Essays,
Road Trip
“Let’s go on a road trip” I announced to my parents. “It’ll be fun! You guys, me and the kids. We’ll do three weeks.” Did my enthusiasm overwhelm them? Did they think, hope this was like the time when, as an eight-year-old, I planned outlandish adventures only to find I wouldn’t be able to use the metal in my backyard jungle gym to build a boat? Or perhaps, given their age, they didn’t hear me clearly as they quickly agreed.
I planned obsessively, used the Internet, lined up hotels, identified sites, had the car tuned and accumulated more movies for my son and daughter to watch than I have ever allowed. On D-Day, all of us cozy in my minivan, my parents were quite laid back. As I started the engine, my mother, looking over the agenda, exclaimed pleasantly, “Oh, we’re going to Asheville. How nice! I‘ve always wanted to go there.”
This is what we experienced.
Number of times we were lost: 0
We loved the GPS navigation system so much that my Dad bestowed upon ours a name and personality. “Carmen didn’t like that turn back there. She’s angry.” “Carmen is challenging us; I hope we live up to her expectations” She was not a machine from 2001: A Space Odyssey but rather Rosie from the Jetsons – a computer with a heart who wanted us to reach our final destination. Even when we did not listen carefully and took the wrong turn or exit, she did not cuss us out but merely said politely, “Recalculating” and redirected us without any of the bitterness or resentment a typical navigator would foist upon the driver.
Number of times we laughed at each other’s jokes: 50
The camaraderie and closeness of a minivan lowers your humor standard so that an eight-year-old-boy’s humor becomes funny. Who doesn’t enjoy bodily function jokes? Even the senior mother smirked when he launched into a parody of the Star Wars theme: “Soooome oneeee, someone faaaarted, and it smelled bad, and then we all barfed.” My joke that only I found funny: When is the best time to use the washroom? If you’re a senior, it is when everyone is in the car ready to go. If you’re a child, it is ten minutes after being in the car.
Number of times we satisfied all food preferences at one food location: 5
I lay prostrate before all parenting publications and admit, “I have created two exceptionally picky eaters.” We all paid for my grievous fault; Subway was the only commonly acceptable diner plus one. One night in a one-horse town, my children gnawing on cardboard, I recalled a Subway at a gas station down the road; we were not too proud for gas station Subway. Upon arrival there was a group cry of pure anguish as the sign in the window read, “Lost our Lease.” Curse you, Recession!
A shout out to the senior mother and her amazing long-term memory. While in Washington, D.C., she remembered that when she had visited there with us as children over twenty-five years ago, the food court in the Capitol was terrific, and we would all find food we enjoyed. She was right, and that was one of the five meals.
Number of items we lost: 3ish
Three items we truly lost and are gone. The “ish” is when my Dad thought he lost his wallet. We drove back to all of the places we had been the day before to see if it had been found. When we had no luck at that, Dad cancelled his credit cards. Only after this did he find it next to his luggage. I found this much more amusing than my mother did.
Number days I sweated entirely through my clothing: 21
I knew we were traveling in the summer, and I packed appropriately, but I did think I would be able to re-wear shorts and shirts at least twice. I still don’t know what kind of voodoo god my parents prayed to, but they always looked good at the end of the day or at least a lot better than I. My mom kept offering to do laundry on the trip, and I know why. Self-preservation. No one wanted to sit next to a sweaty woman in yesterday’s clothes. We were all grateful for the air-conditioned activities. If loving that HCFC fluorocarbon-producing earth killer is wrong, then we didn’t want to be right.
Number of times my parents said nothing about my parenting skills: 200
I believe there were times a dribble of blood escaped from the side of my father’s mouth, but he quickly turned away so I can’t be sure. I had a real sense of “What wonderful multigenerational experiences I am giving my children” and, to an extent, I did. But children are an ungrateful bunch, and mine are no exception. However, I was determined to over-stimulate them with “FUN, exciting, educational opportunities.” My parents never said a word. My children were rude, selfish and ill-mannered, and still they did nothing but smile. It was such a relief to know they were in my corner, especially when it was a corner that I had backed myself into.
Number of times I snapped at strangers and embarrassed my parents: 3
One time my daughter pitched a temper tantrum so large she drew looks. I turned to the amassing crowd and shouted, “She’s fine; she’s just in a time out” Goood times, good times.
This is what I learned.
About half way through the trip, my mother and I were recounting the family vacations she and my father had taken with my sisters and me. And I realized I must have behaved just as my children were behaving now. Delightful when they were having their needs and desires met and ungrateful the moment they ceased to have fun. It occurred to me that perhaps my parents hadn’t been so ingenuous when they agreed to the road trip. They knew how children can be on vacation and were ready to observe and enjoy a titch of revenge for my youthful bad behavior. They will never admit to it, but I imagine that watching me deal with my myopically-focused-on-their-own-good time children gave them that warm glow of satisfaction that only Grandparents can have. I don’t begrudge them this. Frankly, if they can find joy in buying my son a hot dog only to have him push it away because it “looked wrong,” more power to them.
In the end the trip I prepared for others was for me a healthy dose of humility and gratitude wrapped up in beautiful vistas and sandy beaches. We believe that we improve upon the previous generation’s parenting style, and my parents are nice enough not to dispel me of that delusion. They want for me now what they wanted then, to be happy and fulfilled. They wanted to give me wonderful, eye-opening experiences as a child just as I want that for my own children. Yet they understand how difficult it is to do this and are gentle with me as I figure it out. This road trip was more about me appreciating them than my children appreciating me, about saying a pure and real thank you to them for all of the family vacations they planned and executed. For not leaving me on the roadside when I was a kid. Seriously, how did they manage without DVD players? My parents love my kids but they love me more, and I am grateful for it.
Essays,
Elevation
The blue suitcase is open and ready, the right clothes selected weeks before are color-coordinated and mindful of the season. Underwear, skirts, pants, and blouses are each impeccably folded to minimize unwanted wrinkles. It is summer, and only linen and cotton will make it through the wet and humid weather awaiting me. Shoes chosen to harmonize with the ensembles are in soft, cloth carriers. The travel iron has found its place next to the special bag containing the lotions, shampoos and other sundries. This essential task achieved, I pause and think of my children I will see in less than twenty-four hours; an unanticipated tear rolls down my cheek. I have not seen my granddaughter in over a year; photos do not capture subtle changes. Will she and the others like the presents I selected? Some new, some old and treasured items, each holding meaning or memories important solely to me are placed with care on top of the clothing where nothing will disturb them. I intend to open the suitcase and distribute each gift upon arrival. All is done and in order; I am satisfied.
The circuitous zipper refuses to join forces with the perfection of this moment; nothing I do will budge this contraption. I cannot close the suitcase, and departure time is approaching. Another one is fetched from the storage area in the garage, and in a fury the zipper of this old plaid, dusty suitcase is tested. Hallelujah, it works! Items are rapidly tossed in, and the zipper is closed. Time to go!
The security personnel at the Phoenix airport overlook my tardiness. All is well, I locate my gate, and soon enough it is boarding time. The airplane is not full, I find my seat and a pillow, I make myself comfortable – the window seat will allow me to watch the clouds.
I dream, and, soon, standing in the aisle, I see the gentle face of a young stewardess; she is telling me it is time to wake up. I look around and discover the other passengers have disembarked. I am the only one left. The pilot has delivered me to Atlanta.
