tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-283950892024-03-12T17:39:43.614-06:00J. Adams OaksUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-78608618809251840392008-04-24T17:15:00.005-06:002008-12-10T14:32:31.122-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VoCFIgKrh0k/SBEVEccNi_I/AAAAAAAAABE/CWM_ALN-k9g/s1600-h/WhyIFight%282%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VoCFIgKrh0k/SBEVEccNi_I/AAAAAAAAABE/CWM_ALN-k9g/s400/WhyIFight%282%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192955011433073650" border="0" /></a><br />The initial mock-up for the cover of my book.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-59223768037413353562008-04-06T18:32:00.003-06:002008-04-06T19:07:32.446-06:00[Last night at Around The Coyote Gallery we had a fantastic crowd. They enjoyed the free beer, I must say! <a href="http://www.byronflitsch.com/">Byron Flitsch</a> made me laugh my behind off. <a href="http://www.readingundertheinfluence.com/julia.htm">Julia Borcherts</a> charmed everyone. <a href="http://www.margotbordelon.com/">Margot Bordelon</a> outdid herself. Overall, I'd say <a href="http://www.myspace.com/reactionreadingseries">RE:Action Reading Series</a> was a huge success. Here's the piece I read. Hope you enjoy it.]<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mailings</span><br /></div><br />I just moved to Madrid and I’m sitting in front of Cafeteria Europa at an outdoor table on Calle del Carmen where the street is too narrow for cars, so the cobblestone is filled with pedestrians and mopeding couples as I drink café con leche and enjoy an added luxury: my water has ICE in it!<br /><br />Actually, I’m sitting there trying to enjoy myself, but I’m pissed off. I’m not so much culture shocked, as I am confused.<br /><br />See I thought after years of Spanish classes, after memorizing and reciting and practicing freakin’ dialogues, I thought I spoke Spanish. I thought I had earned the ability to speak better than, say, a kindergartener. But it seems that there are 5 year-old Spaniards who have a bigger vocabulary than me. There are some I can barely understand. Seriously. I mean, the language makes sense to me, but you can’t really learn culture in a classroom. So now I have to learn a new humor and slang and curse words and to use them appropriately, and it’s like learning Spanish all over again.<br /><br />So what do I do? I look at <span style="font-style: italic;">El Pais</span>, the Spanish newspaper I brought with me. Am I reading it? Not so much. I’m kind studying it… I’ve got my trusty Spanish/English dictionary next to me, but after awhile all the politics and the economics and the royal family exhaust me, and I need a break.<br /><br />Okay, the truth of the matter is: I hate the newspaper. I hate how it gets my hands dirty. I hate how hard it is to manage with the folding and unfolding and dropping sections. And I hate how you can never really finish it, no matter how hard you try.<br /><br />So I put the paper down and open a package I just got in the mail from my dad. Yes, I save my mail and bring it to the café so I can savor it like candy. It’s so rare to get REAL mail these days and it means so much to have someone actually sit down and spend the time typing a letter or—god forbid-- writing it by hand, then getting an envelope, an address, a stamp and taking it to the mailbox, or in my case mailing it to me internationally, they have to go all the way to the post office and stand in line just for me. It’s a process, an errand, an effort, a sacrifice, you know?<br /><br />Anyway, I finally open this manila envelope from Dad. In it, there are newspaper clippings and comic strips from the <span style="font-style: italic;">Wisconsin State Journal</span>, a <span style="font-style: italic;">Time</span> magazine.<br /><br />I laugh.<br /><br />See, the funny thing about my father’s clipping-and-sending is that he’s becoming his mother. My Grandma Oaks used to do the same thing. She’d mail my brother and I random articles and comics. Addressed to us individually. And never more than one or two items, like a “Dear Abby” and an OpEd, or a political cartoon and a book review. Always with a scribbled note on top, like: “Isn’t the world a marvelous place?” or “Did you know the universe is expanding?” or “What do you think about that?”<br /><br />I always figured that’s just what old people do, but it’s not, I don’t think. In fact, I’m afraid it might be genetic. I could just picture Grandma on her white-washed sunporch with a cup of tea in one hand and a pair of sewing shears in the other, making little piles to send to everyone she knew. But that wasn’t it. She just did it for my brother and me. Back then, I did really understood why. Was she trying to lecture me long-distance from New Jersey? What was she trying to tell me? By the time I started high school, they kind of irritated me and by college I didn’t really give them a second glance. I couldn’t be bothered with her sending me her old newspaper so she didn’t have to recycle it. The thing is: those clippings and cartoons were her communication with us, her connecting and the way she told us she loved us.<br /><br />So I sit in the café and carefully read what my dad has sent me. A couple of the cartoons, I don’t really get. I never really do. Especially the political ones. American politics confuse me now that they’re across an entire ocean. I do love the one he sent me last week. I hung it on my fridge. It’s got a angry woman— No, you know what, you gotta see it to get it. But you’d laugh, I guarantee it.<br /><br />So then I pick up the <span style="font-style: italic;">Time</span> magazine. Dad’s stuck a post-it on the front. It says: “Interesting article about Andrew Jackson on page 37!” Weird, I think, but no weirder than some of the articles he’s sent me with scribbled notes on the top just like Grandma used to. So I flip to page 37 and laugh, because he’s taped 20 dollar bill to page.<br /><br />“Okay, Dad, Grandma, I’ve got it. Alright?”<br /><br />I take a deep breath, I pick up <span style="font-style: italic;">El Pais</span> again, and I sift through to find the comics section. I’ve got my dictionary ready. And I study each image box by box by box.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-12959641969492695952008-04-02T08:43:00.002-06:002008-04-02T08:53:35.174-06:00Wanna see me read? Live? Wanna see some great art? Mingle? Drink free beer?<div><br /></div><br /><a href="http://www.aroundthecoyote.org/">RE:Action Reading Series</a><br />Around the Coyote Gallery<br />1935 1/2 W. North Ave. in Wicker Park<br />Saturday April 5 at 7:30pm<br /><br />It runs about a half hour and there's free admission! I hope you can stop by.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-79190940707675762722008-03-31T18:12:00.000-06:002008-03-31T18:31:51.650-06:00My theater company, <a href="http://2ndstory.serendipitytheatre.org/">Serendipity Collective</a>, has created an amazing monthly podcast out of performances at <span style="font-weight: bold;">2nd Story</span>. And this month's episode is a story I wrote and told (backed by the band, Seeking Wonderland) at <a href="http://www.redkiva.com/">Red Kiva</a> in January called, "My First..."<br /><br />Here's how you listen:<br /><br />1. Open your iTunes.<br />2. Go to the iTunes store.