I received my letter from Reno today, a thinly-veiled apology within a list of excuses. Pointless, really. She signed it with her shaking hand, not a stamp. If she felt remorse, it wasn’t legible in her cursive, nor in the empty words that had been typed for her. I don’t blame her.
My dad’s here staying with me, and it’s uncomfortable for both of us. He didn’t bring Jessica, and that’s good. It’s hard enough just the two of us. With her here, I don’t know. It’s not like there could be more silence. He flew here on his own dime, has been here for three weeks since the memorial. I’m ready for him to leave, but he’s still clinging for that last bit of connection to family.
He ran off with the flight attendant, Jessica, five years ago, right after I got out of high school. It was no secret things weren’t good between him and mom, and it was only half-heartedly concealed that he’d been banging the waitress at the omelet shop for a couple years previous. She was okay. I don’t care for Jessica.
Dad and Jessica lit out for Australia, settled into a small town outside Melbourne. There have been calls and cards and letters inviting visits, but I have no interest. The snakes and spiders and the tension are all too poisonous for my taste. Mom had become a fragile figure in those years before he left. And once he did, she moved to Waco.
I am almost certainly the result of the last time my parents had sex. I have often wondered what must have passed through their minds when it was over. Were they hopeful? Were they drunk? Was it angry make-up sex after another bitter argument? Were they just having one last ride on his way out the door when they suddenly realized they weren’t careful?
It’s funny the things we inherit from our parents. Every relationship that crashed on me ended with one last roll. I was careful, mostly. The last time, not so much, but that’s been two years ago and I haven’t gotten any phone calls, so I guess it worked out. My older brother kids me about it, but I think it’s jealousy. He’s been married for ten years to a great woman. He told me once they’ve never had a fight. They don’t know the passion of make-up sex, that angry, “take that” attitude that makes the rest of us shudder and weep. But they work, and that’s good.
I showed my dad Reno’s letter, and he grunted oaths against the administration. A life-long Republican, his heart didn’t bleed. “Shoulda gone in there whole-hog that first time,” he said. “Shouldn’ta carried on so long.” It makes no sense to me, but I let him talk.
There was no chance of it ending well. We knew it from the start. Those things never end well. I know they had their reasons for moving in; Janet’s letter was full of them. But there was no harm in waiting. They weren’t suicidal. This wasn’t Jonestown. This was religion and guns, but nothing more. Sure, the guy was a lunatic, but his people were happy. Those that weren’t were allowed to leave.
You can hear it in a person’s voice when they aren’t convinced what they’re doing is right. I talked to my mom a few days before the end. I tried calling for hours before the busy signal lifted. I talked to David first. He started in on his rant, how they were being abused by the government, how they wanted to be left alone. “I just want to talk to my mom,” I told him. “I know she’s not coming out of there.” And then he put her on, and she told me she was happy. Scared, but happy. They thought it would end peacefully, and that gave them hope. Three days later I sat in an ocean-side bar and watched the compound burn to the ground live on CNN.
My mother had been shot in the hip during the assault, no telling whether it was from her people or the feds. She was wounded by the bullet, unable to leave her room, and burned to death under her bed. You have no idea how much heel-dragging goes on when you try to get dental records for identification purposes.
She must have suffered like hell that day. Koresh took the easy way out with a bullet in the head. He didn’t even have the balls to do it himself and made Schneider do it. What a pussy.
The people in charge always take the easy way out. My dad too. He was the breadwinner, paid the bills, sat at the head of the table. When the time came, when he’d had enough, he made the choice to leave. He left a big check on the table, grabbed some clothes and his life-insurance policy, and he never looked back. When she died, he felt obligated to return, to be here for Max and me, to be a shoulder to lean on, but we had each other and that was enough.
I don’t have much grief about it. She was doing what she loved. She was happy. And yet dad’s doing what he loves, and I want to tear his fucking throat out. If he hadn’t left, she’d still be alive. I blame him more than Koresh. I blame him more than the ATF. He’s the one who killed her. I have a murderer in my house and he won’t leave.
Tomorrow. I’ll ask him to leave tomorrow. Julie hasn’t been here to stay over in three weeks, and that’s too long. Three weeks is a long time to wait for sex, regardless of what you may think. If you think otherwise, you’re too old or you’re getting it plenty. Not that sex is what it’s all about, but I need the comfort of her arms around me, of her legs around me. I need to be as close to her as possible. But she can’t be here now, not with him here. I don’t want them to meet.
It won’t last forever, Julie and I. We work together at the paper, and there’s bound to be an issue someday. She’ll object to a line I’ve written and I’ll take it personally. There will be a closed-door meeting with tense lips and grinding teeth, then we’ll carry the argument home, I’ll insult her dinner, we’ll fuck the balls out of each other, and she’ll leave and not come back. There is no escaping it.
Patience has always been the enemy. We can claim to be strong and confident, but waiting makes everyone but Buddha crazy in time. Dad ran out of patience with the distance at home. Reno ran out of patience with Koresh. My hands are shaking from my own withdrawals, running out of patience for the desire to be touched. My heart hurts. Tomorrow I will take it out on him. It will start calmly, and if he puts up a wall I will tear it down, not brick by brick, but I’ll blast the thing to bits. I’ll come in swinging, and knowing him, how quick he is to turn tail and run, one little nudge will send him burning to the ground.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Metamorphosis
She has those tiny teeth
I like, and that beer
looks muddy enough
to please my palate.
