Sailing: An Odd Essay

Etta Dancing

With lights off, watching rain run down the windowpane.

Backlit by the street's one light, liquid gems, like tears.

Etta considered her crime.  A car came up the narrow road, slowly, high-beams on and wipers furious.  It swerved around the big potholes, dodged the big hump in the middle that everyone bottomed out on.  Somebody local.  The car that came to take her away would not come like that.

How long could she wait?  They'd miss her at work, at school.  She'd get calls no everything's fine, I'm just feeling a little...under the weather, be back soon's I can, won't be long now, thank you.  She dreamed up the commonplace excuses and believed them, a little bit, they were so simple, and true, she wasn't feeling well, how could she be?

"Ha!"

She laughed out loud at that, in the dark room.  The rain ran down the window as it always had.  Why shouldn't she believe those excuses?

But oh right, the body.

Time to clean it up.

Maybe she could endure a long time, if she did well, cleaned up well.  Hide on in the house a good week, dwindle hungrily into a second.  If he hadn't delivered his final notice than how could they make her leave?

There it was in the kitchen, downstairs.  Slumped over, pinned to the dark, wooden post with the long, narrow sword her brother had bought at the renaissance fair years ago - not a toy but surprisingly sharp, strong, surprisingly real.  Her brother saved all year to buy that stupid thing, and when he brought it home was their mother pissed!  How dare they sell you something like this?  How dare you buy it? 

Out into the woodshed the sword went, forbidden.  As if that meant anything.  Maybe it did.  It was out of his room.  It wasn't mounted on the wall.  It was something he could only play with surreptitiously, between the end of school and the end of mother's work.  Not thrown out.  Pretend hidden. 

And now it pinned a man through the chest to the age-blackened support beam in the kitchen.

"This is real post-and-beam, honey, built when that meant something.  Back when they didn't have nails or two-by-fours.  Do you realize how old this house is?"  Mouth open, reverence in her eyes.

"Yes, mom."

"Almost 300 years.  It's older than this country, for chrissakes."

"It's cold in here."

"A little drafty.  We'll have to blow in insulation."

"As long as I don't have to do anything."

A hand on her shoulder, practiced obliviousness to sass.  "Your father is going to love this one.  Your brother too, huh?  This has his Dungeons and Dragons written all over it, huh?"  The planks on the ceiling were almost a meter wide, and formed the floor of second story.  When the wood shrank in the winter you could peek between them, spy on your parents, downstairs.  Everyone heard everything in that house.  Nobody had any secrets.  Except maybe the house, which had heard, Etta thought, an awful lot in 300 years.

"I'm afraid we've sent you several notices.  We've hand-delivered the necessary paperwork.  You need to be out by the end of the week."

It was a crazy idea, she knew.  Sharp things, delicate things don't kill people.  Not anymore.  It's never something you expect can kill that kills.  It's blunt things, trees, velocity, tumors, you have to crush someone to kill them, rain on the street can do it, a tumor, or a document from the tax office, slide sideways off rural route nine or step into the cold rain, the wet slick streets.

It was a crazy idea and therefore a safe one.  He'd crush her with that document and that sorry look in his eyes, and nothing slender, delicate, or sharp could stop it, so she could try, couldn't she?  Because she wasn't serious? 

Nothing she did ever was serious.  Ballet class to a lap dance to a degree program in nursing, well over her head, still she was dancing, abandoned at the conservatory on a rainy day, where was her father? She and her brother were going to see mom today, but now visiting hours were almost over.  DAMN! she hated that helpless feeling, trapped.  DAMN! how dare they forget her?  But that DAMN! DAMN! she learned to stop that, it was too quick, too sudden, that anger didn't work in a world where you could only kill demons by crushing them.

"Wait here a second, then.  There's something I want to show you."

"There's nothing I can do.  Really, I have to - "

"Just.  Just one minute.  Please?  Make yourself a drink.  There's - there's some scotch there, by the sink."

Why did he wait?  Because he felt sorry for her?  Because she was a girl?  Because she was a dancer and she gave him a look that with a smile would have made two more bucks on a Friday night stage, but with tears in a retreating home, could paralyze a man with remorse?