<br />3. Search "2nd Story."<br />4. Look for the "podcast" box.<br />5. Either:<br /><br />a. Click subscribe and listen every month.<br />b. Look for "My First..." in the list below and download it.<br /><br />The best part is that it's <span style="font-weight: bold;">FREE</span>!<br /><br />I'd love to hear what you think. Enjoy.<br /><br />Best wishes,<br />J.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-5067232344289383212008-03-15T09:48:00.006-06:002008-03-16T00:52:51.030-06:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">LETTING BUNNIES GO</span><br /><br />[So, finally, here's some new work! I read this at <a href="http://http://www.myspace.com/reactionreadingseries">"RE:Action"</a>, my rockin' new reading series I co-curate with <a href="http://margotbordelon.com/site/">Margot Bordelon</a>. This piece was recently published by <a href="http://www.notouchingmagazine.com/">No Touching Magazine</a> in their "home" issue. Also, keep up-to-date on my other killer readings <a href="http://www.storiesandwine.com/">HERE</a>.]<br /><br /><br />My dad is pissed. Animals are eating his whole garden and we haven’t seen one in there yet. My dad looks like Alan Alda with an Abe Lincoln beard and when he gets mad, he gets quiet.<br /><br />I don’t like that quiet, so I stay away as long as I can.<br /><br />See Dad worked real hard on that garden. He’d surrounded a whole section of our backyard with old railroad ties and started planting like crazy. So when my dad realizes it’s rabbits eating his carrots and cabbage, he calls me over and we go through the rows looking for holes. He’s going to poison them, he says. Then he sees my eight year-olds eyes and says maybe he might be able to find a live-trap at the hardware store. Maybe, he says; He’s still real pissed. We both stoop over swiping gnawed radish leaves up to look under neither until my father stops.<br /><br />“Hm,” he says, looking down, not telling me nothin’.<br /><br />I step over the surviving vegetables carefully.<br /><br />“Shhh…,” Dad says, raising his arm like a wing and pulling me into his body. He’s not mad anymore. I mean he’s forgotten his mad for a while, because there at his feet is a nest of bunnies. Six little bodies the size and color of potatoes, unmoving, ears back, eyes closed. I don’t even know if they’re opened their eyes yet they’re so small.<br /><br />My dad’s a biologist, so he gives me a lesson on rabbits right there. I can’t tell you a word he says. Usually, I just look him in the eyes, scrunch my eyebrows together and nod, making it look like I get it. I’m just thinking to myself:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">PETS! I’m going to have bunnies to play with and feed carrots and show all my friends and name them! I get to name them!</span><br /><br />“So go ask you mother for a shoebox, Jeffrey, and we’ll take them to the wildlife preserve.”<br /><br />“What?” What is he talking about? I should have been listening. “We’re not keeping them, Dad?”<br /><br />“Weren’t you listening to what I just said?”<br /><br />He says that to me a lot. But I run off and get the shoebox. I’m a good boy. I do what my father tells me to. And when I get back to garden, my father has pulled the nest apart to get at the little rabbits and he’s busy filling a hole he’s found with rocks. He explains that’s where the parents were getting in. So, the plan was to take the babies out to a field where they could survive on their own. They didn’t need to live in the city where they could be eaten by the Lekin’s poodle or any one of the Cooper’s cats. I got that, but I wanted pets. My dad was allergic to fur and feathers, so all I got was goldfish and crawdads. “I’d keep them outside,” I told him. “I’d make sure they didn’t eat the garden and I’d pet them and comb them and water them and they’d be really really happy.”<br /><br />“Jeffrey, no you know that rabbits aren’t pets.”<br /><br />“But Mrs. Bonsib at school, she has angora rabbits and she combs them and makes scarves from their fur and she gets to keep them as pets and they’re happy I know ‘cause she tells me about them all the time and she could teach me how to take care of these ones.”<br /><br />“Your teacher lives on a farm, Jeffrey. And, besides, don’t you think they deserve to be free?”<br /><br />No. No, I do not, I think. But I don’t say it. I’m the good boy. I nod my head and watch as my father carefully pulls the sleep things apart and carefully passes them from his palm into the bottom of the box where they quickly fall back asleep. Dad lets me put a couple in the box, guides my hands, explains how fragile their little bones are still. Then we get to the last baby. He’s sitting under the rest. His legs are stretched out and to the sides. When I scoop him up carefully, he doesn’t wake like the other ones.<br /><br />“Is it still alive?” my father asks me. I don’t know. I hope so. “He doesn’t look so good, Jeff.” Dad calls me Jeff instead of Jeffrey and I get nervous. The body’s warm, but I’m afraid I’m holding death. So I poke him a little and he wriggles. His lungs take a deep breath and he settles in again. I hold him up for my dad to examine him. After a few minutes of looking, my father gives me the prognosis:<br /><br />“I think his hind legs are broken. He was probably born that way. He won’t survive in the wild.”<br /><br />“I’ll take care of him.” I say, trying not to be too excited about the rabbit’s misfortune. “I’ll ask Mrs. Bonsib how to take care of him and stuff.”<br /><br />And to my surprise, my father lets me keep him. He lets me set up a heat lamp in the garage over a nest of newspaper and I try to carefully feed him water from an eyedropper. I cut up carrots with my mother only to find out he’s too young to eat solid food still. And Mrs Bonsib even lets me go home during lunch to feed him. He drags his little body a bit and opens his mouth for water, but that’s all he does and everybody knows he’ll die soon. Except me. What I know is that us two will be in the backyard playing soon. I’ll make him a little wheelchair and he’ll be chow down on carrots soon. I am positive. Until he dies. Friday, I come home for lunch and he’s hard as a rock and I never ever want to have a pet again.<br /><br />But what I remember from then on is not those last dark days, but rather the trip out to the wildlife preserve with my dad, the shoebox of babies on my lap. I remember them waking and looking around. I remember my father finding a dirt path down to an open field that’s golden and seemingly endless with a blue sky to match. We get out of our enormous station wagon and walk down a ways, away from the road, away from where anyone will bother them. And then my father reassures me that their lives will be better out here and that I need to let them go. I don’t want to. I don’t tell him that and I don’t cry. Instead I set the box down and tip it so that they slide slowly out. I expect them to realize they’ve been set free, but they just stay there as though they are still in the box, their little noses wriggling. Their lives changed and unchanged, just like mine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-81070314508565338412007-06-22T10:15:00.000-06:002007-06-22T10:36:00.908-06:00Andy's album got another great review & our song got a nice mention. <a href="http://www.talkinbroadway.com/sound/april1207.html">Check it</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-46403421738560597922007-04-10T19:22:00.000-06:002007-04-10T20:13:50.369-06:00<a href="http://www.andrewdistel.com">Andrew Distel</a> has finished his brilliant album, STEPPING OUT OF A DREAM, and the song we co-wrote, <a href="http://cdbaby.com/cd/andrewdistel">WINDOW ACROSS THE WAY</a>, is available. Take a listen. My 1st attempt at lyrics is pretty good, but Andy's music is truly amazing!