It's
not accurate to describe Cassia kicking me out. I left. It's not accurate
to describe Cassia, period, because she is, or has been, my everything.
Instead I talk more about myself. No. Bad idea. Have I described
Cassia to you? One of the first things I think about is her hair, the way
it tassles across her shoulders. Her shoulders, taut and somehow always
cold. Her nose, aquiline, that's a good word. When we started going out I
had visions of fancy in which she was a regal painting, dapples of gold amidst
the azures, something late 19th century, that nose so aristocratic in
bearing. As you get to know someone your clarity of vision improves, or,
in our case, I stopped seeing what was real about her. I stopped imaging
her as an old world portrait around the time I started fantasizing about what
her belly would look like pregnant. I'm not accurately describing Cassia
at all. This is still more descriptions of me and my descriptions.
This is the problem. Also, the problem is I left, she didn't kick me
out. She didn't ask me to come back, or, hasn't yet, either. Maybe
that's not the problem. Maybe the problem is I can't stop thinking about
how I should be writing this down. Giving this story some shape.
Jo
lives in a mansion she rented from some East Coasters who are putting off
retirement while their younger daughter finishes school at Princeton. Jo
provides an air kiss on each cheek, continentally. Jo plants her veiny hand
with its five long silver ringed fingers firmly on my shoulder and
delivers a deep practiced look of understanding as I explain that it would just
be for a little while. Jo shows me the spare room which I can use, the
spare rooms I can't, the kitchen, the dining rooms, bathrooms, library, piano
recital room, she points out to the deck, mentions a work from home offfice
suite and a gym room, points to the stairs to the third floor. Jo sets
out towels, apologizes for having to go to work, "sorry, I'm actually
really late," and says I can borrow the car if I need.
"I
like to walk," I demur.
"If
you change your mind, keys will be here. Don't forget the combination
when you come back in."
"I'll
probably just rest up. Thank you so much. Shower off, first. Please.
The water is very hot so be careful. Rest. I'll be back by
eight."
So
I borrow Jo's car to drive to the bank re:$ and a cop pulls me over within
a minute. Do you know why I pulled you over? Failure to come to a complete
stop. Does a record of this exchange follow my name or Jo's car or both
here on in? 'Traffic violation' is too violent a term don't you think?
It's a hastily assembled catch-all that doesn't do justice to we wee scofflaws
rolling through our midday California stops. Why do we even follow these
rules? I should write that down. I should bring this car back and walk.
Instead I
stop by a bar and listen an old day-drinking cougar tell me a story about her
nephew who was the drummer in the band BeHeld and who traveled to Thailand and
came back an ordained barefooted Buddhist monk. Then some guys came in
and explain to me all about estate tax exemptions, Congolese Cobalt mining, the
New York Jets, the myriadic problems with the work of Thomas Friedman, and they
promised to give me the real scoop on Chinese spy satellites next time, then I
remember about the bank and say I'll be right back and the bartender this guy
named Chris are still discussing the changes in the weather in very resolute
and stirring tones when I get back all angry about the traffic and right behind
me come these two Lithuanian girls come in and we buy them each a drink, three
times, and we all smile a lot but they have to go and the place is suddenly
filled with many different kinds of people, how did that happen, and one of
them has borrowed my barstool so I'm just standing there like a schmuck so I
pop out for a smoke and see that the sky is dark and realize it has become
night and when I get back to Jo's place she is pacing the vestibule.
"Stealing
my car? Leaving the scene of an accident!"
"I
barely tapped the guy. And I was just borrowing it, like you said.
See, it's right there."
"My
co-worker Martha texted me to ask if I was alright since she'd seen me peel off
after hitting a pedestrian."
"Barely
tapped. D'ja tell her it wasn't you?"
"Out." Jo
handed me my backpack and a Tupperware still warm with food. "I'm sorry
about what you're going through and all but, not enough to bring my house down
too."
I
realized later that I didn't even tell her about the traffic ticket.
I
hadn't planned to go to my sister's apartment because I didn't want to. I
didn't want to because she would know that I was only there
because I had to be there. Then she would want to talk to me
about it. I didn't want her to talk to me about it.
"Hey
you" she says, smiling, deep black wading pools under her
eyes.
She
opens the door a crack, her voice a hair louder than a whisper. A dog
barks and she closes the door again and I hear her hissing threats at the dog
and escorting it away, three moths dance in the light by the buzzer while I
wait. A few minutes later I hear her come back and she opens the door
again, wider now, "my brother is always welcome, I just, I just put the
kiddos to sleep," she says, motioning dismissively behind her in a gesture
I know innately translates to 'that goddamn dog' The clock on the microwave
shows that it's 10:34pm. "Come in! Come in," her hair is tied up like
a frayed knot tied around two chopsticks. Tiny pieces of egg and peas and
applesauce wrappers and Bratz dolls and watercolor fingerpaints are all Jackson
Pollack'd over the table "Shhhhh" she cautions me, starting to clean
up then turning back around to give me a hug, then cleaning some more, then
offering me a glass of wine, then seeing the mail and looking through it with a
worried expression, then apologizing and clearing a space on the couch by
placing the dog toys and the socks and leggings and an unspooled roll of Bounty
paper towels onto the recliner next to the framed portait of mom.