As I remove the belongings stored by my feet, I notice to my horror I am wearing mismatched shoes. There is no time to worry. Assured I will make a fashion statement, I walk down the breezeway, stagger toward an open area, and soon enough am on solid ground. I feel every eye looking at my feet – my shoes are not only different colors, the heels are not the same height. How did I not notice this at home? Doing an impression of complete control, I hobble in the direction of the baggage claim. As the carousel turns, my head spins, trying to remember if I packed more shoes. I find my suitcase. First things first, I must find a pair of shoes. This done, I change and toss the odd pair into the suitcase. I start walking toward the exit. The door opens, and a gust of wind makes a decisive attempt to motivate me toward a steady but light rain.
I stop to regain my land feet and assess the direction I should take. I find myself greeted by the lush landscape displaying Georgia’s red clay mixed with lots of large green and shiny leaves and a multitude of colorful, ground-level flowers; above all this the magnolias are in bloom. Never have I seen such a display in the desert. The pleasant and well-manicured border welcomes me while it flanks the north side of the Atlanta airport; suddenly I feel a smile coming on. The sky is gray, the humidity extreme and a bit overwhelming; I come from a dry climate. Magic brings the rain to a stop, a welcomed and hospitable sign.
Obtaining and driving a rented car is easy enough; I communicate with the GPS by inserting the address. Global Positioning System, what a mouthful! Traffic is cooperating, and I know where I am going.
I believe only a few minutes have passed when I see her. She is as tall as the cypresses that line her driveway studded with black rocks from the south of Georgia. Slender like the grass of the nearby marshland, she will always be able to bend with the winds of life. I can see the brown in the eyes large enough to see infinity. She stands smiling, personifying the name of a town, waiting…waiting for me. The majesty of the red earth is embedded in her essence. Her posture shows strength that only time can carve. The moccasins purchased in Arizona last year cushion her feet and her path, I am sure. She bounces when she decides it is time to run toward me and envelop me with her arms.
Perhaps it was the wind which brought passion to her laughter of pandemic proportions. Conceivably she received this unique heredity from her mother. I am confident with what I see – as with Alice and the looking glass, she expresses beauty without parade or fanfare. In the canyons of her soul I sense the markings of wind and fire, and I know time will sand and polish these smooth. The short distance separating us is eliminated as she dashes toward me. Smiling at her is all I can do as I attempt to shield the tears blurring my vision.
I perceive a certain something that reminds me of who I am, and, perhaps, if I look into my own mirror, I will see what she sees. I observe a self-assured girl of fifteen. She pulls on the white ribbon tying her long hair, and now the face looking at me is my granddaughter Sedona – the name of the town I left only hours ago.
Fiction,
The Winter of the Goldfinch
What would it be called today, “Asperger’s,” or “semi-autistic?" “Landau-Kleffner Syndrome,” where the child hears but doesn’t respond? No one knew what to do for Charlie. Nor would they today I suppose, not really. It was a mix of things, all of them wrong. It didn’t really matter what you called it.
Charlie was blind, perhaps partially deaf. Images were little more than shadows to him, I know; sounds were often inaudible. And what’s more, by the time I was born, he found it impossible to speak an intelligible sentence. He spoke normally until he was three or four, then words began coming out of his mouth as high, thin cries, not intended apparently for the human ear. I, alone, could understand him.
Family lore has it that our mother and father first recognized this one night at dinner. I was big enough to speak, but not big enough to be at the table without use of a high chair. Charlie, recalled our mother, was acting up, crying out, carrying on. Mother’s prodding was fruitless. Father’s attempts were still worse. Nothing could calm Charlie. The harder they tried to reach him, the more disturbed – then provoked – he became. My mother asked my father what could have possibly gotten into the boy, and without looking up from my plate, assuming, I imagine, that the question was meant for me, I answered that Charlie didn’t want what she’d set before him. He wanted an apple. And he wanted it peeled.
My earliest memory is of my brother at my crib. My parents have just put glasses on Charlie, flesh-colored rims with flat, opaque lenses, and I’m just of an age to be taken by my own reflection, not only skewed in the glass but doubled as well. This is not something that was told to me, a memory that comes by way of family lore like the one about peeling the apple, but my own, I’m sure of it. As an infant I became aware of my brother’s presence as distinct from the presence of others, yet completely aligned with my own, inseparable in some ways. Compare it to déjà vu, setting foot in a house you know you’ve been in before, or perhaps a mirror that multiplies your dimensions through some optical sleight of hand. That’s what it was like when Charlie was near.
We were living in Northampton, Massachusetts, then, home of one of the oldest schools for the deaf in the country, and it was to this school that my parents wanted him sent. But nothing could persuade the proctors or headmaster that my brother was educate-able, or that they were the ones to educate him at least. Eventually he was sent to a hospital, this on the assumption that Charlie couldn’t learn, and more hospitals after that, at least one of these – as memory serves – with beds made from white tubular metal. Drugs were dispensed from a cart delightfully – and deceptively – called a medicinal trolley by nurses in starched, rustling uniforms.
I recall a variety of odors medicinal and human. Charlie died in one of those places late in the afternoon of an October day in 1953. A blood clot broke loose. A cerebral hemorrhage. My last memories of him are not of Bedlam, in other words. They were as bright as they could be, these places, and my brother was cared for. But by then he had ceased to exist for me in the way I remember him best, as whole in ways I was partial, for where certain natural laws were concerned, he came into this world ready-made and prepared, whole in ways we are inchoate one and all.
The winter of the birdfeeder and the goldfinch was the last winter my brother Charlie spent at home. He hung a birdfeeder that winter from a post outside our window and filled it with thistle seed, which our father kept in a bin behind our house in small burlap sacks. Charlie was trying to attract the Southern-bound goldfinch.
Beyond our house, lining the street, were Dutch elms, ash, Norway maples. Normally they turned by Halloween, and goldfinch filled the branches once the leaves began to fall, feeding each night on the insects. But this year something had happened. The leaves remained fresh and stubbornly in place despite changes in the season.
My brother became anxious that the goldfinch would succumb to this, become confused, be overtaken by the winter. From the window he pointed out their plumage, not the right color for this time of year, not grays and murky olives, but rather the whites and blacks and yellows left over from the summer.
I watched with him at the window as the females and juveniles pecked at the seed along with the chickadees and house finch, their heads seemingly attached to their bodies by tiny metal bolts. Squirrels skittered across the roof above our heads as we watched, making a tinny, rustling sound.
Each day as I tried to locate the canister, I would see Charlie waiting for me at the window when I came home from school. He waited for me as a pet might. He came to the window on the side of our room where the light was strongest in the afternoon. On one day in particular I could see he was holding a book, one of my less desirable Christmas gifts from some forgotten Christmas-past, an oversized book about hot-air balloons. So vivid is this memory that I can make out the colors of the book jacket even today, white amidst purples and golds.
That evening, as the light dimmed beyond the window and the glass became mirror-like, I caught my brother trying to decipher his own reflection in the pane. That night, as I was doing my lessons, I saw him do this again. I’d been trying to teach him to read, carrying my lessons home each day, and he had the book to his nose, moving his nose around the page rather than his eyes across the print. But every now and then he would prop the book on the window sill and put his face to the glass, as if he were gazing beyond it.
“What do I look like?” he asked me.
“You look like you, what you think!”
“I have a fool’s face, don’t I.” By this time he seemed to be looking at his own reflection as much with his fingertips as with his eyes, for he was running his fingertips along his features in the glass.
“A what?”
“A fool’s face. A fool’s face!"
“You know you look okay. Hey, is that my book? Here. Give it back. You can’t read it anyway.”
The goldfinch fed at Charlie’s canister until the first snow after his death, then we never saw them again, nor learned of course how they’d fared. Ice gathered on the tiny overhang, serving in the moonlight as a prism. From the street during the day the canister was barely visible. But just the same, we never took it down. It hung from its peg, filled with seed, fastened to the house through the steely depths of winter, and when I came home from school each day, I would crane my neck to see if the goldfinch had returned before reaching the door of our house.