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-61268430149449152022007-04-10T19:15:00.000-06:002007-04-10T19:48:49.169-06:00CONNECTED THAT WAY<br /><br />[This is the short story that was selected from nearly 1,000 entries for Chicago Public Radio's <a href="http://www.chicagopublicradio.org/programs/specials/sos/stories.asp">"Stories On Stage"</a> contest. It was presented by actor <a href="http://www.eclipsetheatre.com/ensemble/">CeCe Klinger</a> at the Museum of Contemporary Art in November 2005 and will air on May 20, 2007. This past fall the story was published in <a href="http://www.riveroakreview.org/">RIVER OAK REVIEW</a>]<br /><br />I had a baby. Mary came out me, and we’re together always, riding the bus, eating, walking side-by-side, bussing tables at the Nite ‘N’ Day. Now she’s big as me. Her and me’re hard to tell apart, except I got only a few teeth so you see my smile and know I’m the mom. Mary doesn’t call me Mom. She calls me my name, Sally. The City takes care of us, gives us a room, makes sure we go to work and earn a paycheck. Aileen is the City. She stays at the House with us and the others. She is real nice to me and Mary. Mary’s good at making sure I cross the street at the light so cars don’t hit me. I’m good at making sure Mary wears washed clothes. I separate what’s clean and what’s not. The dirty ones don’t go in the drawers. We got keys and cards kept all together around our necks. The keys open doors and the cards let us get on the #49 bus, showing who we are with photos and names. Hers says Mary. Mine says Sally.<br /> <br />On the #49, Mary says she hates the diner potatoes while I’m sitting across from her, right behind the driver, waiting to get to Diversey. I say they’re like raw. The sun flashes yellow in my eyes, so I close them.<br /> <br />“Some people’d say yours are boiled too much,” she says back, which is true. I boil potatoes in a pot at the House. Then Mary tells the driver we get off at Diversey, reminds him that’s our stop. She keeps track for me or I’d ride to the end of the line. “You’re a good driver,” she tells him too. Mary’s kind like that, telling people nice comments. I don’t. I forget most the time to be nice. I’m nice. I just forget to tell most the time.<br /> <br />“Boy, that Don, he’s not nice,” I tell. Don’s the owner of the diner.<br /> <br />“Yeah,” Mary says, laughing loud. “He’s a J-A-C-K-”<br /> <br />“With an A-S-S,” I finish. Lots of times Mary and me finish what the other says, connected that way. “But not next week Don’s not.”<br /> <br />“Cause we won’t see him.” Mary shuts one eye to the sun.<br /><br /> “Cause we’ll be in Iowa.” I shut my eyes again, seeing only red.<br /><br /> “And Don won’t. He’ll be here in Chicago.”<br /><br /> “The ding-dong,” I say. We laugh.<br /><br /> We say all those words because we won’t be in Chicago next week. We’ll be in Des Moines where my half-sister Cindy lives with her husband and kids. Mary and me are taking a vacation on the Greyhound. The tickets are kept on the dresser below the mirror next to the clock until we need them to get on the long distance bus, not the #49. I’ve never taken a vacation. I’ve stayed home, forgetting when’s work and when’s not, before Mary was old enough to remind me. But vacation with traveling, never.<br /><br /> Aileen let us use her travel bag, a blue one with metal buckles, big enough for shirts, pants, socks, bras, underpants, but not shoes. We’ll wear those on our feet. Aileen is my age with all her teeth and a big smile. She tells us things we don’t know or forget sometimes. The City pays her to be nice, but she doesn’t mind. Mary remembers what Aileen says. I forget, but I do remember when Mary was smaller than me, when she lived with the Fosters and had problems with school and friends and all. Me, I never went to school. My mom gave me up. “For her health,” is what she told me when I saw her that once. After I got big and the city had let me loose, I found her in a drugstore before she died. She’s the lady from the picture I had, but old and small, walking slow on State Street, a cane in her hand, a purse and paper bags in her elbow bend. She turns into a revolving door. I’m with my bags too, but they’re plastic and not from shopping and I’m full of a smell regular people make faces from. I drop my bags at the corner and follow, step in, revolving. I talk to her at the make-up counter where she tells me about her health, but I didn’t tell her much cause back then was when I lived behind State street, had my own independence, hunting down food and places to sleep without rats and angry men. I did all that by myself until Mary come out of me and The City got nicer.<br /><br /> Mary’s thirty. She’s my friend. She still sits across from me on the #49 laughing at me saying, “Ding-dong,” her whole self jiggling, her hands holding her chest, making me laugh too, saying, “Ding-dong” again, the laughs making all the old ladies on the bus look away and the young kids settle their eyes on us. Mary’s keys jingle around her neck. Mine shake too. But that all stops when the bus driver shouts, “Diversey,” and Mary rings the stop cord. We stand up. Mary reminds me to hold tight since the bus stops fast. Mary tells me the Iowa bus will be different. “Remember what Aileen says? How fancy them buses is.” I don’t remember, I tell Mary while I’m climbing down slow for my knees, the hurt jabbing up my legs. “Tell me again,” I say while we walk down our street. She reminds me how they are good, big buses with soft seats and lights above and a fan that blows air and no stop-cord to worry about, because the bus just slows real easy when you get to Iowa where Cindy is waiting and driving us to her house instead of her coming to Chicago to our room in the City House, sitting on Mary’s bed, smiling, asking funny questions like is Aileen around much and do we remember to clean and eat regular. Mary and me laughed, light like pebbles, because we get by fine, but Cindy leaves quick, so Mary and me decide not to laugh at her in Iowa, not even light, cause she’s good to us. Mary will remind me, poke me in the side, if I forget.<br /><br /> When we get home, Boombox Rasheed is on the stoop. His radio don’t work, but he carries it on one shoulder, listening to songs we can’t hear. That makes Mary laugh more. She punches him in the shoulder, asks him what he’s listening to. He’s Mexican, or foreign like lots of people on our block. He laughs too, his eyes wet, trying to talk to us, but no words making sense. His mom watches him from a window across the street. The low sun makes her white dress red. We go inside, check in, and sit on my bed to eat a box of cookies we saved, their crumbles falling to the sheet like snow, us talking about what’s maybe in Iowa that’s not in Chicago, waiting, nervous, happy, but nervous to go.