The detailing of the drama finally ran its course, and E said she wanted to see me the next weekend. Her sister was having a party at her house, and if I wanted, I could go with her and spend the night and leave the next morning. She said she was going to San Luis Obispo to visit a friend and she would drop me off at the train station on her way out of town.
It sounded great. She said for me to take the train and go to her work. I said for her to pick me up at the station. She told me which train to take to time it right. She didn't really feel like talking much more, because she was emotionally exhausted from her dealing with Mr. Long Beach.
I asked her if I needed to bring anything for the party. She said all I needed to bring was my beautiful self, and after telling her that wasn't a problem, it was goodnight and then I was unable to sleep for about two hours while my mind raced with the anticipation of seeing her. Sometimes, I wish my brain had a switch that I could turn on or off.
A co-worker said it was time for flowers.
Before I got on the train, I bought a bouquet of assorted flowers at the small gift stand next to the ticket window, just behind the chain link maze that lead to the platform. The scene was the same as before, with the station being under construction and the urban wasteland that follows the train line until you get to the racetrack.
I had not been sleeping very well at the time and was drinking a lot of coffee and smoking a lot of cigarettes. My brain was jumpy and I had horrible dark circles under my eyes. I was wearing sunglasses. There wasn't a lot I could do about my face. I figured I would try to make up for it by dressing sharp and thinking before I spoke, so as not to say anything too strange.
Some of you might have seen films where movie audiences followed a bouncing ball on the screen. I saw it in a movie about what it was like to be alive before television. It showed people sitting in the theater, singing along to the bouncing ball. Anyway, that's what my brain felt like as the train rolled along. The bouncing ball.
I called E when I got off the train. She said she was on her way. After waiting about half an hour, I called again and she said she was finishing with a customer and was on her way. I sat on top of a baggage locker in the sun, watching a homeless woman shouting at a group of teenagers waiting for the bus. She was relentless and the kids were huddled to one side of the plexiglass bus stop, trying their best to ignore her.
When the bus finally came, and the kids were no longer there, the woman directed her attention to the traffic and began shouting at cars as they drove by. She started screaming that all she wanted was two dollars to get something to eat at the golden arches.
I left my travel bag and flowers on top of the baggage locker, hopped to the ground, and walked to where she was and gave her several dollars. She barely acknowledged my presence. She shoved the money inside her dirty pants and ambled down the sidewalk towards the golden arches, muttering something about how a person has to practically scream their head off before someone listens to what they are saying.
Fifteen minutes had passed since E said she was finishing with a customer and was on her way, and I called her again. One of her co-workers said she just left. I said, thanks, and returned to my perch.
I told myself if she didn't show up within fifteen minutes, I would get back on the train, and give the flowers I had to the first good looking woman I saw, and I meant it. I had never waited so long for a girl to arrive in my life. I didn't know if she was punishing me for not following her initial request of meeting her at work, or if she had been truly tied up with a customer. When she arrived I was so glad to be getting inside a car and going somewhere I didn't say anything. I just handed her the flowers and gave her a kiss.
She made a fuss over the bouquet, as she tore out of the parking lot, placing it next to the suitcase in the back with one hand, and steering with the other. She looked good as always. It seemed to me like she might have gone home and changed, because her make up and outfit seemed fresh.
As we left the peninsula and got onto the San Mateo bridge, I threw my overnight bag on top of E's suitcase, looked at the murky water, and fantasized about her pulling a hard right and sending us to a watery death.
twenty-two
It took a while to find her sister's house because E didn't have an address. She knew approximately where it was and I was completely amazed when we found the place because, basically all the houses looked the same. But, after driving up and down several streets following some invisible bread crumb-like trail inside her head, we parked outside the house.
E grabbed the flowers from the back and asked if I minded if she gave them to her sister, because she forgot to get anything to bring as a gift. I said it was fine and we got out and walked to the front door.
E's sister answered with a big smile, saying hello in an exaggerated way, and was very happy with the flowers. E said she bought them just for her and went to the kitchen and got a vase from a cupboard above the sink. The husband came trotting down the carpeted living room stairs and introduced himself. He was a very nice, very white man, whose hello was as exaggerated as his wife's.
Eventually, we all got comfortable enough with one another to linger inside the kitchen and we all pitched in helping prepare the food for the party. The husband was sautéing shrimp in some kind of special sauce on top of the stove, and E's sister was preparing crab dip. E and I worked on a tossed salad. I had the duty of washing and cutting the stuff that went inside, and E, well, I don't remember how she helped. I do remember her telling her sister about me spending the weekend pretending to be Jim.
Either E's sister was good at hiding how strange she thought it was, or didn't find it strange at all, because she just laughed and kept saying, really, after each detail was provided by E. The husband was talking on his cell phone and stirring his concoction at the same time. He was talking loudly and smiling to whoever was on the other side of his conversation. I was glad. I didn't mind E's sister knowing about our weird weekend, but I didn't want the husband to know, because he might have felt uncomfortable and not include me in his conversation with the guys.
