A Story About A Promise to Myself (And The Subsequent Failure)

The plastic shopping bag hits the kitchen table and the contents spill out. I unwrap the new pad of paper and start.

Get a Good Job. One the makes you feel fulfilled. One where you have autonomy. One that challenges you. One where you get to try new things. One where you get paid a living wage. One that praises you for a job well done. One where you get along with your co-workers. One where you respect your boss. One where you clock-in in the morning and clock out at night. One where you work in a building with amply parking, access to public transit, and plenty of bike racks. One where your commute it only ten minute. One where there is a healthy tasty inexpensive place to eat lunch that changes up the menu, but always keeps that go-to item. One where your work makes the world a better place. One where you help people.

I regard what I’ve made for a moment and then dive back in.

In return, you will be thoughtful with the kinds of things you buy. You will make less trash. You will keep a compost. You will keep a vegetable garden you will share with your neighbors. You will stay involved with local politics. You will keep in touch with family and friends. You will make new friends. You will stay involved in current culture. You will invest in local culture and businesses. You will volunteer. You love your family and take care of them and let them take care of you. You will keep yourself healthy. You will set a good example. You will teach others.

No one else is home yet, so I write one more sentence.

And it will be good.

I cross it out and try again.

A Story About Words

She felt the crumpled piece of paper in her pocket. She took it out, unfolded it, looked it over, and then, not really reading it, hastily refolded it and smashed it back into her pocket. This was the fourth year Julia had attended the Language Science Symposium and Awards. Now, on day three of a three day event and hour four of a three hour ceremony, she sipped her fifth watery gin and tonic. Despite her best efforts she couldn’t drink enough to stop her nerves from ringing. Only a handful of categories remained and Julia crossed her ankles under her chair and attempted to re-read her speech again.

Julia had been nominated twice before, but in the minor categories, for her investigation of interjections in Application culture and again for the Americanization of the gerund. For the latter, she actually won and stumbled up on the stage at the beginning of the ceremony. In the lights she couldn’t make out faces. Her words came out like giggles. She exited quickly as she arrived. The rest of that year’s ceremony Julia felt nauseous with combination of residual adrenaline and mortification.

This year her rumination on the use of pronouns in the face of gender politics had created quite a stir, earning her a nod for the top prize. Her first though on taking the table with her colleges at Word magazine, was that she hoped she lost.

A Story About Shame

This is what she wrote on the note to me: Be my friend at arms length. Like someone holding a hedgehog that doesn’t particularly like hedgehogs, but not so much that they wouldn’t hold one out in front of themselves. And there you’ll be with your hedgehog legs dangling in the air, looking at me like, where are we going with this? That’s as close as we ever need to be.

A few weeks later I got another: You keep trying to tell me your secrets. That’s too much responsibility. You can tell me things that not a lot of people know, but I don’t want to hear things you’ve never told anyone. Those things are private. We keep them inside for a reason. They are embarrassing. Like suppose those stories people heard from a friend of a friend about a cousin were true, like the one with the hot dog or the one with the peanut butter. If something like that happened to you, or you did those things, I’d rather not know. I have my own closet of shame. And it’s full. I don’t have any room for your stuff. So if you want to go to the park or play some sort of game that’s cool, but we aren’t just going to hang out in my room and talk. It’s too dangerous.

Eventually I wrote back: Perhaps I shouldn’t have showed your notes to my older sister, but I didn’t know how everyone in the school would react. Is it true you have to have a conference with your parents? Wasn’t it weird how they took the guinea pig out of our homeroom – they aren’t anything like hedgehogs. I know you liked that guinea pig. What was that name you called him?

Later that day there was another note crammed into the bottom of my locker. I waited until I was two blocks from school to read it.

XX. A Few First Lines that Aren’t Anything

He was known for backgammon and his checkered past.

Heloise knew what they meant, so opened her mouth to say something, but when the girl behind the counter looked her way, she decided against it - Better to let them guess.

The dalliance between the squirrel and the dog had ended.

Robin dangles two bunches.

What does it feel like to be a turtle upside down in the road? You probably wish you had paid more attention in Wobble Recovery Class.

Pleasant Valley was nice. That’s what everyone says. And who are we not to believe them?

The hatbox stuck in the side of the river, the bottom slowly overcoming to the wet want of the water.

Caroline ate a picnic she prepared for the whole family. Never let anything go to waste. That was her father’s motto.

Normally when I paint, we just throw tarps over everything. But here the room was as white as my coveralls, except for the strawberries.

Two days after I flew into Idaho Falls the trouble started.

When Chelsea went for her hat, she found three baby birds living inside.

The clothes lay about the floor, drinking Mai Tais and talking about where they might vacation next.