<br /><br /> ***<br /><br />Today is friday. We ride the bus today, the vacation bus. Our bag is packed with underpants and toothbrushes. I’m wearing my boots. Aileen packed us two a sack of snacks to share. I peaked– Raisins in tiny boxes, Mountain Dews, and a baggy of saltines too. We’re talking a lot about plans. Aileen reminds us of the stuff we need to do, puts her phone number in both our pockets, and checks our money supply. I’m asking a lot of questions. Mary gets mad, crinkles little lines around her eyes, says I’m asking the same already-answered things. I’m not going to work today, I know. I’m taking the fancy bus without the pull-cord for stops. I know Cindy’s picking us up, but I have to check again. Mary fists up the front of her Bulls sweatshirt, stomps off. I pat my wrist and rock back and forth. Aileen says everything will be fine. I ask her all the questions again. She answers them calm and kind.<br /><br /> Mary waits by Aileen’s car while I put on my coat. I’m making like we’re going to work. I’m slow with my mittens. Maybe I’ll hide them. But Aileen carries our bag, puts her arm over my shoulders, takes me to the door and I step out. She’s driving us to the station. I get that. The bag is heavy, I guess, it scrapes the sidewalk, her ankle, until she shoves it in the trunk. Mary climbs in the front seat, tells me I’m in back, and no more questions, covering up both her ears. Aileen tells her to be calm. I’m just nervous, that’s all. “Yeah,” I say, “I’m nervous is all. Leave me be.” I knot up my mittens in my fingers, shove my hands under my legs. It snows while Aileen drives. The white is little crowds of people rushing around downtown, only they hurry over the windows and run off into the wind.<br /><br /> “Flurries,” Aileen says, seeing me in the mirror. “So pretty, aren’t they, Sally?”<br /><br /> “It’s a storm. It’s gonna get worst and worst. The drivers won’t see through this stuff. It’s gonna stop us from going.”<br /><br /> “Ugh,” Mary says, snaking her neck around toward me. “Snow’s snow, Sally. Just snow.”<br /><br /> “Don’t worry. It’s just a sprinkling,” says Aileen, driving past our regular bus stop.<br /><br /> “Where’re the tickets?” I ask. Still looking at me in back, Mary jumps her arm out at me, slaps my knee two three four times.<br /><br /> “That’s enough, Mary. Stop,” tells Aileen. Mary stops, turns back around, crossing her arms tight and sliding far down in her seat. I stay quiet, thinking Mary’s going to be meaner on the bus ride. When she’s mean she’s loud and people complain. I stay still, pressing my fingers into the seat, making them hurt me. The downtown is full of people like the snow, rushing, rushing, crossing not with the light, honking horns at each other, squeezing their coats over their faces. “Oh, you two,” Aileen says as we’re getting to the station. “You two are going to have so much fun in Des Moines. Cindy is going to enjoy having you both there. . . .” She keeps telling us nice stuff until she’s in a spot, stopped, her blinking lights click-clacking click clack click, then tells us it’s time to get out on the sidewalk side, grab the bag. We have to hurry, she can’t leave the car there long. Out we go, slamming doors. I stand close to Mary, our coats touching. People brush by talking on phones and yelling for taxicabs that screech stopped. Aileen leads us to busses all rumbling in a line, finds ours. The driver stands by the door taking bags and putting them in drawer-spaces under where we’ll sit. The windows are big and dark. The bus is tall. The driver says, “Good afternoon, Ladies. Where to?” Aileen says that it’s us two going, not her, that we’re going to Des Moines. Mary smiles at him, tells him we’re going on vacation, tells him he looks like a good driver, that he’s nice. He nods, smiles big, his few hairs, thin and white, whipping in the wind. He takes our bag and put it under, on top of others. A red string hangs out my mitten. I chew on it. I look to where the driver’s going to sit, way up the stairs in a seat like a recliner. The front of the bus says SALT LAKE CITY on a sign. Not Des Moines.<br /><br /> “It’s the wrong bus, Mary,” I tell her.<br /><br /> “No, no,” Aileen says before Mary can yell. She looks up, sees the sign, says the bus just keeps going after we get off. <br />The driver nods, says, “That’s right. I drive on to Utah.”<br /><br /> “He’ll tell you when to get off.” <br /><br /> “I’ll get us off the bus, Sally.” Mary pulls the tickets from her coat pocket.<br /><br /> I feel like I’m behind State street again, the world full of tricks, telling you one thing, meaning another. Mary is used to different things than me. I’m troubled when the city opens up to be everything it’s full of, all the people and cars and houses and jobs and shops and chores and kids and animals and streets and sky and garbage and noise, all the tricks they play on a person, somebody else’s life getting tangled in mine, they don’t take the #49, they cross the street in a different direction, they have a dog and I don’t, go in doors I don’t go in. All of it around me drops like a heavy blanket, pushing down on me, trying to take me in different directions, away from food, away from walls, from keys.<br /><br /> “I don’t have my keys,” I tell them, my voice shaking. I grab at my neck, not finding them there. They are always there. They are not around my neck, and I grab and grab.<br /><br /> “Sally, your keys are in the bag. You don’t need them now,” Aileen says. But I keep grabbing and grabbing, tearing off my mittens, dropping then on the wet cement, and grabbing and crying.<br /><br /> “Sally,” Aileen says reaching for my hands, pulling them away from my skin.<br /><br /> “Sally, Sally, Sally,” Mary says. She says my name, but I don’t hear it. I hear it, but it doesn’t mean me. It’s a sound she’s making. The driver helps other people, all of them looking at me. I smell my body like trash and dirt, eyes on me like all eyes are. I suck in air, can’t get enough inside until Mary, not mad, not mean, says solid, pushing my ticket into my hand, “Mom.”<br /><br /> I hear her. I listen to the sound of her. She says me again. She tells me we are leaving, tells me she’s going to be there and we’ll sit next to each other, riding a bus like always. I breathe and say, “Okay,” giving them a smile. “It’s okay.” I have to tell myself that, even on regular days. My smell is gone. I cleaned this morning with soap. My wet mittens in the melted snow get picked up by Aileen, wiped off. The whole world’s moved away from us like a bunch of pigeons, so it’s just Mary and me and Aileen and a bus and a grinning driver at a open door.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-1149693513143546242006-06-20T13:00:00.000-06:002006-06-20T12:31:11.320-06:00BREAKS<br /><br />[Since everyone has been asking, here is an excerpt from the novel, WHY I FIGHT, which will be published by Simon & Schuster next year. This is actually the piece that was published in 2004 by "The Tap" magazine, and will most likely be appear in a slightly different form in the book.]<br /><br />During my first fight, all I thought about was the baby bird I’d killed. Flint and me fought behind a used tire shop owned by my uncle Spade’s pal, Larry. The day before, my uncle made arrangements for me to take on one of Larry’s workers, then he made the rounds to bars and garages, mentioning the fight to certain men. He made each guy feel important that he was invited. Not just anybody was allowed to bet. This was a secret, he whispered in their ears, could they keep it? That was a lie though. Larry had even invited the sheriff, since their girls played softball together.