Necessary Distractions

Hi Twelve Stories,

Please consider this recently reworked older piece 'Necessary Distractions' for inclusion in a future issue of Twelve Stories.

Thank you,

Robert Aquino Dollesin

robertdollesin@comcast.net

Necessary Distractions

by Robert Aquino Dollesin

Jennifer sat across from me at the breakfast table. She asked, “Why can't you hold a job?” Evidently, my layoff from her brother's company – the most recent in a string of layoffs – hadn't slipped her mind yet.

I gripped my spoon tighter and lowered my gaze. The bowl that the cereal floated inside of was patterned with yellow daisies. Lots of daisies dangling off green stems. I'd always thought daisies were simple, special flowers. I liked how they were scattered along the inside edge of the bowl, lapping the rim. The bowl was deep porcelain, seemingly bottomless. I shoved aside some of the floating cereal with the back of my spoon and it surprised me that I could see the ceiling fan's distorted reflection sputtering lazily around the milk's creamy surface.

“Our bills,” Jennifer said. “We're behind on all of our bills. Every time the phone rings . . . when the mailman drives by . . . I get these anxiety attacks.” She buried her face in her hands.

Carefully, I broke the white surface in the bowl and watched my spoon fill with milk. I submerged the spoon deeper, then scooped up some of the cereal. I raised the collected Captain Crunch in front of my face. The golden, creased squares reminded me of the dimpled throw-pillows on the living room sofa. Except the pillows weren't tiny, and not gold. They were red-and-white checkered with little pink tassels hanging off the corners. The cereal hadn't been in the milk long enough to become soggy, so when I ground down its texture was gritty between my teeth. I grimaced. Before swallowing, I let the cereal soften in my mouth, let the taste linger on my tongue and palate.

When Jennifer got up from the table and went over to the sink, her house slippers slapped the floor. And that made me think that just because I didn't have a job to go to, I couldn't get caught up in the morning courtroom television programs. The minute Jennifer left for work I'd slip into the white Converse high tops my mother had given me for Christmas and take a long walk around the neighborhood. The Converse were for walking, and I was careful not to stain them because if my mother spotted grass or mud on the shoes, she'd lecture me on the importance of taking care of things.

Also I promised myself that when I took my walk this morning, I'd shut the doors on the roadside mailboxes I'd open and peer inside of. I'd force myself to refrain from stripping rubber bands off newspapers resting on lawns. I wouldn't chase any of the cats that roamed the neighborhood, rooting in gardens. And as for unscrewing the little black plastic valves off the tires of cars sitting in driveways – I wouldn't do that, either.

The cigar box in the garage was already full of rubber bands and tire valves. Some afternoons I'd position all the valves like little soldiers on the living-room furniture, then I'd shoot the rubber bands like cannonballs, destroying the valve army. Of course, the place had to be cleaned up and everything stowed back in the cigar box before Jennifer got home from her first job at the tax place, or I wouldn't hear the end of it.

She turned the water on and began to scour the piled up dirty dishes. “I work two jobs,” she said, making a show of clattering the dishes, “plus, I'm the one who always ends up doing the chores around here.”

The criss-crossing blue and yellow stripes on the plastic place mat beneath the cereal bowl were different widths. The vertical blue stripes were maybe a fraction of an inch broader than the horizontal yellow ones. I placed my thumb alongside one of the blue stripes to measure it, then I did the same with one of the yellow stripes.

I was right. The blue stripes were wider, though not by much.

“Morgan at the diner thinks I'm a fool for not leaving you,” Jennifer said.

The plastic rings holding the curtain above the sink slid across the metal rod with a grating noise, and the room brightened like some sign for me to embrace. I paid attention to signs. My life had been full of them. Rooms darkening and lighting, things found unexpectedly, revealing sentences popping out of books, recurring images staring at me from the television.

“She says men like you don't change. Can't change.”

In the new light, the orange Captain Crunch box seemed more vibrant. The Captain stood in his blue sailor suit on the front of the box, saluting. Cereal boxes nowadays are difficult to open. First you have to get the flap unglued. If you don't do it right, it'll tear and later becomes almost impossible to tuck. Then you have to rip the wax package just right to form a kind of spout. If you don't, when you try to fill the bowl you end up spilling cereal all over the place. It bothers me that cereal these days have no prize to discover and thrill over. Not like when you were a kid.

With my free hand, I spun the box around and studied the cheap game printed on the back. Jennifer continued to bicker in front of the sink, and that made it almost impossible to follow the character-filled maze with my eyes.

“Maybe you could try calling Trevor, asking him for your job back,” she said. “Promise him you won't come in late anymore. Beg him for another chance. We could really use the money.”

On the narrow side of the cereal box were columns of tiny, almost unreadable print: iron, thiamin, riboflavin, niacin, lots of vitamins. My mother said breakfast cereal made you hyper. But the truth is, cereal makes you drowsy. Wouldn't it be something if you could get a prize out of the box. Some spinning top, or zip-pull car, 3-D baseball card?

The water stopped rushing out of the faucet. Jennifer snapped her wet dishrag and hung it up. Then she came back and sat down next to me at the table. She reached out and set her damp hand on my bouncing thigh. “I'm not mad at you,” she said. “I just want you to be more responsible. I want us to work together to get through these tough times.”

I glanced and noticed some tears in her eyes. She waited for me to reply. But what could I say? There are only so many ways a person can say they're trying to make things better.

Jennifer needed to vent. I knew that, and I needed to back off and let her. All our other problems would eventually work themselves out. They always did.

Her lips moved, and although no sound escaped her mouth, I made out the words she hadn't been able to say out loud. What she'd said was, “I hate that sometimes you make me hate you.”

