Patrick Fealey's Blog
July 9, 2013
Twenty-one Goats
Twenty-one Goats
the sun has passed the roof line, so many memories east, where they are, left behind, standing as they are without my eyes. but we are all here, like uprooted flowers waiting to be transplanted. we water our roots and wait on a new home.
marliyn pointed out that i spent $24 on a bottle of tequila when she had spent only $15 for the same bottle. i got mine down the street. she got hers at beverage plus, a massive liquor store posing as a grocery. that’s were she got the absinthe. salvia, wormwood, 160 proof. i hadn’t known it was legal anywhere in america. my friend in maine bought it from germany for $100 a bottle. here it’s about $60. absinthe taps into more of your reserves than you probably want to spare, particularly if you are shooting it. i haven’t gone insane or even become a befuddled skeleton, but you know you are drinking the devil’s anise. i’m off it today, was on it because i ran out of tequila and forgot about the gallon of bacardi in the garage.
angela’s mother (karen) still doesn’t talk to me. it’s entertaining when the mother and virgil come by, how karen avoids me and he shakes my hand. it is easy for her to avoid me when five of us are standing together. i look at her. i say things to her. she doesn’t look at me or respond. i’ve been with her daughter 14 months, not counting our time in college (when she wouldn’t look me or say hello either.) she spoke to me recently for the first time: “do you want more whipped cream on your strawberries?” i tell marliyn her mother doesn’t like me and her hug weakens. i say, “she has read about my life and can’t accept it. i am beyond good and evil.” marliyn says, “you’re not beyond good and evil.” i say, “nietzsche was, but he went insane.” What I am is someone who cannot be construed as conservative or liberal, but can easily be labeled an alcoholic (just like karen’s favorite President, George W. Bush.)
three days in a row now and derek is still excited about junior high. he picked rhode island, my home state, do to a report on in history class. “why not hawaii?” karen asks. (the grandparents take him to ohahu, maui, and the big island twice a year; when he gets home he refuses to eat our ordinary home-cooked meals.) “the state bird of rhode island is the rhode island red,” derek tells us. i say, “that’s a chicken.” when he mentioned the capitol it threw me because i had forgotten or erased providence. not sure if i dropped it or am suppressing it like a molestation. nobody really likes providence, but only the ones who pass through are honest about it. crack deal shootings in the shadow s of roger williams’ churches. scientists dug up roger williams’ grave and found one rusty nail. the coffin and bones had rotted away. someone said the soil looked a little darker. they filled in the hole and proclaimed that the rusty nail was evidence of religious freedom.
marilyn is happy when i work around the yard. women want to see their men working. the form matters less than the working. she asks me which book i will work on next. i stumble, ramble off titles that need my attention. she isn’t impressed with my uncertainty. she has just read one and wants to know what’s next? the works answer that for me. the only book i know is the one i am writing now. it looks like a collection of stories. i know it is a book. it might be a novel. it is whatever i say it is, for i am the creator. i look at these stories and see a stylistic evolution. you can track a man’s path by reading them. the form changes. i become less lyrical and more personal. i am beyond good and evil, you know, and i will piss off most and honor the few.
i see professors, cozy and righteous, people whose talent is staying in school the longest. they don’t know what a work week is. then there is the kid at the surf shop, selling wax, and the kid pumping gas to get through his bachelor’s, or maybe the kid at the movie store, forced to rent out arnold schwarzenegger instead of his favorite, jean luc picard. something is formenting. there was this idea that has been sold out by greed at the cost of serenity and growth, personal fulfillment. having a toilet that flushes and a mattress you can sleep on would also be nice. the kids are depressed and they don’t mind when a senator is shot in the head. a girl writes “kill bush” on her notebook and the secret service arrives to interrogate her. she becomes a small hero to the discontents, a hero in a landscape where all the heroes have died like our grandfathers and dogs. old men and dogs will change the world because they understand youth. soulful and intelligent and wasted youths will become wise and dangerous.
uneasy (truce?) with that mother. virgil and i get a long perfectly, but he is pussy-whipped by karen and constantly makes excuses for her bizarre insults.. he used to manage work details comprised of state prisoners. her disapproval is as plain as his respect and acceptance. she’s cornered now: her daughter, her husband, even her grandson think i’m alright, or in derek’s words, “cool.” everyone likes me but this woman with dyed red hair who spends half her life buying things and looks like a bull dog with a perpetually open mouth. she disapproves of her daughter’s choices? she doesn’t want her daughter to be happy? she is jealous and cannot relinquish her status? she calls every day, and at night as soon as we get into bed for she knows our time. (we have put a stop to that.) a sensitive nurse and instructor (they just fired her without explanation.) she is dismayed that her grandson wants to study the state his mother’s boyfriend is from? “why not hawaii?” like derek is not allowed to learn something new. i thought with the whipped cream incident she was finally coming around, but last night she was an ice berg bobbing in bile. and now i will separate myself from the smell of this old typer . . .
derek is having trouble in english. his test score was in the 30-percentile. i consider it a good sign. teachers want things to be complex because they need their jobs. They make simple things complex because they are idiots. english teachers are the worst because we don’t need them. my english teachers were arrogant, satanic, self-absorbed, and oblivious, with two exceptions. mrs. sammons and mrs. janis. what was special about them? they left me alone.
is marilyn wearing anything under that nightgown? skin smooth creamy legs. she is looking and i want to mount her. she makes a comment about the towel. i stay inside her. i withdraw slowly. cum all over our bellies. i go to the bathroom and grab a towel. i throw one to her. she makes the comment. “you don’t like being wet.” true. it is like a stiff tag scratching the back of my neck. but we lay together after the towels in our mutual and private ecstasies.
the sun is getting it up, purple penetration and force, the day has color. marliyn is in the bedroom doing who knows what. she has been in there for awhile. i am thinking about washing my truck after she goes to work. i’ll back it up the driveway. i haven’t washed it yet this summer. the winter dirt inhabits my windows, body, rims.
unless i can find a transfusion, i will quit this scene from exhaustion. a case of getting beaten by the need. we aspire to perfect the fulfillment of the need, but collapse and die before satisfaction. in the beginning, it looks like this: “i am ready, therefore i exist.” later on it looks like this: “i am in pain, therefore I exist.” Then: “i know nothing and i will soon die.” gets one thinking about the concrete. i am going to get 20 goats, one cow and six german shepherds and a .223 and a 12-guage and a wire fence and a ruger .45 and 3,000 condoms and a riding lawn mower and a few mexicans and build a castle and live in the tower where i will watch the dawn and eat a banana. a new mission will come to me like obsidian. my mission will be sharp, or at least clearer than the pricing at the local grocers. i am on a flawed mission, but it aspires to freedom. i will pay. i will still weep.
marilyn is taping an ivy to a green bamboo post. the sunflowers are pluralizing like zygotes. want me to go on when all the action takes place on the capillary level? nodding at the helm, dreaming of the battle he will see only in dreams. in the dream the battle is complex and makes sense only to him. he is alone in this battle as he is in his dream. when he wakes up, he has an army. wakefulness is coming on, time to come home, the door unlocked, open, come on in. we live here.
the sun has passed the roof line, so many memories east, where they are, left behind, standing as they are without my eyes. but we are all here, like uprooted flowers waiting to be transplanted. we water our roots and wait on a new home.
marliyn pointed out that i spent $24 on a bottle of tequila when she had spent only $15 for the same bottle. i got mine down the street. she got hers at beverage plus, a massive liquor store posing as a grocery. that’s were she got the absinthe. salvia, wormwood, 160 proof. i hadn’t known it was legal anywhere in america. my friend in maine bought it from germany for $100 a bottle. here it’s about $60. absinthe taps into more of your reserves than you probably want to spare, particularly if you are shooting it. i haven’t gone insane or even become a befuddled skeleton, but you know you are drinking the devil’s anise. i’m off it today, was on it because i ran out of tequila and forgot about the gallon of bacardi in the garage.
angela’s mother (karen) still doesn’t talk to me. it’s entertaining when the mother and virgil come by, how karen avoids me and he shakes my hand. it is easy for her to avoid me when five of us are standing together. i look at her. i say things to her. she doesn’t look at me or respond. i’ve been with her daughter 14 months, not counting our time in college (when she wouldn’t look me or say hello either.) she spoke to me recently for the first time: “do you want more whipped cream on your strawberries?” i tell marliyn her mother doesn’t like me and her hug weakens. i say, “she has read about my life and can’t accept it. i am beyond good and evil.” marliyn says, “you’re not beyond good and evil.” i say, “nietzsche was, but he went insane.” What I am is someone who cannot be construed as conservative or liberal, but can easily be labeled an alcoholic (just like karen’s favorite President, George W. Bush.)
