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- June, 2000: Junior Prom
My god, the world is a different place at night. Self-consciousness sets itself in motion. It’s to the point where forecasting criticisms of future critics has become commonplace. Every thought is filtered through its eventual perception by an audience of fans and critics, admirers and detractors.
And so does the machinery of the corporate world trickle down into personal applications. We are the first wave of buyers who accelerate the market penetration of new products and ideas. Our product is ourselves: the newer, better, cooler versions of ourselves. (Note: As I lit my cigarette just now, I pulled the lighter from my cigarette and my cigarette from my face in an overly dramatic manner.) (Note also: I smoke Camel Lights, as they offer the time-tested Camel brand name combined with the reduction in perceived-risk of a light cigarette.)
And so it is that our mirrors become proof-sheets for a photo shoot that hasn’t happened yet. (Note: I am currently wearing tight jeans with an interesting, but not overwhelming, wash. To complement my jeans, I am wearing a Shins t-shirt. I have donned a jaunty army cap for the occasion, complete with a small button advertising an up-and-coming local band that you have never heard of, yet are the best band in the history of music.)
That last paragraph was really only one sentence, with a three sentence parenthetical. Strunk says perfunctorily (Does he ever say anything otherwise?), that parentheses are far too formal for conversational style (Strunk can be a real dick sometimes).How witty, how clever. “He really is the voice of his generation.” “Look at how he subverts grammar and structure to fit his ends.” The point of knowing the rules is to be able to break them.
And so are we left with a grand design that has been implemented six billion times too often. We have learned how to ride a bicycle so that we can invent a tricycle. We “said no to drugs” so that we would do drugs in moderation. “A wannabe H.S. Thomspon, and a second-rate one at that,” – Dapper Literary Critic, New York Times Book Review. (Note: Dapper Literary Critic is a widely recognized dapper and literary sort of fellow who dislikes Susan Sonntag but who admires, if not the message, the style of On the Road.)
What a question: the drug question – the drug question that has itself become rhetorical and isn’t even asked anymore. And so it has become a question punctuated with a period rather than a question mark. It is a question in the same sense as the abortion question. Abortion question period. Rather than ask the question, we have decided just to ask the opposing parties to separate into distinct groups. (Note: While I dislike the idea of aborting a potential life, I feel that it is the woman’s right to choose. It is her body, after all.)
And so cohesion falls by the wayside. Less than a page by my count, but judging by the general word-to-page ratio for books by “the author of his generation”, these words will probably fall on the second or third page of actual text. What the true page numbers of those pages will be depends on whether this is the hardcover, pocket edition soft-cover, or the special edition featuring photographs from the new motion picture now being produced by Columbia Pictures. We also would have to factor in any special “Anniversary” editions, which invariably include all sorts of forewords and “looks back” by various literary and social luminaries.
And so we come to the question of our generation; we do not come to that question directly mind you, but we come to it nonetheless. To have an enemy, that would be something. We erect figureheads of enemies, sure, but a figurehead is not the thing. Our enemy is in fact faceless, or, more correctly, infinitely faced. Masks of our enemy are not popular Halloween costumes.
And so we come to the question of how one goes about describing a faceless enemy. Finally, a question with an answer! The answer of course is no… or rather, do not. Those that recognize the enemy do well not to reveal its identity. I’ve probably said too much already.
“A work of pretentious, self-important, obtuse and inefficient metaphors for nothing.” – DLC. (Note: Dapper Literary Critic has gone to using only his initials instead of his full name, so chic.) god damn it, he is good, that Fucker. You’ll all have to let me know if they capitalized that “god” there. Those bastards, I bet they did. By “those bastards”, I mean my editor. She’s a very smart, imaginary, young girl. She was brought on by the publishing company, also imaginary, and renowned for publishing very smart work, to help bring some focus and discipline to my writing. (Note: My torrid affair with my imaginary editor will be the subject of a period film, illustrating how deeply a work of art can touch a person.)
