Read Me

The Shape of You, The Shape of Me

2007-12-31T10:40:00.001-08:00

The Shape of You, The Shape of Me
By Tony

The fight was over, but the talking was still left. James was stretched out across the floor at the foot of the bed, his wife Wendy was on the bed sitting crossed legged. He stared straight up at the ceiling fan as Wendy spoke.
"I just can't live like this anymore. I can't take your anger," she said.
Across the hall, Billy cried in his crib. He didn’t want to sleep, or maybe he just didn’t want to be left alone. He'd stop crying for a while, and you would think he was asleep, then the crying would start again.
James said, "Just let me get him up. He's not going to take a nap."
"He has to learn to go to sleep on his own. He hasn’t been in there that long."
"Christ."

Wendy slid over, dangled her feet over the side of the bed so that the tip of her toes just pressed against the carpet.
She said, "Something has to change. I can't fight anymore. Not like this. Ever since the baby came, you've been so mean. This isn’t you."

James rolled onto his side. Maybe if his back were to her she would stop. Maybe if he kept staring away, staring off somewhere at something else, she would stop. The sound of her voice grated on him. That pleading tone, instead of making him want to comfort her, only made him want to put his fingers in his ears. This was the worst part about fighting with her -- not the argument, but the calming down phase afterwards.
The baby had stopped crying. James held his breath, waiting for the crying to start all over again. It didn’t. Minutes passed and still there was quiet. He felt his shoulders relax, noticed his fists unclench.
"I guess he will sleep," he said.
Wendy lay back on the bed. She placed her arm over her eyes and started to sob. James climbed next to her. He reached around her, tried to pull her close. Her body was stiff against him.
"It's so hard," she whispered.
“I know. I’m exhausted too.”
“Everything’s just so hard. It just doesn’t seem like it should be.”
James said, “It’ll be better when he starts sleeping through the night. We really need some sleep, that’s all.”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve, pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes.
“I just don’t know,” she said.
James was up on one elbow looking down at her. He brushed back her hair and ran his fingertips over her eyebrows. Moving next to her, he again wrapped his arms around her. This time she moved into him -- soft, almost yielding. The baby was still quiet. James closed his eyes and nuzzled his wife's hair. He drifted quietly. Drifted while his body remained on the bed. Drifted like a lost balloon while his heavy limbs lay on top of his wife.
She nudged him awake.
"The baby’s up," she said.
“Do you want me to get him?”
“Please,” she sighed, her breath becoming rhythmic and deep once more.
James sat up slowly and put his head in his hands, rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair. He walked across the hall and placed his hand on the doorknob. Pausing, he felt the crisp cool metal and listened to Billy cooing in his crib. He opened the door. A shaft of light from the window stabbed at the center of the floor. Billy was on his back smiling up at his father.
“Did you have a good sleep?” James asked.
The baby looked at him, gurgled a little.
“Let’s change that diaper,” James said.
Billy’s damp warm breath brushed against James’ neck as he carried Billy over to the changing table. James put him down, looked at his face -- those almond eyes too close together, that broad forehead. Mongoloid, he thought. When James was a kid they called them mongoloids. James’ own mother had called Billy that the first time she saw him. Probably without thinking, but Wendy was pissed. “He’s a down-syndrome baby,” she had said, “not a mongoloid.”
James taped on the diaper, bent over and blew air on Billy’s belly. Billy laughed loud, squealed, flailed his arms and laughed some more.
“Your mommy is still asleep. Why don’t we go get her up?”
They crossed the hall. James held the boy against him as he pushed open the door. The little fingers curled around his neck, worked into his short hair. Still holding Billy, James sat on the bed.
“Hello,” Wendy sighed as she brushed Billy’s cheek.
She sat up, leaned against the headboard. Her face was puffy. She unbuttoned her shirt and exposed her fuller breasts. James handed over Billy. Wendy pulled him to her, propped a pillow under him. The soft light saturated the two of them, covered them -- her there with her exposed breast, Billy curled up into her. They were almost one being; one created from two.
James slipped out of the room and down the hallway. He went to the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of orange juice and filled a tall glass. He sat with it at the dinner table. After some time he heard Wendy open the bedroom door and start down the hall. James rotated his shoulders, trying to loosen them up. Wendy pulled out a chair and sat down across from James. She held the baby over her shoulder and patted him on the back. Her shirt was still not buttoned totally. The white tops of her large breasts were visible.
Wendy said, “What do you say we go to the zoo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. It will be fun. Billy will like it.”
“He’s not going to get a lot out of it.”
“Oh, he’ll like it. Babies take in more than you think.”
James drank slowly.
“Besides,” she said, “they’ve got a new gorilla I want to see.”
“So?”
“I heard about this one on the news. He was kept in this mall in Ohio for just about his whole life. He lived in this little room, you know, so everyone would come by and look at him. He’s never been outdoors.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, well now this zoo has him because people started protesting. They didn’t think he should have to stay in that tiny room and be watched all day.”
“Like a freak,” James said quietly.
“Like a freak,” Wendy repeated. She added, “Today is the first day he’s going to be allowed outside”
So they got ready. Wendy took the baby and changed his clothes while James packed the diaper bag. James was tying his shoes when Wendy and the baby padded down the hallway towards him.
