Still wearing an apron

Confession of a Newly Divorced Woman

At the bottom of the stairs. I used to wait for you. To come down. Head first.

You’re a joy. When you’re fixing the garbage disposal. And your fingers are dripping. With sarcasm.

At the wedding. Your mother wept. Outside. In the parking lot. You’re not supposed to get married. At 3 o’clock. In the morning.

I can take heart ache. Who doesn’t want to find their husband. Jerking off. Over the dishes. Still wearing an apron.

This isn’t a marriage. Its an arrangement. The twins. Aren’t yours. They were adopted. Lets sign the papers. And send them back. UPS. Will guarantee almost anything.

I had more sex. When I was single. Your breath was bad. But not your confidence. I was wrong. And now I have to pay my indulgences. Still. I look out the window. And hope I see you walking. This way.

Walking Around Naked

Purple Grapes

Its so big. All around us. Step ladders up a giraffe’s back. Kindness in the executioner’s swing. Every moment around me. An ambush. Of memory. I’m almost blind with joy. Even toward the banker who buggered me.

A cloud. In Russian trousers. The pink stain. In her white basketball shorts. Those sweet lips. Sucking. On those purple grapes. Walking around naked. Three o’clock in the morning. In the almost empty American rooms.

Rough. Skin. Like drapes. Fade. And sag. Your body is defeated by time. You scream like a child. Just give me one more turn.

It hurts.

It hurts. When you say we’re out of rhythm. And how its all my fault. Devotion is not something I’m particularly comfortable. With. 3 kids together. And I feel broken. All you’ve ever done is tell me. You love me. But what I can’t seem to get used to. That everything is not enough. I look up to you. Hanging from your cross. You look like a movie star. I feel like the thief. Who gave up on you.

Your suicide was a total surprise

Your suicide was a total surprise. To the pizza. Delivery boy. To your psychiatrist. Who kept jumping up and down in his. Easy chair. But you survived. Like your  mother. And your aunt before her. And I loved that appetite. You had for life. Especially the way you ate me. Out. And then you met another. Who made your toes curl. And you told me all the details. About how he was hung. Out with his friends and not you. And I felt like going out and buying a gun. And shoving the barrel. In my mouth.

I don’t want…

The wind in your smile. Is like the look of the trees. When there was a swing. And a boy. And a girl. And your hair was orange. Brighter than the sun’s. And the long grass was weaving. Memories. I don’t want to be reminded of where I’ve been. Don’t want to be reminded of what I’ve seen.

Don’t look back

I saw the scratches on the wall. Chauvet. The work of a prehistoric man. I saw a child draw. A simple box for a house. A circle for a sun. Stick men. With dresses. I saw a madman draw. Stick men. He was an accomplished artist. Who could have drawn a Rubens. He preferred to draw like a child. We see it in old people. In myself. In politicians trying to seduce voters. Looking back to some simpler time. There was no simpler time. I’m in love with Satchel Paige. He once said, ‘Don’t look back. Someone might be catching up on you.”

In the wrong direction

Domestic  violence. You hear so many horror stories. Not serial killers. Or crimes of passion. But just your everyday round. Of slaps. Or curses. Of resentments. That somehow life hasn’t been square. With us. That we have been cheated out of our dream. By her. Or him. Or them. Western culture has been corrupted by the dream. In other parts of the world it is enough to survive. But in the west we have to stand on a pedestal. To receive our crown of laurels. So much of our lives are consumed by our egos. Our vanity. Everyone laughs at the guy whose foot long comb over blows in the wind. In the wrong direction.

………………….

 

TOM PAYNE AND THE HAMMERS.

“Just had an encounter. With the most vicious of women.” Tom Payne’s teeth were bared. Like he was prepared to go for someone’s throat. Dumped his bags on the counter of Tom and Bob’s Hardware. The store was uncomfortably dark. Blinds on the front windows. Shading the store. Like death. Bob had tiny eyes. Kept the lights dimmed when he was working. The glare of sunlight gave him vicious headaches. Like that fool Van Gogh. Tom’s eyes on the other hand were large. He craved sunlight. Sucked it up like a tobacco plant. Had a tanning table built in the apartment they shared. Loved to ski. Both water and snow. Loved tennis. Anything excuse to be in sunlight. And so Bob waited. Knew that the comment about the place being too dark could not be that far down the tunnel. Bob Williams, a large man with thinning hair, looked up from the papers he was hunched over. Like someone’s kite in a thunderstorm.

