Month: January 2010

Sneezing

Sneezing

I love to sneeze. I’m old and it’s the closest thing I get to an orgasm anymore. Used to be I would visit my neighbor, Lois. Over a decade ago, after my wife Martha passed, I started dropping by at my neighbor’s. I know what yer thinking, of course it wasn’t the day after Martha’s funeral, But Lois had lost her husband to heart disease, too. And she was a looker. Not a hooker. I said, a looker. Five eight, auburn hair, probably dyed, but still caught my eye. And dainty, like that china we’d inherited from my Aunt Rita, used it twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. Oh, and I’m a sucker for big boobs. Lois was on the smallish side, but perky, responsive. Worked for me. I started by shoveling her steps that winter of 2002. Snowstorms came early in December, one right after another. We were all buried. Was the least I could do when I saw her out there struggling one morning. She offered me a glass of water on Friday. A cup of hot chocolate the following Tuesday. I could feel her eyes on me, staring out those front windows. After the third snowstorm, she asked me in. I stamped the wet snow from my Sorels, felt my heartbeat pounding. Took off my soggy gloves first. “Thanks, Duff.” She pointed at my t-shirt after I’d tossed my winter jacket, sweater, hat and scarf on a bench by the door. “You poor thing. You’re soaked!” “Yep,” I said. “I sweat a lot. Got a towel?” She looked at me like it repulsed her. “Would you like a fresh shirt? I could get you one of Tom’s.” Handed me a dishtowel. He was the dead husband, a real asshole. Sorry. I know he’s gone and all, but I saw how he’d mis-treated her, time and time again. She was captive. Shut down. Martha and I stopped socializing with Lois and Tom after the kids were born. Tom was just too, well, military for me. Plus, I didn’t like the way he’d ogle Martha when he thought I wasn’t looking. “I live right next door, Lois, remember?” “Yeah, smartie pants. But if you’d like to stay for coffee, I thought you might be more comfortable out of your wet clothes.” I’d be a lot more comfortable out of any clothes, I thought. I wondered what would happen if I just dropped “trou” right there, in her kitchen. I saw that on a CSI show. But I had too much respect for Lois. Didn’t want to mess up the days it took to progress from her step shoveler to coffee buddy. “I’m okay,” I said. Besides, I’d used extra Aqua Velva before any trip to her house. “I made fresh Christmas cookies yesterday. Sugar cookies, with the different flavored frosting.” And goddamn if she didn’t bring out a tin of them, stuffed full of santas, reindeer, stars, elves, topped in every color of the spectrum. The frosting looked glassy, the way snow looks after an ice storm. “Wow.” I tried not to drool on the table. “I’m impressed.” “Go ahead, have one. Have them all. Cream or sugar with your Sanka?” “Nope, black.” I was tempted to add, ‘like my women,’ the way I did at those AA meetings. But with Lois, I was trying to be well behaved. And, I’d stopped going to AA anyhow. Too depressing after I’d kicked the alcohol. I picked an orange stocking cookie with sugar sprinkles, while Lois fixed her coffee then sat down opposite me. Her hair, those deep red locks, were piled on her head like a beehive. I smiled. “Tom never liked Christmas cookies.” She sipped her Sanka, her fresh lipstick left a mark on her mug. Ugh, Tom. “Do we have to talk about them?” I included Martha, just so it didn’t seem harsh. I bit the cookie, the orange flavor created a zing in my mouth. “No,” Lois chuckled. I hope she felt relieved, not having to re-hash the past we really hadn’t shared anyhow. “I was wondering if you’d be up for something.” She was adorable, the way she sort of hid behind her coffee mug, a Budweiser stein. “Try me, Lois. I’m pretty open.” I hoped to god it wasn’t bingo at that damn Grange Hall. I went once, years ago, for Mixer Madness. Torture. “Unless it’s my CSI night.” “Oh, I can’t watch that show. Way too violent. I can’t even watch CNN.” Yup, Martha re-visited. Which is why we got the second TV after the kids got through college. Didn’t think my last son was gonna make it. But Danny did, by the skin of his teeth, he finished. I swallowed some Sanka and tried not to grimace. It was foul. I’d been introduced to the whole Starbucks crap years ago. My grandkids. Too cheap to spend those kind of bucks, so I get my beans at Costco, that Kirkland brand. They’re tasty as hell. “So, what you wanna ask me, girl?” I had to admit, I was feeling more frisky than usual. Something about being alone with a woman like Lois made me feel like a teenager. She pulled a paper out of her purse, handed it over. It was a flyer. I scanned it, said ballroom dancing lessons, and other information. I glanced at dates. Monday nights. CSI was Thursdays. I could barely walk let alone dance. I shrugged. “Whaddya’ think?” She had the eagerness of a Labrador, practically wiggled. “I think I can’t dance to save my life.” I felt a sneeze coming on. “Who cares? It’ll be fun. You can’t be any worse than-” The unmentionable. How could I resist? I whipped out my handkerchief. “Okay, you’re on.” I turned away. “Achooo.” “Bless you!” She clapped her hands together. “More coffee?”]]>