“I’ll get the baby in the car,” Wendy said.
James nodded, watched her and Billy go out the door and down the stairs. He finished tying his shoes and straightened up slowly, almost arthritically. He grabbed the diaper bag and stood there for a moment, poised in an odd position -- his one hand holding the bag, his head tilting slightly, his left hip shifted out. He stared blankly out the window and for some reason noticed the trees swaying, the leaves fluttering. For a split second he thought he might cry. But then he shook himself and headed out to the car.
“Are we all set?” he asked once he was seated.
“Let me snap my belt on.”
Billy was in the back seat. The straps of his child seat pulled at the cloth of his shirt, ruffled it, puffed it out. He stared at the black and white mobile that hung in front of him. Wendy’s belt clicked loudly as she fastened it. James started the car.
They hadn’t driven far when James said, “Are you okay? Are we okay?”
“I guess.”
Some cars passed them.
Wendy said, “You said some really mean things. It’s hard for me to just forget about them.”
“I know.”
Wendy looked out the window for a long time.
Wendy said, “Billy’s staying with us. I’m not going to let anyone else take care of him.”
“I didn’t mean it when I said that. It was a stupid thing to say.”
“You should never say anything like that.”
“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
James clenched the steering wheel in both hands. He moved the mirror down so he could see Billy. The sun was filtering into the back seat. Sunlight coated Billy’s legs, reflected his red shirt onto his face so that he looked rosy -- jolly almost. It hurt when James thought about Billy being gone. And it hurt when he thought about Billy staying, about spending his whole life looking after Billy.
But Wendy seemed to be handling it. James glanced at her as he drove, thought about more of the things he had said to her when they had argued -- things that hurt him to think of. He thought about how sometimes when they argued he could feel the meanness coming out, could feel himself forming those vile words, but still not stopping them. Sometimes he couldn’t stop himself, and sometimes he just didn’t want to.
How do you make yourself want to?
They drove in silence -- the only sound was an occasional squeal or gurgle from the baby and the thumping, thumping, thumping of the tires against the asphalt.
They pulled into the zoo parking lot. James drove slowly through the crowded lot. He prowled for a space, ready at any time pounce. The sun had heated up the car. James dabbed at the slippery sweat that dotted his forehead. Finally he found a space and parked the car. As he gathered up all the baby equipment, Wendy got the baby out of the seat. James popped the trunk and pulled out the stroller. Wendy placed Billy into it carefully, tugged his tiny hat lower to keep the sun out of his face.
They headed towards the entrance, they melted in with the other people who were briskly making their way inside . James pushed the stroller. Wendy walked next to him. Neither spoke as they walked up to the ticket gait, as they wheeled themselves through and inside.
“Do we see the gorilla first?” James asked.
“Can we?”
“When do they let him out.”
Wendy glanced at the combination map and advertisement they had been handed on the way in.
“Oh,” she said. “In a couple of minutes. Let’s hurry and we’ll be able to see it.”
They weaved quickly through the crowd. Billy leaned forward in the stroller, reached out towards the passing people. Stop looking at him, James thought. Just stop looking at him. James’ jaw shut tight, clenched. His teeth worked against each other.
Wendy said, “Here, over here.”
They pushed their way through the people, up to a fence, and peered inside.
“Is he out?” James asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Wendy.
A man standing next to them said, “They are going to let him out any time now. That door,” he pointed to the far end of the cage, “is where he will come out of.”
As James squinted at the door, it slowly opened. Inside of it, just in the shadow, you could make out what looked like a gorilla. The crowd pressed tight together.
“I don’t see him,” said Wendy.
“There. To the left of the door. Inside to the left,” said the man who had told them where to look.
The spectators were silent as they waited. James gradually gripped the handle of the stroller tighter in his fist. Wendy had her fingers wrapped in the fence. Billy too was quiet.
The gorilla moved closer to the open door, poked his head out.
“Here he comes,” said Wendy.
But he didn’t. The gorilla stood at the edge and peered out. He put his hand out the open door, yet would not follow it. Minutes passed. Grumbling onlookers started to leave.
“He’ll come out,” Wendy said. “He will. I know it.”
She reached down and picked up Billy.
Still the gorilla remained on the edge.
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to,” James said.
Wendy whispered, “He has to.”
A half an hour passed. The man who had spoken to them earlier drifted away with rest of the crowd. Wendy turned to James, her eyes puddled with tears.
“We came here to see him,” she said to James.
“He’ll come out.”
They stood there and watched, and he didn’t come out. They stood there and watched, and this gorilla stood there too, still inside, like he had been for his whole life. Still inside this cage. And Wendy shook -- with what seemed like rage, like sadness. She began to sob. James pulled her to him, pulled her so tight he thought he might be crushing her.
“We’ll wait,” he said softly into her ear.
Wendy put her head onto James’ shoulder. Billy shifted some in Wendy’s arms. She place him back into the stroller. He sat so still, so calm.
James said, “We will wait right here.”
They stood there, holding each other -- neither one of them looking at the open door, neither on of them moving or seeming to breathe. And the baby silent in the stroller next to them. Wendy crying uncontrollably now. And they leaned slightly against an invisible force, invisible wind.
And they waited.