I'm sure he learned about it from his wife eventually.
The food was finished and put in special places in the refrigerator and on the dining room table for all to enjoy, and we settled into the living room to make pleasant conversation. I was actually quite tired due to my lack of sleep and caught myself nodding off a few times. My head would bob up and I would wake quickly each time to see E's sister looking at me concerned. She asked if I wanted some coffee and I said, please. I don't remember having eaten that day either. Anyway, the coffee did the trick.
The place was very nice. There was a big screen television, high-end stereo system, flowery furniture, and potpourri. More white people with exaggerated hellos began arriving, which was a relief, because the more people, the easier it was for me to step inside the jumpy comfort of my brain and keep my participation to a minimum, allowing me to be a spectator of sorts and soak in the blinding paleness of the scene.
Someone put on a cd of hits from the Eighties and the party was underway.
I was amazed by the ego everywhere. It seemed as if everyone stood stiffly and raised their head when they spoke, puffing up like blowfish. I got the feeling that I didn't belong. I am damaged. Those folks seemed like they had coasted through life with only minor complaints to report.
I did my best to blend and talk about what it was that interested them, mostly jobs, money, and television. It got to be tiring and eventually I sat in the living room, near the high end stereo system, flipping through the wedding photo albums that were displayed on the coffee table.
E came from upstairs and joined me, sitting on my lap and pressing herself very, very, close as she narrated the photos in the album. Her sister and brother in law were basically newlyweds, and were hitched a little over a year ago. E's father was in a lot of the photos. Everyone was obviously drunk, but he looked like drinking was killing him. He had that withered look of an alcoholic on his
last legs. E looked fantastic. She pointed at herself and pressed herself even closer to me, and said something about wouldn't it be great to be married and come home to her every day, and I had to agree that it would be wonderful.
One of those radio songs that you heard too much and know simply because of repetition began to play and E pulled me up to dance. There were already a few others dancing, mostly women, and I joined them.
I had never danced in someone's house before. I had always gone to a club, but the privacy of a house party allowed for one to cut loose, even more than one would in public, and the ladies were grinding away. They were moving like dancers I've seen in strip clubs, slowly, full of pelvic motion, hands folded behind their heads or arms raised in the air. I felt like having a seat in a chair, pulling out a twenty, and soliciting a lap dance. That probably wouldn't have gone over very well. I didn't really feel like having one of those big white husbands put a fist in my face.
twenty-three
I was bored after a few songs, and went out to the patio. I got a beer and sat down in a lawn chair, looking up at the big starry sky. Except for the music and talk from the house, the neighborhood was quiet. I could hear crickets chirping if I listened hard enough.
There were a few other people on the patio, and I realized they were watching E dance by herself through the sliding glass door and making fun of her. I stood, gave them a long, long, look to kill, then went inside and joined her. I danced and smiled at the patio people, then took E by the hand and led her out the front door and down the street.
I sat on the curb at the end of the street, and she sat next to me. I had my face buried in my hands. She asked if I was strung out and I told her no. She said there was something she wanted to give me. I asked her what it was and she started punching me in the arm as hard as she could. At first it felt good. I endured it, hoping she would stop, and when she didn't, I shoved her away from me and she fell off the curb onto the street.
I rubbed my arm and asked her why she did that. She said she wanted to give me something to remember her by when we were apart. I told her I would rather have a photograph. She laughed and laid down on her back in the street and told me to get on top of her. I said no. She said fine, and began moaning in a very exaggerated way. I started laughing and tapped her lightly on the thigh with the toe of my shoe. She reached her climax and enjoyed a brief afterglow with herself and then sat up and smiled. I told her that it was obvious that she was faking, and she said that she could use a cigarette and stood. I joined her. She wrapped her arms around mine and said she couldn't wait to see my bruise tomorrow. I didn't say anything and shook my head and looked at her sparkling mischievous eyes.
She had the idea of ringing one of the neighbors' doorbell and running away. I told her she could do what she liked, but I was too old for that. She untangled herself from my arm, and walked quietly up the sidewalk of one of the neighboring houses, and slowly, silently, opened the gate that led to the front door and disappeared from my view.
I stood and waited for her to bolt from the place, but nothing happened. I had the terrible thought that maybe she decided to do a little breaking and entering, rummaging through the bedroom in search of some odd trinket, but that was entertained for only an instant. E stepped back out the gate and walked down the sidewalk.
She said she lost her nerve, but it was nice to see that I had waited for her. She challenged me to a race and ran up the block. I wasn't about to let her beat me. I sprinted to catch her and then I zoomed on ahead to her car. It was unlocked. I reached into her glove box and got my cigarettes, lighting one, leaning against the passenger side door.
When she made it to me, she said I cheated. I handed her my cigarette and lit myself a new one. We finished the smokes and then went back to the party.
