I know what you're thinking- some sicko, right? Who the hell would want to sneak into a funeral? Must be crazy, call the cops, and the like. But here's the thing: funerals are self-contained explosions. It's often smaller, quieter than you think such a destructive thing would be- but no one gets out alive.
One of the side effects of such a setting in that no one is really paying any attention to who is there, especially not the family of the deceased. You get in the line, shake the hand and say a few sympathetic words and you're off. The nose blowers don't even look you in the face, the awkward youth never ask any questions and the blank-faced shock victims give robotic responses. No one remembers you, no one registers the intruder.
As for me and why I'm here- well... let's just say I got my reasons. If you believe in such things, it's not up to you to decide whether they're good or bad- someone else is in charge of passing judgement. Perhaps the reason it's never bothered me too much is because I don't believe in such things. I've never seen any reason to, and nothing's ever come out of the woodwork to convince me otherwise. So I come- viewing after viewing, suit after suit- and I sit. And I watch.
It's not exactly entertainment. I could be binge-watching Netflix like everyone else if I wanted that. This is better. It's an experience. The gauntlet of human emotions out on display with no commercials, no censors, no screen. The faces are only part of the play.
There's the tissue-talker muttering 'thanks you's and agreements to offered compliments through a wadded up paper. Small, hunched and held up by tall, awkward boys on both sides. They stand like pillars, doing their damndest not to move as the plump, round yet desperately fragile woman between them snivels and snorts at all the greeters. She smells like grapefruit as I pass and I can't help but think of the nursing home they stuck my uncle in before he went.
There's the statue standing there like a sentry at the end of the line. His hands clasped to each other so tightly his knuckles are white, his arms pressed so firmly in front of him he looks as if he might tip over if you knocked into him. And his gaze is locked straight ahead like he's trying to stare through the wall. It all gives the illusion of immobility and permanence. Like he's part of the scenery- cold, hard and inanimate. That is, until someone proffers a hand. Then he springs into action like a jack-in-the-box: grasping and shaking and smiling with a great act of real emotion. But you follow long enough and see the same dead expression wash over as soon as the person passes. Action, reaction. Like a reflex. No thought, just meaningless motion.
My favorite is always the drunk. There's always at least one, no matter what the crowd. There's a few different flavors of them, of course. But they always monopolize the action. The infamous loud, belligerent tornado who lobs accusations like a fountain- hitting anything near without aim or purpose. Or the quiet hiccuper whose glossy eyes can never quite focus and who needs to be pushed upright every so often lest they splay themselves across a neighbor's lap. Or the sobber- the ones crying with such abandon that only alcohol could explain the ceaseless noise. They're louder and scarier than the regular sobbers. And redder.
I don't know why they're my favorite, exactly. Maybe it's the way they demand everybody's attention while everyone around them pretends not to notice. Or maybe it's the way they put it all out there. While the mourners are acting and strutting around like show dogs before a panel of judges they spit and growl and bark with no regard for the audience. It seems more genuine somehow, more authentic. In a conference of actors they're the only real participants.
You can think whatever you want of me for liking it so much. You can judge and scorn and chastise in your own indignant fashion. Won't bother me. Because while you're doing all that I'll be watching you, forming my own judgements, my own labels, my own studious observations of character. It's all part of the experience.
And why not enjoy the experience? The one in the casket can't. So you might as well revel for them.
Showing posts with label Profiles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Profiles. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2016
Monday, May 6, 2013
The Watcher
She was a futzer. See, I had categorized all people waiting for someone in a coffee shop some time ago, so I could tell at first glance that she was a futzer. The crumpled sugar packets. The single-serve cream cups stacked inside of each other, the needless napkin folding. For some people it’s that not having something to do with their hands makes them crazy. For others they just can’t stand the idea of waiting. Whatever the source of the compulsion they always keep themselves busy somehow.
The readers avoid this by bringing a book with them. That way, no matter how long it takes the person to show up, they’re covered. The readers, by the way, are not the people that come to the coffee shop to read- they’re a whole other breed. No, readers are waiting for people too, they just have a better cover.
Cell phone addicts are a type of reader. Usually a younger breed. They don’t plan ahead by bringing a book but since their cell is always on them they always have a cover. Whether it’s texting (arguably the most useless activity of all), checking e-mails or playing idiotic games they keep their eyes glued to the screen so they don’t have to make eye contact with anybody. They barely even look at their drink when they sip. It’s just an occasional glance up here and again to see if whoever they’re waiting on came through the door.
But this woman, she was definitely a futzer. Futzers tend to have a lot more nervous energy than the other breeds. It’s not just the ripping and folding of the sugar packets or the adjustments they make to their clothes- like this woman, adjusting her skirt every single time she shifts in her seat. Like it needs it. Futzer’s tend to sit bolt upright- as if waiting to jump up from their seats any second. As if being in the coffee shop itself is a source of anxiety and they’re just itching to get out of there. Makes you wonder why the hell they agreed to meet in a coffee shop.
It’s because of this that they can never really figure out how to sit. Can’t cross your legs, then you’d have to uncross them before you could stand. Can’t lounge cause then you’d look stupid bolting upright when you spotted your companion. So futzers constantly shift in their seats, like fussy shoppers trying on shoes. Thus the reason for all the clothing adjustments.
If they have jewelry they might play with it, too. Or sometimes buttons. Some people pull on the frayed threads of their jeans. This woman was a hair twirler- her hair weaving in and out of her fingers as she sat in her anxiety. I once knew a girl who’d stick her hair in her mouth. Not to chew it or anything, just to blow it out again. I always thought it was kinda gross.