Who's Your Daddy?

2007-12-20T05:23:00.000-08:00

The bistro I work at is on the fancy end for this part of Central Wisconsin. People here (as in most of middle class America, I'd suggest) rate a restaurant as good if it has massive portions that are cheap. Not a shock, I'm sure. The Bistro bucks that mold with some high quality ingredients and causal fine dining. Some people get uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like we are snooty and will look down on them. And of course, some get kind of defensive, and some act like idiots. Consider this case in point:

The restaurant was having one of our "Chef Dinners" - you know, special menu, special ingredients, all that. It's a night that is almost always balls to the wall busy. Crazy busy -- no time for bullshit, no time for one table of assholes to fuck around and get you in the weeds.

I get the first table of the night. As the hostess is coming to tell me I've been sat, I think I notice a certain look she's giving me, trying to give me, but I can't confirm it. No time - more customers are coming in and she can't sidle up discreetly and whisper what I am sure is information I need. But really, I already can tell by her wide eyes and tired sigh what her look is trying to tell me. Servers know this look, in fact all restaurant staff know this look - it's the look that tells you the table you are about to approach is going to get you seriously wondering if you wouldn't mind trading your server job for the momentary joy of shoving a dinner roll so far down some fuckers throat that his prostate gets covered in bread flour.

I walk up to the table hoping I had misread the hostess' body language. There are three of them - one guy sitting across from a man and woman.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Tony. I'll be your server."
I continue, blah blah, tell them about the specials, blah blah, end by asking if anyone would like a drink.
"I don't know," says the dude next to the woman (side note – in your head, please do a deep southern white trash accent for this guy's dialogue. Why is it, no matter where in the U.S. you are, if someone is a dumbass redneck, they talk with some pseudo-southern accent? We're in Wisconsin, but this guy talks like fucking Bubba from the block).
"I don't know," says the dude. "Depends how much a beer cost in this place. What are they like $10 a bottle?"
In my head, I've already stuck my wine key into his eye.
I say, “Just typical prices – three dollars for a domestic, three seventy five and up for imports.”
The two men order beer, and when the lady begins to order a wine, Bubba from the block stops her.
“I’m already paying enough for the beer, I’m not paying another five dollars for a glass of wine.”
Of course you’re not, I think. In my imagination I’m now turning the corkscrew of my wine key into his eye.
I bring the beers, no wine of course, and do my best to seem good ole boyish to the fine gentlemen. One of my strengths has always been my chameleon-like ability. Without trying, I seem to know how to talk to almost all social groups. I am able to fit in with whomever. So the dude seems to get along with me. When he jokes about his wife (I’ve been told by now they are married) having a big butt, I give him a “nothing wrong with big butts as long as there nice ones” response. Then a wink, wink, nudge, nudge. He guffaws and she actually looks please by the compliment (compliment?).
It’s a tedious table to wait on. Every interaction becomes a complicated middle-class struggle. He doesn’t know what to order because all the descriptions are too damn fancy ("If it's a sweet and sour like sauce why can't it just say so?" for example). The beer has a different label one time (God only knows why, but of course it had to happen with this douche bag), so this now becomes a scam we are trying on him. Apparently there is a cabal of label switching desperadoes bent on world domination. His wife warms up to me in a big way, and he tells me she’ll be here next Tuesday with her friend for lunch – her friend is a real horny babe, so they will “treat me good!”
Finally they are reaching the end stage of dinner. I’ve bantered my way through classless remark after classless remark. I’ve done my best self-deprecating laugh with each “there goes your tip” comment. I’ve feigned laughter when he asks about a waitress, and after finding out she’s barely eighteen, says it’s ok, she won’t feel weird calling him daddy. The crowning bon mot – that he was disappointed we had no bathroom attendant to hand him towels, or at least shake off his dick. I’ve redirected the energy of each stupid remark like a verbal judo master. I've gritted my teeth, ground them to nubs really, created a permanent cramp in my jaw muscles.
But now the end is here. Check dropped, payment received.
Mercifully, the trio leaves. Assuring me they’ve taken good care of me with the tip (turns out that means a giant 10%, which is probably more than they've ever tipped), the wife winks and looks me up and down. Bubba laughs and grabs her around the waist.
“See you Tuesday,” she says as they push through the door and are finally gone.
Finally, I can breathe again.
I immediately tell the floor manager I will burn the place down if I’m ever scheduled to work another Tuesday ever.

Novel Excerpt

2007-12-19T07:51:00.001-08:00

For your reading pleasure I've excerpted the first chapter of my done-with-second-draft-but-still-revising novel.

