A Poem For Bryan

I was three miles out
and turning back at the top of the
Back Bay, a Santa Ana blowing
through the canyon hot and dry,
and I saw a woman walking on the
other side of the path
towards me,
she was old, overweight,
she was walking quickly,
leaned forward, her shoulders
hunched over, gravity pulling her
neck towards the earth.
She looked at me and smiled,
beautifully, her face alight, eyes
shining, she raised her hand up
halfway, shyly,
and I looked at her and mouthed
"good morning" as I passed.

Your dad's going to tell you the things
you need to know so that you can protect
yourself as you do the things that are coming.
And that's good, that's right, that's what he's
supposed to do
But what nobody tells you when you're
fourteen years old is this:

Last night I was drinking in an Irish pub
with a beautiful girl, this was the second
time we'd met, we were talking entirely
adult things: careers, our exes, our children,
contact lens stories for chrissakes.
We were sitting at a bar and I turned
slightly towards her and our knees touched
and I wondered whether she'd think this was
forward or accidental. It was getting late and she needed to
relieve her babysitter and I walked her out
towards her car. I was next to her,
I would have tried to take her hand if I had
known which car was hers. We kissed in the
parking lot, me leaning against the door of her
car, she leaning against me.

And why am I telling you this?
Because I'm almost forty years old,
my hair's going grey and getting thinner
on top, I can't seem to sprint 40 yards
without pulling a hamstring,
I've got to get a child raised and figure
out how I'm going to survive the next
year, the next five years, but there
are some feelings you have that
never go away.

The Best Time Of Day For Those With Anxiety Disorder

Midautumn,
the sun is beyond
the horizon
earlier,
low cloud cover
has returned,
it's past 6 in the evening
and I know that
it's too late now
to do the things
I should have done today,
today was another failure
but I can breathe again,
deeply,
until the morning.

My Friend Had A Church Wedding

My friend had a church wedding:
we were late and came in just before it began.
I had brought a girl I was dating, and
we had come with a friend of mine and his wife.
The groom had known us for years, he had
attended both our weddings, only mine
had ended in failure.
We settled in just before
they walked down the aisle
together,
I'd never seen this done in a wedding before
but I wish I did,
no one was giving the bride away,
the bride and the groom were adults
and they were walking down the aisle
together to finish what they had started together.

They had the same smile,
brilliant in the stained glass light.

I thought about the years he'd
watched my friend and I get married,
have children, build lives together,
wondering when his chance would come.
Later he was taking pictures with his new bride
while my friend and his wife and my date and I
were drinking, we were standing at a table as close as
possible to where the waiters were leaving the kitchen
with trays of hors d'oeuvre
and my date and I were telling various comic dating stories
and I warned my friend and his wife:
be good to each other. It's a
jungle out there.

What I didn't tell them was what I didn't tell
my date:
that sometimes you hold onto things
that aren't working
because you don't want to admit that
you're alone.

Relocation

A light in the parking lot
was out and Lovey held onto me,
one arm around my neck,
one hand in his mouth,
sucking his on his last three fingers,
we walked back a narrow sidewalk
between low hedges in the dark,
this is it, I say.
I open the gate, we enter.
I turn on the lights and put him down
and he runs to a 9 inch rubber ball
that I'd left on the floor for him
in the living room, there is no other furniture.
I sit down, cross legged on the floor
as he kicks the ball against the wall,
chasing it to the fireplace, then kicks it towards
the room that will be his,
I turn on the light there and he crawls into
the closet and shuts the door, giggling.
He doesn't know this yet,
but I've failed him.

At Night The Water Comes

At night the water comes in
from the Pacific, hovers in the air
until the temperature drops,
adheres to the grass, the windows,
metal, plastic,
drips down from high places,
collects in low places

Me. I collect it,
pools of it, in my hair,
clothes, eyes
as I wait,
wait for the sun to return and
pull it all back into the air
before I drown in it.

Recognizance

It's still dark when the alarm awakens me,
I had slept with the window open
and the air is cold in my room,
there's not enough time to heat the house
so I shower quickly, dress,
get the paperwork I need from the coffee table
strewn where I left it the night before
next to three empty beer bottles.
I walk outside, down my block,
alongside a freeway that stretches
beneath me.
People are delivering newspapers
around me, milk,
fresh produce to supermarkets,
gasoline, cars collect outside
donut shops, coffee houses
I arrive at my destination,
a man looks at me first through
a video camera, buzzing me through
a metal door, then addresses me
over a metal grated opening in
bulletproof glass.
I give him papers; I have to pay for storage,
and pay for the tow truck, and then pay money
to the city. He types things
on a computer and tells me to wait out front.
Long night? he asks. I don't answer,
I walk out front and wait under the
last of the night sky for a bearded man
to bring me back my car.

Bear Trap

They don't let the planes take off until
seven in the morning.

I sit in front of my house, facing east
through a fog that has just arrived.

I listen to the heavy spinning of turbines
as the planes ascend.

I have been on these flights before; I remember
what it was like to move through space at this hour.

People parade by me, a 737 at a time,
invisible beyond a grey haze.

I am awake now because I haven't slept, I waited
through the night for the planes to return.

Planes are flying, cars moving, people walking
all around me.

I know the world is out there, people are in it,
I just can't seem to get my feet to move.

Kinescope

We were in the park
in Chicago, Illinois,
Autumn, 2000.

My friend had gotten married
at long last,
we were outdoors drinking,
and he came out and joined us,
he had an early digital camera with him
and we cycled through the pictures,
reliving a reception that we had just
walked out of for a cigarette

We did the same thing the next morning;
his father in law had people over for breakfast
and we plugged the camera into the television
and watched the slide show
cycle over and over
reliving priceless memories that were 16 hours old,
"Did you see that? Do you remember when he did that?
Do you remember that toast? That was beautiful!"

For thousands of years music was something
people played,
they sang, built drums, flutes, guitars
then learned these instruments, built songs around them,
took these songs from place to place.
After Gutenberg music became the way you
recreated something someone else had thought of,
after Edison it became the way you listened to
what people had done somewhere, sometime,
in a soundproof room in New York City

The Iliad was spoken around
fires, in caves, under stars
for 400 years before Homer put it on paper

There's no life in these words.
The best I can do on my best day
(and I rarely have them)
is a video capture,
stealing something that was once live,
turning it into magnetic impulses,
zeroes and ones,
then putting my name on it

Statistics tells me that a monkey
with a typewriter can do what I do
given a long enough timeline,
the art is in what you do,
but I'll be watching.

What My Tattoo Means

Today I'm going to lose
50 million skin cells,
100 strands of hair,
9,000 brain neurons,
I'll take 17,000 breaths
and have 100,000 heartbeats

I'll smoke 25 cigarettes
and drink 15 beers
and eat a half bowl of cereal
with the small splash of milk
left in my refrigerator

Hank would be proud,
at the typer, Heineken open on the table,
Stravinsky on the AM radio,
girls out buying him another bottle,
but Hank's dead, you're out of beer,
there are no girls and the words aren't coming
So get off the fucking couch.

Chemistry

It seems much more complicated
than it really is
because people over intellectualize it,
they use strange terms like
valence bond theory,
or molecular orbital theory,
Schrodinger's Wave Equation

Forget it all.

Forget Linus Pauling,
Eigenfunctions,
the Electroweak Force
and just remember this:
that the covalent bond
is nothing more than the nucleus
of me and the nucleus of you
turning to each other
joining our hands together
and sharing some of our energy.