(Note: the ashtray next to my keyboard is now full to the brim as I smoke incessantly while writing.) (Note also: I write in the very late-night/early-morning hours as the friscillating light from the city streets leaks through a haze of cigarette smoke into my ironically-appointed downtown loft.) I met a homeless man once, and he told me a funny story that made me laugh. The story didn’t really have any meaning, but it’s a beautiful image isn’t it? Me listening to this homeless man’s crazy story? (Note: It’s far too late for me to still be awake, but it’s more important that I capture these ideas that are bouncing around like electrons in my head than to be well rested tomorrow.)
“Told in a series of disconnected vignettes…” – Dapper Literary Critic. I see he dropped the initials thing. Good for him, it came off as pretentious. I heard he was doing too much blow during the “initials” phase of his critical career. He’s been through rehab now though; I heard that going back to the full name was part of his leaving his past behind him. You always have to return to the beginning to leave the past behind. (Note: your shirt looks wrinkled, you should change it before you go out. No, no, I don’t mean like artist/rugged wrinkled, it looks like it’s really been in the hamper for too long.)
Great pornography lets you jack-off without thinking about jacking-off.
2004
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
It begins as a low rumble in the distance, as darkness beds down for night. The clouds infiltrate the purple sky in shredded silver columns, preceding the massing bulkhead. The clapboard house across the street lights up in the flash of God’s Instamatic. ”One one thousand, two one…” My count is interrupted by thunder like fireworks exploding in the upstairs room. Then sirens, first a fire engine, then an ambulance. Cop cars and taxi cabs are all that I can see drive past.
Another flash. ”One one thousand, two…” Another round of fireworks, just a little louder than the last, and I feel the first droplet, on my right ankle, exposed as it’s crossed over my left thigh. I look down at the suicidal raindrop on my ankle and a second droplet shatters on my nape. I drag on my cigarette. I exhale a cloud just thinner than the approaching thunderhead and toss the butt into the street. I stand up. I pick up my aluminum and nylon lawn chair and fold it up. I put the folded chair under my arm, and walk up the steps. I knock on the heavy steel screen door and look up into the mirror above the door. I hear a loud buzz and the door comes open with a thud, like dropping an aluminum baseball bat on a linoleum floor. I open the unlocked wooden door behind the screen. I bring myself and my chair inside, and close the wooden door behind me. I lean my chair just to the right of the door jamb and sit on the sofa under the stairs. I hear the heavy steel screen door thud shut and lock again.
I lay across the couch, my head on the armrest farthest from the door, my knees hooked over the other armrest, feet hanging over the side. I interlock the fingers of my hands and put them behind my head. I swing my feet in gentle alternating rhythm against the couch’s vinyl upholstery. I drum the pads of my interlocked fingers against the knuckles opposite. The couch is too short for my whole torso, so I’m bent at the waist and the hammer of my pistol is poking into my gut. I take the gun out of my waistband and set it on my belly, on top of my shirt. Another roar of thunder, the sound of God hitting a broken bat home run. It sounds so much farther away through the heavy wooden door. The cold seems so much farther away. The storm is here but I am warm and dry. My eyelids weigh a kilo each. I close my eyes.
I dream I’m in the home dugout of my high school baseball field. There’s a game going on, but I’m in the dugout. Coach has me by the lapels of my blue and silver varsity jacket. He’s yelling at me. He’s throwing me onto the field. I’m taking off my jacket and grabbing my glove and I’m running out to right field. The grass is dried yellow green and the sky is cloudless white gray. The batter seems a mile away. The pitcher winds up and delivers. The tiny batter swings, and connects, and the ball is flying towards me, its creamy white leather invisible as it rises against the milky sky. The crack of the bat reaches my ears.
I’m awake and the heavy wood door is splinters flying at me. I cover my face with my forearms and roll into the back of the couch. The gun slips from my belly and is pinned against the sofa. I turn my head and see black helmets and black machine guns and black gloves and black boots and black flack jackets. I’m torn from the sofa, my pistol falls to the floor. I see shag carpeting and feel those heavy boots on my back, on my arms: pinned behind my back. I feel cold metal around my wrists and the hot friction of the marbled brown shag against my face. Upstairs, another crack of the bat, and another and another, closer and smaller than the thunder, sharper, like m80s, like gunshots. I close my eyes.