Fiction,
Let's Dance
When Patrick was first placed in his mother’s arms, her smile slowly sagged as she stared at her newborn. She sighed in her thick Irish brogue, “Well at least he doesn’t have the devil’s curse of being too handsome.” As he matured his looks appeared to have been assembled from spare parts. His mousy brown hair was straight as a string until he became bald. His eyes matched his gray-freckled face, which was perched too close to his chest. But he was blessed with one thing: as small as his stature was, his intelligence was large. He excelled in scholastic endeavors throughout his schooling, and his natural proclivity for numbers led him to graduate college first in his class as an accounting major.
Patrick, a true find for any national accounting firm, was hired immediately after graduation. Not a “face man,” he was never involved with the firm’s clients. Yet, despite his physical limitations, his peers recognized him as an asset. He was promoted to be the firm’s accountant. Being an accountant’s accountant was a rare achievement; one to be envied. He performed brilliantly; he usually found ways to save the firm money as well as make money for the partners. At the end of the day, at the end of the year, he got pats on the back, and he was handsome.
With his success he knew he should be happy, but he was not. He was not married like most of his contemporaries, and every morning when he looked in the mirror, he knew why he probably would never find a mate.
One evening, when he was about to turn off his computer and go home to his customary dinner of a beer and sandwich, a woman intern asked him a complicated tax question. He was flattered she had asked him but he knew he was the only one she could ask. He dismissed any thought that she could have any interest in him.
He was wrong. She did. Amy was also not physically attractive; she had never missed a meal and never intended to. Her off-color blond hair was partially curly and partially straight, always looking as if she had just taken off a stocking cap. Her clothes clung to her body in the wrong places and were loose where they shouldn’t be. But she, too, was smart and had a disposition for numbers.
Patrick and Amy were made for each other. After many nights of working late to discuss accounting issues, they fell in love. Their wedding was small and unpretentious. Their life together followed their personalities. Ordered, without ceremony, and predicable. Two children eventually came into their family, and they were happy in their quiet life.
Too soon the assets and liabilities of their life fell out of balance; Amy died from diabetes. Since their children were grown and gone, Patrick again looked in the mirror and wondered what to do with his life and how to find happiness.
Shortly after Amy’s death, while reading the Sunday paper, he saw an ad: “Wanted. Single men to join a cruise ship as a dance partner for single women.” It intrigued him as he knew he could dance. His mother had taught him, giving him a social skill in the event he was ever invited to a party. When married he had become an accomplished dancer through practice with Amy. They had danced in their living room many an evening from songs spilling from a radio. Why not apply? Nothing to lose.
He took the ad as a challenge. On the day for his interview, he put on his best suit, brushed the hair that surrounded the lower part of his head, splashed on his special after shave lotion, gargled, and checked his smile in the mirror. He arrived at the hotel for the interview early. “Mr. Murphy,” the desk clerk paged him at his appointed time. He jumped from his chair and screeched, “Me. That’s me”.
“Would you please go to room 203?”
He mumbled an answer that only he understood, ran to the elevator, and fumbled with the buttons until he found number two. He knocked on the door and waited for what seemed to be an eternity. When the door finally opened, a shapely, well-dressed woman invited him in. She introduced herself as “Mandy”, then turned, and introduced her associate, “Wendy,” who was likewise a candidate for Vogue magazine.
“Mr. Murphy, do you mind if we call you Patrick?” He nodded. “Thank you for responding to our ad. Since we have other candidates to interview, I hope you don’t mind if we get right down to business?”
“No, no. That’s fine with me.”
“Well, I guess before we get into your background – you understand that we only associate ourselves with men of impeccable character – we should see if you can dance. Do you mind dancing with Wendy”?
“No. No. That’s fine with me.”
Wendy turned on a tape player and slithered over to Patrick. She was as tall as he was short, and when they joined up to dance, his face opposed her semi-exposed, bountiful breasts. His face turned crimson, and he closed his eyes to prevent eye-to-bosom contact. They danced, and he did pretty well – at least Wendy and Mandy said so. He assumed they were not lying as they requested his personal history and said goodbye by saying, “You’ll hear from us soon.”
But he didn’t. He was crushed. His dreams of going on a cruise in exotic waters, warm summer nights, the smell of perfume, and dancing with women like Mandy and Wendy teased his thoughts. He tried to forget. But he couldn’t. He watched the paper religiously and read about dance cruises. They were going to paradises on a regular basis – without him.
One Monday evening, as he was about to go to bed, he got a call from Mandy. She asked if he would be able to join a cruise leaving the following Sunday. He couldn’t answer “Yes” fast enough. She promised to e-mail him the details, reminded him that he would need a tux, and then cooed, “Goodbye, sweetheart.” Patrick was so excited, he packed that night despite the excursion being nearly a week off.
Patrick was early at the gathering area for the ship’s passengers. He couldn’t help but notice the exotic women gathered to join the cruise. He became even more thrilled. The thought of dancing with any one of them was beyond his imagination.
He was assigned a roommate named Don, another short man who also had forgettable looks. In their room while unpacking, Don volunteered that he was a cruise pro as he had been on many cruises as a dancer. But before he could give Patrick the details of their roles as escorts and dancers, they were interrupted by a knock on their door to announce a meeting they were to attend.
Mandy addressed the assembly of men. “By now, unless you are blind, you’ve noticed that there are many attractive guests on this cruise. You will be dancing with them.” Punctuating the air with her first finger, she raised her voice, “That is the ONLY, repeat, the ONLY thing you will be doing with them.” Still waving her finger, she said loudly, “THERE WILL BE NO FRATERNIZING ON THIS TRIP WITH ANY OF THE GUESTS. If you break this rule, you will be put off this ship at the next port, with no pay or a return ticket. Is there anyone here who doesn’t understand what I have just said?”
The dancers mumbled their understanding. But one of them, who seemed to know everybody, said “Yeah. No hanky-panky. If you follow that, you’ll never be on another cruise.” Everyone laughed, knowingly, it seemed to Patrick.
Wendy next outlined the cruise routine. The when and where they were to be escorts for the guests and how they were expected to dance with them. Patrick was beside himself. He returned alone to his room immedately, shined his shoes, laid out his clothes for the evening, took a shower, shaved extra close, and laid down for a nap so as to be rested for his opening night performance.
The first night dress code was informal – sport coats and slacks. Patrick wore a navy blue blazer, gray pants and a red tie. The tie was important to him as he thought it would direct the guests’ gaze to his tie rather than to this face. Early for dinner, he was seated with a party of six, but was inhibited in talking to anyone because a guest dominated the conversation. He was pleased when dinner was finished that the ship’s band struck up a popular romantic tune, which had a beat that matched his heart’s. When the leader announced, “Let’s dance," he welcomed his responsibilities.
As was the procedure for the first night, Patrick danced with as many of the guests as he could, except the one who talked too much. All of the guests, as he had first noticed, were well-dressed, adorned with expensive jewelry, and impeccably made-up. He was surrounded by beauty. At the night’s end he floated on a cloud to his room and fell into a dreamy sleep. Satisfied for the moment.
The next night was a repeat of the first, except that he was attracted to one guest in particular. They moved together in simpatico as if they had danced together all their lives. The only apparent thing they had in common was their middle age as she was taller, thinner, and one of the most striking of the guests. Her beautiful face made her stand out even more when she danced with Patrick as she could be seen peering above his bald head. They sashayed around the dance floor dance after dance.