Entropy

1

In the fall, sometimes the humidity leaves for a while. Sometimes it isn’t so hot, and the clouds are just right, and if you want to be somewhere nice, somewhere you can relax, outside is the place you want to be.
Today is like that. The air has that smell, that crisp feeling. Only a very light breeze moves the tree branches. I sit at a picnic table, my back to the sun. It warms me, makes me feel a little better. The sun is good. It can make you forget if you just let it.
I sit here alone. My coworkers sit together in small groups. Some are at tables, others lounge on the grass, sit under trees. A lawn mower buzzes and the smell of the grass fills the air, makes it seem like summer, not fall. I think everyone who works at this place is eating lunch outside. That factory makes you want to escape when you can. I mean, the noise alone will drive you crazy, but add to that no windows, and it’s worse than a prison.
So just about everyone is out here, and nobody has come near me, nobody has spoken to me. Which is how I want it. But you know, I can feel their eyes on me. I can imagine their conversations about me, wondering how I’m taking it, trying to find out what the real story is. By now, you would think I would be old news. Why should it be a big deal?
But maybe nobody is concerned with my situation. Perhaps their interest is just in my imagination. Who knows?
Anyway, I take a bite of my sandwich and put it down, then spread my newspaper out in front of me. A person’s shadow darkens the paper, but I don’t look up. Maybe she’ll go way. I know it’s a she because there is only one person who would feel the need to talk to me now -- Fat Marge. Fat Marge and her sidekick Kelly. Kelly is the pretty girl of the two. Very pretty. I’ve no idea why she hangs out with Fat Marge. Fat Marge is a pain, she talks to whomever she can, whether they want to talk or not. And she’s always bothering me. Always. She constantly tries to get me to listen to her religious babble. She tells me that Jesus is Lord, or that He loves me, or that He is coming. Jesus is coming. Right. Like Fat Marge would be the first person to know.
“Hey buddy.”
I look up. Instead of Fat Marge, it’s Dixon McCullough. I want to say, “go away,” but don’t.
“Hey,” I offer up instead.
Dixon sits down. He’s a strange guy. I mean, he’s hard to figure out. From a distance, he looks like harmless, typical -- he’s got the right clothes, the right walk. He’s got that look. But when you’re close, you see the problems; his clothes are generally scruffy and wrinkled, his hair is always shaggy and uncombed. Those kind of things.
“Look, Nick,” Dixon says to me. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife.”
He puts his sweaty hand out for me to shake.
I’m shaking hands and thinking I should have told him to go away.
“Thanks,” I say.
Dixon is not someone I would consider a friend. Of course, that could apply to everyone at this factory, everyone here at ComBuilt. There is really nobody here that I’d call a friend. But I’ve got lots of acquaintances. Tons.
So Dixon is still sitting here. He opens a paper bag, retrieves a sandwich, starts to eat. A breeze comes up and rattles my newspaper. It levitates momentarily, then settles once the wind dies down.
I try to ignore Dixon. Try to ignore his unshaved face, red-rimmed eyes. He reminds of this kid I knew when I was six or seven. This kid was mean -- I remember one time he caught a frog and made it jump out of his second-story bedroom window over and over again until the frog was dead.
Dixon looks just like that kid.
“You must feel bad, I guess,” he says.
“What?”
“Your wife having left you and all. It’s pretty fucked up, I guess.”
“Uh huh,” I say.
Dixon pulls a thermos out of his paper grocery bag. He opens it and pours the liquid into the little cup thing.
“Would you like some?” he asks.
“No, no thanks,”
“Are you sure?”
“Really, no thanks. I’ve got my own”
I hold up a Diet Pepsi.
“Okay,” he says.
He smiles and takes a drink.
I go back to my paper.
“So, I was thinking,” he says.
I look up, take the last bite of my sandwich.
“I was thinking, it might be fun if we went out tonight. You know, go bar hopping or something. It might be good for you.”
“I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I feel fine.”
“Oh, I know. I didn’t mean you weren’t. I just thought it might be fun to go out.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “But thanks for asking.”
Dixon nods, pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers me one.
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