I think of touching
her shoulder or
leaning in to catch
the slightest scent
she carries,
whether sweat or
perfumed skin,
whatever,
and then leaning in
for the laugh
at something I said
and then
dragging me home
and laying me there
among the storm of sheets
stained with last month’s blood
and whispering in my ear
i’ve come
i’ve come
i’ve come.
I like, and that beer
looks muddy enough
to please my palate.
I think of touching
her shoulder or
leaning in to catch
the slightest scent
she carries,
whether sweat or
perfumed skin,
whatever,
and then leaning in
for the laugh
at something I said
and then
dragging me home
and laying me there
among the storm of sheets
stained with last month’s blood
and whispering in my ear
i’ve come
i’ve come
i’ve come.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
It's Not That Rhythm
You don’t need an
iambic two-step
to hold me close
or the stress and rests
of trochee.
The young man
from Nantucket
is not that well-built
and someone should have
punched Ogden Nash
in the nose
if you ask me.
You are the person
clapping off-beat
the one there
in the last row
with the torn jeans
and sneakers
who stared up
into the graveyard moon
that night you lost it
in the back of the Buick
and you knew then that
flesh against flesh
was good even when
it wasn’t.
The only form
I care about
is the one
inside those jeans
and once I get them off you
I’ll show you
what rhythm
is all about.
iambic two-step
to hold me close
or the stress and rests
of trochee.
The young man
from Nantucket
is not that well-built
and someone should have
punched Ogden Nash
in the nose
if you ask me.
You are the person
clapping off-beat
the one there
in the last row
with the torn jeans
and sneakers
who stared up
into the graveyard moon
that night you lost it
in the back of the Buick
and you knew then that
flesh against flesh
was good even when
it wasn’t.
The only form
I care about
is the one
inside those jeans
and once I get them off you
I’ll show you
what rhythm
is all about.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Selfish Cry for Blood
This pallid sky mocks us. Even the greenest grass loses its hues, casting instead the image of instability, a modernist painting brushed by an artist lacking too many colors. Every shade of gray is accounted for above; you couldn’t paint it, nor would you want to. Too soon, too soon. Or, perhaps, an exercise in Seasonal Affective Disorder, practice for the next half-dozen months.
I sit away from the other parents, none of whom are challenged by the gloom. They are a mass of cavemen cheering savagely at their girls. Their yelling overlaps, a muddy mixture of encouragement more for their own behalf than that of their offspring. If only Ralph Steadman were here to capture this in ink. He would draw them without sympathy, some gnawing on the bloody bones of a mastodon, others standing and hurling red-faced pressure onto the field. A grandfather calls his charge’s name in every other word. “C’mon Betty, get to the ball Betty, that’s it Betty, get to the middle Betty.” Her name has been changed to protect her innocence; she’s got enough pressure to handle without appearing in these words of impractical voodoo.
He yells something about an opponent being slow, capable of being exploited on a breakaway. My heart breaks for the slow child who must hear his words; his voice has that peculiar timbre that cuts through any noise. I hope she isn’t comprehending his words are about her. Were it my kid, I would have said something.
My kid is slow too. She is not an athlete, at least not yet. Maybe she’ll grow into it, into something she likes. Or maybe she’ll sit down at a piano or pick up an alto sax and be able to speak through that. I find more satisfaction is creating a piece of music than I ever did hitting a 20 foot jumper from the corner.
Consider again these animals who guide their children with vague directions. Imagine if these creatures acted the same at their children’s band concert. Would this grandfather with the diamond-edged voice point out the flaws of the first chair trombonist if it meant moving his grandkid up a notch? “He’s got short arms, Betty. He can’t hit the high notes clearly, Betty. Hey Betty, her embouchure is sloppy, Betty.” What kind of world would that be?
And of course that world exists, but thankfully not in my circles. Competition is healthy, but hostile competition, wrongly guided competition, creates self-important jerks. It creates poor losers and even worse winners. It creates Republicans. Ye gods!
I’m glad my daughter has a different coach this year. The guy last year was a nice enough guy off the field, but during games he was only an assault charge away from being Woody Hayes. My kid doesn’t need that kind of pressure. She’s got enough to deal with without that jackass getting in her ear. But he’s not coaching her this year, and instead she’s got a really good guy fronting the team. He plays her regularly, knowing she won’t get better if she doesn’t play. He offers positive encouragement rather than angry shouts of guttural syllables that only served to make the animals on the sideline raise their passionate fists into the air and chant, “ugh ugh ugh ugh” in support.
This is exactly how the Tea Party started.
When she came anywhere near me, near enough that I didn’t have to over-extend my diaphragm to be heard, I calmly offered advice. “Stay with ‘em, girl. Move around, give her a target. You’re doing great, darlin’. Keep it up.” She would look at me and smile and twirl her hair and scratch her ear, ignoring the ball behind her. That’s my kid. I couldn’t be more proud.
As she sat on the sidelines, I considered what direction she might go in athletics. She could be a good golfer. Archery might be her thing. Watching her sitting on the blanket next to a teammate, suddenly throwing her arms around the other girl for a big hug for no reason that I could discern, I considered her as a cheerleader. She’s definitely supportive. Anyone who was there to witness it will never forget how she cheered the opposing team during a game of t-ball last year. So sure, a cheerleader. I feel good about this idea, though perhaps I won’t feel the same in another five years. I can see myself being a protective father. I remember the crushes I had on a couple of the cheerleaders when I played basketball. I also know I spent more time watching them than I did paying attention to the game, sometimes even when I was on the court. I will not be crazy about the idea of some hormonally-challenged boy ogling my daughter. Not when she’s fifteen, not when she’s fifty. Breathe. Breathe. Okay.