In her brother's room, mounted on the wall, opposite the bed where he could have watched it as he fell asleep.  The blade cut her thumb as she took it down.  How dare they sell him something like this, this sharp, to a freakin' kid?

She'd run up the stairs two at a time but she came down slower.  He, in the corner of the kitchen opposite the stairs, empty hands, document delivered, playing with his fingers, pudgy little moist things that would crush you if you let them, and she would let them.  She just had to pretend some strength and grace, for a minute.  That she could dance.  That it mattered.

Dismissive, incredulous:  "That's what you wanted to show me?"

"My brother's."  DAMN!  "He saved all year - "  DAMN!  A memory of that anger, a finger run along a scar. 

"You're crazy.  I'm leaving.  See you in a wee--"

Step, turn, thrust.  A turn on an invisible pole, a pirouette.  No sound, of course, except the dull thud of iron sinking into wood.  The front of suit jacket darkened and he gazed at her with his mouth open.  Like a customer, except that his mouth flooded with blood.

Somewhere in the house, her mother told her, "Etta, that is so inappropriate."

Oblivious at Newbury Comics

Keeping a diary - of the old pen and leather-bound paper sort, the sort a schoolgirl would cover with stickers and lock with a key (although mine has neither lock nor stickers, and I'm not a schoolgirl, although I often felt I might have been happier as one so long as I could have kept my penis) - has made me realize that any life can make a story so long as you find the right notes in the rote repetition of days and the dusty accumulation of pages, and pound those notes hard enough to bring them out. My diary is big enough to hold a season before getting worn and floppy and set aside for something newer, crisper, blanker. It's small enough to fit in my back pocket. This is the most comfortable place for it. The back pocket has always been vulnerable to thieves, so it's better to leave the wallet resting unconventionally but securely towards the front of my trousers and leave the back pocket for words. If a pickpocket was to steal the diary, I'd be more saddened than inconvenienced (which is worse?). Maybe a thief would enjoy this chunk of my life. Or maybe my revenge would come from boring him.

Anyway, the story of this season is this:

Zoe Radio turned me on to a couple of bands I wanted to check out. As I passed a Newbury Comics I decided to indulge myself and buy some CDs. I rationalized the purchase with a promise not to buy any wine or whiskey for the next two weeks.  Money is tight, and I drink too much anyways.

It was a cloudy, colorless evening going to dark. In a week, the change of the clocks would have made it full daylight. I felt hurried and furtive. I always feel guilty buying unnecessary things. And I had to shop fast. If I took too long getting home, my wife would worry, and I would feel badly for causing her pain. On the other hand, there was a thrill from the break in the routine (however slight) and the knowledge that I could pull off the highway any time I wanted to, even if I never did.

I went inside and found the music I was looking for. I selected CDs from each band by judging the cover-art and then headed to the register.

The girl behind the counter didn't look at me as I approached. She was straightening a display of novelties. Bobble-head dolls, maybe. I can't remember. Something cheap, forgettable, and fragrant with rubber and plastic. Short, the girl had short black hair plastered down over her forehead that curled in at the temples. She wore a black and white striped tee and jeans that rode low. She was a little heavy for her height but dressed like she wasn't. She seemed naturally inclined to an angry pout, and two rings in her lower lip pulled it further out. The word 'SARAH' was tattooed on her forearm in army-green block letters. The tattoo had the color and simplicity of a prison tattoo, although its color had not run like one.

I realized she was beautiful despite all of the shit on, around, and through her. And whenever I see women in these circumstances I desperately and secretly hope that they are happy.

She said, because she had to, 'Did you find everything you were looking for?'

'Yes,' I said, 'Thanks.'

She scooped up the disks, exposing again the 'SARAH' on the tender inside of her forearm. 'These are both really good,' she said. 'These guys just played in Boston. Did you see them?'

This surprised me. Her angry pout did not look like it left room for casual conversation.

'No, but I would like to,' I said. This was a lie. I never go to shows.

'Yeah, the show was all done up like a play - it had backdrops, actors, and everything. Half of it was in Japanese, so nobody understood anything, but it was still awesome to see.'

