NaNoWriMo 2009

So that’s why I’m asking now and that’s what I’m thinking about surrounded by groceries, Dora and that night and the moving, and you’re still staring at me until finally you just say, “And?” Nothing more than that which I can’t understand and I can’t deal with because as soon as I hear you say that my mind is flooded, rocking and perambulating along a path I know will end in an harsh words from me which the last dying rational part of me is dreading and anticipating so I hurry past her and away from the kitchen and into the living room and out the door onto the balcony just like the one outside Dora and I’s room (our separate rooms, not together – no) and take a deep breath to get away from that answer and that conversation. But the universe has got my name because I’m not walking out of anything but into something (sometimes I believe in karma and sometimes I don’t and this is one of those times I do because I’m feeling sorry for myself and this is the only way i can justify the bad decisions I make) and that something is someone: Ben. “Hi Ben!” I practically yell out of my restlessness as I see him turn the corner with a bag on his shoulder and a helmet  unbuckled on head pushing a bike with his pant leg still rolled it’s anyone’s guess when it will roll back down, either (I am figuring out) he is trying to tell me he bikes or he just forgets, of which I prefer the later option because I can’t stand the other sort of people and he says hi but not until he’s several steps closer of awkward silence (for me), and asks what’s up how is the dinner going in the tone of voice and with all the non-verbal that he usually carries which is difficult (still perplexing) for me to read so I answer good with no details holding back the same question I just put to Esther which I think I know the answer to now and I knew the answer all along but hoped I didn’t. So he walks inside and I stay outside and wait and wonder.
“There are few things better than dried apples” Ben said offering some to me which I thought was s strange way to get to know somebody, even if they were (especially if they were) your neighbor and you had only seen them walking the halls to the laundry room or parking lot or room 129 where you know a nice gal named Esther lives. So I said yes and agreed and took one and appreciated the frankness for as much as I was put off by it you don’t get that sort of honesty and generosity anymore, to be frank people seem to be… you probably know what I mean, just not as good i suppose, as when, well I really don’t have much of a reference point for how young I am but I guess that’s right according to the stories I hear from the older folks, but Ben appears different so I go for it and bring up his rolled pant leg (This was all before everything, all the… everything. It was an evening like this one but warmer and drier and with a fullness of potential that southern California held for me at least that time of year that early in my visit which has been unmasked now as mere idealism) and the biking and he says yes and is on the way back from something or another and we get along after I forget I didn’t introduce myself and realize he didn’t either so we take care of that and then have nothing to talk about so I ask what he’s doing tonight and he says nothing, probably unless she has something in mind and looks behind me for a glance then back at me but I’m turning around and not there and see Esther in the ecotone between the courtyard and hallway, where the girls walk their dogs (and smoking in her case) and the doors open and close and let the other tenants in and out of the world and she catches my eye, or our eyes since Ben is still there, and smiles. And I think he’s waiting for an answer from Esther when I turn around see him still looking at her so I turn back and immediately feel his eyes on me but i call out and ask what she’s up to tonight (her and Ben, I ask) and she shrugs her shoulders a blows some smoke over her shoulder drifting up the concrete post checkered with paraphernalia: for sales, lost and found, and around the balcony rail of the second story where Dora and I live (though not together), following the smoke back down to it’s origin she’s raised the cigarette again in a way so familiar to her ever since she took it up again earlier this month. Because of stress, i think the reason was.
I ask her and Ben if they’ve eaten and she says yes and he says no and I say I have also but would they like, have they ever been to this coffee place nearby (which although popular in the town I’m confident they haven’t visited since they’re so new) and they have which surprises me and and so I’m quiet for a second since that was my only plan, when Ben – or maybe Esther – says that’s ok they’d like to go anyway And as Ben puts his bike away and grabs a quick bite in the apartment I smile and chat with Esther while the sun disappears behind the west wing of Gargo (Which is what all the people call Garden Gate the complex where we live, i suppose because Gargay whcih is the logical suffixing and which is what all the other locals call it, is a a little demeaning if you let that sort of thing bother you) and the shadows fall long and dark providing (just right this time of year) the pressing and reckless cool breezes that bring on the night that brought us the 4 blocks to the square, across the intersection up the stairs, and though the door to the cafe: soy latte, americano, chai soy; her, me, him. Ben and I are walking away but the barista holds Esther back with his kefiya and fauxhawk and self-assured confidence (arrogance? elitism?) and steamed soy and promise of latte art. So we’re unwillingly detained and Esther is mockingly humoring as Ben and I can see but he can’t as the soy drains into the cup and espresso homogenized and lighter and lighter uniformly, the drink is to the brim and a smudge of milk white against caramel hue (I think it was a snowflake he promised, “Because I asked for it” she said) was all we got to extrapolate whatever image we could imagine, and the disappointment and ineptitude he absorbed from our silent observation – he attempted to explain away, because of the milk because of the ’spro perhaps the humidity you just can’t see it – as we commiserated half-heartedly and wandered away unimpressed.