The next night they danced together the lion’s share of the evening. Afterwards, Patrick told Don, “I had a great time tonight. I wound up dancing with a woman named Judy. You know, I’m attracted to her. I get the feeling that she shares my interest. You see, I am no movie star in the looks department, and I have never had a woman who looks like her say to me, and don’t you tell anyone, that she loves me, and would like to make love to me, and so on. I don’t know what to do as I would like to pursue her, but I know what the rules are---.”
Don interrupted, “What does she look like? I can’t place her.”
“She’s the tall red head. You may have noticed that I have the bosom problem with tall women;”
“Yeah. I noticed. I’d laugh if I didn’t have the same problem. That's why I go short.”
“Well anyway, her long legs match her long hair. She’s a good dancer. Must be in great shape as her body feels sexy in the right places. But it’s her face that mesmerizes me.”
“Well go ahead if she means that much to you. From the little I know about you, you don’t need the money for these trips, so go for it. By the way, I’m going to have a visitor in our room tonight, but don’t worry, it’s another dancer, and we need to talk. So, please knock before you come in.”
Patrick didn’t give Don’s conversation another thought as visions of sugar plums and fairies dominated his thoughts about Judy. The next few nights they continued to be together as much as possible and managed to squeeze each other in places which sent signals of greater things to come. Patrick’s fantasies about Judy were soon stimulated to a fever pitch. To his ecstasy, three nights before the end of the trip, in the moonlight, in a lifeboat’s shadows, Judy looked deep into his eyes, bent over, and kissed him in a manner that was more than a kiss to a cousin. Patrick’s legs went limp and ended his dancing the two step for the evening.
It became obvious among the other dancers that they were an item, with the result that they allowed them to pair off for the remaining days of the voyage. The days flew by but had to end. As they prepared to disembark, Patrick and Judy exchanged promises to meet as soon as possible in a place and time to be determined. Judy lived in another city, which created the problem. As they withdrew from a long, passionate kiss, Judy said that she would be in touch soon.
Patrick whispered, “Goodbye my love.”
Weeks passed, but no word came from Judy, and no word from the cruise line as to another trip. Patrick was bewildered. Hurt. He thought that Judy and he had an understanding. And he thought that he had done a good job of pleasing the guests he had danced with so that he would be asked to be a dancer again.
Nearly a year passed but Patrick still hoped to be summoned as a dancer. One Sunday morning, while he was reading the cruise advertisements, the phone rang. It was Mandy. “Would you like to go on a cruise like the last one you were on? You know you were big hit. Can you make it?”
He could hardly answer. He struggled to get out of his stunned silence, untangled his tongue, and shouted, “Of course, of course. When?”
Mandy interrupted, “I’ll send you the details. I’m so happy you can make it. You know, it’s not every time we arrange the annual transvestites’ cruise that we have a special request for a particular dancer from one our guests.” She hesitated for a moment, lowered her voice, and whispered, “You know, Patrick, you’re going to make somebody a real happy camper.”
Originally published in The Journal, 2005
Fiction,
Betwixt
Sitting on the porch’s top step, Brendan swallowed a sip of beer and set down the half-filled Pilsner glass. Tonight was the night; he could no longer avoid telling his wife. Along the horizon the silhouettes of the Adirondacks billowed, trees brushing the sky – green swells reaching for the twilight-chased sun and hinting of neon to come. A creak and swoosh snatched him from his reverie. Caitlyn leaned halfway out the screen door. A petite woman, much trimmer than most mothers of two, whenever she and Brendan strolled together in town, distant onlookers often mistook her for a teenaged daughter.
She stepped onto the porch. “Uh, huh. How'd I know you'd be here? I called you a dozen times.”
Nothing gained arguing the point, Brendan picked up the glass. “Sorry about that. I guess I just didn't hear.” He straightened from the step, joined her, and kissed her cheek, next to the crease of her nose, her favorite spot.
“I'm not complaining, hon,” she said, “only asking for some help. Lately – look, it's nice having you home for dinner, having you home at all before the kids are tucked away for bed.”
They hugged. “The sunset’ll be gorgeous tonight,” he said. “How about we catch it later, listen to the crickets, watch the stars come out. Okay? Can't wait too long, or we'll miss the best part.”
“Fine, but we have to get through dinner first. Please give me a hand, so –.” Brendan raised his hands, the beer glass included, but his poker face failed him. “And don't you dare clap.” Caitlyn's mock glare hid her grin. “Not if you want a warm meal.”
All innocence, he thrust the free hand into a pocket and glanced about the porch, his tuneless whistle filling the air.
“Good boy. Now, please. Please listen. Go round up the kids. Okay? I've been calling them, too. No response.” She glanced at the porch's ceiling as if pleading for the gift of patience from the wooden planks, then ducked back into the house; the spring slammed the screen door shut behind her.
He gulped the last of his beer and followed. Molly, the younger, was easy to fetch. A second grader, she brought her latest drawing into the kitchen. Caitlyn paused from dinner preparation to tape the artwork to the side of the refrigerator. Other masterpieces overlapped one another, a rainbow dazzle of paper shingles affixed from top to bottom. Corralling Brendan Jr. proved more of a challenge. Brendan Sr. glared at his son who still needed to wipe out 500 more brain-munching zombies to reach Level Four. The threat of unplugging the game console convinced Junior the zombies could wait. His son was at the cusp of teen-hood; Angst had already moved in, open for business. Its countrymen, Sturm and Drang, awaited employment immediately around the corner.
The family settled in around the circular kitchen table and held hands to say grace, a habit Caitlyn introduced after their son's birth, along with attendance at weekly Mass. Brendan found it surprising that a year after their move, she remained uninvolved with the local Church's clubs and functions. In the city, she was the main go-to parishioner to organize events or solve associated problems.
Their heads bowed, the Staceys prayed as one, “Bless us, oh Lord, for these Your gifts, which we are about to receive from Your bountiful hands, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Brendan added in silence, “And if You have time, Lord, please, keep Cat calm after I break the news.”
Momentarily dumbfounded, Caitlyn gaped at him. Window curtains billowed behind her; wings of sheer white brushed against her bare shoulder and side. She was nude, in mid-change for bed, her cotton tee-shirt laid on the chenille bedspread next to a pair of panties. He returned her stare, grateful for their bedroom's second floor location; the children's rooms were on the third story of the old Victorian. Molly would be asleep. In all likelihood his son, headphones on head, still secretly battled creatures of the netherworld.
A king-size bed separated Brendan and his wife. He was fully dressed and next to the tall bureau drawers. She studied him in disbelief, hands clasped near her collar bone. Her mouth opened, no sound emerged. She blinked several times before words found an escape route. “California. California, and you said – you said 'yes,' Dear God above – California? Without discussing it with me, you said 'yes.' These last few weeks, not a word about it, not a hint from you, not – “
“Cat, the CEO flew in at the last minute. You know what a macho bastard he is – I had no idea. No warning – none. I was their second choice. Robins bailed out, had another offer. They wanted an answer, right then and there. I...”
She shook her head “no,” her gaze drifting off into the distance, his words sailing past her. Brendan's sense of caution wrestled with his heart – to stay bolted in place or to approach and, if possible, soothe her distress.
Her thousand-yard stare vanished. “Can't you…” She abandoned the thought, sat on the edge of the bed, her hands cupped over her eyes. She inhaled and exhaled to calm herself.