He nods again and lights his cigarette. The smoke drifts across to my face. He lets the smoke flow out of his mouth and breathes it back in through his nose.
Then he exhales.
“I only smoke one a day,” he says.
“Like vitamins,” I say.
He laughs, “Yeah, like vitamins. Of course, I also smoke when I drink. Smoking and drinking just kind of go together.”
“Like raping and pillaging.”
He laughs again -- it’s more of snort. He’s seems unsure of whether I’m making fun of him, or just joking around. I’m not too sure either.
I clean up my garbage, fold my paper, stand up.
I say, “I guess I’ll see you inside.”
“I guess,” Dixon says. “See you.”
I let my eyes adjust to the dim light, then go to my workstation. The air in here isn’t very fresh. A faint chemical smell lingers. I reach my table and take out my tools; once the conveyor starts going, I’ll be ready.
The conveyor starts exactly on time, and work begins. It’s funny, everything in here starts exactly when it’s supposed to. I guess sometimes the people don’t. But the machines -- they always do. They start, keep going. Every movement, every turn of a sprocket is done when ordered. And it seems like the machines here never break. I mean never. They just keep on going, keep on churning. They stop for no one.
So work has begun. There’s the bustle of movement and shouts. There’s the high-pitched beeping of equipment, the constant rumbling of the conveyor. The noise assaults your ears until you are sure they will start bleeding. If someone were being murdered, if someone were having their heart ripped from their chest, you’d never hear it over the din.
I lift a computer off of the line and start putting a disk drive into it. The work goes rapidly, and once the drive is in, I run a quick diagnostic. The machine checks out, so I attach the correct paper work, put the computer back onto the line, watch it disappear down the track where someone is eagerly waiting to box it up. I pick another machine and start the process all over again. Little concentration is needed, and my mind usually wanders.
That’s not good. It’s been a month or so since my wife left, and on every one of those days I’ve thought about her. I sometimes try to stop, try to think of other things, because, let’s face it, there’s no use thinking about my wife -- it will do no good. But inevitably my thoughts drift to her. So I play games with it, try to remember different details. Sometimes the memory of our wedding comes to mind. Other times it’s stupid things I remember. Like once, when we were still dating, she was so proud of herself for having cleaned up my apartment while I was at work. But I got mad at her -- was she saying I was dirty or something, saying that I couldn’t take care of my own place? Really, she just wanted me to say she had done a good job. She wanted my approval, but I just couldn’t see it. Instead, I ended up starting an argument.
That type of stuff always seemed to happen with us. Arguments over things we couldn’t recognize.
And other memories come and go. After awhile, I don’t try to stop them. Maybe if I let the memories happen I can get them out of my system. Like when a song is stuck in your head; if you try to block it out, you never get rid of it. But if you just sing along, before you know it, the stupid thing is gone.
A lot of times I try to remember when I knew she was going to leave. I mean, she never told me she was leaving. She just left. But still, I had to have known. How can you live with someone for four years and not know something like that? I probably knew for a long time. Maybe even before she did.
Dixon walks by my workstation. That guy is never where he is supposed to be, and yet no one seems to care. I watch him walk past and think about his offer. Why don’t I go? How bad could it really be? Lord knows it’s better than sitting home watching television. Besides, who else is there for me to go out with? Not that I really long to go out, but what the hell?
Still, Dixon is pretty out there. I mean, he kind of gives you that uncomfortable feeling. Maybe it’s the way he looks a you, like he’s searching for weakness or something. Or maybe it’s because the guy doesn’t seem to be all there. I don’t know.
The day drags by, but finally it is three-thirty. I clean up my area, lock the tool drawer. I join the crowd streaming towards the parking lot. Dixon is up ahead of me.
I find myself calling out, “Hey Dixon.”
He slows and lets me catch up.
“Yeah?”
“You still feel like going out drinking?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says.

