Why you left me poking around at the roadside vegetable stand, while you slipped back into the car and drove to Lord knows where, I have no idea. But as I was looking for stuff for a salad for dinner to make later at your mom’s, a small tingle crept across the back of my neck, causing me to shiver.
Looking up, I saw the space in the gravel parking lot where your father’s Impala had been only moments before. Seeing that and what I took to be just a speck of brown dust kicked up from the turning of your wheels made me squeeze the two hot house tomatoes I had in my hand, nearly turning them into ketchup with my bare hands.
Now I would have to find out how to get back home.
Who could I approach? At the edge of the stand, an elderly couple fiddled with a giant orange squash. Closer, a young woman in a blue warm-up suit wearing white earbuds was fingering some cucumbers. I couldn’t be certain, but it was my guess that the man running the cash register didn’t speak much English. I didn't feel like telling complete strangers that you had ditched me on the side of the road. I may have sacrificed my self-respect with you, but that doesn't mean I had to give it up for everyone I came across. Reflexively, my palms hit my pants pocket, serving only to remind me that I’d left my cell phone in the car.
You bastard.
I set the tomatoes down as a phantom cell phone vibration made my thigh tingle.
I made my way out from under the wooden roof. The whoosh of an F150 doing at least 80 on that dusty two-lane road brought me back to my senses.
I know you too well by now to think you’re heartless.
It must be something else.
I started walking; I figured I could make our apartment in a couple hours, which was just enough time to pack before dusk. DFP
Thursday, May 1, 2014
STICK
My parents owned a 1970 Chevy Nova and when they handed it down to me not too long after my sixteenth birthday, they had it painted it black with a red racing strip. It was as close to be “cool,” as I would ever come. The catch, as it turned out, was that I was going to have to learn to drive a manual transmission. Learning to drive a stick was easier than I thought, but that doesn’t mean things went perfectly.
One day I remember heading to school, motoring up the long hill on the way to another mind-numbing day of eleventh grade, when I had to come to a full stop at the red light at the top. Even though I knew what to do with a manual transmission, hills were a problem. On even a slight grade, taking your foot off the gas pedal could mean rolling into the car behind, but letting the clutch out too fast meant you could stall.
I always dreaded stopping at this particular light because of how steep the hill was and sometimes even blew through the yellow just so I wouldn’t risk being stuck there on the red. So there I was: stuck in this ugly metaphor for my adolescence when I noticed that, beside me, Nancy Bucaro had just rolled up in her family’s VW Microbus.
My “problem” just graduated to a moral dilemma.
Questions began coursing through my brain.
Pop the clutch and risk stalling?
Take my foot off the brake and accordion the hood of the car behind me?
Actually, those weren’t the questions at all. At that point, embarrassing myself in front of Nancy was a foregone conclusion, so the only question left at that point, really, was in what WAY did I want to embarrass myself?
It was no longer an issue of probability, but execution.
While I was pondered just sitting there with the engine idling until graduation day, the light turned green.
Instinctively, I yanked my left foot off the clutch and my right foot crushed the accelerator.
The air filled with the squeal of peeling rubber, and that decade-old Nova flew off the line like a black bullet.
That was nearly forty years ago, but I still figure that if you have to embarrass yourself in front of a girl, peeling out’s the way to go. DFP
One day I remember heading to school, motoring up the long hill on the way to another mind-numbing day of eleventh grade, when I had to come to a full stop at the red light at the top. Even though I knew what to do with a manual transmission, hills were a problem. On even a slight grade, taking your foot off the gas pedal could mean rolling into the car behind, but letting the clutch out too fast meant you could stall.
I always dreaded stopping at this particular light because of how steep the hill was and sometimes even blew through the yellow just so I wouldn’t risk being stuck there on the red. So there I was: stuck in this ugly metaphor for my adolescence when I noticed that, beside me, Nancy Bucaro had just rolled up in her family’s VW Microbus.
My “problem” just graduated to a moral dilemma.
Questions began coursing through my brain.
Pop the clutch and risk stalling?
Take my foot off the brake and accordion the hood of the car behind me?
Actually, those weren’t the questions at all. At that point, embarrassing myself in front of Nancy was a foregone conclusion, so the only question left at that point, really, was in what WAY did I want to embarrass myself?
