6 we would jump into shallow streams
When we were young, J and I would go down to the bridge near Pappy’s house, the bridge that crossed the stream, we threw rocks across the surface and counted how many times we could get them to skip.
It was shallow and we could see the bottom, covered in rocks and moss, long skinny fish that looked like rulers darted back and forth, so the first time J jumped off the bridge and into the water below I thought for sure he would hit the rocks and moss and break something, but he didn’t, it was like his body was too light to sink, on impact the water splashed up and towards me as I watched in horror, awaiting catastrophe, but it never came. It seemed like he barely went under the surface, his arms and legs flailed for a brief moment and then he emerged unscathed, laughing loud and hard in a way that echoed under the depths of the water and I felt like every long skinny ruler fish could feel the vibration.
Try it Roke, he said, and I did, knowing I would die, knowing I would crack my head against the rocks and moss, and just before I jumped he grabbed the back of my shirt, It’s too shallow, he said, and smiled, pulling me away and patting my back, Just not too shallow for you, I said, and he nodded.
He had a way of looking out for me, even then, when he knew his capabilities and limitations and I did not. We would throw rocks as high as we could in the air and wait for them to come down with giant splashes in the shallow water but we could never get them high enough, until we were older and didn’t spend our time throwing rocks as high as we could. There are many days where I wish to go back to youth and moss and shallow streams, places where you can see the rocks and avoid sharp edges, as I have found many sharp edges in recent days, they come in all disguises, they use things like broken promises and disease and sadness and mold them like clay until the shape can draw blood, inside or outside. I am beginning to lose my optimism and that once lost, unlike puppies and innocence, it may never be found again.
I remember when J and I would run with all our speed towards each other, holding sticks, like we were knights jousting, and as we got closer I could see in his eyes that he knew I would not move, that I would be stricken down first, and that I believed I would triumph despite his speed and reach advantages, and being the friend he was, he would pull away at the last possible instant, saving us both from bloodied eyes and scraped knees. He also hoped to protect my optimism, despite his common insistence that I was blindly positive for no reason and that my hope impeded my progress because it had no direction. I was named after a moderately revered local jazz guitarist, I would say, Improvisation is my home, and he would laugh as we smoked clove cigarettes by the stream and splashed water at birds and shouted into the atmosphere for beautiful girls to float down the water with us. But really we just wanted to sit there forever.
I wish we could sit there now.
7 how to hear over music
He listened to music in his headphones.
“Turn that shit down,” his mom yelled from her seat on the right side of the couch.
Two seats over from him. But he couldn’t hear. She was watching one of her programs, as she called them. “I’m trying to watch my Program,” she yelled but he couldn’t hear. She grabbed a magazine, rolled it up and hit his leg. Not hard but she wanted to get his attention. He ignored her as expected. Didn’t even look over to her side of the couch. Turned his music down enough though. She smiled. He could hear the TV now despite the pulsating beat and crashing guitars fuzzy like kiwis. So could she. “You should watch this one,” she said, “It’s about a murderer who fakes his own death and then joins the police force as someone else, oooh he is creepy, don’t worry though, they’ll catch him, they’ll catch him alright.”
His dad was sitting on the deck out back smoking his pipe. It was best if he didn’t try and interfere with their arguments. For his blood pressure and sanity. Later that evening he would pack a single suitcase and leave for a period of three weeks under the guise of a business trip. It was in fact a trial run, to see how he would do if he left for good, to see if he could make it without them, even though he feared that to be impossible because of his stupid heart and stupid memories and stupid desire for a commonplace life, a desire that almost all the time overran his other feelings. Then it would just be the boy, who was really not a boy at all, and his mom, left without considerable means or skills, to make their way, together.
The next morning the air was thick and the apartment smelled of stale pipe smoke. The man had cracked the door open and listened as the boy, who was not really a boy at all, and his mother, who had no considerable means or skills, argued over the volume of his music and the juxtaposition of pulsating beats and guitars fuzzy like pears settling down over a murder mystery like storm clouds filled to the seams and ready to burst with rain. He was ready to burst too, he thought, that’s why he was leaving for three weeks. It was a trial run.
The mother made her way into the kitchen and opened the windows to breathe the fresh air over the stale smell of pipe smoke and regret, a smell she had become intimately familiar with over the last nineteen years with him, his pipes, and his regret. In the beginning it had been different. Always is, she laughed to herself, but hey, that’s life, my breasts were higher and my mind was clear, my belly was not my belly at all, but my stomach, I was sexy and smart and had the world and him both by the balls; well, maybe not the world, but him, definitely by the balls.