<br /> <br />Uncle Spade didn’t have no idea what I should do in the meantime. We wouldn’t start till the men’d finished supper at home and found a way out of the house on a Tuesday night. I thought it was weird to have it on a Tuesday. My first fight should’ve been on a weekend. But the men showed up just like my uncle said they would—pick a small enough town and the guys will show up for any kind of entertainment, especially if they can earn some cash off their pals doing it.<br /><br />Uncle Spade always called it boxing, but what I did was fight. I had gloves, but it was more interesting for the people without. They liked a real knockdown show with blood and bruises. There wasn’t no ring like the matches I’d watched to learn. No ref. No rounds. No mats. No bleachers, seats or bells. It was usually a room, plain old cement floor and crates for sitting. But sometimes there wasn’t even that. Not even a room. Like that first fight held in back of Larry’s shop stacked to the ceiling with used tires. The building didn’t even have a back door. You had to walk around the side and through a high chain-link fence topped in barbed wire. A dirt area surrounded by columns of stacked-high radials felt like a black room after the sun went down. A old rusted Firebird, half-worked on, half-rusted away, sat on cement blocks by the building wall. One light bulb curved down from a metal tube arm over that car. I did exactly what my uncle told me. I worked out in the morning. I ran along the river where the sand stopped the grass. I asked a old guy if he needed help digging a hole in his yard. He handed me his shovel and told me he could only pay me five bucks. I told him I’d do it for free. Then I found a jungle gym in the park for my pull-ups and did a final beer run for Uncle Spade. With the leftover money from his twenty, I ate–two omelets with cheese and a hamburger. I also drank two chocolate shakes, three big pops and had a hot fudge sundae for dessert, then went back to the motel to lay down. Stretching out under the air conditioner, I heard a knock at the window. I sat up and listened for it again, but didn’t hear nothing. My belly was so stuffed, I didn’t want to get off the floor to see what it was. Partly too, I knew something was wrong. Sometimes you just know. I wiped the sweat off my face and sighed, then dragged myself up.<br /><br /> The sun bit my eyes as I opened the spring-loaded door. Heat waffled up my legs and shoulders. I made my hand into a shade and checked for people who might catch me in my underpants, but nobody was out in the heat. The dry weeds crinkled under the window. I jammed my shoe in the doorway to keep it from locking me out. My stomach twisted like when you get spun to hit a piñata. I knelt down and spread the brown weeds careful, ready to jump back. A mini brown bird lay there shaking. Its neck was crooked and its beak opened up like a yawn. A shower of prickly heat drenched me when I figured how it had slammed into the glass. It was half the size of a eight ball. Just picking it up, I thought I might pinch it in two. It peeped and wiggled. I cupped it with both hands and took it into the air conditioned room, but it shivered, or twitched.<br /><br /> Its feathers were thin and missing in spots where you could see raw red skin. Maybe it was young. Maybe it was learning to fly. I pressed my finger against its neck, light as I could, trying to straighten it out. It chirped sharp, so I stopped. What could I do? I didn’t know the first thing about birds. I knew they made nests. How could I help? What if I fed him a aspirin? I could grind it up. Mix it in water even. How about tying a popsicle stick to its neck? I decided to first lay it on a washcloth for comfort. With one quick motion, I flipped him into the white cloth. Bird blood speckled my palm. Red swam on the surface of his eye. My mouth watered. I thought I was going to puke, but I kept it down. I got panicked. He was going to die. I needed somebody to help, somebody who knew birds. I reached for the phone, but stopped. There was nobody. My uncle wouldn’t care. He’d probably laugh at me for being a sissy. Who would care? If only there was some kind of doctor for birds or hospital, I’d have taken him.<br /><br /> I wiped the blood on my underpants. It made stains like comets, dots with little tails. I pet him. The feathers weren’t soft like I figured. He wouldn’t stop shaking. The bird didn’t need to lay there hurting. He needed to die. How could I do it? Quick and painless—Electricity? No. Toilet? No. Pillow? No. I wasn’t smart enough to figure out the right answer. I carried him in the washcloth around the back of the motel, grabbing a cement block that held up the drain spout. If you don’t like something, don’t think about it. Turn it off.<br /><br />Cool air hung in the low tree branches. The dirt smelled wet and rotten. I laid the washcloth down and folded the edges over. I raised the block over my head, my grip so tight that gravel crumbled off. My hands got steady and I brought block down. Head off, I reminded myself. Stay off. Stay off . . . Leaning down next to the gray block, I scraped the leaves away. When the ground was bare, I rammed my fingers in, putting my whole body into digging a deep hole. The dirt shoved under my fingernails.<br /><br /> It was getting late. I could barely see my hands. I lifted the block and slid the red washcloth in, then filled the hole and stomped the dirt flat. On my way back to the room to wait for Uncle Spade, I put the block back in its spot.<br /><br /> Why’re your hands muddy? Uncle Spade asked, walking in.<br /><br /> I don’t know, I said.<br /><br /> And why’re you naked, Wyatt? You got your first fight tonight, kiddo. Shake off those jitters. COME ON!<br /><br /> My head’s off.<br /><br /> Well, flip it on, man, and let’s get going.<br /><br /> I got up and went into the bathroom to wash up.<br /><br /> When we got to Larry’s Tires, my uncle couldn’t stop moving, talking to everybody, smoking like crazy, running his hands through his hair. I sat on a stack of tires, watching people file in, trying to figure out which one I was fighting. Crickets hid in the tires and took turns calling out to us. Flies spun around the one light bulb while I stretched. When Larry announced he’d be collecting the bets, people turned to look me over. I tried to pretend I was alone.<br /><br /> How you doing, Wyatt? You doing okay? my uncle asked me, a smile spreading thick across his face.<br /><br /> Fine.<br /><br /> You need to stretch. Did you stretch?<br /><br /> Yes.<br /><br /> What do you need? Water? You ready to do this? You nervous?<br /><br /> I need quiet.<br /><br /> Okay. Alright. I’ll give you that. You just make sure you’re all limber and focused. You can take this little man. I told Flint that you’re a teenager. He figures you’re nineteen. He’s been thinking he can take you easy. <br /><br /> Who is Flint?<br /><br /> The one you’re fighting. He’s got the greasy green jumpsuit on.<br /><br /> I need quiet.<br /><br /> Don’t be nervous, kiddo. You can do it. Remember, block your—<br /><br /> Uncle Spade. Please.