Children involved in athletics, if they are any good, at some point turn against their inferior teammates. They stop passing the ball, or they group together outside of practices and games and shun the less-talented. Yes, this is a generalization, but it happens more than any good parent wants to admit. I fear this for my kid. She’s sensitive to how she’s treated, and if such a thing were to happen to her, she’d be crushed. Admittedly, she needs to toughen up a bit. She knows it too. I have confidence that will happen at some point, but hopefully it happens before it’s too late. I hope, at some point, she’ll see what she is capable of and what is beyond her abilities, and make some hard choices. I was a decent-enough ball player in grade school, but I knew when I got to high school that I couldn’t and didn’t want to compete at that level. I hated stepping away from it, but to attempt to continue would have resulted in nothing good. And besides, those cheerleaders were way out of my league.
Her mother doesn’t value the importance of the arts. If my daughter shows some talent as a musician or an actor, her mother will struggle. I question her ability to be supportive, which for an artist is integral. It is up to me to suggest these alternate routes of growth and fellowship. I’d certainly rather hang out with a bunch of artists than with a bunch of athletes. I would rather my mind be strong than brag about how much I could bench. I would rather have dinner parties with copious amounts of wine than sit in a sauna for three hours trying to make weight. I would rather curl up with a good book than ride a bus for three hours only to run around in the freezing rain and get shoved around by a bunch of pituitary cases. But that’s me. My kid can do whatever she wants, and I’ll be there to support her. She’ll never hear me calling for blood, but she’ll hear me saying, “Good job, girl,” through my blue, shivering lips. And that’s enough for both of us.
I sit away from the other parents, none of whom are challenged by the gloom. They are a mass of cavemen cheering savagely at their girls. Their yelling overlaps, a muddy mixture of encouragement more for their own behalf than that of their offspring. If only Ralph Steadman were here to capture this in ink. He would draw them without sympathy, some gnawing on the bloody bones of a mastodon, others standing and hurling red-faced pressure onto the field. A grandfather calls his charge’s name in every other word. “C’mon Betty, get to the ball Betty, that’s it Betty, get to the middle Betty.” Her name has been changed to protect her innocence; she’s got enough pressure to handle without appearing in these words of impractical voodoo.
He yells something about an opponent being slow, capable of being exploited on a breakaway. My heart breaks for the slow child who must hear his words; his voice has that peculiar timbre that cuts through any noise. I hope she isn’t comprehending his words are about her. Were it my kid, I would have said something.
My kid is slow too. She is not an athlete, at least not yet. Maybe she’ll grow into it, into something she likes. Or maybe she’ll sit down at a piano or pick up an alto sax and be able to speak through that. I find more satisfaction is creating a piece of music than I ever did hitting a 20 foot jumper from the corner.
Consider again these animals who guide their children with vague directions. Imagine if these creatures acted the same at their children’s band concert. Would this grandfather with the diamond-edged voice point out the flaws of the first chair trombonist if it meant moving his grandkid up a notch? “He’s got short arms, Betty. He can’t hit the high notes clearly, Betty. Hey Betty, her embouchure is sloppy, Betty.” What kind of world would that be?
And of course that world exists, but thankfully not in my circles. Competition is healthy, but hostile competition, wrongly guided competition, creates self-important jerks. It creates poor losers and even worse winners. It creates Republicans. Ye gods!
I’m glad my daughter has a different coach this year. The guy last year was a nice enough guy off the field, but during games he was only an assault charge away from being Woody Hayes. My kid doesn’t need that kind of pressure. She’s got enough to deal with without that jackass getting in her ear. But he’s not coaching her this year, and instead she’s got a really good guy fronting the team. He plays her regularly, knowing she won’t get better if she doesn’t play. He offers positive encouragement rather than angry shouts of guttural syllables that only served to make the animals on the sideline raise their passionate fists into the air and chant, “ugh ugh ugh ugh” in support.
This is exactly how the Tea Party started.
When she came anywhere near me, near enough that I didn’t have to over-extend my diaphragm to be heard, I calmly offered advice. “Stay with ‘em, girl. Move around, give her a target. You’re doing great, darlin’. Keep it up.” She would look at me and smile and twirl her hair and scratch her ear, ignoring the ball behind her. That’s my kid. I couldn’t be more proud.
As she sat on the sidelines, I considered what direction she might go in athletics. She could be a good golfer. Archery might be her thing. Watching her sitting on the blanket next to a teammate, suddenly throwing her arms around the other girl for a big hug for no reason that I could discern, I considered her as a cheerleader. She’s definitely supportive. Anyone who was there to witness it will never forget how she cheered the opposing team during a game of t-ball last year. So sure, a cheerleader. I feel good about this idea, though perhaps I won’t feel the same in another five years. I can see myself being a protective father. I remember the crushes I had on a couple of the cheerleaders when I played basketball. I also know I spent more time watching them than I did paying attention to the game, sometimes even when I was on the court. I will not be crazy about the idea of some hormonally-challenged boy ogling my daughter. Not when she’s fifteen, not when she’s fifty. Breathe. Breathe. Okay.
