She looks at the photograph.
Three-by-two, black and white snapshot
Of a young boy she never knew.
Next to it, on her vanity,
A school portrait of a teenage girl
Spotty with age, also unknown.
But one day, long ago, the boy
And girl met in a high school hallway,
Dust motes rising in the sunlight
Of a spring afternoon.
Together, years later, they created her.
And then two others.
Now they are dust, leaving only images
Of themselves, from the time before
Us.
she writes in the odd
corners of the day, paper
pen, a bit of quiet
cloud condensation
at terminal velocity
endless rainy days
spring hopes eternal
thaw, bud, push, grow, surge, race to
the burn of summer
They like viewing art together. They go to the museum or a new gallery and view the art. They talk about it, there, at the museum or gallery and later, in a coffee shop or restaurant or while walking down the street or even late at night, at home. They discuss and dissect the art they’ve viewed together, what they liked or didn’t like, how it made them feel. Looking at art is one of the things they enjoy doing together, in public.
There are other things they enjoy doing together, but those things cannot be done in public.
Image by Steven Tannenbaum
“I am the former President of the United States of America.”
Tattoo Boy laughs.
“They said let it go.” I look at the boy and the tattoos crawling up his neck and onto his face. “The weight of the world. That’s what they meant. It’ll wear you out.”
“And drive you crazy. Yeah, old man?” Tattoo boy flashes filed teeth.
“I am not crazy.”
“Then tell me again who you are?”
I punctuate my speech with pregnant pauses, orator style. “I am the former President of the United States of America.”
Tattoo boy laughs with his whole body, bare gut jiggling beneath vest and ink. He waves others of his ilk over and gestures toward me. “Hey dudes, meet the President of this great nation.”
A cadre of misfits and addicts, skinny, scarred, toothless, and pierced, surround me.
“Hey Prez! Where’re my food stamps?”
Where’s my tax cut?”
“Where’s my $100,000 a year job?”
I cover my ears and slip away. So many dark alleys to hide in. So many doorways to lie in, drinking myself down the river Lethe.
With just a stroke of my pen, did I pull the trigger that killed so many young men and women?
I notice my hand. It’s dirty, the nails jagged, the cuticles torn. Didn’t I get a manicure twice a week? My clothes emit a sour smell. The sleeves of my jacket fray at the ends. I touch my face. The hairs bristle many days beyond a five o’clock shadow.
My shoulder slides down the glass door of a deserted store front, knees hunch to my chest. I’m not the President.
The doctor at the free clinic said delusions are common for those with my condition. He gave me a packet of samples and a prescription. I tried the pills, used every sample. But I never filled the prescription. The hands shaking, the head aching, I can take. But when my tongue felt like a roll of toilet paper and I bobbled like a caricatured doll on a Chevy dashboard, I’d had enough.
And maybe I wanted to think I’d been President.
I stand, yanking my pack higher on my back. My stomach growls signaling time for the Mission line.
Cops stop the dealers at the bus shelter ahead. I go around the block to avoid them, not remembering why they shouldn’t see me, but knowing everything changes if they do.
The big Indian, I mean Native American, Rafe, motions me forward. No one objects when I cut in line. He’s the boss down here.
“How you doing, sir?” Rafe grins. He nudges the shoulder of the younger man next to him. “Nev, meet my new friend.”
I’ve heard about Nev. There’s a street legend about him and a gang of feral cats. I don’t know the particulars, some legends are best shrouded in mist.
Nev turns “Holy shit!” He knows me. It’s in his eyes. “Mr. Pres?”
It comes in a flood, like a CNN news flash. Bodies with faces blown away and severed limbs. Hospital beds and wheel chairs inhabited by those who should be too young to need them. Coffins draped in flags. Bullets shot into the air as a final ironic salute.
My shivers become an earthquake pulling me apart from within. I struggle to stay conscious, although a part of me wants to slip away.
Nev touches my cheek. I raise my eyes to meet his. He has known shame and despair, as I have. “You have done good things. Remember those. Not just the bad.”
A bit of warmth nudges at the chill.
But it’s not enough. I veer away, fumbling for the flask in my breast pocket.
Image by Bennett Knight via Unsplash
When I finally get up the nerve to ask him why he laughs, he smiles. It’s the smile I’ve seen on his face before. He doesn’t answer for a moment and I think I’ll have to ask again. But he says, “I know things no one else knows.”
I’m at a loss how to respond so I smile back. Not his kind of smile, the one so full of joy it doesn’t look human, but a lame near grimace. As I turn away, I half hope he’ll grab my arm to make me stay. Instead his whisper echoes across the plaza, “I’ll tell you more, when you’re ready.”
So what am I supposed to do with that?
