Today is Friday.
For the past month, I've been working full-time, selling the hours of my life away in exchange for a monetary value that, having undergone taxation, amounts to about $10 an hour.
I'm leaving early today.
I'm riding my bike to the Market.
I'm making dinner for my friends and family.
I'm pouring two glasses of wine, instead of none.
Today is Friday.
Today is Friday and
I am Free.
Apr 25, 2008
The Strip
This is a story about certainty.
With steaks or sausages squared in brown paper and string and tucked under their woolen coats, hundreds walked passed him during a single day, all thinking he was dead.
He sat staring across the street, into the window of the Butcher Shop. Sometimes the Butcher's wife would take off her bloodied apron and stand at the window, staring out with her arms crossed.
He was looking at her now. Her arms crossed. A sharp glare on the window. All he saw was her crossed arms and a mid-life pouch at her midsection.
Nice elbows, he thought.
The content of his bottle was warm and flat, and he drank till all passed his teeth and down his throat. He stared at the window, eyes squinted, peering through the reflection but still he could not see her face. He was scuffing his hands along the gritty pavement. Back and forth. Back and forth. Lost in an empty stare.
They'd talk about having children often. A son. He wanted a son, for no reason other than his love of catch. With a son, he could throw around in the backyard as the sun set and the gnats hummed in columns and the robins poked around for grubs and the smell of fresh-cut grass clung to fringes of his greened shoes. He wanted a son.
Back and forth, back and forth.
They shined on Friday nights, the two of them. Only the cream of the neighborhood attended the parties they threw. Enough wine to last the whole party through twilight and dessert portions cut for Zeus himself. Ice cream and chocolate coated apricot slices and deep-fried poppy seed filling wrapped in buttery dough and sprinkled with powdered sugar. And the cigars. How the men would smoke cigars and drink whiskey and talk baseball.
His belt lost a notch each month and the babies would soon follow, or so he thought.
His hands were rough with burrs of raised skin. He was still scuffing them on the cement, staring into the empty reflection of the setting sun hiding the butcher's wife's face. He thought of his carpeted bed room floor. Of his crystal glassware. The self-cleaning oven. Of the gnats circling in columns. Of the fortunate, haunting past.
A young passer-by, an ambitious looking man, a somewhat younger version of himself, was weaving in and out of the passing crowd with great intent.
"Hey, you!"
Not phased, the young man pressed on, weaving.
"You there! Young man!"
He paused turning toward the wall where the old man was lying,
"Yes?"
"What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a spinal surgeon. I don't have any change, if that's what you want."
"A surgeon? Come here, boy. I have something to tell you."
"Look, I told you I don't have any change. Now good day." He began walking away swiftly, annoyed.
"But I can tell you the secret!" the old man said, desperate to be heard.
---
The Butcher's wife stood in the door way, watching the scene unfold through the "O" in "Butcher Shop" from across the street, with her arms folded and her nose pressed against the glass. She watched as the old man stood up, bent to whisper in the young man's ear, and after a short while, walked off, down the street and around the corner.
The young man hadn't moved, and when he knelt down and wept, she was taken aback. What in the world could a homeless man say to make another man cry? She glanced back to see if her husband, the butcher, had been watching her. She didn't see him, so she unfolded her arms slowly and with great care, cracked open the storefront door so not to ring the entry bell and she slipped out tip-toeing down the stoop.
---
"Are you alright? Are you hurt? I'm the butcher's wife. I saw you from the window," said the butcher's wife to the young man, who was now wiping away his tears with his coat sleeve.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
"What did that man tell you...to make you cry?"
"Huh? Oh. That man."
"Yes. What did he say? You don't have to tell me if you're embarrassed. It really isn't lady-like for me to asking such questions anyway. In fact don't even--"
"He told me that he knew the secret to happiness."
"That old drunkard of a man told you that? And you believed him?"
"You wouldn't believe what he told me."
"What did he say?"
"First, he told me that no matter how many spines I studied, I still hadn't a backbone. No matter how many lives I saved, I still couldn't save mine. I suppose that is to be expected. He told me that the secret, a secret because nobody truly knows a thing about it, is that one day will come when I will die, and everyone I have ever known and loved, will die too," he said, poised yet sniffling.
She felt compelled to say to him,"it's not true, it's not true," but she knew that it was not.
