Curled up small and tight
A roly-poly in the floorboard of the family car
The transmisson hump makes a dirty hot pillow
Each bump in the road
Bounces your head
Each gear
Grinds in your ear
Lifting
Your face remembers the carpet
With crop circles
And tiny trash
Like ice cream sprinkles
Adults are talking
Blah, blah, blah
And
This and that
And hand me another one of those cold things
McDonald's french fries
Hot
Cold
And in-between
Greasy candles
Dropping salt
Delicious, tiny, happy bites
Will make them last
Forever
Drifing in and out
Of dark
And light
Along the highway home
Safe
And
Invisible
Friday, September 30, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Drivers License Shirt
He couldn’t remember why he liked it in the first place, much less why he was in a panic to find it. The shirt was threadbare and speckled with holes of various dimensions but once it glistened like orange and green striped polyester gold. It had originally come into his possession through the fruits of a fit he threw at the Hickory Flat Bargain Store, the summer before his eighth grade year. Anyone witnessing that vocal and tearful event would attest to the fact that his mother had no choice but to buy the shirt and ease his teenage suffering. In 1979, the shirt had clung tight to his skinny torso like a sock on the wall of a dryer. Seventy-five pounds and a quarter of a century later, he had little hope of squeezing back into his old friend without looking ridiculous...but then again, that was the point.
This was not the first time that Paul had lost the shirt. In fact, out of the twenty-six years that it had been in his possession, it had only made a handful of cameo appearances: his first day of high school, his first date, and every Drivers License photo he ever had taken. Originally a stunt to entertain his friends, the tradition of wearing what became known as the “Drivers License Shirt” (or DLS), evolved into something unexpected: a visual record of time flying. Every five years when his license expired, he squeezed back into that glorious rag, combed his hair down straight like Moe Howard and went to stand in line at the DMV.
“Where is that freaking shirt?” he said in the oppressive heat and humidity of the attic. It always turned up in the loneliest places. Once he had found it wedged in a crevice between the arm and seat of his frat boy quality sofa. Potato chip crumbs and ghosts of farts fell out into the air and almost choked him when he dislodged it. Another time, the shirt turned up in a moldy cardboard box full of ancient history. Inside were the odds and ends of his life: an Elvis mirror, a pair of 3D glasses, assorted Christmas and Birthday cards, immaculate unopened bills, and a zoo of unloved stuffed animals. He wished that the shirt had found a less retrospective place to hide.
So far, he had collected four Drivers License photos and kept them pinned in chronological order on a dry and crumbling cork board behind his computer. This year’s photo would be the fifth. With each successive laminated portrait his face widened, his eyes tired, and his smile looked less believable. It was like looking at time lapse photography of a man being poisoned. The consequences of five years revealed in a moment. It would have been depressing if the pictures had not been so god damned funny.
Grumpy and discouraged by his failure to locate the shirt in the attic, Paul gingerly coached his feet down the ladder. Although he knew a steel bar was bolted across the bottom of each rung, he could not help but envision himself painfully splintering through each one and crashing to the floor. He imagined his spirit hovering over his broken body as the medics arrived on the scene. “No more Cheetos for you big boy” one of them would say and then they both would start laughing. Paul’s right leg reached downward and found solid ground. “Looks like I’ll be having at least one more bag, you fuckers” he thought defiantly and let the folded ladder spring back into the ceiling. He paused to scan his brain for memories.
Once again he turned to his bedroom dresser; the contents of every drawer strewn about the room in random hurricane order. “Think” he said and tried to direct more juice to the part of his brain that remembered things. “I came home from the DMV, threw my change in the candy dish, pulled the shirt up over my head and threw it in the…GOD DAMN IT…I am starting to freak out people!” He grabbed one of the tacky brass handles on the front of the dresser and yanked the whole drawer out of its socket. “SHIT!” he screamed slowly as if the word was a mile long…and then there was silence. In one corner of the space previously occupied by the drawer, pressed flat against the back of the dresser, was his holy grail. “Oh, Drivers License shirt, I LOVE YOU!” Paul said mimicking Elmo from Sesame Street and then burst into laughter.
