her laughter through the trees

these things are known:

1) a crunch of gravel as the dark sedan pulls up at exactly 9:47, he knows because he looks worriedly around the kitchen for a knife and glances at the green LED clock of the microwave

1a) the kitchen is a mess, there are two cats and a dog watching him as he paces from sink to table to counter; old newspapers, used coffee mugs, an umbrella. the clutter is incongruous with the luxury of the house he is in

2) looking up, past the wrought iron chandelier, lights come on in the 2nd floor alcove above him. panic increases

3) the windows are streaked with droplets, leaving his reflection akin to a watercolor left in the rain

3a) thunderstorms are ravaging this area throughout the evening

3b) he is in socks, no shoes

4) the front door is open now and muffled excited conversation can be heard, along with the stamping of wet boots on the foyer tile and rumbles of thunder from a distant neighborhood

4a) he contemplates hiding in a utility closet

5) she walks into the kitchen in a flash, removing one earring and smiling

5a) her husband follows closely behind, also smiling. his shoulders are dotted with wet spots

5b) an older fellow passes by via the hallway and waves cordially

5c) he makes small talk with the couple in slow motion and with very deliberate and leaden gestures of intimacy: arm pats, waves to recall details, rubbing of the chin

6) she enters the kitchen burning away all viscous material slowing things down; no smoke present. she wears a light blue blouse

6a) parents retreat to den with bottle of wine

6b) they stand by the tall windows, joke about him sleeping in the treehouse

6c) leaves one shade lighter than the midnight sway in the wind

6d) treehouse is illuminated by lightning

recovery

we alight from the bus on oxford street and i start walking straight ahead. you're a few steps behind me and you shout out "where are you going?" in that clear canadian accent, not really angry about it but maybe a bit defensive. i stop in the middle of the pavement with drunken and hurried folks streaming past and say "this is the way to tottenham court road, i've gone this way for years." and then you jog a few steps in your heels and grab my arm lightly and say "oh, you're right, my fault." more sing-song accent that i could never hate.

we meander through the streets and come upon the premiere and i'm at a loss for what to do; the press area and the flashbulbs and the ropes and security, it's all alien to me, i let you take the lead. you do so in a way that suggests i am not the first clueless male you've led by the hand through this sort of environment.

we walk through the double doors behind all the madness and it dawns on me that i've been in this building, years ago, as a teenager. it was with jennifer and we were going to see some play for class credit. this is a fleeting memory and before i can really think more about it we're dodging oncoming assistants and stagehands and then i am plopped into a chair right smack in front of vanessa redgrave, cbe. well, this is something to write home about, i think. she is very pleased to see you and strikes me more as the kind, older woman down the road rather than international acting legend. we make small talk about the weather and so forth. she has a few drinks in her, i can tell.

our shoulders touch as we sit there. miss redgrave asks how long we've been a couple. you look at me, hair falling in front of your eyes and cheeks. i turn to her and respond "only time will tell..." she smiles a grin of "good luck". i brush your hair to the side and kiss you on the lips, lips the color of clouds just after sunset.

some italian model with huge poofy hair walks by and you two catch up in quick bursts of foreign conversation. i redirect my attention to miss redgrave and we talk about obama and unemployment before she makes a hasty exit towards a group of autograph seekers and harried-looking producers.

later that night we walk back to the goodge street tube arm in arm. but the intoxicating buzz of what's filling our hearts is not present for some reason. like the looming dark sky above us, i know it's her, back in the states. a sinking feeling. i can't escape. here my life has changed, i never thought i'd have someone like you just bursting forth with affection, but it does nothing.

the dreadful realization that if i walked a few steps off into the night, you'd cry out in your cheerful accent and ask where i was going. but i wouldn't be able to tell you, and i'd have to leave you there, on the pavement, in your heels, crying as the drunken people stream past.

lost weekends

River Card - Atlas Sound


river so clear and blue
i'm so in love with you, but you'll drown me.
you'll drown me.
river so clear and blue
what it takes to ignore you
how many boys have you drowned?