Why is she so anxious? Must be something damned important for her to be so unable to just sit and wait. That’s what I used to think. But nine times out of ten I saw someone come in to the waiting futzer only to sit down and start chatting opinions on recent movie releases or other inane chit-chat. You’d think there’d be something more worth all the fuss.
But that’s just the nature of futzers- they futz. Maybe they’re anxious about how they look. Like they got a movie of themselves playing in their minds and they want to keep busy so they don’t look stupid. Which is ridiculous, of course, because no one’s watching them.
Well, aside from me. But then again, that’s my breed. I’m a watcher.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Q is for Quilt
Source: Dianne Springer at Threads from My Head
She hesitated for a moment; scissors frozen above the silky fabric as her mind remembered the day. She’d bought the dress herself after saving up for two years. Her friends in the typing pool had teased her mercilessly.
“Why would you marry a farmer when you have all of these devastatingly handsome executives around?” they’d asked. And warned “You can’t leave the city- you’ll die of boredom!” And chided “Are you really that old fashioned? Live a little!”
But she’d told them she was meant to marry Edward Brown. He was an honest, hard working man who would take care of her and their children. No part of her had ever doubted the decision, not even after she moved out of the city and into Ed’s drafty house on the farm.
She looked out the window at the land stretching into the distance and saw the dust from Ed’s labor hovering above the field like an omen. The long, harsh winter and dry summer had made the corn small, withered and pale. They both knew that come harvest time they wouldn’t make enough from sale to be able to afford the lien. The bank would have to foreclose on the farm. If they could just make up for it the next season- which the almanac promised to be wet and fertile- they’d be able to pull out. But without a miracle that would never be.
She thought on it and could almost picture the for sale sign being posted. It was enough to break through the pause.
She took a deep breath and cut into the fabric. Tears escaped from the corners of her eyes as she ripped apart the precious costume that had marked the day she entered into this life. She allowed herself the temporary weakness, it was the first she’d been willing to give in all these long months.
As she went about her stitching she built up the pattern in her head. With her best embroidery and this fabric she had hope she’d be able to make first prize in the county fair. And then she’d be able to ask a price large enough, along with the with the sickly crops, to pay the lien and get their reprieve. She could see it clearly in her thoughts and it made her fingers work quicker.
A sharp eruption of sound made her turn her head and put down her craft. She walked over to the crib, the old floor boards creaking beneath her, and lifted the small bundle into her arms. As she rocked her she wondered if she’d be mad that she wouldn’t have her mother’s dress to wear when she married.
She’d dreamed about watching her only daughter walk down the aisle in it many times she’d had her; the one touch of female grace at the end of a line four boys. But that was just a dream, reality had no interest in it.
“I don’t think you’ll understand it, not at first,” she lilted to the baby, her voice soft and soothing as she tried lull her back into a slumber. “But someday you’ll have your own family, and then you’ll know.”
She continued to rock her as the sun began its decent outside the window, daydreaming about many more years on the farm that she and the boys and Ed would all enjoy together. She let herself envision William working the farm himself, when she and Ed were old. She let herself see Martin going to school with the money they’d get from healthy crops in years to come. She let herself see the twins playing with Elizabeth in the fields and chasing the hens with the dog. And she knew it was a sacrifice well made.
As she tucked her little girl back into the crib she placed a small kiss on her forehead. Then she wiped her face and went back to work on the quilt that would buy her future.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
L is for Lips
Source: Emely Photography
His lips laughed in gratitude as she cracked the first joke and smiled brightly when her sense of humor turned out to be just as sick and twisted as his. His lips froze in a goofy grin as the initial feelings grew, displaying his infatuation to the world.
His lips whistled mindlessly as he dealt with the days dealing at work, carelessly recalling the little details that would form the foundation of their love affair. His lips shot insults in response to the teasing of his co-workers and grinned maliciously as he refused to disclose the details of the evening.
His lips grabbed at hers with the hunger and ferocity that can only come from having endured a really long dry spell, and then frowned when further advances were rejected. His lips whispered small prayers that she would give in soon as he tried to sleep at night.
His lips let out the groans of pleasure when the relationship was finally consummated, and relaxed in way that he hadn’t in longer than he could remember during the afterglow. His lips whispered the three little words that would confirm her growing suspicions so soon after.
His lips expressed concern for her well being, smiled at her grace, froze at her toughness. His lips displayed a firm commitment to the life they were building together and espoused the dreams they shared.
His lips made promises for better times when life’s inevitable tide turned and grew stiff at the edges as his smile faded. His lips gravitated towards the rigid line they would hold as he pressed on through hurt feelings and daily annoyances.
His lips spat bile towards the object of his affection when the plans were interrupted and refused to offer any show of support to her attempts at reconciliation. His lips held that firm, immovable line as her tearful apologies went unheard.
And in the end, his lips had just a few more wrinkles and lines around the edges than they had before. Signs of the events which had taken place, sediments in the landscape.
Friday, March 18, 2011
In Her World
It’s Saturday night and the small club is packed. She peers around the small curtain and looks out at the crowd. She knows it’ll be a good night based on the thickness of the smoke cloud floating around the heads of the patrons like a fog. The small circular tables are filled with small glasses containing amber colored liquids in ice.
She lights a cigarette and listens to the conversation booming above the lazy jazz saxophone and piano. The newcomers are excited to be here, feeling as though they’ve been initiated into an underworld society of the true music lovers. They feel accomplished for having found the tiny basement tucked away in a nothing alley of the big city where the only landmarks are the steam vents and bags of garbage marking businesses. Some are working hard to lay the ground work for a late night lay afterward. Some sit quietly and sip their liquor, perfectly happy to be sitting alone in their own misery.