The shirt was in worse condition than he remembered both visually and odiferously. “All the better.” he thought and began inserting himself into the fragile garment with all the care of an archeologist trying to unroll a Dead Sea scroll. “Just one more time, old buddy” Paul thought as he began slipping the neck of the shirt down over his talk show host sized head. The polyester smashed his nose flat and clipped his ears as it stretched across his face. He felt like he was being born. “Almost there…” he said as he applied the final bit of pressure and then “pop”, he was wearing it.
Paul looked at himself in the narrow full length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door. The shirt stopped short of his hairy belly and a hole fell fortuitously around his left nipple. A pimple loomed red and ripe on the side of his nose and his off-white teeth smiled as if they were made of ivory. It felt good to be sixteen again.
This was not the first time that Paul had lost the shirt. In fact, out of the twenty-six years that it had been in his possession, it had only made a handful of cameo appearances: his first day of high school, his first date, and every Drivers License photo he ever had taken. Originally a stunt to entertain his friends, the tradition of wearing what became known as the “Drivers License Shirt” (or DLS), evolved into something unexpected: a visual record of time flying. Every five years when his license expired, he squeezed back into that glorious rag, combed his hair down straight like Moe Howard and went to stand in line at the DMV.
“Where is that freaking shirt?” he said in the oppressive heat and humidity of the attic. It always turned up in the loneliest places. Once he had found it wedged in a crevice between the arm and seat of his frat boy quality sofa. Potato chip crumbs and ghosts of farts fell out into the air and almost choked him when he dislodged it. Another time, the shirt turned up in a moldy cardboard box full of ancient history. Inside were the odds and ends of his life: an Elvis mirror, a pair of 3D glasses, assorted Christmas and Birthday cards, immaculate unopened bills, and a zoo of unloved stuffed animals. He wished that the shirt had found a less retrospective place to hide.
So far, he had collected four Drivers License photos and kept them pinned in chronological order on a dry and crumbling cork board behind his computer. This year’s photo would be the fifth. With each successive laminated portrait his face widened, his eyes tired, and his smile looked less believable. It was like looking at time lapse photography of a man being poisoned. The consequences of five years revealed in a moment. It would have been depressing if the pictures had not been so god damned funny.
Grumpy and discouraged by his failure to locate the shirt in the attic, Paul gingerly coached his feet down the ladder. Although he knew a steel bar was bolted across the bottom of each rung, he could not help but envision himself painfully splintering through each one and crashing to the floor. He imagined his spirit hovering over his broken body as the medics arrived on the scene. “No more Cheetos for you big boy” one of them would say and then they both would start laughing. Paul’s right leg reached downward and found solid ground. “Looks like I’ll be having at least one more bag, you fuckers” he thought defiantly and let the folded ladder spring back into the ceiling. He paused to scan his brain for memories.
Once again he turned to his bedroom dresser; the contents of every drawer strewn about the room in random hurricane order. “Think” he said and tried to direct more juice to the part of his brain that remembered things. “I came home from the DMV, threw my change in the candy dish, pulled the shirt up over my head and threw it in the…GOD DAMN IT…I am starting to freak out people!” He grabbed one of the tacky brass handles on the front of the dresser and yanked the whole drawer out of its socket. “SHIT!” he screamed slowly as if the word was a mile long…and then there was silence. In one corner of the space previously occupied by the drawer, pressed flat against the back of the dresser, was his holy grail. “Oh, Drivers License shirt, I LOVE YOU!” Paul said mimicking Elmo from Sesame Street and then burst into laughter.
The shirt was in worse condition than he remembered both visually and odiferously. “All the better.” he thought and began inserting himself into the fragile garment with all the care of an archeologist trying to unroll a Dead Sea scroll. “Just one more time, old buddy” Paul thought as he began slipping the neck of the shirt down over his talk show host sized head. The polyester smashed his nose flat and clipped his ears as it stretched across his face. He felt like he was being born. “Almost there…” he said as he applied the final bit of pressure and then “pop”, he was wearing it.
Paul looked at himself in the narrow full length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door. The shirt stopped short of his hairy belly and a hole fell fortuitously around his left nipple. A pimple loomed red and ripe on the side of his nose and his off-white teeth smiled as if they were made of ivory. It felt good to be sixteen again.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Unemployment
Day Nine of doing nothing. I've fallen into an endless cycle of taking care of kids, playing with Google Earth, and listening to the screaming of a two-year-old who wants her way and is trying to talk above a wife complaining that I left dishes in the sink. Time has begun to lose meaning. The days run together. I've done away with knowing the days of the week in favor of a new method of my own invention. There are now two days of the week. Funday lasts for 6 days, and liquor-store-closed-day lasts for one day. Today is Funday.
