The Garden

 

You say tomato...

 

     Inside its plastic sheath writhes fifty pounds of shit.  The plastic warps as my fingers burrow for grip, threatening to tear and spill its contents prematurely.  I grunt and strain and heave the bag of manure on top of two more just like it.

     “Stuff smells like shit!”  I look at Andrea and smile as I wipe my hands on the legs of my jeans.

     “So do you!”  She smiles back from on her knees in the loose soil.

      I run to her and grab her by the hips and rub my face into the crook of her neck.  She laughs and pushes me away, and I laugh and tousle her hair.

     “Eeew!”

     “Shush!  You better get used to bein’ dirty, sweetheart!”  I shoot her a grin.

     “You’re dirty enough for the both of us!”

     “That may be, that may be, but we both gotta spread this shit around.”  I pick up the top bag again, set it on end, and tear a hole in the plastic along the bag’s top seam.  ”Look out!”  With the bag under my right arm, I start sifting forth its contents onto the churned soil.  ”You did good baby,” I say, “this looks well broken up.”

     “It should, I clawed the crap out of it!”  She holds up her hand rake, tines towards me, “Rawwrr,” she says, clawing the air like a jungle cat.

     “Rawwr.” I grin, dumping a fine layer of manure over her handiwork.

     “Should I start spreading it out?”

     “Sure, just don’t spread it too thin.”

     “Make sure you dump enough out for me then.”

     I empty the first bag, and open the second.  Andrea grabs the larger rake and follows behind me, sweeping my scattered leavings into a consistent layer.

     “Seeds?”

     “Seeds!”  Andrea runs into the house and emerges with the seed packets.  She fans them out in front of me.  ”What you want boo?  I got tomato, I got corn, I got lettuce, I got eggplants, what you want?”

     I grab the pack of heirloom tomato seeds.  ”Tomatoes first.”  I tear the top off the paper packet.  I empty half the contents into my left hand, and the other half into Andrea’s.  I kneel in the ripe top soil.  With my index finger, in the corner of the yard closest to the house, where the shade of the eaves will fall near midday, I make a small divot in the layer of manure, in the firmer tilled soil underneath.  I wiggle my finger in a small circle, widening my hole slightly.  I drop the first tomato seed in the divot.

     “How big do you think they’ll get?” Andrea asks.

     “How big?”

     “Yeah, how big?”

     “I dunno, softball size?  If we’re lucky…”

     “That seems a little big.”

     “Maybe baseball size?”

     “I’d be happy with that.”

     “I’m happy now.”

     “You know what I meant.”

     “I know.”  I put my arm around her waist, and pull her close.  She lays her head against my chest and I kiss the crown of her head.  ”Let’s plant these seeds baby, it’s gonna get dark soon.”

     She lifts her head from my chest and looks at me.  ”I love you,” she says.

     “I love you too.”

 

January 27, 2009

The Home Office, Pt. II

     I dream I am in Washington.  I’m in the Capitol, in the statuary hall.  I hear deep voices, but they echo so thickly I can’t make out the words.  The echoes multiply and the voices deepen to become a churning cacophony, gnawing at itself and spawning simultaneously.  The noise is insufferable: a tangible presence replacing the oxygen, a black adenoid swallowing elegant marble busts and intricate plaster moldings and, finally, my thoughts.  Endless dark.  And then bright white fluorescent light.  I am in the Capitol, in my office, in my black leather swivel chair, behind my oak desk.

     My wife appears in front of me.  Her hair radiates a crimson halo.  It is brighter than the day we swam in that azure cavern off Capri.  She is naked and her breasts are pert and firm and her pubic hair is that same candied red.  She comes towards me in silence, and I back the chair on its casters away from the desk.  She kneels between my feet, unzips my pants, pulls out my flaccid penis and puts her hands behind her back.  I take her by the hair and she opens her mouth.  Her lips are full and smooth and red and glossy.  I guide her mouth towards the tip of my penis, resting on the black wool of my suit pants.  As her tongue touches the glans, she looks up and smiles and her teeth are razor sharp and her face is old and spotted and warted.  Purple and crimson bruises ring her eyes, visible through her wax-paper skin.  She lunges forward, and I tug her hair against it.  She breaks free, swallowing my member.  Her hair comes out in my hands in dull matted clumps.  I wake up.