Not To, You Know, Sound Bitter Or Anything

The sun was setting behind the head
of a pretty girl who was in the process
of telling me that we shouldn't see each other
anymore, and as soon as she said, "Look. Uhh,"
I knew what was coming. I slid down in my seat
and my mind wandered, to this:

A story in the news about the world's fattest man,
who, in 2006, had weighed over 1,200 pounds,
and who had gotten married in Monterrey, Mexico,
bedridden for six years, his bed was decorated in white
and brought to the ceremony on a flatbed truck,
on the advice of his doctors he did not eat from the 5 tiered cake

I leaned forward and took the girl's hand
as she apologized, conversations around us
getting quieter, the young man at the adjoining table
putting an acoustic guitar in its case,
I looked away from her to a cupcake we had shared
and not finished, its frosting glistening in the decaying light

Shipping Forecast

The general synopsis at 0600:

Yellowstone: East 5 to 6, clear.
Nebraska: west gale 8 to 9, expected soon, poor.
Rhodes, Steamboat, Franklin: west 2 to 3, occasional showers, poor.

I Learned This Strategy From The Guy That Moved My Cheese

The trouble with the size of the world
is that sometimes it takes you too long
to get to and from the things you want to do,
the things you love

But the key is to make use of the time
spent in transit; for instance, just yesterday
I was driving in crowded but moving
traffic on the Santa Ana Freeway
under a descending orange sun
and the thought occurred to me
that life isn't a movie, that people can't
just instantly call up the clever thing
to say at the right time, the profound
thing, the thing that will settle the argument,
calm the bully, stop the hurt

And what someone really ought to do is write
a small book, pocket sized, that you could carry
in your pocket like a Spanish/English
dictionary, and when someone stole your space
at the mall you could get out of your car
and quickly thumb through the index to
Parking: Snarky Comments

Everything indexed for easy reference:
Children: Vegetable Reluctance
Fast Food: Incorrect Change
Relationships: Goodbye: Responses

I got home and sat at my laptop
but all I could write was this:
1. No, wait. Please don't go yet.

I Don't Know How This Poem Is Going To End

Usually I write backwards;
I start with the last line and then
back my way to the beginning,

But where's the adventure in that?
where's the surprise, the wonder
in not knowing what happens next?

tonight I set off with nothing,
a happy song playing through
noise canceling headphones,
laptop on my knees,
kitty at my feet,
small boy asleep in his bed

while I try to find the current
under the surface of a sea of white space

knowing that 60 times a second
my computer is checking to see whether I've written anything,
thought of anything,
how about now?
has he done anything yet?
was that a keystroke?

there are some days when you need to
just launch, closing your eyes,
unfurling the canvas
ready to plant your flag wherever you hit land
go wind, I'm ready; take me.

A Traveler's Advisory From Gleick, Mandelbrot and Heisenberg

If one wanted to know
the length of the coast of California,
for example,
the answer would depend on one's
size, intention, perspective,
frame of reference;
the answer you'd get driving a car
and checking the odometer
is perfectly fine, a fine answer indeed

Now walk it.

Off the asphalt
the edge of the earth isn't smooth
like a retaining wall,
the cliffs undulate,
jut out into the sea
then recede,
there's a coastline you never see from behind the wheel
and that's also good, quite good

Try this now:

Examine the cliffs, the rocks, sand
with a magnifying glass, microscope,
look at pebbles,
grains of sand,
flecks of dirt,
the shape of things and the space between them
and tell me how long the coast is now
or even if you know where it begins or ends

Still there? Still with me?

Then why not look
inside the pebbles, sand
flecks of dirt
by shooting electrons
at their smallest constituent parts
until you're looking at things
so small that shining light on them
sends them out into infinity
and the most you can know
is not where a thing is,
but only where it was

My warning to you is this:

The closer you get to me,
the more the chaos comes into focus,
but if you've been reading me for awhile
then you probably know this.

Bokanovsky's Process

The bell rang and I watched my son's class walk out, single file, lining up under the awning, against the lawn. Parents were on the other side of a chain linked fence, talking with each other, waiting for their children, making play dates, parking SUVs on the street. My boy was in the back of the line, holding a green happy face he was given for behaving well. Numerous other children were also holding them. They raised their hands as they saw their parents through the fence. Mine saw me, raising his hand. He walked towards me, smiling, backpack with the logo of a recent summer blockbuster movie hanging heavily on his shoulders. He handed me his happy face as we walked across the lot to my car. He said goodbye to a couple of his friends. "See you in a bit," he said. Soccer practice was beginning shortly.

My Television Will Not Fit In My Compact Car

The sun is up and it's a beautiful
Indian summer morning,
it's football season and my
neighbors are out mowing
their lawns before the games
start, their heads are down,
they focus on maintaining the line
with their lawnmower, stopping
at a hedge, turning deliberately,
coming back,
I am in my garage, an hour allotted to me
by a court order, deciding which
things will accompany me
in my next life

Late At Night, Trying To Keep The Wolves At Bay

I got woken up by a
piercing electronic beep,
14 quick beeps in succession,
then 3 seconds of silence before repeating,

I get out of bed where I'd
fallen asleep with Lovey,
comb the house checking
fire alarms

The sound is coming from
somewhere in a neighbor's
yard, I can hear it through
the fence, the paper thin walls of my house

I go back in and open a
beer, shutting the windows, which does
nothing, and consider the thin line
that separates us all from madness

Zero Period

I had gotten to school early and was sitting on bleachers on the south athletic field. There was a hole in the chain link fence that separated the school from the Beachwalk subdivision and I saw my friend David bend down, under the bar, step through the break in the fence, and walk towards me.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"About 7:50," I said.

"Okay." He sat next to me, putting his backpack next to mine. He kept his hand on it, looking out across the field.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"No, not really," he said. His eyes were scanning the field and across to the parking lot. "I got in a fight with some dude yesterday and he said he was gonna bring some friends here today to kick my ass."

"Oh," I said. "Who was it?"

"I don't know. Some guy."

"You think he's gonna do it?"

"No clue. But I'm ready if he does," David said. "Check this out." He unzipped his backpack, holding it open, pointing it towards me. I looked inside and saw a couple of books, a notepad, and a closed brown paper bag.

"You gonna hit him with a sandwich?" I asked.

"Look in the bag," David said.

I reached in and started pulling the bag out. It was heavy. "Don't take it out of the backpack!" he said. I unrolled the top and looked inside, and saw a black automatic handgun. The safety was off. I slid the safety on, then pressed a button to eject the magazine. David was staring across the field, scanning it. I tipped the magazine towards me, sliding a bullet out from the top. It was a real bullet, it curved up to a small reservoir at the top, and there were 4 indentations around the edge of the reservoir top that allowed the bullet to expand at impact. I slid the magazine back in, feeling a sharp click. I put the gun back in the bag and handed the backpack to David.

"I put the safety on," I said.

"Okay."

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"My dad. He gave it to me when he left Mom. He came in right before he left and handed it to me and said 'Don't tell mom I gave you this. But now that I'm leaving you're gonna be the man of the house. Don't use this unless you need to.'"

"Cool," I said. "So you actually gonna shoot this guy?"

"If it comes to that," David said.

"And you're gonna do that here? In the middle of school?"

"If it comes to that."

"Okay," I said. We both looked out at the field, at people walking across the grass towards the buildings. Cars were pulling into the parking lot, boys were talking to girls. The first bell rang. I needed to get to class but I wanted to stay and see how this turned out. David stared ahead, his hand inside the bag, watching.

A Poem About The Large Hadron Collider

A football field under the surface of the earth
we've built seventeen miles of tunnel
and will try to understand the things we touch,
see, taste, are
by breaking them apart into their smallest pieces,
cooling these pieces off to the limits
of the second law of thermodynamics,
and then moving them with nearly one hundred million
pounds of magnets to almost the speed of light
and banging them together to see what they truly are made of

This is not a unique idea;

I've spent three years being broken apart,
the heat pulled from me,
collided into the pieces of me that are left
and I know nothing more about what I am made of
then I ever did

Liquid helium optional.

