The air shivers. The leaves turn. It's the spring of our fall into autumn.
I'm at the grocery store. Aisle 5. Eyeballing cans of kidney beans. Maybe I'll buy. Maybe I'll wait. Time is not on my side. Is it ever on anybody's side? Guy beside me is also eyeballing cans of kidney beans. He's over 6 foot, short shaped hair, face by Donatello, built. This is one seriously good looking dude. He doesn't slip on slippery slopes.
"So, which brand of beans do you like?" The words come out of my mouth. I've never before asked another man his brand of kidney beans. But with this dude... Whatever brand he's using... I want. I am confident his brand will recalibrate my life. I slip on slippery slopes.
He turns to me. His eyes are watery and red. He sniffs. Once. Twice. Breaks into a cry. Soft cry. This is one seriously upset dude.
"I'm sorry. I'm a mess." He says in a soft voice.
I hand him a serviette from Starbucks which I keep in my pocket for the unclean moments in the disapora. "Thanks." And that's when I notice something odd about his teeth. He's got canines way longer than normal and they look super sharp. The only people who have such teeth are lawyers and vampires. He didn't have blood dripping from his mouth so I figure he must be a vampire.
"You're a vampire," I say.
He nods. Sniffs. Wipes his eyes. Cries again.
"Anything I can do?" I say.
"I'm okay. I'll be fine."
He looks me in the eyes. I feel like I'm staring into the face of a wounded lamb. A wounded lamb that, it so happens, can drain all the blood from my body in about 3 seconds. This vampire is not going to be fine. He looks in serious pain.
"I hurt." He picks up a can of kidney beans, turns it around in his hand and puts it back on the shelf with the side of the label sticking out. That's when I notice he's done the same with a whole row of cans.
"You do hurt," I say.
"That hurt," he says.
"No, hey, I mean, I was just acknowledging your pain," I say. "You wanna talk about it?"
"The world is harsh. People are harsh," he says.
"Yeah. They can be," I say. "My name's Alan."
"Burton. Burton Shine." We shake hands. He starts crying again. A passing shopper stares. I glare at her. "Hey, you've never seen a vampire cry before?" The shopper scuttles away like a crab.
"Alan, what do you think of my garden?"
"Excuse me?"
He indicates his arrangement of kidney bean cans on the shelf. His garden. "Should I grow other varieties?"
"Would you like to grow other varieties?"
"Yes," he says. "Chickpeas will go well with the kidney beans. Especially in the spring." He takes cans of chickpeas from a lower shelf and 'plants' them amongst his 'garden' of kidney bean cans.
"Is there anybody you want me to call? Because..."
"I have nobody. Except for you, Alan. And my garden." Burton goes back to tending his 'garden'.
Excellent. I've picked up a new friend. A depressed vampire.
"You know if you've got stuff to do..." he says. Tears well up in his eyes.
Yes, I have stuff to do. My life. But he looks so vulnerable. How can I abandon him?
"Nothing important really. So...your garden. It's really coming along," I say.
"My garden bores me," he says. "I am feeling a bit peckish."
"Peckish."
"Hungry," he says.
I know what peckish means. I just don't like where this is going.
"Do you think you can get me something to eat?" He says.
"Sure, egg salad sandwich be okay?"
"No."
"Tuna salad?"
"No."
"Chicken salad?"
"Human salad. Minus the salad," he says.
"You want me to get you a human. Can't you get one yourself?"
"I have no energy. I'm depressed," he says. Tears return.
It occurs to me that Burton the vampire might also be Burton the emotional vampire. I have experience with emotional vampires. Having blood drained would be less painful. In order to extricate myself from this situation I will need to be an emotional vampire slayer.
"Burton, look at your garden," I say. We both look at his 'garden' of cans on the shelf. "Would you say your garden is an act of creation?"
He runs his hands across the 'flowers'. "Yes, definitely. An exquisite act of creation."
"Would you say creation requires energy? Positive or negative." I say.
"Um, yes, I guess," he says. The tears have dried up.
"So it took energy for you to create your 'garden'," I say. "Maybe you're not depressed at all."
"What do you mean?" He says.
"Maybe..."