Breath

Breath

He heard the bells coming, one…then another. They all had the same tone, repeated vibrancy, their ring calling the participants back to the room. As he came to, he was aware of a dull ache in his right knee, an chronic running injury. The lack of self-consciousness lifted now that everyone was present, glancing around, some more wrapped up in their thoughts than others. He smelled pinon pine and another fragrance he couldn’t place. Cedar? The leader of the session, Lakota, sat legs crossed on a raised platform. His eyes were closed. Head tilted, his long black hair cascaded, he appeared to be listening to a reedy woodwind instrument coming from a corner of the room. “Find a pillow, and circle up,” Lakota said in his baritone voice. Chip glanced around, he’d forgotten to bring a pillow. “I brought two,” the frizzy haired woman said. She handed him the tye-dye one that had Grateful Dead written on one side. He chose that side, sat next to her. “I’m Gloria,” she said. “I’m your Mom.” She smiled, her coffee stained teeth didn’t detract from her shining glow. Her frizzy hair seemed to be sparkling, dancing. Chip nodded, still deep in the experience he’d just had. They’d been invited  to lay down on mats, each participant was assigned a trained assistant. “Close your eyes, and follow your breath,” Lakota had instructed. At first Chip thought, so what? I do this naturally, don’t I? But after some time passed, he felt a person close, moving around his body. Not touching him, so he squinted, even though they were asked to keep eyes shut. The woman was doing a form of a dance over him, like a massage without touch. And suddenly, powerful visions of his mother came to him. He closed his eyes, breathing harder, deeper, he felt his heart racing. He felt pulled across a wide open tundra, at first daunting, then magical. It was dream- like, other-wordly and yet familiar. Then he saw her. His mom stood beside a fast, furious river. The sound of the rapids was so loud that Chip couldn’t hear what she was saying. It was as if her mouth was moving, but silent simultaneously. The images jumped: now he was inside a mosque in a temperate location, running through a narrow hallway, from or toward something, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. He was opening doors on both sides but the rooms held only air. He was looking, searching, but for whom? The heat intensified, and the sweat poured down his face. He opened the last door, inside it was a coffin. He walked toward it, and as he did, he started to fly. Up into the wooden rafters of the building and out over the vast waters of the Mediterranean. The next thing he remembered was being cradled like a baby, in a fetal position, but by whom? It was his mother, who started cooing to him as if he were an infant. Rocking him. She sang softly, a favorite nursery rhyme from his youth.  He smelled lavender, her skin immediately after her daily baths. It gave him chills, a blanket was placed around their cocoon. He wanted to stay there forever, inside this image, hearing her song. For him. It felt like hours passed. Then he heard the bells.]]>

The List

The List

Beth greeted each day with a list of what she didn’t have. There were numerous days, she thought, while sipping her coffee, I’ll create a new list. Her co-worker, Darlene, kept an ongoing list of household chores for her spouse. One time Beth tried to create a list of famous quotes she didn’t want to forget. It was too complicated. Eventually, it seemed Beth careened back to her overall theme: the list of what she didn’t have. Today her list included: 1)   fucking child support 2)   money, money, money 3)   sex that makes me feel like a woman (not a prostitute) 4)   tell boss no: for e.g. Drew, no, I won’t get you another cup of coffee It had been five years since her ex disappeared. Just like that. Poof. Well, not exactly, but it felt like that. She’d tried to track him down. It was futile. He’d moved constantly, she had to keep a rolodex just for him. What was he running from? And what about poor Deedee, who seemed to miss her dad more every day. The phone rang. She knew by the ring it was her sister, Lillian. She sighed. “Hi, Lil, you caught me in the middle…” “Huh? Oh, you’re still making those lists?” “Why do you care? Just be glad you’re not on em.” She made a mental note to find something about Lillian to add. “I think that’s crazy, Beth. Maybe you have that disorder- what is it? ADA? Or DDT?” Yeah, I have a disorder. Beth laughed. Been told that so many times it fell on deaf ears. “Thanks, I pay my therapist big bucks for that sort of stuff. Anyhow, what’s up?” Lillian paused. “Um, did I tell you about this new stuff? It’s called Shimmer Glitter.” “Shimmer Glitter?” Beth snorted.  “Sounds like something Deirdre and her girlfriends would wear.” Beth glanced at today’s list. “Where’d you buy it?” Added #5: Shimmer Glitter]]>

