Randy Smoot is a retired General Electric employee. He spent years working in the Chicago district, wearing his nerves and fingertips to traceless emptiness.
On Saturday, Randy's son and daughter-in-law invited him to the Museum of Science and Industry. "We have tickets to the Harry Potter exhibit!" He could hear Sam squealing in the background as he listened to his son on the phone. Goddamn witches and wizards and froo-froo pansy stuff, thought Randy. They'll be sorry when that kid grows up wearing a skirt and a wig.
"I really don't know, son," he responded, "My knee's been killin' me this week and you know I play cards with the boys at 6 pm."
He didn't bother to tell him that the game had been canceled due to the church potluck. Randy wasn't going. He never went to church after Norma passed. For a moment, the thought of a schedule-less Saturday seemed appealing.
"Come on, dad," his son pressed, "It'd mean the world Sam."
"Okay."
On Saturday morning, he rode in front on the way to the museum. He liked riding in front especially when he couldn't drive. Sitting in back was horseshit if you are the man of the house and Randy was certain he wasn't going to endure that get-up Sam was in. "Why's the boy wearing a cloak like some pocket watch salesman?!" He'd asked his daughter-in-law. She had laughed at him.
"It's part of the fun," she responded.
Later, after the submarine exhibit and the coal mine, Randy and his family approached the entrance for the Harry Potter display. "On second thought, I think I'll meet you downstairs at the entrance. You know, near that train."
"But Dad!" his son protested.
Sam was already jumping and raising his hand to answer Potter quiz questions.
He wouldn't notice.
Randy reached the large train display and noticed a tour began in five minutes. He followed a group onto the historic vehicle and listened as the tour guide explained the train's speed, saying it was known to cut travel time in half from Chicago to Denver.
Time.
Something he didn't have a lot of, he felt, listening and stuffing his museum programs in the front of his jeans. He looked up and noticed a young blond woman looking at the bundle shoved halfway down his pants.
She looked concerned.
Probably thinks I'm too old or stupid to know not to put them there, he thought. Probably wants to tell me to shove 'em in my back pocket. His rationale for being able to keep track of the programs would be lost on her, he was certain.
So he smiled at her - a big toothy grin.
She'd think he was a lunatic, out for his last adventure before commitment.
The woman turned away, stifling a giggle.
As he stepped off the train, he noticed his family - Sam carrying a wand and waving it about. He couldn't wait to tell his grandpa about the tour.
Holding the arm rail to ease his way down from the platform, Randy smirked and then gave a "Whoot!" as he jumped the last step.
The pamphlets fell to the floor.
Straightening up a bit, Randy picked up the pamphlets and swatted his son playfully.
Startled, his family led him out of the museum and back to the car.
"Here's to livin'" was all he could keep saying.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Sidebar #2: The Blog
She still has the blog, the one she copied and pasted from the old Myspace page.
Just in case.
Just in case she should ever forget why she despises him - why she will never, ever return a call, a letter, a card, an email,...anything.
He had the balls to make her public.
She had the balls to keep it private and use it as a reminder to keep herself in check.
It wasn't that he was anything extraordinary in the grand scheme of things; it was that she felt sorry for him - felt sorrier for maintaining the compassion a little too long, a little after it was likely decent.
She received a card once, the old-fashioned way. It read something like "Happy Birthday. Hope your life is better without me in it."
That was just like him.
Next time she sent a package of his stuff, she'd COD him.
By the way, her note would read: The shirt really was in the Dumpster.
Years later, she has no regrets and no longer wonders if he is okay. She imagines he is; off fighting his fight and writing down everything - using everyone as a character rather than living in the now.
Some people are like that, you know.
They move through life attracting friendships and suffering them long enough, thoroughly enough, to sit down later and write about it.
Just in case.
Just in case she should ever forget why she despises him - why she will never, ever return a call, a letter, a card, an email,...anything.
He had the balls to make her public.
She had the balls to keep it private and use it as a reminder to keep herself in check.
It wasn't that he was anything extraordinary in the grand scheme of things; it was that she felt sorry for him - felt sorrier for maintaining the compassion a little too long, a little after it was likely decent.
She received a card once, the old-fashioned way. It read something like "Happy Birthday. Hope your life is better without me in it."
That was just like him.
Next time she sent a package of his stuff, she'd COD him.
By the way, her note would read: The shirt really was in the Dumpster.
Years later, she has no regrets and no longer wonders if he is okay. She imagines he is; off fighting his fight and writing down everything - using everyone as a character rather than living in the now.