"Maybe?" He says.
"Maybe...you spotted me when I came into the store. Used your vampiric powers to eyeball this chili recipe I had in my hand. Knew I needed kidney beans, and that I wasn't the kind of person who boils kidney beans from scratch, so I would have to go to the canned food section. Saw me pick up a grapefruit that had rolled away from an elderly person and put it back in her cart. Came to the canned kidney bean section and set up your 'garden' before I got here-. See where I'm going with this?"
Burton's mien changes. The colour returns to his cheeks. He looks... embarrassed.
"Alan, you are like a miracle worker. I came here depressed. But after talking with you, I feel energized. Not all people are harsh. Not you. Thank you." He extends his hand. I shake it because...he is one seriously charming vampire. "I will never forget our encounter. I will grow. I will be a better vampire." I almost want to give him a hug. But those incisors... "Take care," he says and leaves.
I feel drained. Quickly touch my neck. Emotionally drained.
THE OCTOBER CRISIS REDUX
"You never listen to me," she says.
"You never listen to me," he says.
"I listen to you," she says.
"I listen to you," he says.
I'm listening to both of them and feel a withering optimism I will survive this subway ride. The thirtysomething couple, GAP stylish, sit across from me on the subway. It's 9:30 p.m. But it feels like 9:35.
"You listen but you don't listen," she says.
"I'm listening."
"But you're not listening."
"I'm listening," he says.
"Okay, what did I just say?" she says.
"That I'm not listening," he says.
"No! That you're not listening," she says.
"I meant listening."
"This isn't gonna work," she says and turns away. He slumps forward, elbows on knees.
"So it's over." he says.
"It's not gonna work," she says.
"So it's over," he says.
"You're not listening, I said it's not gonna work," she says.
"So it's not over," he says.
"Can I be any more clear? It's not gonna work," she says.
"But it's not over," he says.
She looks at him. He looks at her. She looks at him. He looks at her.
This couple has obviously reached the stage in relationship commonly known as Absolute Stalemate. Game Theorists have run millions of simulations on relationships in Absolute Stalemate. Like Mutual Assured Destruction, in the end, nobody wins.
My subway stop is coming up. I should leave. Step away. Not get involved. But this week is the 50th anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis. In October 1962, the world was on the brink. Fifty years later, this couple is on the brink. If we don't learn from history...
I cross the aisle and sit near them. They follow me with their eyes like I'm a flying spore.
"My subway stop is coming up so I really don't have a lot of time. Both of you are in Absolute Stalemate. I understand this." I look at the guy. "You seem to think the relationship is over...Soviet missiles in Cuba." I look at the woman. "You say the relationship isn't going to work...American missiles in Turkey. The solution is simple. You remove your missiles from Cuba. In return, you remove your missiles from Turkey. What do you think?"
They stare at me for a long time, exchange a look, return focus to me. "I don't like Cuba," the guy says. "We were at Varadero Beach last winter and the food was terrible." The woman agrees. "I agree," she says. The guy continues. "Why can't my missiles be in, like, Aruba? My friend Jason says the beaches are awesome."
"Because it wasn't the Aruba Missile Crisis," I say. I look over at the woman whose brow is furrowed. "So? Can you take your missiles out of Turkey?" I look over at the guy. "And can you take your missiles out of Cuba?"
They exchange a look. "Who are you?" she says.
"I ask myself that every morning," I say.
The subway stops. I get off. They continue staring at me as the subway continues into the tunnel.
I wonder if the broccoli in my fridge is still good.
"You never listen to me," he says.
"I listen to you," she says.
"I listen to you," he says.
I'm listening to both of them and feel a withering optimism I will survive this subway ride. The thirtysomething couple, GAP stylish, sit across from me on the subway. It's 9:30 p.m. But it feels like 9:35.
"You listen but you don't listen," she says.
"I'm listening."
"But you're not listening."
"I'm listening," he says.
"Okay, what did I just say?" she says.
"That I'm not listening," he says.
"No! That you're not listening," she says.
"I meant listening."
"This isn't gonna work," she says and turns away. He slumps forward, elbows on knees.
"So it's over." he says.
"It's not gonna work," she says.