Einstein

It was late and we were laying on the couch
Lovey next to me
our teeth brushed
his leg over me, me holding his foot
I took one of his toes and pulled on it
my thumb and forefinger popping
and I pulled my hand up to my mouth
and popped the invisible toe in
like a ripe grape
then worked my way down to the piggie
that cried all the way home
and he pulled his foot away
and rolled over, offering me another foot
to eat from

the toes were delicious

Lovey said maybe I should hold your foot
and laid down with his head by my foot
holding it in his two small hands
and we watched television for a minute,
he went back to my end to get a pillow
and laid it, then his head, on me,
his arms around my leg
and too soon I could feel his legs twitching
and his breathing get heavier, rhythmic
and I turned the television off, watching him
with his eyes closed
and remembered that if together we could just go fast enough
time would stand still.

Brotherhood

I was wearing a bright red tshirt that advertised Taco Bravo, a two restaurant fast food chain in the San Francisco Bay Area. The line I was standing in coiled back and forth in front of the ride, and I watched the same people over and over. I noticed a young man staring at my shirt every time we passed each other, looking at the shirt, then me, then my small boy. We curved around and passed each other again, and he leaned in over the chain that separated us, careful to keep out of earshot of the boy, and quietly said "Taco Bravo, motherf-----". I nodded, smiling. This guy knows.

Polaroid: 39 Years, 102 Days

My boy's walking back to room 5
to write and draw,
cut and paste,
read, run, play,
make friends, enemies,
fight, love

I've given him everything I had
sometimes it was a lot,
other times not enough

for all the times we played
together
and I held his foot until he fell asleep

what I think about is this:
my mother's gone
my father's gone
and I don't remember anything that happened before I was 5.

For My Son On His First Day Of Kindergarten

This thought will probably never
occur to you, but I sat where
you're going to sit tomorrow morning
thirty four years ago to the day:
I sat indian-style
on the floor in the front row,
a red construction paper apple straight-pinned to my shirt,
I looked at it and told Mrs. Johnson my name was Francis,
not Frank

On September 3, 1974
in this place
I got to decide who I was

Where you're going tomorrow I can't come,
you can change your name to whatever you like
and you'll find friends that I won't know
and get crushes on girls that I'll never see
and be happy and sad and proud and hurt
and things will happen to you that you'll forget by the time
I pick you up at the gate at 2:22
but you'll remember them the rest of your life
and they'll be yours and yours alone

And it's okay,
I have the same things
and they're mine and mine alone

I'll share them if you want.

How Wonderful The World Must Be Someplace

They say now that it was
April 16, 1178 BC
When Odysseus returned to Ithaca
Under a orange sunset
The Pleiades ascending in the West

And I’m sure that
400 years ago
A many-times-great grandfather sailed with the Armada
Smoke in the sky, the Atlantic strewn with the
Wood of broken ships and the limbs of broken men,
The British fleet in flames off the coast of Morocco

But tonight history finds me
In a Courtyard, by Marriott,
Lombard, Illinois
Waiting for someone to knock on my door
And bring me salmon and vegetables
Sautéed in too much butter

They say we die one day a time
And this evening I’m choosing to die
While watching other people live

In Rome today
Men ran on crushed red clay
To determine who was the fastest
And in Vienna one country
Was trying to kick a ball into the goal of
Another country
And in the cradle of civilization
We were helping some Persians
Fight different Persians
I sat quietly
And watched a Asian program
Being subtitled into a different Asian language

How wonderful the world must be someplace

I took a cab to Chicago
And found a bar
Off State and Ontario
Where a man played piano
Against the front window
Under red neon

I watched him from the end
Of a long rectangular bar,
I was drinking gin
And he was singing Sinatra
And I lit a cigarette

His song finished
And I noticed a man sitting next to the piano
In a black turtleneck
Looking like a peaceful Eldridge Cleaver
Except for the eye patch over his left eye
And the thin blonde on his left arm

The piano man started playing
The Summer Wind
And he, then I, lit another cigarette
And I watched him shake his head slowly
Back and forth
Right hand cupping his scotch
Left hand cupping his blonde
And we drank together
And smoked together

And then before the second verse
The piano player looked over
And I watched this man
Take his arm from around his date
And reach for the microphone
And sing about the days and nights
That went flying by
Never taking his hand off his drink
Cigarette still lit in the ashtray
The blonde staring at him

I was transfixed:
Here, at last, was living!
I ordered another drink,
It was late but I would not go home tonight,
I would give my Blackberry to a homeless man
And throw my laptop in a dumpster!
I’d buy better clothes
And a cigarette case!
I’d stop drinking anything blended
And stop dating anything not blonded!

I would follow this man
From bar to bar
And do the things he does:
I’d stop driving cars with four doors
And travel with nothing I couldn’t carry in my pockets
I’d eat in darkened restaurants
With women in little black dresses,
My fingers mindlessly grazing across their legs
While I sent back wine that wasn’t good enough
And I’d put things on a tab, my tab!

I paid the bill and walked outside
And felt the hot September air
Blowing off Lake Michigan
And took the Ike back into the suburbs
To my chain hotel
And waited for my 7am
Conference call.

Thermodynamics

With the shower running
and the television on
and the coffeemaker brewing
you can mask how silent it is

you can substitute
a hastily scribbled note
for a real conversation

working opposite ends
of the same dinner party
for time spent together

but there's just no getting around
the immutable laws of physics;
if you don't add any heat
eventually the molecules just stop moving.

Raymond Carver's Dead

Central Park was emptying
as the daylight was redshifted,
blue light scattered across the troposphere

I walked its paths over and over for hours
until my feet hurt,
a week's worth of clothes in my car

Raymond Carver wrote at length about couples struggling
to survive amidst death, betrayal, poverty, boredom,
but Raymond Carver's dead.

Liquid

Outside the palm trees were molting
and a cool morning breeze was blowing through the house,
the boy was away and I was cleaning

Board games, video games, into stacks,
books back onto shelves,
assorted toys into assorted piles

I reached behind his bed for his huge red stuffed Elmo
and put it into a white garbage bag
to give away.

If I Had Slept Longer This Story Would Have Been Better

There's this place you can go where you're not quite asleep and not quite awake. This happens very rarely for me, but when it does sometimes I can control my dreams. I can stop the action, change the scenery, the people, view it in third person, first person, slow motion, the way the director of a big budget movie can edit action he'd filmed against a bluescreen. And, yet, the dream still feels real. You become godlike in a world like this, and understand things you wouldn't comprehend in the real world. One night, in this place, I realized how it is possible how to travel faster than the speed of light. But it was gone when I woke up. I felt it going away, me waking up, trying to hold it, think about it hard enough to remember it on the outside. It is a strange and sad thing to feel a sense of loss over a dream.

This happened to me last night, I was with a girl in the dream and it was sunny outside and we were driving a convertible and I was behind the wheel for awhile, then above watching the girl and I, and suddenly a beautiful story came to me. And, half asleep, I tried to get the essence of it before I lost it, but could feel it slipping as I was writing it. So, instead of a masterpiece, you get a sentence, and no longer remembering exactly what I was supposed to do with it, I'll leave it as it is, an artifact from a place where I write better that I do here:

There are rooms in my house where I store memories.

Car Shopping

I dial the phone, leaning back in my chair, drinking a beer.

"Hello?" a voice said.

"Hi," I say. "I'm calling about the BMW M5 you have advertised, 40,000 miles, black, leather, 6 speed, gps, cd, ac, abs, pdc, sdc, ps, pb, snrf." He pronounced this "jips, kid, ack, abs, piddick, siddick, piss, pibb, snerf."

"Uhh, yes?"

"So?" I say. "What can you tell me about it?"

I took another drink. I love doing this.