She
nestles herself up on the opposite end of the couch by placing the purple toy
teapot and the cut-out paper flower bouquet and the Styrofoam takeout box a
quarter full of orange Indian food and the book with the missing cover about
the Elephant and the Piggie and and and and and and and and, into a green milk
crate on the counter by the toaster. Then she finds the cover of the book
and hands it to me. She remembers the wine and gets up to pour it. Slumps
back down. We each sip.
"Is
it alright if I stay the night?"
"Of
course, yes" she says, adding "Any time" then the clouds of
conditionality track across the horizon of her mind, I can see her eyes
following them in the distance, "If the baby won't bother you, that
is. She's up and down most of the night. And Kellie's got dance
tomorrow so we're leaving early." I hand back the book cover and
grab a hairy pillow off the dog kennel. "Your nephew's with his father
tonight," she says, still cloudwatching.
I
don't want her to talk to me about why I'm there so I close my eyes. When
my eyes open again it's because two little fingers are prying my eyelids
apart. Kellie, beautiful auburn haired gap-toothed tutu-wearing Kellie,
looking very concerned and asking why I'm on the floor. I reach a groggy
arm up to leverage back onto the couch and feel the dog there, spooled up in
sleep.
"Why
is Uncle sleeping on the floor," her angelic voice calls out to her
mother.
"Get
your shoes on, honey!" my sister calls from the bathroom. I help
myself to some Captain Crunch and 1%, then start the process of rounding up
dishes and washing them as my sister comes out all made-up, wearing black
leggings and a mauve jumper, carrying the baby in her right arm, three bags
slung over her shoulder, a coffee mug and keys in her left hand.
"Honey say goodbye to Uncle we gotta go." Kellie puckers up and I
lean in to get a kiss and then they are gone and I am left amidst the detritus
in silence, the dog on the couch looking at me quizzically like 'well?'
so I finish washing the dishes and rip out a page from my notebook to leave a
note taped to the fridge, and steal a paper flower from the bouquet on my way
out.
From blue time before
world
where God’s dreams
spring [unto Mt. Hellicon]
whereupon nine muses
dance
evergetic, manupusant, His
face badly burnt
demands song, tell a
tale, the tale, praise, praise.
Trials the Second thru
Fourth in Most Rapid Succession
Dark
ocean roar. Watching cautiously for the undertow, then forgetting about it and
getting sucked out to way over my head and yell for help and gulp down
seawater. Whoosh and down I go.
The
Gomez brothers have this condo right off campus. I hears about it, I loves it,
I goes and they loves me and I do this line and do that line and I, through
sheer willpower and charisma, I moves the whole night party out to the beach,
four cars, only seven headlights, and the beach is empty and I says let’s go in
the water, and they protest while I strip and sprint way out to the scrim then step
toes out cautiously, for footings or changes to the current and then I forgets
and I’m out in the breakers and can’t
touch and floating like sparkly flotsam and the big wave hits and another
bigger wave and the sea surrounds me, penetrates my ears and nose and mouth and
this is my final moment.
Figures.
Death by drowning. I can feel my lungs aching, I wonder if I still have
any limbs. There unravels a soundless
calm. I am mitochondria. The
crunch of the surf a distant radio static in the dark then nothing. Why is the
world so intent upon leaving me alone with my thoughts? Maybe I’ll just
sleep. Just sink. So much easier than thinking. Then I Sense something waiting up
ahead. Turning sharply I face a pair of tender fish eyes and
flinch. What are you doing here, the eyes ask. I stare, willing my
eyes to cry, to confess the old sins, admit confusion amidst the tumult yet
there below the surface there is no crying, no tumult even, nothing to anchor
sensation and emotion in memory, only a stunningly suffocating stillness where
the eyes see me and seem to satiate their curiosity with disinterested pity
saying this is not your place and they swim away, creating a clutch
of bubbles that rise up and I follow. Up.
Up. Out. When I break to the surface I cough and
scream but I can’t hear anything except the roaring church of the waves which is
as disorienting as it is omnipresent, but lights on the land are distant galaxies
and I reach and stroke and kick and swim and ache and paddle and push and yearn
and repeat and reach the sand and crawl up past the water’s reach and rest
and then the globe stops spinning and I manage to stand upright and walk back.
Later.
There's a fire Javier tends and although its warmth feels good, sitting by it
seems invasive. My wet boxers attract shivers. Clothes in a pile, sand
everywhere. I remember writing in my hip moleskin "happiness is
fascism."
Later.
I watch her curves in those dark jeans try to jimmy her way back into the
locked car. Locked out. Rachel hair. Espadrilles. The mind ablaze. She
turns around and I realize she has a face like a dumpling. The fucking
peregrinations of desire. The glaze dissolved into a long conversation on the
cement steps about the authenticity of the self as expressed through careerism.