"So it's over," he says.
"You're not listening, I said it's not gonna work," she says.
"So it's not over," he says.
"Can I be any more clear? It's not gonna work," she says.
"But it's not over," he says.
She looks at him. He looks at her. She looks at him. He looks at her.
This couple has obviously reached the stage in relationship commonly known as Absolute Stalemate. Game Theorists have run millions of simulations on relationships in Absolute Stalemate. Like Mutual Assured Destruction, in the end, nobody wins.
My subway stop is coming up. I should leave. Step away. Not get involved. But this week is the 50th anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis. In October 1962, the world was on the brink. Fifty years later, this couple is on the brink. If we don't learn from history...
I cross the aisle and sit near them. They follow me with their eyes like I'm a flying spore.
"My subway stop is coming up so I really don't have a lot of time. Both of you are in Absolute Stalemate. I understand this." I look at the guy. "You seem to think the relationship is over...Soviet missiles in Cuba." I look at the woman. "You say the relationship isn't going to work...American missiles in Turkey. The solution is simple. You remove your missiles from Cuba. In return, you remove your missiles from Turkey. What do you think?"
They stare at me for a long time, exchange a look, return focus to me. "I don't like Cuba," the guy says. "We were at Varadero Beach last winter and the food was terrible." The woman agrees. "I agree," she says. The guy continues. "Why can't my missiles be in, like, Aruba? My friend Jason says the beaches are awesome."
"Because it wasn't the Aruba Missile Crisis," I say. I look over at the woman whose brow is furrowed. "So? Can you take your missiles out of Turkey?" I look over at the guy. "And can you take your missiles out of Cuba?"
They exchange a look. "Who are you?" she says.
"I ask myself that every morning," I say.
The subway stops. I get off. They continue staring at me as the subway continues into the tunnel.
I wonder if the broccoli in my fridge is still good.
EMMA, HER VAGINA, AND ME
It's a day not unlike any other. It's a day like no other. It's a day in October.
Late afternoon. I'm seated across from my friend Emma who is seated across from me. At the same table. In the corner. Of Starbucks. She is describing in detail the contours and capabilities of her vagina.
Emma is a beautiful woman with short chestnut hair and a body that could stop wars. And start them. So she can stop them. It seems self-serving to start a war for the purpose of stopping it. It's also industrious. Emma is both. So is her vagina as I am learning.
It was prescient of me to choose the corner table and sit with my back to the rest of the cafe patrons. I'm saying a silent prayer to the god of bladders that I don't need to get up and walk all the way across the cafe to the bathroom. Starbucks policy on walking through the cafe with an erection isn't posted.
Now, I should be in ecstasy as I stare into Emma's deep brown eyes, down to her full slightly parted lips, back up to her deep brown eyes and imagine the geometry of it all.
Instead, my spine tingles with fright. Emma is married to Donald. And, you should know, Donald and Jealousy spoon.
Donald is volatile. A couple summers back at a swanky hotel bar in downtown Toronto, he beat on a guy who looked at Emma wrong and then turned around and beat on another guy who didn't look at Emma at all.
"Emma, does Donald know you're telling me about the contours and capabilities of your vagina?" I say.
"No," Emma says.
"How do you think he'd react if you told him?" I say.
"He'd be furious," she says.
"Okay." I say.
Sit back in my chair. Ponder. Ponder. Arousing images of Emma's vagina are replaced by the opposite of arousing images of Donald beating on me mercilessly.
"Emma, why are you talking about your vagina with me?" I say.
"You're super sensitive. You feel deep. The way you look at me when I talk, with attentiveness and care. I felt you in me, not in that way, but in a soulful way. It turns me on. Nobody else I know can do that." She shifts in her seat. "I'd like to make it a regular thing."
"You mean like once a week regular thing," I say.
"No, more like whenever I call regular thing," she says.
"Uh-huh. So, you want to have an affair without the tearing of the clothes, the rumpling of the bedsheets, the exchanging of the bodily fluids."
"It's not exactly an affair. We're friends. All we're doing is getting together for a coffee and talking," she says.
"So why not tell Donald?"
"He doesn't tell me every time he gets together with his buddies and what they talk about," she says.
