by Jones, Nath
LIFE WITH THE FRAT BOYS
I went to prom last night. Actually it was a fraternity's initiation banquet, and I was the girl who went with the guy who is twenty-eight and not over his keg days. This is not the guy who joked theoretically about wearing Depends to the bar. This is the guy who wore Depends to the bar. Now he works in accounts receivable in Fort Wayne. He likes it.
I spent the two days before in the usual feminine formal dance ritual: eyebrows done, hair done, makeup done, shoes borrowed, dress shown off, body shaved, body ridiculed, and multiple phone calls made.
I loved that dress. It was a midnight-blue column of stretch-floral glitter.
I got ready at a friend's house where our dates would pick us up. According to ritual we did not start to get ready until the dates were supposed to be there. Also in keeping with tradition the dates were twenty minutes late. Doorbell. We let them wait. I answered the door, and my date thrust a bouquet of flowers into my hand saying, "I smell like bleach."
Indeed he did. Apparently he had washed the shirt that afternoon after forgetting about that pack of Big Red gum in the pocket which, “Got all over my shit.” He did his best to fix the problem and washed the shirt again with a lot of bleach. Being a man after my own heart there was not enough time to wash a shirt twice and also be expected to dry it before they came to get us. So not only did he smell like bleach but his shirt was soaking, sopping, saturated, silly wet. Everything else perfect: Pants. Coat. Tie. And flowers. But, he stood there as upright and dignified as anyone could possibly be in a freezing cold sopping wet shirt.
Definitely a date of mine.
But who cares?
So my friend and I put on our dresses, collected our compliments, let the jealous roommate take pictures, and headed out into the night.
I was not particularly glad that some faculty members were there as I was showing off my tattoo. There is nothing I like more than putting myself in the position to be judged. I realized almost immediately that my date was reflecting on me. And perhaps not reflecting very well. Fine. If that's how it's going to be, "Jack and ginger ale." Dinner. Speeches. Embarrassing synchronized pledge stuff. Acknowledgments. Etc.
And then the faculty left.
Now, I'm never exactly sure how I really want to present myself in any given situation so I generally choose: out there. Needless to say I'm scared to get the pictures back. More than that, I'm scared of what other pictures other people have. (The one with the chair, the one on the table, the one under the hangers, the one—whatever.)
Toward the end of the evening I really was impressed when my date one-handedly held two glasses of beer and drank from one while the other poured into the first. It was a cascading fountain made of plastic cups. He explained that he usually uses six glasses, and I wasn't so impressed anymore.
My date and I, the two oldest people at this dance, took a rather invigorating November swim to culminate the evening. God love formal dresses, because if I had been wearing any clothes I wear all the time I might have thought twice about jumping into the hotel pool. But formal things are easily disposable. I grabbed a pool chair and sat on it, sinking through the air and water, as I jumped. He was right behind me. At this point he informed me that I was not only the hottest date but the coolest date. I wallowed in the oxymoronic paradox without mention but my smile was not genuine and I didn’t laugh out loud until he leaned over in the car, almost to nuzzle, and said quiet-carefully, “Hey, you smell like bleach."
INTERNAL STRUGGLE
It is a possession. I am possessed by it. Creation is difficult. I imagine a steel taper, round but drawn out to a sharp point like an icicle. This is inspiration. And then I come naked and try to find a way to meld my body to it. I am round and full of blood. I can wrap myself around the shaft of inspiration but I feel this is not enough. I want to bring myself to the tip. And there it is sharp. Very, very sharp.
I am learning and so perforated by this beautiful thing that my flesh is pricked, bleeding, and scarred. There are holes in my feet from where I tried to climb and I have only just missed being staked clean through.
On the cloudy days when the rod lies before me dull and without its glint I believe I can conquer it.
There is time to learn balance. A few moments more. A few moments I have spent in the place of that spear. Writhing with it. Knowing it to be a weapon, stronghold, and tool.
But there are times when I sit off in one corner bleeding and raw. Pain is only part of my fear and I stare at it: that shiny stake trying to wait out my attraction.
I cannot.
I saw a little bald girl yesterday wondering if she was going to die.
TOO MUCH SUGAR TWANG THAT VOICES SOMETIMES GET CHOKED
She walked in with the confidence of fidelity and found him instead in the arms of a skinny lover.
His eyes were wide and the skinny girl's were formed in familiar hatred. She must have been in this situation before. He stumbled to his feet, caught between the coffee table and a pair of bare ankles. His hands found their way to his back pockets, seeming to retreat as if from a cookie jar. "Kristin, this is…" His voice was feeble.
She would not let this happen. Not in her home. She was not the victim. Her voice came with that too much sugar twang that voices sometimes get in uncomfortable threatened disapproving situations, "Never mind who I am, child." She could not stand to hear her own name with this Kristin skank’s. And she could not bear to hear him say her name like this. She loved to hear him say it and hearing it now would break her.
"Never mind who I am, child, call me auntie, cousin, sister—what have you. More likely I'm just a neighbor. Have to check up on this one now and again, making sure he's got three squares and a decent roof over his head."
