Hawley tugged on the sleeves of his uniform as he paced out on the loading dock then shoved them into his pockets and felt the paper clip. The fog was rolling in from and his wrists were cold, but he wouldn’t go back into the warehouse, not yet. He was supposed to be happy now. He had a job and a girl, and a truck that was paid for a boat he owned with a bank. He could sleep on the boat if he didn’t want to stay at Johanna’s house for if he got tired of her mother glaring at him. He didn’t have to talk to anyone at work, just once a night get out of way when they delivered then punch and punch out. They’d made their delivery and now they were gone. It wasn’t his business, yet his fingers kept noticing the paperclip in his pocket.
If he just stayed out here, walking and fuming, he’d live to old and fat and happy. Life would be perfect if only these sleeves were a half inch longer, his pant legs too, just a bit more so the cold wasn’t knowing at his ankles and wrists. He kept warm, pacing, telling himself that it wasn’t his business. But the cold wouldn’t leave him alone. It started to creep down his collar and he began to shiver, he wasn’t going to stand there just shaking. He stepped back into the warmth of the warehouse and stood looking at all the crates they’d dropped off. Dull green and padlocked. There was only one way of knowing exactly what was inside. He stepped over, fingering the paper clip until he could kneel down next to the lock and took out the paperclip, straightening it out and then bending it into a decent pick. Shouldn’t take long, not long at all, until finally he heard the tumblers click.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Greed & Solace - Kent Wright
Alice felt the need. There was never a question about that. She had felt the need for attention as far back as she could remember, before that too of course, but that vocabulary wasn’t Alice’s. The attention Alice needed ran in thick underground rivers and filled reservoirs far beneath the surface. They were different than the need for it she battled on her first bike, or in grade school or trying out for cheerleader (5th & 6th grade, 7th & 8th grade, freshman year, sophomore year) unsuccessfully.
Her little thick legs didn’t pedal her bike as far or as fast as Beverly’s or Teddy’s or even Betty Ambern who was poor and had to wear her bigger brother’s old pants. Alice’s little white hand never flew up when Mrs. Ash in first grade flashed those cards with words like ‘was’ and ‘hop’ and ‘start’ on them. And long before math had gotten exciting for other classmates, Alice was used to not being called on for answers. She never made cheerleader either. Those legs that couldn’t keep up on her bike couldn’t jump high enough to make an impression when they got longer, and the splits were out of the question. And by that time adolescence had brought in abundance new needs.
Using a lonely, poorly tended path of reasoning, Alice decided that she was just being greedy wanting all those things that she saw others have. Fate helped Alice. She lived across the street from a church. It’s minister, himself no stranger to the outsider role, offered his assistance and helped Alice define her greed as sin. The preacher even wrote on a piece of typing paper GREED IS SIN and drew arrows from the word SIN to other words that were examples of it to help Alice, who he told his wife later on their screened in porch ‘wasn’t very smart at all’, understand.
“Take solace in the Lord Alice,” the reverend said to her when he handed her the piece of paper to take with her. Alice took the paper, and she kept it for a long time in a diary she started, but she never looked up the word solace to see what it meant.
Her little thick legs didn’t pedal her bike as far or as fast as Beverly’s or Teddy’s or even Betty Ambern who was poor and had to wear her bigger brother’s old pants. Alice’s little white hand never flew up when Mrs. Ash in first grade flashed those cards with words like ‘was’ and ‘hop’ and ‘start’ on them. And long before math had gotten exciting for other classmates, Alice was used to not being called on for answers. She never made cheerleader either. Those legs that couldn’t keep up on her bike couldn’t jump high enough to make an impression when they got longer, and the splits were out of the question. And by that time adolescence had brought in abundance new needs.
Using a lonely, poorly tended path of reasoning, Alice decided that she was just being greedy wanting all those things that she saw others have. Fate helped Alice. She lived across the street from a church. It’s minister, himself no stranger to the outsider role, offered his assistance and helped Alice define her greed as sin. The preacher even wrote on a piece of typing paper GREED IS SIN and drew arrows from the word SIN to other words that were examples of it to help Alice, who he told his wife later on their screened in porch ‘wasn’t very smart at all’, understand.
“Take solace in the Lord Alice,” the reverend said to her when he handed her the piece of paper to take with her. Alice took the paper, and she kept it for a long time in a diary she started, but she never looked up the word solace to see what it meant.
Solace - E. D. James
Usually he felt solace in the company of strangers in a bar. He could sit quietly nursing his whiskey and enjoy the camaraderie of the group next to him gossiping and complaining about their jobs in a jungle of cubes or vicariously be part of a relationship with the couple sitting shoulder to shoulder to his other side. But tonight all he felt was himself and his own life. Neither the alcohol nor the crowd offered him any escape from his struggles and his loneliness. But on this evening, he was confronted by reality and could not escape it. The beer tasted flat and the music was jarring. He tossed a five dollar bill on the bar, slid the stool back, and headed for the door.