"Hmmm."
"I'll pay you," she says.
"Pay me? Don't be crazy. How much?"
"What I pay my therapist. One twenty. And I'll throw in a performance bonus. If I cum you get double," she says.
I felt like I was buying a ShamWow off the TV.
"Oh. If you don't say yes I'll tell Donald you didn't say yes. Remember what happened in that hotel bar?" She says.
"No," I say. She nods with a grin. I take a sip of coffee except the cup misses my mouth and the coffee spills on my crotch. Yet I don't give a shit. Either I give in to Emma's vaginal longings and delay a pounding from her husband. Or I take the pounding now. And delay living. But the money looks good and that performance bonus is a real incentive. If I see her five times a week and say I get the performance bonus three times I can clear almost a thousand bucks.
"Well? 'Cause I have to get going," she says.
"Emma..."
She leans forward.
"I can't do it. Donald's a friend. And I would never do something behind his back. Like I'm sure he wouldn't do something behind mine," I say.
"It's a no-go," Emma speaks into one of her shirt buttons. Moments later, Donald appears. I get up a little dazed, half expecting the beating to commence. Instead Donald smacks me on the arm.
"You passed. Do this to all my buds. See what kind of friend you are. Solid up and down. Told ya Emms."
"I had my doubts. He was up against a powerful force." She looks down at her crotch. "You're telling me," Donald says. "Come on. Lets get lunch. You'll have to come over for dinner soon." Emma gives me a hug. "Ciao."
I'm left standing with a huge wet spot on my crotch. I know who won't be getting a Hannukah card this year.
Late afternoon. I'm seated across from my friend Emma who is seated across from me. At the same table. In the corner. Of Starbucks. She is describing in detail the contours and capabilities of her vagina.
Emma is a beautiful woman with short chestnut hair and a body that could stop wars. And start them. So she can stop them. It seems self-serving to start a war for the purpose of stopping it. It's also industrious. Emma is both. So is her vagina as I am learning.
It was prescient of me to choose the corner table and sit with my back to the rest of the cafe patrons. I'm saying a silent prayer to the god of bladders that I don't need to get up and walk all the way across the cafe to the bathroom. Starbucks policy on walking through the cafe with an erection isn't posted.
Now, I should be in ecstasy as I stare into Emma's deep brown eyes, down to her full slightly parted lips, back up to her deep brown eyes and imagine the geometry of it all.
Instead, my spine tingles with fright. Emma is married to Donald. And, you should know, Donald and Jealousy spoon.
Donald is volatile. A couple summers back at a swanky hotel bar in downtown Toronto, he beat on a guy who looked at Emma wrong and then turned around and beat on another guy who didn't look at Emma at all.
"Emma, does Donald know you're telling me about the contours and capabilities of your vagina?" I say.
"No," Emma says.
"How do you think he'd react if you told him?" I say.
"He'd be furious," she says.
"Okay." I say.
Sit back in my chair. Ponder. Ponder. Arousing images of Emma's vagina are replaced by the opposite of arousing images of Donald beating on me mercilessly.
"Emma, why are you talking about your vagina with me?" I say.
"You're super sensitive. You feel deep. The way you look at me when I talk, with attentiveness and care. I felt you in me, not in that way, but in a soulful way. It turns me on. Nobody else I know can do that." She shifts in her seat. "I'd like to make it a regular thing."
"You mean like once a week regular thing," I say.
"No, more like whenever I call regular thing," she says.
"Uh-huh. So, you want to have an affair without the tearing of the clothes, the rumpling of the bedsheets, the exchanging of the bodily fluids."
"It's not exactly an affair. We're friends. All we're doing is getting together for a coffee and talking," she says.
"So why not tell Donald?"
"He doesn't tell me every time he gets together with his buddies and what they talk about," she says.
"Hmmm."
"I'll pay you," she says.
"Pay me? Don't be crazy. How much?"
"What I pay my therapist. One twenty. And I'll throw in a performance bonus. If I cum you get double," she says.
I felt like I was buying a ShamWow off the TV.
"Oh. If you don't say yes I'll tell Donald you didn't say yes. Remember what happened in that hotel bar?" She says.
