"i know my coat is ugly," he told me when we first met, "that's why i wear it."
bill and i were sitting next to each other, an awkward coffee shop arrangement where you are sitting too close to the stranger next to you. we sat in armchairs and shared a tall table, a boring lamp. "oh!" i stuttered, caught off guard at being spoken to. "no no, oh, no, it was just reminding me of something. another coat. my grandmother's coat."
bill looked at me, eyebrows raised, not angry or patronizing. just honest. "that's bullshit," he told me.
this is how bill and i met. we're not best friends but we might as well be, considering most days he's the only other human being i can handle. "that's really sad," he responded when i told him, "but i feel like that sometimes, too."
i knew bill for weeks - meeting once then soon twice then soon three or four times a week to drink coffee and talk shit - before we got drunk together. he called me one night to meet him in a park, greeting me with two fifths of whiskey cloaked in paper bags.
despite the fact that he wasn't wearing a ring and had never mentioned anyone, i wasn't surprised when bill told me he was married, because i had always known that he, like me, was the kind of person with things hidden. bill was sobbing when he told me. he and jackson wanted to love each other like everyone else could, he explained. they were married in the three month span where it was legal for them. but they were never really marriage people, and they were never really in love. they shared an apartment, a bed although it was awkward, cooked dinner sometimes like best friends would and sometimes fucked when they were especially bored or lonely. it was a union born from the passion anger brings, from knowing something is right and holding on to it in your heart so tight that your knuckles turn white and your body goes numb. it doesn't guarantee a happy life. jackson and bill learned the hard way.
two months into their "marriage" jackson fell in love with a co-worker, mis-read signals (perhaps out of desperation?), and confessed his devotion. the man sued for sexual harrassment; jackson was fired.
"he hates his life," bill sobbed. "i hate mine. whose fault is it? there are too many things wrong in such monstrous ways that you can't even find someone to blame. i wish we were in love, so maybe we could be happy. i wish marriage didn't exist, it turns us all into the living dead, consumed withh our failure in the one thing we are all supposed to know how to do right. and i am too bitter towards society to admit defeat."
i turned my body to embrace him, knocking my fifth off the bench, where it lay draining into the earth. and i imagine that that night the world got drunk with us, letting everything go for a split second. the worms went dancing, the grass passed out and stopped growing, the axis switched directions, slowed down or maybe sped up. i imagined the world drunk; gravity forgetting its name and all of us falling, falling. and maybe god would lose all her inhibitions and scream into our ears the secret of life.
and thinking of the earth spinning crazy and gravity failing, i vomited on bill's ugly coat. "it's ok, it's ok," he said, mopping it up with his hands. "now it's even uglier." he looked me in the eye, he said, "i wear this coat so i don't have to care so much about what other people think. so i don't feel like i have to be beautiful to feel alive."
"but that's not fair," i told him, "only beautiful people like you can make a decision like that."
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
summer storm
a summer thunder storm. a front porch, the kind with a door that's enclosed in a screen, where he sat and counted the seconds between the claps of thunder and the flash of lightening. he walked in to the street, barefoot in pajamas, where he could feel the warmth of the raindrops and better see the way the lightening turned the gray sky an electric sort of blue for just a brief second.
it was dusk and there was no one out. blinds were drawn shut and people were keeping dry. there was a pulling in his bones and he looked in to the sky and rain landed on his eyelids and he knew the weather was making him crazy. it had started raining harder now, only 2 mississippi's between thunder and lightening this time, but he had stopped counting. he got on his bike and rode down the street; if it had been a big enough street to have two yellow lines separating traffic, he would have been just between them. the water was heavy against his face. he closed his eyes because he couldn't see anyway, rode diligently, recklessly, north. he didn't want to die but he wanted to wake up in a hospital bed, everyone he loved with eyes only for him, saying I Love You, pleading Please Stay With Us.
many tragedies had filled the corners of his life, but they were tragedies of human error, of negligence. he wanted a tragedy he could blame on god, on the weather.
it was dusk and there was no one out. blinds were drawn shut and people were keeping dry. there was a pulling in his bones and he looked in to the sky and rain landed on his eyelids and he knew the weather was making him crazy. it had started raining harder now, only 2 mississippi's between thunder and lightening this time, but he had stopped counting. he got on his bike and rode down the street; if it had been a big enough street to have two yellow lines separating traffic, he would have been just between them. the water was heavy against his face. he closed his eyes because he couldn't see anyway, rode diligently, recklessly, north. he didn't want to die but he wanted to wake up in a hospital bed, everyone he loved with eyes only for him, saying I Love You, pleading Please Stay With Us.
many tragedies had filled the corners of his life, but they were tragedies of human error, of negligence. he wanted a tragedy he could blame on god, on the weather.