The lights on Market Street were bright and blurry in the fog. Alan swerved to avoid a man in a leather coat carrying two big shopping bags and had to keep weaving to make it through a crowd that all seemed to be going the other way. It was as if he were invisible. A woman in a stained dress sitting on the sidewalk with a sign that read I just need a little help gave him a gap toothed grin, the first sign that someone knew he was alive. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and pulled his neck a little deeper into the collar. Walking felt good. It was action. It was movement. He didn’t know where he was going, but he let his legs keep carrying him forward.
He wound his way up along the cable cars with their bundled tourists and ringing bells and through the shoppers of Union Square. The crowds melted away as he climbed the stairs next to the Stockton Tunnel and took on the hill at California Street. A Grateful Dead fragment hung in his ear, “California, I’ll be knockin’ on your golden door, standing on the beach, the sea will part before me.” At the crest of the hill the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont reminded him of his early days in San Francisco. Exploring what the city had to offer. Then he crossed in front of the Pacific Union club, a space he would never enter, and stopped at the start of the labyrinth that lay in the square in front of Grace Cathedral. The curving lines led to a lotus at its center. He wondered if he would ever find his center, and if it would be empty or full.
The lights on Market Street were bright and blurry in the fog. Alan swerved to avoid a man in a leather coat carrying two big shopping bags and had to keep weaving to make it through a crowd that all seemed to be going the other way. It was as if he were invisible. A woman in a stained dress sitting on the sidewalk with a sign that read I just need a little help gave him a gap toothed grin, the first sign that someone knew he was alive. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and pulled his neck a little deeper into the collar. Walking felt good. It was action. It was movement. He didn’t know where he was going, but he let his legs keep carrying him forward.
He wound his way up along the cable cars with their bundled tourists and ringing bells and through the shoppers of Union Square. The crowds melted away as he climbed the stairs next to the Stockton Tunnel and took on the hill at California Street. A Grateful Dead fragment hung in his ear, “California, I’ll be knockin’ on your golden door, standing on the beach, the sea will part before me.” At the crest of the hill the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont reminded him of his early days in San Francisco. Exploring what the city had to offer. Then he crossed in front of the Pacific Union club, a space he would never enter, and stopped at the start of the labyrinth that lay in the square in front of Grace Cathedral. The curving lines led to a lotus at its center. He wondered if he would ever find his center, and if it would be empty or full.
Solace - Melody Cryns
It’s a new day, I keep telling myself. And today a very kind older gentleman, probably close to 80 years old, is giving me a ride to the Burning Uke campout in Big Sur. I have become completely and utterly hooked on playing my ukulele and singing with the most awesome groups of people ever – it gives me great joy. And, I’d been looking forward to this Burning Uke campout for a couple of months now – even took days off work. I couldn’t imagine anything more amazing that being by the beach for several days with a group of fun, like-minded people who just want to play uke and sing or play whatever instruments they have, or just sing…there will be jams and workshops and well, all kinds of things.
Today is a new day, and I’m not going to let losing my car get to me. Late yesterday afternoon, a claims adjustor called from the insurance company my car is insured with and informed me that it would cost $8,000 to $10,000 to fix my car and they have to declare it a total loss. I never thought I would cry over a lost car, but I did…my wonderful car that took me and my kids and friends on the most wonderful adventures, the Beatles mobile…the best car I’d ever had. Now she will go to car heaven and long may she rest…
And I realized that what car I had kind of determined where I was in my life always and forever…it was part of who I am and now I’m entering a whole new phase. I cried softly at my desk hoping no one at work would notice my pain. I felt like an idiot because it wasn’t like anything happened to one of my kids…it was, as my son Jeremy told me to give me solace, after all, only a car.
“You’ll find another one, Mom. You wait and see.”
Yes, yes, I will…I guess. So as I take off on this journey to Big Sur, the insurance company is determining how much they will pay me for my car – and I get to decide the next course of action. Meanwhile, I remain without a car – perhaps renting a car next week to get me by… all it took was a split second, someone bashing into my car, to change the course of my life. And, I take solace in knowing that it could be so much worse and I still get to go to the Burning Uke campout because this wonderful guy who is at least as old as my Dad, if not older, who sings in a wonderful low voice and who kindly offered to lend me sleeping bag and mattress pads and is more than happy to have him ride with him all the way to Big Sur because he would’ve gone down there alone, is taking me on a huge adventure…
It’s a new day…new beginnings.