"No," I say. She nods with a grin. I take a sip of coffee except the cup misses my mouth and the coffee spills on my crotch. Yet I don't give a shit. Either I give in to Emma's vaginal longings and delay a pounding from her husband. Or I take the pounding now. And delay living. But the money looks good and that performance bonus is a real incentive. If I see her five times a week and say I get the performance bonus three times I can clear almost a thousand bucks.
"Well? 'Cause I have to get going," she says.
"Emma..."
She leans forward.
"I can't do it. Donald's a friend. And I would never do something behind his back. Like I'm sure he wouldn't do something behind mine," I say.
"It's a no-go," Emma speaks into one of her shirt buttons. Moments later, Donald appears. I get up a little dazed, half expecting the beating to commence. Instead Donald smacks me on the arm.
"You passed. Do this to all my buds. See what kind of friend you are. Solid up and down. Told ya Emms."
"I had my doubts. He was up against a powerful force." She looks down at her crotch. "You're telling me," Donald says. "Come on. Lets get lunch. You'll have to come over for dinner soon." Emma gives me a hug. "Ciao."
I'm left standing with a huge wet spot on my crotch. I know who won't be getting a Hannukah card this year.
SCOTT'S BIRTHDAY
Today is my friend Scott's birthday and I feel like vomiting.
Scott is one of my oldest friends who now lives and works in London England. I can't say what he does. But what I can say is. I can't say what he does. It's not that what he does is a secret. It's that if certain people knew, they could cause a lot of trouble for certain other people, who may or may not belong to a vegetable co-op. I have nothing more to say on the matter.
About 20 years ago I was ghost writing the memoirs of a ghost in my building named Carl. The project wasn't going well. We had our creative differences. Carl was ready to walk and give the job to a ghost friend of his in the neighbouring building. I told him you can't have a ghost ghost write a ghost. The two ghosts cancel out and all you'll be left with is the ghost write of nothing. The argument was persuasive enough to get me back on the project.
One night while working on the ghost writing project and doing shots of slivovitz chased by more shots of slivovitz in different glasses, I slid a slice of pepperoni pizza in a white envelope, wrote on the cover Scott's address who at the time was living in Montreal, slapped a stamp on, and dropped the envelope in the mailbox. It was his birthday.
Scott received the gift with surprise and gratitude. (I made up the gratitude part.)
Two weeks later. I'm walking down the hallway to my apartment. As I get closer, a smell so powerful that it felt like someone were shoving two popsicles of frozen death up each of my nostrils, hit me. A brown wrapped box with postage sat on the floor by my door. I recognized Scott's handwriting. A gift in return no doubt. An illustration of our friendship bond.
With my nostrils pinched shut I brought the box into my apartment and dropped it on the table. Thoughtful as it was to send me the gift, it fucking stunk so bad I wanted to toss it, not even look inside. But as my mother used to tell me, when one is offered a gift, open it, because no matter how much it stinks, you can always give it to somebody else.
I stuck a knife in the box, cut, tore open a hole only to discover an eyeball looking up at me accusingly. (I made up the 'accusingly' part.) Eyeballs are usually attached to heads. Heads are usually attached to bodies. Either whatever creature this was had a tiny body or this was a head and only a head. I tore open the rest of the box, my gag reflex having an orgasm. There, in front of me, lay a sheep's head. A decomposing sheep's head. Scott had sent the package on the thursday of a long weekend. A decomposing sheep's head. An illustration of our-. Then I hit the floor.
I feel like vomiting.
Now, on my kitchen table - different apartment - sits a box addressed to Scott, in my hand, returned and marked undelivered. A hole had torn open in transit. I see an eye stare up at me. I know this eye. I placed this eye and head in the box. The smell overwhelms me. I'm wavering, ready to topple, and then...the eye winks. I go down. Happy birthday Scott.
Scott is one of my oldest friends who now lives and works in London England. I can't say what he does. But what I can say is. I can't say what he does. It's not that what he does is a secret. It's that if certain people knew, they could cause a lot of trouble for certain other people, who may or may not belong to a vegetable co-op. I have nothing more to say on the matter.