Tom stood in the middle of the shop. Breathing heavily. Blood gorging his arteries. The shakes like old Jack Benny.

Bob had decided to ignore Tom’s emotional state. Tom was always in a state. Bob called it, problem du jour.

“Do you remember why we ordered so many hammers last spring?” Bob asked.

“I’m not sure she was a woman,” Tom continued, disregarding Bob’s question. “More like a shrew. Some mythological beast. I thought she was going to devour me. Rip into my chest and pull my freakin’ heart out.”

Tom looked at Bob.

Bob looked at Tom.

“The hammers? Do you remember?”

Tom pointed at Bob for a moment as he went over several thoughts in his head. There was that Christmas list. And his paper route as a boy. And the six things you need to be a success in plumbing.

“You thought there was going to be a renovation boom in the area,” Tom finally responded.

“A renovation boom?” Bob asked. “You’re saying it was my fault.”

Tom was looking through his grocery bags.

“I forgot to buy toothpaste,” Tom said. He slapped the counter with his open hand.

“Renovation boom?” Bob cried. “What would I know about a renovation boom?”

“You read it in the Star,” Tom muttered then looked up at Bob. “It wasn’t a fault of anyone. You speculated. It was a mistake in judgement.”

“But it was my judgement that was at fault. That’s what you’re saying.”

Tom bit down on his lip. “Does it matter, Bob? They’re only hammers. I was accosted in the drug store. Attacked. I’m dieing here. Could I get a little attention?”

Bob ground his teeth and nodded.

“I heard you. Some woman looked at you sideways and it upset you. You’re a man, Tom. Go back and beat the shit out of her.”

Tom took a deep breath.

“It was a little more than looking at me sideways. She accused me of stealing her cart. Pronounced it like cot. I wouldn’t do that. The cunt. You of all people know that, Bob. And then her reaction. When I denied stealing it. She was carnivorous. Went straight for my jugular.”

Bob stared at Tom. “Why would she think that you stole her cart?”

“I don’t know,” Tom responded scratching his head. “I found it in an aisle. But there was no one around it. Nothing inside it. It was just there. Abandoned.”

Bob laughed. “You stole it.”

“I did not,” Tom replied. “I’m telling you it was…”

“You get your carts at the front of the store. If you didn’t pick up a cart there then you must assume it was someone else’s. Now can we get back to the hammers?”

“You’re so cavalier,” Tom said.

Bob took a deep breath. “Who was the woman?”

“I’m not sure,” Tom responded. He described the woman to Bob.

“It’s Mrs. Newton,” Bob responded. “The banker’s wife. You don’t want to get her pissed off at us. We owe the bank a lot of money.”

Tom turned and stepped over to the barrel where a pile of hammers were piled. He picked up one. Bob came from behind the counter and grabbed the hammer out of Tom’s hand.

“Give it back,” Tom cried.

“What do you think you’re going to do with that?”

Tom grabbed the hammer back.

“I’m going to the bank to make a deposit in that woman’s pretty blonde head.”

Bob grabbed Tom around the waist. And nestled his lips in Tom’s neck.

“Come on, Tom. Why waste a hammer on that woman? We can find something more pleasant to spend our time. Doing.”

Tom gave in. He stepped away from Bob and handed him the hammer.

“Here. You go whack her.”

Bob took the hammer.

“I’m not going to whack someone because they…” Bob replied.

“Why not?” Tom asked.

“Because you don’t do things like…”

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then.”

“This is ridiculous,” Bob said placing the hammer back with the others. “Tom, get some perspective. We’re on the verge of bankruptcy and you want to do a lobotomy on some woman who was rude to you?”

Tom put his hands on his hips. He took several deep breaths.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Tom cried.

“What’s it?”

“You think.” Tom licked his lips trying to gather his thoughts. “It was my fault. That’s what you think. That we ordered all these hammers. When it was you that ordered them. You think that all of our financial problems are caused by decisions that I made. You forget the mistakes you’ve made. Everything is my fault. Is that the way it is, Bob?”

“Tom, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Do you think I ordered the hammers or not? Come on. Tell me.”