January 11, 2009
I wake up and I don’t know where I am. I realize there’s someone next to me and a twinge of panic drops in my stomach. I blink my eyes and rub them and look around. I look at my wife, next to me in the bed. Her red hair is matted against her face, her mouth agape, her eyes still closed. I sigh in slight relief and pull the covers off myself. I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly and then do it again. I rub my left temple with the fore and middle fingers of my left hand. I rub my right temple with the fore and middle fingers of my right hand. I rub both temples. I get out of bed.
In the bathroom, I turn the shower on, to let the water heat up. I take off my silk pajama bottoms and the matching collared top. I sit on the toilet. I push my penis down between my legs and piss. I try to shit, but nothing happens. Steam begins to fog the glass shower doors and I get off the toilet. I reach my right arm into the shower, making sure it’s not too hot. I get in the shower. I let the water rinse over my body, until I’m wet all over. I take the bar of soap from its built-in enclave in the shower wall. I rub the soap between my two hands, to build up a lather.
Holding the bar in my left hand, I rub the lather from my right hand along my left forearm, then my left bicep and tricep, then my left shoulder. I scrub the lather vigorously into the hair of my armpit, scratching the skin underneath with the fingernails of my right hand. I rub the lather on my chest and stomach. I cup my testicles and rub them with the warm soapy water in my right hand. I take the shaft of my limp wet penis and gently squeeze it. I cup my hand over my penis and my testicles and rub them clean. It feels good and I take hold of the shaft of my penis again. I stroke it several times and it doesn’t get any harder and I give up. I rub the bar of soap between my hands again. Taking the soap in my right hand this time, I use the lather in my left to wash my right forearm and bicep and tricep. I scrub my right armpit as vigorously as the left.
With my right hand, I rub the bar of soap in circles on my right ass cheek. I switch the bar to my left hand behind my back and rub circles with it on my left ass cheek. I run the bar through the crack of my ass and rub the residue into a lather with my right hand. I lather both my legs and feet. Then I let the falling water of the shower rinse me clean.
I turn in small circles under the water, feeling its warmth on every part of my body. I feel its temperature start to fall. I stand directly under the nozzle and let what little hot water remains pummel the nape of my neck. I count backwards from ten. ”Zero.” I turn the water off and grab a crimson-red terry-cloth towel from the shower door.
I scrub my hair dry, and then drape the towel over my back and pull it towards my ass, to dry my back. I dry my chest and my arms. I remember what my arms used to look like, how firm my chest used to feel. I dry my penis and my testicles, and run the towel between my legs to dry the fleshy expanse between my genitals and my asshole. I dry my ass and the back of my thighs and my thighs and my calves and my shins and my feet. I hang the towel back on the shower door and I flush the toilet.
I brush my teeth with the whitening toothpaste in the medicine cabinet. I comb my still-damp hair, parting it down the right side. My hair is still black, still full. I walk naked from the bathroom. The sunlight peeks around the heavy brown bedroom curtains, embossed with hundreds of tiny golden fleures-de-lis. My wife lies in the same position, hair matted the same, mouth still agape, eyes still closed. I dress myself in a navy blue suit with a white collared shirt with buttoned stays. I choose a solid red tie. I slide my feet into a pair of black patent leather shoes. I thread a matching belt through the loops of my suit pants. I take my wallet and my car keys from the nightstand on my side of the bed. I look again at my wife and leave the bedroom. I pick up my briefcase in the foyer as I walk out the front door.
In the car, I listen to local talk radio, a show called, “Mikey in the Morning.” Mikey is telling a caller that he’s naive about immigration. Now Mikey is talking about me. Mikey is saying that I am naive like the caller. He’s saying that I don’t know what I’m doing, that I should be fired. He says that I’m a fat cat. I turn the station to classic rock and The Beatles are singing, “a crowd of people stood and stared.” I stop at the chain coffee store in the strip mall a block away from the home office. I order a small coffee. I look in my wallet and realize I don’t have the two dollars I need to pay for the coffee. I hand the girl behind the counter my credit card. She asks to see my ID and I show it to her. She laughs.