The boy, who was not really a boy anymore at all, came into the kitchen with Beethoven playing loud in his ears, but changed it to something heavy with an angry beat and guitars crunchy like fresh cereal so she wouldn’t notice how happy he was becoming, or how he hummed along with the 5th Symphony when she was not home. Especially in the shower, when his heart and mind felt naked and unencumbered by his staunch and sad exterior. “Take those off,” she yelled, “It’s Time for Breakfast!” She shook her head at the loud angry music and said “It’s too early for That,” while handing him a plate of fresh and hot eggs, sunny side up, as he preferred them. He smiled a little, as she was expecting, and doused them with salt and pepper with the abandon of youth, even though he was not that young. He ate them and said thanks while she smiled and then he was out the door for the day. She pulled out an album and put it in the player and turned it up loud and closed her eyes and swayed, there, in the kitchen alone, to the pulsating beat and the guitars rough and sloppy like squares of sandpaper ripped in a hurry. She closed her eyes tight and everything made sense.
He was walking to where he was going with Beethoven’s 5th turned up loud in his ears and every footstep felt important and real, and everything made sense.
The father was in his car, driving away at 74 miles per hour with Zeppelin’s Ramble On playing loud with the windows rolled down, and nothing made sense.
***
The sun was hot and the sweat on his brow was regret, in liquid form. He pulled off the road to press rewind on the old tape deck in the old car, leftover parts of his better days, his better self, still remembered despite evidence suggesting the past was only the past, he had never been who he was then, he was always in waiting to be who he had become, we are all in waiting. He loved the way the music stopped so abruptly every time his finger pressed hard on the rewind button followed by the calm and gentle hum of the past repeating itself. Again. Again. “If only I could repeat,” he said out loud and shook his head in slow dramatic fashion that seemed appropriate for the moment. He said it again, “If only I could repeat,” this time slower, this time his voice with more boots stepping heavy on rocks and gravel, grinding. Felt good to say it again. He hit rewind, hard, with the tip of his index finger. Said it again. If only I could repeat. He loved the beginning of the song and tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers, barely breathing, urgent for the whole band to come in with guitars desperate like him and drums patient for their moment not very much like him at all. I wonder if this is my moment, he thought.
Sweat dripped in the morning sun bursting and fighting and pressing through scattered clouds. He hit rewind and did not speak, just listened to the whir and hum of cars passing by like his days, fast and difficult to recall, echoes of their presence only found in displaced wind and tiny infinite depressions on pavement hot and without grace or comfort. He tapped his index fingers on the warming rubber of the steering wheel to the beat while waiting for the whole band to come in and singing along loud and sad, “Now it’s time for me to go, now it’s time for me to go.” You always had a sense for the dramatic, his mother had said, earlier in the week when he told her during a visit, after three glasses of whisky filled to the top and spilling, by the second glass, onto the concrete patio where he had skinned his knee as a child, time and again, always forgetting the slight lip between the room inside and out, once breaking his left wrist from the fall, I’m planning on leaving them. You’ve always had a sense for the dramatic, she said again, and went inside, stepping over the small lip between the outside and in with slow precision and tired grace. She’d given the house to him years ago, mostly to hold it over his head and partly out of love. He sang along loud and sad and tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers until they hurt. He would go and he would put the car in drive and hit the gas and throw tiny rocks behind him with the music turned loud, guitars desperate like him and drums impatient to have their turn, he was impatient to have his turn. It was time.
At home the day passed as usual, a cup filled with sadness laughter frustration joy and momentary brilliance. (And what brilliance is not momentary?) A perfect shot in a game of horse. A tomato sandwich layered with green ones and yellow ones and red ones, mayonnaise warmed by toasted bread and salt ground in fat innocent flakes that would shine in the sun, if they caught the sun peeking into her kitchen, though it refused. A perfect score on an English test, a mocking laugh from behind at the announcement, way to go teacher’s pet. Her index finger cut slightly in the afternoon on thick paper red with the blood and wet from her tears.
The father drove fast at times, rushing to his destiny, and slow at times, knowing that destiny did not exist, listening to the radio after considering that only the insane would listen to the same song for ten hours, only pausing to refill the tank and piss occasionally. He kept it turned up loud and sang along when he knew the words, sometimes when he did not. Stopped in a roadside motel as expected, called home with detachment and said he was tired, long day of work, too tired to talk, and hung up.
She took the call from the couch, on the right side. Her son was in the kitchen with his headphones on making grilled cheese for them both while she watched her programs. “Come in here,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t hear over the music, “Please come in here,” she said, quieter, and placed the phone on the cushion next to her. He made sure not to turn her way when she spoke through the silence in his ears, everything on pause. Flipped the grilled cheeses before the bread became too crisp and burnt. Hit play and drowned out what he could, which was nothing.
It was late and they were hungry so they ate with misplaced anxieties tearing at the warm bread and dripping cheese with no regard to burning tongues and lips and it was good. “Let’s make more,” the boy said out loud, though by now even less a boy and more a man, trying to be the pillar that keeps their little house from falling down, despite thin shoulders and a disposition not well suited to displays of strength and assurance. He made more and they were hot and good like the last, flavored with the bliss of ignorance and belief, the father would return to smoke his pipe on the porch at night while they sat on the couch both alone and together at the same time, the smoke wafting in through open windows along with the clink of ice cubes mingling with whisky, tiny splashes intoxicating the concrete and the ladybugs that now stumbled instead of walked along to their own futures. The mother went into the pantry for red wine and breathed in the earth and vines and the past and it was good.