Today is a new day, and I’m not going to let losing my car get to me. Late yesterday afternoon, a claims adjustor called from the insurance company my car is insured with and informed me that it would cost $8,000 to $10,000 to fix my car and they have to declare it a total loss. I never thought I would cry over a lost car, but I did…my wonderful car that took me and my kids and friends on the most wonderful adventures, the Beatles mobile…the best car I’d ever had. Now she will go to car heaven and long may she rest…
And I realized that what car I had kind of determined where I was in my life always and forever…it was part of who I am and now I’m entering a whole new phase. I cried softly at my desk hoping no one at work would notice my pain. I felt like an idiot because it wasn’t like anything happened to one of my kids…it was, as my son Jeremy told me to give me solace, after all, only a car.
“You’ll find another one, Mom. You wait and see.”
Yes, yes, I will…I guess. So as I take off on this journey to Big Sur, the insurance company is determining how much they will pay me for my car – and I get to decide the next course of action. Meanwhile, I remain without a car – perhaps renting a car next week to get me by… all it took was a split second, someone bashing into my car, to change the course of my life. And, I take solace in knowing that it could be so much worse and I still get to go to the Burning Uke campout because this wonderful guy who is at least as old as my Dad, if not older, who sings in a wonderful low voice and who kindly offered to lend me sleeping bag and mattress pads and is more than happy to have him ride with him all the way to Big Sur because he would’ve gone down there alone, is taking me on a huge adventure…
It’s a new day…new beginnings.
Love is Easy - Judy Albietz
It is so easy to love your grand-child. Everyone told me so, so I should have expected it. But how was I to know, really know about this, this absolute joy, this soaring happy feeling when I pick him up. He smiles at me and leans over to give me a peck on the cheek. I taught him that. Then he sticks his arms out for a hug. He taught himself that.
We go outside and dig dirt with the old yellow metal tonka truck. He tells me it’s a loader. We transfer the dirt into another truck. He tells me it’s a dump-truck.
We love to read books. We curl up together on the brown loveseat and read This Truck five times. He knows the words. We read a new book from the library about an 8-year-old kid who decides to move to a retirement community. As a two-year-old, my grandson doesn’t get all the jokes, but he laughs anyway when I laugh.
We sing. We sing the same songs I sang to his father and his aunt. When we don’t know the words we just make them up. We plug my IPod in to the speakers and listen to the Beatles, John Fogarty, the Dead, Pavarotti, Sinatra. We dance around the kitchen and sometimes wiggle our hips just because we like to. Sometimes we hold hands and jump up and down. We eat bananas in the living room even though we’re supposed to keep food in the dining room. He drags the white plastic step-stool to reach for the crackers he sees on the counter. I get them for him. I’m Bubbe. I don’t have to say “No.”
We go outside and dig dirt with the old yellow metal tonka truck. He tells me it’s a loader. We transfer the dirt into another truck. He tells me it’s a dump-truck.
We love to read books. We curl up together on the brown loveseat and read This Truck five times. He knows the words. We read a new book from the library about an 8-year-old kid who decides to move to a retirement community. As a two-year-old, my grandson doesn’t get all the jokes, but he laughs anyway when I laugh.
We sing. We sing the same songs I sang to his father and his aunt. When we don’t know the words we just make them up. We plug my IPod in to the speakers and listen to the Beatles, John Fogarty, the Dead, Pavarotti, Sinatra. We dance around the kitchen and sometimes wiggle our hips just because we like to. Sometimes we hold hands and jump up and down. We eat bananas in the living room even though we’re supposed to keep food in the dining room. He drags the white plastic step-stool to reach for the crackers he sees on the counter. I get them for him. I’m Bubbe. I don’t have to say “No.”
Love is Easy - Anne Freeman
Love is as easy as a root canal, even the easiest of loves. What a laugh I find this quote. It must be dripping with sarcasm – it has to be. But I will agree that falling in love is easy. I fall in love twenty times a day, and yes, when I fall in love it is with an idea. An idea of the case that will make my career and take two years off my track to being partner. An idea of a date with that man whom is nothing like my husband and will make me forget the difficult discussions about refinancing our home, or his need to get in better health to pass the upcoming life insurance physical exam. An idea of my pied a terre in New York City that I can slip away to and soak in a bubble bath with a glass of wine, overlooking the city’s sparkling lights. An idea of promoting my books and making a healthy living at it, no longer needing to shepherd people through their divorces for a cut of my billable hours.
The ideas are intoxicating. No, I cannot resist them, nor should I, for underneath them lie what I long for and am missing. I cannot hope to love my life today unless I analyze what wish each idea is fulfilling. The ideas are easy; I’ll daydream all day, until the lack of action and productivity makes me sick, literally, with anxiety at my dishonesty.
The ideas are intoxicating. No, I cannot resist them, nor should I, for underneath them lie what I long for and am missing. I cannot hope to love my life today unless I analyze what wish each idea is fulfilling. The ideas are easy; I’ll daydream all day, until the lack of action and productivity makes me sick, literally, with anxiety at my dishonesty.