Allergies

Allergies

She cannot manipulate time. Tracey was running late again. She brushed her thick bangs off her forehead. He won’t like this, she thought. He is always early, even sets his watch a day ahead. “C’mon, jeez.” She hit her steering wheel. It seemed as though she was stopped by every single red light. And they were lasting longer than usual before they turned green. Finally she pulled into the parking lot, swerving to avoid the potholes. She bit her lower lip. The skin, flaky and peeling from the vacation she’d recently spent in Sedona felt tender, bumpy. And she felt weird, showing up, after so much time had passed. She got out of the car, closing her scarf in the door. “Goddamnit,” she said, fixing the situation. Before she closed the door again, she felt for car keys in her coat pocket. “I’m not going to have that kind of bullshit happen,” she muttered. She knocked on the warehouse door. The speaker lit up. “Who is it?” The voice sounded suspicious. “It’s Tracey, Cecil. Sorry, I’m late.” There was a loud buzzer and she pushed open the door. The warehouse was dark, overhead lights off. The door slammed shut behind her, there was a heaviness in the air. It smelled like car grease. And popcorn. And she’d forgotten which direction to go. “Cecil?” Her voice echoed. Her eyes adjusted to the darkened room. She held back a sneeze. There was so much dust, her main allergy. “Over here!” She looked in the direction of his voice, somewhere behind the floor display. She walked slowly toward it. The first thing she saw was Cecil’s curly black hair, it looked absurd to her, pulled into a ponytail like Fabio, and she stifled a laugh. “Hey man, long time, no see,” Cecil said. He held out his hand and they shook. She noticed he wasn’t smiling. “I moved away for a few years.” “Oh yeah?” He turned and walked away. “I heard that.” She scrambled to keep up. His office was near the back of the building, down a long corridor. They walked past all the sales department’s offices. When they got into his office, he closed the door. Shoved the contents of stuff from his guest chair onto the floor: graphs, color templates, binders all plopped into a heap. “Have a seat,” he motioned. He sat behind his desk, also disheveled. He leaned back in his swivel chair, clasping his hands behind his head. “Thanks,” Tracey said. She tried not to stare at the visible pit stains. “You’re a little late,” he said. “I know,” she winced. “Sorry.” Had she already apologized? She thought so. “I can’t have you coming so close to opening time, Tracey. Just too much risk.” “Risk?” “Yes, ever since they found that guy in the quarry last fall. Cops have been crawling all over this neighborhood. Asking questions.” Tracey pretended she had no clue. “What guy?” Though her mother had sent her weekly articles cut from the Courier that mentioned anyone from Tracey’s class. “Some vagrant. Probably got wasted fell into the water. Drowned, poor sucker. But you know how cops are.” He smiled a sinister grin. Opened some drawers of his desk. “So, how much do you want?” “How much have you got?” “Just depends on the price. What you can afford? It’s all top quality shit.” Tracey stalled. Was this necessary? She’d tried to quit, didn’t even notice when she lived in New York City. But now that she was back, it’s what everybody talked about. “Tracey? You have to decide. My first appointment is at 8.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, wow. And how much for a dozen?” “They’re 3.50 a box. 42.00 a dozen.” “No discount for larger orders?” He shook his head no. Looked at the clock on the wall. She paused. “Okay, then I’ll take a dozen of the Thin Mints.” “That’s it?” “Hang on. A dozen Do-Si-Do’s, a dozen Samoas and a dozen Tagalongs.” “Great, and I ought to tell you, they have this new one, “Thank you Berry Much.” Tracey laughed, counting her twenty dollar bills. “What ingredients?” “Creamy white fudge chips, cranberries.” Cecil placed her order into a paper bag. “That’ll be 168.” Tracey handed him the bills. “Oh, I can’t get those.” “Why not? They’re incredible.” He handed her change and her cookies. “I’m allergic to cranberries.”]]>

