It's been two months since I moved here and as I look out from my upstairs windows, I can't help but notice the little dust building up in the corner of the pane. It shouldn't be there. I should walk downstairs and grab a paper towel and glass cleaner, but I don't. I don't have the energy anymore.
Outside the neighborhood is desolate. The multi-hundred dollar swing sets lay dormant, but the grass is cut. The BBQ grills all look new. It's the suburban wonderland and it is only missing people. Are all of the kids off to after school programs? I see the occasional jogger in the mornings, but where are they the rest of the time? Are they like me? Do they lock themselves around the TV when they are away from work?
Is there a chance for a man like me to change things for the better? Is there anything more than avoiding the next layoff? I turn back towards my computer. The dust is still in the corner of the window and I think about how I still don't have the energy to clean it. My sadness deepens. If only.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Winter morning
It isn't really the color of the old red sweater that I like. It's faded after all. It feels a little scratchy to me, and it never smells right even after loads of fabric softener. It's the fact that she looks like she's at home in it.
When we go outside in our jackets on cold winter mornings, her bright cheeks match the red of the yarn. That smile under her toboggan hat is wide and covers her entire face. She picks up a snow ball and hurls it at my arms and laughs. I act gruff after being pelted with snow. I run back at her and give her a bear hug. She melts in my hands and the steam from our breaths mingle. This is our time of year. Advent is in full sway, Christmas is quickly approaching and I have the greatest gift ever here in my arms.
I hug a little to deeply and lift her a little to highly. I lose my balance and tumble backwards. My butt hits the ice and she is on top of me laughing hysterically. I laugh too. Not because of our slapstick fall, but because I'm happy.
When we go outside in our jackets on cold winter mornings, her bright cheeks match the red of the yarn. That smile under her toboggan hat is wide and covers her entire face. She picks up a snow ball and hurls it at my arms and laughs. I act gruff after being pelted with snow. I run back at her and give her a bear hug. She melts in my hands and the steam from our breaths mingle. This is our time of year. Advent is in full sway, Christmas is quickly approaching and I have the greatest gift ever here in my arms.
I hug a little to deeply and lift her a little to highly. I lose my balance and tumble backwards. My butt hits the ice and she is on top of me laughing hysterically. I laugh too. Not because of our slapstick fall, but because I'm happy.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
We are all from the island of misfit toys
I picked up my coffee this morning at the Starbucks down the street. The girl taking my money had a perky smile, a little too perky for 6:30AM in my personal opinon, but that's okay. A few strands of hair hung over her left eye with the remainder of blue coloring still visible. It must be nice to be 18 again, I thought to myself. The smell of coffee was warm and soothing I stood there waiting and watching the girl take my plastic and slide it through the machine.
"Bob" she called.
The young man with a faux-hawk mixing chi next to her told her the combination to push on the little credit card machine. As she turned, I saw the bruise. It went from the top of her short to the back of her right knee. I winced. That was one nasty place to get a bruise. Skateboarding, I assumed. It must be hell to sit down. As she turned to hand back the card, I noticed that the socket around her right eye had a considerably fainter but still noticable bruise also. "Oh shit" I said to myself.
I'm not one to stick my head in others people's business, yet I couldn't help but feel for the girl. People have accidents. Sometimes people really do fall down stairs in moments of clumbiness, and the cynical side of me said, "yeah and sometimes women really do run into door knobs". My gut felt queasy and part of my knew, hell part of my hoped that it was just something that could be explained easily. I walked out of the door and to my car. I felt impotent to help. Who was I though? Who was I to ask her about her most intimant secrets. I'm a computer programmer who like mocha lattes. I'm not a shrink or a priest, or even the girl's family.
A week later, she slipped out of my mind and I avoided that Starbucks for reasons that I could no longer remember.
-----
The smell of the place was thick. It smelled of old taverns and the chalk of pool cues. In a way, it was home. These men, theirs names, bodies, and professions changed, but they were the same. They came in, drank, farted, watched football and left a little more stoned than they came in. This wasn't the kind of place that had ladies night on Tuesdays. This is the kind of place where men came to die a little more every week after their paychecks and unemployment checks were cashed. Most had wives at home who would keep them alive for a few years longer. The ones that didn't died quicker. You didn't need a degree in statistics to see that. Their suicide was usually in the form of cheap whiskey while the married men took their time with Old Milwaukee and Budweiser.