The Persistence Of Memory

Almost seven years of your life
ends here,
a thoroughly nondescript courthouse
in a banal suburb,
the bauhaus tried to teach us
that there was form and beauty
in function,
but here there is just space,
benches and wasted space,
space wasted like the seven years
that had no function,

I sneak my cell phone
through the metal detector
so I can work while I wait
for an absurd man to tell me
how much he thinks I need to pay
to a girl I'm about to not be married to,
he may have gotten a law degree
somewhere, somewhen,
but arithmetic was not part of his curriculum,
I explain where his math is faulty,
he doesn't understand,
I have previously had this conversation
with my departing wife,
but she says nothing,
she has worn makeup today
in case she needs to give a statement
to reporters on the courthouse steps

there is nothing that happens here
that is dramatic,
a courtroom should have given it
some kind of gravitas
but there is nothing,
we don't even appear in court,
we agree to everything on a crowded bench
and eventually there are papers to sign
we could have done this all by mail
and when it's over
there is no relief
no sadness
no closure
only this inescapable fact:
I used to be in love with this woman,
but I can't remember why.

I Only Have Fifteen More Nights Of Summer

I've lived here for close to
Three years and I've never noticed
This before:
At night it is louder outside my house
Than in,
I'm laying in a tent that is too small
For those it is supposed to shield
And I listen to the sounds
Of suburbia,
The Costa Mesa freeway a quarter mile west of me,
Planes taking off from John Wayne Airport two miles
North by northeast,
A neighbor I have never seen over a wall
In her apartment
Talking to someone I cannot hear,
She sounds pretty,
Another neighbor setting a ringer
On his mobile phone,
Testing various beeps and chirps,
Fireworks from Disneyland fifteen miles north,
Crickets alive in the bougainvillea,
Figs falling from the tree in my yard,

I had picked up over 50 of them before
We built the tent,
Lovey and I,
He wearing a small camping flashlight on his forehead
That was given me by one of my favorite people,
We took with us our sleeping bags
And two small stuffed animals
And a foam hand with index finger outstretched
That I had bought him at a baseball game,
He likes it when I pretend it's a real hand
And say I need YOU
(pointing)
To put the SLEEPING BAG
(pointing)
Over THERE
(pointing)

We take turns at most things,
Tonight it is my turn to sleep
With the stuffed black ape,
He'll be guarded by
The stuffed lion,
We say our goodnights
And I love yous
And he falls asleep crowding me,
Me awake and alone amidst
People talking, moving, living

Today was a day without order, structure, plan
We played inside until we decided
To go for a bike ride,
We played inside again
Until the power went out
On my block
And we went to the pool to drown our sorrows
In chlorinated water and frozen lemonade,
I have 15 more nights of this,
Of days without agenda

Soon he'll start school
And I'll start working again
And I'll need a reminder that I lived days like today
And laid next to a sleeping boy in the dark,
And looked through the net roof of a
Cheap, cramped tent
And watched a full moon rise over a horizon
Of fig and lemon tree branches
And shine on my boy,
Breathing deeply hugging a stuffed lion
With absolutely nothing to do tomorrow
But wait for the sun

I'll need a reminder that things like this really happened to me;

This is it.

Relapse

Keith poured himself another cup of coffee, it was 4 in the morning. Outside he could see the outline of his dented car forming a shadow on the asphalt from the streetlight overhead. The streets were empty and no one had been in in over two hours. He walked out from behind the counter and out into the parking lot, lighting a cigarette, smoking by the front door. This was an awful shift. He came on at 11pm, when there was still a steady flow of customers buying beer, cigarettes, condoms. But after midnight it quieted down, and frequently he wouldn't see anyone between 1 and 6 in the morning, and Keith would listen to music, drinking coffee, reading this month's magazines under the convenience store's fluorescent lights. He poured out his coffee. This was nothing to stay awake for. He looked around at the place his insomnia called home, examined the magazines and cartons of cigarettes, the freezer of ice cream, the racks of stale snacks, the refrigerated aisle full of milk, water, soft drinks, beer. Beer.

He looked out at the parking lot, then up and down the street before pulling a tall bottle of Heineken out and opening it with a key from his pocket. He would crouch down, taking quick swigs from the bottle in case someone drove by. He reached behind the thin cardboard barrier and got a porn magazine out, leafing through it casually, sitting down on two stacked up plastic milk crates. He opened another tallboy, then another. He got up and locked the glass front door, turning off the outside sign. Putting his beer up on the counter, he pulled at a spool of lottery scratchers, scratching the rubbery grey surface off with an old coin, then detaching the card from the roll, putting the winning cards in a pile on the counter next to his beer, throwing the losing cards onto the floor.

The first customers started coming up a bit after 6:00 in the morning. Keith was still scratching, rolls of discarded tickets on the floor, a pile of 2 and 5 dollar winners next to 7 empty tallboys, the front door still locked, people knocking on the window beneath the pink early morning sky.

Hyperbola

It was late at night and I had just gotten home after getting drunk with a girl I wasn't in love with. My small house seemed distressingly large. I went into my boy's room and laid on his bed. My head rested on his pillow, dark blue, white in places where he'd drooled in his sleep. I hadn't seen him in 2 days. I hadn't seen my mother in 30 years, my father in 20. I considered this for awhile. It's a long story, but what's important is that one day I was with them and another day I wasn't. And after some time I stopped noticing. I wondered if it was possible to do that in 2 days. Between my two parents they had eight children, and they probably didn't know where any of them were right now. I looked up at the ceiling in the dark, holding two of my boy's stuffed animals, and could remember when they both still loved me. This is what is in my blood, my son's blood.

Or maybe it's just the alcohol talking.

Family Bonding

We're standing in the line for Space Mountain and the Buddy's swinging a chain back and forth. "Quit swinging that", I say. "You're gonna hit somebody. You wanna do something with your hands? Come here." I hold my hands out, palms up. "Put your hands on mine. Now I'm going to try to slap your hands, and you have to move them away before I can hit them. When I miss, you get to do it to me." He puts his hands on mine, heavily. I, quickly, pull my hands back, slapping the tops of his. Two kids next to us are watching. He puts his back on top of mine and I slap them again. "Hey!" he says. "You've gotta move faster," I say. A family behind us is trying this now. I let the Buddy try to hit my hands. He misses once, twice, then starts windmilling his arms trying to hit my hands. "Okay. Let's try it this way," I say. I hold my hands out in front of me, palms together, fingers pointed out at him. "Now try it." The Buddy swings at my hands. I look back at the line, long and serpentine, watching friends, families, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, waiting to get their hands smacked at the happiest place on earth.

Shared Custody

"Daddy?" Lovey says. We're working on a jigsaw puzzle.

"Yes, love?"

"Did you know I have an electric scooter at Mommy's?"

"Yes, love. I had to come over and put it together for you. You helped me. Do you remember?"

"Oh yeah," he says. He has a piece of pirate treasure in his hands. He rotates it, trying to fit it against the curve at the top of the treasure chest. He fits the piece in place.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, love?"

"When am I going to Mommy's?"

"I don't know. Maybe later on today, maybe tomorrow. Do you miss your electric scooter?"

"Mm hmm," Lovey says, nodding. He puts another piece of treasure in place.

Vamos A Cambiar Un Poco

So I'm in Spanish 2 today and we're taking this test and I get through it really quick and I'm just sitting there waiting for everyone to finish and I'm looking across the room and you know how the room's split with desks on each side facing the center, so I'm looking across and Johanna's totally wearing this jean skirt and you could fully see her underwear, yeah white, and I just nudge Kenny and he looks up and I nod once like "check that out" and he looks over and starts laughing and then Senor G stands up and I totally think we're gonna get busted but he doesn't do anything and he goes over to the board and starts writing and no one's really looking and then he just snaps his fingers and we look up and he points to the board and on it it says "Everyone QUIETLY pick up your things and move to the class across the hall" and we look at him and he puts his hand to his lips like shhhh and he points to Jeremy and he's fully asleep and a bunch of us start laughing and Senor G looks at us like all "shut up!" and we get our stuff and go to the other room and he just leaves Jeremy in there with the lights off and then I say "we should move the clock up and make him think it's night" and Senor G says "if you're done with your test go ahead but do it quietly" and I go over and climb up on a desk and take the glass off the front of the clock and wind it around til it says 6:30 and then go back to the room and Jeremy's still totally sleeping and at the end of class we all go out in the hall and wait for the bell to ring and he fully wakes up all drooling and stuff and he comes out in the hall and we're all standing there laughing at him.