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Tree tops yellow orange red stretching and blossoming out shedding leaves twisting and twirling, zig-zag to the ground dancing around your shoulders and on top of your head, skimming off onto the ground as you sit there in the upturned five gallon bucket, sliding of your dirty brown hair (from the hay and dirt and dust), your tanned neck and back of your arms staring into the woods below the sun setting, thinking something I don’t know what so I ask and caught off guard your eyes dart to the dog pen oak tree lastly my eyes, and you smile that smile something everything is hiding behind and say nothing just enjoying the view. But that’s not all I know that’s not all because your smile is missing your eyes, and as they are drawn back to the woods I’m rehearsing the question I need an answer to i don’t know why. The way you think is so so different from mine, the perpetual distraction in your look that speaks to a preoccupation with something foreign to me conscious and unconscious perhaps even to you, but especially to me since the answers I get are never full, never full. So (i judge) it’s been long enough and before I organize my mind the question – the same question – trips out of my mouth and i shut it too late and hope you don’t think (I know you’ll think) i’m nagging, by the frown that crosses your face i’m justified but the speed by which it’s replaced by a look I can only describe as relief i’m comforted, and you begin with your voice pitched high with contained emotions bursting forth but regulated as you explain everything… no not everything even though i hear about the move and the isolation and work and nature and problems and solutions, it can’t be everything no because you haven’t said anything about me, about us, about me. So I sigh and the sweet potatoes are going to overcook so I head back inside and up half the stairs to teh porch I turn around at a sound, like a car or truck or dirtbike approaching so I lean against the rail and watch the dust rising behind the treeline, I squint into the burning dying evening until the road curves South and I can take my hand down away from my eyes as the dust accumulates, for a moment I take you in in my vision still sitting unmoved unchanged still staring still thinking about… A dirtbike roars into view shooting out from the trees where the road makes that turn over the creek, going to fast but maintaining control and it’s gone before I know it white t-shirt and jeans and boots blurring past you turning and watching where the road turns again past the garden, as the dust settles your eyes wandering back across the garden, the field, the house, me (do you see me?), the woodline and sunset still bright, brighter now the beauty and colors lost in the wash of brilliant spectacle and unfeasibly overpowering moment (cloudless level with the treeline burning across the earth) until the suspense builds and building it finally breaks and the shadows are illuminated to our eyes and I quickly duck inside energized knowing the night is coming on.
The kitchen is warming as I adjust to the indoors and find the pan on the stove teh water level lower than I left it bubbling, I know they’re overdone but I like them that way, I tell myself, taking them off the heat draining the water, adding the salt, pepper, butter mashing them down mixing it together leaving the skins like that thanksgiving before we left, when your mother advised me be vigilant; he needs occupation, needs to socialize, needs distraction, left alone with himself and nature (as will be inevitable I think to myself, all the way out there with only me) he cannot help but withdraw, retract and metamorphosize inward, to his detriment, be vigilant. I know him I say, I’ve known him three years isn’t that why I’m here? Because I know him? Otherwise what do we have, now I’m at the window watching the bucket where you were, barely visible, a white spot i can catch out of the corner of my eye without focusing there, the day is wasting away so quickly now, as it gets colder even down here the time change making it even worse (they say it was for the farmers but it was only for the golfers), I have it all on the table and all that’s left is the empty chair to fill across from me so I wait for just long enough to build some frustration that part of me entertains, imagining fancifully your telepathic apathy towards my contribution until I convince myself of your humanity and ignorance and rouse myself out from the table and to the door to call for dinner where it opens under my hand into yours outstretched, instead of bringing with it a moment it brings an unfortunate discomfort for which I apologize and you brush away with a swift brush of the lips to mine, washing your hands, choosing a beer from the fridge, sitting down with your boots muddy from the outdoors, and I wonder why I’m here while the night comes on, the last band of blue sinks, dark and whole.