“Okay, Tom, it was you that told me to order them. I was against it. But no, Tom, you always think you’re some kind of friggen market analyst. And this confrontation with Mrs. Newton is only the latest of your social disasters. You invite trouble, Tom. You’re like a walking talking target for problems. A million little problems. You don’t see it. You’re totally oblivious to your friggen handicap. And I’m getting tired of it, Tom. I can’t take it anymore.”

Tom tried to respond, but he could not get the words out of his mouth. He glared at Bob for a minute, turned, and walked out of the shop. Bob hesitated for a moment before racing to the front of the shop. He opened the door. The white flash of the afternoon sun hit him like a stroke. He sheltered his eyes from the glare and quickly looked up and down the plaza. Tom was nowhere to be seen. Bob turned and closed the door behind him. Tom was standing there. Smoking a cigarette. His free hand clenching a hammer.

 

Blissism

There was a look in their eyes. And the smile. And that laid back confidence. ‘Life is beautiful. Man.’ When someone was on drugs and they had that look, we said they were ‘bliss’d-out’. It could have been smoke, acid, hashish. Or any combination. ‘Just go with it’, they would say. I did. It was nice. And then it was boring.

So I’m surfing blogs. And I come across blogs. Religious ones. About Jesus. About giving yourself to God. About filling your mind with nothing but thoughts about God. And you know what these young people sound like. They’re ‘bliss’d-out.’ Am I the only one that notices this? That God has become another drug for people. A way of giving up the pain of being alive. About giving up anguish. And curiosity, doubt, fear and wonder. I see the same thing on religious programming. That wide eyed sense of ‘just going with it’.

This is not the worship of God. It is the worship of the feeling of God’s presence. It is idolatry.

Made him smell them

Everyone loves to laugh at them. So it seems. On television. But not in the supermarket. And not in the local pub. At one point when my hair had grown to the middle of my back my mother was afraid that I was becoming one. Gay. She wanted me see a psychiatrist. I reminded her that Jesus had long hair. Sometimes its not worth winning an argument. One of my best friend’s brother is gay. Funniest guy you’d ever meet. Like Larry David in ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’. He was in a restaurant one time. When he went to the washroom he discovered that there was no toilet paper. Demanded to see the manager. He held his hands up to the manager’s face.  Made him smell them. And demanded to know what he was expected to do now.

This story is just about people in business together. It doesn’t matter if they’re gay or straight. Or any other arrangement. You gotta love anyone who can make you laugh.

………………………………

MOVE OVER DARLING

 

Big Bob bit down. First saw James Garner with Doris Day. Didn’t know what the attraction was. James was better looking. Doris didn’t smoke. But there was always a cigarette. On his lip and looked around. What a sight. The aisle of the drug store. All that product. Moving. As fast as it could be stocked. Maybe it wasn’t James Garner. Could have been Rock Hudson.

“Was this necessary?” Bob asked. Bob looks like Rock. Same overwhelming height. And broad shoulders. Women looked like dwarfs next to him.

Tom Payne was Bob’s friend. He was short. Like Tom Cruise. Who he looked like.

Tom and Rock. Same good looks. In different sizes. Like Macdonald’s.

Tom Payne looked at the pile of paper towels. Stacked like the Alamo. Oh look, there’s Davy Crocket up near the air conditioning. Tom winked. And stretched. Reaching for the top package. But could not. Big Bob took a two step. Put one foot in between two of Tom’s. And grabbed the package. He handed it to Tom who put it in his cart.

“Was that necessary?” Tom asked and shook the long brown hair of his wig. Was there a knot? Was there something he had forgotten. To wear. To do up. To surrender.

“You!” Big Bob tried to explain. “Dressed up like…”

Tom was dressed in a dress. Bob was miffed.

“You don’t mind me dressing up in the apartment.” Tom had his own arguments. Mostly aimed at excusing his behavior. And he was thirsty. Shopping did that to you. More than once Tom had felt on the edge of exhaustion. Should have brought a bottle of… something. Too exhausted to say what.

“That’s different.” Bob retorted. Bob was big on retorts. He’d always wanted to be a lawyer but his grade eleven marks weren’t up to snuff.