Some people are like that, you know.
They move through life attracting friendships and suffering them long enough, thoroughly enough, to sit down later and write about it.
Sidebar #1 - Another letter unsent letter by Noodle
You,
I don't know how to tell you this, but you're not the only one who feels things. Listen, it'd be easier if I were a woman, I guess; I mean, you guys get to cry and carry on all the time anyway. It's all that 'weaker sex' bullshit they keep telling us to believe.
I have to hand it to you, you're not weak. I think I made a mistake in overprotecting your feelings because frankly, you scare the piss out of me with your stolid, icy way of dealing with all things weird.
I mean, who else could be you and still be, well-adjusted?
I don't know and the more I think about why I'm upset and the more I think about why I shouldn't be is making this letter just another psychotic rambling I need to drink myself under.
This piece of paper is going right into the garbage when I'm done.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I still want to talk to you and write to you, but I'm past being able to say "I'm sorry" all the time and I'm well past being able to deal with my guilt over it. I've numbed it down a little and I think I could function as your acquaintance once and awhile.
Maybe not.
You have every right to be angry with me over this. You have every right to be right and to die on that mountain of right and yet, I keep hoping you won't.
I hate that you're right.
I hate that you were right.
And I hate that you will probably prove me wrong again.
You're some kind of pent up, emotionally bound up martyr and I'm sick of that. When's the top going to blow, really? How much longer are we all going to wait on your public catastrophe?
Not enough fuel yet?
Smarter, more productive women owned up to 'bitch' a long time ago and honestly, I think they're happier than you are.
Yes, I said that. I wrote it. I meant it.
Try on a bad day for size. Crumple that up with a little pissed off, a little wound up rage, and fire.
See where that gets you.
I'd like to drink a beer with you and discuss this fatal flaw sometime, but I'm pretty certain you'd be unavailable for counsel. I've pushed you pretty far off and you'd be a glutton for hurt if you actually took me up on it.
You've started to not return my calls already.
Dammit. I thought you'd do that to everyone, but me.
I'm just saying to be you. And I know what you're gonna say 'this is me, this is who I am,' but we both know how angry you are and we both know how hurt you've been and you keep throwing yourself on some proverbial sword to save face.
Who cares about your face?
Guess I'm offering myself up.
Throw the first punch.
I'm ready.
N.
I don't know how to tell you this, but you're not the only one who feels things. Listen, it'd be easier if I were a woman, I guess; I mean, you guys get to cry and carry on all the time anyway. It's all that 'weaker sex' bullshit they keep telling us to believe.
I have to hand it to you, you're not weak. I think I made a mistake in overprotecting your feelings because frankly, you scare the piss out of me with your stolid, icy way of dealing with all things weird.
I mean, who else could be you and still be, well-adjusted?
I don't know and the more I think about why I'm upset and the more I think about why I shouldn't be is making this letter just another psychotic rambling I need to drink myself under.
This piece of paper is going right into the garbage when I'm done.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I still want to talk to you and write to you, but I'm past being able to say "I'm sorry" all the time and I'm well past being able to deal with my guilt over it. I've numbed it down a little and I think I could function as your acquaintance once and awhile.
Maybe not.
You have every right to be angry with me over this. You have every right to be right and to die on that mountain of right and yet, I keep hoping you won't.
I hate that you're right.
I hate that you were right.
And I hate that you will probably prove me wrong again.
You're some kind of pent up, emotionally bound up martyr and I'm sick of that. When's the top going to blow, really? How much longer are we all going to wait on your public catastrophe?
Not enough fuel yet?
Smarter, more productive women owned up to 'bitch' a long time ago and honestly, I think they're happier than you are.
Yes, I said that. I wrote it. I meant it.
Try on a bad day for size. Crumple that up with a little pissed off, a little wound up rage, and fire.
See where that gets you.
I'd like to drink a beer with you and discuss this fatal flaw sometime, but I'm pretty certain you'd be unavailable for counsel. I've pushed you pretty far off and you'd be a glutton for hurt if you actually took me up on it.
You've started to not return my calls already.
Dammit. I thought you'd do that to everyone, but me.
I'm just saying to be you. And I know what you're gonna say 'this is me, this is who I am,' but we both know how angry you are and we both know how hurt you've been and you keep throwing yourself on some proverbial sword to save face.
Who cares about your face?
Guess I'm offering myself up.
Throw the first punch.
I'm ready.
N.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
What the Body Says when She Refuses
Next time, when I design the map
It’s going to go a little something like this:
Alright, listen to me.