There are some regulars that she knows have come to see her. They talk excitedly about The Blue lady, the cheesy title she’s been given. They call her music soulful, feel captured by the deep echo of the sound she produces. Music critics call her voice “meaty” as if her vocals cords produced something real enough to bite into. They tout her lyrics as heartbreaking, frighteningly real, haunting. They say that the goosebumps linger long after a show has ended.
The piano grows louder, signaling her time to enter. She pushes her cigarette into the ash tray, straightens her black dress. She looks into the tiny broken mirror and gives her face a moment of attention then instantly wishes she hadn’t. Her dark curly hair swells around her head like a chinchilla, drowning out her large hoop earrings in the mass of fluff. The scar on her cheek seems to stand out against the pallor of her skin. Her lack of sleep is all too evident under her eyes. She is lifeless, corpse- like. Fitting that her image would match her disposition, perhaps now the illusion will be complete.
She pushes past the curtains and ignores the applause greeting her. They have come to see her, to hear The Blue Lady Sing. They have come to be kidnapped by the emotion of her voice, to lose themselves in her words. They have come with the delusion of connection, the false belief that they are all joined together by their pain. But she knows better.
She seats herself on the stool, waits for the piano to quiet. All talking stops. Even the bartender stops the clinking of his glasses and liquor slinging. The room itself seems to hold it’s breath. She closes her eyes tight and waits for the breath to fill her. Then she opens her mouth and lets out one long note building in volume and intensity. She leans back, letting her lungs stretch to their full capacity, lets her body be an instrument to be played.
For a moment, just one moment, she is queen. Queen of a realm that no one would want to rule, but ruler she is. For a moment all eyes, all ears, all thoughts are hers to command. But she will never know. She keeps her eyes shut tight and lets the piano join her.
There are already eyes fixated on her throat as the notes come out and form words, phrases, thoughts. Some people lose track of the club around them, purposefully dive into the sound of her voice. Emotions stir as she sings of her demons, people feel that false connection to her world and settle into the feelings that overcome them. To them, she is a goddess. Her voice fills their ears and they are transfixed.
But in her world she is an untouchable. A pariah. Every note is evaluated, measured, found lacking. A better singer, a better voice would carry this song effortlessly as she lumbers through it with imperfect timing and a stiffness that prevents real flow. She stabs herself with a thousand daggers as she sings, not only for lacking quality in her craft but for the thousand mistakes she has made to sing about. The men she has loved and been tossed away by. The world she cannot be a part of. The inability to connect to anyone outside of her own childish short comings.
Tears swell underneath her eyelids but she does not dare to open them. She focuses on the air coming into her instrument, tries to deepen the notes she belts. The deeper the audience falls into her trance the farther from them, and from any human connection she becomes. She fades, allows the piano and saxophone to play their part. Her brethren play their instruments so much more deftly than she ever could. She feels guilty for sharing the stage with them. The saxophone holds one long last note and then diminishes.
When the thunderous applause echoes off the walls and people kick over their chairs to stand and cheer she dares to open her eyes. She sees them down a long, empty corridor. Their cheers sound far away. She smiles weekly for them and then bows to her more talented comrades.
~
As she walks home that night she shivers in her coat. Snow is falling, but nothing sticks to the streets here. She ignores the wind whipping down her back, focuses on keeping one foot in front of the other. Her energy is waning, the 12 hour shift she did earlier taking its toll.
When she turns the key to her small walk up she finds her neighbor asleep on the couch. She puts her keys on the small table, the one wobbly leg threatening to topple the whole thing.
“Hey, I’m back” she whispers, giving the old woman a nudge.
Large, dark eyes open behind thick glasses and focus on her. She is embarrassed that she fell asleep, she straightens herself with blushed cheeks and pulls her knit sweater closer around her shoulders.
“Thanks so much,” she says, handing her a $50. The old woman makes the usual protest, gently pushing the green bill back towards her. She gives her a gentle smile and puts the bill in her palm, then closes her fingers around it. Sweet eyes give her a goodbye better than she deserves and she quietly closes the door behind the soft retreating form.
She tiptoes to the bedroom, finds the baby fast asleep. She doesn’t want to wake her but she can’t help sweeping the wispy hair back from her smooth forehead. She listens to the gentle breath coming in and out, watches the small back rise and fall. A tear drop lands silently on the blue pattern print of cartoonish puppy dogs and she wipes a hand across her face. She knows she must be stronger for her, must be better for her. Knows she deserves so much more than what she is, what she is giving. But then again, that’s all she has. She tells herself that’s enough for now.
She lights a cigarette and listens to the conversation booming above the lazy jazz saxophone and piano. The newcomers are excited to be here, feeling as though they’ve been initiated into an underworld society of the true music lovers. They feel accomplished for having found the tiny basement tucked away in a nothing alley of the big city where the only landmarks are the steam vents and bags of garbage marking businesses. Some are working hard to lay the ground work for a late night lay afterward. Some sit quietly and sip their liquor, perfectly happy to be sitting alone in their own misery.
There are some regulars that she knows have come to see her. They talk excitedly about The Blue lady, the cheesy title she’s been given. They call her music soulful, feel captured by the deep echo of the sound she produces. Music critics call her voice “meaty” as if her vocals cords produced something real enough to bite into. They tout her lyrics as heartbreaking, frighteningly real, haunting. They say that the goosebumps linger long after a show has ended.
The piano grows louder, signaling her time to enter. She pushes her cigarette into the ash tray, straightens her black dress. She looks into the tiny broken mirror and gives her face a moment of attention then instantly wishes she hadn’t. Her dark curly hair swells around her head like a chinchilla, drowning out her large hoop earrings in the mass of fluff. The scar on her cheek seems to stand out against the pallor of her skin. Her lack of sleep is all too evident under her eyes. She is lifeless, corpse- like. Fitting that her image would match her disposition, perhaps now the illusion will be complete.
