On television throngs of people dance in the streets of every major city
in the world. Outside my window, drunk party-goers do the same.
Seemingly, the celebration unites the universe.
I lean out the window and spin my tin noisemaker, holding its ridged
crank loosely in my fist. The rubber bands that keep my shiny, foil cap on my
head dig into my neck each time I shout, ‘Happy Fucking New Year.’
High-pitched shrieks fill the clear frigid sky. Next come deafening
explosions, each culminating in a wonderful display of colour. The smell of
spent fireworks permeates the crisp air.
I think about Jayne and sincerely hope she is celebrating this
monumental evening. I wonder if she's moved forward, found someone to
replace me tonight, or is she alone with her dog in some ratty apartment.
Realizing I am dwelling too much now, I pull the window shut and
go to the sofa. I fill my glass, then grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl
on the coffee table.
‘Happy Fucking New Year,’ I say, raising the glass.
My Labrador, Tag, responds by thumping his tail twice on the carpet
before resting his snout on his forepaws.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
One Dance with a Stranger
Did I ever mention before we married I danced with a stranger? In my
arms, I pretended she was you.
Afterward, over frothy coffees in a cafe, we laughed and teased, but
didn't reveal our real names.
While she was asleep in the musty hotel room, I stared amazed at
how much her slack mouth and flickering eyelids reminded me of you.
Swathed under dim light, her breasts were exactly as I believed yours must
surely look and feel like. Beneath my palm, her firm yet soft shoulder felt no
different than the way yours felt that day on the beach when I spun you
around and kissed you for the first time.
I kissed the stranger on the forehead and whispered, ‘I love you.’
Her eyes opened. She smiled, then rolled onto her side and rested her
head against my chest.
Our hands sought out the smalls of each other's backs.
If you're wondering why I'm confessing this now, tonight, it's because
the light shining behind you is just right. And the rain hitting the leaves
outdoors is just so. And despite everything, tonight you remind me more than ever of the stranger I once danced with.
arms, I pretended she was you.
Afterward, over frothy coffees in a cafe, we laughed and teased, but
didn't reveal our real names.
While she was asleep in the musty hotel room, I stared amazed at
how much her slack mouth and flickering eyelids reminded me of you.
Swathed under dim light, her breasts were exactly as I believed yours must
surely look and feel like. Beneath my palm, her firm yet soft shoulder felt no
different than the way yours felt that day on the beach when I spun you
around and kissed you for the first time.
I kissed the stranger on the forehead and whispered, ‘I love you.’
Her eyes opened. She smiled, then rolled onto her side and rested her
head against my chest.
Our hands sought out the smalls of each other's backs.
If you're wondering why I'm confessing this now, tonight, it's because
the light shining behind you is just right. And the rain hitting the leaves
outdoors is just so. And despite everything, tonight you remind me more than ever of the stranger I once danced with.
Custody
It was his weekend with the kid, so Friday after work Jayar stopped by the
store and bought a toy car.
Next day, when Jayar gave his boy the car, the kid wrapped his arms
around him and said, ‘This is the bestest thing, Pop.’
Jayar went to the fridge. He carried a six-pack to the sofa and sat.
Sipping his beer, he was hypnotized by the way the kid, down on all fours,
played quietly.
By the time Jayar popped the tab of his fourth beer, though, the boy
was on his feet, racing the car over a shelf that held Jayar's collection of
porcelain clowns.
‘Careful,’ Jayar slurred.
But the kid wasn't listening. He guided the car like a bowling ball into
the clowns, toppling them.
Picking up a full can of beer, Jayar stood. He hurled it, barely missing
his son. ‘Better not have broke one of my clowns!’
The boy gave Jayar the finger.
In a flash, Jayar had his son's collar. He drew his fist back.
The kid smirked. ‘Mom hoped you'd do this.’
Later at the pizza parlour, the kid said, ‘Next week I want a new
video game.’
store and bought a toy car.
Next day, when Jayar gave his boy the car, the kid wrapped his arms
around him and said, ‘This is the bestest thing, Pop.’
Jayar went to the fridge. He carried a six-pack to the sofa and sat.
Sipping his beer, he was hypnotized by the way the kid, down on all fours,
played quietly.
By the time Jayar popped the tab of his fourth beer, though, the boy
was on his feet, racing the car over a shelf that held Jayar's collection of
porcelain clowns.
‘Careful,’ Jayar slurred.
But the kid wasn't listening. He guided the car like a bowling ball into
the clowns, toppling them.
Picking up a full can of beer, Jayar stood. He hurled it, barely missing
his son. ‘Better not have broke one of my clowns!’
The boy gave Jayar the finger.
In a flash, Jayar had his son's collar. He drew his fist back.
The kid smirked. ‘Mom hoped you'd do this.’
Later at the pizza parlour, the kid said, ‘Next week I want a new
video game.’
Scratches
Donny got himself slid between the wood and the glass of his mother's
dining table. Afraid to move for fear of scratching the oak, he
remained there for years. The sun baked his face, and at nights he shut his
eyes to make the frightening noises disappear.
