Cracked Part III: Bryan's Story

He turned off the Jeep's ignition and leaned back in the driver's seat. Another job lost, another stinging rejection still raw and jangling around his brain.
"I can't fucking believe this."

Only an hour before he'd been sitting in Jake's office, legs crossed, listening to the accusation.
"You've been late at least fifteen times since you've started. On several of those occasions, you were tardy by at least forty-five minutes. You've only been with us a few months."

Bryan had inadvertently shrugged and rolled his eyes. He knew he had before he could stop himself. Something about those lunch time beers made it easier for him to do this without really thinking.

"Did you just roll your eyes?" Jake had asked.
"I didn't mean to," he responded.

Jake shifted in his beat up, second class, fake leather chair and then looked Bryan right in the eye.
"Listen pal, we know about the drinking."

Bryan had been mid-thought - something like "Jake the Fake with a leather snake" - when his boss' words hit home.

"Oh," was all he could muster, gazing down.

"It's really this simple, Bryan. You're fired. Get your stuff out of your locker, check in with HR, and leave. We can't have stuff like last Friday happen here."

Bryan stood, turned to go, and then in a flood of panic, turned back to Jake:
"Listen, man. I really need this job. I'm sorry about the other day and I'm sorry about the tardies and the eye rolling and that issue with Belinda that you won't talk to me about. I have to have a job. I have kids. I have to make a living. I have to do this. Please reconsider."

Jake stared back, eyes widening. It had been one thing to show up drunk on the job last Friday and run the company car into the warehouse docking bay at a pleasant 35 mph. It was something else entirely to reference Bryan's affair with Jake's wife.

Bryan and Belinda met at the company Christmas party. Having shown up three vodka tonics in, Bryan moved around the room chatting up the pretty executive's wives and girlfriends having told his date at the last minute he had to cancel. For some odd reason, one he'd never quite understand, he felt he needed to fly solo. He casually chatted with Jake and the seniors, before heading to the bar for whiskey.

Belinda, all 5'6 of her, wrapped scantily in gold sequins and with her dark chestnut hair falling down her back, was held up by the bar stool. She sat quietly observing Bryan as he walked up, running her manicured nail around the rim of her wine glass.
"Hello. You must be the new guy," she'd said.
That's what she'd called him all night long, "new guy." Bryan remembered that much.

Two hours later, they were peeling each other apart in the concierge closet downstairs, Belinda breathing in his ear to "Come on" and "Just do it hard before the party is over." He'd taken her number that night, driving home inebriated and collapsed into sleep.

For the next two weeks, they hopscotched between bar bathrooms, his car, her car, her health club, an elevator at the Sheridan Center, and his home office. It was when Jake caught them in the couple's bed that things really went south.

Now he was here, staring at the bewildered Jake.

"Get out of here," he snarled. "Get help. Get a program. Get therapy. Get your own God Damn woman. Get out."

It's really that simple, he thought. You screw the boss' wife, you get fired. You drink too much, you get fired. You screw up in general, you get fired.

"Fired," he murmured aloud, "Like, fired from your own fucking marriage fired."

He climbed out of the Jeep and walked toward Sticky's bar on Fourth. Sticky's had become his favorite hang out spot of late. It was quiet, dark, and relatively attractive people came in to watch the game or play pool. Nothing special. Just like him.

He plopped down at a corner table, ordered a beer, and took a look at his phone. He could text or call anyone right now, he thought. He thought about calling his soon-to-be ex-wife, who had moved on a year ago. It would really creep her out if he called about something other than the boys now. He thought about calling his boys, who were staying with their grandparents for the week. He thought about calling Stephanie, a marketing intern he'd met at a club two nights ago whom he'd been inappropriately texting for the last 24 hours in hopes she'd invite him over to her place. He thought about calling his old friends, the ones who didn't know enough about his fucked up life to still talk to him. He set the phone down.

He decided he'd call in a few hours. It was 11:30 AM and there was a really cute waitress on today.

Cracked: The Length of a Year, Part II

The weather turned bitter cold and no heat setting in the car seemed to help at the moment. She flipped the dial and turned up the radio to compensate for all of the hot air. It seemed to be the right thing to do, in general - turn up the music, push the heat.

As the music blared, she drove south, trying not to think too much on the latest developments. She talked to herself. She made a comment to God. She swore once. Maybe twice. She pounded once on the steering wheel and gave another motorist a dirty look.

Her face twisted into a half-sneer, half-frown and a sob caught in the back of her throat the minute a ballad came on.