     I am cold.  My shirt is wet with cold sweat and sticks to my back.  I sit up and put my elbows on my desk and rest my face in them, by my chin, on the heels of my palms.  I rub my temples with my fore and middle fingers.  I look between my hands at the agenda on my desk.  The black ink swims on the white page, my head pulses.  I pick up the beige telephone receiver from my desk and dial “714″.  I hear a ring in the receiver speaker a second before I hear Laurie’s phone ring next door.

     “Lorena Garcia.”

     “Laurie, it’s me, I’m ready to go over today’s itinerary.”

      ”You sure?”

     “Yeah, come on over.”     I take off my coat and drape it behind me, over the back of my vinyl chair.  I fold the right cuff of my shirt over, then fold it over again.  I fold the thickened cuff one more length up my arm.  The creases start to slip, the fold becomes a tangled roll of cotton-polyester blend, I push the roll just above my elbow.  I repeat the process with the left sleeve.  The door opens and Laurie walks in.

     “Feeling better?”

     “A little, yeah.”

     “Ok.  I went ahead and cleared your morning anyways.  Armistise is gonna be your first appointment, so you’ve got a couple hours to relax.  You should take it if you’re not feeling well, because you have a ribbon cutting at three, and then a police awards ceremony at 5.”

    ”Do I need a tux or anything for the awards?”

     “No, you’re gonna be overdressed like that.  We’ll lose the tie on the way over there.”

     “Anything else?”

     “The Union called, they want a quote on HR-765, and the woman with the hangnail on Medicare, Mrs. Delano, she wants a personal response from you, or she says she’s filing a malpractice suit.”

     “Can she do that?”

     “I doubt she’ll win, but she can file the claim.”

     “Ok, send her a letter saying I’m sorry for her discomfort and that we uh, take very seriously all claims of malpractice by Medicare doctors and that we’re ‘looking into the matter’.”  Laurie scribbles it all down on a note pad.  When she goes back to her office, she’ll transcribe the note to her computer, and then send it to her BlackBerry and then e-mail it to the intern, who will write the letter to Mrs. Delano.   “Is that it for the day?”

     “Except for the private fundraiser tonight.”

     “Shit.  Do I need a tux for that?”

     “No, it’s a luau theme.”

     “What?”

     “It was your wife’s idea.  The caterers are doing a roast pig on a spit.  ’Bringing home the pork’.  Get it?”

     “Very funny.”

     “But that’s it.  And you have two hours until Armistise is expecting you at the barbeque place.  Anything else, or would you like me to leave you alone?

     “That’s it.”

    ”Alright,” she says, neatening her manilla folder, “you’re sure you’re alright?”

     “I’ll be ok.”

     “Ok, let me know if you change your mind, if you need someone to talk to.”

     “I will.  Thank you.  I’m alright.”

     She leaves and closes the door behind her.  My eyes fall on a photograph of myself and Sylvester Stallone.  I lay my forehead on the cool wood of my desk and close my eyes again.  My head pounds.  I stand up and walk out of my office, down the hall to the men’s bathroom.  I lock the door.  I stand over the sink and splash water in my face, rubbing my face with the palms of my hand, slapping my face back and forth between my two hands.  The faucet squeaks as I turn it off.  I set my hands on the edges of the sink and lean in to the mirror for a closer look at the bags under my eyes.  I feel the sink start to give as I put my weight on it, and I quickly stand up straight.  I jiggle the sink.  It feels like it’s attached by the pipe alone.  I look in the mirror and make sure my hair is neatly parted, and I leave the bathroom.  I walk through the maze of aides’ cubicles, to the elevator doors.  I press the “down” button.  It lights up.  I press it again, jamming it into its socket, again, again.

     “In a hurry, sir?” the intern asks.

     “You have no idea.”

    ”Where are you headed?”

     “The Grotta Azzurra.”

    ”Is that a new restaurant?”

     The elevator doors open, and I get on the elevator.  The elevator descends, stops, and the doors open again.  I exit the elevator into the lobby.  I see plastic ficus and shrubs, polyester flower petals and a fish tank.  I see waiting room chairs upholstered in mauve and taupe.  I walk through the lobby.  I push its glass double doors open.  I leave the home office.