I don’t see him for several days and figure he’s found shelter somewhere to get out of the rain and wind. Not like the birds, they don’t seem to care yet about the weather as long as they can find the crumbs that linger after the mobile breakfasts and lunches.
I try, again, to describe it to my guy.
“He’s this funny little dude. Not much taller than you.” He’s five foot seven in cowboy boots. “He’s really skinny, just a bit of muscle on bone. His hair and beard are both white and long, but not messy. And he always wears black leather. I think it’s the same pants and jacket but sometimes with different decals or chains-”
He interrupts. “You know way too much about this guy.”
“No, he’s the one who knows-”
“You are creeping me out.”
“But if you heard the laugh or saw that smile-”
“I don’t want to meet him. He’s some homeless bum you’re developing some weird fascination over.”
“I’m not obsessed. I talked to him for the first time yesterday.”
“You finally talked to him? Did you ask him out for an Appletini?”
“Oh, you’re real funny.” I’m sulking now. I know how much he hates that. “Let’s drop it.”
“Fine by me.”
“Fine.”
He pauses a moment before mouthing, “Fine.”
I shut up and let him have the last word.
******
I drink my coffee as I lean against the wall, soaking up the sunlight reflected in shades of pink from the bank tower. The birds edge up to within inches of my feet, feasting on their favored fare of muffin scraps. My thick brew is getting cold. I always order the venti with two extra shots. And it always gets cold before I finish it, cold and muddy. I drink it anyway, maybe I think that much adult caffeine should taste nasty. In high school and college, I’d get my morning dose by chugging a big gulp of Mountain Dew. Two on test days.
I tried that the first month or so, on the job, but then I burped through all my morning meetings. A burp is okay for a student but it’s not so cool in the great halls of business.
“Hey.” The balding guy from the cube next to mine dumps his paper cup in the garbage and points, indicating he’s going back inside.
I shake by head. “Later.” The sun is sneaking through the clouds more often than not. Maybe the laughing man will be back.
After about ten more minutes, I have to go back in.
I sit at my ergonomic chair later, after the big weekly meeting, as opposed to the little daily meetings. I go into the draw functions in Word. They say we don’t need any fancy programs, just the basics, enough to get the job done. A few minutes later I take more than a glance at the screen. It’s primitive, not much more than a cave drawing, but it’s the laughing man, complete with leather, long hair, beard, decals, and one silver chain dangling from a belt loop.
SC1 INTERIOR. DAY. APARTMENT
Thirtysomething couple, the Andres, are fighting. Man, Van, is short, pudgy and balding. Woman, Adrianne, is tall, slim and fit.
Apartment is modern and upscale. The only things out of place are the cowboy boots on the floor next to a coffee table holding a cowboy hat and a Slim Pickens album.
VAN
We’ve been over this a zillion times. It never changes.
ADRIANNE
And since when are you so damn perfect.
Voices escalate.
VAN
I’m not perfect, but marriage is a compromise and when one person really hates–
ADRIANNE
And how much do I hate about you? Let’s start with pot belly and balding head?
VAN
Every argument it goes back to that. It’s my genetics.
Both are pacing, clenching fists. Adrianne picks up a piece of heavy cut glass.
ADRIANNE
Your mom and dad are both smart, so where do you get your stupidity?
VAN
If I’m stupid then you’re a slug.
ADRIANNE
God, you can’t even argue right!
VAN
And you have no taste.
ADRIANNE
Taste! You dare talk about taste!
VAN
You drive me crazy!
ADRIANNE
You drive me crazy!
SC2 INTERIOR. DAY. APARTMENT
Apartment is quiet, seems empty. A hand sticks out from behind the coffee table. There is blood on it from several cuts. The cowboy boots are lying down, sprinkled with blood.
SC3 INTERIOR. DAY. SURGERY/ ME EXAM ROOM
Small sparse surgery. Little equipment beyond a steel table, a light and a second table holding a tray. Tall, thin, dour man, Dr. Crane, bends over body on a steel table. The body is draped from head to torso and from feet to hips. The torso area is covered with blood. Dr. Crane mumbles to himself as he touches the blood.
CRANE
I wonder if there was a lot at the crime scene?
He pulls up the lower sheet to reveal cowboy boots and smiles.
CRANE
Nice boots. Think the blood will come out?
SC4 INTERIOR. DAY. SURGERY
Detective Abe Kates bursts into surgery. He is short, muscular and intense and carries a large black evidence bag.
KATES
Dr. Crane? Detective Kates.
Crane extends a gloved, bloody hand. Kates ignores it.
KATES
Got my COD?
CRANE
I’m working on it. I’ll have the report tomorrow or the next day. After I open the chest and see the pictures from the scene.
KATES
I got family breathing down my neck.
CRANE
The body was just delivered today.