She pushes past the curtains and ignores the applause greeting her. They have come to see her, to hear The Blue Lady Sing. They have come to be kidnapped by the emotion of her voice, to lose themselves in her words. They have come with the delusion of connection, the false belief that they are all joined together by their pain. But she knows better.
She seats herself on the stool, waits for the piano to quiet. All talking stops. Even the bartender stops the clinking of his glasses and liquor slinging. The room itself seems to hold it’s breath. She closes her eyes tight and waits for the breath to fill her. Then she opens her mouth and lets out one long note building in volume and intensity. She leans back, letting her lungs stretch to their full capacity, lets her body be an instrument to be played.
For a moment, just one moment, she is queen. Queen of a realm that no one would want to rule, but ruler she is. For a moment all eyes, all ears, all thoughts are hers to command. But she will never know. She keeps her eyes shut tight and lets the piano join her.
There are already eyes fixated on her throat as the notes come out and form words, phrases, thoughts. Some people lose track of the club around them, purposefully dive into the sound of her voice. Emotions stir as she sings of her demons, people feel that false connection to her world and settle into the feelings that overcome them. To them, she is a goddess. Her voice fills their ears and they are transfixed.
But in her world she is an untouchable. A pariah. Every note is evaluated, measured, found lacking. A better singer, a better voice would carry this song effortlessly as she lumbers through it with imperfect timing and a stiffness that prevents real flow. She stabs herself with a thousand daggers as she sings, not only for lacking quality in her craft but for the thousand mistakes she has made to sing about. The men she has loved and been tossed away by. The world she cannot be a part of. The inability to connect to anyone outside of her own childish short comings.
Tears swell underneath her eyelids but she does not dare to open them. She focuses on the air coming into her instrument, tries to deepen the notes she belts. The deeper the audience falls into her trance the farther from them, and from any human connection she becomes. She fades, allows the piano and saxophone to play their part. Her brethren play their instruments so much more deftly than she ever could. She feels guilty for sharing the stage with them. The saxophone holds one long last note and then diminishes.
When the thunderous applause echoes off the walls and people kick over their chairs to stand and cheer she dares to open her eyes. She sees them down a long, empty corridor. Their cheers sound far away. She smiles weekly for them and then bows to her more talented comrades.
~
As she walks home that night she shivers in her coat. Snow is falling, but nothing sticks to the streets here. She ignores the wind whipping down her back, focuses on keeping one foot in front of the other. Her energy is waning, the 12 hour shift she did earlier taking its toll.
When she turns the key to her small walk up she finds her neighbor asleep on the couch. She puts her keys on the small table, the one wobbly leg threatening to topple the whole thing.
“Hey, I’m back” she whispers, giving the old woman a nudge.
Large, dark eyes open behind thick glasses and focus on her. She is embarrassed that she fell asleep, she straightens herself with blushed cheeks and pulls her knit sweater closer around her shoulders.
“Thanks so much,” she says, handing her a $50. The old woman makes the usual protest, gently pushing the green bill back towards her. She gives her a gentle smile and puts the bill in her palm, then closes her fingers around it. Sweet eyes give her a goodbye better than she deserves and she quietly closes the door behind the soft retreating form.
She tiptoes to the bedroom, finds the baby fast asleep. She doesn’t want to wake her but she can’t help sweeping the wispy hair back from her smooth forehead. She listens to the gentle breath coming in and out, watches the small back rise and fall. A tear drop lands silently on the blue pattern print of cartoonish puppy dogs and she wipes a hand across her face. She knows she must be stronger for her, must be better for her. Knows she deserves so much more than what she is, what she is giving. But then again, that’s all she has. She tells herself that’s enough for now.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (III)
In Transition
Over the next few days he found himself in flux, like a fish caught in a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of passing through a lot of different locations, sitting in front of a lot of different people, answering a lot of different questions about things that he couldn’t connect to himself or his life. But he couldn’t control it. He was shipped from place to place, person to person like a package no one wanted to open.
He had only vague memories of the hospital, drifting into and out of consciousness to find new tubes sticking out of him, gauze put on and removed from his face, nurses in brightly colored scrubs checking his fluids and attaching new IVs from time to time. He would have thought his recovery was fast, though he had no idea of how much time was passing. It might’ve all been a few hours, it might’ve been days. He was getting more sleep than he’d gotten in longer than he could remember and his mind had lost the skill of making sense of the waking landscape around him.
He almost wished they’d stop drugging him so he could try to get a grip on the reality he was drifting in and out of, but then again he probably wasn’t missing anything that worthwhile. He wasn’t concerned enough to really expend the effort until the same cops he’d seen before showed up and started asking questions about his car, the lot they’d found him in, the drugs they’d found in his blood. Having virtually no idea what they were talking about he had few answers to give. But cops never like it when you don’t answer their questions.
He was discharged into police custody, taken to the station. They wanted to book him on a number of charges, told him he’d be going to jail for attempted robbery, destruction of public property, possession of narcotics. They told him he’d steered his car into an armored truck right after a pick up, thus why his car was totaled. He disagreed with them. They told him he’d had a stash of crack on the back seat of the car where they found him, he said no. They said he’d cost the city thousands of dollars. He accused them of making up stories, said he’d been at home, asleep.
It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smart ass, he wasn’t stupid. It was just that the story they were telling him wasn’t his. He didn’t do stuff like that. Ever. Even in his sleepless, drug-induced haze his mind hadn’t come up with ideas like robbery, and no one was stupid enough to think they’d be able to break into an armored truck by running their Sedan into it. The story they were telling didn’t make sense, and he refused to acknowledge it as reality.