About 20 years ago I was ghost writing the memoirs of a ghost in my building named Carl. The project wasn't going well. We had our creative differences. Carl was ready to walk and give the job to a ghost friend of his in the neighbouring building. I told him you can't have a ghost ghost write a ghost. The two ghosts cancel out and all you'll be left with is the ghost write of nothing. The argument was persuasive enough to get me back on the project.
One night while working on the ghost writing project and doing shots of slivovitz chased by more shots of slivovitz in different glasses, I slid a slice of pepperoni pizza in a white envelope, wrote on the cover Scott's address who at the time was living in Montreal, slapped a stamp on, and dropped the envelope in the mailbox. It was his birthday.
Scott received the gift with surprise and gratitude. (I made up the gratitude part.)
Two weeks later. I'm walking down the hallway to my apartment. As I get closer, a smell so powerful that it felt like someone were shoving two popsicles of frozen death up each of my nostrils, hit me. A brown wrapped box with postage sat on the floor by my door. I recognized Scott's handwriting. A gift in return no doubt. An illustration of our friendship bond.
With my nostrils pinched shut I brought the box into my apartment and dropped it on the table. Thoughtful as it was to send me the gift, it fucking stunk so bad I wanted to toss it, not even look inside. But as my mother used to tell me, when one is offered a gift, open it, because no matter how much it stinks, you can always give it to somebody else.
I stuck a knife in the box, cut, tore open a hole only to discover an eyeball looking up at me accusingly. (I made up the 'accusingly' part.) Eyeballs are usually attached to heads. Heads are usually attached to bodies. Either whatever creature this was had a tiny body or this was a head and only a head. I tore open the rest of the box, my gag reflex having an orgasm. There, in front of me, lay a sheep's head. A decomposing sheep's head. Scott had sent the package on the thursday of a long weekend. A decomposing sheep's head. An illustration of our-. Then I hit the floor.
I feel like vomiting.
Now, on my kitchen table - different apartment - sits a box addressed to Scott, in my hand, returned and marked undelivered. A hole had torn open in transit. I see an eye stare up at me. I know this eye. I placed this eye and head in the box. The smell overwhelms me. I'm wavering, ready to topple, and then...the eye winks. I go down. Happy birthday Scott.
THE DEBATE
I'm in the wet sauna of a high-end club on a guest pass from my friend David. I've been in long enough so that the steam has seeped into my pores, loosened my body and turned me into a Giant Squid.
The door opens. Two guys step in. One is in his mid 60's, the other in his mid-40's. Both are trim and fit. They look like they tell people what to do more than people tell them. They sit across from each other in poses of relaxation and take no notice they are in the sauna with a Giant Squid. I'm not pointing it out. Because it's a little embarrassing. And, I'm leaking ink from being so chill.
After about five minutes the older guy asks me to put cold water on the thermometer. He wants more heat and steam. Just as I'm about to pour, the younger guy says, "Stop." This is awkward.
The older guy turns to the younger guy, grins with snark, and says, "Can't take it? Squid, pour."
The younger guy says, "Squid. Pour and you're an appetizer." I obey. My mother always told me not to settle for just an appetizer. The younger guy gets up and stares down at the older guy. "Take it? I can take any amount you can give plus, old man." The older guy laughs with lots of teeth and says, "You're on, lightweight." Both call out, "Squid! Pour!"
I splash on water from a bucket to the calls of "More!"
The temperature rises. The steam thickens.
"Watch your heart old man," the young guy says.
"I've got more heart than you'll ever have." He gives out a big laugh which seems to be his signature. "More water!"
"Grrrr," says the young guy, his face and body going red and redder.
"Grrrr," says the older man, his face and body going red and redder.
Then I hear from outside the steam room, "Hey! Steam debate! Check it out." A crowd collects outside the wet steam doors.
"Who's the Squid?"
"Must be the moderator."
The heat and steam continue rising...
"Squid, what's going on?"
"Can't see much except for the older guy's white teeth. He's laughing and dismissing the younger guy with a hand wave. The younger guy is complaining about his boss who sent him to the sauna. And now..." Thud! Thud! "...they're on the ground."
"Which one fell first? The other is the winner."