She was not looking at them. She took the paper bag she had carried in and set it on the small dining table closest to them. She moved quickly to the hall and found the tablecloth. It was of antique lace. The words flowed from nowhere as she she spread the cloth over the smooth veneer until her engagement ring got tangled in the delicate cloth.
The words caught in her throat and tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them off. She took off the rings, as if she had done it a thousand times, and carefully extracted the diamond from the lace. She laid the rings on the counter by the telephone and continued to lay the table.
He saw her in these familiar, almost natural movements, and watched her head turn back toward the rings sitting there.
His eye caught hers for a second, and she forced a smile. He looked away.
Kristin was more concerned with the contents of the bag. "This tablecloth is lovely. Can I help you at all?"
"Well, child, it's not half as lovely as you, I'm sure, but it is a beauty. It was his grandmother's, I believe. She claims she made it. I have more to believe that she fixed it once or twice when it got snagged by a diamond ring." There were tears in her eyes.
Essentials. Only the essentials. Water. Food. Survival. Love is not essential.
With a new charge of strength she went on. "As for the bag. I brought Chinese. I hope you like Chinese food, Kristin."
"Oh, I do."
"Well, good. There's plenty for two, anyway. I thought I might stop by for a bit and keep the poor man company, but as you are seeing to all of that, I'm sure he'll be fine."
Kristin was genuinely pleased with the compliment. She grinned and turned to him for a kiss. He was gone. The water was running in the bathroom. He was probably washing his hands for dinner.
Kristin decided to play hostess in his absence. "Where are you coming home from—I'm sorry. I didn't get your name."
"Names are burdens, child, never mind the name. I've been on a trip to see my sister. She just had a baby. Beautiful baby girl, with sparkling eyes and tiny toes. A beautiful baby girl."
"Do you have any children?" Kristin asked as she set the table.
What a question. She shook her head slowly, and carefully placed the plate on the old lace. Her fingers t
raced the intricate pattern.
He had heard, and watched her. What a question.
He was standing where they put the Christmas tree, right in front of the window. There were probably needles in the carpet still. Light from the sodium street lamp outside glowed as it passed over his features. She knew that glow. Holding his face. And touching him. She could not stop the tears this time. Sparkling eyes.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Kristin laughed and hugged her. "Why are you apologizing? I'm the one who was rude. I never should have asked."
Essentials. Give her the essentials. "Here. Come have a glass of water."
Kristin moved effortlessly around the kitchen. He remained by the window. Large chunks of snow were beginning to fall in the night, and their shadows in the streetlight dappled his face. He slid down onto the couch under their dark weight. Kristin gave him a look of pity for the woman. He pretended not to notice. Instead he picked up the remote control and began fiddling with its buttons, something to concentrate on.
"There now. How's that?"
"Thank you, Kristin." She drank the water, and it replenished her. "Well, thank you again." She stood up and smoothed her skirt. "There's plenty of goodies in the bag to explore. And Kristin, I'm sure you know where the napkins and forks and all are. I don't know if there are any chopsticks left. But I suppose it's for the best. No sense flipping duck sauce all over Grandma's lace." She laughed affectedly. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She picked up her purse and with resolution, "So. I'll be off."
He rose quickly and banged his shins on the coffee table. "Where will you go?"
She pushed the fuzzy hair out of her face. He could feel that hair. Sparkling eyes. He wished he could touch her hair. He probably never would. "Let me walk you out."
"No. No. Don't be foolish. No ice on the steps yet. I'll be fine."
"Where will you go?" He asked again.
Kristin put her hands on her hips. She had found one of the aprons. It hung awkwardly on her skinny frame. "Honey, can't you see she doesn't want to tell you that? Leave her be."
The woman laughed and smiled at the girl. The door closed quietly and he watched her hold the railing and move slowly toward the car. There certainly was ice on the steps.
Kristin cooed, "Come sit down, dear. Let's see what we've got. I'm absolutely famished, and I'm sure you must be starving."
The car backed out of the drive and headed up the street toward her mother's, or church, or the ocean. He didn't know where she was going.
"All right." He decided to play along. But when he turned Kristin was trying on the rings. "What are you doing?" The reply was thoughtful. "She seemed a lot bigger than me, but she must have delicate hands because they just fit. See? Did you see her hands? Or her feet? I'll bet she has little feet too. I wish I had little feet. It's pretty though, isn't it?" She held the hand with the rings out to him.
Her apron. Her rings. "Take those off." His voice was gruff.
"Why do you care so much? She didn't forget them on purpose. She just took them off because they were snagging your beautiful tablecloth." She ran the lace through her fingers. "I'll bet it's from Italy. Or maybe France."
"Just take them off." He cleared his throat and continued with her game, lightheartedly. "Don't you know it's bad luck to wear someone else's…" He did not finish. He should have gone with her to her sister's. A beautiful baby girl with sparkling eyes and tiny toes.
"Aren't you going to eat anything, sweetie?" The rings were forgotten on the counter. Thrown where grease spills and detergent gets caught along the rim of the sink.
Looking at the bag, "What is there?" He sat down at the dining table. It was as though they were having a tea party, she playing dress-up, and he with legs too long.