three days in a row now and derek is still excited about junior high. he picked rhode island, my home state, do to a report on in history class. “why not hawaii?” karen asks. (the grandparents take him to ohahu, maui, and the big island twice a year; when he gets home he refuses to eat our ordinary home-cooked meals.) “the state bird of rhode island is the rhode island red,” derek tells us. i say, “that’s a chicken.” when he mentioned the capitol it threw me because i had forgotten or erased providence. not sure if i dropped it or am suppressing it like a molestation. nobody really likes providence, but only the ones who pass through are honest about it. crack deal shootings in the shadow s of roger williams’ churches. scientists dug up roger williams’ grave and found one rusty nail. the coffin and bones had rotted away. someone said the soil looked a little darker. they filled in the hole and proclaimed that the rusty nail was evidence of religious freedom.
marilyn is happy when i work around the yard. women want to see their men working. the form matters less than the working. she asks me which book i will work on next. i stumble, ramble off titles that need my attention. she isn’t impressed with my uncertainty. she has just read one and wants to know what’s next? the works answer that for me. the only book i know is the one i am writing now. it looks like a collection of stories. i know it is a book. it might be a novel. it is whatever i say it is, for i am the creator. i look at these stories and see a stylistic evolution. you can track a man’s path by reading them. the form changes. i become less lyrical and more personal. i am beyond good and evil, you know, and i will piss off most and honor the few.
i see professors, cozy and righteous, people whose talent is staying in school the longest. they don’t know what a work week is. then there is the kid at the surf shop, selling wax, and the kid pumping gas to get through his bachelor’s, or maybe the kid at the movie store, forced to rent out arnold schwarzenegger instead of his favorite, jean luc picard. something is formenting. there was this idea that has been sold out by greed at the cost of serenity and growth, personal fulfillment. having a toilet that flushes and a mattress you can sleep on would also be nice. the kids are depressed and they don’t mind when a senator is shot in the head. a girl writes “kill bush” on her notebook and the secret service arrives to interrogate her. she becomes a small hero to the discontents, a hero in a landscape where all the heroes have died like our grandfathers and dogs. old men and dogs will change the world because they understand youth. soulful and intelligent and wasted youths will become wise and dangerous.
uneasy (truce?) with that mother. virgil and i get a long perfectly, but he is pussy-whipped by karen and constantly makes excuses for her bizarre insults.. he used to manage work details comprised of state prisoners. her disapproval is as plain as his respect and acceptance. she’s cornered now: her daughter, her husband, even her grandson think i’m alright, or in derek’s words, “cool.” everyone likes me but this woman with dyed red hair who spends half her life buying things and looks like a bull dog with a perpetually open mouth. she disapproves of her daughter’s choices? she doesn’t want her daughter to be happy? she is jealous and cannot relinquish her status? she calls every day, and at night as soon as we get into bed for she knows our time. (we have put a stop to that.) a sensitive nurse and instructor (they just fired her without explanation.) she is dismayed that her grandson wants to study the state his mother’s boyfriend is from? “why not hawaii?” like derek is not allowed to learn something new. i thought with the whipped cream incident she was finally coming around, but last night she was an ice berg bobbing in bile. and now i will separate myself from the smell of this old typer . . .
derek is having trouble in english. his test score was in the 30-percentile. i consider it a good sign. teachers want things to be complex because they need their jobs. They make simple things complex because they are idiots. english teachers are the worst because we don’t need them. my english teachers were arrogant, satanic, self-absorbed, and oblivious, with two exceptions. mrs. sammons and mrs. janis. what was special about them? they left me alone.
is marilyn wearing anything under that nightgown? skin smooth creamy legs. she is looking and i want to mount her. she makes a comment about the towel. i stay inside her. i withdraw slowly. cum all over our bellies. i go to the bathroom and grab a towel. i throw one to her. she makes the comment. “you don’t like being wet.” true. it is like a stiff tag scratching the back of my neck. but we lay together after the towels in our mutual and private ecstasies.
the sun is getting it up, purple penetration and force, the day has color. marliyn is in the bedroom doing who knows what. she has been in there for awhile. i am thinking about washing my truck after she goes to work. i’ll back it up the driveway. i haven’t washed it yet this summer. the winter dirt inhabits my windows, body, rims.
unless i can find a transfusion, i will quit this scene from exhaustion. a case of getting beaten by the need. we aspire to perfect the fulfillment of the need, but collapse and die before satisfaction. in the beginning, it looks like this: “i am ready, therefore i exist.” later on it looks like this: “i am in pain, therefore I exist.” Then: “i know nothing and i will soon die.” gets one thinking about the concrete. i am going to get 20 goats, one cow and six german shepherds and a .223 and a 12-guage and a wire fence and a ruger .45 and 3,000 condoms and a riding lawn mower and a few mexicans and build a castle and live in the tower where i will watch the dawn and eat a banana. a new mission will come to me like obsidian. my mission will be sharp, or at least clearer than the pricing at the local grocers. i am on a flawed mission, but it aspires to freedom. i will pay. i will still weep.
marilyn is taping an ivy to a green bamboo post. the sunflowers are pluralizing like zygotes. want me to go on when all the action takes place on the capillary level? nodding at the helm, dreaming of the battle he will see only in dreams. in the dream the battle is complex and makes sense only to him. he is alone in this battle as he is in his dream. when he wakes up, he has an army. wakefulness is coming on, time to come home, the door unlocked, open, come on in. we live here.
June 14, 2013
Chapter 6 Mostly Madly (the clean-up)
6
his last night in the place, tommy was sober enough to chase dust. he sipped off a pint of scotch. there was still idiotic shit to take down to the car, the last of which would be the vacuum cleaner and himself. on one trip he was in the foyer, passing the old piano that had never been in tune, his arms full of shirts on hangers, when the door to one of the apartments opened.
it was her.
“hi,” she said.
“hi.”
the girl next door. with the legs. downstairs next door.
“gotta be out tonight,” he said.
“i heard you vacuuming. like a madman.”
“i’m tommy, by the way.”
“hannah.”
she came out and they stood in the dim foyer. since she had moved in two months ago they had spoken only hellos in passing, but their glances had been extended and those hellos were enveloped in meaningful silences. it was awkward. she seemed to like him and he was glad because he needed it. he was very tired of jess and one woman and here was this beautiful girl acting friendly. he often saw her from his deck, usually while he was drinking coffee or whiskey. he never saw her with a guy. he first saw her from up there while jess was inside. hannah was walking a mountain bike to a charcoal subaru wagon and he could not believe she had come out of his house. where? a visitor? was she new? my god, what an ass. she was wearing short shorts that day. she wore them often. the car had vermont plates.
“i’ve seen you taking stuff out all week,” she said. “where you going?”
“narragansett. i got a room.”
“where?”
“ocean road, two blocks from the beach.”
“i work at the cliffside,” she said.
“really? are you mafia?”
“no, i’m a waitress. i don’t know about that. i go there and work. i’ve come and gone over the years and they always take me back. the money is good. in the summer.”
“and you go up to vermont in the winter?”
“yes, to work the ski season, but not this winter,” she said. “this winter it’s florida. i got a job waiting in a closed resort. i’m subletting this place for the summer. expensive, but all i could find.”
“yeah, i know. my girlfriend and i just broke up and i can’t keep this place alone.”
“i haven’t seen her around in awhile. she’s pretty, dark curly hair, kind of tall?”
“yeah.”
“i wasn’t going to say anything.”
“it’s okay,” he said.
“how long were you together?”
“five years.”
“that’s awhile.”
“four of them were great and then something just happened.”
“where do you work?”
“the bay times.”
“what do you do there?”
“reporter.”
“you write?”
“yeah. that’s why i asked about the mafia.”
“i don’t pay attention, but i wouldn’t be surprised. want a beer? you look like you need one.”
“yeah.”
into her living room. the light was down, one lamp on. the drawn curtains were blue and white, with lace, from the high ceiling down to the floor. very victorian. a bed was at the front near the windows. it was piled with quilts and pillows. tommy sat on the white couch and hannah brought out two budweisers.
