When he first showed me the crescent-shaped rash on his chest, right over his heart, I glanced at it from across the kitchen. My husband was fresh from the mid-summer garden, dripping fresh salty sweat on the floor. I knew better than to come too close, and there was always something. The cactus splinters in his hands, the twig in his eye, his darkened rotting toe. “Feel it!” He didn’t sound too desperate, so I said, “I’m not a doctor.”
That afternoon, I scooped cookie dough. My husband walked in from the garage and pulled off his damp tank top. Even though I’m near-sighted I could see the eruption, now a quarter moon, which covered his chest and protruded at least an inch. I bent down to examine its details, touched it tentatively.…
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Jamie was determined to hide his anger. Bullies turned his anger against him. They made him look helpless and dumb to everybody on the school bus. Worse: they turned his joy against him too. Like that time when word got around that he was into dinosaurs and everybody started calling him Jamiesarus. Or when everybody found out he still watched Mr. Rogers after school and all the bad things that happened after that. And if Jamie ever got mad and made a fist, or answered back to defend himself in any way, the whole bus would turn against him like they always did. They never turned on the bullies or the bad guys; everybody always turned on him and made him feel weak and crazy too since he never did anything against anybody, and mostly tried to make himself as small as possible and to stay out of everybody’s way, and to mind his own business.…
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Fortunately, the alternator in my 1984 Dodge Ram is easy to access, otherwise I’d have to take it to a garage to get it replaced. I really can’t afford a car repair this month; I’ve barely worked. This weighs heavily on my mind as I roll over in bed and try to tune out the sound of my wife, who is sitting outside the bedroom window in the driveway of our Hollywood apartment smoking cigarettes and drinking cans of beer from our red and white Playmate. I hear the lid scrape open and shut each time she pulls out another can. I try to keep count, as if the roundtrips to the cooler were sheep, but I keep seeing my truck out on the street, the hood up, my head sunk in the engine bay as I struggle with the stubborn alternator bolt.…
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after Remedios Varo’s “Astral Entity”
NOTES FOR THE BABYSITTER
- You can reach me at 555-GET-AWAY or call the Get a Break bar on Vacation Blvd. and have them page me. I hope you don’t do that though.
- She only answers to Astra, but if you have an emergency her name is Nora Boudeman and she’s six years old. She has no physical preexisting conditions.
- She will only eat sugar water and rocket pops and dandelion salad. The salad is in a Tupperware in the fridge. She’s in a phase.
- She has an “imaginary” friend. Just play along.
- Don’t be alarmed. She’s just fooling around.
- Humor her, no matter what, unless of course it’s dangerous. Then distract. I hope you know the fine art of distraction.
CHILD TO THE BABYSITTER
“Have you met my friend?…
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They gave us little yellow tickets and instructed us not to lose them.
Yellow like the flowers sprouting from the ground,
Wrestling blades of grass,
Growing up towards the sun, yellow and shiny,
Yellow teeth, dentist bills,
That week was full of “almost!” moments. I almost called out but came in begrudgingly. I almost left the event early to return to my office and work in solitude or just left early for the day, stealing a roll of toilet paper on my way out. I thought about all of those “almost!” moments, staring “almost!” comatose at the asphalt outside the hospital.…
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My fiancé does not like the smell of fast food, greasy paper bags or unrefined sugars. I like the scent, at times, more than the contents. Limp potato matchsticks with bits of potato skin left on make it seem more real. He scolds me when I come home with a Big Gulp in hand. He likes the gym and time management.
“Managing time.” He stresses, finger pointy, seeking to transfer his passion for precision from his nail bed to my wrinkled forehead.
Anyway, I knew this simply would not do. I did not like to manage my time. I enjoy getting soil between my fingers and recycling plastic spinach bins. He gifted me a pink plastic brush to scrub my filthy nails. He is averse to natural things, even the blood spot in my underwear one week out of the month.…
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The night before Christmas Eve. Bert watched the taillights of the Amtrak ‘Banker’ fade up the tracks toward Springfield. No one had gotten off in Hartford except him. It was clear and still and cold.
Union Station was deserted. He was disappointed Trudy hadn’t surprised him and walked eight blocks to meet the train. In a way he was glad, too – still to be alone, still moving toward her.
He carried his suitcase down Railroad Street to Asylum. A liquor store was open and he bought a pint of Jack Daniels. Tomorrow they would drive to Troy for Christmas. He was looking forward to seeing Mom and Pop Steiner.
After a block he opened the whiskey and took a drink.
Bert watched Trudy through the plate glass door descend the long flight of wooden stairs.…
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