Cops deal with denial, lies, manipulation, and excuses. They sniff those tools of the trade out like hungry dogs, wagging their tails when they smell it. But when a guy comes in refusing to acknowledge reality as reality- not because he’s using those tools but because he honestly doesn’t believe you, they smell something else. And they don’t like that smell. So as soon as some one posed the idea that maybe the guy wasn’t stupid or lying, maybe he really was just crazy, the cops dropped him like a hot pan.
No one told him where he was going, explained why he was no longer being held, told him what the next step in the process would be. As soon as they’d ‘figured him out’ they acted like Americans in front of an illegal alien who doesn’t speak the language- having conversation just out of ear shot which obviously involved him without actually acknowledging his existence.
He found himself in the back of a van watching the urban landscape grow more industrialized and less populated. He would’ve asked where he was being driven but he figured the driver wouldn’t offer any more information than the people in the station had. So instead he sat, watched the concrete give way to gravel, then dirt, then eventually grass and trees. He watched it with the detachment of a person looking out at the landscape of a place they knew they wouldn’t go and didn’t care enough to wonder where he’d end up.
Over the next few days he found himself in flux, like a fish caught in a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of passing through a lot of different locations, sitting in front of a lot of different people, answering a lot of different questions about things that he couldn’t connect to himself or his life. But he couldn’t control it. He was shipped from place to place, person to person like a package no one wanted to open.
He had only vague memories of the hospital, drifting into and out of consciousness to find new tubes sticking out of him, gauze put on and removed from his face, nurses in brightly colored scrubs checking his fluids and attaching new IVs from time to time. He would have thought his recovery was fast, though he had no idea of how much time was passing. It might’ve all been a few hours, it might’ve been days. He was getting more sleep than he’d gotten in longer than he could remember and his mind had lost the skill of making sense of the waking landscape around him.
He almost wished they’d stop drugging him so he could try to get a grip on the reality he was drifting in and out of, but then again he probably wasn’t missing anything that worthwhile. He wasn’t concerned enough to really expend the effort until the same cops he’d seen before showed up and started asking questions about his car, the lot they’d found him in, the drugs they’d found in his blood. Having virtually no idea what they were talking about he had few answers to give. But cops never like it when you don’t answer their questions.
He was discharged into police custody, taken to the station. They wanted to book him on a number of charges, told him he’d be going to jail for attempted robbery, destruction of public property, possession of narcotics. They told him he’d steered his car into an armored truck right after a pick up, thus why his car was totaled. He disagreed with them. They told him he’d had a stash of crack on the back seat of the car where they found him, he said no. They said he’d cost the city thousands of dollars. He accused them of making up stories, said he’d been at home, asleep.
It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smart ass, he wasn’t stupid. It was just that the story they were telling him wasn’t his. He didn’t do stuff like that. Ever. Even in his sleepless, drug-induced haze his mind hadn’t come up with ideas like robbery, and no one was stupid enough to think they’d be able to break into an armored truck by running their Sedan into it. The story they were telling didn’t make sense, and he refused to acknowledge it as reality.
Cops deal with denial, lies, manipulation, and excuses. They sniff those tools of the trade out like hungry dogs, wagging their tails when they smell it. But when a guy comes in refusing to acknowledge reality as reality- not because he’s using those tools but because he honestly doesn’t believe you, they smell something else. And they don’t like that smell. So as soon as some one posed the idea that maybe the guy wasn’t stupid or lying, maybe he really was just crazy, the cops dropped him like a hot pan.
No one told him where he was going, explained why he was no longer being held, told him what the next step in the process would be. As soon as they’d ‘figured him out’ they acted like Americans in front of an illegal alien who doesn’t speak the language- having conversation just out of ear shot which obviously involved him without actually acknowledging his existence.
He found himself in the back of a van watching the urban landscape grow more industrialized and less populated. He would’ve asked where he was being driven but he figured the driver wouldn’t offer any more information than the people in the station had. So instead he sat, watched the concrete give way to gravel, then dirt, then eventually grass and trees. He watched it with the detachment of a person looking out at the landscape of a place they knew they wouldn’t go and didn’t care enough to wonder where he’d end up.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (II)
After the Fall
It wasn't the sirens or the wail of the fire truck or even the idling of his own car that woke him up- it was his snoring. He heard it and wondered who was making that noise with no thought of what it was or concept that it might be coming from his own throat. He went to open his eyes and a wave of pain so sharp and so powerful crashed over his head that he would’ve fallen over if he weren't already reclined.
He managed to pry one eye open and the thick, sticky liquid that had sealed it shut yanked the eyelashes off with a renewed burst of blood. The added red around the blackness framing his vision confused him further and he wondered if he’d fallen into a vat of oil or something. The rest of his shirt was covered in the same, thick liquid and his brain struggled to make sense of it all.
He should’ve of recognized the back seat of his own car, his own pair of legs, his own chest covered in blood with one of his own ribs making an unnatural bump in the expanse. But he didn’t.
And he didn’t recognize the sound of the police sirens as they drew closer to the mechanic’s lot where he’d parked his car among the others waiting for body repairs. Nor did he recognize the paramedics that pulled him out of the vehicle and strapped him to a board while shining small flashlights in eyes and asking questions about who he was, what had happened, if he knew what was going on. He didn’t recognize the look of disgust on the cops faces he saw in his peripheral vision as they watched the paramedics cut off his shirt and survey the damage. He didn’t recognize the street light overhead as his forehead was strapped down and neck secured. And he didn’t recognize any of the words directed at him in the chaos of noise and lights.