'Well,' I said, realizing it was true, 'I guess I really <em>would</em> like to see that.'

'I couldn't go,' she said. 'I had friends going, but had to work late. Couldn't catch a ride.'

'That's too bad,' I said. 'Maybe next time,'

'Yeah, probably.'

She met my eyes for the first time and smiled at me. This transformed her face so completely that I blushed and looked down. I couldn't stare at her tits, as much as they called for attention in that too-small tee-shirt, so I settled on, and followed, the tattoo, as she scanned in the disks.

'Who's Sarah?' I said, entranced.

I assumed, as all honest men do, that a girl with tattoos and piercings is a lesbian; and I imagined, as all straight men would, a SARAH in similar anti-establishment attire, statistically inclined to be a bit taller and thinner, and to have a pierced tongue which she'd be putting to use as she buried her head between chubby yet smooth thighs. Sarah would have this girl's name (whatever it was; she lacked a nametag) on her left shoulder or lower back, someplace easily exposed for the purposes of male fantasy.

But Sarah could also be a sister to this girl, I knew. Or she could be a daughter, though this girl was young. Mistakes like daughters are often followed by tattoos.  Regardless, I hoped that whoever SARAH was, she still made this girl happy. Because she had done, once. Obviously.

'My mother,' said the girl. 'Sarah is my mother's name.'

I said, 'Oh. That's really sweet. My mother has tattoos, too.' This was true, but irrelevant. 'Did your mother get a tattoo with your name on it?'

'No,' she said, 'I just wanted to honor her.'

I felt confused, like neither of us was answering the other's questions. But since she was trapped behind a counter and I was being nosy, I felt uncomfortable pursuing it. So I said, 'Well, it's lovely. I mean, it's a lovely gesture,' and I meant it. 'I hope she appreciated it.'

The girl said, 'Yes, she did.' Then: 'Do you want a bag?'

I passed on the bag.

I enjoyed both the CDs, although the group that performed in Boston, half in Japanese, took me a few listenings to warm up to. Now it's one of my favorites. As it was becoming one of my favorites, my sixth or seventh time through, I remembered the tattoo on the tender flesh on the inside of the clerk's forearm, a tender place overlaying tendons and veins and all sorts of delicate wiring, a place that shouldn't be marred but there it was, branded in harsh block letters, the name SARAH.

And then I realized that this girl didn't have a mother anymore, and that Sarah had died.

I haven't gone back to that Newbury Comics again. I mean, what could I say?

Quick Review of Silent Hill

Fans of the Silent Hill games, like I am, will be well advised to check out the movie.  While I've never been a fan of the horror genre, those games got into my head and entertained me in a way that I was surprised and delighted by, and the film captures their spirit in its music, its grating sounds, its fog and darkness and restricted vistas, its filth ridden corridors and sense of irrevocable decay.  It throws out some obvious references to the games: the sign as you enter the town, monsters lifted out whole-cloth, the maps you have to memorize.  When the mother approaches the city and her radio starts hissing with that static that, in the game, means something awful is nearby and you had better ready your cleaver or your pistol, I felt like I was coming home to something both familiar and terrible.  Meanwhile, it was its own story, and one that I was happy to sit back, without a controller, and enjoy.

Be ready for lots of gore, of the sort that's over the top enough to be more fun than scary.  I feel like they crossed a couple of lines in this movie, but did what they had to do to get their share of shock from a jaded audience.  (This from someone who has watched few horror movies.)  I like the subtler terrors, too.  In the very beginning, the mother, Sharon, is desperately searching for her daughter who has run off into the woods in her sleep.  She has to run beneath a highway overpass, and the trucks rumbling and clanging overhead sound like hammers striking in the smiths of hell, and she can't help but stop, overwhelmed by the menace in that everyday, necessary sound. 

Two more big plusses, for me: 

Religious zealots getting their cumappance, and then some. 

And an ending (without giving too much away, here) that was ambiguous and challenging.  Thank you, Konami, for remembering that stories (and games) can be literal and metaphorical at the same time, and that a couple people in your audience still like thinkin' bout stuff.