The girl laughed an insipid and controlling laugh. "How should I know? Do I look Chinese?"
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
They ate for a while without speaking.
"She looked so lonely." Kristin was mending.
"Who?"
"The woman who brought us the food."
"Oh. I don't know about that." He was aloof.
"But she's married." Kristin said, indicating the rings again. "I don't understand it. I always believed in happily ever after."
"It's harder than you think." She might have gotten to the interstate by now. Would she go north or south? South, to Tennessee. She loved the rocks and the greenery. No, she was upset. She'd set her jaw and go north. Straight up into Canada. He sighed. He really didn't know where she would go. It's harder than you think.
"I suppose it is," Kristin said. "But still, she looked so lonely. I've never seen a married person look that lonely. She looked almost as lonely as you were before I met you. Married people shouldn't be as lonely as that." She took a bite of the meal. She chewed slowly and looked out the window.
Her features were so slight. Beautiful baby girl.
She looked back at him, eager with her answer. "Someone needs to love her."
Yes. She would go north. She would go to Minnesota. She said she loved the idea of Minnesota. What was it now? Oh. She loved the idea of frozen smiles. She loved to think about all those wrinkly pink cheeks frozen into smiles under a blanket of snow. She would go to Minnesota in the snow.
Kristin’s voice was accusatory. "Did you hear what I said? She needs someone to love her."
"I'm sure someone does, dear."
“She’s married after all. Someone must love her. He should tell her now.”
He thought: She’s bound to find out. No. Let it be. Wait until she gets to Minnesota.
But Kristin went on with her musings. “No one loves that woman, even if she is married. I'll bet he's one of those corporate guys who thinks money is the same as love. Probably buys more ties for himself than earrings for her though." She put her feet in his lap. With her head tilted just so, setting off her flirtatious smile, "I'll bet she's never even had her feet rubbed by a man."
But he knew how many hundred times she had. He knew how her pantyhose felt in the palm of his hand, dividing him from her graceful heel. He knew what touch made her giggle and curl her toes. He knew the careful polish on her nails. He knew her. Sparkling eyes and tiny toes. What a question.
Kristin was so young. "Still. I think she needs someone to love her. That's what she needs." There was a matchmaking tone in her voice.
He did not look up. These feet were bare. The heel was longer and the toes jutted out straight from the skinny foot. The skin was supple, but the feet were bony. No polish.
He looked into the girl's open eyes. I love bare feet. "I suppose she does." He pulled her down onto the floor. She giggled and tossed her head. She whispered in his ear, clinging around his neck. His skin was alive with her touch and his heart filled with reasons to sweat.
The snow was coming down faster. The streetlight was nearly drowned out by their falling rhythm. The blue-gray shadows made a blanket for the skinny girl and her lover.
She let his hands direct her. She let her hair be his screen. She let him be forgiven. And she let him open her eyes. But his were shut, and smiling, as he thought about his beautiful girl, with sparkling eyes and tiny toes.
SUNDAY MORNING HANGOVER IN A SMOKE-DARKENED CORNER
He has to say something
"Nice day out," with my refill
and, "What are you doing inside?"
I'm not forced to look up.
But I do
and his smile is distant, hanging
onto the rail and bashfulness against
his leaning. I'm not forced
to respond; but I do.
"Just waiting, I guess."
My giggle is the kind of
necessary fakery we accept
as a girl's graciousness.
This stiff upper lip
Midwest née East Coast smile
is a cover for none-of-your-business
and Who cares anyway?
I look away. Toward the wall.
and for being here with your
inside perfect windows
setting off
the gorgeous day with their frames.
(I shouldn't have looked away.)
There must be a reason by the wall.
Yes. Here. I flick a sugar packet
to loosen the contents.
He waits and watches me tear into it
carefully, controlled
as expected. But I resent it
and also his suggestion.
Why must sunshine
be relished in the open?
I enjoy it more this way.
Why can't I be
here to enjoy this man
remembering what I ordered
and his smile with a dirty face
or something that maybe
should have gotten shaved
green eyes and skinny
with jeans skies—regular.
Not a coffee seller, but mine
this morning and I like him
better than the rest,
pouring more inside
with a pleasant intrusion
than with his easy work
he's not forced to do.
EIGHT WEEKS THEY TOLD ME TO CALL HELL
Three days before I left for basic training I could only think of two things: the gas chamber and all those immunization shots. When I expressed this anxiety to my sister she said, "You dread those things now, but when the time comes they won't be what affects you. You are ready for those because you can comprehend them. It will be the things you don't know how to fear that scare you the most."
"Well, say something, Private. Yes, Sergeant. No, Sergeant. Screw you Sergeant." I was shocked. "Did you look me in the eye, Jones? Did you?" Petrified. "PUSH." Thank you: action, at least. If I look at the cement I don't have to look at you. And then—right then—she was with me on the ground, hissing. "Jones, you don't know me. You don't want to know me. You don't even need anything like me in your life, and here I am. You better push, Private. I'm gonna make you hate me so bad you won't know how to scream. Pick your head up. If I ask you a question I expect an answer. Is that understood? You better not look me in the eye, Private. Well?"