"I'm so sorry," said the butcher's wife. "I'm so sorry." she said, instead.
"I am too. I'm sorry that I didn't meet him sooner."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"I've been running my whole life. Running right into the bodies of other people, opening them up. Fixing their problems. Healing their wounds. Righting their wrongs."
"I don't understand. Dying makes it all better somehow?" She didn't understand.
"What do you do for a living?" he asked her.
"I'm the butcher's wife."
"And you saw me from the window -- from over there?" he said, pointing at the storefront of the butcher shop.
"Yes."
He leaned over to whisper in her ear.
"You didn't wait long. To involve yourself in the narrative of my pain. To offer me comfort. Perhaps consolation. But you. How long will you tolerate being the butcher's wife? How long will you stand idle in that windowpane?" he said.
She began to weep. The young surgeon, recognizing the moment, walked away, crossed the street and wrapped around the corner.
---
The entry bell rang clear as the Butcher left his shop, crossed the street, knelt down and asked his wife, "Are you alright?" He had been watching from the window.
With steaks or sausages squared in brown paper and string and tucked under their woolen coats, hundreds walked passed him during a single day, all thinking he was dead.
He sat staring across the street, into the window of the Butcher Shop. Sometimes the Butcher's wife would take off her bloodied apron and stand at the window, staring out with her arms crossed.
He was looking at her now. Her arms crossed. A sharp glare on the window. All he saw was her crossed arms and a mid-life pouch at her midsection.
Nice elbows, he thought.
The content of his bottle was warm and flat, and he drank till all passed his teeth and down his throat. He stared at the window, eyes squinted, peering through the reflection but still he could not see her face. He was scuffing his hands along the gritty pavement. Back and forth. Back and forth. Lost in an empty stare.
They'd talk about having children often. A son. He wanted a son, for no reason other than his love of catch. With a son, he could throw around in the backyard as the sun set and the gnats hummed in columns and the robins poked around for grubs and the smell of fresh-cut grass clung to fringes of his greened shoes. He wanted a son.
Back and forth, back and forth.
They shined on Friday nights, the two of them. Only the cream of the neighborhood attended the parties they threw. Enough wine to last the whole party through twilight and dessert portions cut for Zeus himself. Ice cream and chocolate coated apricot slices and deep-fried poppy seed filling wrapped in buttery dough and sprinkled with powdered sugar. And the cigars. How the men would smoke cigars and drink whiskey and talk baseball.
His belt lost a notch each month and the babies would soon follow, or so he thought.
His hands were rough with burrs of raised skin. He was still scuffing them on the cement, staring into the empty reflection of the setting sun hiding the butcher's wife's face. He thought of his carpeted bed room floor. Of his crystal glassware. The self-cleaning oven. Of the gnats circling in columns. Of the fortunate, haunting past.
A young passer-by, an ambitious looking man, a somewhat younger version of himself, was weaving in and out of the passing crowd with great intent.
"Hey, you!"
Not phased, the young man pressed on, weaving.
"You there! Young man!"
He paused turning toward the wall where the old man was lying,
"Yes?"
"What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a spinal surgeon. I don't have any change, if that's what you want."
"A surgeon? Come here, boy. I have something to tell you."
"Look, I told you I don't have any change. Now good day." He began walking away swiftly, annoyed.
"But I can tell you the secret!" the old man said, desperate to be heard.
---
The Butcher's wife stood in the door way, watching the scene unfold through the "O" in "Butcher Shop" from across the street, with her arms folded and her nose pressed against the glass. She watched as the old man stood up, bent to whisper in the young man's ear, and after a short while, walked off, down the street and around the corner.
The young man hadn't moved, and when he knelt down and wept, she was taken aback. What in the world could a homeless man say to make another man cry? She glanced back to see if her husband, the butcher, had been watching her. She didn't see him, so she unfolded her arms slowly and with great care, cracked open the storefront door so not to ring the entry bell and she slipped out tip-toeing down the stoop.
---
"Are you alright? Are you hurt? I'm the butcher's wife. I saw you from the window," said the butcher's wife to the young man, who was now wiping away his tears with his coat sleeve.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
"What did that man tell you...to make you cry?"
"Huh? Oh. That man."
"Yes. What did he say? You don't have to tell me if you're embarrassed. It really isn't lady-like for me to asking such questions anyway. In fact don't even--"
"He told me that he knew the secret to happiness."