“What’s so funny?” I ask her.
“Nothing,” she replies, still laughing, “it’s just that you have the same name as our congressman.”
”What a coincidence,” I say.
She looks at me again and the smile disappears.
“Wait,” she says, “Are you him?”
“Guilty.” I raise my right hand like I’m swearing an oath.
“Wow,” she says, “What are you doing here?”
“Work.” I take my coffee and leave. In front of the home office I pull the gold Toyota into a parking spot with my name painted on the asphalt between its confines. I get out of the car and walk into the office. I get in the elevator and press a button marked “4″. The elevator goes up and the doors open. The intern at the reception desk sees me and stands up.
“Hello, Congressman!” he smiles, “I’ll let Ms. Garcia know you’re here.”
“Thank you.” I walk into my office and close the door. On the walls are pictures of myself. There’s one of myself and the president and one of myself and the last president and one of myself and the Lion of the Senate and one of myself and the chief of the Chumash Indians and one of myself and the foreign minister of Azerbaijan. On my beechwood desk is a picture of myself and my wife, swimming in the Grotta Azzura. Her hair is a brighter red in the photograph than it is now, my teeth a brighter white. There is a knock at the door. It is my chief of staff.
“Come in.” I say, and she enters carrying a manilla folder.
“Hello, sir,” she says, “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Ms. Garcia.”
“Shall we get right to business?”
“We might as well.”
“Ok,” she says, opening the folder on my desk. She produces an agenda and spins it around on the desk, so it’s top-up to my perspective, and slides it across the desk. Below it in the folder is an identical copy, which she picks up. “For lunch, you’ve got Armistise, from Veteran’s Affairs. He wants to talk about the new VA hospital, specifically the leasing agreements and future development clauses.”
“Do we have to do it at the rib place again?”
“I could try and change it, but he’s pretty particular.”
“No, the rib place is fine.” I set my elbows on my desk and rub my temples with my fore and middle fingers.
“Jet-lagged?”
“Yeah. Laurie, I’m sorry, can you give me five minutes.”
“Sure,” she says scooping the manilla folder off the desk, “just buzz me when you’re ready.”
She walks out and shuts the door behind her. I lay my arms across the desk and my head on top of them. I close my eyes.
i sit in the cold of new night. an older couple walks briskly by and i nod to them, unrequited. the darkened side street is quiet. there is a small aluminum floodlight in a cabinet inside. i am supposed to attach it to the top of the one of the double doors that is closest to the outlet above the cabinet. there is a rubber-coated clamp welded to the aluminum floodlight for this purpose. i am supposed to attach the floodlight to the top of the door, thread its cord over the door’s top hinge, through the gap between the open door and the jamb, and plug it into the outlet above the cabinet.
i am supposed to make sure the conical flood of light it emits falls on the cardboard cut-out of a six-scoop waffle cone as tall as i am. the light is supposed to make it easier for people to see the sign. seeing the sign is supposed to make people want to eat ice cream, which we sell inside. if passers by succumb to the sign, i’m supposed to scoop the flavors they choose, into the vessel they choose, and give them that vessel. they, in turn, are supposed to give me money, in an amount corresponding to the vessel they have chosen, which i am supposed to place orderly, according to denomination, in the cash register.
i’m not going to plug in the floodlight. i don’t want to sell any more ice cream tonight. not that the floodlight works that well, not when its cold like this. i smoke a cigarette and my stomach agitates at the settling darkness. a group of arab men passes in tight formation, tersely debating the youngest war as they go. a sliver of the conversation lingers after them and finds my ear: “what peace…” the way they’re dressed reminds me of the secular muslims who smoked cigars at the Café Bassam, when it was still downtown, when one could still smoke inside. when i worked as a valet. when i was supposed to park people’s cars.