<br /><br /> He dropped his head a second, sucking in a breath, not wanting to lose it with me. But I was about to lose it with him if he didn’t close his mouth. I felt this power with nothing in my brain–no caring, no thinking, no words–just the bird, and I had no doubt I could destroy that man across from me taping his knuckles.<br /><br /> Larry stepped into the circle of light, his hair shiny and long like spaghetti, but bald on top. He had money fanning out between his knuckles and waving as he talked. He explained that Flint was one of his buds and a good worker as most of them knew even if he’d started enough bar brawls to put most of the town in the hospital at one time or another. This time his fighting was being put to good use. Everybody chuckled real low. I breathed in the tire rubber and beer, holding the air in and staring at Flint. He was a full foot shorter than me and bald. A scar ran off one ear to the edge of his eye. He was staring back, pounding a fist into his palm. If I could take this guy down, my uncle’d be so happy. He’d make sure I stayed with him forever. He’d keep buying me stuff and even maybe stop to see some of the sights I wanted to see. We’d have a real good time. He’d been smilier than ever since he planned this fight. I remembered for a second how strong he made me feel, how I didn’t need to be smart or have friends or girls, if I could be the strongest, quickest one ever. <br /><br /> Tonight, Larry yelled, dabbing sweat off his face, Fighting Flint for your enjoyment, we got young Wyatt Reaves, who looks to me like a rambunctious one, even if this is his first fight. He’ll do his best I’m sure. . . .<br /><br /> The circle of guys laughed and shook their heads. That, my Uncle’d told me, is the advantage we got—they’ll mistake your being young for weakness, but you’ll pound him. Larry winked at a couple of his pals near the front who stomped out their smokes, ready to watch. Larry turned around real slow, then said, So let’s get to it here tonight. You all know the rules. And keep out of their way this time, Pete. Let ‘em go till one stays down.<br /><br /> Larry pulled Flint to his side. I took off my sweatshirt and stood up. My uncle set his hand on the flat of my back, guiding me to their side. The crowd backed into the shadow, making a circle. Uncle Spade’s hand pulled away and left a cool spot. And then Larry asked if we were ready. I hooked eyes with Flint, the bird floating in the air between his. We both nodded. I raised one fist to protect my chin and I waited for him to hit first. I wanted to feel it. All my skin warmed, numbed. None of the practice, the advice, the bag punches were there. It was just my skin and bone knowing what to do and needing him to start.<br /><br /> A small sure smile smearing his lips. He faked a right and jabbed with his left, connecting with my cheek. I let it connect. It was surprising how little it hurt at first—just a bug bite. My neck jerked back. Then the sting spread across that side of my face. He shook his fist a little. It hurt him more than me. The burn woke my skin and widened my eyes to take in all of him. And then my fists started working, my feet started dancing their dance with the little drag on the ground to keep them in the circle. My left shot into his stomach and he tried not to double over. His eyes shrunk. He punched, mad. I blocked each one, the bones of our wrists meeting at a pin point. There wasn’t a crowd or cricket, shuffle, grunt or clap. There was breathing, filling my ears. Then everything packed into the four points of my knuckles to break his nose. The soft bone bent on my fist, then snapped. My left followed—Flint, too surprised by the break to block—clipping his chin and tilting him back like he was laying in bed midair. Then he bent into a noodle and dropped, skin scraping the ground, head smacking, bouncing twice. The pain in my knuckles shot down into my wrist and crammed in there, curling up as I watched his eyes roll back, his arm raise up, twitch and fall.<br /><br /> The sweat in my eyes burned. I wiped them on my arm, but I couldn’t open them, so I waited—knowing it was over—for Spade to bring me my sweatshirt. Hands slapped my arms and shoulder. The air turned cool. The white washcloth shined on the back of my eyelids.<br /><br /> YOU DID IT, MAN! my uncle shouted in my ear. YOU FRICKEN TOOK HIM OUT! I KNEW YOU COULD, WYATT! DIDN’T I TELL YOU! DIDN’T I SAY!<br /><br /> His hands tightened around my biceps and he walked me to the pile of tires. He helped me sit down and told me he had to collect, he’d be back, he had to collect. I felt around with my right hand for my sweatshirt. My left wasn’t working too good. That wrist was holding in the pain. I patted my eyes until the burn stopped and then opened them to the crowd around Flint. He was still down. Larry took turns holding a towel to his head and passing out the cash. He had a lot to hand out, it looked like. My uncle was talking to the sheriff, a grin so big his moustache straightened out and made him look silly. I remembered that little smile Flint snuck me when we’d started. I didn’t like that. From then on, you could get me started just flashing me one of those. I hoped people’d do that sometimes just to get me swinging.<br /><br /> Crickets in the tire stacks started calling again as people disappeared out the back. Uncle Spade helped Larry carry Flint’s dangling body into the shop, then came back to count the winnings. He sat on a tire next to me that sloshed with water inside. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head with one hand, smearing the blood from my lip.<br /><br /> Blood on my sweatshirt. . . I grumbled.<br /><br /> You’re okay. I’ll get you a new one, kiddo, MY KIDDO. Jeez, you’re amazing. They never expected that from you, no idea what you got inside. They were all joking and now they’re dragging their sorry butts home with no money for lunch tomorrow. Why? Because it’s right here, in MY HAND!<br /><br /> How much?<br /><br /> I’m counting. I’m counting… and eighty-five. Hold on one second. . . .<br /><br /> He smoothed the bills out on his leg from a crumpled fistful. Larry came out carrying a small metal box. He smiled at me and told me I’d done good, real good and here was my hundred bucks. He swung open the box and took out one crisp bill. He told us Flint was doing fine, but he was going for some more ice, did I need any?<br /><br /> No, thank you, I said looking at the bill.<br /><br /> We are going to live the GOOD life for awhile. Yes, we are. Let’s get you some food. Steak and a chocolate shake. Howbout that? Howbout ten shakes? Ten steaks?<br /><br /> Uncle Spade, I think I need to go to the hospital.<br /><br /> My wrist was broke. I’d punched wrong. I didn’t really get what the doctor explained. Something about the angle of the punch and keeping my wrist straight the next time. He hoped there wouldn’t be a next time. Thought I got in a fight at school, on the playground, my being only thirteen and a half. A kid had cornered him by the teeter-totters and wouldn’t let him go, so he had to defend myself. That’s what Uncle Spade explained. He paid for the visit and the pain killers with some bet money. My cast too.<br /><br /> We’ll get that thing off, my uncle said, helping me into the Chevy. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you fighting again real soon. Now it’s steak time. You think you’re up to some beers too? Well, we’ll see.<br /><br /> He just couldn’t stop smiling. I was trying to smile too. I told him the drugs made me fuzzy. We ate till our bellies bit our belts. It was so good, the thick steaks, red on the inside. I took it all in so fast the shakes gave me a brain freeze. We laughed at how hard it was for me to eat with my other hand, dropping food on my jeans, Uncle Spade asking if I needed help, cutting up my steak and fries for me. That night before he fell asleep and snored from all the booze, I thanked him, thinking I was happy, real happy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-1148749401388387062006-05-27T10:58:00.000-06:002006-05-27T11:24:45.606-06:00WINDOW ACROSS THE WAY<br /><br />[Astounding local jazz musician, <a href="http://www.andrewdistel.com">Andrew Distel</a>, is working on an album with his quartet. Andy (who just happens to be my housemate) asked me to write some lyrics for him, so I'm taking a stab at it. This is my first attempt. Andy has written some swingin' music to go with it. So if you get a chance, check him out at THE PUMP ROOM on Friday and Saturday nights-- maybe he'll even play this tune!]<br /><br />I try not to look<br />Wonder who you are<br />Try not to stare<br />Feeling so far<br /><br />How somehow we’ve met<br />I know your stance and style<br />Stranger in<br />The window across the way<br /><br />Our windows open<br />Share this summer view<br />I hear your music<br />Dance with you<br /><br />I know somehow we’ve met<br />‘Cause I know your stance and style<br />Stranger in<br />The window across the way<br /><br /><br />Your curtain’s closed now<br />It flows out to reach me<br />You may as well be miles off<br />Miles away from me<br /><br />How can I care so much?<br />Hoping some day I’ll find…<br />One day I’ll know you<br />If just in my mind<br /><br /><br />I try not to look<br />Try not to stare<br />Watching your shadow<br />Knowing you’re there<br /><br />I know somehow we’ve met<br />‘Cause I know your stance and style<br />Stranger in<br />The window across the wayUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28395089.post-1148585311857032312006-05-25T13:00:00.000-06:002006-05-26T11:28:25.793-06:00ITCH<br /><br />[This short story was originally published by <a href="http://mendota.english.wisc.edu/~MadRev/main.htmll">THE MADISON REVIEW</a> in the Fall 2002. Chicago writer, performer and all around fantistic human, <a href="http://meganstielstra.com/index.htm">Megan Stielstra</a>, and actor Jeremy Zeman from Serendipity Theatre worked with me to adapt it for the "2nd Story Festival" in May 2006. We packed Webster Wine Bar for a sold-out show and had a blast performing together.]<br /><br /><br />Ryley’s hands reminded me of Davinci’s ideal. I procrastinated late, cramming for exams. He fiddled with clay in the campus studios losing track of time, then stopped by my apartment above the Korean restaurant on his way home, slipping past the screen door to keep it from creaking. We talked till dawn, willing to be exhausted in classes for the conversations we floated in while the city snored. He romanced me with his goodbyes– long handshakes turned to hugs turned to embracing sighs on my neck turned to cheeks brushing turned to kisses that let the screen door creak loudly against his back.<br /><br />Marty had a boyfriend. He had a boyfriend. A boyfriend. We couldn’t eat each other with our eyes over French food on a crisp autumn patio confettied in leaves, flustered with pigeons. We chewed on it between us, gnawed the rawhide of need. I brushed my hand over the nape of his fuzzy neck, turning away with my smile, respectfully.<br /><br />Mike always smelled. So good. No cologne. No spritz or splash. After inhaling, eyes shut, washed away by the beauty, I’d ask him, “What is it?” He’d shrug, answer, “Just me.” But it was bleach from scrubbing his sink and sliced lemon for his iced tea, peaches he’d picked, fabric softener, sawdust from fixing a windowsill, grass from kneeling toward dandelions. Yes, I’d think, Just him.<br /><br />Too much attention gets mistaken for attraction. Those not interested, need not apply effort. All others, please smile. At least, just smile.<br /><br />I hadn’t planned on Peter. His friend had caught my eye, held it. But I was drunk, determined, indiscriminate. I needed a one night stand so I could be like everyone else, not care, flip off emotion for the screw. The liquor helped. So much liquor I hoped I wouldn’t heave out the cab window before we got to my place. We couldn’t go to his; He still lived at home. His tongue tasted tangy, of coffee and smoke and a long lost toothbrush. I wished I’d been able to see him naked before we committed to the night. I didn’t sleep, but my arms did, my single bed too small for both of us to pass out. Angry, he woke late, asking why I didn’t kick him out before dawn. Now his parents would know he’d been gone. And I understood why people got kicked out after the deed was done.<br /><br />Ray kissed me in the middle of all the straight couples dancing in a club called the Hindenburg. I forced him off the floor, into a hall, asked him how he knew. He slid his hand past my belt buckle, saying, “Finding out was worth the risk of being punched.”<br /><br />“Gay!” I hollered, spit diving off my lips. “You are gay!” Oliver had taken my truck from the sandbox. MY truck. We’d played around together in his basement before. The things he did, like taking my truck, hurt me more than what other boys did. I wanted my truck back. He made me mad. I used the worst word we knew. Recess was over. He handed me the toy. Then we stopped being friends.<br /><br />The truth is hard to come by. Black and white. You are two colors, brown and peach. Others see this difference. They comment on it away from you. But in bed you roll around together with skin tinted by the TV gone blank, its light dying the moment, both of you just blue.<br /><br />Noel and I built a fort from the Alice in Wonderland set pieces we found in the rusted dumpster behind our elementary school so we could undress together. The structure took all day, but the janitor caught us before we could explore skin, making us put the giant cardboard playing cards and mushroom back, he said, where they belonged.<br /><br />We slipped out of the bookstore when the thunderstorm ended and stood on the street corner with out chins straight out, watching furious clouds rearrange themselves, like tussled white sheets. Panicked, they dragged the pink and robin’s egg blue away with them into the night. We stayed so long in that spot, both desperately searching our brains for a bed we could share, that passersby shook their heads confused as to why two grown men would stare blankly into nothing.<br /><br />At sleep overs, Wayne let me sleep in his bed, but drew a line with his hand over the sheet between us, dividing our space. His back to me all night, I watched the shadow of his eyelashes flutter on the wall and listened to his breathing never slow.<br /><br />Jesus, the train makes me crazy. I fucking see him, perfect, the one, across the car. And careening toward the loop, I dream our meeting (an accidental bump maybe, I pick up his dropped book). I dream the first date, the dating, the discussions, the difficulties, the divorce. Shit, no! He hops out with the rest of the crowd and I never see him again.