"I know I could be doing so much more," Dumpling is
saying.
"Then
what's stopping you from doing it?" Amir asks.
"Those are just excuses," Amir says.
"I
guess yer right." From this angle parallel to the pavement she has a
certain caustic luxuriousness, if one were needing to find nice things to say
one could admire the commitment to presentation. Unfortunately what she
presents isn't what I'm looking for. Amir seems to hold out some
hope.
"No I
take it back. I'm the one administering excuses. It's fear" Amir
says.
"Nope. No guessing. I know I'm right." Amir is a hard
worker, I remember, and I wonder how much he makes, how much he has saved. It occurs to me that I haven't been to work
in a week. Amir's greying hair shines in the halogens from the parking
lot. Javier pokes at the fire.
"Do you believe in fate?" Dumpling asks, apropos of nothing.
"There's definitely maybe a reason, like, that you're asking me these
questions tonight. Like look at Venus up there." So we
dutifully turn to observe the evening star as she reflects her luminescence
through Amir's big cow eyes. Twinkling like a song of anamnesis. "The iron
in your blood only exists thanks to stellar explosions of long-ago, the
gold in these earrings were formed by the breaking hearts of dying stars, and
Venus named after the goddess of beauty, could have turned out very much like Earth,
but she loved her own reflection too much, and the runaway greenhouse effect
left her a victim of burns and mutilated."
She
might have continued talking. What's
with our infatuation with Venus, I wonder, and what does it say about us that
we've maintained this inchoate fascination for millennia without ever going
deeper than the surface?
"Isn't
it likely that we're fated to be here, in this city, by this fire?” Inside the condo there is yelling, screaming
even, and then silence. I check to see if my clothes are still wet. They are.
"Humans
are natural conspiracy theorists,” says Amir when he has courteously surmised
that Dumpling is done speaking. “Best to
keep that in mind. We’re hardwired to find meaning in meaningless
coincidences."
Javier
gets up and gives the signal for beer and I nod, and Amir nods and Dumpling turns
around and nods as well and I can’t keep calling her Dumpling, it sounds bad,
but I didn’t ask her name. She went on
about the sun swallowing the Earth until we are just a intrauterine fetus, and
something about Andromeda.
“What does
a wave look like outside of linear time?” I remember writing in my hip moleskin.
I
wake alone on a bed that's not mine in a room I don't recognize, the sheets
covered in sand. Raw skin between my thighs. Neither pants nor
shirt, moleskin, but a fair middling of shame. "Sorry about the bed,"
I say, meandering thirstily into the smoky mouth of an i shaped kitchen where
two people I do not know are using a broom to fan smoke out of a too-small screened
window. Outside a storm is brewing, the walls rumble and the wind whines. The word I want to use is insistently.
Cassia
calls. I miss it. The rain lathers my arms like baby oil as I cross the iron
bridge thinking the world is a bitter and complicated place, pontificating
other bitter thoughts to the jaded audience of self. Each wretched step a
procession of apostolic penance. When I call her back she sounds the same,
which is to say, miles away. My feet feel like plywood.
She doesn’t ask where I am but I tell her anyway. "I
miss you," I confess.
"You
left your stuff. I brought it to your job, they said they hadn’t seen you."
I
couldn’t think of an appropriate response to that so I kept walking, holding
the phone away from my mouth so she wouldn’t hear my laden breathing in her
ear.
“Do
you have somewhere to go?” she asked.
“Yeah,”
I said. Like tears in the rain, I’d just
go down there someplace. Follow gravity.
“I
miss you, too,” she says. It feels like a bullet through the gut.
The
ubiquity of magazines in quiet waiting rooms. I make rapid sketches in my
new hip pocket moleskin and crave a cigarette but I wait. ‘Patience,’ someone probably once said, ‘is
allowing the restraint of moderation prolong one’s satisfaction.’ I didn’t
write that down. But I make rapid
sketches of words there, waiting, writing, and when they call me back, even
though I am on a roll I pocket the paper and pen and follow the nice-smelling
nurse’s aide down the secret forbidden corridor to the third right and then the
second left, to Cassia.
On
the drive home I notice how green everything still is. “The rain’ll do that,” she says, reaching out
to hold my hand, and I wonder if I had said it out loud or if she had just read
my mind. We hold hands as I wend the
wheel around the curves in the road the rest of the way home. The house on the
hill.
There’s
a drug called anger but it’s never going to be enough, and a drug called
righteousness but it leaves a sour taste to everything if you try it. “I figured that I would ascend from the
paralysis of private cognition towards a shared experience of the real,” I wrote
in the closing pages of the book, plagiarized, I think. I’d copped it from the notebook and who knows
where it came from. Briefly there was a
moment when I debated not reading that line aloud when I gave her the pre-submission
read-through. But so many of our first
instincts are motivated by fear, so I examined it a bit and it didn’t hold
water.