A Sort of Christmas Story

2007-12-18T07:36:00.000-08:00

Cold
By Tony

We are arguing. No surprise. For the last few months, we have been arguing pretty regularly. We don’t limit the topics either. They range from the petty to the important. Tonight it’s the cat.

“Why did you let her out?” my wife asks me. She is sitting sideways in the recliner chair, legs draped over the arm. Her painted toenails wiggle at me.

“Joanne, the cat was manic. Okay? The stupid thing was running around and driving me crazy,” I reply. I am not yelling, but my voice has a controlled quality that creeps into it when I start to get mad. The controlled tone usually precedes yelling, though.

“You do realize we have to leave early in the morning? What if Blinky doesn’t come back before then? Katherine isn’t coming for two days.”

Katherine is our friend, my wife’s friend really, who agreed to come over to feed Blinky and look after the house.

“I know,” I say. I stalk over to the front door and open it. A mass of freezing air rolls in through the opening. I stick my head out into the cold.

“Blinky,” I call, then make that kiss sound with my lips.

“Jesus it’s cold,” says Joanne. She’s absolutely right. It’s Christmas Eve, and it is supposed to be the coldest night of the year.

I call Blinky again.

“Christ,” my wife says. “She’s not coming. Close the door.”

With the door still open, I say, “Look, I’m trying to get her to come inside. Give me a break, will you?” My voice is starting to rise.

“That’s it, yell. I’m sure that’ll bring Blinky running right to you.”

Joanne can be such a snot.

I call one more time. No cat, so I close the door, walk to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of coffee. Trying to make up a little with Joanne, I ask her if she wants anything.

“The cat inside,” she says in a deadpan voice. Bitch.

I carry my coffee out into the living room, set the cup on the end table, myself on the couch.

“You should be wearing socks, you’ll catch cold,” I say to Joanne.

“I’ll be fine.”

I walk over to her and gently kiss her toe, then suck it into my mouth.

“It tickles,” she says, giggling. “Stop.”

She laughs and pulls her foot away.

I wedge myself onto the chair with her, and put my arm around her shoulders.

“Let’s not argue,” I say. “Let’s have one holiday this year that we get along.”

I kiss her.

“Okay,” she says.

“In fact, let’s make a deal not argue the whole time we’re visiting the parents.”

“Fat chance,” she says.

We laugh a little about that. We grew up in the same town, so it makes it easy to visit both sets of parents on the same trip. Only, my parents don’t especially like Joanne, and hers feel the same about me. It’s a struggle, but what isn’t?

“Go call Blinky, though, okay? It’s going to be so cold tonight. She really needs to be in,” Joanne says.

“Okay, honey.”

I open the door again, and feel the cold against my body. I start to call the cat, begin forming her name on my lips, when I am startled silent. Lying in the pile of leaves outside the door is a huge dog. It seems to be a Doberman, or maybe a Rottweiler or something – I’m no dog person.