Tom looked at Bob for a moment and shook his head. Why can’t he enjoy this moment? Tom turned and grabbed a bottle of dish detergent then gestured to another stack of potato chips. Bob grabbed one, than two, of the packages.

“It’s no different,” Tom dropped the dish soap on top of the potato chips. Sure to crush them. Or make them into chicken feed. Tom checked his list again. “I think we’ve got enough cat food.”

“We should have,” Bob replied. “The cat died last month.”

Tom looked at Bob. His voice breaking. A tear ran down his cheek and slipped into his mouth. Where it hid. For the time being. Later to slide out and run down his chin.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was there to say? Hair Ball was eighteen years old. She had her day.”

Tom took a tissue out of his purse and blew his nose. God, he felt like shit. He missed Hair Ball.

“I would like to have known.”

“You hated the cat,” Bob said.

“No matter. Hair Ball was family.” Tom sniffled. “You don’t have to like family to feel close to them. You don’t understand what it means to be family. Brought up like you were. Almost an orphan. Eating food directly out of tins. Never cleaning pots. Couldn’t your father have learned to cook?”

“What else is on the list?” Bob asked impatiently. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Why do you have to rush me?” Tom shook his head. “You’re always in such a hurry. You miss so much in life if you don’t take time. All things are enjoyed slowly. That’s something else you could blame on your old man. God, did he ever take you to a ball game? A dad should take his son to a ball game.”

Tom didn’t sound like Tom Cruise. More like Tony Randall. And Bob didn’t sound like Rock Hudson. More like Tony Randall.

“This can’t be good for business,” Bob said. And wondered why he had said it. It wasn’t business they were talking about. But the argument still held some water. So Bob was reluctant to give it up.

“You’re always so worried about what other people think. You have to live for yourself, Bob. All the time we’ve been together and you never learned a thing.”

“This is so exhausting. You’re so exhausting. It’s like you’re purposely trying to drain me of my last shred of patience.”

“You’re so afraid of intimacy,” Tom said, sniffling.

“And you’re living on Hallmark cards,” Bob replied. “Our life has come down to a series of melodramas. We’ve become the stereotypical flag raging faggots. It’s too stupid!”

“At least I’ve got my feelings.” Tom wiped his nose. “What happened to you, Bob? So cold. So out of touch with your…”

“Tom, you’re dressed up… in a dress.” Bob shook his head. “People suspect that we’re a gay couple but you don’t have to rub their nose in it. You’re not going to wear that dress in the shop, are you?”

“Of course not,” Tom responded. “I have a lovely pokka-dot item that I thought was more appropriate. And cross-dressing has nothing to do with one’s sexual preferences.”

“God, Tom. Wake up. We’re running a hardware store.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Hardware!” Bob sighed. “Guys come in looking for nails, hammers, screws, don’t want to see you in a dress.”

“You don’t find me attractive?”

“I didn’t say that.” Bob took a deep breath. And looked around the drug store. “Could we have this conversation at home?”

Tom stared at Bob. And then smiled.

Actually Tom sounded just like Doris Day. And Bob like James Garner.

“Oh you little devil,” he said and smacked Bob’s hand coquettishly.

Bob glared at Tom.

“Don’t push this, Tom. I’m begging you not to push this.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Bob. You always overreact.”

“Quit dismissing me!” Bob cried.

Tom laughed and waved his fingers in Bob’s face. Bob turned and before he could stop himself, sent Tom to the floor with one blow.

Bob looked down at Tom who was out cold. His mouth dropped. He dropped to his knees and leaned over to make sure that Tom was breathing. When he discovered that he was still pushing germs out, he lay on the floor beside his friend.

“Move over darling,” he said. And fell asleep.

 

An unsettled age

It’s not an entirely original idea. But it happened to me. I wrote a manuscript. Put it in a drawer. And forgot about it. 30 years later I’m throwing things out. And there it is. The times it was written in were filled with drunkeness and fornication. (More drunkeness than fornication). It was an unsettled age. In my 20s. I had broken up from a long term relationship. And wanted to catch up. Went to a lot of writing workshops. Worked on the streets selling jewellry. Met some interesting folks. These stories are about those folks.

No one was going to tell them what life was about. Or tell them how to party. They were free. And arrogant. And young. It was the 1970s and everyone was lost.

Somewhere in the 1970s.

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