Dude, it was awesome.

Scalene

I slept in the spare bedroom the night before so I wouldn’t wake my wife or son. The alarm went off at 3:45 and I reached over, turning it off. The kitty was laying down on the carpet in the hallway, asleep. I walked downstairs and sat at the kitchen table in the dark, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the blower to the furnace from the garage. I had 3 hours and needed to eat. I had a energy bar and a banana with some orange juice, in the dark looking out over my street. A possum crossed over the street on a telephone line towards my neighbor’s house. The energy bar was dry in my mouth. I finished it and the banana and went upstairs to shower.

I showered quickly and laid back in bed for another hour and a half, getting up around 6, putting my running clothes on. I wrapped duct tape around the insteps of both feet numerous times, around, around, tearing the tape with my hands, putting on my socks and running shoes. I tiptoed downstairs to my race bag, and fastened the timing chip to my shoes and pinned the race number to my shirt. I got a sports drink out of the refrigerator and got in my car, backing out slowly into the dark street, watching the garage close, looking up at my bedroom.

It was ten miles to the beach, but it was early in the morning and it took about 15 minutes to get there. Policemen were directing traffic into the city beach parking lot, I followed the line into the lot and parked my car, taking my car key off the key chain, untying my running shoe, pulling the lace out of a couple of holes, threading it through the key and back into the shoe, where it would be safe for the morning. I walked up the parking lot towards the street. The lot was full and there were pockets of people milling about, stretching, tying shoes, jogging slowly up and down the lot, drinking coffee, talking, laughing, waiting for an open bathroom. Over a rail and down onto Pacific Coast Highway a man was talking into a microphone from a cherry picker. It was cold and I walked, away towards Beach Boulevard, then back towards the starting line. I stood at the starting line, looking up at a electronic clock. Behind me, beyond Saddleback Mountain and through fog and mist the sun was rising, but all it did was make things less black and more grey. The highway was divided by a median; two different races were starting at the same time, the runners in my race were supposed to line up on the southbound side of the highway, the other race on the northbound side.

An announcer was talking, he was naming people in the race who had run it numerous times, or had conquered a disease. I was walking in place to keep warm, looking around, listening to music on a player I had strapped to my arm. It came closer to the start time and the announcer called everyone to the start line. On the left side of the street there were signs at 5 yard intervals with times on them. We were supposed to line up in order of our expected race pace. I understood what to do. I had run in crowded races with narrow start lines before, where the gun sounds and it takes you 5 minutes or longer to walk through the start line and as much as a mile before the crowd thins out enough that you can start running. The idea was to stagger the crowd with the fastest in the front. The sign for my pace time was towards the middle of the pack. I waited, looking down at my shoes, walking in place, listening to music. Most of the crowd was on the northbound side of the Coast Highway.

They began to play the national anthem. I took my headphones out and hat off, looking up at an American flag affixed to the bridge that connected the Hyatt to the beach parking lot. The crowd cheered. I turned on my footpod, an accelerometer that would let me know how fast I was running, and started my watch. It picked up my heart rate. I breathed slowly, feeling the air filling my chest, the pumping of my heart in my throat, looking at my watch, trying to sense my heart beating the 107 beats a minute my watch was telling me. Trying to feel it slow down as I breathed slower, speed up as I moved my feet. The announcer was counting down from 10. I stood up straight, checked to make sure my shoes were tied, turned up the volume on my music player, and started the clock on my watch as the horn went off, leaning forward, walking quickly, then jogging. I got through the starting line about 5 seconds after the start hearing a beep from the sensor as it detected the chip strapped to my foot. Beyond the starting line runners from the crowded side of the street ran across the median onto my side, it was slightly uphill on this section of the Pacific Coast Highway and I could see a sea of heads, bouncing as they ran. A faster song started and I turned up the volume, speeding up as I started to work my way through the crowd, tall, thin, old, young, some already walking, others passing me. I passed the Huntington Beach Pier and looked at my watch. I was going faster than I wanted but my heart rate was lower and I felt really good, moving in between people, the music loud, people watching from the sidewalks, the side streets blocked off.

I was moving. Music was playing and I was alone but not alone. I heard cheers from the sidewalk, a band was playing on a street corner. Heads were bobbing all around me, arms swinging, feet stepping, one in front of the other in front of the other. There was more room to move. I walked quickly through a water station two miles in, taking a cup of water, sipping it, looking at my watch. There was a bike path between the Coast Highway and the beach and a police officer on a motorcycle was riding it slowly, lights flashing. Behind him the leader was running, head back, wearing gloves in the cold. It was disheartening to see how fast he was going. I crested the bluffs at Seapoint and ran downhill, the lone runner becoming a steady line of runners coming back at me towards the starting line.

At the bottom of the hill arrows separated the marathoners, guiding them to the left and to the turnaround the leaders had already gone through. I circled the pylon, heading back southbound, and immediately felt the cold breeze. My pace slowed, my heart rate quickened to 165, and I knew now I was going too slow and was working too hard. I had 3 and a half miles to get back to the starting line, and another 19 miles to go once I got there. I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever finish this. The sun was still hidden behind the haze, to my left I saw thousands of people jogging, walking up the Coast Highway. Less than a thousand people were running the marathon and there were only a handful of other runners on the path near me. I felt like I was on my own. I turned up the music and tried to find the rhythm, in my stride, my breathing.

Time passed. I was trying to run 10 minute miles. I had picked up over a minute going out with the wind and had given it all back in two miles. I made the turn again just beyond the starting line at seven miles out and I was down by 40 seconds, but I was running with the wind again. This was a six mile stretch up Pacific Coast Highway, mostly downwind. I tried to move with the current. I found a good pace that would get me about 10 seconds a mile back and tried to settle in. I was running on the bike path astride Bolsa Chica State Beach. Many of the half marathoners were jogging or walking back in the other direction on the highway, but I wasn’t looking at them. I looked far ahead, focusing my vision on the top of a light pole in the distance, trying not to move my head, to move as quietly, as efficiently as possible.

People in campers and RVs were parked at the beach and I heard cheering, saw people moving across the path with surfboards, smelled bacon cooking, bonfires burning, smoke and ashes carried up by the wind into the clearing fog. A hard candy was handed to me to eat.

Twenty years ago I had run this path numerous times in cross country and track practice. I had run for a year in high school, and then had discovered cigarettes, and had smoked close to a pack a day for close to twenty years, until 4 months ago. I hadn’t wanted to quit, I just knew that I should. It had been a good run. I had gotten a long ride out of minimal exercise, poor diet, and excessive cigarette and alcohol consumption. This morning was payback. I passed by one last travel trailer, the owner sitting in a folding beach chair under an awning, a small dog at his feet on a leash, a cat sitting in the doorway of the trailer. I was thirteen miles out and made the turn, starting back southbound towards the starting line. The route crossed over to the other side of the highway, away from the beach and against some open wetlands. It was low land and the wind cut across it, hard in my face. My pace slowed down and I was tired.

I walked through another water station, remembering the cat I saw in the trailer’s doorway. He looked like mine. Eastern, long haired, numerous shades of brown. Right now mine would be home sleeping, moving from room to room with whoever was there, then falling asleep in a corner. If there was more than one person there who he loved he’d lay down somewhere in between them. Equidistant Kitty. Isosceles Kitty.