Friday, September 18, 2009
how to stand up straight
when she moved home, she decided to show up someone new. the strong and silent type, with glassy eyes and quick cool glances that no one could ever read. does she hate me? does she love me? does she want me? does she even see me?
that's who she became, because, she realized, softness hadn't gotten her anywhere. so with short dresses, messy hair and nose up, she tried to forget herself. and she was great at it. she touched boys the way they wanted, and the girls, too. she returned their calls but always vaguely, dismissively. she only listened to loud music through headphones and sung along with misinterpreted lyrics. she went everywhere with a think novel - parties and buses - and she loved their stories but she also loved who they made her; she loved the paper shield.
she slept with one boy who was in town for the weekend. the details are fuzzy and irrelevant, but he chewed his cuticles and let his hair fall over his eyes, so she took him in her arms and wet lips and even let him fall asleep holding her hand. but soon he left, and she let go, she didn't let it become love.
a month and a half later she held in her hand a pregnancy test that was positive. she thought about keeping the baby, because it was growing inside of her, because the potential of potential is strong and we are all dying to live vicariously through someone. she wondered about the baby's last name; she thought about giving it her own. but instead she took a pill, rented a hotel room, and bled for 24 hours. this is just something that happens, she told herself, this is just something.
and she cried and it sounded like howling, water after a dry spell. because sadness is always there somewhere, sadness builds up and sadness seeps in.
and next door, a married man and his Lover Next Door were in missionary position when the howling crept through the thin motel wall. the man, short and balding, primitive and panting, had his one-track mind temporarily derailed, his thoughts slipping from what his body was doing to i hope that sound doesn't last all night, i need 8 hours of sleep. the tiny hairs on The Lover Next Door's back stood up straight; she knew that sound, she had made it before.
in the morning The Lover Next Door woke up just past dawn to the hotel door clicking shut, the sound of her sin leaving for work. naked under polyester blankets, The Lover Next Door arched her head back to stare up at the wall behind her bed frame, thinking of the girl on the other side, how you could feel the thickness of her pain in her cries. and she could still hear it now, quieter, howling replaced with whimpering.
and on the other side of the building, The Caretaker was in his pajamas brewing coffee for a half-assed complimentary breakfast. he cringed remembering the sounds of last night. he had come to realize, grudgingly but fully, that this motel off the highway was a place people only came to for parts of them to die - morality, love, sanity, and other fleeting things. and sometimes the shame and longing that filled these rooms was hard to bear. but he knew this was what it meant to be human.
The Caretaker was an old and worn-down man who clutched his empathy close. he pulled out his best tray, silver and antiquated, and filled it with a red mug of coffee, tangerines, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a tall vase of flowers borrowed from the front desk. and at the same time, in the mess of plants in the cracks between the parking lot asphalt and the sidewalk concrete, The Lover Next Door was collecting blades of grass, weeds and dandelions, tying them together with the red ribbon from her hair. each left their visual condolences outside of the girls motel room - apologies.
it was just about noon when she finally opened her door to leave. it had been many hours with the blinds shut tight, and the sunlight burned her eyes. squinting, she kicked the tray she hadn't noticed at her feet, the vase shattering as it fell, the sound of breaking glass waking her up in a new way. so she sat with her feet dangling through the metal railings of the second story, sipping coffee slowly and watching the sugar cubes disintegrate. she piled the broken glass on to the tray, carefully like broken bones, and, putting the two bouquets together, hung them upside down around her neck with the red ribbon.
with spotted blood stains and puffy eyes, greasy hair and a disheveled look, she didn't even try to pull herself together.
she stood as tall as she could and walked all the way home, across town, taking all the busiest roads, letting her tears fall free, looking us all in the eye as she passed.