"The older guy fell first. Young guy wins."
"Not a chance. The young guy fell first. The older guy wins."
This back and forth went on for awhile. None of us could determine the winner. The crowd dispersed. I checked my ink level.
The door opens. Two guys step in. One is in his mid 60's, the other in his mid-40's. Both are trim and fit. They look like they tell people what to do more than people tell them. They sit across from each other in poses of relaxation and take no notice they are in the sauna with a Giant Squid. I'm not pointing it out. Because it's a little embarrassing. And, I'm leaking ink from being so chill.
After about five minutes the older guy asks me to put cold water on the thermometer. He wants more heat and steam. Just as I'm about to pour, the younger guy says, "Stop." This is awkward.
The older guy turns to the younger guy, grins with snark, and says, "Can't take it? Squid, pour."
The younger guy says, "Squid. Pour and you're an appetizer." I obey. My mother always told me not to settle for just an appetizer. The younger guy gets up and stares down at the older guy. "Take it? I can take any amount you can give plus, old man." The older guy laughs with lots of teeth and says, "You're on, lightweight." Both call out, "Squid! Pour!"
I splash on water from a bucket to the calls of "More!"
The temperature rises. The steam thickens.
"Watch your heart old man," the young guy says.
"I've got more heart than you'll ever have." He gives out a big laugh which seems to be his signature. "More water!"
"Grrrr," says the young guy, his face and body going red and redder.
"Grrrr," says the older man, his face and body going red and redder.
Then I hear from outside the steam room, "Hey! Steam debate! Check it out." A crowd collects outside the wet steam doors.
"Who's the Squid?"
"Must be the moderator."
The heat and steam continue rising...
"Squid, what's going on?"
"Can't see much except for the older guy's white teeth. He's laughing and dismissing the younger guy with a hand wave. The younger guy is complaining about his boss who sent him to the sauna. And now..." Thud! Thud! "...they're on the ground."
"Which one fell first? The other is the winner."
"The older guy fell first. Young guy wins."
"Not a chance. The young guy fell first. The older guy wins."
This back and forth went on for awhile. None of us could determine the winner. The crowd dispersed. I checked my ink level.
THANKSGIVING DAY 2012
Polk, my accountant, invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. He has control over my tax return. I agreed to go.
"What time do you want me there?"
"Eleven a.m." he says.
"Eleven. In the morning."
"Yes," he says.
"Eleven is early for dinner. Means I'll have to eat breakfast at 2 a.m., lunch at 7. I won't get any sleep."
"Polk family tradition. New theme. This year."
"Theme?"
"Thanksgiving," he says.
"What was the theme last year?" I say.
"Rise. Of the Dark Knight."
I agree to bring mashed potatoes. Polk thought this was a good idea but wouldn't give me a head count. "Polk, how'll I know how much to make?" I say. "Make the amount. You imagine when you imagine. The amount you make." To understand what Polk just said I would need to fall down a rabbit hole and spend some time with the blue caterpillar. I didn't have the time. "Sure," I say. I made two large bowls of mashed potatoes so each would have the company of the others.
Polk lives at the top of a 4 floor brownstone in a spacious apartment filled with art deco antiques. When I showed up nobody else was there.
"Polk, I hope you have more people coming."
"Yes. Alan. Of. Course." he says.
He had more people. Five more people. The Five Crying Mimes. A mime troupe consisting of five mimes who cry. They were his clients. Polk has many clients in the arts community. He's known for taking on clients who can't afford to submit tax returns. He even helps his clients with loans and meals, sometimes a place to stay. I assumed The Five Crying Mimes were in one of those categories since they looked like they hadn't eaten since last thanksgiving. And they were crying.
Polk introduced me. They cried. One said a mime blessing. They cried. They cried through the appetizers, into the main course, and past dessert.
Then I cried. "Polk, I'm crying."
"Now Alan is. Your time. To give thanks," Polk said.
"What time do you want me there?"
"Eleven a.m." he says.
"Eleven. In the morning."
"Yes," he says.
"Eleven is early for dinner. Means I'll have to eat breakfast at 2 a.m., lunch at 7. I won't get any sleep."