“thanks.”
she sat on the floor in front of him to his left, her legs crossed. she was almost in profile. she was wearing white cotton carpenter’s pants. they were very tight. he saw again what an athletic body she had. while she told him of her plans to move to daytona beach, his eyes fell on her body and bounced back to her face. she did not seem bothered. she acted as if she didn’t notice, or she appreciated it. she was comfortable with her body. she stretched her legs before her, offering a different perspective. she stroked her legs like they were sore from riding.
she was maybe 34 to his 27 and she spoke more thoughtfully than he had expected and she had no arrogance about her, as he had interpreted from the deck. it was shyness and experience. she was his type. insightful and modest and her eyes were green.
only when she started on spiritualism did he feel himself squirm and drink. but the subject was often the fast lane to intimacy and there was the hard body. he was beginning to think she was a nice girl, but she was nice after surviving a conflict she participated in for a long time. she told him about a bad relationship and a bastard. nice girl or not, tommy couldn’t decide and he didn’t want to hear about it. she was sweet tonight.
they spoke in the dim living room, words spoken while skin whispered to skin, her yes to his maybe. he could have moved and taken her on the rug or she could have leaned over and started it. she knew what she wanted, whereas he felt paralyzed.
his beer was low and he could not risk another. she was here and she was good looking and he liked her, but he had to finish the apartment. another beer and he could forget about cleaning. she was one to stay in touch with, but not tonight. some day he would regret not sleeping with her the same as he regretted not sleeping with others, but tonight he had to finish. if they fucked, he would still be up there when the lesbian landlord showed up on her motorcycle to determine how much money to deduct from his future. but this was not just about money. it would be better if he went back upstairs and finished cleaning and went home to his little rented room and dropped dead. he had to go up and finish the slaughter of something more beautiful.
“can i get you another beer?” hannah asked.
“uh, no. no thanks. i gotta finish cleaning. i’m supposed to be out by midnight. i was.”
tommy could make it fast. he could. but he couldn’t. she was lonely. he was not lonely, not just lonely. he was raging. he didn’t want her loneliness touching his life with a cheap fuck. this was about love. hannah wanted sex. why he wanted her or anyone to understand his pain he did not know. maybe it was not possible to share and hannah knew this. maybe hannah was right and it was okay to fuck. she was offering him the empathy she could, the escape and release she thought he needed, taking for herself the physical pleasure and emotional exchange she needed. she was not being presumptuous. she was experienced, practical. a fuck might have been perfect. hannah sat with her legs crossed, looking up at him, waiting patiently on his urges and hesitations. it was all so plain. finally, out of respect for hannah and for his dying love, tommy stood up, said good night, and climbed the stairs to his former home with a hard cock, convinced that he was insane. he had not fucked more women than he had fucked. he was not a whore and had many regrets.
the pint was empty. more garbage. he scrubbed the bathtub and vacuumed the bedroom. he sneezed out dust. he was coming down.
finally, after 2 a.m., tommy stood, recalling the day he and jess first saw the place. it was clean and empty just like this, except there had been sunlight. that day the light was troubling to him. the landlady had opened the front door and the sun poured through the windows onto the golden floors. it was love at first sight for jess. during dinner at her mother’s house, jess could not stop talking about the apartment, decorating it, hosting dinners. but tommy was ready to keep looking. the apartment had not welcomed him. the sun was lying and a hostile wind had blown time into the corners.
he stood with the broom in his hands and shouted. his voice was a pathetic disturbance. half drunk, overcome by the great space. he hoped nobody had heard him. then he said, “goodbye.” he was self-conscious, but he said it loud enough. goodbye to the last set of a first love that had played well. goodbye to the best thing that had ever happened to him. the bare walls, the hardwood floors, sent the word back. he picked up the vacuum and garbage bag and turned off the light. he left the door unlocked.
his last night in the place, tommy was sober enough to chase dust. he sipped off a pint of scotch. there was still idiotic shit to take down to the car, the last of which would be the vacuum cleaner and himself. on one trip he was in the foyer, passing the old piano that had never been in tune, his arms full of shirts on hangers, when the door to one of the apartments opened.
it was her.
“hi,” she said.
“hi.”
the girl next door. with the legs. downstairs next door.
“gotta be out tonight,” he said.
“i heard you vacuuming. like a madman.”
“i’m tommy, by the way.”
“hannah.”
she came out and they stood in the dim foyer. since she had moved in two months ago they had spoken only hellos in passing, but their glances had been extended and those hellos were enveloped in meaningful silences. it was awkward. she seemed to like him and he was glad because he needed it. he was very tired of jess and one woman and here was this beautiful girl acting friendly. he often saw her from his deck, usually while he was drinking coffee or whiskey. he never saw her with a guy. he first saw her from up there while jess was inside. hannah was walking a mountain bike to a charcoal subaru wagon and he could not believe she had come out of his house. where? a visitor? was she new? my god, what an ass. she was wearing short shorts that day. she wore them often. the car had vermont plates.
“i’ve seen you taking stuff out all week,” she said. “where you going?”
“narragansett. i got a room.”
“where?”
“ocean road, two blocks from the beach.”
“i work at the cliffside,” she said.
“really? are you mafia?”
“no, i’m a waitress. i don’t know about that. i go there and work. i’ve come and gone over the years and they always take me back. the money is good. in the summer.”
“and you go up to vermont in the winter?”
“yes, to work the ski season, but not this winter,” she said. “this winter it’s florida. i got a job waiting in a closed resort. i’m subletting this place for the summer. expensive, but all i could find.”
“yeah, i know. my girlfriend and i just broke up and i can’t keep this place alone.”
“i haven’t seen her around in awhile. she’s pretty, dark curly hair, kind of tall?”
“yeah.”
“i wasn’t going to say anything.”
“it’s okay,” he said.
“how long were you together?”
“five years.”
“that’s awhile.”
“four of them were great and then something just happened.”
“where do you work?”
“the bay times.”
“what do you do there?”
“reporter.”
“you write?”
“yeah. that’s why i asked about the mafia.”
“i don’t pay attention, but i wouldn’t be surprised. want a beer? you look like you need one.”
“yeah.”
into her living room. the light was down, one lamp on. the drawn curtains were blue and white, with lace, from the high ceiling down to the floor. very victorian. a bed was at the front near the windows. it was piled with quilts and pillows. tommy sat on the white couch and hannah brought out two budweisers.
“thanks.”
she sat on the floor in front of him to his left, her legs crossed. she was almost in profile. she was wearing white cotton carpenter’s pants. they were very tight. he saw again what an athletic body she had. while she told him of her plans to move to daytona beach, his eyes fell on her body and bounced back to her face. she did not seem bothered. she acted as if she didn’t notice, or she appreciated it. she was comfortable with her body. she stretched her legs before her, offering a different perspective. she stroked her legs like they were sore from riding.
she was maybe 34 to his 27 and she spoke more thoughtfully than he had expected and she had no arrogance about her, as he had interpreted from the deck. it was shyness and experience. she was his type. insightful and modest and her eyes were green.
only when she started on spiritualism did he feel himself squirm and drink. but the subject was often the fast lane to intimacy and there was the hard body. he was beginning to think she was a nice girl, but she was nice after surviving a conflict she participated in for a long time. she told him about a bad relationship and a bastard. nice girl or not, tommy couldn’t decide and he didn’t want to hear about it. she was sweet tonight.
they spoke in the dim living room, words spoken while skin whispered to skin, her yes to his maybe. he could have moved and taken her on the rug or she could have leaned over and started it. she knew what she wanted, whereas he felt paralyzed.
his beer was low and he could not risk another. she was here and she was good looking and he liked her, but he had to finish the apartment. another beer and he could forget about cleaning. she was one to stay in touch with, but not tonight. some day he would regret not sleeping with her the same as he regretted not sleeping with others, but tonight he had to finish. if they fucked, he would still be up there when the lesbian landlord showed up on her motorcycle to determine how much money to deduct from his future. but this was not just about money. it would be better if he went back upstairs and finished cleaning and went home to his little rented room and dropped dead. he had to go up and finish the slaughter of something more beautiful.
“can i get you another beer?” hannah asked.
“uh, no. no thanks. i gotta finish cleaning. i’m supposed to be out by midnight. i was.”
tommy could make it fast. he could. but he couldn’t. she was lonely. he was not lonely, not just lonely. he was raging. he didn’t want her loneliness touching his life with a cheap fuck. this was about love. hannah wanted sex. why he wanted her or anyone to understand his pain he did not know. maybe it was not possible to share and hannah knew this. maybe hannah was right and it was okay to fuck. she was offering him the empathy she could, the escape and release she thought he needed, taking for herself the physical pleasure and emotional exchange she needed. she was not being presumptuous. she was experienced, practical. a fuck might have been perfect. hannah sat with her legs crossed, looking up at him, waiting patiently on his urges and hesitations. it was all so plain. finally, out of respect for hannah and for his dying love, tommy stood up, said good night, and climbed the stairs to his former home with a hard cock, convinced that he was insane. he had not fucked more women than he had fucked. he was not a whore and had many regrets.
the pint was empty. more garbage. he scrubbed the bathtub and vacuumed the bedroom. he sneezed out dust. he was coming down.
finally, after 2 a.m., tommy stood, recalling the day he and jess first saw the place. it was clean and empty just like this, except there had been sunlight. that day the light was troubling to him. the landlady had opened the front door and the sun poured through the windows onto the golden floors. it was love at first sight for jess. during dinner at her mother’s house, jess could not stop talking about the apartment, decorating it, hosting dinners. but tommy was ready to keep looking. the apartment had not welcomed him. the sun was lying and a hostile wind had blown time into the corners.
he stood with the broom in his hands and shouted. his voice was a pathetic disturbance. half drunk, overcome by the great space. he hoped nobody had heard him. then he said, “goodbye.” he was self-conscious, but he said it loud enough. goodbye to the last set of a first love that had played well. goodbye to the best thing that had ever happened to him. the bare walls, the hardwood floors, sent the word back. he picked up the vacuum and garbage bag and turned off the light. he left the door unlocked.