I close the door some, leaving it open enough to see out, but closed enough so that the dog couldn’t get at me if it lunged or something.

It’s so cold; my breath feels like needles in my lungs. I look at the animal through the clouds of my exhaled air. The dog has it’s rear end towards me, and it’s head is turned back so it can look at me. The light from inside illuminates it’s eyes slightly.

I shut the door and turn to my wife.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“There’s a huge dog lying outside in the leaves.”

“So make it go. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “The sight of him just kind of weirded me out.”

Joanne gets up and walks to the door. Her feet must be freezing. I mean, she has no socks on, and the floor is like an iceberg.

“Let me see,” she says
.
She opens the door, cracked to about the same distance as I had. She peers out, and I look over her head. The dog is looking over his shoulder, craning his neck to see us.

She shuts the door.

“Make it leave,” she says.

“It looks like it might be sick or something. Why don’t I call the animal shelter.”

“Who’s going to be there on Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake? No one.”

She’s right, of course.

“We have to get the dog to leave so the cat will come in,” Joanne says.

Again, of course, she is correct.

“Just yell at it. Maybe it’ll leave if you yell at it,” she says
.
I open the door, stare eye to eye with the dog. I can see gray fur on the back of its neck.

“Get out!” I yell. “Hey, hey, get out of here. Git! Go home -- get.”

The dog winces when I yell, like each decibel is a smack on the snout. It winces, but doesn’t move. I am starting to feel bad about this.

I close the door.

“He won’t go” I say.

“No?”

“Nope. Won’t budge.”

Joanne says, “We have to get him out of here. Get the broom and prod him a little with it.”

“I guess I could try that,” I say, and leave to find the broom.

I open the door again.

“Be careful,” my wife says. “Don’t let him bite you.”

She is sitting on the arm of the chair. It hits me for some reason that the chair really needs to be steam-cleaned. It’s filthy.

I lean out the door, and prod the dog lightly with the bristled end of the broom. At the same time, I yell.

“Go on. Go home.”

The dog doesn’t growl or anything, only raises itself shakily to it’s feet. I notice a sore on his leg. His back is hunched in that submissive way dogs have, and his ears are flat against his head. He looks like he’s shivering, but I can’t be sure.

“Go on,” I say, again, but my heart’s not in it.

The dog just stands. Stands and shivers. I tap him lightly with the broom. He starts to limp away, occasionally looking back at me. I feel like I’ve just mugged a homeless person.

“I think he’s gone,” I say.

I sit on the couch, strangely exhausted.

“Now we just need to find the cat,” Joanne says.

My wife walks over to the door so she can call the cat, coax it in.
“Shit,” she says, once the door is opened.

“What?”

“The dog’s back.”

“Just let it stay, the cat will be all right,” I say.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says angrily. “I’ll make the fucking thing leave.”

Eyes wild, Joanne grabs the broom. She flings open the door (apparently not worried about the dog biting her), raises the broom high above her head, and smacks the dog hard. I hear the thump of the broom, and the startled, pitiful yelp of the dog. She swings again, yelling shrilly as she does. I don’t know if she hit it with the second swing or not.

Joanne shuts the door and leans against it. She is breathing heavy and her face is flush. I really can’t believe what she just did. I had no idea she could do that.

“He’ll stay away now,” she says.

I sit -- stunned. I feel a little nauseated. The image of our packed bags sitting upstairs flits through my mind. All at once, I realize I won’t be unpacking mine. Not here, anyway. Not again, not with her.

Joanne goes upstairs without saying anything else. I remain sitting, slumped really, against the cushion. I have this calm feeling, this lack of tension.

About an hour has gone by, and I’m still sitting. But I hear this scratching at the door, then a meow. Well, Blinky is back. I guess that’s good. I guess that counts for something.

THE END

[+/-] Read the rest of this post

Coming Apart Part II

2007-12-17T10:15:00.000-08:00

See Part I first if you haven’t.

So I parked and walked into the almost empty house. Much had been loaded into the moving truck already. All of the seemingly millions of boxes that hold your life. Amber’s life now, of course. My part had been moved out years ago. Maybe my part was never really there. I think we both knew when we moved here that our marriage wasn’t the best. I finally realized the cliché “we grew apart” is a cliché for a reason – that is just what we did. Perhaps not in the typical way – different interests, different friends. We actually spent a lot of time together. We always did things as a family, not because we had to, but because we wanted to. Somehow, we became roommates, and I began to miss having a lover. I’m sure she did to; I’m not allocating nor denying blame. We drifted apart as lovers, then drifted apart as friends.