The vinyl floor was cold beneath my bare feet and maybe that's why I couldn't get my knee to stop bouncing.

I peered past Jennifer to the fruit-shaped magnets speckling the refrigerator door. The inverted yellow banana looked like a frowning crescent moon in a steel sky. The upside down strawberry with its green stem reminded me of a drunk red-faced man drunk wearing a crooked bow tie. I never told Jennifer I'd shoplifted the magnets from K-Mart. Just stuck them in my coat pocket and walked past the security guard who was flirting with the deli lady. Good thing I took the magnets though, because they came in handy, holding up jotted notes, little post-it reminders, unpaid bills and unfilled prescriptions to the refrigerator door.

She sighed, took her hand off my thigh, got up from her seat and said, “I have to get ready for work.” Then she stopped next to me, leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Call Trevor. Please,” she said.

I nodded. Trevor didn't go to lunch until noon, so I could still go for a walk and call him when I got back. Working for him wasn't so bad, really. On account of Jennifer being his sister, Trevor lets me pace myself as I please. Last week, I saved all the shavings from the pencil sharpeners in the office, brought them home, spread them over the ground near the fence. I'd seen on television how doing that helps keep anything growing beneath healthy. I'm not so sure they used pencil shavings, though, but it was something that looked similar.

I scooped another spoonful of cereal. This time it was soft and soggy. Just the way I liked it.

***

Distractions

She sat across from me at the breakfast table and asked, “Why can't you hold a job?”

The bowl that the Captain Crunch cereal floated inside of was patterned with yellow daisies. Daisies along the inside edge, lapping over the rim. It was a deep porcelain bowl, seemingly bottomless. I used the back of my spoon to push the cereal to one side of the bowl. On the milk's creamy surface I could see the ceiling fan's distorted, sputtering reflection lazily spinning round.

“We're behind on all of our bills,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “And I'm afraid to answer the telephone or open the mailbox.”

I dipped my spoon into the bowl, watched it fill with milk before scooping up some cereal. Slowly, I raised the collected Captain Crunch to my lips. The golden, creased squares resembled the dimpled throw pillows on the living room sofa. The cereal hadn't sat in the milk long enough to become soggy – the way I liked it -- so when I ground down and felt its gritty texture between my teeth, I grimaced. Before swallowing, I let the taste linger a moment in my mouth, my tongue, my palate. Without a doubt, the sugar-loaded cereal would drowse me.

When she got up from the table and trudged over to the sink, I promised not to let myself get caught up in the morning courtroom television programs. I promised myself the moment she left for work I'd slip into my sneakers and take my morning walk around the block. I promised myself not to look inside any of the roadside mailboxes, or stomp my feet at any of the neighborhood cats.

She turned the water on and began to scrub the dishes. She made a show of clattering the dishes and snapping the dishrag. “I work two jobs,” she said, “plus I end up doing most everything around here.”

On the table beneath the cereal bowl sat a plastic place mat. Its surface was criss-crossed with blue and yellow stripes. The vertical blue stripes looked a fraction of an inch broader than the horizontal yellow ones. I placed my thumb alongside one of the blue stripes, then did the same with one of the yellow ones. I was right. The blue stripes were wider. Though not by much.

“Morgan at the diner thinks I'm crazy staying with you,” she said.

I didn't answer. I heard the plastic rings that held the curtain above the sink slide across the metal rod. The room brightened.

“Morgan says men like you don't change. Can't change.”

In the new light, the orange Captain Crunch box seemed more vibrant. On the front of it the Captain stood in his blue sailor suit, saluting. The problem with cereal nowadays was once you got the flap open, and once you tore through the wax inner packet, there was no prize to discover and thrill over. Not like when you were a kid.

I turned the box around and studied the cheap game printed on the back. Trying to follow the character-filled maze with only my eyes was not only confusing, but nearly impossible as long as she kept bickering in front of the sink.

“Maybe you could call Trevor, ask for your job back,” she said. “Tell him you won't come in late anymore. Beg him for another chance.”

Columns of tiny, almost unreadable print filled one of the box's narrow sides: iron, thiamin, riboflavin, niacin, lots of vitamins. It couldn't be all bad for you, could it? Still, it would be something if you could get a prize out of the box. Some spinning top, or zip-pull car, 3-D baseball card.

The water stopped rushing out of the faucet. She hung the dish rag up, came back and sat down next to me at the table. She reached out and set her damp hand on my bouncing thigh. “Why can't you be responsible?” she said. “Why can't we help each other get through these tough times?”

I glanced away from the cereal box and into her face. There were some tears in her eyes. I knew all she wanted was an answer as to why our world had hit the skids. But who could come up with answers to such questions? There were only so many times someone could say that they'd try and make things better. If I'd learned one thing during the course of our marriage, it's that when she needed to vent, I needed to back off and let her. All other problems would eventually work themselves out.

Her lips moved, but not a sound escaped her mouth. I made out, though, the words she hadn't been able to say out loud. “Sometimes I hate that I love you.”

I almost mouthed something back. Something like, “I love you,too.” Instead, I peered past her to the fruit-shaped magnets on the refrigerator door. I focused on the yellow banana that looked like a crescent moon hanging in a steel sky. I gazed a long time at the upside down strawberry with the green stem. It reminded of a red-faced man wearing a green bow tie. Beneath the banana and the strawberry magnets, I noticed my unfilled prescription.

Maybe I'd visit the pharmacy today. Just maybe.

Brief Bio:

Robert Aquino Dollesin was a kid when he left the Philippines. He now
lives in Sacramento, where on occasion he jots down a few things. He
sometimes blogs here: http://robertaquinodollesin.blogspot.com/