Children involved in athletics, if they are any good, at some point turn against their inferior teammates. They stop passing the ball, or they group together outside of practices and games and shun the less-talented. Yes, this is a generalization, but it happens more than any good parent wants to admit. I fear this for my kid. She’s sensitive to how she’s treated, and if such a thing were to happen to her, she’d be crushed. Admittedly, she needs to toughen up a bit. She knows it too. I have confidence that will happen at some point, but hopefully it happens before it’s too late. I hope, at some point, she’ll see what she is capable of and what is beyond her abilities, and make some hard choices. I was a decent-enough ball player in grade school, but I knew when I got to high school that I couldn’t and didn’t want to compete at that level. I hated stepping away from it, but to attempt to continue would have resulted in nothing good. And besides, those cheerleaders were way out of my league.
Her mother doesn’t value the importance of the arts. If my daughter shows some talent as a musician or an actor, her mother will struggle. I question her ability to be supportive, which for an artist is integral. It is up to me to suggest these alternate routes of growth and fellowship. I’d certainly rather hang out with a bunch of artists than with a bunch of athletes. I would rather my mind be strong than brag about how much I could bench. I would rather have dinner parties with copious amounts of wine than sit in a sauna for three hours trying to make weight. I would rather curl up with a good book than ride a bus for three hours only to run around in the freezing rain and get shoved around by a bunch of pituitary cases. But that’s me. My kid can do whatever she wants, and I’ll be there to support her. She’ll never hear me calling for blood, but she’ll hear me saying, “Good job, girl,” through my blue, shivering lips. And that’s enough for both of us.
Monday, September 13, 2010
And We Thought It Was Funny Her Dishes Might Give Me Cancer
I was reminded today,
as the water boiled for
the season’s first cup of tea,
how much I despise
the kettle you chose.
How quickly the rust
formed inside, my thick wrists
unable to squeeze through
the tapered rim
to scrub it free.
And have I told you that
in that dress
you look like a fat pear
about to fall
from an overstocked
fruit bin?
When framed with glasses,
you have the
second-most beautiful eyes
I have ever seen,
but without them,
you look constantly
stoned or surprised.
Your Midwestern dialect
is so charming in the
words you mispronounce.
When ground to dust,
the darkest coffee beans
smell of your thighs
on the days you
bleed your worst,
and that, of course,
makes me miss you
more than ever.
as the water boiled for
the season’s first cup of tea,
how much I despise
the kettle you chose.
How quickly the rust
formed inside, my thick wrists
unable to squeeze through
the tapered rim
to scrub it free.
And have I told you that
in that dress
you look like a fat pear
about to fall
from an overstocked
fruit bin?
When framed with glasses,
you have the
second-most beautiful eyes
I have ever seen,
but without them,
you look constantly
stoned or surprised.
Your Midwestern dialect
is so charming in the
words you mispronounce.
When ground to dust,
the darkest coffee beans
smell of your thighs
on the days you
bleed your worst,
and that, of course,
makes me miss you
more than ever.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Observation
I might as well be
a baseball,
stitched up
and caught when
knocked foul
and held aloft
like a trophy
no one would pay
more than
a few hundred dollars
to possess.
a baseball,
stitched up
and caught when
knocked foul
and held aloft
like a trophy
no one would pay
more than
a few hundred dollars
to possess.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A Note on Dreams
I think I’ve bought more juice in gas stations than in the grocery store, in quantity at least. Not quantity by amount of fluid, surely, but definitely quantity in number of bottles. This is where I arrive after waking from a dream.
I tend to dream often of gas stations, particularly gas stations in the middle of nowhere. Gas stations with a serious lack of sundries and food items on the shelves. An old pack of Snowballs, maybe. A bottle of grape juice, seemingly with the consistency of motor oil, covered in dust on the rusty grate inside an old cooler. I never seem to know what I want or why I’m in one of these places, but they are a regular stop in my dreams.
I should know better than to pay much attention to my dreams. Doing that hasn’t really taken my anywhere fruitful. There was that one dream – some of you know the one – that sent me into a quest to find this raven-haired woman that so significantly affected me in a dream. When I awoke from that one, I was so devastated to having realized it was only a dream and not real life that I cried for half an hour. And it isn’t like there was anything important about whatever sort of relationship I had with this woman in the dream; it was platonic, but somehow exceedingly important. Why I decided it needed to be real, why this subconscious sleep-induced fantasy meant so much to me, I have no clue. But it sent me looking for her. And then I found her – or someone I believed was her – and I of course fell for her. Within weeks, this relationship – one that went no where at all – was over, and now we are only tangentially friends.
And then years later, another woman who fit the description came into my life. Again, I fell for her. Again it fell apart. We, at least, have become and have remained good friends, though with all sorts of drama and caveats attached to the friendship, almost entirely from her end. Ah, the many times I’ve waited fruitlessly for her to visit or to call. And was she the woman from that dream so long ago? At this point, why does it even matter? Especially now that Karrie Anderson has come along.
Okay, as far as I know, Karrie Anderson does not exist. Karrie Anderson works at a rip-off of a Taco Bell restaurant. Before that, she worked at a White Castle rip-off (Brown Castle). She is the manager. She had very short hair, a sandy, reddish color mostly hidden by her hat. She has freckles, lots of them. She has a lovely smile and a great sense of humor.