that's who she became, because, she realized, softness hadn't gotten her anywhere. so with short dresses, messy hair and nose up, she tried to forget herself. and she was great at it. she touched boys the way they wanted, and the girls, too. she returned their calls but always vaguely, dismissively. she only listened to loud music through headphones and sung along with misinterpreted lyrics. she went everywhere with a think novel - parties and buses - and she loved their stories but she also loved who they made her; she loved the paper shield.
she slept with one boy who was in town for the weekend. the details are fuzzy and irrelevant, but he chewed his cuticles and let his hair fall over his eyes, so she took him in her arms and wet lips and even let him fall asleep holding her hand. but soon he left, and she let go, she didn't let it become love.
a month and a half later she held in her hand a pregnancy test that was positive. she thought about keeping the baby, because it was growing inside of her, because the potential of potential is strong and we are all dying to live vicariously through someone. she wondered about the baby's last name; she thought about giving it her own. but instead she took a pill, rented a hotel room, and bled for 24 hours. this is just something that happens, she told herself, this is just something.
and she cried and it sounded like howling, water after a dry spell. because sadness is always there somewhere, sadness builds up and sadness seeps in.
and next door, a married man and his Lover Next Door were in missionary position when the howling crept through the thin motel wall. the man, short and balding, primitive and panting, had his one-track mind temporarily derailed, his thoughts slipping from what his body was doing to i hope that sound doesn't last all night, i need 8 hours of sleep. the tiny hairs on The Lover Next Door's back stood up straight; she knew that sound, she had made it before.
in the morning The Lover Next Door woke up just past dawn to the hotel door clicking shut, the sound of her sin leaving for work. naked under polyester blankets, The Lover Next Door arched her head back to stare up at the wall behind her bed frame, thinking of the girl on the other side, how you could feel the thickness of her pain in her cries. and she could still hear it now, quieter, howling replaced with whimpering.
and on the other side of the building, The Caretaker was in his pajamas brewing coffee for a half-assed complimentary breakfast. he cringed remembering the sounds of last night. he had come to realize, grudgingly but fully, that this motel off the highway was a place people only came to for parts of them to die - morality, love, sanity, and other fleeting things. and sometimes the shame and longing that filled these rooms was hard to bear. but he knew this was what it meant to be human.
The Caretaker was an old and worn-down man who clutched his empathy close. he pulled out his best tray, silver and antiquated, and filled it with a red mug of coffee, tangerines, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a tall vase of flowers borrowed from the front desk. and at the same time, in the mess of plants in the cracks between the parking lot asphalt and the sidewalk concrete, The Lover Next Door was collecting blades of grass, weeds and dandelions, tying them together with the red ribbon from her hair. each left their visual condolences outside of the girls motel room - apologies.
it was just about noon when she finally opened her door to leave. it had been many hours with the blinds shut tight, and the sunlight burned her eyes. squinting, she kicked the tray she hadn't noticed at her feet, the vase shattering as it fell, the sound of breaking glass waking her up in a new way. so she sat with her feet dangling through the metal railings of the second story, sipping coffee slowly and watching the sugar cubes disintegrate. she piled the broken glass on to the tray, carefully like broken bones, and, putting the two bouquets together, hung them upside down around her neck with the red ribbon.
with spotted blood stains and puffy eyes, greasy hair and a disheveled look, she didn't even try to pull herself together.
she stood as tall as she could and walked all the way home, across town, taking all the busiest roads, letting her tears fall free, looking us all in the eye as she passed.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
nancy
the search dogs followed nancy macduston's scent to the edge of a cliff. some people think that she was kidnapped, or that she's just out wandering, and she'll turn up one day. i guess it's easier to believe. the way i see it, there's only one explanation, and on most days, i don't blame her.
today, new year's eve, we are stuck in traffic on highway one, in between davenport and nancy's cliff. davenport, california, population 312, looking right in to the mouth of the pacific. not a bad last scenic view.
in the car, aaron complains about the traffic, jordan can't get cell phone service, i have to go to the bathroom. it's getting dark and we are late for getting wasted.
it was a head-on collision.
people go fast on this highway, feeling immortal against the pavement that curves around mountain ridges. everyone in the accident died - so much for the new year. and we, we don't say we hope everyone is ok, we don't say we're happy to be alive.