KATES
And how long does it take?
CRANE
Long enough to do it right.
Kates sucks in a ragged breath.
KATES
Anything I can do to help?
CRANE
Are you a doctor?
Kates backs from the table and paces and Crane pulls off the boots and socks. He pokes around at the feet.
KATES
What’d the feet tell you?
Crane hands Kates the boots. Kates quickly puts on gloves, before taking and bagging them.
CRANE
I’d like them back when you’re done with them?
KATES
What? The boots? They’ll go to the family.
CRANE
Too bad.
Kates does an exaggerated eye roll. It’s lost on Crane, who is digging around in the cuts on the torso. Crane’s face lifts as he pulls out a bloody black chip. He rubs off the blood with a cloth as Kates, more excited than usual, opens the original evidence bag.
Crane brandishes a thin uneven triangle as Kates pulls out a bloody vinyl LP album with a chip missing.
Crane slips his chip into divot. It fits.
Have you ever watched a TV drama where a coma patient opens his eyes and becomes instantly awake, alert, and “normal?” The daytime soaps do it best. All the family is gathered about the bedside, five years after the accident, and voila, the actor who couldn’t make in prime time has his old job back.
Not that there isn’t drama in the slow, painstaking, stage-by- stage return to consciousness. But it doesn’t play well on an hour drama, continuing soap, or a half hour. So, after my son’s tangle with an automobile sixteen years ago, I can finally find the humor. Sure, I could laugh at the time, but it was more an alternative to bawling my eyes out or just plain shattering into a thousand pieces.
Later it was a nervous, testing fate laugh. Now that I trust he’ll pull through, I can laugh, grateful laughter coming from the gut. I can laugh at parts of what happened on that date from which all things will forever be reckoned.
Back to the opening of the eyes. Having seen those shows I berated earlier, my husband and I hovered around our son’s intensive care bed, (as much as one can hover with all the blinking, blipping machinery around) awaiting the unveiling of those windows to the soul. Even the real nurses told us an early opening was important to recovery. So, we waited, we hovered, we feared, and we hoped.
Doctors, nurses, orderlies, custodians, and all manner of hospital denizens came and went. Friends and co-workers brought food and pity. We ate the food and avoided the pity. We had enough of our own, thank you very much. We would have sold our eyeteeth, our family jewels, our futures, and our eternal salvation to move this kid along the stages of coma to consciousness. The price, luckily, ended up being far less.
We explained coma to a practical, down-to- earth friend, a woman with children grown. She asked, “What does he like most?”
“Basic principle of reward. Offer what he wants to get what you want.” She was practical.
“Oh.” We said in unison, a speck of light glimmering in our cortisolled brains.
My mouth worked first. “He likes Nintendo, soccer, hot dogs, candy…”
We looked at each other. “Money!”
Yes, our little ten year old was a mercenary creature. Always looking for a dime.
“Money.” Our friend smiled. “So, what’s a lot of money for a kid these days?
Mine were happy with a penny, but that was long ago. A dollar too little? Twenty too
“Five.” That was my husband this time. I nodded in accord.
My husband pulled the sacrificial tender from his wallet as we reverently circled the hospital bed. My agnostic heart couldn’t quite pray over it. But I could see in his eyes, my husband’s Christian heart did.
He waved the holy wafer over my son. “Here’s five bucks. It’s yours. Just open your eyes.”
“I’m adding five.” The friend brandished hers as a crusader’s sword.
And the room slumbered, save for the flame-like crinkle of the bill and the thrumming chant of the machines.
Again we waited, hovered, etc. Those two five dollar bills had to be right. They had to be enough.
When our friend withdrew we smiled our see you laters. She slipped her five into my pocket. We didn’t say anything more. My husband stayed as long as he could, but another son had a life one of us must tend to.
“Have you asked him yet to open his eyes?” My husband stood next to me.
Sunlight peered through the blinds. I had no idea when either had entered the room.
“No.” I didn’t tell him I lacked the courage. I slid the money from my pocket and
“Open your eyes. You need to open your eyes. You want the money, don’t you?”
Morning goop outlined the lids, but they flickered. My autonomic nervous system forgot about breath and heartbeat.
The lids cracked. The goop parted.
That’s what it took. He had the best care, the best doctors, the best machines, the best medicines. But two five dollar bills opened his eyes. The long process of recovery began.
Unlike those TV dramas it wasn’t an angel, a puppy, a threat, or family pressure. It wasn’t even true love. It was money. Two fives.
Image by Becky Kjelstrom
How can I refuse?
He doesn’t ask for much.
It isn’t like he’s wanting a million bucks. I don’t have that anyway. Never had, never will. And Barry’s my real friend- I don’t have many of those. Fair weather ones, yeah, I got plenty. Foul? I can count on one hand. And the weather around here is mostly foul. That’s a Pacific Northwest joke, get it?