"That old drunkard of a man told you that? And you believed him?"
"You wouldn't believe what he told me."
"What did he say?"
"First, he told me that no matter how many spines I studied, I still hadn't a backbone. No matter how many lives I saved, I still couldn't save mine. I suppose that is to be expected. He told me that the secret, a secret because nobody truly knows a thing about it, is that one day will come when I will die, and everyone I have ever known and loved, will die too," he said, poised yet sniffling.
She felt compelled to say to him,"it's not true, it's not true," but she knew that it was not.
"I'm so sorry," said the butcher's wife. "I'm so sorry." she said, instead.
"I am too. I'm sorry that I didn't meet him sooner."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"I've been running my whole life. Running right into the bodies of other people, opening them up. Fixing their problems. Healing their wounds. Righting their wrongs."
"I don't understand. Dying makes it all better somehow?" She didn't understand.
"What do you do for a living?" he asked her.
"I'm the butcher's wife."
"And you saw me from the window -- from over there?" he said, pointing at the storefront of the butcher shop.
"Yes."
He leaned over to whisper in her ear.
"You didn't wait long. To involve yourself in the narrative of my pain. To offer me comfort. Perhaps consolation. But you. How long will you tolerate being the butcher's wife? How long will you stand idle in that windowpane?" he said.
She began to weep. The young surgeon, recognizing the moment, walked away, crossed the street and wrapped around the corner.
---
The entry bell rang clear as the Butcher left his shop, crossed the street, knelt down and asked his wife, "Are you alright?" He had been watching from the window.
Aug 23, 2007
a start of something larger
"One can see that the circle is still there long after it's traced," Thomas said, his finger pointing at air, eyes wide. "The image of the circle does not take shape until the tip of your finger reaches the point at which you began." He took in a breath. "Then suddenly, the circle is there, and you can't go back. It's there, right in front of you. It exists." Her short fingers, like canned Vienna sausages, pinched a cigarette. Barbara spilled ash on the ground and took a drag. We both listened to Thomas. Smoke blew in my face. I didn't care. I was alive and that was something.
The last thing I thought would happen that night was smoking with a seventy year old retired Statistics professor. Here's to probability. The stuff was good, and my high was lofty and magical, prancing pink unicorns making love in a life-sized cornucopia of yarn, straddled by Condoleezza Rice. Quickly however, as Thomas carried on dutifully with our "inspired philosophical conversation," his eyes yellowed, teeth bloodied and his silhouette darkened as did his intentions. Paranoia seeped into consciousness. We walked back downstairs and sat on an enclosed screen porch. Pangs of excessive excretion rumbled my abdomen as the room spun. I concentrated solely on not shitting my pants as my sense of sight, my sense of sound, my sense of touch and control drifted off in different directions and I was sure, beyond a doubt, that I was about to be murdered, burglarized, and eaten by Tom and Barbara. My parents would never be able to bury their son. Just when I was about to lose it, Thomas continued. I squeezed my butt cheeks together and sipped punch, looking as inedible as I could manage.
"Your wife sees you with your finger in the wind, ya see, and asks what you are looking at because there is no circle for her. Not yet. It is only after you trace the circle again that the vision takes form, ya see? It becomes a circle, plain as day, floating in the middle of the room. And just like that, you aren't crazy anymore." I wanted to say something, prove I knew a thing or two about all this philosophy stuff. Impress the old man so maybe he wouldn't eat me, that kind of thing. Tom's arms settled back down to the chair and his eyes like two moons. I sipped more punch.
He did not eat me. The vanilla bean ice cream with chocolate fudge was not so lucky.
It could be said it was inevitable, my meeting them that morning. Two fingers idly holding the sturdy coffee mug. Thick white plate adorned with biscuit, eggs, grits and smoked sausage. Journal coupled with pen, sitting blank, between the plate and I. Laminated copy of The Jungle held half open with my other hand. A yellow table cloth our backdrop. It was my only routine outside of the farm, and I clung to it religiously. I was no longer at home. I was in the "bible belt" of the south and the way I saw it, I had to cling to something religiously. This simple diner was my style, much more than any one of the Baptist institutions open for salvation.
I was to later discover that, second only to lawyers, churches occupied the most space in the yellow pages.
