I saw her laugh

Many years ago. A tall awkward looking girl staggered through the campus with her two friends. They were drunk. She saw me and gave me a kiss. Asked me to call her the next day. And not to forget her. I did not call her. But I never forgot her.

And The Meaning Of The Word Was Lost On The Fire

We need a God. All the great works of art. War – the conquest of one group over another. The sacrifices.  The accumulation of wealth. Valor. Honour. The pledges of love. The waste. Time lost. For everything. If our civilization disappears. As it will. Like so many before it. And everything returns to dust.  We need to feel that someone noticed we were here.

Down on the farm under the apple tree

My grandfather had a farm on Prince Edward Island. It lay in the folds of a small valley. (There are no hills on the island.) There were four girls in my mother’s family with similar laughs. Their laughter was contagious. When one would laugh the other three would join in. Their laughter echoed throughout the vale. It was like music.

A Canadian Diplomat In Paris

I love Paris. Its very romantic. When my wife and I went there, we enjoyed a wonderful meal in a Chinese Restaurant. After the meal my wife began to feel sick. We figured there must have been fish in the meal. She’s allergic to fish. We decided to make our way back to the hotel. It was raining. On the way, she slipped on the cobblestone streets and broke her nose. There was blood all over her face. And she was feeling dizzy. When we got back to the hotel she was in real bad shape. The  clerk at the front desk gave us a suspicious look. I knew what that look was. He thought I had beaten her. I don’t speak French. I couldn’t explain. We spent the rest of that holiday in our hotel room. My wife getting over food poisoning and a possible concussion. Me sitting at the window listening to the sounds of gay Paris.

An Afternoon Amongst The Meadows Of June

I had a vision of God as a kind of workman. Decent, honest. Never overdoes it. But always shows up on time. And never cuts corners. Even if the boss isn’t around which in God’s terms was never. I figure he wakes up about 4:40, just before sunlight, puts a little time on the treadmill (God is concerned about his weight). Then showers. Has a substantial breakfast. (Tries to minimize his intake of butter and bacon.) Dresses in modest but clean clothes. Gives the honey a kiss on her forehead (she is still asleep or doesn’t exist yet) and then he is off. God is workmanlike. He doesn’t have an axe to grind. Isn’t malicious or vengeful. He just does  his job. And maybe he has a partner. To help. And maybe that partner is a guy. We shouldn’t judge God. He might get pissed.

The Private Thoughts of Lonely Girls

Puberty is a terrible time for everyone. There are people who suggest that high school was the best time of their lives. They are either liars or morons. I did meet a girl once who felt as if she had her best time in high school. She was a cheerleader, the girlfriend of the quarterback of the football team. She was pretty… no she was cute. But when she got to college she found all these things meant little. Cute became stale. Ideas became… interesting.  In high school I am sure that I was invisible to her.  Ironically we were both red heads. Red  heads are either interestingly ugly or gorgeous. I was not gorgeous. In college there was a whole new standard for who was cool (what a terrible criteria). To be brief she asked me out. I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I hesitated… And everything sort of hung there for eternity. She went on with the rest of her life (I’m not sure what became of  her) and I went on with my life (I’m not sure what became of me).  And yet, what if I had responded?

I should have rip’d his heart out!

A close friend of mine was having a passionate relationship with a young man. I did not know the young man but I was glad my friend was involved with someone. She had been a lost soul for a long time, estranged from her family, in poor health, and in a large city far from  home. I was one of her lone friends. She met Harvey. (I can’t remember his name.) I’m tempted to say that his name was Glen because he resembled the country singer Glen Campbell (Campbell as a young man.) Bernice called me. I could feel the joy in her voice. Nothing made me so happy as to hear that lovely lilt in her laugh. Harvey and Bernice (I’ll call her Bernice) spent almost every hour with each other. In bed. Finally, after weeks of trying, I got a hold of Bernice. She was a mess. Not suicidal but profoundly sad. I asked what had happened. Harvey had told her that on the next long weekend he was getting married. That’s when Bernice told me that she should have rip’d his heart out. If he had one.