Prom Night Revisited

As I said the other day, there's definitely something special about big black sedans.

Now mine is over-run with wicked hott ladies.

Why Am I Awake?

This hasn't happened in a couple of weeks: I'm up at 4 A.M., head buzzing and spinning with an endless stream of irrelevancies.

There's the usual worries in there. For example, am I going to have enough after the mortgage payments to fix the leaky toilet and pick up that digital camera I've been craving?

I run the numbers and feel disappointed, so I run them again and again, wishing I had a simple spreadsheet program in my skull to double-check. That would be cool, some kind of mental-implant computing. But then the IRS could audit you by literally scanning your head.

But what other pressing issues are buzzing around my rattle-trap skull, nowabouts?

I can’t believe the crap they’re making the kids on American Idol sing. It’s supposed to be a pop music competition. Simon criticized that hard rockin’ guy, whatsisname, for singing something from Creed, but then they have an episode devoted to Queen? And a country-western episode? You totally lost me when you brought out that drunken fuck Kenny Rogers.

Is Sarah Lane really leaving Attack of the Show? And marrying that dishrag Brendan Moran? Her weblog claims that this is serious news, despite the April 1 posting date. But isn't that what you would say if you were pulling a prank on April 1?

I should write my nephew in California. He would know.

I wonder if my nephew is on Myspace. I should look him up.

My niece is probably on Myspace. I can't believe she's 18 already. And she was prom queen.

That Andy Milonakis is hilarious. I wonder how many writers put together his show?  (And who came up with, time to check the milo-clockis?)  Is he really the same age as me?

I've really stalled in the middle of this short story I've been writing. Why can't I ever finish anything? Is it because I’m spending too much time hanging around on Myspace? Or because I’m spending too much time watching American Idol?

Is it really my destiny to bring down the Roman Catholic Church? Should I take on the Greek Orthodox while I’m at it?

Hey, one more express lunch at that Chinese place and the next one is free. Did I remember to put that stamp-card back in my wallet?

I'm going to be really tired tomorrow.

The Fleet

I'm becoming a fan of cars.  This is strange.  Before this year I couldn't give a damn about them.  And I guess this is still true, for cars in general.  I don't really care about cars.  I just really, really like the cars we have. 

You can understand how pleasant this is for me.  It's like being married to the perfect woman and knowing that you don't want anything different.  This is, incidentally, another of the joys in my life.  In fact, it's due to my wife's diligence and stubbornness that we ended up with two perfect vehicles.  While I, in my impatience and disregard for automobiling, would have just gone to a dealer and picked up some cheap Korean car, as reliable as it was tacky and underpowered, Donna dragged me up and down the state until we found cars that are worthy of us. 

I've named the Beamer Paris, since it's smaller, feisty, and perky.  Since we got the rotors planed and the muffler welded, it handles like a sporty coupe, zipping aong at 90 and begging for more.  This is surprising, since she's actually a rather beefy 4-door sedan. 

The Merc, Mandisa, is bigger: long, elegant, and powerful.  She can belt it out when necessary but the rest of the time she glides along, smooth, silent and uncomplaining.  She's got more leg-room than our house, and there's enough room in that trunk to stash a couple of bodies. 

(This is the first year we've followed American Idol, by the way.  In case you haven't, just know that Mandisa and Paris are both black, powerful, and capable, in their own ways.  And if it's wrong for me to name my black cars after black women I like, well then, I don't want to be right.)

There's something very adult, mature, and sexy about sedans--especially black sedans.  They're not so popular these days, which is a shame.  Most of today's cars look more like sneakers or toys than automobiles: childish jokes on wheels.  Maybe that's why I never gave a damn about them.  Who wants to go through Drivers' Education, take a road test, and then spend scads of money just to tool around in a rubber-coated Element?  Who really wants to drive a minivan?  SUVs and Pickup Trucks?  Come on, you can shine it up all you want, macho-man.  It's still a big ugly box for dragging a bunch of shit around that nobody wants.  Why is it people always call you up when they need something hauled to the dump?  I'd rather be seen on a bicycle, with a dorky yellow helmet and my pantleg tucked into my sock.  I'd save a lot of money.