A Story About the Tricycle*

Baby’s acquired a tricycle and she rides it at night when I’m slumbering but it’s okay I’m not authentically dreaming or anything, because the only way I can make sleep is by running up and down the stairs until my heart beats in my head and I just conk, because otherwise I’d be cerebrating all sorts of things and this ceases that thinking and ceases any dreams because I’m too deep in it, so I don’t mind the wheels on tiled floors in the cold dead night, even thought the rest of the family repines I’m fine with it, and I kind of like kenning that she’s out there, that she has climbed out of her crib and is playing with all of her toys because she doesn’t like to slumber at night and then mom and dad repine that she slumbers all day, which she does and how it isn’t right and Marjorie verbalizes she’s a vampire, because “optically canvass her sharp teeth” and “if she bites us we’ll all become vampires” and mom verbalizes that “babies can’t become vampires, don’t be silly,” but Marjorie doesn’t cerebrate it’s silly at all, not one bit.

A Story About The Floor Show Mentioned in The First Sentence

The Floor Show was finished at Five and we were in his car by Six. The parking garage attendant charged us nine dollars. Ira paid in cash. He had to do his own navigating because I was in charge of inventory. It had been too chaotic during the day to keep track of much, which made me itchy.

Ira looked back at me. I have no idea where I am going, he says. Could I wait until we got back to our apartment to count? What did it matter if we got lost, we’d have to stop for Ira to piss in ten minutes. That’s what happens when you drink six Mountain Dews to keep moving. And you have to keep vigil while sweaty teenagers and former teenagers paw over your handcrafted figurines.

Ira thinks we shouldn’t stop, but I don’t think that’s possible for him. It’s not safe, he says. We came in with a pile of these things, but after they sold like this they are suddenly valuable.

A Story About Bones

Sheila had six toes on one foot. A little thing like that can alter the river of childhood. And what was it? An extra bit of skeleton? Seems like that could come in handy. For balance. But that’s not how Sheila thought.

When her family went to the beach she dressed like a Quaker. Her whole closet only contained the most sensible of shoes. While her sisters lived for summer days running barefoot while popsicles melted down their wrists, Sheila parked herself under umbrellas. She would have spent her time in Libraries had she any interest in reading, but the books made her feel even more clumsy. Instead she spent her time spinning stories in her head. She might see a stranger in the grocery store parking lot and in a instant she had invented a life story that was much more clever than the real thing. It should be no surprise to most of you, that an absent minded hobby can turn into an obsession which can turn into a gift.

After a failed attempt at community college, Sheila roomed with a waitress whose nametag said Debbie. The ad had read, WANTED: Quiet Roommate with a fucking sense of humor. Debbie opened the door to this knock-kneed girl in sensible shoes and laughed so loud Sheila ducked. They’ve been best friends ever since.

Waitress Debbie would leave her shift so quickly she wouldn’t even take off her uniform. A beer was cracked and in her hand, before such mundane matters could be considered. Instead she drank and ranted about customers while Sheila looked on from the couch. For someone so mouse like, Sheila was a terrible listener. She spent too much of the time wondering what it would be like to be Debbie with her lecherous manager Josh or Jordon or something.

Debbie had come to the end of her beer and her tirade and plopped onto the saggy sofa.
-You know what I mean?
-Yeah.
Sheila did not.
-So how about it?
-Oh, yeah…I don’t know…
-Oh, come on. I want you to do me.
Sheila didn’t know what to say. She really wished she had been listening.
-That thing you do. Make up stories for people. Make one for me.
-That’s not really…
-Sure it is. You know how much people would give for a new story.

Debbie peeled off her name tag and let gravity take it away.

A Story About Being Bigger

Stop it.
What?
You’re hurting me.
Don’t be a baby.
Get off me.
What are you going to do about it?
You’re hurting me.

She thought she could do this because she was bigger. And she could. What was I going to do about it? My wrists were raw from where she twisted the skin. A rock bruised my back when I fell and now it dug in deeper with her weight on me. I looked into her eyes and they gave me no answers, just a darting wildness. She didn’t know what she would do next and that excited her.

Please.

She had given up on words. Instead she shifted her weight, placing her knees onto my forearms and sitting back on my chest. Her arms were free. She flexed her fingers, curious what they might do next.

I kicked my feet in the air trying to knock her off me, but she held on. I struggled like this for a couple minutes until I was out of breath and my face turned red. She held her hand out like she was going to slap me, but then slowly brought it to my cheek and began to caress me. Her voice cooed in high-pitched voice.

Who’s a fussy baby? Who’s a fussy baby? You are. Yes, You are. There’s no need to be so fussy. Mommy’s here now. No need to cry when Mommy’s here.

I wanted to scream that I wasn’t crying. But it wasn’t true. I’m not sure when hot tears rolled down the sides of my face, but they had. She put her hands on either side of my head. I closed my eyes, and I could feel her pressing down. When I opened them, her face was right over my face, her nose almost touching my nose. Her expression was a language I didn’t know. The moment I turned my head away I knew I had done something wrong. I had shown weakness. She coughed flem into her mouth and spit slowly, so that it seemed to hang from her mouth for a moment before landing on my face.