I was walking down the street with some friends, trying to get away from them, really, so I could go get myself something to eat. They wanted McDonald’s, and I wanted anything but McDonald’s. They wanted to drive, even though it was only a couple of blocks. I hate that. They rolled down a window as they passed me and asked if they should stop at the gas station to grab some chips and dip or some other munchies. I said I didn’t eat that stuff (and I do try very hard to avoid that stuff), and I kept walking.
I don’t remember wanting to eat at this particular Taco Bell rip-off joint, but I certainly did go inside. I might have been cutting through the place to get away from my annoying friends. I worked my way up to the front of the place, and the lovely Miss Anderson (I didn’t yet know her name) looked up at me (I was floating) and said, “You have a very handsome face when you’re hungry.”
This floored me. Literally. My feet were again planted. At the time of her statement, I was, in fact, talking on my cell phone to some other woman, someone I was interested in at the very least. But when Karrie spoke to me and I looked at that wicked smile and the light in her eyes, I was stunned and completely stricken. I stuttered a “Can you hang on a sec?” into the phone, and then hung it up. I asked Karrie what her name was. She told me “Karrie.” She lived somewhere south of here, maybe Flint, maybe closer (but not much). She went to school down there somewhere.
“I have never done this before,” I told her, and it is true both in the dream and in real life, “but could I have your number?”
“Of course,” she said, and gave it to me. I asked how to spell her name, “With a C or a K?” “With a K,” she said, and I typed it into my cell phone. My phone decided for me that her last name was Anderson. Her number started with 225, so perhaps she’s a Verizon customer as well.
We made plans to get together the following night. I would go to her, and I would take my overnight bag because somehow I knew I wouldn’t be coming home that night. Or at the very least I’d bring my toothbrush.
I woke up shortly after this, while I was considering where to carry the toothbrush. I would be wearing a sport coat, surely, and would maybe stick the toothbrush in the inside pocket. No reason to worry about toothpaste; she’d have some. She’d have to have some with a smile like that.
And when I awoke, I was not devastated to be awake, though seldom do I have a dream where there is any specific connection between me and the other people in the dream. But there was enough of a connection for me to grab my phone and text her name to my email address, so I might look her name up and see what turned up.
I don’t know why I am an optimist about such things, because I clearly should know better. It’s a kind of desperation, I suppose. A sad, pathetic state of affairs that would send me on yet another pointless quest. But nevertheless, there I was, texting the name of a person I dreamed about to myself. And then getting myself out of bed at 3 in the morning and sitting down in front of my laptop to write about it, about her, about the juice.
Someone once told me that one theory about dreams is that we are somehow everything in our dreams. In other words, whoever we dream about, whatever we dream about, everything and everyone is a version of ourselves. This theory annoys the piss out of me. I don’t believe it for a second. It’s psychological mumbo-jumbo, some therapist’s explanation to some sick individual who insists on following his dreams (in the literal sense) in some reckless fashion. I suspect dreams are somehow representative of our subconscious mind, a way of allowing us to experience things we desire. In my experience, when not under the crazed dreams brought on by melatonin or tequila, this seems more likely. I dream of playing music or writing on a professional level, things I would really like to do and be successful at in real life. And in this case, in the case of Karrie Anderson, it is my subconscious mind searching for a relationship with some cute, interesting woman, which sounds more sad and desperate than I think I am now that I’ve written it down.
But it won’t stop me from writing about it. Nor will it stop me from looking her up, especially before I post this for the world to see, because if Karrie Anderson exists, there’s no way I’d tell you her name. She’s mine. I don’t want you going after her first.
I tend to dream often of gas stations, particularly gas stations in the middle of nowhere. Gas stations with a serious lack of sundries and food items on the shelves. An old pack of Snowballs, maybe. A bottle of grape juice, seemingly with the consistency of motor oil, covered in dust on the rusty grate inside an old cooler. I never seem to know what I want or why I’m in one of these places, but they are a regular stop in my dreams.
I should know better than to pay much attention to my dreams. Doing that hasn’t really taken my anywhere fruitful. There was that one dream – some of you know the one – that sent me into a quest to find this raven-haired woman that so significantly affected me in a dream. When I awoke from that one, I was so devastated to having realized it was only a dream and not real life that I cried for half an hour. And it isn’t like there was anything important about whatever sort of relationship I had with this woman in the dream; it was platonic, but somehow exceedingly important. Why I decided it needed to be real, why this subconscious sleep-induced fantasy meant so much to me, I have no clue. But it sent me looking for her. And then I found her – or someone I believed was her – and I of course fell for her. Within weeks, this relationship – one that went no where at all – was over, and now we are only tangentially friends.
And then years later, another woman who fit the description came into my life. Again, I fell for her. Again it fell apart. We, at least, have become and have remained good friends, though with all sorts of drama and caveats attached to the friendship, almost entirely from her end. Ah, the many times I’ve waited fruitlessly for her to visit or to call. And was she the woman from that dream so long ago? At this point, why does it even matter? Especially now that Karrie Anderson has come along.
Okay, as far as I know, Karrie Anderson does not exist. Karrie Anderson works at a rip-off of a Taco Bell restaurant. Before that, she worked at a White Castle rip-off (Brown Castle). She is the manager. She had very short hair, a sandy, reddish color mostly hidden by her hat. She has freckles, lots of them. She has a lovely smile and a great sense of humor.