"I'm losing it," she muttered, wiping her face.
She told herself that in the grand scheme of things, the work was not a big deal. In the end, this wasn't going to be how people remembered her.
"Seriously, she muttered, get over yourself."

Over the past year, she'd had several conversations with herself in a vain attempt to satisfy her urge to rectify her current discomfort. She knew she'd placed too much of her own identity into something completely unworthy, and yet, it's so easy to do that nowadays.

As she drove, she could only remember one thing that ever made things seem a bit more palatable, more acceptable.
It was the only path to sanity in a life that was looking a lot less organized than when she first entered it.

She continued driving, continued battling her own mind. She told her heart to wait. It'd get its say.

She had things to do - places to go - people to see - obligations to meet.



The night came. It passed.

In the morning, things were different.
She cracked open the book again.

Cracked: The Length of a Year

"You know, a year's really a long time," her friend said.

"Compared to what?" she replied.

"You know, compared to everything! What's the hold up? I mean, you either are or you aren't going to do this. It's been a YEAR."

She sighed, took a drink of her iced tea, and rolled her eyes around for a moment.

"Well?" her friend continued.

"I don't know," she answered. "I've learned something in the length of a year and that's that nothing is ever timely. I've resorted to relying on Fate, the Universe, and my own sense of self-worth."

"You're crazy. What about your eggs?"

"Eggs. Yes. I eat more eggs now." she answered.

While Most Weren't Watching...

She returned to her post having slept for a quite a long time.

Thorn

Sometimes, all of the compliments in the world cannot ease the pain of one, unintentional criticism.

Such is loneliness.

What Is Left

Inside me
Is a pocket
Of glass
Refusing to break.

No one can touch
Between color
And breath
Residing there.

It is secret –

Something like blossom fire
Or dewy expiration.

It holds me together –

This private sanctuary.

It is not solitude I fear,
But loss of what is still precious –
The crimson flutter within
That keeps me whole.

The Only Part of You that I Remember

"It was a long time ago," she said mildly, staring out the window, "It wasn't like I cheated or anything."

"No, but you were a wreck back then," her friend replied. "You had to go and pick the absolute worst fuck-up in history after that," she added, taking a defiant swig of her vanilla latte.

She looked up at the ceiling and smirked. Her friend noticed, adding, "So whatever happened after he left? You never did say."

It had been only a few years ago -
That day when she realized she was taken in and taken down,
for a fool.
Again.
In a passionate moment (the first in several years),
She grabbed the remaining clothing from her hamper, her dryer, her floor.
In the heap, a pink collared shirt - his favorite.
In her running shorts and sneakers, she went outside in the rain.
The air was moist and crisp, her skin prickled against the assault.
It took only a few seconds to toss it all,
Up and over,
Ashes to ashes, as they say.
She listened for them to thud against the floor of the Dumpster,
Imagining his prized clothing amidst soiled diapers, last night's meatloaf, a broken crack pipe.
Apartments were anything, if not civilized back then.
Then turning, she ran.
Never looking back.

A week later, she mailed everything else - half-eaten cereal, a gas station receipt, an old toothbrush.
Her only regret -
Not sending C.O.D.
The rest, was history.

"Nothing," she responded, grinning.
Some small victories remain silent.

Slanting It

I told you I loved you once
And the truth is
I lied.
Just that one time though,
It's not personal,
I justified it with not hurting

Your feelings.
You have them right?

It was easier to spare you
Then
Tell the truth later,
Once you were out

Of my way.
Sometimes saying love is so hard,
Hard on the feelings
You know?

So it's been like, what, some years?
I better tell you.
Statistics show that truth-tellers are happier -
Have nice homes, children, and corporate offices.

I was never good at math.
1+1=1

But I slanted things once
And wanted you to know.
It's not for you - it never really was.

But you -
No hard feelings.
Peace.

Old Salt

A bulky brown 8.5/11 package lay innocently in the mailbox. Only her address scrawled on the flattest side indicated that it may be intended for her.
What was with the mail lately anyway?!

The package showed no obvious signs of postage. This was startling. It suggested a late night drive-by dropping, the person aware of where she lived, which mailbox belonged to her.

Her name was not on the mail box.
And her name was not on the package.
At least, she couldn't see it.

She gripped the package and headed inside, dropping her work bag at her side.
What the hell was this?
Images of mailbox bombs and suspicious correspondence filled her mind.
"That's crazy," she muttered.