Brendan sensed an opportunity. He unfroze, went to her side, and knelt on one knee. She tightened her arms against his caresses, flattening and squeezing her breasts together like a boxer protecting herself against an opponent’s blows. Her chin rested atop her hands, the fist of one clenched within the palm of the other. She refused to meet his eyes. “Babe, listen, please listen. The VP position – it's, it's a godsend. We’ll place the kids in the best schools. We'll hire all the help you need. We'll travel, we'll...”
The pace of her breathing grew more rapid. She scowled at him. “Don't!” Brendan's hand stopped in mid-caress, began a cautious retreat. “Don't try to placate me, don't...” A puzzled expression replaced her scowl. “Why can't you see? Just for once, please, open your eyes.”
He stood to scrutinize her from a better defensive position. His gut tightened in anticipation, though he really didn’t know what to expect. She glanced upward. “I don't need a hired anything. The kids don't need the best schools. Where we lived, the city schools, they were just fine, better than here. I...” The pro-city argument, familiar territory to Brendan. He backed away, his veiled gaze drifting to the far corner of the room. She bounded from the bed and grasped his hands.
His voice edged toward a shout. “Look, I don't need this.” He would not meet her eyes. “I don't. You know damn well the kind of job stresses I – hell, with all the shit in the city, my blood pressure was through the roof. I didn't need any more, not then, not now – not ever. Moving out here was the best decision we ever made. Why can't you see that? Why can't you?”
Caitlyn’s body tensed. “We?” She released his hands, twisted away, returning to the bed to grab her garments. She yanked the tee-shirt over her head, pulled on the panties. “So, you think the city was shit, huh? Shit? Oh, oh, yes, I know all about shit.”
A distant headache marched steadily in Brendan's direction; the last thing he needed or wanted. He closed his eyes. Her words rolled past him, boxcars coupled in an unending line, non-stop. Riders unwelcome. “I deal with lots of shit, lots of it, when I'm left...” Shaking her head, she looked toward the ceiling. Tears of anger glazed her eyes. “I'm left here, alone, my family over a hundred miles away, in the city. They can't just pop over to help when I need them. There, they were still a real part of my life, an active part – every week, every single week, I saw them. And you, you're gone, what? Two weeks a month, now, if I'm lucky, if the kids are lucky. You don't think they notice, that they don’t care, that they don’t want you here?”
His wife's cross-examination was only just begun. Brendan's jaw clenched. The urge to flee clawed at him, anything to avoid venturing into the places she wanted to explore, the places he dreaded. If he fled, she would not follow him outside, not in her bed clothes – the reason he had remained dressed.
“They'll be grown up and gone,” said Caitlyn, “sooner than you imagine. Do you really, really think a VP's job will give you more time with me, with them? That some move to California will bring me closer to my family in the city? Bring us all closer together? Do you?” Caitlyn examined his blank expression. “Don't you disappear on me, just answer me, that's all I ask. Damn it! Say something. Anything. Look at me. Oh, damn it. Damn it!”
He raised his shield, his standard reply, his non-answer to fend her off. “Everything, every sacrifice I've made in this job, everything's been for you, for the kids, for our family. I don't need this, I really don't, I..." Throughout the argument, Brendan had edged closer and closer to the bedroom door. Now in mid-reply, he opened it, and, before his wife could interrupt or react, he fled. Better judgment and his concern for the children prevailed over his anger, stopping him from slamming the solid oak door. Caitlyn's tears carried through the heavy panels. Her sobbing pursued him along the hallway, down the staircase, and out the front door to follow him into the car.
He still heard her tears from a mile distant, heard them while he drove in random patterns throughout the farmland and hills beyond the town. But no amount of distance brought him solace or relief, brought true escape. Tired and resigned, his passion spent, he u-turned on a moonlit country road and returned to his wife, his home, and children. Turning onto his driveway, he cut the headlights and the engine and coasted to a stop. The lock whispered as he closed the car door. The windows of the master bedroom were dark, their curtains drawn back, allowing the night breeze easier access, a hopeful sign Caitlyn slept.
Brendan’s spirits lightened at the sound of the crickets in full chorus. Unwilling to face his wife possibly awake, he headed through the house, sat on the rear porch, and lost himself in the insects' chirping hail to the moon. All the trials of his life faded like embers at the day's end he and Caitlyn earlier enjoyed. But the headache which he thought had marched off returned full force, high jacked his tranquil interlude. His neglected blood pressure medication was of little help in the master bathroom. Desperate, he searched the kitchen and swallowed three aspirin from the bottle he discovered.
Creaks followed his every step up the old staircase and along the floor boards in the hallway. He paused in front of the closed bedroom door and strained to listen. Nothing, no sound of breathing or agitated movement. He turned the knob and entered. A moonbeam streamed through the room's window. The gossamer light bathed Caitlyn's body, transformed her into a ghostly Sidhe of Celtic legend, a fully awake Sidhe who sat with knees tucked against her breasts, back pressed to the headboard of their bed.
“Are you listening, damn it?” asked Caitlyn. “Are you?”
Curled half a bed away and half asleep, Brendan eluded his wife. Her words, roadblocks intended to hinder his sleep, spiraled, indistinct and meaningless down the corridors of his mind and shape-shifted into the spaces reserved for the making of dreams. His arm dangled mid-air beyond the mattress, one leg half-draped down its side. A swell of vertigo lightly roused him, carried him up, down, and then passed beneath to expend itself toward some distant, unconscious shoreline.
Caitlyn grew more insistent. “Will you answer me? God, I'm tired of this, I'm so damned tired.”
Past experience taught him her distress would not soon diminish. His mumbled response slipped across the boundary of Brendan's awareness and scrambled over the heap of her words pinning him to the bed. He longed to convince Caitlyn he was awake. Useless. Whatever his response, the deluge of her words would continue to cascade over him. He clung to a boulder in the mid-stream of their quarrel and, like a spent swimmer, attempted to outlast the flood rather than resist.
Allies aided his struggle as they had on the porch. The song of the crickets in the surrounding fields flowed through the open bedroom window; his wife's words melded into their music. The chorus embraced and guided him, freed him to drift across the threshold of sleep.
In his dream, he sat on the porch. Though the insects sang and the moon floated above the distant hills, something was wrong. An imperfection, a slow, steady cadence, pump-like, played counter to the chirping and rippled across the otherwise smooth surface of his dream. Another wave of vertigo, the strongest yet, shook him. Whoa, dear God! I rolled off the bed. Adrenalin surged; his limbs flailed outward. He braced himself for the worst. The worst never came; not what he anticipated. Brendan never hit the floor; he floated flat on his back in mid-air.
His mind floundered, overwhelmed at the impossibility. He refused to concede to his senses; surrender meant madness. Or worse. Reality blurred, incomprehensible, leapt past him, leapt far beyond his experiences, beyond any logic. Chaos swallowed him whole, Jonah-deep within the belly of the beast. He shut down to cope and regroup the remnants of his sanity.
Some interval passed, incessant, immeasurable, before the darkness unblurred, lightened. Bit by bit, the numbness faded. His surroundings returned; reality refocused, and the wall of his denial crumbled, one brick at a time. He still floated in mid-air, his back toward the floor, but the darkened bedroom no longer hindered his view.
Caitlyn's voice re-emerged. “Your damned career.” She stifled a yawn. “That's all you think of; our marriage won't survive, can't. Can't, too much. I'm exhausted, just too much of...”
He stared over his shoulder at his wife, her knees tucked beneath the tee-shirt. The sight of her entranced him, despite the streaks of evaporated tears and the half-moon swellings beneath her eyes. Too many months had passed since her unhappiness trumped the tone and intention of her words. Her voice stumbled, faded; she lay on her side, drifted off to sleep.