You’re mine now. I own you.

A Story About Dinner

Five of us met for dinner: Peter and Fat Margie, Little Kevin, Jan and myself.

We came separately, but arrived at the same time. The house was as we remembered, but smaller. As we trundled in Peter reached for the light switch without thinking. His hand landed high, but found it’s mark quickly, and the darkness turned into our childhood home. Or, at least, the front hall.

There was much ado unbundling ourselves from our winter protection. Someone had already turned on the furnace as high as it would go. Meanwhile, the night had been particularly menacing and it appeared that we all had taken extra precaution. Little Kevin had worn three scarves, while Jan doubled up on gloves so the holes wouldn’t align. I had prepared the least and therefore finished first. Peter and Fat Marge had layered themselves with more purpose, sweaters and jackets and shirts that fit so perfectly together they looked to be sold as a set. Peter finished by tucking a pair of sheepskin gloves into the pocket of his wool overcoat. He looked at the rest of us and positively beamed. Well, he said, shall we?

What fun it was to be together and of all places. I lingered behind the group. Each crevice tickled a memory that was just out of reach. If we had grown up with ink on our hands, this place would be covered in our fingerprints. It was all so familiar in a far off sort of way. Jan made jokes that made Margie do her howling laugh. Peter talked to Little Kevin in his serious voice. An ache of joy settled in my chest that felt like longing. I caught up to the group - past the patterned wall paper we used to look at to see if could pick out faces, past the cupboard under the stairs that was a favorite for hide and seek and through the doorway to the dining room where Aunt Betty would call us to supper.

The sight of the room had rendered the revelry to a halt, even Jan stopped her wisecracks. It should have not surprised me that our dining room table remained where it always had, I cannot imagine how it would have fit through the door – It must have been built here. The table held down the floor, while an elaborate chandelier held up the ceiling, lit with too many bulbs to count. Both looked if they had not aged, and were somehow more imposing than I remembered. What stopped us was what lay on the table. Settings had been placed, candles lit, silver spotlessly polished and napkins folded into fans. Wordlessly, we spread around the table. Little Kevin lifted the lid of one of the trays, revealing a fully cooked goose. Margie unveiled roasted vegetables, still steaming. There was freshly cooked rolls, sauces, jellies, season butters, truffled side dishes, and all sorts of exquisitely prepared things I had never seen before.

Kevin turned to Peter, Is this your doing? Peter shook his head. Kevin looked around the room. Not me. Not me either. I counted the place settings. Everyone was thinking the same thing as me, but I said it anyway - There’s room for six.

A Story About Keeping Your Teeth Clean

Erin built model boats out of toothpicks. She played drums in a band called Heavy Mental. No one knew what her day job was, not even her. It had become so boring she stopped paying attention. 

Her last project, a 1/16 scale model of the USS Constitution, had been part of a major museum exhibit. It had to be built in sections that would be able to fit through her apartment door. When assembled it was 19 feet long. Erin had not fully appreciated the public love for this ship known as “Old Ironsides.” She had photographs with it, wearing a sailor outfit. Suddenly she had burst onto the toothpick boat-making scene.

Erin started by accident. On a slow Sunday, she dropped a box of toothpicks and thought she would have to throw them out. Her brain told her she should apply a glue gun. She wasn’t sure what she was making until it turned out to be a row boat. From there it wasn’t hard to graduate to sail boats. Online, she not only found pictures of actual boats, but a whole community of people devoted to tooth-picking arts. Perhaps she continued as a joke she shared with her bandmates. But they became a little ticked when she missed their monthly gig to work on “a particularly difficult tugboat.”

Success is not without challenges. As a follow up, Erin struggled to top herself. She settled on U.S. Arizona. But right now it looked like it had already been bombed by the Japanese.

A Story About the Neighborhood You Don’t Visit Anymore

Breakfast had turned cold. The eggs hadn’t even been touched. The house was empty. It was getting dark and no one had thought to leave a light on. The TV glowed with static. Kathy liked to watch the morning talk shows. Broken dishes littered the floor. The back door was open. Something had made big gashes in the grass. It smelled like dirt after a rain. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. To one side the sun sunk into the trees, while on the other a carving moon hung low to the mountains. Tonight not even the birds moved.

The little lemon house sat on the corner of chestnut and pine. It was built in the 1950 with designs copied from a rival architect firm. The houses in the Peterson Grove subdivision all had one of six layouts, three if you consider that some were just reversed. The trees had been planted at the same time as the houses and had dealt with time much more gracefully. A baby blue number across the street was a mirror twin except for the recently dented garage door. Up above the sky stained purple and the street lights shuddered to life.

A low wind ruffled the curtains in all the open windows. A few leaves gamboled down the street. The ground creaked under it’s own weight - it began with a rumbling.