June 5, 2013
Ch 5 Mostly Madly (the farewell fuck)
5
mexican.
they took a table outside. the terrace was dark. dusk was pink. tommy had been coming to the bar a lot lately and drinking alone. the barmaids and waitresses had been friendly and flirted, but they had boyfriends and drew lines. one time a nervous blonde’s boyfriend showed up and they stood in front of him while the guy forced his tongue down her throat. one or two of them might have gone out with him in another life, but instead they worked his loneliness for tips. now he was here with a model and they acted like putout cunts who had underestimated him. tommy was amused and worked them for obedience. they ordered margaritas. jess was drinking. she smiled and she laughed and she talked and talked. she was a fountain of conversation. they were back at least one year in time, talking like in the old days when they could. before the food came, tommy was in san francisco. is this how it could be? is this us? still? what am i killing?
“you know, you have some mail at the place,” he said.
“again?” she said. “i changed that. i’ve been to the post office twice!”
they drove back to the place. she had not been there in a month. she was going to pick up her mail.
tommy unlocked the door and hit the light as they stepped inside.
night filled the great windows. whiskey and beer bottles crawled across the hardwood. words were scrawled on the walls in thick black marker. dirty plates and dehydrating newspapers covered tables and the floor. mail was thrown about. the room they had set eyes on together the summer before had come to life.
“it’s a dump!” she sounded like she was still a part of it.
“this is how it is. this is how i like it. this is how it gets.”
“you’re a slob.” she smiled. “i don’t care. i’m just pointing it out. i don’t have to clean it up.”
tommy wanted to tell her she didn’t have to clean it up when they were together, but she would say she had cleaned for herself, which would not have been the whole truth. anyhow, there was no life left in these fights. it was his mess and he lived in it and she could visit it and comment on it and he didn’t have to defend it, which he really couldn’t do. she could be jess, without being the jess.
“ouch!” she said. “my legs are so sunburned.” she was turned looking to the backs of her legs. they glowed red.
“i have some aloe,” he said.
tommy went to the bathroom to get the aloe. it was a brilliant green color in the bottle. he saw his face in the mirror. unshaven and bright with joy? was it because she was here or was it because he was lit? he’d take it.
“you got a new shirt?” she greeted him in the bedroom.
the blue quicksilver shirt. felicia. it was hanging over the wicker chair right out in the open. jess was touching it. the blue pattern was not his taste and jess knew it. felicia had given it to him after he put her on all fours and put her head through the wall.
“when did you get it?” jess asked.
“a few weeks ago.”
“where did you get it?”
tommy mentioned the name of the surf shop in narragansett. he sounded alone.
“i can’t believe you actually bought something,” she said. “that you actually went shopping.”
tommy stood holding the bottle of aloe. “it’ll be easier if you lay down.”
“where?” she said.
“i don’t know. on the bed.”
they went to the bed. she fell on her stomach into the middle of the bed. they had bought the queen bed together when they had gotten this place. more recently tommy had ridden it around the room with felicia, the wheels cutting into the varnish and wood. jess hadn’t noticed those marks yet. he would know when she did and there would be no lie for it. she had been there in other apartments.
he joined her on the bed, kneeled beside her. he looked at her legs. she had these legs without effort. she was born with them and didn’t do a damn but walk on them. they were worth a lot of money and they were hers now and the ass was too. this whole idea was foolishness. he was in bed with what he had returned and said he didn’t want. yet there was a longing for what he knew and a generic lust he did not care to place on an intimate. he squirted the green aloe in lines onto the backs of her legs.
“ooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!”
he began at her ankles and dared up across the red calves, massaging gently. the cool aloe turned to warm liquid in his fingers. he squirted more onto her thighs and was therefore obligated to massage them, on up toward where he had once lost himself.
“ooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!”
his hands moved in slow circles while she giggled. her skin was so hot.
her limbs were loose, as if she could be asleep.
he knew she was awake.
she was his, if he wanted her. it seemed that he was supposed to. it was something to do. she knew he would, of course.
he leaned forward and put his face to her hair. the touch of her curls on his cheek made him forget his month of hard ideas. he inhaled. she turned. they kissed.
his cock.
they kissed and she rolled onto her back.
he was unsure. he was sure. it was wrong.
she helped him peel her shirt off. he took her shorts and bikini in one pull. what was before him came back to him, the certainty of her pussy. her body radiated promises. he knelt between her legs and pulled off his shirt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. his cock threw itself against his boxers. she watched, still. he tossed his pants to the floor and traveled her length to her mouth and kissed her. she was wet. he slid out of his underwear and put his cock against her. he played with her. she gasped when he entered their dream. he grabbed her ass and her womb fluttered against him. he withdrew and thrusted. she was silent. he moved and moved. she was not as she had ever been. there was no jess: her arms and body did not participate. this was not his jess. this was a fuck. were they this heavy? tommy was alone. he couldn’t stop, and took this one-sided, perverse fuck. he thrusted and he took it from her.
he said, “i’m sorry.”
jess smiled. “you don’t have to apologize.”
she was sweet, she was demanding, but he was not thinking of a second round because he was disturbed.
she slept far on her side of the queen bed, which he had told her she could take. her back was somewhere out there behind his. his sleep was thin and full of movements, dream thoughts and tequila confusion. when he had finally sunken into his pillow, she woke him with her own flips and rolls. it was all his fault. it was just one night.
in the morning, the sun came in the south window and lit up the white sheets. jess was on her side. her form gave him little satisfaction. this had been a drunken mistake. a setback on the road to recovery. maybe he didn’t like her. he already knew he didn’t like her. for a long time he had loved her, but he had not liked her. she was a body under a sheet with brown hair on the pillow, facing away. she gave him less anticipation than a stranger whose face he had yet to remember. he got up and went into the bathroom to piss. he was not hung-over. he felt good. but he felt bad. the love was not there. the love was gone and the making too. it made sense. they’d been completely robbed. he couldn’t fuck her now. he couldn’t degrade them. this was not them. he had to move on. he had tasted freedom. when he fucked felicia, it was fully what it was, and a little more.
tommy was walking out of the bathroom when he heard jess scream.
in the bedroom, jess was standing beside the bed, pointing out the window. one hand covered her mouth.
what?
tommy went over to see what it was about. he saw the tar roof warming in the sun. then he saw something. it looked like an animal, the color of sand. it was a mourning dove. it lay on its back and through downy feathers its pink feet stuck straight into the air.
tommy pulled the screen up and climbed out the window. the flat tar roof was already hot. he walked over for a closer look. it was a dove. its head was turned to one side and its eyes were closed. he tapped it with his toe. the bird moved as one stiff bird. he gave it a good kick. it flew off the roof and tumbled two stories onto the front lawn. he didn’t want it rotting outside his bedroom window.
he climbed back inside. jess was still standing there, horrified. she looked sick. tommy was sick. he couldn’t help but think about the appreciation they had shared for doves. it was said that doves remained mates for life. they were more than a pair of animals pecking in the dirt for lunch. they were lovers. when one called, the other was already listening. the dead dove was a very bad omen. it was working on tommy and he knew jess was thinking the same things. that bird had not been there the day before. it may have died there that night, just feet from the bed in which they were lost and turning. but where had it come from, how did it die there? did it fly up there to die? did it die there? or had some local kids found it in the road, and watching them fuck through the window, thrown it at them? at him? were the motherfuckers rating his pathetic performance? however the dead dove arrived, it had a voice. tommy fought with the window screen.
“that’s a bad sign,” he said.
“it doesn’t mean anything,” jess said.
“you don’t think so?”
“you’re overusing your symbolic faculties,” she said. “you know what that is?”
“i think you told me that it’s schizophrenia.”
“it usually hits people when they’re about your age.”
“thanks.”
a few minutes later, tommy walked her down to her jeep. he did not make coffee and neither of them had suggested going out for breakfast, though that idea was aloft of habit. tommy was eager to see her go and he let her know. he was not sure why, and he did not want to be so eager to see her go, but he knew that feeling better required getting rid of her, the girl he had loved and did love in some way. it was last night. it was his failure, her lifelessness in bed and the sleeplessness, the dead dove and then the schizophrenia routine. he could not take any more. he wanted to be alone. they had been apart and it had been bad and different and then good. here they were together one day and night and he was not only again a drunken slob listening to her fashion reports, adrenaline up to fend off all men, but he was also a prematurely ejaculating schizophrenic. maybe he shouldn’t have called the dove a symbol, but he thought she had to be seeing the same wreckage. she had always seen things well. he had hurt her. she had hopes. he had hurt her and brought out her viciousness. she had more hope for them than she let on. he should have seen it. she wasn’t just sleeping with him. she was trying to come home. if he had not met her at the beach, there would be none of this hope.