The course took me down the Coast Highway, and then inland towards Central Park. I was tired and hot. I had found some electrolyte drink and gel at a water station 16 miles in, and I felt better after taking them. I followed a girl in front of me, just staying behind her, letting my vision blur, my mind clear, trying to make time pass without thinking, without listening to what my body was telling me, without looking. I wanted to blink my eyes and be a hundred minutes in the future, done running.

Down in the park the wind was quiet, there were many people lining the race path, it was louder and the path changed direction frequently, looping through the park, it was easier to run here and keep your focus than it was on the highway, where you were looking at a straight road that stretched miles in the distance. There were things to do other than obsess over your breathing, your heart rate, the deteriorating condition of your knees, the blisters that had formed on both arches, the dryness in your mouth, the salt that was caking on your forehead. You could look at the path, where it was smooth, where rough, where cracked by earthquakes, where it widened, narrowed, where it was lined with people, where it was empty, where the next turn was, who was in front of you, whether you would pass them now or after the turn.

I followed the crowd out of the park, up a large hill, and back towards the water. This part of the course was shared by both races, and I was passing the last of the half marathoners, most of whom were walking. The wind seemed to be back in my face again, and I thought about how many different directions the course was oriented in, and how many of them seemed to be facing the wind. This didn’t seem to make geographic or meteorological sense. I was a minute and a half behind where I wanted to be, and could not fathom how to make that up in the last 5 miles. My heart rate was 185 and every step hurt. This was what the race was about, I thought. Ignoring everything your mind tells you.

Bands were still playing back on the Coast Highway, the sun was out and the clouds had gone and it was 70 degrees, the street was lined with people, many of whom had finished the race and were walking back to their cars, homes, friends. They had medals around their neck and arms around someone they loved and they were happy. I looked up and could see the finish line in the distance, the yellow readout of the clock a blur. I ran faster, passing people, in and out between them as the path narrowed. I turned my watch off as I crossed over the finish line and heard the beep as the sensor picked up the chip on my shoe.

A metallic poncho of some sort was handed to me, it felt like it was made of very thin aluminum foil. I received a medal and stopped while my chip was cut from my shoe. I had stopped while this happened and I found I couldn’t move again. My knees had locked up. I waited, draping the poncho over me. People were finishing behind me and I couldn’t stay where I was. I moved slowly, bending my knees as little as possible, swaying first onto one blistered foot, then the other, walking like I was on stilts around a corner to an area where water, fruit, and bagels were laid out. I ate a banana and some oranges, standing up, walking in place to keep my knees from locking up again. I had been running all day and just wanted to rest, but I had to keep moving. I felt like the race would never end. I couldn’t decide what to do about the blisters on my feet, or whether I should take off my shoes, or how I would get up again if I sat down to do it. I had to get back to my car and it was almost a mile away. I wanted to cry.

I untied my shoes and, taking a banana and bottle of water, slowly started moving back towards my car. I stepped gingerly, trying to avoid aggravating my knees or my blistered feet. I got to the car and got in slowly, taking off my shoes, seeing the popped, quarter sized red blisters on both insteps. I started the car, turning on the air conditioner, looking at myself in the mirror, my forehead white with salt. I slowly backed out and drove out of the lot, carefully around the finishing runners and their families.

I got home and squeezed my car into the garage and turned off the engine, the door sliding shut behind me. There was only room for the car door to open partially. I tilted the steering wheel all the way up and slid the seat all the way back, leaning to the side trying to get my legs out of the car. Bending my knees was painful. I slid forward, pulling myself up with the door and doorframe of the car. I leaned against the dryer, closing the car door, steadying myself. I took off my shirt and left it on top of the washing machine. My knees had stiffened dramatically since I got in the car and the two steps into the kitchen from the garage were difficult. I walked slowly to the stairs, stepping up the first one, leaning to the side to put weight on the handrail, trying to take weight off my knees. The pain was very sharp. I needed a shower but I couldn’t make it up the stairs just yet. I stopped at the third step and sat down, catching my breath, waiting for the pain to subside.

I went to the downstairs bathroom and washed up a little bit, then went into the kitchen and took a sports drink and a beer out of the refrigerator, and filled up two Ziploc bags with ice cubes, wrapping them with towels. The kitty had come downstairs, he rubbed against my leg as I opened my beer. He followed me as I went to the family room and laid on the couch. I turned on the TV. The Super Bowl pregame show was on. I sipped my beer. It was bright outside but the blinds were closed. The kitty walked out of the room to the base of the stairs, laying down on the cool wood, looking back at me, then up the stairs, then away, licking his paw.

Escrow

We worked well into the night, we had a TV in the office and we had some guy that wanted to do business with us bring us beer. Our office was in the back of an industrial park, surrounded by auto body shops. It wasn't designed for drop in business. The only window was by the front door, and it was easy to lose track of what time it was, gone missing in the flicker of fluorescent light.

Around one in the morning my partner and I left to drop some documents off at the escrow office. The streets were deserted. I got out of the car, three large manila envelopes in my hand. They were too large for the mail slot, I was bending them, lengthwise over on themselves, trying to get them in the door. Look at this, my partner said. Back up Diamond Bar Blvd a car was moving down towards us. It slowly drifted out of its lane, to the right, across the adjoining lane, bouncing up the curb and into a light pole. It hit the pole with the front quarter panel and flipped over, landing on its hood and skidding out into the middle of the intersection.

Across the street some people were walking across an all night restaurant and we saw them start dialing a cell phone. My partner and I ran out to the car in the intersection. We heard a girl crying. A fire hydrant had been knocked over and cold water was spraying up into the sky, raining on us. Steam was rising off the car.

We went to the driver's side and no one was in the seat. We saw a pretty Korean girl up against the back seat, laying sideways. She was wearing a leather skirt and heels. I had a leather jacket on and reached my arm in the open window, brushing the glass shards from the edges of the window. I tried to find the door handle. I saw the feet of the driver. Is everyone okay? my partner asked. The girl was still crying. We walked around to the other side. The driver had been flipped out of his seat sideways, and was crouched, right side up in an upside down car. The passenger side window was broken and the driver's ass was sticking out. His wallet was partially out of his pocket. It was thick with bills. I stopped. My partner and I looked at each other, then looked back, up and down the empty intersecting streets, then back at the wallet.

A Question Of Protocol

July 31, 2008

Dear Miss Manners,

Let me start by saying what a fan I am of your column. I've read it for many years and I believe you provide a great service to society. The stitching, as it were, to the fabric of our civilization is in conducting ourselves with a sense of common decency, civility. The problem I bring to you today is an ordinary one, banal certainly, but I believe, as I'm sure you do, that it is the way we treat each other in the everyday, the ordinary, that defines who we are as people. The manner in which we conduct ourselves in the face of the daily challenge, the 99 cent things, as it were, is what separates us from the, well, people we would like to be separated from I guess is the most judicious way of putting it.

But I'm babbling. Forgive me. My question is this: I'm sorry. Forgive me again. I need to give you a bit of background. I live in a small house that's part of a 6 unit complex of houses. Mine is in the very back, I am obliged to walk between the units to get to my garage, on a narrow sidewalk, its narrowness exacerbated by bushes that have been allowed to grow excessively. This afternoon I was walking the sidewalk towards my garage, and my next door neighbor was walking towards me in the opposite direction. Now, while I am a man of average size, my neighbor is of a size that would make simultaneously sharing a narrow walkway an unwieldy proposition.