No, he was too distracted by one simple, thought in all the madness. That noise he heard- had it been snoring? Had he actually been asleep? ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought to himself.
It wasn't the sirens or the wail of the fire truck or even the idling of his own car that woke him up- it was his snoring. He heard it and wondered who was making that noise with no thought of what it was or concept that it might be coming from his own throat. He went to open his eyes and a wave of pain so sharp and so powerful crashed over his head that he would’ve fallen over if he weren't already reclined.
He managed to pry one eye open and the thick, sticky liquid that had sealed it shut yanked the eyelashes off with a renewed burst of blood. The added red around the blackness framing his vision confused him further and he wondered if he’d fallen into a vat of oil or something. The rest of his shirt was covered in the same, thick liquid and his brain struggled to make sense of it all.
He should’ve of recognized the back seat of his own car, his own pair of legs, his own chest covered in blood with one of his own ribs making an unnatural bump in the expanse. But he didn’t.
And he didn’t recognize the sound of the police sirens as they drew closer to the mechanic’s lot where he’d parked his car among the others waiting for body repairs. Nor did he recognize the paramedics that pulled him out of the vehicle and strapped him to a board while shining small flashlights in eyes and asking questions about who he was, what had happened, if he knew what was going on. He didn’t recognize the look of disgust on the cops faces he saw in his peripheral vision as they watched the paramedics cut off his shirt and survey the damage. He didn’t recognize the street light overhead as his forehead was strapped down and neck secured. And he didn’t recognize any of the words directed at him in the chaos of noise and lights.
No, he was too distracted by one simple, thought in all the madness. That noise he heard- had it been snoring? Had he actually been asleep? ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought to himself.
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (I)
Prelude to a Fall
He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even pretend to call it insomnia anymore because that wasn’t the right word. The moments of confusion between falling asleep and waking up had become so brief and fleeting that they didn’t count anymore. And he’d seen Fight Club way too many times not to wonder what sort-of havoc that might be wreaking on his mental health. But he tried not to think about it.
In general weaving in and out of the lanes of traffic was enough to keep him distracted. In a city of so many languages, technologies, forms of music and just plain noise it seemed like the only universal mode of communication left was the car horn, so he used it frequently. Not that anyone would be able to distinguish his from the mass pollution clogging everyone’s ears, but he didn’t care. He accelerated and honked, braked and honked, swerved in between the cars and trucks and cabs in a sea of traffic as if he were a swimmer in a stream of trout- brushing up against others briefly, but never lingering long enough to do any real damage.
At least, not that he knew. If any of the angry horns were meant for him he was too drugged up to notice. He’d started with No Doze and coffee, the usual tools of the trade. But the bathroom breaks were a nuisance he couldn’t abide. He’d moved up to prescription stimulants he found on the internet- ones that truck drivers used cause the FDA hadn’t discovered them yet. Eventually he settled on crack because it was easy to find and ridiculously cheap, at least in comparison to the other street drugs.
He was a good drug user. He knew it was un-PC to think that, but he did. He paid more attention, got more done and just plain lived more in a minute than most other people did. And sure, he might be a little paranoid- but all that was doing was keeping him alive and getting another delivery under his belt. And, as he like to mutter under his breath, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. It made him smile.
So he sped through the traffic of the city streets, jogged in an out of elevators to make his deliveries, took home the good cash pay of a courier and ignored the activity of his brain, the irregular heartbeat, and the other side effects. Logic would have told him it was only a matter of time, but logic was a mental capacity that’d gone out the window with a good’s night’s sleep a long, long time ago.
He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even pretend to call it insomnia anymore because that wasn’t the right word. The moments of confusion between falling asleep and waking up had become so brief and fleeting that they didn’t count anymore. And he’d seen Fight Club way too many times not to wonder what sort-of havoc that might be wreaking on his mental health. But he tried not to think about it.
In general weaving in and out of the lanes of traffic was enough to keep him distracted. In a city of so many languages, technologies, forms of music and just plain noise it seemed like the only universal mode of communication left was the car horn, so he used it frequently. Not that anyone would be able to distinguish his from the mass pollution clogging everyone’s ears, but he didn’t care. He accelerated and honked, braked and honked, swerved in between the cars and trucks and cabs in a sea of traffic as if he were a swimmer in a stream of trout- brushing up against others briefly, but never lingering long enough to do any real damage.
At least, not that he knew. If any of the angry horns were meant for him he was too drugged up to notice. He’d started with No Doze and coffee, the usual tools of the trade. But the bathroom breaks were a nuisance he couldn’t abide. He’d moved up to prescription stimulants he found on the internet- ones that truck drivers used cause the FDA hadn’t discovered them yet. Eventually he settled on crack because it was easy to find and ridiculously cheap, at least in comparison to the other street drugs.
He was a good drug user. He knew it was un-PC to think that, but he did. He paid more attention, got more done and just plain lived more in a minute than most other people did. And sure, he might be a little paranoid- but all that was doing was keeping him alive and getting another delivery under his belt. And, as he like to mutter under his breath, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. It made him smile.
So he sped through the traffic of the city streets, jogged in an out of elevators to make his deliveries, took home the good cash pay of a courier and ignored the activity of his brain, the irregular heartbeat, and the other side effects. Logic would have told him it was only a matter of time, but logic was a mental capacity that’d gone out the window with a good’s night’s sleep a long, long time ago.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Things You Can’t Tell Just By Looking At Her
Everyone who’s stopped at the diner on their drive through town to the interstate has seen her there. Always at the same table in the corner where the shade drowns the otherwise bright sunlight filling the room. She always had the same faraway look in her eyes, the same simple cup of coffee. Some people have thought, mistakenly, that she was just people watching.
