hate me.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it’s all right to both love somebody and hate them too.”

“Thanks for the blessing. But it’s still stupid.”

Margret was wearing a man’s white t-shirt. It stuck to her back. I don’t know why she had to wear it when I was over. Her sweatpants were down on her hips. Her hair was disheveled. It looked like she had undergone shock treatments. I was guilty. We had been playing and had just come up for air.

Dennis was working. He was off somewhere in his cruiser patrolling Bellingham, and I couldn’t relax. Sometimes he’d come over at night. There were lots of noises outside. More than you’d imagine.

“Why do you hang around with me?”

“I feel really good when we’re together. I don’t when we’re not.”

She thought, smiled, and said, “ditto.”

It was warm in her room. I had my shirt off and I was still sweating. She was lying motionless. She had been up and down all night. It was like cuddling a jack-in-the-box.

“You’re supposed to be sick. Remember. Why don’t you lie back and rest?”

“I love Woody Allen’s line,” she said, choosing to ignore my sensible advice. “Relationships are like fish. They’ve got to keep moving forward or they die.”

A car door closed, and she shot to the window in one spasm. It wasn’t him. It never was.

“This can’t be good for my heart.” And she returned to bed.

“Tell me about it.” My heart settled onto the pillow. All momentum was lost again.

“I should send you home…”

My shoes were in one corner. My shirt in the other. My socks were near the head of the bed. I didn’t want to go now. I felt cold. Suddenly I felt foolish lying there half-dressed.

“…but you feel so warm and nice next to me.”

I was back again.

Tell him to go. Make him leave. Say goodbye. (I was never that good.)

We were making out. I had my hand beneath her shirt. She closed her eyes.

“Ooh God. Hormones.”

The television was on over her shoulder. Another night time soap opera trying to be drama. She loved them. They bored me. I watched T.V. when I was tired of kissing. She created action, nibbling my ear until I pecked her cheek. She whispered like she had conquered, “I guess it’s safe to say there’s no dead fish here.”

A car came down the road and she was out of bed and before the window again. She peeled back the corner of the shade; looked upon the street, and the empty cars, and the street lights spotlighting the asphalt. It was exasperating.

The bedroom was a greenhouse: the pipes chimes and the heat was sultry. I felt drowsy. I watched television and swallowed spoonfuls of Haagen Dasz ice cream.

What if he showed? My legs were stiff and I felt lethargic. I didn’t want to think about it. It was stupid. He never came.

“I feel really lousy going behind Dennis’ back.”

“Me too.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

I kept my mouth shut.

“Sometimes you make me angry. I get the feeling that you’re always selling yourself to me.”

I wonder why. My spoon was turning the ice cream into milk.

Margret and I had an on-again, off-again relationship. Sometimes it’d fall apart on a weekly basis. But making up was our specialty.

Dennis was part of our relationship even though Margret didn’t understand the correlation “they” had on “us.” Their relationship was described as a “dead fish,” but she viewed it as a dependable dead fish. Our relationship was new and uncertain. Could it ever be anything more? I was beginning to wonder.

“I’ve never been pleased that you see him. Or that you sleep…”

“I’m not here for you pleasure.”

Obviously. I undercut her tone. “That’s too bad. I try to make you happy. I’d hope you’d want to do the same.”

It surprised her. She smiled, came back to bed and ran her fingers through my hair. “You know sometimes you got a pretty cute streak.”

“I’m not cute! Smurfs are cute. I’m not.” I placed the ice cream back on the night table.

Like an afterthought she added, “If you want something more why don’t you offer it?”

The vision of her, ever possibly having a child and asking the court to grant “three party custody” was too unsettling to take her seriously.

“Why don’t you,” I asked.

She started to speak, hesitated, and hurried back to the window. I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes. Damn him. He was everywhere. He was an uninvited guest in my life.

“He’s here,” Margret announced breathlessly.

I shot to my feet, as surprised as if Dennis was materializing within the room. The location of my belongings were lost in the transition.

“Oh God. He’s here. I don’t believe this is happening…”

I didn’t find it quite as unbelievable. Below he was whistling as he came up the drive. Above we were rampaging through Margret’s room erasing the evidence. Margret’s anxiety calmed me.

“Do you want me to get the door?”

“You’ve got to leave.”

“How?”

Margret was close to crying. The alarm clock at the side of the bed was: tick, tick ticking away the seconds we had to come up with the solution.