The drifting is of course what made our actual divorce so difficult – at least for Amber. I had made my decision, my choice to teach my kids that happiness is deserved, that admitting facts to yourself is healthy, that sometimes you can love someone differently than they love you. For Amber, my choice was baffling. There was no big event that caused the split. Neither of us cheated Although that’s not entirely true I guess. The one and only time I cheated in our fifteen years together was just before we split up, and it was a reaction to the imminent split, not a cause. Once I deceived Amber in that way, I knew I couldn’t be a person who lived like that. I couldn’t connive and lie to someone I loved, even if the love was now that of a friend and not that of a husband. I didn’t want to look back at my life as a series of lies used to hide myself.

Regardless, Amber did not know of my cheating, therefore, she could not understand our break up. She knew we had problems. Of course, she thought they were mostly mine. I think now she was right, except that my problem was that I didn’t love her, or to use another cliché, wasn’t “in love” with her, and the solving of that problem was to admit it to myself and take the consequences. The solution was to admit what I knew about myself and my feelings and take whatever honorable course was left to me.

The breakup left her searching for answers. I never did tell her that I didn’t love her. I wasn’t brave enough. I told her that we didn’t work as a couple, that I loved her but couldn’t live with her, that I couldn’t live with what our relationship had become. I should have told her that I loved her now as a friend and as the mother of my boys; that our boys would tie us forever, but that our love would not. Again, I did not have the courage.

So I helped carry beds and dressers and other furniture – some of which I remembered, some of which was purchased after I left. We filled up the truck, dropped off a load and drove back. The only thing left was a garage filled with this and that, little bits of everything.

“I’m embarrassed,” Amber said to me.
“Why?”
“I didn’t get a chance to pack up the garage. The stuff is just everywhere.”

It didn’t matter though; we got everything packed and moved over. As Amber unpacked, my boys and I drove over to get the last little bits of stuff left in the garage – basketballs, assorted toys, that kind of thing.

I stood in the driveway and said, “Come on boys. Let’s load up. I think we got all we’re going to get.”

The two older boys got into the car, but my youngest came up to me with a basketball.

“Can you take the five dollar shot one last time?” he asked.

Let me explain. Years ago I accidentally started this tradition where I would take a very long shot at the hoop, and if I made it on the first try, I’d give the boys five dollars apiece. It seemed like an easy way to get them to root for me, and since I rarely made it on the first shot, it didn’t really cost me anything.

“I guess this will be the last time we can do this, huh? Ok, give me the ball.”

The other two boys got out of the car.

“Come on Dad!” they yelled at intervals.

I dribbled a bit. Exaggeratedly stretched. Finally I planted my feet, bent my knees and arched a perfect shot. It sailed towards the net, hit the back of the rim, then the front, then bounced wildly away.

I had missed.

“One more try, Dad. Please?” they seemed to say this in unison.

“Okay.”

Once again I lined up and shot. And missed. So I shot again. And missed. Shot. Missed. Missed. Missed. You get the idea.

After about ten minutes of this I was about to give up.

“This is really the last shot guys.”

They groaned as if they could feel the money slipping away.

Once more the shot was on its way. The ball seemed to in slow motion rotate as it flew through the air. This time it swished through the net perfectly. The boys cheered like I had just won the national championship. But I had finally made it. I opened my wallet and gave them their money.

It wasn’t the perfect ending to a chapter in your life. I took me what seemed like fifty tries to get us out of the driveway. But I did. I’m glad I did. It wasn’t perfect, but when is it ever that way?

Why?

2007-12-14T10:40:00.001-08:00

The many readers of my blog Dine In or Take Out (both of you - yes you!), know that on occasion fiction and essays have graced the pages of that blog. Since I have been concentrating quite a bit on my writing, and since I know readers of my Service Industry blog might not be into the other writing, I have created this blog.

What will I have here? Any writing that doesn't really fit my other blog. And basically any other stuff I feel like foisting upon an unsuspecting readership. I will also reprint some of the short stories/essays that have appeared on Dine In or Take Out.

Thanks for stopping by!

Tony