They’ve noticed the wedding ring, the earrings dangling from her wrinkled, elongated ear lobes. They’ve noticed the way her hands shake just a little as she stirs her coffee- something not at all unusual for a woman her age. They’ve noticed the bags under eyes where her skin sags, the crows feet from years of smiling. They’ve noticed all the usual details one might pick up on if one paid attention to the woman sitting in the corner of the caboose diner.
What they don’t know is that she fell in love with a farm hand on her father’s land when she was only 15. How she had a wild (at the time) affair in the rafters of her father’s barn well before marrying age. How she married this boy as soon as he turned 18 and was old enough to inherit his father’s farm. How she valued nothing more than looking out at the cornfields as dusk fell, watching her son play in the dirt and waiting for her husband to come home to the meals she’d prepared. The peace she’d felt during those mild evenings and the satisfaction that came from knowing your world is as it should be.
They don’t know how she felt when her husband came home with news that he was drafted and would be sent to fight the Nazis. How she worried herself so much during the years that he was gone she developed a heart condition which would remain with her for the rest of her life. They don’t know the passion, fear, pride, and horror that her husband relayed to her in his letters every single week. And they don’t know how she almost died when the postman failed to deliver one.
They don’t know how strange it was to reunite with her husband after that separation. How her son didn’t recognize him and how she herself failed to see the same man she married most nights when they bed together. How his eyes displayed the same faraway look she now had herself and how she found it difficult to impossible to connect with him.
They don’t know how secretly disappointed she’d been when her husband went from working the land to fixing the farming equipment that was now so common. How annoyed she was when he came home night after night with another ruined pair of overalls from grease stains she could never get out. How she found most of her joy during that time coming from watching her son age and grow fiery and wild- traits her husband had tried so hard to discourage in him.
They don’t know how angry she’d been when the factory moved into town and that little caboose diner was built just down the street from her house which used to be surround by farmland. How much she bemoaned the small town innocence lost. Or how guilty she’d felt the first time she walked down to the corner to sit and have a cup of coffee while her son was in school.
They don’t know how close she was to her son, her one remaining joy from a true connection with another human being. How they shared an intimacy so vivid that her husband would never understand. How she loved to listen to her son’s stories of school and friendships and activities that she could never do because she was born a girl. How she loved him more deeply than she’d ever loved someone before or after him. And they don’t know how she’d felt when he too was drafted for the next war.
They don’t know, and arguably could never know, how she felt when she received the telegram from the war department after her son had been in Vietnam for no more than three months. How she’d crumbled on her kitchen floor and stayed there in a daze until her husband came home that evening. They don’t know how that letter severed the small connection she and her husband still shared, and how they mostly stopped talking after that day.
They don’t know how angry and bitter she’d grown as she sat and watched the news reports day after day with footage of the horrors the other young American boys faced in a land so foreign she couldn’t imagine it, how obsessed she grew with knowing how much the death toll had raised, how many different nightmarish scenarios she imagined for her son’s death.
They don’t know how secretly relieved she’d been when her stranger of a husband was hired at a company manufacturing farm equipment and was gone for days at time selling machines to farmers all over the southwest. They don’t how strangely angry she’d been that he’d sold the farmstead because there was “no reason to keep it.” How she saw as him taking the last thing from her he could take.
They don’t know how deafeningly quiet her house grew when he was gone or how she missed him despite all the oceans of isolation between them. They don’t know how she sat day after day staring out at the fields which used to hold cornfields as far as the eye could see and marveled as the landscape changed.
They don’t know about the paintings she did which she never dared to show her husband, or the long walks she took for hours on end into Brower county because there was no one waiting for her at home. They don’t know about the repairs around the house she learned to do herself or the magazine subscriptions she sent away for because the articles reminded her of fantastical lives outside the world she knew.
They don’t know how she found her only joy day after day in walking to the diner for that cup of coffee and engaging the guilty pleasure of buying something she could have so easily made herself. They don’t know how much she hated the one or two days a week when her husband came home and sat in front of the tv drinking the beer she had to keep in the refrigerator just for him, and how much she grew to resent him for denying her that walk to the diner to get her coffee.
They don’t how little emotion she felt when her husband died during a business trip at the relatively young age of 63, or how detached she’d felt as she donned her black dress for his funeral. They don’t know how he’d watched so many young, pretty girls walk into the viewing, inconsolable over a man they shouldn’t have known at all. They don’t how many suspicions that had settled for her, or how much pain it’d caused her to find that that, too, didn’t really evoke much emotion from her.
They don’t know how much about herself she discovered after her husband passed. How thrilled she’d been when her paintings were exhibited in the public library and mentioned in the local newspaper. How she reveled in the young lovers she took despite what the neighbors thought, or how much pleasure she’d experienced with them that her husband had never given her. They know how she kick them out of the house the second they did anything that reminded her of her son when he was their age, right before he’d gone to the war that killed him.
They don’t know about the trip she took to New York city all by herself, or how disappointed she’d been with this place she’d read so many magazine articles about. They don’t know how happy she was to return to her still relatively small, quiet town and how she swore she’d never leave her natural home again.
They don’t know how she aged reading poetry in the local library with the other older woman in the bookclub. How she became an active member of the town board and voted on which company would take over the factory left vacant years ago. How much of a staple her presence in that little diner was to the townsfolk. How much they will all miss her when she finally has her stroke at age 87 and passes on.
No, all they would know from their cursory glance as they stopped at the diner for a quick cup of coffee and bite to eat before getting back on the local county route that connected the two highways, is that she was an old lady sitting in the corner of the diner sipping coffee.