He attempted a roll in mid-air. No amount of twisting, tucking, or flailing gained him any purchase or changed his position near the ceiling. “Cat! Caitlyn! Hey, Cat, do you hear me? I'm up here. Look up here. Come on, babe – please. Please, look up!”
Once asleep, Caitlyn's sadness took form. Tendril-like wisps rose in slow swirls through her dark, short cropped hair, from her back, shoulders, and legs. The strands flattened at the ceiling and merged into eddies, pushed along by unseen currents. Brendan drifted along with them but panicked when he realized their destination, an open window; its screen proved no barrier to the wisps. The room emptied of all the sadness, along with Brendan, who passed feet first through the screen. Before his head slipped through the mesh, he glanced back at his wife. The wisps no longer rose from her body.
Outside, he rose with the tendrils to the height of the treetops in the front yard. Stronger air currents scattered the swirls beyond the highest leaves. To his relief, he proved much less ephemeral, though his continued upward journey dismayed him. He groped without success at the branches just out of reach beneath him.
The universe expanded infinitely, unperturbed and indifferent to his circumstances. A three-quarter moon orbited at near zenith. The reflected light from its surface bathed the Earth below, and a myriad of stars glimmered down at him.
Somewhere a switch flipped, and the beacons in the heavens abruptly winked out of existence. Black descended. Other than with touch, the hand Brendan held in front of his eyes was undetectable. The whispers of his pulse in his ear, the rush of air through his lungs, and the faint beating of his heart became his reality. He counted thousands of heartbeats, prayed for a resolution, and waited, and waited as the breath of eternity flowed inward, outward, and dissolved the boundaries between moments. Brendan slipped into some inner place where space, time, and self no longer intruded.
Like a pebble dropped in a pond, a wave rippled through the void, a pattern coalesced. He awoke, recognized sound; the sensual familiarity warmed his soul stoked his self-awareness. Memories returned – Caitlyn's whispered words of love, his children’s laughter. Relieved, he smiled and strained to absorb more of the resonance, the beat, mechanical and rhythmic. A pump. His relief chilled. Something else accompanied the cadence. He stretched his senses. Someone, a woman, wept; voices spoke. His heart raced. My God, please – God, please, help them find me!
“Will he...” Caitlyn drew a deep breath. “You're certain, completely certain, that my husband, that – he's no longer there, inside...”
“Please,” said the doctor, “believe me, I…”
The sound of a ventilator wove under and over the threads of their conversation. The labor of the pump and its fellow machines, an orchestra of mindless musicians, sustained Brendan's physical existence with a symphony of beeps and chirps, clicks and wheezes. The bed supporting Brendan's body separated Caitlyn and the physician. “Every diagnostic instrument we have at our disposal indicates brain death. If I thought there was the slightest possibility, the slightest…”
Caitlyn pounced. “Indicates? You don't sound certain.”
“Mrs. Stacey, your husband's no longer here. His body may be, but he's gone, the damage from the stroke was just too massive. The – his body can no longer sustain itself, not independently, not without all this.” He waved at the machines and played his ace. “There's a living will, I believe. Mr. Stacey wanted…”
"Yes, yes, he didn’t want extraordinary measures if…”
The doctor pressed his advantage. “If brain death was indicated…” He winced. "I mean determined – if brain death was determined. Mrs. Stacey, the machines can't lie. What they have – determined – is brain death. When someone descends into this state, nothing can reverse the outcome. Your husband is…”
“Yes! Fine, I understand. My husband is effectively dead. You've made that point over the last few weeks. Several times. I know it's what Brendan wanted, I know. We…” She paused to gather strength.
“If you'd like…” said the doctor.
“Please, let me finish. I need to finish. I just needed to be certain, absolutely certain all hope was gone, and – " She struggled to complete the sentence. “And it is.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, “It is. I understand. I do. You can turn off the machines. Brendan's gone. He's…” She turned away from the bed and walked to the room's only window. Her sobbing lasted a minute before she regained enough composure to return to Brendan's bedside. The doctor began disconnecting the machines.
Brendan shouted for Caitlyn's attention, his shouts unable to mask the moment when the final note of the mechanical symphony ceased. He gasped for breath; an obstruction blocked his throat. Panic gripped him; the fist of his right hand tightened, held something, someone not himself, another hand in his. Light burst through the void engulfing him, the brilliance as unintelligible as the previous darkness. Tears filled his eyes, blurred his vision. Unable to speak, he squeezed the hand again. His squeeze was returned.
Caitlyn stroked the side of his face. “Brendan? Is that – are – Brendan?”
He hoped she would never stop speaking to him again. Her fingers brushed the tears from the corners of his eyes. He marshaled every ounce of strength to squeeze his wife's hand again.
Caitlyn called to the doctor and to his nurse assistant. “Oh, dear God, my God. Brendan? Doctor! Do you see – he's awake. He's…”
A sensation of falling gripped Brendan. A brief dizziness, not the rush of chaos which had clouded his mind eons ago. His vision cleared. He gazed down at the occupants of the room. The furnishings, everything within it was transformed, the images much more distinct, as if an obscuring veil was removed. The living beings brightened his senses – the flowers on the nightstand, the spider hidden in the corner spinning a snare. He peered into their forms, past the colors and textures, observed the life behind the life.
His body lay unmoving. Unlike the others in the room, it appeared normal, dull; dreariness spread slowly across it. The sight surprised him, saddened him. An old friend was passing. He watched the doctor press a stethoscope against its chest and then speak to the nurse next to a machine, at rest after weeks of non-stop effort. Satisfied, the young man placed a flexible tube onto the bed and jogged off.
Caitlyn remained apart from them, her hands clasped like a child in prayer, the fingertips of the steeple pressed against both her lips. A tear journeyed down her cheek, clung above the corner of her mouth. Brendan swept down, brushed the jewel. She stared through him, her eyes never wavering from the fact of his body. She caressed the place he touched in life. At her favorite spot, where her nose and right cheek blended, just beneath Caitlyn's eye, Brendan kissed her goodbye and was gone.
Poetry,
You Are Not Here, But…
You are not here, but…
That night, you were in deep sleep and looked comfortable.
Now that you moved to a quieter room,
I wanted you to take time and relax.
I wanted you to rest but not go away forever.
You didn’t even know I was next to you
And left without a word.
Why were you in such a hurry?
You didn’t like my small complaints?
You should’ve told me so. I would’ve listened.
You didn’t want to see my sad face?
You should’ve said not to show up.
I would’ve hidden behind a chair.
You didn’t have enough energy?
You should’ve asked for a tonic drink.
I had it brewed up waiting for your command.
The world is heedless.
How could all things go around as before?
The sun rises and sets and rain falls.
I feel guilty.
How can I go on living –
Eat, sleep, and run errands?
I am lost, lonely, and missing you.
Why am I here?
When you are not?
Poetry,
Thelma
I'm glad you called.
I've been thinking of you.
I still miss your mother so.
I sent you a jar of figs on Thursday --
my tree did good this year.
I got your card from Hawaii --
sounded like a nice trip.
Did you make some money, too?
My yard looks pretty good this year.
The man who cuts my grass
said to me, "You've got
good garden ground back there."
He planted bunch string beans for me,
Those Kentucky Wonders came up pretty,
but a rabbit ate them all.
My neighbor gave me okra plants
and put them in for me.
They were growing good,
but then the rabbit ate them too.
I can't be worried, though:
that rabbit looked like he was starving.
He needed those beans and okra
more than me.
The only place I go now
is to church and the doctor,
but I've got lots of friends,
am blessed at ninety-two,
still able to get up,
fix breakfast,
wash the dishes,
take my shower.