“i’m thinking of moving out,” he said. “so i may need some help getting this stuff out of here.”
“i’ll stop by and start getting my stuff.”
a quick kiss and a good hug. she drove off under the maples and into a hot summer morning. tommy watched her jeep go and go and he sank. he knew he had been hard, but it was the only way to do this, what they were doing, and they were doing it. if she was not going to be active, he would push. the dove was a blessing. his first sight of her at the beach made him feel sad that this was once her, the one he had cared for so much and now did not want – and she didn’t seem to know it. now, leaving, she knew a little better. she was hurt, she knew he wasn’t coming back. watching her drive off, he felt pity and loss. the end was getting surer; it agonized him to think of her one day not caring, not needing. the farewell fuck was indeed a fuck and confirmation that things had turned to fuck.
walking back to the front door, tommy passed the dove. it was planted head into the grass. the sun was on it and already flies circled and buzzed over its anus. tommy looked away and went upstairs. he hoped the maggots would work fast.
with jess gone, he got down to being some of the things she said he was.
he made breakfast: he poured ice and lime juice into the blender, which he had not used in two days. before he added the tequila, he saw small black things floating on the limejuice. some type of black fly. more rose to the surface as he stood contemplating what to do about them. should he toss the limejuice and wash the blender and start over? should he pluck them out one at a time? tossing the juice seemed like a waste. he’d run out later. he was always running out of tequila or juice. he grabbed a spoon and rescued the dead flies, or rather, rescued his margarita, dipping the spoon in, lifting them out and wiping them on his fingers. more flies rose to the surface and he ran out of fingers, so he wiped the dead bugs on his shorts. when the surface of the limejuice looked clear, he added the tequila and hit “liquefy,” turning whatever bug bodies, legs, and wings remained into a bugarita.
he poured a glass. it tasted super. maybe because if jess had been there she would have made him wash the blender first.
he took the margarita into his office and wrote felicia a letter. she had written that she was coming back from cyprus in december. he told her he didn’t know where he would be living, but he’d be hard for her. tommy knew felicia had helped him. her timing was perfect. felicia showed him love and gave him pleasure and respect. he hoped to see her again. he saw potential; they had realized something briefly. when his bugarita ran out, he got up to pour another.
mexican.
they took a table outside. the terrace was dark. dusk was pink. tommy had been coming to the bar a lot lately and drinking alone. the barmaids and waitresses had been friendly and flirted, but they had boyfriends and drew lines. one time a nervous blonde’s boyfriend showed up and they stood in front of him while the guy forced his tongue down her throat. one or two of them might have gone out with him in another life, but instead they worked his loneliness for tips. now he was here with a model and they acted like putout cunts who had underestimated him. tommy was amused and worked them for obedience. they ordered margaritas. jess was drinking. she smiled and she laughed and she talked and talked. she was a fountain of conversation. they were back at least one year in time, talking like in the old days when they could. before the food came, tommy was in san francisco. is this how it could be? is this us? still? what am i killing?
“you know, you have some mail at the place,” he said.
“again?” she said. “i changed that. i’ve been to the post office twice!”
they drove back to the place. she had not been there in a month. she was going to pick up her mail.
tommy unlocked the door and hit the light as they stepped inside.
night filled the great windows. whiskey and beer bottles crawled across the hardwood. words were scrawled on the walls in thick black marker. dirty plates and dehydrating newspapers covered tables and the floor. mail was thrown about. the room they had set eyes on together the summer before had come to life.
“it’s a dump!” she sounded like she was still a part of it.
“this is how it is. this is how i like it. this is how it gets.”
“you’re a slob.” she smiled. “i don’t care. i’m just pointing it out. i don’t have to clean it up.”
tommy wanted to tell her she didn’t have to clean it up when they were together, but she would say she had cleaned for herself, which would not have been the whole truth. anyhow, there was no life left in these fights. it was his mess and he lived in it and she could visit it and comment on it and he didn’t have to defend it, which he really couldn’t do. she could be jess, without being the jess.
“ouch!” she said. “my legs are so sunburned.” she was turned looking to the backs of her legs. they glowed red.
“i have some aloe,” he said.
tommy went to the bathroom to get the aloe. it was a brilliant green color in the bottle. he saw his face in the mirror. unshaven and bright with joy? was it because she was here or was it because he was lit? he’d take it.
“you got a new shirt?” she greeted him in the bedroom.
the blue quicksilver shirt. felicia. it was hanging over the wicker chair right out in the open. jess was touching it. the blue pattern was not his taste and jess knew it. felicia had given it to him after he put her on all fours and put her head through the wall.
“when did you get it?” jess asked.
“a few weeks ago.”
“where did you get it?”
tommy mentioned the name of the surf shop in narragansett. he sounded alone.
“i can’t believe you actually bought something,” she said. “that you actually went shopping.”
tommy stood holding the bottle of aloe. “it’ll be easier if you lay down.”
“where?” she said.
“i don’t know. on the bed.”
they went to the bed. she fell on her stomach into the middle of the bed. they had bought the queen bed together when they had gotten this place. more recently tommy had ridden it around the room with felicia, the wheels cutting into the varnish and wood. jess hadn’t noticed those marks yet. he would know when she did and there would be no lie for it. she had been there in other apartments.
he joined her on the bed, kneeled beside her. he looked at her legs. she had these legs without effort. she was born with them and didn’t do a damn but walk on them. they were worth a lot of money and they were hers now and the ass was too. this whole idea was foolishness. he was in bed with what he had returned and said he didn’t want. yet there was a longing for what he knew and a generic lust he did not care to place on an intimate. he squirted the green aloe in lines onto the backs of her legs.
“ooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!”
he began at her ankles and dared up across the red calves, massaging gently. the cool aloe turned to warm liquid in his fingers. he squirted more onto her thighs and was therefore obligated to massage them, on up toward where he had once lost himself.
“ooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!”
his hands moved in slow circles while she giggled. her skin was so hot.
her limbs were loose, as if she could be asleep.
he knew she was awake.
she was his, if he wanted her. it seemed that he was supposed to. it was something to do. she knew he would, of course.
he leaned forward and put his face to her hair. the touch of her curls on his cheek made him forget his month of hard ideas. he inhaled. she turned. they kissed.
his cock.
they kissed and she rolled onto her back.
he was unsure. he was sure. it was wrong.
she helped him peel her shirt off. he took her shorts and bikini in one pull. what was before him came back to him, the certainty of her pussy. her body radiated promises. he knelt between her legs and pulled off his shirt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. his cock threw itself against his boxers. she watched, still. he tossed his pants to the floor and traveled her length to her mouth and kissed her. she was wet. he slid out of his underwear and put his cock against her. he played with her. she gasped when he entered their dream. he grabbed her ass and her womb fluttered against him. he withdrew and thrusted. she was silent. he moved and moved. she was not as she had ever been. there was no jess: her arms and body did not participate. this was not his jess. this was a fuck. were they this heavy? tommy was alone. he couldn’t stop, and took this one-sided, perverse fuck. he thrusted and he took it from her.
he said, “i’m sorry.”
jess smiled. “you don’t have to apologize.”
she was sweet, she was demanding, but he was not thinking of a second round because he was disturbed.
she slept far on her side of the queen bed, which he had told her she could take. her back was somewhere out there behind his. his sleep was thin and full of movements, dream thoughts and tequila confusion. when he had finally sunken into his pillow, she woke him with her own flips and rolls. it was all his fault. it was just one night.
in the morning, the sun came in the south window and lit up the white sheets. jess was on her side. her form gave him little satisfaction. this had been a drunken mistake. a setback on the road to recovery. maybe he didn’t like her. he already knew he didn’t like her. for a long time he had loved her, but he had not liked her. she was a body under a sheet with brown hair on the pillow, facing away. she gave him less anticipation than a stranger whose face he had yet to remember. he got up and went into the bathroom to piss. he was not hung-over. he felt good. but he felt bad. the love was not there. the love was gone and the making too. it made sense. they’d been completely robbed. he couldn’t fuck her now. he couldn’t degrade them. this was not them. he had to move on. he had tasted freedom. when he fucked felicia, it was fully what it was, and a little more.
tommy was walking out of the bathroom when he heard jess scream.
in the bedroom, jess was standing beside the bed, pointing out the window. one hand covered her mouth.
what?
tommy went over to see what it was about. he saw the tar roof warming in the sun. then he saw something. it looked like an animal, the color of sand. it was a mourning dove. it lay on its back and through downy feathers its pink feet stuck straight into the air.
tommy pulled the screen up and climbed out the window. the flat tar roof was already hot. he walked over for a closer look. it was a dove. its head was turned to one side and its eyes were closed. he tapped it with his toe. the bird moved as one stiff bird. he gave it a good kick. it flew off the roof and tumbled two stories onto the front lawn. he didn’t want it rotting outside his bedroom window.
he climbed back inside. jess was still standing there, horrified. she looked sick. tommy was sick. he couldn’t help but think about the appreciation they had shared for doves. it was said that doves remained mates for life. they were more than a pair of animals pecking in the dirt for lunch. they were lovers. when one called, the other was already listening. the dead dove was a very bad omen. it was working on tommy and he knew jess was thinking the same things. that bird had not been there the day before. it may have died there that night, just feet from the bed in which they were lost and turning. but where had it come from, how did it die there? did it fly up there to die? did it die there? or had some local kids found it in the road, and watching them fuck through the window, thrown it at them? at him? were the motherfuckers rating his pathetic performance? however the dead dove arrived, it had a voice. tommy fought with the window screen.