Whenever his mother cleaned the glass, Donny's back teeth tingled.
Flies with spindly twitching forelegs and buzzing gossamer wings frequently
landed in front of Donny's flattened face.
He learned to recognize the time of the year by the designs on the
bottom of the dishes his family ate out of. Numbers stamped in blue meant
the Noritake china had been removed and set on the table for the holiday.
Yellow daisies lapping over porcelain rims meant it was just a regular meal.
Sometimes, straw paper plate holders were slid over Donny's face.
Hot dogs? Chilli?
Often, muffled conversation accompanied the family's meals. His
parents, brothers, and sisters sometimes cried when they spoke of Donny.
They'd never forgotten their missing brother.
Weeping himself, Donny wanted to scream, ‘I'm here beneath the
glass!’
But of course, Donny knew if he opened his mouth he might scratch
the wood surface of his mother's prized table.
dining table. Afraid to move for fear of scratching the oak, he
remained there for years. The sun baked his face, and at nights he shut his
eyes to make the frightening noises disappear.
Whenever his mother cleaned the glass, Donny's back teeth tingled.
Flies with spindly twitching forelegs and buzzing gossamer wings frequently
landed in front of Donny's flattened face.
He learned to recognize the time of the year by the designs on the
bottom of the dishes his family ate out of. Numbers stamped in blue meant
the Noritake china had been removed and set on the table for the holiday.
Yellow daisies lapping over porcelain rims meant it was just a regular meal.
Sometimes, straw paper plate holders were slid over Donny's face.
Hot dogs? Chilli?
Often, muffled conversation accompanied the family's meals. His
parents, brothers, and sisters sometimes cried when they spoke of Donny.
They'd never forgotten their missing brother.
Weeping himself, Donny wanted to scream, ‘I'm here beneath the
glass!’
But of course, Donny knew if he opened his mouth he might scratch
the wood surface of his mother's prized table.
The Coat
He enters the bedroom and smells a faint trace of breast milk and talcum powder. From the mobile above the crib, plastic circus animals clack against one another. His wife is tucked into the window alcove, staring out at the rain. Her face is lit by the yellow glow of the tasseled lamp beside her. She has on the same faded housedress she's been wearing for days.
He crosses the room, stands before her, and says, "I have to go back to work this morning."
She doesn't turn from watching the rain fall outside the window. He reaches for her, but she draws away, wraps her arms around her knees and says, "I'm sorry I didn't come down to make your breakfast."
"I don't have much of an appetite, anyway."
"I'm sorry I didn't come down to help you on with your coat."
His coat? He remembers it's still downstairs, draped over the kitchen chair where he left it yesterday when he didn't go out. "The coat's not important," he says.
Several moments pass before she snaps her head up to stare at him, her eyes big in the glow of the lamp. "What are you saying?" she says. "It's important to me." She raises her hands and shakes her head, as if lost. "Helping you on with your coat is important to me."
The rain continues to tick against the window. He knows he can't leave the house yet, not for another few days.
Moth-er
When she comes
home like this, like some
gray moth that
flitters under the spill of
yellow light, her fluttering
image hurled onto the walls
She is suddenly transformed into
a creature so unpredictable --
-- so menacing that
me, being the weak and
helpless and starving
gecko I am, had better
unsuck my toes from the
ceiling and skitter into
the shadows.
home like this, like some
gray moth that
flitters under the spill of
yellow light, her fluttering
image hurled onto the walls
She is suddenly transformed into
a creature so unpredictable --
-- so menacing that
me, being the weak and
helpless and starving
gecko I am, had better
unsuck my toes from the
ceiling and skitter into
the shadows.
Sebastian
Sebastian By Robert Aquino Dollesin
It was my fourteen-year-old brother, Sebastian, who discovered the robin’s nest. But it was me, who would each morning go outdoors to the clothesline to check the chicks. They were three, featherless with ever-open mouths. Sometimes I’d sit in the shade of the cherry tree and watch the mother robin’s head emerge from the post. Then she’d launch herself skyward and the chicks would chirp frantically during those moments of abandonment. That spring the robins became my passion. One morning I caught Sebastian standing on a chair with a hand inside the clothesline post. “If you touch them,” I warned, “their mother will refuse to care for them.” Scowling, Sebastian removed his hand and returned to the flowers he grew alongside the fence. I waited a moment longer before turning to return to the house. Before I’d slid the screen door open, Sebastian asked, “Why do you care about a couple of filthy baby birds, anyway?” I didn’t say anything. The following morning I came out to see the robin’s and found Sebastian -- once again standing on the chair. This time he had snaked a garden hose into the mouth of the post. “What are you doing?” I shouted. Sebastian turned his head to face me. He winked. The chicks gushed out the opposite end. Later, as I packed the dead robins into a shoebox, I caught Sebastian in the corner of my eye approaching. “Let me help you,” he said. “Don’t you dare touch them,” I snapped. While the mother robin perched on a telephone wire above, I buried her babies under a patch of bare earth.