Each morning I wake up, crawl downstairs, lay around. I stretch, yawn, and feel too lazy to reach for the remote. I try to get Katelyn to bring it to me, but instead she decides to start pushing buttons. Man, I'm way too tired to do anything about it.
After the first few days my beard had started coming in nicely. By now it's a huge, scraggly mess. My hair sticks up in all sorts of places. The hair brush sits idle. I've realized I can give up most forms of hygiene, including bathing. I was surprised that after a week I still didn't stink. But the other day I showered because I finally started to notice an odor. In an unrelated note my cold finally started clearing up and I can smell again.
My wife is throwing out lots of hints lately, more each day. She asks about all those projects I was going to do, how the job search is coming, etc. She even asked if I was going to write anything while I was off, kind of nudging me along. Dang. That instantly turned it into work, now I don't want to do it anymore.
After a hard days work of laying on the sofa, it's almost noon and I'm ready for a nap. Wish I had some chicken wings. But just the thought of getting dressed to go to the store is taking way too much energy. I collapse on the bed. Soon it will be late enough to have a rum and coke....I can't wait.
Oh damnit!!! I'm out of rum! Now I HAVE to make myself at least presentable enough to go into the liquor store. They've been looking at me funny lately, one of them offered me a frequent fliers discount! Jokers.
I think my life is becoming a Jimmy Buffett song.
Each morning I wake up, crawl downstairs, lay around. I stretch, yawn, and feel too lazy to reach for the remote. I try to get Katelyn to bring it to me, but instead she decides to start pushing buttons. Man, I'm way too tired to do anything about it.
After the first few days my beard had started coming in nicely. By now it's a huge, scraggly mess. My hair sticks up in all sorts of places. The hair brush sits idle. I've realized I can give up most forms of hygiene, including bathing. I was surprised that after a week I still didn't stink. But the other day I showered because I finally started to notice an odor. In an unrelated note my cold finally started clearing up and I can smell again.
My wife is throwing out lots of hints lately, more each day. She asks about all those projects I was going to do, how the job search is coming, etc. She even asked if I was going to write anything while I was off, kind of nudging me along. Dang. That instantly turned it into work, now I don't want to do it anymore.
After a hard days work of laying on the sofa, it's almost noon and I'm ready for a nap. Wish I had some chicken wings. But just the thought of getting dressed to go to the store is taking way too much energy. I collapse on the bed. Soon it will be late enough to have a rum and coke....I can't wait.
Oh damnit!!! I'm out of rum! Now I HAVE to make myself at least presentable enough to go into the liquor store. They've been looking at me funny lately, one of them offered me a frequent fliers discount! Jokers.
I think my life is becoming a Jimmy Buffett song.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
A Night at the Ball Park
Buy a three foot long pixie stick. Use your teeth to tear open the plastic straw. Tilt your head back and pour the sugar into a dune on your tongue. Swish the candy around your mouth in a tidal wave. Stick a purple tongue out at your brother. The game is just starting and Mom is encouraging someone to “knock the shit out of it”. Sit with the softball girls on the bench. Get embarrassed when they talk about your long eye lashes. Run away. Step in some chewing gum. Use a mud puddle to wash your feet.
Walk along the park fence and look for honeysuckle. Pull the chord on the flower. Drop its sweet tear in your mouth. Eat an ant, too. Be more careful with the next one. Look up at the scoreboard. Look down at your watch. Eat a hundred more drops. Wish you had a hotdog.
Take a matchbox car out of your pocket. Smell the metal. Spin the wheels with your finger. Drive it along the top railing of the fence. Make it jump the posts. Spot a trail leading through the bushes. Make sure your mother is not looking. Haul ass. Push on a crooked gate. Force the latch. Discover a playground. Ride the horse on the rusty spring even though you are too big. Lie on the cool flat of the round-and-round. Look up at the clouds. Have a daydream about Halloween. Enjoy this lonely weird place. Pull a kudzu vine off a swing set chain. Pick up a box of crushed Lemonheads and throw it in the trash. Sweep some leaves off the slide. Decide to keep this place secret. Stay a while.