Telling the Truth - Kate Bueler
Telling the truth. I am attempting to tell the truth to myself. I am attempting to see the truth and recognize it for what it is. See I see things. I see them all. But then I ignore. Or pretend. Or remember the warmth of another and forget. So the other night, the other night I had met this man and we were off to go to the next thing. After this event to a bar. It seemed like I should go. That I should follow on the path of undetermined of where this night would lead until. Until as I walked them to their car (him and his friends) I was getting the directions. Just google it. I don’t have I phone. I like to actually talk to people wit thrown their way. But makes it hard to find directions. Laughter. I will just follow you. No we got a stop.
Stop. See telling the truth I knew the stop was not a gas station, or someone had to pick something up at their house, or something normal. They were getting drugs. Drugs and they would of course be the variety that would lead to such secrets. See pot smokers not so secret- they wear their pride upon their eyes, their shirts, their subtleness of discussion- the intentions in their voice. But the cocaine folks no they are all about secrets. Secrecy of having it and who they will share with it, trips to the bathroom and they don’t wear the shirt of user. But in their behavior they always do. See telling the truth I saw it. And as I walked back to my car more slowly than needed. Each step I heard it. And I knew. This isn’t a world I want part of. I tired once to play the game of outsider in the the blowing of the lines. And failed miserably. I can’t fall in love again with someone who uses and lies. And lies and uses. Even if it was for the night. Even if it was for this moment.
I called my friend and retold her the details but she said just go and see what happens. Telling the truth I knew what would. Telling the truth I knew. I knew that these aren’t the type of folks that I would like to call my own. So we went from bar to bar and I stayed with my drug of choice alcohol and I tried to stay present but remain detective and still get to know this guy. Telling the truth- I am good at it when it isn’t mine. But theirs No secrets here. So the moment I knew the truth was when I heard the words of stop.
I saw the slip to the back pocket and I love you and then the run to the bathroom. I envisioned the movement never slowing down- next stop keep moving- I couldn’t even finish my beer. When the night went on the secrets became less- if you have xanax ill trade you some cocaine. Out loud. No secrets. Telling the truth. They tell the truth when they need to.
As I walked in to the last place the last place on my list of destinations, the man from behind the bar who had befriended me and shook my hand- boomed who the fuck is she? Staring at my 5’2 and ½ stature in my vintage dress. I didn’t get the aggression until I looked down and saw his own father reaching down to blow a line. Telling the truth. Is we know the truth we don’t need to dive in the depths of others realities to see it. As the father and son blew lines during quality time. I am nobody. Nobody to you. But nobody really is. I left to buy beers and never came back. Telling the truth is I like to hang out with drunks anyways. There are no secrets with them. Telling the truth is I knew. I knew. I knew.
Stop. See telling the truth I knew the stop was not a gas station, or someone had to pick something up at their house, or something normal. They were getting drugs. Drugs and they would of course be the variety that would lead to such secrets. See pot smokers not so secret- they wear their pride upon their eyes, their shirts, their subtleness of discussion- the intentions in their voice. But the cocaine folks no they are all about secrets. Secrecy of having it and who they will share with it, trips to the bathroom and they don’t wear the shirt of user. But in their behavior they always do. See telling the truth I saw it. And as I walked back to my car more slowly than needed. Each step I heard it. And I knew. This isn’t a world I want part of. I tired once to play the game of outsider in the the blowing of the lines. And failed miserably. I can’t fall in love again with someone who uses and lies. And lies and uses. Even if it was for the night. Even if it was for this moment.
I called my friend and retold her the details but she said just go and see what happens. Telling the truth I knew what would. Telling the truth I knew. I knew that these aren’t the type of folks that I would like to call my own. So we went from bar to bar and I stayed with my drug of choice alcohol and I tried to stay present but remain detective and still get to know this guy. Telling the truth- I am good at it when it isn’t mine. But theirs No secrets here. So the moment I knew the truth was when I heard the words of stop.
I saw the slip to the back pocket and I love you and then the run to the bathroom. I envisioned the movement never slowing down- next stop keep moving- I couldn’t even finish my beer. When the night went on the secrets became less- if you have xanax ill trade you some cocaine. Out loud. No secrets. Telling the truth. They tell the truth when they need to.
As I walked in to the last place the last place on my list of destinations, the man from behind the bar who had befriended me and shook my hand- boomed who the fuck is she? Staring at my 5’2 and ½ stature in my vintage dress. I didn’t get the aggression until I looked down and saw his own father reaching down to blow a line. Telling the truth. Is we know the truth we don’t need to dive in the depths of others realities to see it. As the father and son blew lines during quality time. I am nobody. Nobody to you. But nobody really is. I left to buy beers and never came back. Telling the truth is I like to hang out with drunks anyways. There are no secrets with them. Telling the truth is I knew. I knew. I knew.
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