I was walking down the street with some friends, trying to get away from them, really, so I could go get myself something to eat. They wanted McDonald’s, and I wanted anything but McDonald’s. They wanted to drive, even though it was only a couple of blocks. I hate that. They rolled down a window as they passed me and asked if they should stop at the gas station to grab some chips and dip or some other munchies. I said I didn’t eat that stuff (and I do try very hard to avoid that stuff), and I kept walking.
I don’t remember wanting to eat at this particular Taco Bell rip-off joint, but I certainly did go inside. I might have been cutting through the place to get away from my annoying friends. I worked my way up to the front of the place, and the lovely Miss Anderson (I didn’t yet know her name) looked up at me (I was floating) and said, “You have a very handsome face when you’re hungry.”
This floored me. Literally. My feet were again planted. At the time of her statement, I was, in fact, talking on my cell phone to some other woman, someone I was interested in at the very least. But when Karrie spoke to me and I looked at that wicked smile and the light in her eyes, I was stunned and completely stricken. I stuttered a “Can you hang on a sec?” into the phone, and then hung it up. I asked Karrie what her name was. She told me “Karrie.” She lived somewhere south of here, maybe Flint, maybe closer (but not much). She went to school down there somewhere.
“I have never done this before,” I told her, and it is true both in the dream and in real life, “but could I have your number?”
“Of course,” she said, and gave it to me. I asked how to spell her name, “With a C or a K?” “With a K,” she said, and I typed it into my cell phone. My phone decided for me that her last name was Anderson. Her number started with 225, so perhaps she’s a Verizon customer as well.
We made plans to get together the following night. I would go to her, and I would take my overnight bag because somehow I knew I wouldn’t be coming home that night. Or at the very least I’d bring my toothbrush.
I woke up shortly after this, while I was considering where to carry the toothbrush. I would be wearing a sport coat, surely, and would maybe stick the toothbrush in the inside pocket. No reason to worry about toothpaste; she’d have some. She’d have to have some with a smile like that.
And when I awoke, I was not devastated to be awake, though seldom do I have a dream where there is any specific connection between me and the other people in the dream. But there was enough of a connection for me to grab my phone and text her name to my email address, so I might look her name up and see what turned up.
I don’t know why I am an optimist about such things, because I clearly should know better. It’s a kind of desperation, I suppose. A sad, pathetic state of affairs that would send me on yet another pointless quest. But nevertheless, there I was, texting the name of a person I dreamed about to myself. And then getting myself out of bed at 3 in the morning and sitting down in front of my laptop to write about it, about her, about the juice.
Someone once told me that one theory about dreams is that we are somehow everything in our dreams. In other words, whoever we dream about, whatever we dream about, everything and everyone is a version of ourselves. This theory annoys the piss out of me. I don’t believe it for a second. It’s psychological mumbo-jumbo, some therapist’s explanation to some sick individual who insists on following his dreams (in the literal sense) in some reckless fashion. I suspect dreams are somehow representative of our subconscious mind, a way of allowing us to experience things we desire. In my experience, when not under the crazed dreams brought on by melatonin or tequila, this seems more likely. I dream of playing music or writing on a professional level, things I would really like to do and be successful at in real life. And in this case, in the case of Karrie Anderson, it is my subconscious mind searching for a relationship with some cute, interesting woman, which sounds more sad and desperate than I think I am now that I’ve written it down.
But it won’t stop me from writing about it. Nor will it stop me from looking her up, especially before I post this for the world to see, because if Karrie Anderson exists, there’s no way I’d tell you her name. She’s mine. I don’t want you going after her first.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Sisyphus
I awoke gasping for breath. She had come to me in my dream, wrapping her sweaty thighs around my head and making me taste her, laughing at me as my eyes bugged out in surprise. She slapped the top of my head over and over, grinding against me, and I struggled to find air.
Once I came to my senses, I tasted blood. For a moment, I mistrusted reality. Would I perhaps awake from a dream within a dream? She had been bleeding in the dream, this I remembered, and now I was tasting it. I rolled my tongue around inside my mouth. It was thick, swollen. I felt raised flesh around both sides, and finally understood that I had bitten it in my sleep.
I went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I could still hear her laughter. It was sadistic, maniacal. The top of my head hurt like my hair had been pulled, and this with no reason. Had I thrust myself against the headboard, trying to escape the dream in my reality? Had I pulled my own hair? This pain would never be explained.
I sat down on the toilet to pee. It would have been impossible to do it standing up; I was hard, from both the pressure in my bladder and the content of the dream. It was a struggle to relax, to let it go. And when it was over, I was still hard, and I masturbated into the bowl, leaning over and resting my right hand on the floor when I came, groaning, hoping for some kind of relief to the tension.
I crawled back into bed and thought about her, about us, how far we had come sexually. When it started, it was romantic and playful, light, cautious. Within weeks, the lovemaking had become more aggressive, her asking for harder, rougher contact. My fingers would dig deep into her ribcage. She insisted I squeeze her hips as hard as I could when she rode me, and there were times when, the following day, my hands would ache. I left teeth marks on her sides, on her ass, on her shoulders, inside her thighs, wherever she wanted to feel me bite her. I didn’t need any of it; it was all her, but I was willing to give. I loved making her feel good.