and i don't mention nancy macduston as we inch past her cliff, how she was a mother and a grandmother and a pre-school teacher. how her house was full of animals, frogs turtles snakes rabbits fish and birds, how before she left she taped detailed instructions on how to care for each animal on their cages. how before she left she brought all her instruments to the pre-school and organized the storage room meticulously, so people could play music and find the things they needed when she was gone. maybe she thought about leaving notes for the parents on how to help their toddlers deal with death and suicide, but decided it was too morbid.
in santa cruz, i drink too much Steel Reserve and pass out before midnight, avoid standing awkwardly in the corner at 12 am watching a room of midnight-kiss-embraces. at 3 am i wake up and stumble outside, vomiting beer, pasta and stomach acid onto somebody's rosebush.
i sit on my knees in the dirt, tucked in to the bushes. i run my fingers along all my little bumbs of scars: at the top of my ribs between my breast and my armpit; the inside of my thighs; the bottom of my ankle near the heel of my foot. secret places of raised skin. i was sixteen and nancy, last year, was sixty.
today, new year's eve, we are stuck in traffic on highway one, in between davenport and nancy's cliff. davenport, california, population 312, looking right in to the mouth of the pacific. not a bad last scenic view.
in the car, aaron complains about the traffic, jordan can't get cell phone service, i have to go to the bathroom. it's getting dark and we are late for getting wasted.
it was a head-on collision.
people go fast on this highway, feeling immortal against the pavement that curves around mountain ridges. everyone in the accident died - so much for the new year. and we, we don't say we hope everyone is ok, we don't say we're happy to be alive.
and i don't mention nancy macduston as we inch past her cliff, how she was a mother and a grandmother and a pre-school teacher. how her house was full of animals, frogs turtles snakes rabbits fish and birds, how before she left she taped detailed instructions on how to care for each animal on their cages. how before she left she brought all her instruments to the pre-school and organized the storage room meticulously, so people could play music and find the things they needed when she was gone. maybe she thought about leaving notes for the parents on how to help their toddlers deal with death and suicide, but decided it was too morbid.
in santa cruz, i drink too much Steel Reserve and pass out before midnight, avoid standing awkwardly in the corner at 12 am watching a room of midnight-kiss-embraces. at 3 am i wake up and stumble outside, vomiting beer, pasta and stomach acid onto somebody's rosebush.
i sit on my knees in the dirt, tucked in to the bushes. i run my fingers along all my little bumbs of scars: at the top of my ribs between my breast and my armpit; the inside of my thighs; the bottom of my ankle near the heel of my foot. secret places of raised skin. i was sixteen and nancy, last year, was sixty.
mirrored
"why do i still see you in every mirrored window,
in all that i could never overcome?"
in all that i could never overcome?"
i took your clothes out of a cardboard box in the corner of the garage (a place i hoped i would forget about, but never did). i put on your underwear, i put on your khakis, i put on one of your faded t-shirts and those old shoes that got so ripped, old shoes where i once marked my territory with a red sharpie and an asymmetrical heart. i pulled my hair up and away from my eyes, i wished they were blue.
remember that chair we bought together? a musty yellow, velvet rough with rain and time, full of holes. you said: "this chair is unlovable, let's make it ours, let's fix it up and give it a home."
and it was in this chair (our chair) that i sat now, in the corner of my room, diagonal across the right angle. with one mirror leaned against the wall to my right, and one to the left. my reflection caught between them, half of me reflected over and over, endless. i don't know about fate besides the one i hope for. in my corner between mirrors, i can close my eyes, i can orchestrate.
and so i closed my eyes, i faced forward, i lowered my voice and spoke: "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry. i'm sorry that i always move up and i always move on and things become great for me in some new way. i'm sorry i left you, i'm sorry that i didn't stop it, or hold on tighter. thank you for loving the chair i left behind. thank you for hating me for it. i'm sorry i left you, it wasn't your fault, you were perfect the whole time and you still are."
i unbuttoned your button, i unzipped your fly, i put my hands down your pants and i touched myself, dry and unloved. and the blinking lights of an airplane flew past my window, all those people over me, maybe over you somewhere, depending. all those people over me, not knowing. not seeing me being you being me, caught between mirrors, reflecting.
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