They say that they way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I say that the way to the mortuary is through the shot glass.
-----
Smokey turned 50 today.
His hair had been salt and pepper since his early 20's and from then on, he was known by his friends as Smokey. He worked alone in the shed beside the house. The house that he bought with HER. Always HER that's all he thought about most days. It was ramshackled now. Falling apart in places where he should have spent money keeping it up. He wasn't a lazy man and when he was hired to do odds and ends, they would always compliment his work.
"Smokey worked hard and he did things right the first time." they said.
Here he was was standing over his work bench. A piece that he had lovingly crafted for HER. This shed was to be her art studio. The pottery wheel was still there in the corner under old magazines. The shelves now held glass jars with screws, nuts, bolts, and miscellaneous parts. He bent over the bench squashing his considerable gut to get to the 1/2" nut that fell into a little crack. A little crack that should not be there because he should have replaced the top of the work bench years ago. He reached. The bench gave way under his weight and he fell. So did the glass jars. One Miracle Whips Jar in particular jar weighed 15 pounds from the weight of old nuts alone. When it hit him and he never woke up again.
The funeral was small. Only his cousin from Texas and a few people that he did odd jobs for were there. The new young pastor from the church that he attended with HER performed the funeral service. They lowered the casket into the ground next to HER. His savings barely paid for the casket and everything else was paid for with the sale of his land.
We are all from the island of misfit toys.
"Bob" she called.
The young man with a faux-hawk mixing chi next to her told her the combination to push on the little credit card machine. As she turned, I saw the bruise. It went from the top of her short to the back of her right knee. I winced. That was one nasty place to get a bruise. Skateboarding, I assumed. It must be hell to sit down. As she turned to hand back the card, I noticed that the socket around her right eye had a considerably fainter but still noticable bruise also. "Oh shit" I said to myself.
I'm not one to stick my head in others people's business, yet I couldn't help but feel for the girl. People have accidents. Sometimes people really do fall down stairs in moments of clumbiness, and the cynical side of me said, "yeah and sometimes women really do run into door knobs". My gut felt queasy and part of my knew, hell part of my hoped that it was just something that could be explained easily. I walked out of the door and to my car. I felt impotent to help. Who was I though? Who was I to ask her about her most intimant secrets. I'm a computer programmer who like mocha lattes. I'm not a shrink or a priest, or even the girl's family.
A week later, she slipped out of my mind and I avoided that Starbucks for reasons that I could no longer remember.
-----
The smell of the place was thick. It smelled of old taverns and the chalk of pool cues. In a way, it was home. These men, theirs names, bodies, and professions changed, but they were the same. They came in, drank, farted, watched football and left a little more stoned than they came in. This wasn't the kind of place that had ladies night on Tuesdays. This is the kind of place where men came to die a little more every week after their paychecks and unemployment checks were cashed. Most had wives at home who would keep them alive for a few years longer. The ones that didn't died quicker. You didn't need a degree in statistics to see that. Their suicide was usually in the form of cheap whiskey while the married men took their time with Old Milwaukee and Budweiser.
They say that they way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I say that the way to the mortuary is through the shot glass.
-----
Smokey turned 50 today.
His hair had been salt and pepper since his early 20's and from then on, he was known by his friends as Smokey. He worked alone in the shed beside the house. The house that he bought with HER. Always HER that's all he thought about most days. It was ramshackled now. Falling apart in places where he should have spent money keeping it up. He wasn't a lazy man and when he was hired to do odds and ends, they would always compliment his work.
"Smokey worked hard and he did things right the first time." they said.
Here he was was standing over his work bench. A piece that he had lovingly crafted for HER. This shed was to be her art studio. The pottery wheel was still there in the corner under old magazines. The shelves now held glass jars with screws, nuts, bolts, and miscellaneous parts. He bent over the bench squashing his considerable gut to get to the 1/2" nut that fell into a little crack. A little crack that should not be there because he should have replaced the top of the work bench years ago. He reached. The bench gave way under his weight and he fell. So did the glass jars. One Miracle Whips Jar in particular jar weighed 15 pounds from the weight of old nuts alone. When it hit him and he never woke up again.
The funeral was small. Only his cousin from Texas and a few people that he did odd jobs for were there. The new young pastor from the church that he attended with HER performed the funeral service. They lowered the casket into the ground next to HER. His savings barely paid for the casket and everything else was paid for with the sale of his land.
We are all from the island of misfit toys.
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