Open your eyes wide to let in more light. Rub the chill bumps off your arm. Realize that you have stayed too long. Run back to the ball field. Feel relieved that the game has not ended. Search for your grandmother in the stands. Snuggle with her under a blanket. Eat cold chicken and talk about scary movies. Stand up when the crowd roars. Someone hits a homerun. You are sure it is Geraldine.
Tell Nanny you need to go to pee. Find your brother playing dump truck under the bleachers. Think he is filthy. Know Mom is going to whip his ass. Decide to play dump truck too. Fill a paper cup with dirt. Dump it. Repeat. Stick a long piece of grass in your mouth to look like Huck Finn. Spit it out when it burns you. Stink weed. Be more careful with the next one. Pick up two pennies, a dime and a hair bow and put them in your pocket… kid treasure. Ask your brother for some Redhots. He gives you some Good N' Plentys instead. Yuck…licorice.
The wooden planks of the bleachers bend heavily downward with the weight of the departing crowd. Both teams are on the field shaking hands. Grab your brother and clean up with a garden hose. Take a shortcut to the parking lot. Find your mother. The outer part of her right thigh is skinned up and bloody. She doesn’t yell at you for getting dirty. Geraldine gets in the back between you and your brother. Mom is taking her home tonight. It is dark and the summer air is blowing in warm through the little triangle windows on the car. The music on the radio drifts in and out until it is completely fuzz. Talk to Geraldine about her home run. Tell her that she is going to beat Hank Aaron’s record. Feel full when she laughs. Ask her to sing that Debbie Boone song. Fall asleep on her shoulder.
Walk along the park fence and look for honeysuckle. Pull the chord on the flower. Drop its sweet tear in your mouth. Eat an ant, too. Be more careful with the next one. Look up at the scoreboard. Look down at your watch. Eat a hundred more drops. Wish you had a hotdog.
Take a matchbox car out of your pocket. Smell the metal. Spin the wheels with your finger. Drive it along the top railing of the fence. Make it jump the posts. Spot a trail leading through the bushes. Make sure your mother is not looking. Haul ass. Push on a crooked gate. Force the latch. Discover a playground. Ride the horse on the rusty spring even though you are too big. Lie on the cool flat of the round-and-round. Look up at the clouds. Have a daydream about Halloween. Enjoy this lonely weird place. Pull a kudzu vine off a swing set chain. Pick up a box of crushed Lemonheads and throw it in the trash. Sweep some leaves off the slide. Decide to keep this place secret. Stay a while.
Open your eyes wide to let in more light. Rub the chill bumps off your arm. Realize that you have stayed too long. Run back to the ball field. Feel relieved that the game has not ended. Search for your grandmother in the stands. Snuggle with her under a blanket. Eat cold chicken and talk about scary movies. Stand up when the crowd roars. Someone hits a homerun. You are sure it is Geraldine.
Tell Nanny you need to go to pee. Find your brother playing dump truck under the bleachers. Think he is filthy. Know Mom is going to whip his ass. Decide to play dump truck too. Fill a paper cup with dirt. Dump it. Repeat. Stick a long piece of grass in your mouth to look like Huck Finn. Spit it out when it burns you. Stink weed. Be more careful with the next one. Pick up two pennies, a dime and a hair bow and put them in your pocket… kid treasure. Ask your brother for some Redhots. He gives you some Good N' Plentys instead. Yuck…licorice.
The wooden planks of the bleachers bend heavily downward with the weight of the departing crowd. Both teams are on the field shaking hands. Grab your brother and clean up with a garden hose. Take a shortcut to the parking lot. Find your mother. The outer part of her right thigh is skinned up and bloody. She doesn’t yell at you for getting dirty. Geraldine gets in the back between you and your brother. Mom is taking her home tonight. It is dark and the summer air is blowing in warm through the little triangle windows on the car. The music on the radio drifts in and out until it is completely fuzz. Talk to Geraldine about her home run. Tell her that she is going to beat Hank Aaron’s record. Feel full when she laughs. Ask her to sing that Debbie Boone song. Fall asleep on her shoulder.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)