Speaking of which, we don't have a lot of money.  So how do we afford to partake of the fine German royalty of transport?  A peek at Mandisa's odometer offers a clue:

Paris has even more miles under her belt, but since her digital LED odometer isn't quite as hot, I'll spare her the same picture.  Paris is 14 years old and Mandisa 15.  Another year and she'll be able to drive herself.  Granted, they both need the occasional repair, and German parts aren't cheap.  But by keeping up on the routine maintenance, shopping around for services, and cultivating a support network of specialized and generalized mechanics, it's easy to keep costs down.  Both cars typically need some work every couple of months, but the repairs run a lot less than car payments.

Mandisa cost us $2700, and then $450 for new front brake pads and rotors, and now she's good as new, and best of all--paid for. 

We've had Paris longer.  She cost $1000, then $1200 for a good going over, and another $210 for more recent work.  The heater fan squeaks, the gas tank leaks if you top it off, she burns a quart of oil every two weeks, and the radio doesn't work.  None of these problems are insurmountable (turn the fan to a setting that doesn't squeak, don't top off the tank, keep a bottle of oil in the trunk, and plug a boom-box into the cigarette lighter).  And, c'mon, $2410?  That's less then three lease payments on a new 5 series. 

With cars like this out there, why does anybody buy new?  Oh well, like I say on liver and onions night, all the more for me.  It helps that I like old things.

So: two hot cars, half a million miles, just $5560.  What do we do with all the money we save on car payments? 

Four words: Premium $2.89 a gallon.

On Leaving A Party

Stepping from the final train, we wonder
If it wasn't a mistake, leaving, not
Staying the night.  Now it's raining, and yes,
Our solitary work still beckons, and our privacy,
But in the rain we wonder--yes--just what
Apartment walls keep in when rain's outside
And trains no longer run.
                           These breaks, regrets--
We regret everything, it's a habit like
Skipping steps or touching your nose when
You lie, and if there's one thing I could change
About us it would be this, the regretting
(And that's all I would change)--they hit when there's
No going back, and what in simple passage
Of an evening seemed an easy choice, then
Strikes with irrevocability.

Things got crazy back there.  Heat and smoke
And wine, and jazz just good enough to stay
Behind our conversation.  Even other
Married friends were flirting.  We never threw
Such parties.  Not our scene, I guess, but done
Like that, well, now I wonder what we missed.
That painter had his eyes on you, and I
Did not mind, in my orbit of an actress
Who found (and who knows why, but I would guess
It was the unfamiliarity)
Some romance in my age, investments, double
Mortgages and, maybe, beard?  Some guests
Had taken bedrooms, and some others used
The couch, two, three, and four, and surely I
Can be forgiven if I feigned a clumsy
Inebriated stumble through a door
To see a writhing bed and wrappers on
The floor, and smell the musk and sweat and semen.
Expecting screams.  The room forgave with laughter,
Invitations.  How could it not? 
     Our coats were there.

We cross the park and walk six well-worn blocks
And halfway home I take your rain soaked hand.
Routine is what it is, things are the same,
The same nine steps up to our door, the same
Old dogs to greet us.  But, without a night
Like this we might not realize how comfortable
We are, and just how much we have to lose.

To The End Of Winter

At the ocean in winter men
	See the thinness of it all;
	Cold reminds them that
Snow--on all worlds that have snow--
Will look like this--But the rest--
The trees dormant and clinging--Branches
	Etched defiantly into space,
	Bending, swaying because they must--
	The rest could be anything, and so could they.
Waters ride their proscribed surge:
	Four feet or six (they ask the moon)
	And man sees how thin is four feet,
	The shore that spawned us all,
Between rock and space, some dirt, some air,
A tissue of complexity.

Heat beefs up the shore, grants a haze
	Of contentment and growth, disguises
	The thinness of it all with days
	Of warm and plenty.

Few come here in Winter,
Which reminds the walkers that do
That maybe they'd rather forget.
	There's a reason these are marketed
	As summer homes. Roughing it is hard to sell
	In rougher times. Sea breezes also carry
	All your heat away.