“that’s a bad sign,” he said.
“it doesn’t mean anything,” jess said.
“you don’t think so?”
“you’re overusing your symbolic faculties,” she said. “you know what that is?”
“i think you told me that it’s schizophrenia.”
“it usually hits people when they’re about your age.”
“thanks.”
a few minutes later, tommy walked her down to her jeep. he did not make coffee and neither of them had suggested going out for breakfast, though that idea was aloft of habit. tommy was eager to see her go and he let her know. he was not sure why, and he did not want to be so eager to see her go, but he knew that feeling better required getting rid of her, the girl he had loved and did love in some way. it was last night. it was his failure, her lifelessness in bed and the sleeplessness, the dead dove and then the schizophrenia routine. he could not take any more. he wanted to be alone. they had been apart and it had been bad and different and then good. here they were together one day and night and he was not only again a drunken slob listening to her fashion reports, adrenaline up to fend off all men, but he was also a prematurely ejaculating schizophrenic. maybe he shouldn’t have called the dove a symbol, but he thought she had to be seeing the same wreckage. she had always seen things well. he had hurt her. she had hopes. he had hurt her and brought out her viciousness. she had more hope for them than she let on. he should have seen it. she wasn’t just sleeping with him. she was trying to come home. if he had not met her at the beach, there would be none of this hope.
“i’m thinking of moving out,” he said. “so i may need some help getting this stuff out of here.”
“i’ll stop by and start getting my stuff.”
a quick kiss and a good hug. she drove off under the maples and into a hot summer morning. tommy watched her jeep go and go and he sank. he knew he had been hard, but it was the only way to do this, what they were doing, and they were doing it. if she was not going to be active, he would push. the dove was a blessing. his first sight of her at the beach made him feel sad that this was once her, the one he had cared for so much and now did not want – and she didn’t seem to know it. now, leaving, she knew a little better. she was hurt, she knew he wasn’t coming back. watching her drive off, he felt pity and loss. the end was getting surer; it agonized him to think of her one day not caring, not needing. the farewell fuck was indeed a fuck and confirmation that things had turned to fuck.
walking back to the front door, tommy passed the dove. it was planted head into the grass. the sun was on it and already flies circled and buzzed over its anus. tommy looked away and went upstairs. he hoped the maggots would work fast.
with jess gone, he got down to being some of the things she said he was.
he made breakfast: he poured ice and lime juice into the blender, which he had not used in two days. before he added the tequila, he saw small black things floating on the limejuice. some type of black fly. more rose to the surface as he stood contemplating what to do about them. should he toss the limejuice and wash the blender and start over? should he pluck them out one at a time? tossing the juice seemed like a waste. he’d run out later. he was always running out of tequila or juice. he grabbed a spoon and rescued the dead flies, or rather, rescued his margarita, dipping the spoon in, lifting them out and wiping them on his fingers. more flies rose to the surface and he ran out of fingers, so he wiped the dead bugs on his shorts. when the surface of the limejuice looked clear, he added the tequila and hit “liquefy,” turning whatever bug bodies, legs, and wings remained into a bugarita.
he poured a glass. it tasted super. maybe because if jess had been there she would have made him wash the blender first.
he took the margarita into his office and wrote felicia a letter. she had written that she was coming back from cyprus in december. he told her he didn’t know where he would be living, but he’d be hard for her. tommy knew felicia had helped him. her timing was perfect. felicia showed him love and gave him pleasure and respect. he hoped to see her again. he saw potential; they had realized something briefly. when his bugarita ran out, he got up to pour another.
June 2, 2013
Ch 4 Mostly Madly, a novel
4
tommy was doing alright. he hurt less than he thought he would. hurting less said he had done the right thing. he was over jess more than he knew. he had been getting over her while he was with her.
the phone rang. he answered it.
it was jess.
“what have you been up to?” she asked.
“working.”
“how is it?”
“the same,” he said.
“that job is no good for you,” she said.
“i know. what have you been up to?”
“nothing. the same. new york, going out with the girls.”
“have you been to the beach?” he asked.
“we went to newport last week,” she said. “the water is warm.”
“you went in?”
“what’s that supposed to mean? i go in. sometimes.”
tommy laughed.
“we should go to the beach sometime,” she said.
“sure,” he said. “when?”
“i don’t know.”
“how about tomorrow?” he said.
“i’m off tomorrow.”
“i can get out after deadline. how about east matunuck? i can meet you.”
“third entrance,” she said.
in the car tommy changed into his suit, watching the lot for eyes. his socks smelled bad and he knew they would smell worse after they had cooked in the car for a few hours. he bought a frozen lemonade and hiked out to the hot sand. he walked looking for jess where she said she would be. he spotted her lying on her stomach. she was reading a book, facing up the beach. he walked toward her. she did not seem to notice him. he wondered what he would say. when he reached her, she looked up.
“hi,” she said.
“hi.”
she looked thin, but sound. she was serene. she showed no signs of anguish. she had always been the cool one. she was looking at him. he stood there with his lemonade.
he sat down. he pulled off his shirt. his drinking gut rolled out, pale with black hair. then they talked small, there in the sand, differences allowed. she was in a bikini and her skin was olive. she had been out in the sun a lot. she was very thin and he was surprised and relieved when her body failed to stoke him. it was a fine body and he could see how once he had needed to touch it. a part of him wanted her to be someone to touch, but it was only sad for him. he had been with felicia last week and felt boosted by a miracle. to be here now with jess he felt dishonest and a bit of pity came over him. he almost laughed.
“you’re looking kind of skinny,” he said.
“i know,” she said. “i’m just not eating. all these clothes i’ve been buying won’t even fit, i have to buy more.”
“are you going crazy buying stuff?”
she confessed. since the split, she had bought 22 pairs of shoes, 17 pairs of pants, and so many blouses and shirts she’d lost track. the jewelry didn’t really count, it just happened. she believed in fashion and more so she had style and she had money. as she told him about her expeditions to the shops and malls every night, it was easy for tommy to believe she had truly loved him.
“it’s sick,” she added.
for her to say that about herself, he couldn’t imagine how much she was spending. in california, she had spent $400 an hour.
“how much have you spent?” he said.
“you don’t want to know,” she said. “i’m buying all the things you never let me.”
“that’s not true. i let you buy stuff.”
“i know, but –“
private consolations, they had their ways of dealing with this. they both let it drop.
he was not here out of hope, was he? he was here, but so was the truth. they were not lovers. eventually they would see very little of one another. they would not see one another. in fact, he wasn’t sure why he was here. she had called. the beach? nature sounded neutral. he missed her. maybe they were going to talk. he had never explained it to her and he did not feel he needed to. she knew damn well what she was and what she had become. she knew she had been loved, and made herself not liked. they would talk about something pleasant. he didn’t think she was here because she wanted him back, but maybe she was. if she was, she was too proud to say so. she had asked him to come. she may have had hope for them. he didn’t. they were simply seeing the one they must lose. meeting like this would not help. but maybe, maybe meeting like this was just as easily a part of moving on, of dismantling. he missed her. they had been together day and night for five years. the routine was not broken down yet. and who else did they have? fuck, he didn’t know why he was here, except that she was here and he was strong enough to look at her.
“do you want to go down to the water?” he said.