My question is: what is the proper course of action in this situation? Courtesy would seem to indicate that I step aside and allow the neighbor to pass unimpeded. However, the overgrown nature of the walkway-lining bushes make this option inconvenient. It could be done, but with not inconsiderable discomfort on my part. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not averse to accepting temporary discomfort in the interests of successfully navigating this kind of social whirlpool, however, would the obviousness of my efforts, particularly if they involved stepping into a thorny bush, be construed as calling attention to the excessive width of my neighbor? How does the civilized man navigate such a situation without causing body image insecurities in my neighbor or risking torn skin or clothing on my own person? And how can this situation be tactfully brought up to my landlord in a manner that causes him to trim the encroaching bushes without, again, shining excessive light on the rotundity of my neighbor? Thank you for your thoughtful response.

Sincerely,

He stopped here. He knew, to get published, he really needed a witty name that somehow referenced his problem. That was how these things worked. But he could not think of anything. There was no humor in this situation.

Francis 1, 1985

My dad went inside the store and I waited, sitting in the car, looking around. I knew he wouldn’t be gone long. I got out of the car, crouching down, walking quietly, hunched over alongside the row of cars. I got to the last one and looked back to the store. He was still inside. I ran to the sidewalk in front of a bank in the corner of the parking lot, peeking around the corner to make sure I hadn’t been seen. Looking down the busy street for an opening in traffic, I ran out across Warner and down the street a couple of hundred yards, making a left turn into a residential area. I slowed down to a jog, trying to stay on the grass close to the houses, looking back to see if I could see his car. I cut across a school, over a fence, into the heart of the neighborhood. I wasn’t worried he’d find me here. I was less than a mile from my friend’s house and I walked through the neighborhood, down the street and across Springdale.

I knocked on the door. Are you supposed to be here, he asked. No, I said. We went into the living room and I sat at the bar, my friend poured us glasses of scotch from his father’s liquor cabinet. We drank. What are you going to do now, he asked. I don’t know, I said. We went into the backyard and sat in chairs in the sun. It was 75 degrees outside and the sky was clear and blue. The ocean was 2 miles away. We sat back, holding our glasses of scotch, talking about 2 girls we had crushes on. They were friends. We called them to see if they were home.

Let Us Now Praise Word Processing Software

As I type this
my computer watches what I'm doing,
leads me not into temptation
but delivers me from spelling and grammatical errors
and it, automatically, through no effort of mine,
makes my i an I,
and I continue to type, but with this thought:
I am thirty nine years old
and my computer has a higher opinion of me
than i do,

this does not reassure me
because i know something that it does not know:
my computer might be able to save the things
that i write,
but it can't save me.

Coenties Alley, July 2008

The clouds were moving
quickly overhead
across the Hudson
and onto Long Island,
the sun was on my face
and I looked across Pearl
at men with cell phones
and women with blackberries
everyone with their heads down
headphones in their ears
covering up the noise of cars, subway trains, helicopters,
beautiful women crossed the street
waiting for taxis to pass,
stepping out into the patched asphalt,
heels clicking on the blacktop,
hands low clutching their skirts,

I peeled and ate a banana I bought from a
street vendor 2 blocks away
I had taken it off a pile of them and given him a dollar
but he didn't have change and he told me I could take
three
and I said to keep the other two and give them to the most beautiful girls
he saw pass by,
the banana was perfect,
the skin yellow in the sunlight
a sticker on it said it was from Colombia,
up the Atlantic and through the busiest
waterways in the world it had traveled,
through stevedores and customs officials
and truckers and wholesalers and warehouses
to a dirty street corner to sit in a box watched by a dirty man.
Thirty five cents: Imagine that!

Lorazepam 2

We had just finished playing go fish, I got up and looked around the room. Laundry, still warm, was piled on the couch, and dishes lay, dirty, in the sink. I took the tshirts out of the laundry and, flicking the larger wrinkles out, laid them in a pile over the armrest of the couch. My son asked me to play with him. A minute, I said. A fan blew in the room, I watched it pivoting, back and forth. My son asked me something, the TV was on, I listened to the sound of the fan, watching it swivel. I checked email on my computer. The boy was talking, looking at me. There was a stack of papers on the counter I needed to go through. All I could hear was the fan whirring, whirring around around around around. This is not right. People don't live like this.

Courtship

It was a Sunday and I met her over at the hotel. We went down the street to Denny’s for a quick bite. We walked in, the manager was behind the counter settling a customer’s check. “I’ll be with you in just a second,” he said. We waited. The manager took the signed credit card receipt back from the customer, knocking over a small silver toothpick dispenser as he slid the receipt under the cash tray. The toothpicks spilled out of the dispenser, rolling onto the counter. The customer left and we walked up to the counter. “Thanks for waiting,” he said. “Two for lunch?” He collected the toothpicks and started loading them back into the dispenser. Just going to put those back in there, aren’t you?, I thought to myself. I looked over and saw her eyes look at the toothpicks strewn on the counter, then at the manager, loading them back in the dispenser, then at me. I smiled. This is the girl for me, I thought.

The Night John Belushi Died

The house I grew up in
was small, old,
there was a living room in the front
with doors that slid,
recessed back into the drywall,
we rarely used it,
the curtains were never open and it was dark outside
and I went in and slid the doors shut behind me,
it was late winter and we shut the vents
to the room to save heat,
I sat in the recliner in the cold,
I was still small and
I rocked back,
then sliding my body back
into the chair,
my feet hitting the floor
only when it rocked forwards,
I was listening to the radio,
an old Westinghouse AM radio,
big as my hand,
there was a small mono headphone that went in one ear
and I listened to music in my left ear
out of my right I could hear my father
moving around the house loudly
me pushing the chair backward in the dark,
head against the backrest,
my small hands holding the big armrests tightly,
very tightly.

Lorazepam 1

I woke up and I knew there was something I hadn't done, something I needed to be doing. I walked into the boy's room and his bed was empty. I looked back and he was laying on the couch, facing me. "What are you doing up, sneaky? Why didn't you wake me?" He just smiled. I opened the pet door and poured out some food for the kitty, then laid down next to the boy. "Can we have five more minutes, Daddy?" he asked. "Sure," I said. He curled up next to me, left hand reaching for my ear, right hand in his mouth. I held onto his foot. He closed his eyes and put his hand up on my chest. I could feel my heart, racing, pounding against his palm.

Thursday Afternoon

I was on my tiptoes, looking down into the ice cream freezer. I couldn't decide whether to get a drumstick, a pushup, a big stick, or a sundae. I pick the sundae and put it on the counter next to my dad's can. I realize I forgot the spoon and run back to the freezer. My dad asks the counterman "Can I get a traveling bag for this?" holding the can up. My arm is sore from two allergy shots I've just gotten. We get in the car and my dad pulls out into traffic. He pushes the paper bag down around the can until the top is exposed, then pulls the tab, pulling it off the can, throwing it out the open window. I watch him drive, sitting up straight, can in his right hand, steering the car with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. The hairs on his arm are blowing in the wind. His face is red against the fading sun.

If Binge Drinking Is Wrong, Then I Don’t Want To Be Right

I walk up to the bar, stumbling into her.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have a number? Can I borrow yours? “

“What?” the girl says.

“No, wait,” I say. “I got that wrong. Lemme try that again.”

Her friends laugh at me. My beer is empty.

And These: Thy Gifts

I’ve got my foot in the front door and she’s squeezing it, trying to get the door shut. This is painful. My shoes are not rigid.

Just talk to me a second, I say.

We’ve got nothing to talk about, she says. She leans on the door. My foot hurts.

All right, you don’t have to talk. Just listen.

I don’t wanna hear anything you have to say, she says.

Okay. Then let’s start with something small, I say. How about not crushing my foot?

She lets go of the door. My foot’s throbbing and I feel like I should have a clod of dirt and a demo vacuum cleaner.

Look. All I’m saying is that once I leave, there’s no turning back, I say. I have 2 days worth of clothes in a backpack over my shoulder.

Okay, she says.

No turning back, I repeat.

She looks at me. Next door a Toyota Camry pulls into the driveway. An elderly lady gets out of the car, sees me. Happy Thanksgiving, she says. I wave.

