Monday, April 8, 2013

We walk on.



I watch Miranda July's film, The Future, while munching on apple slices dipped in sticky peanut butter. Then I have FOUR chocolate cookies with ANOTHER spoonful of chunky peanut butter. The supper of a spinster. 
I wear a long loose sweater with balled wool and navy blue leggings. Beneath my chin, a plate is in position, ready to catch and cradle the crumbs. I do surprise myself. That I can dress and eat in such a way while watching this delicate doll, this wafery woman on screen without laying on the floor and rolling my spine into crunches. I really love this movie. It fascinates me. 

In bed, the peanut butter causes me to fart into the mattress, vibrating my flattened fanny. I call Scott. He doesn't answer, but while it rings for the fourth time I imagine a stranger picking up. A stranger with a uniform's jargon, calling me "mam" and asking how I know my own husband. When the machine starts it's spiel, I hang up. 

It's 12:03am now. He went out at 7:30pm for a work "bonding night" of bowling. He invited me once I was in my leggings, sweater, had removed my bra, sneakers and socks and had washed my face. 

"No thanks." I said. 

Now is the time when a lover waits with secret worry. I was starting to get worried! I fantasize saying as he stands silhouetted, framed within the rectangle molding of our shared bedroom——the night air still clinging to his yet-to-be removed coat. 

I call again. 
Riiiing. 
Riiiing. 
Riiiing. 
Hang up.  

"Will you be awake when I get home?" He asked before leaving. 

"Probably. Yes." I told him. "Will you be late?"

"No. I'm opening in the morning." 

Now I'm not so sure that I'll be awake. I could sleep this stress away. Will somebody call me if he's hurt in a hospital somewhere?  

My phone rings. It's 12:28am. He'll be home in ten minutes. 

"I will be asleep." I say before hanging up. 

Pressed into my pillow, I wake to wind-battered rain splattering the windows, to branches tapping and to tires shushing. I am alone. Just as when I left my consciousness seven hours before. Scott has sunk beside me in his underwear, wrapped his arms around my ribs, slept and risen; all while I lay beside him with my eyes closed. Although, I vaguely remember a groan escaping my mouth, my body wanting to say "hello" to my husband. 

A little while later, I sit staring at the online tax website. A jar of water, employment papers and handwritten notes watch me from their positions on the coffee table. Penny is suddenly excited, showing me her teeth——her smile——which I usually only see when I've come home after being away for a few days. She yelps when I look back to the screen. She runs to the kitchen and returns with her ball. I go to grab it, but she holds it just far enough away. You're gonna have to get up! She says, her tail like a metal coil pulled to the side and released. She wants to go outside for our morning walk. She's too excited to wait. She thought she'd just lay at my feet avoiding the gray capricious clouds, but she's too excited now. 

We tread the littered sidewalks, my dog and I. She pulls to soggy doughnuts, breakfast sandwich bits and squirrels. The air is thick with exhaust.
Car. 
Car. 
Car. 
Bus. 
Car. 
Truck. 
Really big truck. 
Car. 
Car. 
Car. 
Car. 
Car. 
Car. 
Car. 
Bus. 
Truck. 
Trash truck. 
Car. 
Car.
Scrap metal pick up. 
Bus. 

We walk through Wrigley. I forgot today is Opening Day for Cubs baseball. The fans dress in royal blue. They look like pigs. Even the skinny ones. Pinked cheeks, they stand in dark clubs drinking beer before 9am. Parking flags flap from lawn chairs. Security officers pace the stadium's lot. And the McDonald's across the street is crowded with cholesterol. 

Through the fickle drizzle, we walk on. At around 9:15am, I wrap Penny's wet leash around a pole and knot it, dropping a handful of kibble between her front paws. I go into the cafe where Scott works. Tall and slender with black-rimmed glasses and his red and blue plaid shirt, he smiles when he sees me. He didn't expect we'd come because of the rain. I ask him if he's tired. He will be. It's a ten hour shift. But for now, he's fine. He makes me a tea and I sit at the counter, watching him work. 

At home, I throw the windows up. The breeze feels fresh, as if filtered by the screens. Wind bursts in. The plant in the bedroom window with its long cascading leaves falls to the floor. I rush to it like an emergency room nurse, scooping its dirt back onto its bony roots. Then a shampoo bottle and a box of bar soap topples into the bathtub. Then the two lime green plants in the living room fall from their sill, the ottoman softening their landing. Penny paces, trying to get between my legs as I rush from window to window. Eventually she climbs into the porcelain tub of chipped paint and gray molded grout. I place the fallen plants into the sinks and give them all time to sit and soak in new water. I sweep the dirt, dust and dog hair. Then I wash my hands and make a sandwich. 

I sit alone on the couch again; another plate poised under my mouth. The trees are so courteous——I think to myself—— to let in the winter light through their bare, unfettered branches, warming our musty windowsills and salivating our sweat glands for summer.  


   

A Wise Friend

A wise friend is akin to a book of old wisdom.  A book of bone and soul and skin. A book that breathes and speaks and eats. A book with a so...