“sure.”
they went down the sandy slope to the ocean. the water was green milk, with waves breaking the film now and again. it was late afternoon and the sun was high enough in the southwest to keep people clinging to the sand, but the water was cooler than tommy expected when he dove in. he swam out and bodysurfed a wave in. jess stood on shore in her bikini. at a distance, she was a woman so stunning that he worried about the guys coming down the beach. it was instinct. he was possessive. but they were not going out and this was not a date. was it? he swam and bodysurfed when a good wave came. jess had never been very big on swimming and this had always bothered him. swimming alone bothered him once again. he told himself not to worry about what it might mean about her psyche. she wasn’t his problem anymore. he kicked into one last wave and surfed it in. when he opened his eyes, he was at her feet.
she let him sleep. he slept sitting upright in her canvas chair while she lay on the blanket reading a serious novel. he had not seen her read literature since college, when she was reading neruda and lorca in spanish. when he awoke, the beach was almost deserted.
“how long have i been asleep? awhile, huh?”
“yeah. you must have needed it.”
they left the beach, she in her jeep, he in the subaru stinking of rotten feet.
tommy was doing alright. he hurt less than he thought he would. hurting less said he had done the right thing. he was over jess more than he knew. he had been getting over her while he was with her.
the phone rang. he answered it.
it was jess.
“what have you been up to?” she asked.
“working.”
“how is it?”
“the same,” he said.
“that job is no good for you,” she said.
“i know. what have you been up to?”
“nothing. the same. new york, going out with the girls.”
“have you been to the beach?” he asked.
“we went to newport last week,” she said. “the water is warm.”
“you went in?”
“what’s that supposed to mean? i go in. sometimes.”
tommy laughed.
“we should go to the beach sometime,” she said.
“sure,” he said. “when?”
“i don’t know.”
“how about tomorrow?” he said.
“i’m off tomorrow.”
“i can get out after deadline. how about east matunuck? i can meet you.”
“third entrance,” she said.
in the car tommy changed into his suit, watching the lot for eyes. his socks smelled bad and he knew they would smell worse after they had cooked in the car for a few hours. he bought a frozen lemonade and hiked out to the hot sand. he walked looking for jess where she said she would be. he spotted her lying on her stomach. she was reading a book, facing up the beach. he walked toward her. she did not seem to notice him. he wondered what he would say. when he reached her, she looked up.
“hi,” she said.
“hi.”
she looked thin, but sound. she was serene. she showed no signs of anguish. she had always been the cool one. she was looking at him. he stood there with his lemonade.
he sat down. he pulled off his shirt. his drinking gut rolled out, pale with black hair. then they talked small, there in the sand, differences allowed. she was in a bikini and her skin was olive. she had been out in the sun a lot. she was very thin and he was surprised and relieved when her body failed to stoke him. it was a fine body and he could see how once he had needed to touch it. a part of him wanted her to be someone to touch, but it was only sad for him. he had been with felicia last week and felt boosted by a miracle. to be here now with jess he felt dishonest and a bit of pity came over him. he almost laughed.
“you’re looking kind of skinny,” he said.
“i know,” she said. “i’m just not eating. all these clothes i’ve been buying won’t even fit, i have to buy more.”
“are you going crazy buying stuff?”
she confessed. since the split, she had bought 22 pairs of shoes, 17 pairs of pants, and so many blouses and shirts she’d lost track. the jewelry didn’t really count, it just happened. she believed in fashion and more so she had style and she had money. as she told him about her expeditions to the shops and malls every night, it was easy for tommy to believe she had truly loved him.
“it’s sick,” she added.
for her to say that about herself, he couldn’t imagine how much she was spending. in california, she had spent $400 an hour.
“how much have you spent?” he said.
“you don’t want to know,” she said. “i’m buying all the things you never let me.”
“that’s not true. i let you buy stuff.”
“i know, but –“
private consolations, they had their ways of dealing with this. they both let it drop.
he was not here out of hope, was he? he was here, but so was the truth. they were not lovers. eventually they would see very little of one another. they would not see one another. in fact, he wasn’t sure why he was here. she had called. the beach? nature sounded neutral. he missed her. maybe they were going to talk. he had never explained it to her and he did not feel he needed to. she knew damn well what she was and what she had become. she knew she had been loved, and made herself not liked. they would talk about something pleasant. he didn’t think she was here because she wanted him back, but maybe she was. if she was, she was too proud to say so. she had asked him to come. she may have had hope for them. he didn’t. they were simply seeing the one they must lose. meeting like this would not help. but maybe, maybe meeting like this was just as easily a part of moving on, of dismantling. he missed her. they had been together day and night for five years. the routine was not broken down yet. and who else did they have? fuck, he didn’t know why he was here, except that she was here and he was strong enough to look at her.
“do you want to go down to the water?” he said.
“sure.”
they went down the sandy slope to the ocean. the water was green milk, with waves breaking the film now and again. it was late afternoon and the sun was high enough in the southwest to keep people clinging to the sand, but the water was cooler than tommy expected when he dove in. he swam out and bodysurfed a wave in. jess stood on shore in her bikini. at a distance, she was a woman so stunning that he worried about the guys coming down the beach. it was instinct. he was possessive. but they were not going out and this was not a date. was it? he swam and bodysurfed when a good wave came. jess had never been very big on swimming and this had always bothered him. swimming alone bothered him once again. he told himself not to worry about what it might mean about her psyche. she wasn’t his problem anymore. he kicked into one last wave and surfed it in. when he opened his eyes, he was at her feet.
she let him sleep. he slept sitting upright in her canvas chair while she lay on the blanket reading a serious novel. he had not seen her read literature since college, when she was reading neruda and lorca in spanish. when he awoke, the beach was almost deserted.
“how long have i been asleep? awhile, huh?”
“yeah. you must have needed it.”
they left the beach, she in her jeep, he in the subaru stinking of rotten feet.
May 25, 2013
May 23, 2013
Mostly Madly Ch 2
2
tommy and jess fought as they walked to the café. she had no idea. he was done.
“i don’t know why you gave that woman your shirt,” jess said.
“she was cold,” tommy said.
“but i bought you that shirt.”
“you buy me all my shirts.”
“you’re too generous with your time and money,” she said. “let her get her own shirt.”
“drop it, jess. it’s a fucking shirt.”
“no surprise a slob like you doesn’t care,” she said.
“well i don’t live in front of the mirror,” he said.
“no, you’re too busy becoming a drunk.”
“a highly functioning drunk.”
“you’re so neurotic,” she said.
“your heart is the size of a pea and made of coal,” he said.
“is that poetry or schizophrenia?”
“good one,” he said. more of an unfortunate realization and late admission.
he held the door open and they went in. the café was owned by vegan lesbians who here and there allowed diners meat.
people looked up from tables.
jess and tommy: the model and the hitchhiker.
a round table with a white candle burning in the center. they had brought a valpolicella. the waitress came with two small mason jars and pulled the cork, poured the wine.
they drank.
“you should move out,” he said.
“okay. i will tomorrow.”
the waitress came back and they ordered. the meal was enjoyable. they had had a problem. now, they had no problems. tommy was surprised he had said it then. she had taken it well. but then, anything he could throw, she could catch and fire back. she probably didn’t believe him.
the next day, a saturday, jess packed. she didn’t get far. she stayed the night.
“are you moving out or what?” tommy said.
she said nothing.
late sunday she took a bag to her mother’s house up north and stayed there.
tommy slept alone. the bed was big.
she was gone.
she was the one he had waited 22 years for and he knew it the moment he saw her. it would be a long time before he allowed that behind the beautiful face was a spiritual cripple. he reminded himself of that. he would not let time and distance trick him into calling her.
when the first of the month came around, he paid the rent for the place he had never trusted, but she had to have. three fireplaces. gigantic factory windows. office for him. basketball court for a living room. the bedroom was bigger than their first apartment in san francisco. the bathroom, where the sun shined brightest, had always been her domain: the mirror. their glue dissolved as he jerked off in the bath to fantasies of a girl at work while jess sat in the living room watching soap operas. he didn’t want to fuck her. she didn’t want to fuck him. except one time when he had been out to dinner with a woman painter and returned at 2 a.m. jess was up waiting. she jumped on his cock as if she had been reset. her jealousy proved they could still have great sex. he did almost fuck the painter, but nice that he hadn’t . . .
tommy and jess fought as they walked to the café. she had no idea. he was done.
“i don’t know why you gave that woman your shirt,” jess said.
“she was cold,” tommy said.
“but i bought you that shirt.”
“you buy me all my shirts.”
“you’re too generous with your time and money,” she said. “let her get her own shirt.”
“drop it, jess. it’s a fucking shirt.”
“no surprise a slob like you doesn’t care,” she said.
“well i don’t live in front of the mirror,” he said.
“no, you’re too busy becoming a drunk.”
“a highly functioning drunk.”
“you’re so neurotic,” she said.
“your heart is the size of a pea and made of coal,” he said.
“is that poetry or schizophrenia?”
“good one,” he said. more of an unfortunate realization and late admission.
he held the door open and they went in. the café was owned by vegan lesbians who here and there allowed diners meat.
people looked up from tables.
jess and tommy: the model and the hitchhiker.
a round table with a white candle burning in the center. they had brought a valpolicella. the waitress came with two small mason jars and pulled the cork, poured the wine.
they drank.