She would be turned on by things that surprised me, since she was so shy in public. Once, my friend Charlie came up from the country to stay for a few days, sleeping on a pile of down comforters on the living room floor. She had heard the floorboards creak when he got up for a midnight piss, and she woke me with her hands and mouth, pulling me on top of her, jabbing at me, prodding me until I moaned, then slapping me to elicit more noise. She wanted Charlie to hear me. She laughed every time I made the guttural sounds that surely carried into the next room where he lay. In the morning, at breakfast, Charlie looked at us uncomfortably, but she just hummed Beethoven with a sly smile on her face while scrambling eggs in the frying pan. Charlie never stayed with us again.
The paramedics told me she suffered, which may be why I’ve been unable to let go. She had been awake, aware of what was happening, but unable to escape her fate. True to form, she accepted it and had ripped her own panties off from under her skirt so she could touch herself one more time before… before….
I take the bus to work now. I take it everywhere, really. Everywhere it goes that I need to reach, at least. Once in awhile I need to take a taxi, but I am never comfortable. The cabbies pick me up out front and ask about the car in the driveway, why I wouldn’t want to drive it everywhere just to be seen in it. I make up excuses, that the starter’s busted, that the brakes are shot, that I haven’t had a chance to renew the insurance. Sometimes they ask to look under the hood, but I feign that I’m in a hurry. I am never in a hurry.
My work has suffered because I can no longer concentrate. When I show some potential buyer a stove or refrigerator, I seldom hear their questions. I tell them what it does. I answer whatever question I think I’ve heard. They rarely buy. The manager has been decent about it. He understands that I am still lost, but I can sense his patience is running out. Soon I’ll be asked to straighten up or find another job. This should scare me more than it does because the job market is so shaky, but I also know I have enough of her life insurance money left to last me a few months if I need it. The only money I’ve spent from it was on her funeral, which was so surprisingly expensive. They were nice people, sympathetic and willing to do whatever they could to make my transition easier, but I couldn’t help but think how much of that money was going to new suits and ties. My transition. It was more hers than mine, I suppose.
Charlie let me stay with him in the country for a few days. I slept on the couch. He was distant, but had a willing ear. Neither of us brought up his last night at our place, but we were both thinking about it. We sat at his table and I scanned the walls, counting six crucifixes and one set of rosary beads hanging off the curtain rod above the kitchen sink. No wonder he was uncomfortable.
I tossed and turned for awhile, hoping to get back to sleep, looking at the clock every 15 minutes until the sun started coming in through the blinds. I got up, made some instant coffee and choked down a bowl of cereal. The hot coffee felt like shards of glass against my ragged tongue. I sucked on an ice cube and looked through the medicine cabinet for some Orajel to rub on it, anything to deaden the pain. Her toothbrush still hung on the rack behind the mirror. I hadn’t gotten rid of anything but the dress they buried her in.
I cried in the shower, something I do most days. I threw up after, as I also do most days. I pulled a clean shirt off the line in the basement and ran the iron across it, straightening the roughest edges but forgot the collar, which I hadn’t noticed was rumpled until I’d put it on and made my third attempt at a Windsor knot. I noticed the time; it was too late to fix it now or I’d miss the bus.
I slept through my stop, having fallen asleep to Hayden on my iPod. I walked the six blocks back to the store and punched in at the time clock. The manager didn’t look upset. I did some morning cleaning, dusting off the countertops, checking price tags for expired sales, slicing open an index finger on one of the thick labels. I sucked the blood off until the wound stopped bleeding. Again, that taste of blood, cleaner than hers but just as salty.
She’d taken a turn too fast one night, clipped a guardrail and nosed over into the river, and no one was around to see it happen. The car sank quickly, and she wasn’t able to open a door or break a window. Her seat belt had jammed tightly across her shoulders and hips. The water seeped in slowly, and while she must have had a few moments of panic, I doubt it lasted long. She was too strong for that. And then she reached between her legs, pulled her panties off from the crotch, and rubbed herself one last time. When they pulled her car out and drained the water, her hand was underneath her skirt and her panties had come to lie on the dashboard. They said she was smiling, but that her eyes were open and scared. The slow drowning, that’s why they said she suffered. A horrible way to go, they said. They didn’t question the position of her hand, her ripped panties, any of it, but I told them just the same. Knowing she was going to die, to drown, she was looking for that supposed “ultimate orgasm,” and desperately tried to make herself come while her air ran out.
Every night I wake up like that, gasping for breath. Every night I dream of her, something physical, something degraded, something messy. Every night I wake up hard, go for a piss and pull myself off into the toilet, and then struggle to go back to sleep. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I sleep and she comes to me again, begging for another finger or spitting in my face or into my mouth, biting my lip. She yanks my chest hair. And I wake up again and repeat the pattern of piss and come and then struggle to sleep.
Once I came to my senses, I tasted blood. For a moment, I mistrusted reality. Would I perhaps awake from a dream within a dream? She had been bleeding in the dream, this I remembered, and now I was tasting it. I rolled my tongue around inside my mouth. It was thick, swollen. I felt raised flesh around both sides, and finally understood that I had bitten it in my sleep.
I went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I could still hear her laughter. It was sadistic, maniacal. The top of my head hurt like my hair had been pulled, and this with no reason. Had I thrust myself against the headboard, trying to escape the dream in my reality? Had I pulled my own hair? This pain would never be explained.
I sat down on the toilet to pee. It would have been impossible to do it standing up; I was hard, from both the pressure in my bladder and the content of the dream. It was a struggle to relax, to let it go. And when it was over, I was still hard, and I masturbated into the bowl, leaning over and resting my right hand on the floor when I came, groaning, hoping for some kind of relief to the tension.