I can’t say no, after all he does have a hot date for Thanksgiving dinner.
There they are at the front of the line. He’s playing gentleman, giving her his coat to protect her from the rain. And she’s drowning in it, just a little slip of a thing. Former tweaker Barry says. That meth will whittle you down to skin and bones. Skin stretched tight as an overdone turkey. I’ll bet she’s not been clean long or she’d have put on a few pounds. Mission food will do that if you’re not burning it off with crank.
I’m back more than halfway, holding up the dirty concrete wall. I’ll still get in before the food runs out. They sometimes even have enough for seconds if you want to wait around until everyone’s fed. Last year a waiter from a high class restaurant volunteered and wrapped the left-overs up in foil birds.
At least here I don’t have to pay for my grub by having some self-righteous snob try to stuff Jesus, Mary and Joseph down my throat with the cranberries. Like I wouldn’t just barf them up. Man like me has no room for the nicey-nice of religion in my life, even though Mom always hoped I’d be a preacher.
‘Rafael,’ she’d say, ‘you’ve got the spirit of God in you.’ God, no. Spirit, yes. I always did like spirit as long as it came out of a bottle of Jim Beam.
Even from here old Barry looks good. He’s smiling away like the cat that ate the canary. Or maybe the cat in that old cartoon where the girl goes down the rabbit hole. A little Disney on acid. That cat’s smile still haunts some of my dreams, part of my flashbacks the Vet counselor says. But on old Barry it looks good.
Me? I’ll have to pass on the turkey, stick to the potatoes, gravy, and the jellied cranberry sauce. Maybe some dressing if it’s nice and soggy.
Here it is two weeks later and I’m still gumming mostly potatoes, gravy, and Wonder bread. Barry and his little ex-tweaker split town. Maybe she wasn’t so ex. Or maybe that old warrant Barry used to brag had magically disappeared, finally reappeared, just like that Cheshire Cat and his grin. And the cops caught him by the tail.
Now I’m left wondering how I’m going to sweet talk the Vet dentist into springing for a new set of teeth.
Image by Becky Kjelstrom
n the night, Old Man heard Boy get up and leave his bedroom. “He’ll be going to the toilet,” Old Man thought. But Boy walked past the bathroom. Old Man heard the top stair moan, the fourth step creak. He struggled out of bed. Old Man grabbed his robe, searched with one foot for his slippers. The back door slammed. He gave up.
Old Man got downstairs and outside in time to see Boy’s white-blond head disappear into the summer night. “Not again!”
Old Man stepped onto the dew slicked lawn and headed down the yard. Through the hedge and alongside the vegetable garden, he made out Boy’s shadow in the small orchard. “I’m too old for this nonsense.” Something rustled in the bush and Old Man walked faster.
Boy moved slowly, his head swaying from side to side. He entered the little wood that divided the two properties.
“Damnit.” With his longer legs, Old Man was catching up, but not quickly enough.
Old Man emerged from the wood, the smell of wet ash and burnt wood hit him in the face. Boy stood at the back door or the darkened hulk, his hand on the door knob.
“No.” Old Man whispered. Boy turned slowly.Old Man could see Boy’s eyes, open wide but sleeping, sightless.
He went to him, laid his hand on Boy’s thin shoulder and guided him gently away.
A bird trilled. Old Man looked up to the silvering sky. “Almost dawn.”
They walked. Through the wood and orchard, up the garden, into the lightening dawn, back to the big white house.
Old Man sat Boy down on the edge of the bed, wiped his feet with a corner of his robe and eased Boy back onto his pillow. His eyes were closed now but tears gleamed on his cheeks. “Grandpa?” Boy murmured.
“You sleep son.”
In the morning, smells of coffee and toast awakened Boy. He stretched and sat up, unfurling his cramped fingers. A circle of soot marked his palm, the faint odor of burnt metal obliterated the aroma of breakfast.
“Not again!” Crying, Boy went to wash his hands.
Image by Amanda Ball
“In or out?” I asked the cat. He went out. Then in. Then out again. This was his habit. But he always came home for dinner.
“In or out?” I asked the dog. She went halfway out, straddled the threshold, sniffed the air. This was her habit. I waited. She came in when it was time for dinner .
“In or out?” the doctor asked our mother. “You have a decision to make.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to continue going into the hospital for your heart failure?”
“Or?”
“You could choose to stay out, to stay at home.”
“And die?”
“We can provide comfort care.”
“I’m in the habit of living.”
“No one goes on forever. You’re pretty sick.”
We waited.
“I’m hungry, I want my dinner.”
Image by Harrison Fulop