An Indian doctor in Greenville
cured my stomach ulcer. I'm fine,
just too weak to walk as much
because of my heart,
I have to stay out of the heat.
Every day it's a nice surprise
to find myself still here.
Poetry,
The Time Of
Suddenly all the divorce-court-
property disputes, "How could you
have…?" "Not interested!,"
"I happen to have found a
new...," gone, all in our late
seventies, me looking like a
nineteenth-century tweeded
Londoner again, just resurrected
from the grave, my two ex-
and one still-married wives
looking like Pride and Prejudice,
Ozark Queens, my own Grandma
Mary with her long skirts and flat
black shoes, long white perfectly
flat-out combed hair, a little coffee
at Big Apple Bagel or "Let's try
The Tuba Gallery for dinner, I
love their salads," a Verdehr (violin)
Votapek (piano) concert, or just
the perfect back porch time, the
main thing the years of selves
shared, rejected, now starving for
again.
Poetry,
The Sea’s Current
As the sea’s current of green and blue
Hastens to the shore in foamy luminescence
Sages scrutinize the errors of careless time
Being washed brusquely upon the beach
Rivulets of briny white foam and brown kelp
Motionless strands of forgotten hopes
Lie in the scorching yellow sand like the
Gnarled limbs of wooden warriors
Quickly the unpredictable current retreats and
The beautiful mislaid remembrances disappear
Into the ebony depths of misplaced sobs and
The sea’s current surges to a raucous roar
If only sages could stay the incoming current
Then thoughts buried in the deep would appear
Lost reminiscences could then quietly unfold and
Joyful meanings would be assured forever
Unhappiness would recede for a time and
The sea’s fickle current would paint images
Of serenity upon the shell laden shore and
All hearts would be filled with love
Poetry,
The Cloth of Necessity
I spend my days in the minutia of living,
crying out to Clotho for colors that suit me.
She spins the thread of life,
without concern or preference.
The cloth of necessity’s woven
by mindless need, between
waking and repose. Some
start with breakfast, others fast,
my heart longs for a daring fete
to save lives from near perdition.
Still, store keepers open their shops,
children gather for learning,
their teachers take hold of a plan.
Seeking a job for butter & bread,
I scan the ads with religious intent.
The cloth of necessity expands
like a span of days sewn into a quilt.
The earth spins on its axis,
newborns are welcomed with joy
tethered to parents who worry,
their hearts open to wounding
and loss. Clotho continues with
thread, in hues of her own choosing.
While I weave the cloth of necessity
an unseen eye ravels
and unravels events I’ve grown
fond of. The seed of life
encased in this dying,
cycles filled with the
ordinary and the feel of déjà vu.
Poetry,
Medieval Villages, Umbria
Houses pile one on the other
a jumble of ordered confusion constructed
by hands that yearned for Heaven. Visions
where all ached upwards.
Villages sprouted on soft hills, red-tiled roofs
a glow of color against perfect skies.
Wine-hued shadows freshen a summer day
and hide, perhaps, a cloven hoof that dances yet
to a distant flute.
Poetry,
Johannesburg
I read that Johannesburg is the world’s largest city
not on a river, lake or ocean. That’s what I read.
Water is important. But what I know for sure
is that my grandmother could not drink water
just before she died and I remember feeding her
ice. My mother, well, she died like a vapor
before I could even feed her goodbye.
My father anointed his dry mouth with a swab
dipped in water the night before he passed.
And I wake up and reach for the bottle
on the nightstand and just before
the water passes my lips a thousand thoughts
enter my mind and I drink anyway,
thirsty, but what choice do we have, really,
but to stay close to water
for as long as we can
Poetry,
Cockroach Brains
It is reliably reported
by unimpeachable scientific sources
that the brains of cockroaches
contain antibodies
that kill all manner
of antibiotic-resistant microbes.
Yes, things like MRSA,
the staph infection that you get in hospitals
as an untreatable souvenir
of your 3-day $17,149 adventure,
may actually be cured
...and by cockroaches no less!
The eternal roach promises to save the day,
rescuing mankind from
the hubris of that vicious cycle
...where blockbuster antibiotics
...promote the evolution of microbial resistance,
...which leads to new antibiotics,
...that result in still newer resistance,
and so it goes
...on and on
in the never-ending evolutionary war.
Soon biotech geneslingers
will vie for exclusive
roach-farming rights
and set up roach-brain-vaccine production lines.
Patents will be granted on cockroach brain-milking machines
and vast armies of roaches
will stream from behind refrigerators
in an endless march to the farmstead
where they will happily be nurtured
while their brains are sucked out
...homogenized and pasteurized
and loaded into sterile syringes.
What a denouement,
...as modern miracle drugs
...are defeated by mindless microbes
...and mankind is rescued by cockroaches.
Would Kafka be laughing or crying?
Poetry,
Reality
|
A glance |
Eyes meet |
|
Chance |
Commitment |
|
Two become one |
|
|
Bliss |
|
|
Problems |
Resolution |
|
Again |
Why |
|
Try |
No |
|
Attempts |
Failure |
|
Space |
Please |
|
Refusal |
Finality |
Poetry,
Horizontal Draft
The wind shucks and jives
through the stale air of the Seventies disco
after the last Hustle has been boogied.
Tumbles over bathroom stalls that witnessed
legions of coke-impaired sex.
Bumps open office doors
where the evening take
is buried in a safe under the shag.
Where managers were hired
and fired in that order.
Whirls on roller blading wafts over
bar counters wiped of citric juice infused drinks
and spewed spittle flicks, from wanting
to be heard above the Bee Gees.
Out through the velvet
ropes that are lifted for the wealthy, connected,
attractive, and hip. A democracy of success,
however flitting, while bouncers calculate status,
repelling our wandering wind to rise,
reenter and circulate,
absorbing in its whirlwind
past dancers of sambas,
ragtime, and flappers.
Hauling out through the back door,
its blended mixed media hybrid
or dump in the dustbin.
The wind or people mocking the other,
touching and carrying along remnants
of scenes pushed aside, tagged
for further reference, gathered
to author something new.
Poetry,
Heroes of Vietnam
Gunships hovered above the treetops
while the spotter dropped down in
his bubble helicopter to peer into
shaded hooches for targets,
a job few survived.
We later became friends,
though the war always
stood between us.
One day, in heated
argument, I spat out,
All the heroes went to Canada.
It hovers over me still.
Poetry,
Death Is But A Chimera
Will you follow me into the consuming
Wretchedness of my nightly dreams
To visit where my sorrows lie
Will you hold my trembling heart
In the darkness of starless skies and
Soothe me as my salty tears flow
Will you take my hand and
Assure me my fears are untrue
And the alien thoughts that
Taunt me forever are false
Will you try to understand that
I am caged inside my nightmares
Where hopefulness fails to appear
And in my waking thoughts
Will you hold me close whilst
A wild comet with glaring
Plumage flies across the sky and
Tell me the ghastly earth where
War reigns and fields of blood moan
And the eerie melody of killing is unreal
Will you convince me there still lingers
A holy sweetness in this tattered world
Of conflict bitterness and war and that
Death is but a chimera
Poetry,
Beginning With The Moon
You opened the shutters at dawn,
the weather was clear and it was very cold,
you took in the still
mountains’ diamond outlines,
jagged edges like blades,
Moon and Venus hanging there
just above the top.
Bright, round moon’s face like
a cat’s, or a child’s, when they stare
stunned by their own presence.
You called me to the balcony
so I could see those essential shapes,
radiant rotund fullness
above massive stillness.
For some reason I missed Venus,
I was shivering and couldn’t locate it,
you were surprised at how easily
one can lose sight of dots
as of directions and the plain
presence of things.