I crawled back into bed and thought about her, about us, how far we had come sexually. When it started, it was romantic and playful, light, cautious. Within weeks, the lovemaking had become more aggressive, her asking for harder, rougher contact. My fingers would dig deep into her ribcage. She insisted I squeeze her hips as hard as I could when she rode me, and there were times when, the following day, my hands would ache. I left teeth marks on her sides, on her ass, on her shoulders, inside her thighs, wherever she wanted to feel me bite her. I didn’t need any of it; it was all her, but I was willing to give. I loved making her feel good.
She would be turned on by things that surprised me, since she was so shy in public. Once, my friend Charlie came up from the country to stay for a few days, sleeping on a pile of down comforters on the living room floor. She had heard the floorboards creak when he got up for a midnight piss, and she woke me with her hands and mouth, pulling me on top of her, jabbing at me, prodding me until I moaned, then slapping me to elicit more noise. She wanted Charlie to hear me. She laughed every time I made the guttural sounds that surely carried into the next room where he lay. In the morning, at breakfast, Charlie looked at us uncomfortably, but she just hummed Beethoven with a sly smile on her face while scrambling eggs in the frying pan. Charlie never stayed with us again.
The paramedics told me she suffered, which may be why I’ve been unable to let go. She had been awake, aware of what was happening, but unable to escape her fate. True to form, she accepted it and had ripped her own panties off from under her skirt so she could touch herself one more time before… before….
I take the bus to work now. I take it everywhere, really. Everywhere it goes that I need to reach, at least. Once in awhile I need to take a taxi, but I am never comfortable. The cabbies pick me up out front and ask about the car in the driveway, why I wouldn’t want to drive it everywhere just to be seen in it. I make up excuses, that the starter’s busted, that the brakes are shot, that I haven’t had a chance to renew the insurance. Sometimes they ask to look under the hood, but I feign that I’m in a hurry. I am never in a hurry.
My work has suffered because I can no longer concentrate. When I show some potential buyer a stove or refrigerator, I seldom hear their questions. I tell them what it does. I answer whatever question I think I’ve heard. They rarely buy. The manager has been decent about it. He understands that I am still lost, but I can sense his patience is running out. Soon I’ll be asked to straighten up or find another job. This should scare me more than it does because the job market is so shaky, but I also know I have enough of her life insurance money left to last me a few months if I need it. The only money I’ve spent from it was on her funeral, which was so surprisingly expensive. They were nice people, sympathetic and willing to do whatever they could to make my transition easier, but I couldn’t help but think how much of that money was going to new suits and ties. My transition. It was more hers than mine, I suppose.
Charlie let me stay with him in the country for a few days. I slept on the couch. He was distant, but had a willing ear. Neither of us brought up his last night at our place, but we were both thinking about it. We sat at his table and I scanned the walls, counting six crucifixes and one set of rosary beads hanging off the curtain rod above the kitchen sink. No wonder he was uncomfortable.
I tossed and turned for awhile, hoping to get back to sleep, looking at the clock every 15 minutes until the sun started coming in through the blinds. I got up, made some instant coffee and choked down a bowl of cereal. The hot coffee felt like shards of glass against my ragged tongue. I sucked on an ice cube and looked through the medicine cabinet for some Orajel to rub on it, anything to deaden the pain. Her toothbrush still hung on the rack behind the mirror. I hadn’t gotten rid of anything but the dress they buried her in.
I cried in the shower, something I do most days. I threw up after, as I also do most days. I pulled a clean shirt off the line in the basement and ran the iron across it, straightening the roughest edges but forgot the collar, which I hadn’t noticed was rumpled until I’d put it on and made my third attempt at a Windsor knot. I noticed the time; it was too late to fix it now or I’d miss the bus.
I slept through my stop, having fallen asleep to Hayden on my iPod. I walked the six blocks back to the store and punched in at the time clock. The manager didn’t look upset. I did some morning cleaning, dusting off the countertops, checking price tags for expired sales, slicing open an index finger on one of the thick labels. I sucked the blood off until the wound stopped bleeding. Again, that taste of blood, cleaner than hers but just as salty.
She’d taken a turn too fast one night, clipped a guardrail and nosed over into the river, and no one was around to see it happen. The car sank quickly, and she wasn’t able to open a door or break a window. Her seat belt had jammed tightly across her shoulders and hips. The water seeped in slowly, and while she must have had a few moments of panic, I doubt it lasted long. She was too strong for that. And then she reached between her legs, pulled her panties off from the crotch, and rubbed herself one last time. When they pulled her car out and drained the water, her hand was underneath her skirt and her panties had come to lie on the dashboard. They said she was smiling, but that her eyes were open and scared. The slow drowning, that’s why they said she suffered. A horrible way to go, they said. They didn’t question the position of her hand, her ripped panties, any of it, but I told them just the same. Knowing she was going to die, to drown, she was looking for that supposed “ultimate orgasm,” and desperately tried to make herself come while her air ran out.
Every night I wake up like that, gasping for breath. Every night I dream of her, something physical, something degraded, something messy. Every night I wake up hard, go for a piss and pull myself off into the toilet, and then struggle to go back to sleep. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I sleep and she comes to me again, begging for another finger or spitting in my face or into my mouth, biting my lip. She yanks my chest hair. And I wake up again and repeat the pattern of piss and come and then struggle to sleep.
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