The Binge

The Binge

My great aunt died three weeks ago. Beginning of a downward spiral that has hopefully ended. Maybe a binge, or a relapse. Not sure, exactly, but when Mom called to tell me her Aunt Mabel passed, I turned to Jack. Daniels. My nemesis and catharsis both. I just couldn’t face losing another relative. I’d spent this entire year taking care of Jenny, my youngest sister. When the melanoma took over, I quit my job, moved in to be round-the-clock watchman. And it worked; I focused on beating the illness, she focused on the drugs. But eventually she gave in to the elephantine pain, and her struggle evolved into gentle surrender. It was the day Jenny died, I bought my first bottle of whiskey in over fifteen years. I couldn’t reconcile why Jenny went and not me. My drinking began in my youth, around ten years old. My parents were boozers, especially Dad. I would hang out with the Matteson boys. We started by stealing cigarettes from the local Wegman’s. When that lost its zeal, we moved to alcohol. Dad had an entire room of boxes filled with hard cider in the basement. We drank through a case or two of those in no time. I’d puke easily, so in my mind I thought I’d never become a drunk. Not like him. Guess again. I stuck to beer after I got married. Not to say I didn’t overdo that on occasion. That was the case until my wife left. She wanted to open our marriage to other partners. I was too scared. Or too conventional.  She wanted more, more, more. I wanted a simple life. Then she had an affair. I had an epiphany: booze helped remove the fears. Helped mask the pain. Helped me to escape when she left, when she moved in with him. Escape what? Good question. Only answer I can fathom is death. So, would I rather avoid death by hanging onto sobriety by a hangnail? Or would I rather tempt it. Possibly. Who knows?]]>

What's for Lunch?

What’s for Lunch?

“Did you see that serve? That was unbelievable, it kicked out so wide,” Graham said. He switched the phone to the other ear. “That’s the only way Roddick’s ever gonna win,” Felix said. “Serving like that.” “Could be,” Graham said, popping more Chex Mix into his mouth. “But I think he’s moving a lot better than last year, don’t you?” “Looks like it. He took time off at the end of 2009 for his knee. We’ll see what happens if this turns into a five- set match. Hang on buddy, be right back.” Felix set the phone down, while Graham walked to the window, waved to his wife Brenda, weeding their garden. He debated whether or not to change out of his bathrobe, decided not to. He grabbed the bag of Chex Mix, a Dos Equis from the fridge, returned to his study. “Sorry about that, “ Felix said. “Fed Ex delivery.” “Your wife isn’t home?” Graham asked. He put his feet up on his desk. “Nope, yours?” “Yeah, she’s out in the garden.” “Nice. Oh, did you see that? Roddick painted the line, there’s no way that was out.” “The umpire just overruled it?” Graham said. “What an ass!” “Speaking of asses, did you see those shorts Nadal had on yesterday?” “The light ones with the checks?” Graham smiled. “Those were sick.” Felix chuckled. “I think Murray is looking mighty fine lately.” “But that face.” “Whatever, buddy, you think Nadal is hot. And he’s not exactly model material either.” “I wouldn’t say hot, I just think his ass is the nicest on tour.” “You and your ass obsession…” Felix paused. “Yeah? What about it?” Graham pushed. “Damn, my wife just got home from church,” Felix said. “You gonna be at the Tennis Club any time today?” “What time?” Graham took a swig of the Dos Equis. “If we get there around 2, then we can catch the Federer match.” “Sounds good, see you in a couple of hours.” Graham hung up the phone. He stood up and stretched. Walked to the screened porch. “Hey honey,” he called to Brenda, “what’s for lunch?”]]>

One Busy Intersection

One Busy Intersection

The man in the orange hat wanders 6th Street. He heads south on this summer solstice morning, searching inward, deeper with each step, coursing the inner planes, asking himself, “Where is the beginning of this familiar pattern which arrives untimely in its core?”

Passing the Ten Thousand Villages store he stumbles, stops. His image in the storefront window beams a reflection he does not recognize. “Who am I?” he whispers to the image. But the window whispers in a language he doesn’t comprehend, answers to any question he seeks. He stands there transfixed; the penetrating sun dissolves the image, seared into memory. The woman exits the bank, heading toward Avenue A. She looks left. Doesn’t see the Chevy Impala careening around the curve. Stuffs the envelope filled with fifty’s into her cleavage. Car swerves to avoid a cyclist, jumps the curb. She reels back onto archless feet. They buckle underneath her stupendous wrath.]]>