<br /><br />Just like the ones that pester you right in the middle of your back where only scraping against the sharp bark of an old oak will cure the delicious annoyance.<br /><br />Paul never laughed at my missing a hoop, taught me badminton, soccer, golf, tennis and occasionally missed the volley, his racket intentionally slicing air near the net to make me want to keep playing. His latte-tanned tummy so taught and so casually exposed distracted me as his shirt seam stretched to his sweat-shined enviously-acne-free face. Jealousy and need mixed in me so furiously I forced myself to hate him.<br /><br />Roary lived next to me. Called me to play. Let me watch him shower through the basement window, pretending I wasn’t there. Afterward, I’d knock on the front door. His mom would make us peanut butter and honey sandwiches that we ate watching Bugs Bunny in silence.<br /><br />Man, he’s good looking. Facing me, he eats across the street at the counter in the sandwich shop window. I laugh at him. Behind the guy, glowing red with an arrow pointing down hangs a neon sign that reads, “PICK UP.”<br /><br />The finger wagged naked under the bathroom stall partition. The body part looked foreign, got no answer, the question unsure.<br /><br />Jude broke up with his best friend for me, just for week six at summer camp, my glistening eyes mistaken for hero worship. Other guys liked to wrestle Jude. I didn’t wrestle. I just watched and listened to him, best friends like boyfriends sometimes.<br /><br />Valentín could tickle me until I laughed. Before him, only my grandmother could. She reached behind my knee so lightly. I laughed until my stomach hurt, writhed, kicking and panting. He managed to unbutton my shirt while my elbows bruised on the hardwood floor. I heard my own voice echo into the hallway. I could barely open my eyes before they forced themselves shut, flashes of white wall, his ruddy dimples and grin. My belt buckle clacked against the floor.<br /><br />I can’t stand the way you like me. God, I fucking despise the way you pay attention to me, spend time with me, fit me, think about me enough when we’re apart to bring me gifts. Not big or bought ones, but just right. Jesus, just stop. Oh, sure, an article in your Tribune about exactly what we were talking about, you thought I’d like it. I don’t do that for you, do I? I just read my paper online and click delete when I’m done. But you have to find your scissors, fold the sheet neatly, wait to see me again. And that blue shirt that didn’t quite fit, so you thought I could give it a try. And it fit. Perfectly. Screw you. Now I have a You Shirt. And to top it off you take me on a date, the most romantic date of my life. You suck. Sure, to you it’s just two friends hanging out, but you can’t tell me that slipping in smooth Cuban jazz and sipping fancy martinis at your house, talking art and philosophy and world news and life and the future and desires wasn’t beautiful. All of it exquisite. After cocktails, you pick the restaurant– not me, you– and the corner table and the tasty wine. Even the server watches us with Date Eyes– “isn’t that cute,” she thinks, “two guys on a first date together.” And we talk without pause, which is rare with another man. You keep up, you push me, teach me, let me teach you, before you ask me back to your place for a fragile crystal glass filled with peach liqueur your mother hand-carried back from France for you, so lush that I lick my lips and avoid your eyes for my sake. Even the walk back had The Bump, the one when you walk so close together your shoulders knock just before you veer away and come together again. Shit, and the air off the lake, ideal, that wet breeze misting the streetlights. I go back to your house and drink with you, peak at your bed through the doorway, picture climbing in, curling up while you talk at me about the girl you like. I did run my hand over your comforter while you busied yourself with the CD. I know what your bed feels like. But, even liquored up, I know I won’t get near it, even if I wait. So I say I have to go. And, being the asshole you are, you walk me. I’ve never been walked before. I’ve never even thought about walking someone, and you had the nerve to do it to me, you goddamned gentleman, to make sure I was safe, to continue our discussion. You shake my hand, you fucker, because we are friends. You suck, you know that, right? No, probably not. Because I’ve said nothing.<br /><br />Jamie broke into hysterics at the woman tucking her poodle into a stroller. I would have also if at that same moment his long fingers hadn’t suddenly, casually grazed mine to slip the burning cigarette from my fingers, the nonsmoker giving in to my vice without being invited.<br /><br />My best friend told me to get a work crush. “Otherwise, what do you have to look forward to?” she asked. So I got one.<br /><br />My final summer, Phil ran archery. I ran Arts and Crafts. He stopped by when he could, drew targets just for fun. Made projects he could shoot. His thick fingers fumbled from pen to crayon, not watching the paper. Ken came by too. He made candles after pool duty. They talked. Week Eight they walked into the woods together, alone. I wanted to go, be them. Others saw. Rumors flew. I sighed, safe, not caught, but still wanting.<br /><br />The only one I still wonder about is dead, a clubbed-down tourist, caught in a Peruvian protest. We only touched accidentally. Nick treated me like a prince, gave me a ring from the grocery store gum ball machine. A red spider. Its legs tickled my knuckles.<br /><br />There is only so much a man can take. No ads. No meat markets. No escorts. No cruises. No baths. We don’t all give it away in the bushes. We don’t all raise the antenna, hone in, find the signal. We don’t all live beyond the flimsy crumbled walls of morality. We struggle to be within them. And we wonder why.<br /><br />David had more guts. He asked the hotel owner for a queen-sized bed, the both of us standing there, casual grins pasted to our lips. He requested the window table and squeezed my hand when he felt like it, when I could only reach for my water glass. David never whispered his love for me; I always looked around to see who’d heard.<br /><br />We hopped the fence to the neighborhood pool and pulled back the thick plastic cover to the deep end, steam slithering over its surface. Ricky was scared, nervous he said. He didn’t know how to swim. I was on the swim team. I wanted to be reincarnated as a sea otter, loved sitting on the bottom until my lungs forced me to the top. I watched him undress, clothing piled quickly at his feet. We hugged our goosebumps, then climbed slowly down the ladder, surprised the water was warmer than the midnight air. Ricky gripped the lowest rung. I told him how to blow bubbles through his nose to keep the water out. After coaxing, he submerged, his hair seaweed on the surface. I wanted to be two sea otters. I supported Ricky’s stomach as he practiced, thinking that skin was the best thing I’d ever felt in my life. Before we snuck away, he torpedoed below the water, by himself, silent as I held my breath for his return.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3