This was nothing. This was small town America.
If someone wanted to drop mail personally for her, then fine. So be it.
At least it wasn't a court summons.

She poured a glass of Malbec, perhaps a little too early, sipped it, and proceeded to open the brown package.
As she tore the seal, and stared, shocked, at the crisp white pages that lay maliciously on the counter.

A yellow Post-It was on the top page.
"My Thesis" was all it read.

She gulped and set her glass down.
A notation on the page indicated publication.

Her stomach heaved.
He was published.

And the contents lay before her, having already been seen by the world.

Tangent #16: Fear

Fear =

Waking up one morning only to discover that again, this was only a dream.
Just a dream.

"A dream, a dream is all this can be."
(Halogen Moon)

Tangent #15: Old Wounds

After awhile, one gets used to the scrape.
After awhile, it's only your brain that tells you to hurt.
Just a little.
Just for a little while.
It's just for show.
Old wounds heal quickly.
On the surface.
And isn't that what matters?
Old wounds can heal quickly.
When it matters.

Love doesn't hurt,
But failure does.

Tangent #14: Coffee

It was a crisp morning. The sky was just waking up and he had gotten out of bed way too early. As he moved out of bed, he saw her breathing, the blanket moving up and down as she snored. No sense in waking her. Her day didn't start for hours.

He padded downstairs, passing the living room to the kitchen. He pushed the button on the coffee maker. He'd set it up the night before. He waited, then grabbed a mug from the shelf. He poured a strong cup and walked to the back porch where he could enjoy the brew and the sunrise.

Somewhere, he could hear a school bus door closing and a police siren.

Somewhere, she was getting his note card. He had been stupid to send it. She would be stupid to open it. He knew she'd never reply or even try to find him.
But he had needed closure. He needed a reason to not think about her at all anymore.
He didn't love her, not at all, but he couldn't stand the thought of her not loving him. It hurt.

Frowning, he took a sip of coffee and stared into the yard. The car would need an oil change soon. The grass would have to be mowed due to the unprecedented warm weather. The box in the back of the garage would have to be destroyed...soon. He gazed at the garage, making a mental note of the box's place in the back. It was buried under bikes, bags, other boxes, books, and other pieces of his past that made little sense to him now.

His wife didn't know he kept it when they moved in together. It held his journal, among other things, and he'd be humiliated if she found it. And yet, he couldn't figure out why he'd be ashamed. She was his wife, after all. Love unconditional...and all that.

He crossed his legs and took another sip. The last year went by so fast. In no time, he'd be one step closer to adulthood.

He had a good life.
He had a life.
He had the life he often dreamed about when he was little.

He finished the coffee and stood, looking out toward the sun.
Soon, he'd be at work.

It's about surviving, he thought. It can't be about what I want anymore.

Tangent #13: It Always Feels the Same, Only Different

The mail wasn't going to sort itself. Eventually the mailbox was going to explode from the pressure. She had to go pick it up.

The mail didn't sort itself. She hefted a clumsy pile of letters, magazines, bills, and unwanted solicitations to the counter. Dropped them. They fell like weighted leaves, spiraling down in a little tornado. She smirked to herself. This was the mail carrier's 'Fuck You,' a refusal to stack the mail in an orderly, pyramid fashion.

Bills.
Magazines.
Unwanted ads.
Invitations to weddings, baby showers, wedding showers...
Bills.
Unwanted mail addressed to "Resident."

As she sifted through the heap of paper, she came across a small note that had swirled down to the kitchen floor and pasted itself against the refrigerator. It had only her name on it.

She opened the envelope and found a small index card inside. It read only the following lines.

I decided not to wait and figure this thing out.
I got married.
I'm going to be happy.
Hope you are too.

Only one person could have sent that card. It felt just like it does every other time. Only different. Like her morning coffee, same brew, different day.

As she gripped the card, she trembled slightly, felt the lump rise in her throat. It always made her well up a little when this happened. Her mind roll-a-dexed back through memories and then flipped forward again. No sense even thinking anymore.
No sense in feeling anymore.
She placed her mind on autopilot.

Instead of thinking, she went to the patio, sat down, and lit a cigarette. She toyed with the lighter, then crumpled the card and lit the end. It flamed, sputtered, and she dropped it on the cold ground, smashing it with the toe of her boot.
It was ash.
He was an ash.

Same ceremony. Different day.