"Polk family tradition. New theme. This year."
"Theme?"
"Thanksgiving," he says.
"What was the theme last year?" I say.
"Rise. Of the Dark Knight."
I agree to bring mashed potatoes. Polk thought this was a good idea but wouldn't give me a head count. "Polk, how'll I know how much to make?" I say. "Make the amount. You imagine when you imagine. The amount you make." To understand what Polk just said I would need to fall down a rabbit hole and spend some time with the blue caterpillar. I didn't have the time. "Sure," I say. I made two large bowls of mashed potatoes so each would have the company of the others.
Polk lives at the top of a 4 floor brownstone in a spacious apartment filled with art deco antiques. When I showed up nobody else was there.
"Polk, I hope you have more people coming."
"Yes. Alan. Of. Course." he says.
He had more people. Five more people. The Five Crying Mimes. A mime troupe consisting of five mimes who cry. They were his clients. Polk has many clients in the arts community. He's known for taking on clients who can't afford to submit tax returns. He even helps his clients with loans and meals, sometimes a place to stay. I assumed The Five Crying Mimes were in one of those categories since they looked like they hadn't eaten since last thanksgiving. And they were crying.
Polk introduced me. They cried. One said a mime blessing. They cried. They cried through the appetizers, into the main course, and past dessert.
Then I cried. "Polk, I'm crying."
"Now Alan is. Your time. To give thanks," Polk said.
MY NEIGHBOUR LORA
This morning, Lora, my neighbour, comes over. She is holding a measuring cup.
"Can I borrow a cup of brisket?" she says.
It happens I have brisket in my freezer leftover from Passover 2011. But it's frozen. Because it's in the freezer.
"Lora, I have brisket but it's frozen. Because it's in the freezer."
"I need unfrozen brisket," she says.
I tell her it'll take a few hours, possibly the entire day to unfreeze the brisket. I don't have a microwave.
"I've got time," she says and sits down at my kitchen table.
I really couldn't have Lora in my apartment for the day. I have work to do and- I don't trust her around knives. Lora writes poems. Her last book was called I Like To Watch the Blood Run Out.
I took the brisket from the freezer and put it on the table beside her cup.
"There's more than a cup. You can have it," I say.
"I only need a cup. I'll wait," she says.
"You sure? Because... I've got stuff to do," I say.
"I'll wait," she says.
"Okay." And I walk away. She needs the brisket. What she needs is to take the brisket and leave. But I don't want to be inhospitable. She wrote a book of poems entitled I Like To Watch the Blood Run Out. There's a knock on my door. I open it to a tall hot looking woman in a business suit. I have no idea who this woman is.
"Yes?"
"Where's Lora?" she says.
"Kitchen. Name?" I say.
"Fuck you." she says.
Charming.
So Fuck You gets in Lora's face and wants to know why Lora was so cold to her last night in bed. I'm doing the math and thinking she is either Lora's 'significant other' or just 'other'. Lora deflects, "I'm waiting on the brisket." That answer does not satisfy Fuck You. She wants to know. Really know. Lora points at the frozen brisket. Fuck You breaks down, cries in deep pain, falls to her knees. "Even when you reject me you're beautiful," Fuck You says. "I love you." And she rests her head on Lora's lap. Lora moves her leg just a bit so that Fuck You's head fits on her thigh.
Not what I expected when I got up this morning. I have no idea what's going on in their relationship but I feel for Fuck You. She's hurt. She loves. Maybe the former is implied in the latter. Is any love 100% hurt free? If I watch this scene much longer I'll start crying. That won't be pretty. Think I'll go into my study. Perhaps they'll leave.
One hour later I come out to discover the two in the exact same position except Lora is now stroking Fuck You's hair. Movement.
"Your hair is like blood running," Lora says. Lora looks at a Kinzu knife on my table. Please don't turn this into a bloody massacre. Please. She turns Fuck You's head so they're eye to eye. They kiss. I'm relieved. They fall on the floor, grope, unbutton, unhook. I reach for my camera phone but... Instead I tap both. I'm thinking they'll probably be more comfortable elsewhere. They get up and leave.
On the kitchen table...the lump of brisket thaws.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)