Feel what I am saying to you,
One who turns the blind eye to the fact
That I control just about everything
Around here,
The forgiveness must stop.
No more apology take back talk throughs –
They don’t do anything to protect
What is left in this green, yet cracked home
You and I built together.
Map of the Body –
*You get to choose:
Path number one: The torso
No, I don’t want salad-almond-faux-chocolate-paste-nutrition landfill. No, I will not have you on top this time. No, you do not get a say in this transmission. No, it is not just about the lime. No, taste my face once and realize it does only as it pleases. It is not concerned with you or any of your accouterments, regardless of how big they are. No, I am not impressed by the status of your death brain noodle education. No, it really is just about your green glass eye, shitass. I expected it to feel like the place between water and sand. It did not. And you knew this all along. No, I did not lose the forty and some odd moments that made me this slenderized, tenderized version who really could rotate your tired face and wash her hands of it.
Path number two: The extremities
Yes, I require more than a moment to intensify and do you justice. Yes, I really did work the body to peak position without panties. Yes, this is what I look like – all over, the place you keep saying is somewhere between imperfect and monsoon-white-light disaster. (I will have to look that up; I don’t think you are right about that one.) Yes, my thigh can meld you into the metal you were made of and then pour you out through the eyeglass of those nine months you said it would be okay and then took it back. You are an Indian giver and yes, I know that is not politically correct. Yes, I told her she had to wait a bit longer for my derailment. From my own mess, I came up green and smiling. Where were you? Someplace I imagine – the transition that exists between water and the steam of this mess.
Path number three: What is yet definable above the shoulders
I can only be one composition in this spectacle. Night blankets the discord as I – in my own mistake-trivial-pursuit-without-chocolate money – watch burning people burn on like they are only dipping-spoons in bread. I do not understand this smoldering. They always ask – what are you made of? I answer just this, because I have not found my way in the universe: I am blood orange and concrete with a sprig shooting up – always someplace searching for what is next on the earth. Did I mention to you that one time that my real eyes are green?
It’s going to go a little something like this:
Alright, listen to me.
Feel what I am saying to you,
One who turns the blind eye to the fact
That I control just about everything
Around here,
The forgiveness must stop.
No more apology take back talk throughs –
They don’t do anything to protect
What is left in this green, yet cracked home
You and I built together.
Map of the Body –
*You get to choose:
Path number one: The torso
No, I don’t want salad-almond-faux-chocolate-paste-nutrition landfill. No, I will not have you on top this time. No, you do not get a say in this transmission. No, it is not just about the lime. No, taste my face once and realize it does only as it pleases. It is not concerned with you or any of your accouterments, regardless of how big they are. No, I am not impressed by the status of your death brain noodle education. No, it really is just about your green glass eye, shitass. I expected it to feel like the place between water and sand. It did not. And you knew this all along. No, I did not lose the forty and some odd moments that made me this slenderized, tenderized version who really could rotate your tired face and wash her hands of it.
Path number two: The extremities
Yes, I require more than a moment to intensify and do you justice. Yes, I really did work the body to peak position without panties. Yes, this is what I look like – all over, the place you keep saying is somewhere between imperfect and monsoon-white-light disaster. (I will have to look that up; I don’t think you are right about that one.) Yes, my thigh can meld you into the metal you were made of and then pour you out through the eyeglass of those nine months you said it would be okay and then took it back. You are an Indian giver and yes, I know that is not politically correct. Yes, I told her she had to wait a bit longer for my derailment. From my own mess, I came up green and smiling. Where were you? Someplace I imagine – the transition that exists between water and the steam of this mess.
Path number three: What is yet definable above the shoulders
I can only be one composition in this spectacle. Night blankets the discord as I – in my own mistake-trivial-pursuit-without-chocolate money – watch burning people burn on like they are only dipping-spoons in bread. I do not understand this smoldering. They always ask – what are you made of? I answer just this, because I have not found my way in the universe: I am blood orange and concrete with a sprig shooting up – always someplace searching for what is next on the earth. Did I mention to you that one time that my real eyes are green?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Throwing Stones
It is always much simpler, at first,To throw stones -
Rather than,
Rather than -
Move the mountain...
To each his own, I suppose,
Though I don't suppose -
You could tell me the difference between
Weighing your pocket
With stone
And climbing the proverbial mountain?
Seems both would -
Could -
Bring you down
To
Death,
Or at least
Slow your movement
To the breaking point
Where you are no longer
Yourself
But part of something
Much larger than
Stone.
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