So there I was, Sunday morning, teenage disasters behind the counter giving me the occasional stare tending so-and-so's change. Aged men like raisins dotted tables with metal legs and filled the joint to the brim. All of them talking like it was the Oprah book club or something. When I came strolling in through the front door, the room fell silent and sets of straining eyes hooked onto me. They followed me the duration of the walk from the door to the counter, the counter to my seat. With their curiosity satisfied, the raisins became animated, like the California mascot icons that danced and sang if you made a noise. I prodded my forehead, searching. The reflection in the polished napkin dispenser confirmed it. Yankee tattooed between my eyes. They knew. And I knew they knew.
"Nobody reads books in White County," the waitress told me. I think Shirley was her name. I was waiting for her to tell me that the war wasn't over yet, and that I should watch my back. She refilled my coffee and smiled.
I wasn't from around these parts.
"One can see that the circle is still there long after it's traced," Thomas said, his finger pointing at air, eyes wide. "The image of the circle does not take shape until the tip of your finger reaches the point at which you began." He took in a breath. "Then suddenly, the circle is there, and you can't go back. It's there, right in front of you. It exists." Her short fingers, like canned Vienna sausages, pinched a cigarette. Barbara spilled ash on the ground and took a drag. We both listened to Thomas. Smoke blew in my face. I didn't care. I was alive and that was something.
The last thing I thought would happen that night was smoking with a seventy year old retired Statistics professor. Here's to probability. The stuff was good, and my high was lofty and magical, prancing pink unicorns making love in a life-sized cornucopia of yarn, straddled by Condoleezza Rice. Quickly however, as Thomas carried on dutifully with our "inspired philosophical conversation," his eyes yellowed, teeth bloodied and his silhouette darkened as did his intentions. Paranoia seeped into consciousness. We walked back downstairs and sat on an enclosed screen porch. Pangs of excessive excretion rumbled my abdomen as the room spun. I concentrated solely on not shitting my pants as my sense of sight, my sense of sound, my sense of touch and control drifted off in different directions and I was sure, beyond a doubt, that I was about to be murdered, burglarized, and eaten by Tom and Barbara. My parents would never be able to bury their son. Just when I was about to lose it, Thomas continued. I squeezed my butt cheeks together and sipped punch, looking as inedible as I could manage.
"Your wife sees you with your finger in the wind, ya see, and asks what you are looking at because there is no circle for her. Not yet. It is only after you trace the circle again that the vision takes form, ya see? It becomes a circle, plain as day, floating in the middle of the room. And just like that, you aren't crazy anymore." I wanted to say something, prove I knew a thing or two about all this philosophy stuff. Impress the old man so maybe he wouldn't eat me, that kind of thing. Tom's arms settled back down to the chair and his eyes like two moons. I sipped more punch.
He did not eat me. The vanilla bean ice cream with chocolate fudge was not so lucky.
It could be said it was inevitable, my meeting them that morning. Two fingers idly holding the sturdy coffee mug. Thick white plate adorned with biscuit, eggs, grits and smoked sausage. Journal coupled with pen, sitting blank, between the plate and I. Laminated copy of The Jungle held half open with my other hand. A yellow table cloth our backdrop. It was my only routine outside of the farm, and I clung to it religiously. I was no longer at home. I was in the "bible belt" of the south and the way I saw it, I had to cling to something religiously. This simple diner was my style, much more than any one of the Baptist institutions open for salvation.
I was to later discover that, second only to lawyers, churches occupied the most space in the yellow pages.
So there I was, Sunday morning, teenage disasters behind the counter giving me the occasional stare tending so-and-so's change. Aged men like raisins dotted tables with metal legs and filled the joint to the brim. All of them talking like it was the Oprah book club or something. When I came strolling in through the front door, the room fell silent and sets of straining eyes hooked onto me. They followed me the duration of the walk from the door to the counter, the counter to my seat. With their curiosity satisfied, the raisins became animated, like the California mascot icons that danced and sang if you made a noise. I prodded my forehead, searching. The reflection in the polished napkin dispenser confirmed it. Yankee tattooed between my eyes. They knew. And I knew they knew.
"Nobody reads books in White County," the waitress told me. I think Shirley was her name. I was waiting for her to tell me that the war wasn't over yet, and that I should watch my back. She refilled my coffee and smiled.
I wasn't from around these parts.
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