They’ve noticed the wedding ring, the earrings dangling from her wrinkled, elongated ear lobes. They’ve noticed the way her hands shake just a little as she stirs her coffee- something not at all unusual for a woman her age. They’ve noticed the bags under eyes where her skin sags, the crows feet from years of smiling. They’ve noticed all the usual details one might pick up on if one paid attention to the woman sitting in the corner of the caboose diner.
What they don’t know is that she fell in love with a farm hand on her father’s land when she was only 15. How she had a wild (at the time) affair in the rafters of her father’s barn well before marrying age. How she married this boy as soon as he turned 18 and was old enough to inherit his father’s farm. How she valued nothing more than looking out at the cornfields as dusk fell, watching her son play in the dirt and waiting for her husband to come home to the meals she’d prepared. The peace she’d felt during those mild evenings and the satisfaction that came from knowing your world is as it should be.
They don’t know how she felt when her husband came home with news that he was drafted and would be sent to fight the Nazis. How she worried herself so much during the years that he was gone she developed a heart condition which would remain with her for the rest of her life. They don’t know the passion, fear, pride, and horror that her husband relayed to her in his letters every single week. And they don’t know how she almost died when the postman failed to deliver one.
They don’t know how strange it was to reunite with her husband after that separation. How her son didn’t recognize him and how she herself failed to see the same man she married most nights when they bed together. How his eyes displayed the same faraway look she now had herself and how she found it difficult to impossible to connect with him.
They don’t know how secretly disappointed she’d been when her husband went from working the land to fixing the farming equipment that was now so common. How annoyed she was when he came home night after night with another ruined pair of overalls from grease stains she could never get out. How she found most of her joy during that time coming from watching her son age and grow fiery and wild- traits her husband had tried so hard to discourage in him.
They don’t know how angry she’d been when the factory moved into town and that little caboose diner was built just down the street from her house which used to be surround by farmland. How much she bemoaned the small town innocence lost. Or how guilty she’d felt the first time she walked down to the corner to sit and have a cup of coffee while her son was in school.
They don’t know how close she was to her son, her one remaining joy from a true connection with another human being. How they shared an intimacy so vivid that her husband would never understand. How she loved to listen to her son’s stories of school and friendships and activities that she could never do because she was born a girl. How she loved him more deeply than she’d ever loved someone before or after him. And they don’t know how she’d felt when he too was drafted for the next war.
They don’t know, and arguably could never know, how she felt when she received the telegram from the war department after her son had been in Vietnam for no more than three months. How she’d crumbled on her kitchen floor and stayed there in a daze until her husband came home that evening. They don’t know how that letter severed the small connection she and her husband still shared, and how they mostly stopped talking after that day.
They don’t know how angry and bitter she’d grown as she sat and watched the news reports day after day with footage of the horrors the other young American boys faced in a land so foreign she couldn’t imagine it, how obsessed she grew with knowing how much the death toll had raised, how many different nightmarish scenarios she imagined for her son’s death.
They don’t know how secretly relieved she’d been when her stranger of a husband was hired at a company manufacturing farm equipment and was gone for days at time selling machines to farmers all over the southwest. They don’t how strangely angry she’d been that he’d sold the farmstead because there was “no reason to keep it.” How she saw as him taking the last thing from her he could take.
They don’t know how deafeningly quiet her house grew when he was gone or how she missed him despite all the oceans of isolation between them. They don’t know how she sat day after day staring out at the fields which used to hold cornfields as far as the eye could see and marveled as the landscape changed.
They don’t know about the paintings she did which she never dared to show her husband, or the long walks she took for hours on end into Brower county because there was no one waiting for her at home. They don’t know about the repairs around the house she learned to do herself or the magazine subscriptions she sent away for because the articles reminded her of fantastical lives outside the world she knew.
They don’t know how she found her only joy day after day in walking to the diner for that cup of coffee and engaging the guilty pleasure of buying something she could have so easily made herself. They don’t know how much she hated the one or two days a week when her husband came home and sat in front of the tv drinking the beer she had to keep in the refrigerator just for him, and how much she grew to resent him for denying her that walk to the diner to get her coffee.
They don’t how little emotion she felt when her husband died during a business trip at the relatively young age of 63, or how detached she’d felt as she donned her black dress for his funeral. They don’t know how he’d watched so many young, pretty girls walk into the viewing, inconsolable over a man they shouldn’t have known at all. They don’t how many suspicions that had settled for her, or how much pain it’d caused her to find that that, too, didn’t really evoke much emotion from her.
They don’t know how much about herself she discovered after her husband passed. How thrilled she’d been when her paintings were exhibited in the public library and mentioned in the local newspaper. How she reveled in the young lovers she took despite what the neighbors thought, or how much pleasure she’d experienced with them that her husband had never given her. They know how she kick them out of the house the second they did anything that reminded her of her son when he was their age, right before he’d gone to the war that killed him.
They don’t know about the trip she took to New York city all by herself, or how disappointed she’d been with this place she’d read so many magazine articles about. They don’t know how happy she was to return to her still relatively small, quiet town and how she swore she’d never leave her natural home again.
They don’t know how she aged reading poetry in the local library with the other older woman in the bookclub. How she became an active member of the town board and voted on which company would take over the factory left vacant years ago. How much of a staple her presence in that little diner was to the townsfolk. How much they will all miss her when she finally has her stroke at age 87 and passes on.
No, all they would know from their cursory glance as they stopped at the diner for a quick cup of coffee and bite to eat before getting back on the local county route that connected the two highways, is that she was an old lady sitting in the corner of the diner sipping coffee.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)