“you should move out,” he said.
“okay. i will tomorrow.”
the waitress came back and they ordered. the meal was enjoyable. they had had a problem. now, they had no problems. tommy was surprised he had said it then. she had taken it well. but then, anything he could throw, she could catch and fire back. she probably didn’t believe him.
the next day, a saturday, jess packed. she didn’t get far. she stayed the night.
“are you moving out or what?” tommy said.
she said nothing.
late sunday she took a bag to her mother’s house up north and stayed there.
tommy slept alone. the bed was big.
she was gone.
she was the one he had waited 22 years for and he knew it the moment he saw her. it would be a long time before he allowed that behind the beautiful face was a spiritual cripple. he reminded himself of that. he would not let time and distance trick him into calling her.
when the first of the month came around, he paid the rent for the place he had never trusted, but she had to have. three fireplaces. gigantic factory windows. office for him. basketball court for a living room. the bedroom was bigger than their first apartment in san francisco. the bathroom, where the sun shined brightest, had always been her domain: the mirror. their glue dissolved as he jerked off in the bath to fantasies of a girl at work while jess sat in the living room watching soap operas. he didn’t want to fuck her. she didn’t want to fuck him. except one time when he had been out to dinner with a woman painter and returned at 2 a.m. jess was up waiting. she jumped on his cock as if she had been reset. her jealousy proved they could still have great sex. he did almost fuck the painter, but nice that he hadn’t . . .
May 20, 2013
Mostly Madly Ch 1
1
alone, i had taken the ferry to block island. i sat in the sand and hoped to forget her. the sun and wind played on the ocean so oblivion looked like a walk in the garden of eden.
i reached into the canvas bag between my legs and found the scotch. i drank and screwed the cap back on and put the bottle away. nearby a group of young girls was standing on the rocks. they were in bathing suits. the oldest among them looked 15, i guessed. they stood on the rocks in their bathing suits and looked down at the water. maybe they would jump. i supposed they were pretty. she was pretty.
then they jumped into the water and screamed. it was early june. they climbed up the rocks, where they stood with their elbows at their sides and their hands clasped onto their chins, shivering.
she looked at me.
“why don’t you come in?” she asked.
convincing legs and socializing breasts.
“i don’t have a bathing suit,” i said.
“so?” she smiled.
i smiled and stayed where i was. she shrugged and they jumped into the water and swam away from the rocks, splashing one another and vanishing beneath the bright surface. the water is too cold, i thought, as i listened to their shouts. listen to them scream. she is too young. the water is too cold. i don’t have a bathing suit.
they climbed the rocks and the girl looked at me. she hadn’t given up. her long black hair hung wet on her narrow shoulders. the other girls laughed. she smiled.
i watched her jump into the water, wishing i could say more. i looked down the beach and back to the street where the hotels were, reached into my sack for the scotch, unscrewed the cap and brought it to my lips. i needed to kill the pain. i needed to forget jess. i needed to forget jess or i needed to hate her, but i was not willing to destroy a love or memory because my heart was broken. i did not know if it would get better or worse. i just needed to forget. but if i ever did feel better, could i trust it? i would tell myself that i had become numbed and hard. erasing her and our past would be a lie. but i saw how i might need the lie and would allow it in order to go on. we must go on, but i wondered if i could ever love again. i knew for the first time in my life what it was like to be invulnerable to women. and it was empowering. vulnerability and sacrifice belonged to others. but behind my wall i saw a monster withering, for without the capacity for love, life would lose its flavor and purpose. it would be a life reduced to food and air. without electricity, the horizon would rot. my great joy now was alcohol, which was not joy at all, but simply a way to trade in on my future life, to squeeze from its flesh drops of blood. i was borrowing against life in order to procure wind. it could not go on. but i knew i was here and i would be here. i didn’t know if my despair would end, if selflessness would come back. love was flawed and i would avoid it until i had forgotten so thoroughly that i qualified as fool once again, a man who would accept a misunderstanding he needed, but never the idiot who would treat a woman as a goddess and earn himself hell.
two years earlier, i was sitting in a bar in san francisco with a guy i’d known since high school. the bar was on haight street and the 20th century was winding down with a pitcher of beer on the table. our glasses were full, we were content for the moment. naturally, the subject turned to women.
“why don’t you write a book about women?” bob said. “i mean, what men are really thinking when it comes to women.”
bob’s suggestion was truly a dare. i understood the challenge and i knew it was not in me. what were men thinking when it came to women? i was in love. i drank my beer.
the day had come when i knew the book would be as much about what men were not thinking about women and about my fight to resist being shamed into someone i wasn’t.
alone, i had taken the ferry to block island. i sat in the sand and hoped to forget her. the sun and wind played on the ocean so oblivion looked like a walk in the garden of eden.
i reached into the canvas bag between my legs and found the scotch. i drank and screwed the cap back on and put the bottle away. nearby a group of young girls was standing on the rocks. they were in bathing suits. the oldest among them looked 15, i guessed. they stood on the rocks in their bathing suits and looked down at the water. maybe they would jump. i supposed they were pretty. she was pretty.
then they jumped into the water and screamed. it was early june. they climbed up the rocks, where they stood with their elbows at their sides and their hands clasped onto their chins, shivering.
she looked at me.
“why don’t you come in?” she asked.
convincing legs and socializing breasts.
“i don’t have a bathing suit,” i said.
“so?” she smiled.
i smiled and stayed where i was. she shrugged and they jumped into the water and swam away from the rocks, splashing one another and vanishing beneath the bright surface. the water is too cold, i thought, as i listened to their shouts. listen to them scream. she is too young. the water is too cold. i don’t have a bathing suit.
they climbed the rocks and the girl looked at me. she hadn’t given up. her long black hair hung wet on her narrow shoulders. the other girls laughed. she smiled.
i watched her jump into the water, wishing i could say more. i looked down the beach and back to the street where the hotels were, reached into my sack for the scotch, unscrewed the cap and brought it to my lips. i needed to kill the pain. i needed to forget jess. i needed to forget jess or i needed to hate her, but i was not willing to destroy a love or memory because my heart was broken. i did not know if it would get better or worse. i just needed to forget. but if i ever did feel better, could i trust it? i would tell myself that i had become numbed and hard. erasing her and our past would be a lie. but i saw how i might need the lie and would allow it in order to go on. we must go on, but i wondered if i could ever love again. i knew for the first time in my life what it was like to be invulnerable to women. and it was empowering. vulnerability and sacrifice belonged to others. but behind my wall i saw a monster withering, for without the capacity for love, life would lose its flavor and purpose. it would be a life reduced to food and air. without electricity, the horizon would rot. my great joy now was alcohol, which was not joy at all, but simply a way to trade in on my future life, to squeeze from its flesh drops of blood. i was borrowing against life in order to procure wind. it could not go on. but i knew i was here and i would be here. i didn’t know if my despair would end, if selflessness would come back. love was flawed and i would avoid it until i had forgotten so thoroughly that i qualified as fool once again, a man who would accept a misunderstanding he needed, but never the idiot who would treat a woman as a goddess and earn himself hell.
two years earlier, i was sitting in a bar in san francisco with a guy i’d known since high school. the bar was on haight street and the 20th century was winding down with a pitcher of beer on the table. our glasses were full, we were content for the moment. naturally, the subject turned to women.
“why don’t you write a book about women?” bob said. “i mean, what men are really thinking when it comes to women.”
bob’s suggestion was truly a dare. i understood the challenge and i knew it was not in me. what were men thinking when it came to women? i was in love. i drank my beer.
the day had come when i knew the book would be as much about what men were not thinking about women and about my fight to resist being shamed into someone i wasn’t.
May 15, 2013
when he comes to us
When he comes to us (September 2007)
When he comes to us
Defensive and paranoid
He’s still in a fight
Fresh from his girlfriend
His neck rigid as the bitch
When he comes to us
What to do with him
You’ve got a few hours here
What to do with her
Maybe he should come
visit us when things are well
when he’s not an ass
When he comes to us
Defensive and paranoid
He’s still in a fight
Fresh from his girlfriend
His neck rigid as the bitch
When he comes to us
What to do with him
You’ve got a few hours here
What to do with her
Maybe he should come
visit us when things are well
when he’s not an ass
May 11, 2013
to the false puritans
to the false puritans
our bright middle class
is a crucifixion crew
aiming for its feet
overman to briefs
the killer cut days to suit
he thought of his skin
my god does not change
my god does not have a mind
you’re in it, buddy
our bright middle class
is a crucifixion crew
aiming for its feet
overman to briefs
the killer cut days to suit
he thought of his skin
my god does not change
my god does not have a mind
you’re in it, buddy