Dance with a Stranger

Dance with a Stranger

The two ladies sat side by side, sipping their bloody mary’s. “Are you sure it was the same guy?” Nedra asked, chewing an ice cube. “Not 100% positive, but I think so.” Beverly del Toro was a casting director. She’d set up Nedra with one of the most popular actors from Beverly’s cadre of B list talent. “Wow, this drink is spicy. Too much horseradish. Making my nose run.” Nedra wiped it with her napkin. “Well, if it was him, that guy you set me up with, then I’m screwed.” The warm breezes blew, causing the overhead palms to flap. “Why?” Beverly swatted a fly away from her plate of leftover food. “Did you say something during dinner?” “Because…” Nedra looked around The Ivy, then leaned in closer to Beverly. “We had sex. You know, we did it, like, one night stand sort-of sex.” Nedra leaned back, the faint trace of a smile on her lips. “Old school.” Beverly nodded, took a long sip from her cocktail straw. She removed the celery, bit a sizable chunk, ensuring none of her Aveda lipstick came off. “You’d better get checked.” “You’re absolutely sure it was him?” Nedra repeated. “Girl, I told you. I am almost sure, about 99%, that he’s the same dude. And I’m no saint, but what were you thinking, screwing just anybody like that on the first date?” Beverly used her talon-like nail to remove a piece of celery from her molars. “You said you wanted someone to take you out for a nice dinner?” “I thought so too, but he was gorgeous.” Nedra blushed.  “One thing just led to another.  Girl, it’s been about a year since… ya know. I swear, I was drying up and all.” They laughed. Their waiter removed their plates. “You can say it’s none of my business, Nedra, but did you use protection?” Nedra paused, shook her head no.]]>

Weekends with Family

Weekends with Family

They arrived in the midst of a huge fight I was having with Debbie. Her parents are easy enough to deal with. Okay, easy enough. Her mother, Faith, is as her name indicates, a holyroller. Her usual repartee includes snippets of religious jargon, like “Holy smoke!” Or “Hells bells” And “heavens,” if I slip a curse word in there! Surely, she’d scold me. Debbie’s dad is benign- much like her, he’s a brainiac to the Nth degree. I don’t even recall what he did for a living. One of those jobs you’d have to kill me if I knew. Now that Dan’s retired, the lounge at the Auburn Golf Club seems to be his best friend. Our fight today has little to do with their impending visit. It began (do they all?) with my insensitive tendency to overlook some manner in which Debbie preferred I manage my time. Trash removal, lawn mowing, some mundane task that could, in my estimation, wait another day. I mean, would her mother talk less about her passion of Christ if our grass was a quarter inch versus a half inch? But, as fights often do, this one rapidly progressed into that realm known as “Family man versus Madonna.” The mere fact that the longer I’d been living with Debbie (oh yes, don’t get her mother started on that one!) and not marrying; the more reasonable it is, to me, to reconsider this whole family affair business. Not to mention the over-population factor, the increasing cost of living, job pressures soaring. Now I’m sweating. It pisses her off even more that I can’t feel empathy about her so-called “body clock,” her motherly instincts (which, I have to say, I’ve seen diminish in the time that we’ve lived together). Or her need to re-produce, biologically or otherwise. And then, in the midst of the newly drizzling rain, and pea soup fog, and Debbie’s stony silence, the lights of Faith and Dan’s Audi loom up the driveway. Oh boy, what fun, I think. Just how I wanted to spend my Saturday.]]>

Isn't it Just like a Woman?

Isn’t it just like a woman?

They drank fruity blender drinks, the jets whirred, bubbling furiously. “Isn’t it cool how we can drink while we’re in the jacuzzi?” she asked. He nodded. “These go down like water,” he said, thinking, I wish she would. “Plus, the sky’s the limit. We don’t have to drive.” She was so eager, like their neighbors’ Labrador back in Cooperstown. He looked at his hand holding the yellowish-orange beverage. “We’ve been in here so long my skin is wrinkling.” He stuck his nose into his drink to rid himself of the noxious fumes from the jacuzzi. “Your skin is wrinkled whether we’re in the jacuzzi or not.” “Ha ha, you should talk. Your nose looks like the Pink Panther.” They laughed. Kissed. Laughed some more. The intensity of the Miami sun swallowed them.  He collapsed against the side of the tub, watching surfers ride waves, joggers on the beach. I’m gonna get plowed, he thought. The water felt so restorative, he felt like Gumbi. Ah, this is the life. She said, “When’s the last time you saw Luanne?” He turned, threw her a look. “You really wanna get into this now?” He stepped out of the tub, sat on the side. Couldn’t look at her. “I’m just asking,” she shrugged, throwing back the rest of her mango margarita.]]>