The Woman Who Murdered Her Husband

A friend of mine was collecting poems for an anthology of Canadian verse that he was creating. One of the contributors was a beautiful blond girl. When he showed up at her door to collect her submissions, she answered the door wearing a bikini. My friends eyes lid up. She escorted him to the living room where he took a seat in front of a coffee table. He accepted her offer of a cup a tea and she left the room. He looked around. The place needed some air. There was the smell of cat everywhere. The girl returned and placed a cup of tea in front of him. She took a seat opposite him and then placed a revolver on the coffee table between them. The mood changed.

New Book of Poems

I have epublished a new book of poems, free to read. It is called Trash.

http://trashpoems.wordpress.com/

Darkness (A Tale of Two Cities)

Chapter Seven

Part One

Darkness

1. Marlo

“What exactly do you do for a living, Harry?” Bud leaned over the bar, polishing the dark mahogany surface.

“What?” I was well aware of what Bud had asked, but was hoping that my feigned interest in the ball game on the television might discourage conversation. Bud repeated his question. I looked at Bud and winked. I had to say something to quench his boredom.

“I’m a character in a novel. I don’t need a job.”

“Seriously,” Bud responded. “How can you afford to come in here night after night getting drunk without some visible means of support? Some old lady bankrolling you?’

“I am one of those rich brats who lives in a renovated garage, drive my Benz through streets too deep to fathom, pop the folks into an old age home and live off their pension.”

Bud was still thinking about my response when I asked if he’d seen Mary Richards in the bar again.

“You don’t have to get smart ass with me, Harry. If you don’t want to answer a simple question than just say so.”

“Well,” I muttered, “it’s personal.”

“Ya, okay.” Bud accepted my explanation than spoke in a low voice so that no one could easily overhear us. “They want to interview people in the bar about their life styles?”

“Oh, ya,” I responded.

Bud shook his head and laughed.

“Who are you talking about?” I asked.

“The television people. That bitch you’ve got the hots for.”

“Mary Richards?”

“Ya. Why do you suppose they’d want to do something like that?”

“Why didn’t you ask them?”

Bud shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t think of it. I told Miss Richards that she should talk to Frank. He’s so double jointed he can suck his own joint. Cut’s out the middle man and all those expensive bar bills. She didn’t laugh.”

“Is that why he’s still a bachelor?”

“It was a joke, Harry.”

There was a roar from the crowd in the television. I looked up. Olerud had hit a grand slam. As the tall lanky southpaw rounded the bases I could feel the presence of the fat man. What could the fat man be up to? Trying to manipulate events? Was I losing control? Had I allowed things to become too quiet? I opened up the windows to get in some fresh air in my head. Should I paint the sun to look like a looney? I remembered a collection of stamps in my parent’s attic. They must be worth a small fortune by now. The room began to spin slowly around, in a warped ellipse like a merry-go-round beginning to spin out of control. I felt like the Count of Monte Cristo. Who should I wreak my revenge upon? Maybe I should put a personal ad in the paper — WANTED: VICTIM. The fat man was having his way with this sit-com nonsense. Laugh tracks were playing havoc in my head. Some evenings I woke up angry, biting my lip, grinding my teeth.

“How about those Blue Jays?” Bud cried as he watched the lanky first baseman reached home. “I used to be a Twin’s fan but with the way the Jays are playing…  Are you alright?”

“What?”

“You look awful. Like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m alright. Got to get something in my stomach.”

Before Bud had a chance to respond, Sheila’s roommate, Marlo, sat down on the stool beside me. She smiled. Teeth serrated like a steak knife. Lips the color of dried blood. I turned back to the television. I was hoping that if I ignored Marlo, she might disappear and I could get back to Bud about this interviewing business. Marlo ordered a drink for herself and a beer for me. There were still people talking in the bar. The lights remained dim. Bud kept skimming coins off everyone’s bill. The baseball fans were quiet. The Jays’ manager kept chewing his gum. I was surprised. Marlo had bought me a beer. I couldn’t remember her doing that before.

“Thanks.” My eyes were riveted to the set though my mind was all over the place. There were new diseases rising in Africa. Thousands were dieing. Red cross camps set up everywhere. Relief had become a cottage industry.

