The Walk to Work

 

I'll take my Chevrolegs.

     I take my pack of cigarettes from my right pants-pocket, remove one from the pack and place it between my lips.  I close the paper flip-top lid and stuff the crumpling pack back in my right pants-pocket.  I take a red plastic lighter from my left pants-pocket and use it to light the cigarette between my lips.  I take my phone from my right sweater-pocket and check the time.  I have fifteen minutes to make it to work.  I usually give myself half-an-hour to make this walk.  I wonder if I can catch a cab closer to downtown.  Shit.  No money.  I walk faster.

     I drag on my cigarette and my stomach churns and gurgles echoes of a receding flu.  I reach the bridge into the financial district and flick my cigarette into the street.  It’s run over by a small gray Toyota, northbound.  The pressure of my backpack against my sweater against my t-shirt against my dermis heats the latter above its sweat threshold, and moisture gathers in the small of my back, in the hallows between my clavicles and deltoids under the straps of the backpack.  I stop on the bridge and take off my backpack.  I put it on the ground at the base of the suicide-fence and take off my sweater.  I open my backpack and put my sweater inside.  I zip the backpack closed.

     I touch the back of my right hand against my shirt, just above my hips.  I feel the sweat come through the once-worn white t-shirt.  I lift my left arm and see a small yellow oval against a field of white cotton, bound for growth.  I look through the green mesh of the suicide-fence at the freeway below, at the cars rushing across it.  Ceaseless.  I think about how I might survive the fall:

A panicked but alert motorist applies the brakes forcefully and leans hard on the wheel.  The car veers into the next lane and collides with another, and another, and another, piling up and flipping and crushing and tumbling and rear-ending into an automotive hurricane with me as the eye.  A nonplussed island in a sea of mangled metal.

     I shoulder my load and feel the cooled sweat set on my skin.   I start walking again.

     At First and Broadway, an old black man in a security guard’s uniform and cataract sunglasses is arguing with a crackhead in front of the Wendy’s.  They’re yelling, but I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying.  The light changes and I cross Broadway towards them.

     “Fuck you!” the crackhead is yelling.  ”Fuckin’ sunabitch dirty mother fucker I should…”

     “I told you calm down nigger,” growls the old black man in the security guard’s uniform as I step onto the sidewalk and turn up Broadway.  He lifts his hand in a fist and puts it in the crackhead’s face.  It looks like he threw a punch that fell a foot short.  The crackhead stares at the fist, at the small metal can it holds.  The old man with the cataract sunglasses presses down on the top of the small metal can.  A spray like a squirt gun, or a sad seltzer bottle, streams silently into the crackhead’s face.  He stares defiantly at the old man, his eyes already blood shot.  I look at the old man’s cataract glasses and I look at the crackhead’s eyes, drifting, blind now.  He stumbles towards the corner, into a bank of newspaper machines.

     “Gawn now,” says the old man after him, retaking his post in front of the Wendy’s.

     My eyes start to itch and water so I move on up Broadway, towards Fourth, on my walk to work.

 

January 19, 2009

The Parabola

     I lean my bike against the house and walk in through the sliding glass door.  I pant for breath and my stomach churns.  A dull ache goes through my teeth each time I inhale.  My face is cold and wind stung, my back is sticky with sweat.  I walk through the kitchen into the living room and see the back of Andrea’s head over the top of the couch.  She’s petting the dog.  Iggy stares into the orange glow of the directional space heater, obsessed.  I toss my backpack on the scuffed hardwood floor.  Thud.  Andrea turns around.

     “Hey baby!”

     “Hey.”

     I take the full ashtray from the black coffee table at Andrea’s knees and walk to the kitchen to empty it.  The trash can is already overflowing with coffee grounds and pizza boxes and vegetable scraps.

     “Fucking bullshit.” I growl.

     “What’s wrong baby?” Andrea calls from the other room.

     “Nothing.” I reply, “I swear to God, I’m the only person who ever does a God damned thing in this house.”

     “Come here baby, what’s wrong?”

     “Nothing.” I plop into the couch.  ”I’m sorry, I’m just tired.  Long day.  That’s all.”

     “Oh baby…” she massages my left shoulder with her right hand.

     “I’m so sick of my job.  I’m ready to leave.  It’s the same thing, every day, I hate it.  I hate all the idiots that eat there.”

      She switches to my left thigh.   “I know baby, but it’s almost done, one more month.”

     “I know, I know.  It’s so frustrating though.  I just don’t care about any of these people I see all day.”

    ”Babe… You don’t have to be their friend or anything.”

     “I know.  I can’t even be polite anymore though.  It’s getting bad.  I feel like an asshole.”

     “What did you do?”

    ”Nothing.  Stupid shit, this guy was taking forever to choose a flavor, so I gave him like half scoops in his waffle cone.  Not saying “goodnight” to people.  Just snarky bullshit.  But I hate people right now.  I hate it.”

    She smiles reproachingly.  ”You gave him little tiny scoops?”

     I smile guiltily.

    ”Baby…”

     “I just feel so… Un-empathetic.  I feel disconnected.”

     “Baby, come here, come here.”  She puts her right arm around me and gently pulls my head to her decolletage.  With my left ear pressed warmly and comfortably into her sternum, she runs her fingers through my hair.  ”I’m sorry you had a hard day baby.  Just relax, let me pet you.  We’ll get you some food, and something to drink… maybe a beer?  Huh?  And we’ll snuggle up in front of the heater with the pug and watch a funny movie, and I’ll rub your sexy little head.  Ok?”

     I exhale the day.  ”Ok.”

     “Ok.  Now let mama get up so I can get you some food.” She lifts my head from her chest and kisses it: “Mwah!”

     I lean back and close my eyes as she walks away.  ”Baby…”

     “Yes sweetheart?”

     “Thank you.”

     She laughs, “For what sweetie?”

     “I dunno.  For making me feel better.  For taking care of me.”

     “Oh baby.”  She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, “I love you.”

 

January 12, 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.