It was no longer an issue of probability, but execution.
While I was pondered just sitting there with the engine idling until graduation day, the light turned green.
Instinctively, I yanked my left foot off the clutch and my right foot crushed the accelerator.
The air filled with the squeal of peeling rubber, and that decade-old Nova flew off the line like a black bullet.
That was nearly forty years ago, but I still figure that if you have to embarrass yourself in front of a girl, peeling out’s the way to go. DFP
Thursday, April 24, 2014
THE BED
I suspect you’ve been there, so you know how it goes: you have a fight and before long one of you is in the other room, splayed on a couch, scrunched on a futon, sometimes even curled into a fetal ball on the new hardwood floors. This time it was me. She’d not been well and the illness wouldn’t resolve itself and the doctors couldn’t fix it. At first, I thought it was a temporary exile and that eventually, I'd be back in our room and sleeping in our shared bed but, somewhere along the line, as each day ended and its struggles became nothing but a hazy memory, "temporary" turned into four years ago.
One day recently I just moved into the office. In the other other room (our bedroom together), she said she was still hurting; said she didn’t want to bother me; said she didn’t want to wake me up in the middle of the night with her pain and insomnia. Maybe that was true, but even though I didn’t know it, that’s when the fire started to go out. But after so long in the living room, I finally cleaned out the office bookcase, threw away some files, tossed my jeans and shirts in an old box, and edged a shitty old mattress in the corner. It’s not too bad. There’s a CD player, an easy chair, and a ancient desktop computer that I can use whenever I want.
Last month, though, I bought a bed. An actual bed. I went to a department store, picked out a new mattress and box spring, had it delivered last Wednesday. It’s comfortable enough. I bought two sets of sheets--navy blue and black--to swap out after each one goes through the laundry. There’s only room for me as it turns out but, as each year passes, I see more clearly how that will be enough. Eventually, I suspect my bed in the office will eventually turn into my own, one-bedroom apartment near the Interstate.
I used to say we can fix it. I used to say it isn’t over. I used to say a lot of things.
What I would say now, though--I mean, if she asked, and she won’t--is this: do you remember when we met twenty years ago, how my twin bed was shoved up against the wall, how I was profoundly lonely, how I did intense, passionate things to myself in the quiet dark just to simulate the intimacy that sometimes happens between two people? Do you remember that?
I’m sorry; did I saw twenty years ago?
I meant last night. DFP
One day recently I just moved into the office. In the other other room (our bedroom together), she said she was still hurting; said she didn’t want to bother me; said she didn’t want to wake me up in the middle of the night with her pain and insomnia. Maybe that was true, but even though I didn’t know it, that’s when the fire started to go out. But after so long in the living room, I finally cleaned out the office bookcase, threw away some files, tossed my jeans and shirts in an old box, and edged a shitty old mattress in the corner. It’s not too bad. There’s a CD player, an easy chair, and a ancient desktop computer that I can use whenever I want.
Last month, though, I bought a bed. An actual bed. I went to a department store, picked out a new mattress and box spring, had it delivered last Wednesday. It’s comfortable enough. I bought two sets of sheets--navy blue and black--to swap out after each one goes through the laundry. There’s only room for me as it turns out but, as each year passes, I see more clearly how that will be enough. Eventually, I suspect my bed in the office will eventually turn into my own, one-bedroom apartment near the Interstate.
I used to say we can fix it. I used to say it isn’t over. I used to say a lot of things.
What I would say now, though--I mean, if she asked, and she won’t--is this: do you remember when we met twenty years ago, how my twin bed was shoved up against the wall, how I was profoundly lonely, how I did intense, passionate things to myself in the quiet dark just to simulate the intimacy that sometimes happens between two people? Do you remember that?
I’m sorry; did I saw twenty years ago?
I meant last night. DFP
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE
She sat on the wooden bench in front of the church, praying. She heard music from inside the sanctuary--modern Christian rock with electric guitars--but her eyes were closed, so she didn’t hear him approaching.
“You okay?” His voice was warm and thick like honey or molasses.
“Fine,” she said. Her eyes were open now, but the unexpected intensity of the sun made them burn.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. He wore slacks, a sport coat, and a tie as if he had just come from office work. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. Thought you might be crying.”