“Can I speak to you?” Marlo asked.

Tears began to run down my cheeks, crying for all those orphans in Romania. Why the hell was I getting upset by Romanians? I didn’t give a shit about their children. Marlo had a strange expression on her face. “Just a minute,” I pleaded. “The inning’s almost over.” I hoped the inning would go on forever. I was not up to conversation. Unfortunately the next batter struck out. “They ought to get a catcher who can hit,” I grumbled.

“It’s about Michael,” Marlo began.

“Michael! That mother. Where’s he been keeping himself?”

I had not known Marlo long. So common were Marlo’s looks next to Sheila that one hardly noticed her. But alone, she had a certain appeal. Black as night, Marlo had a small delicate frame, one of those women who look like they might break in a strong wind, but who prove able to draw on a deep well of strength in difficult situations. Marlo was from Buffalo. She had come across the border in the great AIDS scare. Overnight, unexpectedly, people who weren’t even aware that they were ill began to die. Prostitutes became the target for the vigilante mood of the day that blamed them for the spread of the deadly disease. An angry crowd had fallen upon a couple of girls in the Bay Street business section and torn them to pieces. Many of the girls quit the profession while others, especially the more beautiful, lined themselves up with a rich clientele, had themselves medically tested on a regular basis, and stayed off the streets. Marlo had moved in with Sheila.

Marlo was not dressed for business, no tight fitting skirt, or loose fitting blouse, no heavy mascara and eye makeup. Today she was dressed in jeans and a University of Windsor sweatshirt.

“Michael has been ill.”

“Ill?”

“The flu.”

Was it the strain that had come out of Hong Kong? Or was it the strain bred in the Bank of Canada on Bay Street in board meetings where doves were gutted and their entrails read?

I laughed. “Michael has a strong constitution. He’ll be back on his feet in no time. Nothing wrong with his immune system.”

“He’s been staying at our apartment. Sheila’s been nursing him.”

“Lucky guy.”

I took a swallow of beer. There was no taste. Strange images drifted in and out of my thoughts. I wanted to see the naked body of a cigarette floating in urine. I wanted to hear Straus in a concert hall in Vienna. Or tear a rose from a bride flush with tears. My head was being ransacked by images.

“Did you know that Michael has a gun?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” I muttered indifferently, hoping that Marlo would get to the point. It was taking all my energy to focus on her words. Sweat began to roll down my temples. An assortment of soft porno images flew through my head: Leonard Cohen with two blondes in his 57’ Cadillac convertible, an assortment of dead birds in a basket, children skipping in a Chinese grocery store, blood and spit hanging from a diseased cheese burger. I looked at Marlo. She did nothing for me. I wondered where all these images were coming from. “If we could read each other’s minds, we’d all be up on charges.”

“What?” Marlo smiled.

I just wanted a few moments of silent dignity. Time to figure out why the Mona Lisa was smiling. Is it because she realizes men want to sell her? Did I have time to figure out how racism started? And why are so many of our poets working for the police? It was the fat man running these thoughts through my head. I had to shake the fat man off my tail. I smiled at Marlo. Each time she spoke I had vision of anal sex.

“One night,” Marlo continued, “Michael and Sheila started drinking. I warned him that it wasn’t wise to mix liquor and the medication he was on. Michael never listens to anyone. He’s like a kid. Does the opposite, out of spite. They were playing the stereo and dancing. I felt like the outsider, so I excused myself and went to my room to sleep. I was just slipping into a warm dream when I heard Sheila scream. I ran out to the living room. Sheila was on the floor, blood running out of her nose, tears out of her eyes. Michael was standing on the couch, in his shorts, with a gun in his hand. Sweat was pouring off his forehead; his eyes were glazed with a crazed wild look. He was swinging the gun back and forth at some invisible enemy and screaming. Come on, come on up and get me! I’ll take you, you bastards! In his other hand he held a bottle of gin from which he kept drinking. I huddled on the floor with Sheila. Sheila kept whimpering. He’s going to kill me! Her voice was shaken hut resigned. At any moment she was expecting a bullet in the head. I tried to pull her away, but couldn’t budge her. The people upstairs started to bang on their floor screaming at us to quiet down. Michael looked up at the ceiling, like he was the devil looking up into the face of God. Bastard! Always fucking with me! He fired the gun and then collapsed on the couch.