***
In the summer of my sixteenth year, when Sebastian was fifteen, he came home one evening carrying two Siamese kittens he had rescued from the SPCA. “Orphans. Like us,” Sebastian said. “Found beneath a porch while their mother lay dead in the street, not twenty feet away.” Twice daily I brought a bowl of warm milk out and watched the mewing kitties slurp it up. When the second bowl of milk was finished, I’d spend the remainder of the afternoon playing with the frisky charcoal-white kittens. Sebastian, sometimes down on all fours tending his flower garden -- watched me. Several weeks passed and the kittens were more curious, frequently venturing from the cardboard box I’d fashioned into a makeshift pen. Apparently, the two kittens had found their way to Sebastian’s garden and had
been caught rooting my brother’s zinnia seedlings. He had bludgeoned them with his rusted shovel, transforming the two kittens into a bloody mass of fur and flesh. When I came out he tried to explain, “They were destroying my flowers.” Without answering him, I scooped up the limp kittens from Sebastian’s flowerbed. “Why?” I begged to know. “Why can’t I love anything without you destroying it?” Sebastian blinked a few times. “Don’t forget that I’m the one who found them.” He held out his shovel for me to use. I slapped it out of his hand.
***
This morning I made a phone call and a mob of detectives, their guns drawn, stomped through Sebastian’s garden, trampling his prized magnolias before storming the little blue house where my brother lived. I sat watching from my car across the street, crying. The authorities brought in a bulldozer and dug my sister-in-law, Monica, out of a shallow grave beneath Sebastian’s bed of blooming roses. The sight of Sebastian being escorted in cuffs sent all at the same time waves of shame and guilt and relief crashing through me. Sebastian glanced over the roof of the police cruiser and caught me staring. For a long time we exchanged stares. Then I started the engine and watched an officer help my brother into the back seat of the cruiser. He slid across the bench seat and grinned at me out the window, shaking his head knowingly.
It was my fourteen-year-old brother, Sebastian, who discovered the robin’s nest. But it was me, who would each morning go outdoors to the clothesline to check the chicks. They were three, featherless with ever-open mouths. Sometimes I’d sit in the shade of the cherry tree and watch the mother robin’s head emerge from the post. Then she’d launch herself skyward and the chicks would chirp frantically during those moments of abandonment. That spring the robins became my passion. One morning I caught Sebastian standing on a chair with a hand inside the clothesline post. “If you touch them,” I warned, “their mother will refuse to care for them.” Scowling, Sebastian removed his hand and returned to the flowers he grew alongside the fence. I waited a moment longer before turning to return to the house. Before I’d slid the screen door open, Sebastian asked, “Why do you care about a couple of filthy baby birds, anyway?” I didn’t say anything. The following morning I came out to see the robin’s and found Sebastian -- once again standing on the chair. This time he had snaked a garden hose into the mouth of the post. “What are you doing?” I shouted. Sebastian turned his head to face me. He winked. The chicks gushed out the opposite end. Later, as I packed the dead robins into a shoebox, I caught Sebastian in the corner of my eye approaching. “Let me help you,” he said. “Don’t you dare touch them,” I snapped. While the mother robin perched on a telephone wire above, I buried her babies under a patch of bare earth.
***
In the summer of my sixteenth year, when Sebastian was fifteen, he came home one evening carrying two Siamese kittens he had rescued from the SPCA. “Orphans. Like us,” Sebastian said. “Found beneath a porch while their mother lay dead in the street, not twenty feet away.” Twice daily I brought a bowl of warm milk out and watched the mewing kitties slurp it up. When the second bowl of milk was finished, I’d spend the remainder of the afternoon playing with the frisky charcoal-white kittens. Sebastian, sometimes down on all fours tending his flower garden -- watched me. Several weeks passed and the kittens were more curious, frequently venturing from the cardboard box I’d fashioned into a makeshift pen. Apparently, the two kittens had found their way to Sebastian’s garden and had
been caught rooting my brother’s zinnia seedlings. He had bludgeoned them with his rusted shovel, transforming the two kittens into a bloody mass of fur and flesh. When I came out he tried to explain, “They were destroying my flowers.” Without answering him, I scooped up the limp kittens from Sebastian’s flowerbed. “Why?” I begged to know. “Why can’t I love anything without you destroying it?” Sebastian blinked a few times. “Don’t forget that I’m the one who found them.” He held out his shovel for me to use. I slapped it out of his hand.
***
This morning I made a phone call and a mob of detectives, their guns drawn, stomped through Sebastian’s garden, trampling his prized magnolias before storming the little blue house where my brother lived. I sat watching from my car across the street, crying. The authorities brought in a bulldozer and dug my sister-in-law, Monica, out of a shallow grave beneath Sebastian’s bed of blooming roses. The sight of Sebastian being escorted in cuffs sent all at the same time waves of shame and guilt and relief crashing through me. Sebastian glanced over the roof of the police cruiser and caught me staring. For a long time we exchanged stares. Then I started the engine and watched an officer help my brother into the back seat of the cruiser. He slid across the bench seat and grinned at me out the window, shaking his head knowingly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