Later we walked, or daydreamed,
on the narrow road to the deep north,
that was a railroad once, and at once
everything was both present and past,
our crackling steps on the freshly raked snow,
the rocks carved into the aching blue,
the instantaneous neatness of frost
after skiing in the wood, frost
on our guide’s eyelashes, on skin
slightly burnt by it, and the very words
frosted too, swarming away on the snow
like flashes of spun sugar,
or encrusted like the ice on my beard
of thirty years before
when I had first knocked on your door
on the last night of the year.
So, we began with the moon
above knuckled mountains,
like a meaning
simply unveiled.
Memory’s countenance
slashed by the present’s blade.
Poetry,
As We Are
Signals signs calling colors
Are a passage to nothing
Dying metaphor but also
Children of the heart
It is all we have
Sounds colors
Amens at the throat testify
Against reality
Angels see Blind
We surface for signals
Dust on its way to dust
Stumble at a rose
Spiny barriers at scalloped flesh
Its many colored scent breaks us
Sometimes a song burns
At the edge Below
The mourning dove’s round sounds
Continue throaty bruised
One instant holding slow
We stay
Translating bird song
Poetry,
A Word From The Tree
Marathon gunner in the fast lane
Hastening faster and faster,
You that break the home barrier but
Hang in the void of the morning's dash
Held back by the hog of the rush,
Fidgeting the taillights'
Gating hurry to the sixth power
While your family's lives asteroid by;
Slow up by the lush garden side
And smell the satined moments;
Pleasing is the scented bask
In the warm temporariness
Of fleeting ephemeral's harvest;
Shelter under Life's tree,
Tasting the clustered presence
And the fruitage of your offspring.
Lay down the bulging semi of yet to be driven
That Sisyphean hauling up never's pass,
Up the mountain of perpetual regress
And stroll in the rainbowed 'midst'
Of the infinite trees of brief
Up the lightly leaved path
Welled in the soft shading of Now,
Oh needful son.
Previously published in La Fenetre International
Literary Magazine, Summer 2007
Poetry,
A Line In The Sand
thinking of Arnold's Dover Beach
a numb reality taken aback by
the unwavering wind
the consistent existence of death
floating from the ideal to the grave
but I've fallen in love with a new
metaphor
a beacon of rigorous hope
more pristine than a dream
and more resolute than cessation
here I've drawn a line in the sand
one side is to live for life
the other is to learn how
Visual Arts, Poetry,
On Wealth
Self-named cowherds of the world, they walk
for miles on legs reed thin and kudu long.
They learned from youth to dance in Maasai style
with springs for feet to jump Air-Jordan strong,
well-nourished by the cows they tend and count
like living gold, cows they milk and bleed
with just-so frequency in set amounts,
cows they thank and praise by wearing beads,
elaborate strings that ripple white and red.
But a man must pay her father precious cattle
each time he settles on a girl to wed —
how many wives true measure of his mettle.
So, streaking the veldt like crimson-breasted birds
sons, swathed in blood-red prints, attend the herds.
"On Wealth" by Carol Kanter and the accompanying photo by Arnie Kanter are from their book No Secret Where Elephants Walk, which includes Carol's poems and Arnie's photos from three trips to Africa. You may preview the first twenty pages of the book at www.dualartspress.com
About
Front Porch Review is a quarterly online literary magazine. It is the creation of Glen Phillips of Park Ridge, IL, who toiled in the vineyards of educational and IT publishing as editor, writer, product designer, subject matter expert, business manager, and other menial roles not worth mentioning. After forty years of such effort, he decided that the best he could do for the common good was to build an electronic front porch displaying the significant artistic work of our older generation, men and women coming late to the creativity game but still with something of value to express.
A front porch ─ typically a formal, mannered appendage can also be concrete steps, wooden planks, iron railings, cardboard boxes, even a wool rug at the entrance of a Bedouin's tent. Whatever its form, a front porch is where we, young and old, congregate; where we assemble, gather, mingle, congeal, where we get together. And once there we speculate, pontificate, prevaricate, and expostulate; occasionally we speak words of universal truth.
A front porch is not a kitchen table. A kitchen table is for family matters, a front porch is for societal issues, those concerns which transcend time and space, about which we all have opinions but rarely a viable solution. Through short fiction, poetry, essays, and photography, these opinions describe the world from the vantage point of acquired knowledge and experience, assets not yet earned by younger creators. The message, not stylistics, dominates.
Envision its contributors sitting on a porch of your own device, each offering a manuscript or photo intended to intrigue, beguile, fascinate. Sit beside them, attend to their words and pictures, and discover shards of wisdom.
And in the words of my attorney: All future rights to material published in Front Porch Review are retained by the individual authors and photographers.
Glen Phillips
Publisher
Submit
We publish thoughtful, provocative fiction, poetry, essays and visual arts.
∙ Submissions are accepted year-round.
∙ If accepted, submissions may appear in any issue.
. Biographical information will be requested for accepted submissions.
∙ If your submission was previously published, please cite a reference.
∙ Simultaneous submissions should be accompanied by a statement stating so.
∙ If your work is accepted elsewhere prior to our evaluation, please notify us.
∙ No erotica or works which rely on explicit language or gratuitous violence.
∙ All work must be original and in English.
∙ Fiction and essays can be up to 5000 words.
∙ No novel excerpts
. No memoirs
∙ No genre fiction; e.g., horror, science fiction, mysteries
. Fiction should deal with critical, universal aspects of human nature.
∙ Essays should treat a contemporary topic and express a reasoned opinion.
∙ Poems should have strong images and concise, evocative language.
∙ Photos which elicit the comment, "How interesting!" are desired.
∙ Submit photography as .jpg files; do not send .tif or .bmp files.
. Accepted photos may be cropped or reduced to fit the available space.
∙ Prose and poetry may be accompanied by one or more relevant photos.
∙ Mac users, please be sure that your files are readable by Windows 7.
∙ This magazine does not currently pay upon publication.
Accepted material will be edited. If changes are deemed significant, the contributor will be notified and given an opportunity to accept the changes or request that the piece be withdrawn from publication.
Send submissions to glenhphillips@att.net. Send 1 prose piece, 1-5 poems, or 1-4 photos at a time. For prose or poetry, type or paste your submission into the body of the e-mail message. We will not open any unsolicited print attachments. Photos, however, should be sent as attachments. Include your name and e-mail address.
Please expect to wait up to one month for a reply. Occasionally, with e-mail, there are technical difficulties. We cannot be responsible for delay or loss of submissions. To check on the status of your submission after one month has passed, please send a message to glenhphillips@att.net
By submitting your work to Front Porch Review, you grant us the right to archive your work online for an indefinite period of time. You retain all other rights. Once the issue featuring your work has been published, you are free to republish your work as you wish, online and/or in print. You are also welcome to create a link to Front Porch Review (http://www.frontporchrvw.com/) from your personal Website.
Donate
As they are free, online versions of Front Porch Review do not cover production costs. Excellent issues are the result of generous reader support. If you are interested in contributing a donation, please send your check payable to:
Glen Phillips
837 Parkwood
Park Ridge, IL 60068
Thank you, thank you for any amount.
Contact
I want this magazine to be appropriate for the intended audience. Therefore, I hope you, the reader, will react to the published material. I hope you will send your reactions, questions, concerns, or suggestions for improvement to me at glenhphillips@att.net. By doing so you will help the various contributors improve their skills, and you will help me publish the magazine my audience wants.
If this is your first experience with this magazine, and you want to be notified when the next issue is available, e-mail me at glenhphillips@att.net.
Glen Phillips
Publisher