Up to this point I had been listening to Marlo with one ear while keeping my eyes riveted on the television. Milwaukee had a guy on third with one out. The Blue Jays’ manager had just been ejected. All over Sarajero they were hanging children and old men from billboards advertising Camel cigarettes. It reminded me of famous Flemish paintings from the middle ages. With the mention of gunfire, I turned all my attention to Marlo.

“There was a dead silence upstairs.” Marlo took a deep breath. “Not a sound. God, I thought, he’s gone and killed someone. For several minutes, the two of us remained on the floor, paralyzed with fright. We’ve got to get him out of here! I finally spoke. They’ll call the cops! Sheila was shaking, I slapped her. Sheila, I can’t do this alone! Sheila nodded. We dragged and pulled Michael across the floor, out into the hallway, and out the back entrance of the apartment into the alley. We hid him in an empty refrigerator box by the garbage. We returned to the apartment and waited for the police. We had no idea what we were going to tell them. The police never showed up.”

I leaned back in my chair and finished my beer. In the back of the bar where the lights were dim I saw shadows of men tying a girl to the top of a pool table. She was laughing. I shook my head. Fantasies kept creeping into my thoughts. The fat man!

“So what’s the problem?”

“Michael is crazy. He’s going to kill someone. Don’t you care?”

I leaned toward Marlo. “You ain’t worried about Michael.” I winked. “I’ve heard about you and Sheila.” Marlo slapped my face. I slapped her back. My fingers stung. Who could believe that the Rio Grande was so wide?

Tears rushed into Marlo’s eyes. “You’re a jerk, Harry!” She ran out of the bar.

“Haven’t lost your touch with women,” Bud smirked, bringing me another beer. There was a muffled cry from the back of the bar. Someone was pulling the girl’s panties off. I should investigate. “She hit me, Bud!”

“I overheard you, Harry.” Bud shook his head. “You shouldn’t have said that about her and Sheila. She’s sensitive about being called a lesbian.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Damn sensitive for a whore.” I gestured to the back of the bar. “What’s going on back there?”

“What do you mean?” Bud asked.

“The pool table.”

“There ain’t no pool table.”

“The back room!” I cried.

“There ain’t no back room.” Bud leaned over and looked at me. “You ain’t taking that drug that’s out on the street, are you Harry?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bud turned away and moved down the bar to another customer. I turned back to the television but was unable to get back into the game. Raising my beer, I found I couldn’t drink. My thoughts were doing laps in my head. Was Bud really going to swim across the lake? Why were all my bills arriving late? Maybe the fat man was reading my mail. Why were all my chain letters being returned? My heart felt like a sparrow in a prison yard. Wanted to be a kid dancing on American Bandstand in Philadelphia. Had to keep my thoughts bobbing and weaving. I wanted to be gathered in. Harvested. Canned. Put on a shelf with a bright yellow label. Marlo must be exaggerating. Michael wouldn’t hurt Sheila. It didn’t make any sense. Michael was always in control. And even if it was true, what could I do? Does Marlo want me to suggest to Michael that he seek out professional help? Tell him to confess his sins, sins that couldn’t be spoken. Convince him that he might be forgiven. Don’t sentence yourself to silence, Michael. Innocence is guaranteed to those who speak loudly and often. He’d laugh at me. I’m just not good at this personal stuff. Besides, if Michael took an inkling to shoot Sheila, does Marlo expect me to get in the line of fire? I put my life on the line for no one. Jesus, this is the fat man’s work! He’s trying to get me away from Mary. Christ, he’s jealous. He wants her. A jealous motherfucker. The fat man was Lou Grant. Of this, I had become certain. I wanted to call him up and set up a meeting. Got to take control. Can’t let things get out of hand. I should tell Michael about Lou Grant. He would know what to do. Put a contract out on him. My head was spinning. Had to get some fresh air. I got up and staggered toward the door. The girl I’d seen in the back room ran passed me clutching her blouse, the buttons falling off and rolling across the floor.