Boy, was my arm sore.
Back inside, the only thing that had changed was that everybody was sloppier and louder. We hung out, but E had to get up early to head to San Luis Obispo, and I was spent, so we told her sister goodnight and headed upstairs into the guest room.
E took off her jewelry. She unsnapped her bra and removed it from under her blouse, tossing it onto the nightstand. She kicked off her shoes and got on the bed with the rest of her clothes on, looking up at me intensely.
I sat on the bed, took off my shoes, watch, belt, and unsnapped the first two buttons of my pants, and stretched out on the bed facing her. I remember both of us staring at each other and the next thing I knew I was waking up from being asleep and seeing her still looking at me. It was funny. It was almost like I could actually feel her eyes because when I woke up, she immediately slammed them shut and acted like she was sleeping.
We both had our hands cupped together in each other's legs. We were curled like two bugs in a rug. This was the best that I had felt since my divorce. I was sad when E poked me at about five o'clock and asked me what time it was, because when I told her, she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. All of a sudden, I felt what it was like not to have someone sleeping with me again. I turned to the side, and looked at the light that trickled out from under the bathroom door and wished that I could freeze time.
They recently released a movie about a mass murderer that everybody is talking about, and since it is unlikely I will actually spend the money to see it in the theaters, I decided to check out the damn book. I went during lunch to a place near the cable cars, passing through the street circus.
The Chess Champs were in heavy competition. There's an area where the tourists line up to ride the cable cars that the Chess Champs have claimed as their own. They have discarded card tables lined in a row, with ragged folding chairs on both sides facing one another. They have chess boards and pieces positioned, ready for play.
Every table was occupied and there was a crowd gathered around the players, watching their moves. I play kamikaze chess. I'll move pieces for you to capture until the game ends. I don't really have the patience for chess. I like to play cards.
I got to the bookstore and found the damn book about the mass murderer and flipped a few pages, finally stopping at a section dealing with girls. I couldn't believe what I read. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I felt like I had been lying down and stood up too fast. As I made my way outside, it felt like the ground was moving. What I read really, really, bothered me. I went back at lunch two more days in a row, reading passages that were absolutely horrific.
I didn't want to go to that bookstore at lunch every day. I decided the only way to rid myself of the awful compulsion was to buy the damn book and read it at home.
I like to read just before I go to sleep, but with that book, I didn't think it was a good idea. I read it when I got home from work, before I ate dinner, because I thought I might vomit if I ate and then read.
I finished the damn book. Now I have the most terrible thoughts running through my brain. When I see people I imagine their limbs are being cut off, and their heads are on sticks.
twenty-four
I'm sitting at the bus stop on Mission and Ninth in front of the guitar store, waiting for it to be eleven o' clock. I'm visiting a friend who lives in a hotel across the street. He is slightly autistic. It isn't a good idea to be early or late. I must arrive exactly at eleven.
I'm sure at least some of you have felt an earthquake. I've felt many small ones. Usually they happen when I'm sleeping. It feels like you're on water. It's like the ground turns into waves.
Yesterday, we had a tremor that they said was an aftershock from a big earthquake that devastated Turkey. The one here happened about six in the evening. I was listening to the stereo in the front room. And I saw the cd rack swaying in the breeze, only there wasn't a breeze.
I immediately jumped under a doorway and waited for all the motion to stop. After it did, I noticed my heart was pounding and I stayed under the frame a little while longer, just to be sure.
It's ten to eleven. I'm tired of trying to ignore the diesel exhaust, bright sun, and all the other ra
gged fellow passengers of life at this bus stop, and decide to buy some guitar picks.
It's been a while since I've played. Occasionally, I'll unpack my acoustic guitar and strum a little, but the last few times I've had to use a coin, because I don't have any picks.
It's too early for musicians to be up and about, so the guitar store isn't crowded, which makes it pleasant. It's a good thing I don't have my credit card, because the environment here is so comfortable, I could see myself buying a big amplifier. My neighbors would really love me if I brought that home.
The guy who helps me behind the counter is quite nice. As he gets my picks, someone calls my name from the other end of the counter. I look and see a guy that I know whom I haven't seen in quite awhile. I go over and say hello.
My ex and I used to socialize with him and his ex. He's a bass player. We used to jam and have dinner together. He has many tattoos on his arms. The one of Buddha peeks out from under his right sleeve. I tell him, now that I have one myself, I can really appreciate the amount of time that goes in to a tattoo as detailed as his.
He says that he's thinking of getting his girlfriend's name branded into his right bicep, but he has to research it first to make sure that it's lasting. I think that's a big step to take with a girl you're only dating. I mean, there's nothing wrong with branding her name into his skin, but I would wait to do it on some special anniversary, like say, you're tenth or fifteenth. Go ahead and have it as a surprise.
Derek Henkel - Dirty Red Kiss.txt Page 9