“That was kind of you.” Her voice sounded peaceful and ethereal to her; it came out better than she expected. She fingered a gold earring in a flash of nervous that quickly passed.
“I wasn’t crying. I was praying.”
“Well,” he said, smiling. “I’ve cried when I’ve prayed before, so I thought I’d check.”
“What have you cried about?”
“Oh, ancient history,” he said, chuckling, and looked down. “Water under the bridge.”
“Did it help?”
“What?”
“The praying.”
He fingered his tie, cleared his throat. Late afternoon crept in, and the shadows on the concrete elongated in front of them. As a result, the sun was evening out, and was not not so intense.
“Not sure. But it’s better now." He shrugged. "That might be God.”
“Might be you, too,” she said, moving over, making room.
“Might be,” he said, sitting down. DFP
“You okay?” His voice was warm and thick like honey or molasses.
“Fine,” she said. Her eyes were open now, but the unexpected intensity of the sun made them burn.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. He wore slacks, a sport coat, and a tie as if he had just come from office work. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. Thought you might be crying.”
“That was kind of you.” Her voice sounded peaceful and ethereal to her; it came out better than she expected. She fingered a gold earring in a flash of nervous that quickly passed.
“I wasn’t crying. I was praying.”
“Well,” he said, smiling. “I’ve cried when I’ve prayed before, so I thought I’d check.”
“What have you cried about?”
“Oh, ancient history,” he said, chuckling, and looked down. “Water under the bridge.”
“Did it help?”
“What?”
“The praying.”
He fingered his tie, cleared his throat. Late afternoon crept in, and the shadows on the concrete elongated in front of them. As a result, the sun was evening out, and was not not so intense.
“Not sure. But it’s better now." He shrugged. "That might be God.”
“Might be you, too,” she said, moving over, making room.
“Might be,” he said, sitting down. DFP
THE THREE OF US
When I got there, she was coughing on my boyfriend. She'd been smoking since seventh grade, when we used to sneak out behind the red barn on the Swanson's place and even then I would just stand there watching as she lit up, see her eyes close as she sucked in the sweet black tar, and follow the white smoke she exhaled as it disappeared into the flat blue Kansas skyline. I can still see her sitting on that giant tractor tire, her yellow and white Angel Top blowing in the breeze, her red Conversed feet toeing at the dirt. We were twelve.
Now her laugh was hoarse and raspy and her voice sounded like she'd swallowed every single one of the nails my dad keeps in the garage in that empty Folger's coffee can. She doesn't swear as much these days, not like she used to, anyway, and she's gotten to a point where she can keep a job and, if I go over to see her, which is rare, her apartment is clean more often than not. But, as I said, I don't go much anymore. Mostly, I just see her at the Kmart where she's been working since June.
We're all twenty now, all of us, and these days things count. Like my boyfriend. He's smart and he works hard and he's almost done at the community college where he's studying computers. We have something, he tells me at night, after he drops me off at my house. And I believe him. The three of us have known each other since third grade, when my boyfriend moved her from South Carolina. She and I started in Kindergarten.
But these days, as I say, things count.
That's why they shouldn't have done what they did.
That's why I've got the gun.
That's why her raspy, nicotine-ravaged voice is the last thing he'll hear. DFP
Now her laugh was hoarse and raspy and her voice sounded like she'd swallowed every single one of the nails my dad keeps in the garage in that empty Folger's coffee can. She doesn't swear as much these days, not like she used to, anyway, and she's gotten to a point where she can keep a job and, if I go over to see her, which is rare, her apartment is clean more often than not. But, as I said, I don't go much anymore. Mostly, I just see her at the Kmart where she's been working since June.
We're all twenty now, all of us, and these days things count. Like my boyfriend. He's smart and he works hard and he's almost done at the community college where he's studying computers. We have something, he tells me at night, after he drops me off at my house. And I believe him. The three of us have known each other since third grade, when my boyfriend moved her from South Carolina. She and I started in Kindergarten.
But these days, as I say, things count.
That's why they shouldn't have done what they did.
That's why I've got the gun.
That's why her raspy, nicotine-ravaged voice is the last thing he'll hear. DFP
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