Maternal

"I think you'd make an excellent mother and I hope the "plans" lead that way for you - we need more excellent moms in the world these days,"
He said, grinning, the promise of a third fresh in his brain.

"I don't know," she replied, "I find that I can't dream that way anymore."

Hester Prynne

Unorthodox heroine
With her white pearl to rose red -
Some would say
A love like that came from Walt Disney...

But these are only words -
Letters
To A

Missed opportunity to chance
Passion under a pulpit.
Was the pit even worth it?

Is the story, as written, even true?
Some say history; some say fiction,
Or was it friction...

That caused the unsightly, collared mess?
So many questions to a silent lip.
So many burdens,
Under a pulpit.

Worn sharply at the breast.
Seems only the woman could pass
A white pearl through rose red.
Funny, the irony, of wickedness

Born solemnly against the letter,
Under the pulpit,
And aimed sharply,
For the rest.

Ignored

Red balloon,
Your taut face aimed high.
I try not to cry too much
Watching you fly.

Deflated, you were pocket-sized
And in need of a just enough breath,
Like that kiss we never finished.
(I would still finish it, if you'd turn this way.)

Red balloon, I can still see you,
Arms up, tail down,
Face bright with anticipation,
Flushed for something, something...

I can't quite put my finger
Around. The lost elastic paper
Rock, scizzors...
These games are so hard for me to play
This year.

Are you 98 I wonder? 100?
Red balloon, I still see you,
The face of a sun, cloudless,
Needing only enough wind
To bear through -

You're whole.

I could cross my legs to this
And say a quiet prayer for your journey
Though I must admit,
I don't know what balloons would pray to...

Maybe a sun or moon or a book
Of pages once written, not responded to,
Speaking, listening...I don't really know.

But when you drift, I still keep watch,
Holding one thread of the knot,
Broken.

On Practice...

For days, she attempted to plan what she was going to say to him. As summer emerged and the initial shock rippled outward, she made inward, emotional notes.

And she cut her hair.
Twice.

But when the day came, it was more about just getting there. No matter the countless, unsent emails or the lengthy written drafts.

The experts say face-to-face is always better.

And she got there first.
Ordered black coffee. No cream. No sugar.

When it was finally her turn, her mind peeled back for the pages.
Retrieved nothing.
The blue void sighed back at her and she was left with only one phrase.

"I thought you'd love me for a long time."



And upon this, she prepared for everything else.

On Transition

Reflection on the first weeks

It was a time when coffee fixed the bloodshot eyeball
And waffled face.
It was a time when a cigarette
Meant no harm at all.
It was a time when lovers
Could do it behind the sofa.
It was a time when notebooks
Weren't required.
It was a time when music meant the whole
Space of an hour or a T-shirt.
It was a time when 3 AM was no different
Than 6 AM.
It was a time when things were pink
And covered in kisses.
It was a time when words were spoken
Between eye, hand, and toe.
It was a time when sun stayed awake
A little longer.
It was a time when roses were nothing
And daisies meant everything.
It was the time of wine
And whiskey lip-smacking.

It was the time when the human gained on
the season for but a moment.

Tangent 11: Training Wheels

When she learned to ride a bicycle, she was only four or five years-old. The bike was red, silver, and had been a boy's bike before being converted into a gleaming, mean machine, just for her.

When her father brought the bike home, a surprise, she giggled with delight each time the bike tipped from side to side, the training wheels bolstering her up, keeping her aligned and moving forward. Training wheels taught her to ride.
She didn't keep them on the shiny red bike for long.

Soon, she rode her bicycle everywhere, without the third and fourth wheel.

She never forgot the help though, the feeling of security, balance, and soft push back up each time things threatened to fall. She tried to apply this sense of reassurance in all facets of her life.

Who wouldn't appreciate training wheels? she thought.
Who doesn't want that uncensored, cushioned balance that comes from loving reassurance?

Only those who ride bikes at age four or five love training wheels.
They are meant to be outgrown, out-loved, outlived.
She learned.



When the fourth man left and fell in love with another, the training abruptly -

Stopped.

Tangent #10 - Never mind #9

The cold air makes us feel funny things sometimes. Like how she remembers the summer of 1992 in just one clip:

A setting sun over a middle class subdivision, its orange light bouncing playfully against the warped garage door and the consistent thud of a tennis ball, lopped lazily there and back again.

Back then, we didn't need to worry about permission. If we got into trouble, someone in charge issued punishment, typically lasting no more than one week. What was a week then?

A week was the summer, a tennis ball, and the familiar sunset.