“Go down the backstairs. Hurry.”

The bell rang. I buttoned my shirt. I had a vision: a gun beneath a police jacket…bang, bang…

…and bounced over the bed like a hurdler and gunned me my shocks like a shortstop in the hole. I hated her for doing this.

We went through the front hall and into the kitchen. Downstairs the landlord was sleep, unknowingly. In the next room her roommate was asleep. Would Armageddon wake them?

The doorbell rang again. We didn’t exchange a word. I was escorted past the stove, the water bubbler, the table, the clock, all familiar friends. All asking, why does Gar have to leave?

I wondered if our relationship was designed to be a threat that Margret hoped to change Dennis with. Or if not, I was supposed to supplement his shortcomings. I heard her mock-gruff voice, slashing and teasing, repeating my break-up lines “don’t ever call or write me again.” Like I’d always need her.

And I heard me answering, maybe, maybe we are breaking up. We’re just doing it in stages.

I turned, “this has to be settled. This is crap.”

She wasn’t going to argue now. “You’ve got to leave,” and she kissed my cheek and hoped that I wouldn’t make a scene. I went down the backstairs.

“The door’s right at the bottom,” she called and I heard the door close behind me. I was left between her walls. The second shift was waiting out front, and down below.

In the dark I could hear the floor boards shifting. It sounded like code. What were they talking about? How would he react? And why did someone, whose swore they loved you, treat you like this?

Upstairs, her face was whiter than her t-shirt, her hair was a mess and he’d know as soon as he looked at her.

Downstairs, I had bypassed the door and was stumbling around a dark basement. At any moment I expected to kick over a shovel, or to bang my shins on a folding tray, or to spill a length of hose, or to whack my head on a pipe.

What if the cops came? What if the landlord came? What if Dennis came? Everything was surreal. I was living a story bawdier that the Miller’s tale in the Canterbury Tales.

I had to decide what to do. Every option seemed wrong and the results were permanent. If I tried to escape out a window, the landlord might hear, think that there was a robber in the basement, and phone the police. I’d have a lot to explain. Then when I told the truth, I’d find out how far Margret was prepared to sell me out. I felt nauseous.

I waited for something to happen…it didn’t…I saw myself, all night, waiting…in the dark. Waiting…cold, hungry and paralyzed. Waiting…to be found. Waiting… through the most miserable night of my life.

I wanted to go upstairs, bang loudly on the door and say, “hi, how you all doing? Remember me?”

I remembered a door I had passed on my flight downstairs. I headed back upstairs turned the knob and I was free. Why was I worried? In retrospect my escape seemed simple.

I snuck through the back yard, shivering because I’d left my coat in the car. Maybe the landlord was watching from his unlit windows as we continued with our re-enactment of the Keystone Cops. Margret was the ring master and how I envied Dennis. At least he didn’t know how ridiculous all of us looked.

I had reached the side of the house and prepared to cross the front yard. I saw his cruiser idling in the driveway. Margret had to keep Dennis from the window and also not let him leave. She had to steer him into the middle of the house. How long would she give me? Timing was critical.

I dashed for the street, my hands fumbling with my keys. I fought the door open, fell into my seat and only then did I breathe.

It was late Tuesday and I knew Dennis was over. I wished Margret would call. I missed her intensely.

It was hard to fathom why so many positives added up to an impassible negative. She had become my best friend and when she wasn’t around the void seemed as wide as the Grand Canyon and as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta.

I didn’t like the person I was becoming. I was filled with fury just thinking about the black and white that had been in her driveway. She’d always list my choices so rationally. “You can…or you can leave because I might not be able to provide the things you want now.” Her calmness made me angrier.

I knew what I had to do. I was shy in the face of a long haul…like a trip to detox. I wasn’t sure I had the courage yet, but I’d find a way. I picked up the phone and began to dial…


First publish Minnesota Ink Novemeber/December 1990

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

"The Beginning of the Road or Its End"



        The cloud curls like a babe in the womb.
I can make out a face, half shut eyes, the cloud even trails away like an umbilical cord.
The miles roll away: chewing up the distance that separates us.
The miles roll away: the bus skipping over every speed bump that life has to offer.
The miles roll away: as I feel something stirring inside, one more speed bump.
I am bringing you a present; I pray it's something you want as much as I do.

Originally published in Crab Fat Journal July 12, 2015         http://crabfatmagazine.com/2015/07/the-beginning-of-the-road-or-its-end/