She closed her eyes and remembered the things she could and would never forget. Montalcino, their honeymoon, hot June sun and farmers spraying down their delicate beautiful grapes. The cold empty air in the cellar, his hand on hers, listening intently to a language they did not understand, but did understand, as soon as the first bottle was cracked and their glasses filled. Bright red tomatoes drizzled in oil and salt clear and pure, salt that shone in the bright hot sun, the same sun that refused to cross her windows now. The boy called for her, she turned around and went to the cabinet. Grabbed two glasses, poured. The boy, to toast the end of his childhood and innocence, raised his glass by her glass each angled towards the other until the inevitable clink that so often accompanies our finer moments. To us, she said. To us, he said.
***
Kiss me I’m dirty. It was written in the dust and grime and pollen on the hood of his car outside the motel. He stared at the words for a moment and under them he wrote OK.
He got in and drove to a small diner for a cup of bad coffee and was surprised when it was perfectly blended and balanced, a product of timing and precision, drinkable art in a tired cup on a tired saucer. He rubbed his eyes red from regretful sleep and vowed to regret nothing this day. That would be a change. The road was open and his mind closed. No room for thought of home, or the boy, who had become a man in his absence over warm sandwiches and circumstance, and the woman, who in fact had considerable skills and means and would be just fine without him, or anyone, for that matter. Fine, but lost. He looked out the window to see a plane go through the clouds, lighter than air like him, floating away from where it came to somewhere new, maybe to somewhere better. It was hard to say. Just then he wanted it to explode and fall in tiny fiery pieces to the dusty ground amidst screams and cries and oil and pain. He paid and as he slid the change across the counter of the diner the way they do in old movies set in diners he gave a knowing look to the waitress on tired feet like most waitresses in diners and she, meeting his gaze with her own sliding the change closer to her and further from him, understood. He went outside towards his dirty car and amidst the sunshine and warm breeze he opened the creaky old door and sat down on hot leather, ripped in places and frayed at the edges. Small spots of weakness grown big until the bare metal exposed all that lay under the cushions and comforts. I’m exposed now, he thought, then out loud, “I’m Exposed Now,” in the slow and dramatic fashion he was starting to expect from his monologues. The desire to go forward to the life and future that must be out there waiting for him to join was usurped by the desire to get his money’s worth out of a two night prepaid motel stay, so after rewinding the tape in the tape deck and contemplating the loss of $41, he turned around and went back to the motel. It seemed like a nice day for a whisky so he stopped at a tiny roadside liquor store and as he slid the money across the counter the man standing behind the counter grabbed it fast and kept the three cents of change for himself, and he did not understand. Always had a sense for the dramatic, his mother had said.
***
The boy , who recently became a man and despite knowing this still at times felt like a boy, like us all, awoke to the morning sun bright through his window and amidst the headaches that only wine can provide to the inexperienced he stumbled into the shower, his heart and mind naked and unencumbered by his staunch and sad exterior with Beethoven’s 5th loud and pounding his ears and head despite the absence of sound in the room, then finally with determination went about the normal process, ending with a grabbed shirt and jeans slipped into with effort and ease. She was in the kitchen going about the things she was accustomed to going about, breakfast and a hot cup of good coffee, not a process to be rushed or affected, instead a simple continuous act of timing and precision in liquid form, flowing into her tired cup and warm against her tired lips. She turned the TV up as she was accustomed to then turned the TV down. The boy walked into the room, tired of bearing such lengthy titles when he was so much more and so much less, and sat at the counter, his headphones in his han
d and then his hand in his pocket. Empty and waiting until filled, the glass and ice clinking together with water descending over the cubes and he would be refreshed. She made toast and popped it up on time, just as he hoped, not too dark and not too light, an act of precision and timing, butter melting and the plate announcing its arrival to the counter. They did not speak or worry about speaking. It was quiet. They could hear everything, which was nothing.
After both were finished eating there was the customary and oft repeated have a good days and I love you’s but it felt to them both like they meant each and every word.
He left for the day with the familiar refrain in his ears as he walked out the door and he started humming out loud so as the door shut his mother could still hear and she thought how beautiful , and it was.
***
The man was halfway through his bottle of whisky when there was a knock at the door. It was a girl, both more and less than a woman, mid twenties at the most. “Kiss me, I’m dirty,” he said, and she laughed. The instincts were still there at least. In his youth he had always fared well, perceptive enough to overcome the crooked tooth and penchant for spilling whisky both outside and in, occasionally crying at the end of long nights over the blur it had all become, exposing vulnerability at the perfect time despite having a complete lack of timing for anything. He was a contradiction. Still was, and wasn’t.
“Your beat up piece of shit car is blocking mine in,” she said and laughed, “I have to be going.”
Our Path is Paved in Echoes Page 3