There’s a point where this becomes a runaway train, I say.

That’s fine, she says. She looks over my shoulder. Curtains are moving in the window of the house across the street.

Once I leave, I begin.

I got it, she says. There’s a stain on the door from a yogurt she threw at me earlier. Inside I can hear my son watching Dora The Explorer.

Are you sure this is what you really want to do? I ask.

Look, I gotta go now. My mom’s coming over in a few minutes.

Okay, I say. But look.

She closes the door. I stand there, looking at it. My neighbor is mowing the same spot on his lawn over and over again. The sun is out. It’s 75 degrees outside.

The door looks at me.

No turning back, I say.

While I Was Waiting For My Turn To Talk

You’re doing it again, she said.

I’m sorry, I say. I don’t mean to.

What are you thinking when you stare at me like that?

Don’t confuse a vacant stare with an intense one, I say, reaching for my glass of wine. You’d be surprised at how little is going on in this hat rack.

No, I don’t think I’d be surprised at all by that. But really, what are you thinking when you stare at me like that?

Nothing at all. I’m just listening. People tell me I’m a good listener.

They’re lying, she says. You’re not that great a listener. You’re just a good starer. She takes a drink.

I’m sitting in a hotel bar with a friend of mine. We used to go to high school together. We were very close friends sometimes. I haven’t seen her in 18 years.

Everyone needs a talent, I say.

You might want to think about one that’s a little less, you know.

Annoying?

Yes, she says, smiling. Annoying.

Thanks. Remind me to stick you with the bar bill, will you?

That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of you. Where’s your sense of chivalry?

Babe, I say, I’ve got chivalry out the ying yang. Who do you want me to joust for you?

That guy, she says. She points to a man at the bar twice my size.

That guy’s too large. I could joust that lady over there, I say, pointing, leaning back.

What kind of hero are you? she asks.

A selective one, I say. This is why I can’t keep a woman.

That’s the only reason?

No, not really. You’re actually one of a long line of women who’ve complained about the stare, I say.

Women complain about you a lot, don’t they? She relaxes in her high wooden chair.

When I ran my operations unit a few years ago most of the women that worked for me were a little scared of me. I think it was the stare.

You just don’t know what do with the stare, she says. It’s like you’re looking inside me for something.

Is there anything inside of you that I lost?

I’m not sure where to go with that question, she says.

Yeah, I say. Probably best to leave it alone. I retract it.

Thank you.

It was great when I was staffing that office and was interviewing people all the time. If you stare at a person long enough they’ll eventually just start talking because they’re so uncomfortable. I lean forward, elbow on the bar.

Is that what you’re doing to me?

Not at all.

Really?

You’re not looking for me to hire you, are you?

All I’m looking for you to do is quit staring at me, she says, leaning forward.

You have low ambitions, I say. Okay. I’ll look away.

We’re in the town where we grew up. I’m divorced. She’s not. We both have young children. She’s aged gracefully. I have not.

So what happened when these people you’re interviewing started talking?

It was actually really interesting, I say. I learned how to do this out of a Tony Robbins book, of all places. I’d always start my interviews with 15 to 20 minutes of just completely idle chit chat. Talking about anything. Sports. Celebrity gossip. The most empty stuff you can think of. But while I’m doing it, I’m watching the person, their posture, their expression. The way they talk. The words they use. Their cadence. And over 20 minutes or so I’m talking the same way they do. It’s supposed to build rapport, subliminally.

And why do you want to build rapport with them? It’s just a job interview.

Because once you have it then you can turn it to evil uses, I say, as I have another sip of wine.

I can imagine. You’re giving me the look again.

I’m doing no such thing. Now quit interrupting.

I’m sorry, she says. Please, continue. She finishes her glass.

What you do after you follow a person for awhile, building rapport, is then you start trying to lead. You change the way you sit, you speed up, you slow down, and you see if they change along with you.

Do people do that?

Most do. They don’t even notice. And so I spend another 20-30 minutes talking with them, getting them used to following me. But while they’re following me, they’re thinking that this interview has been a huge bunch of nonsense.

Yeah, I’m starting to get that feeling myself, she says.

And this was awhile ago. I was probably 28 when I was doing this. So people naturally looked at me and thought I was too young for my job, and 45 minutes of interviewing with me didn’t help matters any.

Nor does two glasses of wine. But, again, what’s the point in all this?

The point is that a job interview is a battle. You’re trying to present your best face to me, and I’m trying to figure out everything that’s wrong with you. Everyone asks the same questions, and if you’re interviewed enough times you know them and you’ve rehearsed your answers. I want the unrehearsed answers. The bartender brings us each new glasses of wine. We both reach for them.

Weren’t we talking about your staring problem?

I would respectfully disagree with your characterization of it as a problem, but all good things to those who something or other.

Something or other?

I was never any good at remembering details. I’m a big picture guy.

So are you planning on finishing this big picture? she asks.

Barring future interruption, I say.

My lips are sealed, she says.

Anyhoo, the point of all this is that over forty five minutes to an hour I’ve completely lulled you to sleep. You’ve forgotten that what we’re having is fundamentally adversarial conversation, you’ve stopped taking me seriously, but you think that I’m a nice enough guy, and I’ve got you talking like I do, sitting like I do, in many ways behaving like I do. Which is when I can take you anywhere I want you to go.

And where is that?

Then? To my favorite part of the interview. We’re just comfortably rapping, having a nice chat, and when I think you’re ready I sit up, the more abruptly the better, grab your resume and start firing off questions at you. My voice is a little louder, I talk much quicker, I ask short questions and frequently interrupt your answers.

And what does the other person do?

When I did it correctly the person pops up as quickly as I did. It’s like you just threw a bucket of cold water on them. It’s awesome. And a series of short, rapid questions gets them used to chasing you, until you start asking the tougher, open ended questions. And when people answer them, you just stare at them. And by now they’re so uncomfortable that they’ll just start talking. And tell you anything you want to know.

And that really works?

Sometimes, when you do it right, I say. But I’m out of practice. That was a long time ago.

I lean forward suddenly, sitting up in my chair, back straight, hands folded on the table, eyes alert. It was 11:17 at night. A pretty girl was wiping off the top of the walnut bar behind us. Two tables over four men were watching a basketball game. In the Middle East, we were at war. In New York banks were failing. Across the street grunion were washing ashore. Somewhere my child was sleeping. She jumps, leaning forward, looking at me, breathing, waiting.

Laundry

It’s a Saturday,
The sun is up but the doors and windows
Are still closed
And my boy is playing video games in his pajamas

Can you come play with me, Daddy?
He asks
In a few minutes
I say
I’ve got a few more things to do
And I go back to washing dishes

Are you ready to play with me yet?
He asks me again later
As I’m walking out to the dryer
To get some laundry

I can’t just yet, love
I say
But as soon as I get this laundry done
I’ll play with you

And I bring a hamper
Full of laundry
Into the living room
And dump it on the couch
For folding

And I say
I’ll fold it right here
And I can watch you play

Okay, he says
And goes back to his game
Me folding his laundry

But he gets bored playing
Without me
And gets up on the couch
And lays down
While I pick up a tshirt
Shaking out the wrinkles,
And fold it,
And put it in a pile
At the end of the couch

Suddenly I grab his feet
And hold him upside down
Shaking him
Then drop him on the couch
Folding his feet and legs
Up on his chest
Then I pick him up and
Put him on the pile,
Face down and folded
And get another tshirt

He giggles
And says Do that again!

I act surprised
And say Hey!
How’d you get over there on the laundry?
Don’t mess up my pile!
I’m trying to get some chores done here

And he giggles and crawls back
Over to where he was lying
And I go back to folding
Until I pick him up again,
Folding him and putting him back on the shirt pile

He giggles more
And says Again, daddy!

I need to take him back to his mother’s in an hour.