gut instincts

everywhere i look around, the city is changing. the vacant lot on corinthia where we sat one night in the light rain, sharing a bottle of jameson; it is now a glossy high rise condo--all polished silver and blue glass.

the metal gates of the storefront, where we read the 1994 graffiti like heiroglyphics that somehow managed to survive; it has been painted over.

the hole in the wall chinese where we went after The Big Fight, so many nights ago, and you looked up at me between bites with a mix of anger and love, a realization that we were in it for the long haul; it sits empty and dark--how fitting.

i'm telling myself it's time to leave. i explain away my reluctance towards anything these days with the expression "that chapter is closed". i say it to the brash young friend i haven't seen since college. i say it to the meek girl with the small pearl earrings when she asks to see me again. i say it to myself when i pass our block in a quick, teeth-gritted stride.

it's warming ever so slightly. the buds on the trees look like small neon pineapples. i have dreams at night that they bloom instantly, sheaves of green dappled in fresh rainfall. it stays 50 degrees and clouds move overhead, out to the sea. it's fast forward and slow motion fighting a tug of war in the night time.

perhaps there is a warmer place, where i can get lost in the perpetual full bloom, lay in the shadows, find new storefronts. the breeze at night, the sirens wailing up the road, the burn of smoke down my throat on the first drag, and none of it--absolutely none--will remind me of all of this, all of what we felt.

that chapter is closed.

maintain

i was driving down beverly. it was a breezy night, had been clear all day but now the rain was pushing in from the coast. it was probably about an hour from falling but you could feel the wind kicking up, see the line of steel gray clouds on the horizon ambling onto shore after their long trek across the pacific. a long trek through turbulent nights above choppy seas and days of laser-like sun reflected on waves.

my trek was shorter, i just wanted to get back and do what we do. it was a tuesday.

at the curve at rossmore there was a sudden slowdown, ahead i could see two cars perpendicular to the roadway. no one was outside, though, and i couldn't see any drivers or passengers within each vehicle. i sat patiently, the sports announcer reciting the night's basketball scores quietly over the radio.

after half an hour my patience ran thin. people were honking, some were getting out of their cars to peer forward, boosting themselves on one arm over the height of the car roofs stretching ahead. i smoked more cigarettes, switched stations, nothing but jazz (too calm for my impatience) and some honky tonk live from a ballroom back east.

the other drivers began walking from their cars so i figured i would too. there were all types: men like myself in rumpled suits--tired from a day's work, joyriding teenagers on god knows what, a mexican couple with a small child. we walked ahead towards the perpendicular cars, muttering under our breath, bracing against the chilly breeze now blowing from the west with greater strength.

as i got about four car lengths ahead of me i heard the popping. sounded like fireworks. i looked over to my right. there was a short stocky woman, her hair cut like a man's but slightly longer, maybe the tips of the strands touching the bottom of her ear lobe, but slicked back, like an old wino or a hermit of the racetrack. she was firing a pistol around wildly but with purpose. it looked like a toy. it made small cracks and little bright bursts of gold light. then i saw the mexican man fall in front of her and the panic set in.

i raced around to the back of a buick and crouched. there was an eerie silence save for the quick, staccato crack every few seconds. i wondered if she was heading off, towards the ocean, into the wind. then i saw a flash between two cars and i realized she was closer to me than ever.

i stumbled forward, towards the ivy covered wall and the sidewalk. it was my only hope, to make a run for it. as i rounded the large curved trunk of the car and peered around the spare tire, i saw her standing off a few feet away, cream colored pants, leather jacket, boots. i ran and in the corner of my eye, as i achieved a full sprint, i saw her turn.

you stood at home, doing the dishes, radio on. you love that old honky tonk music. it reminds you of when you were a girl, back home. you dry a plate, place it in the rack, take a sip from your gin and tonic on the kitchen table. the room bathes in yellow light from the chandelier and when you look out the kitchen window into our jungle of a backyard, you see yourself smiling in the reflection, giddy, buzzed on gin on a tuesday night.

you're waiting for me to come home.

i get in the door, i play it cool. we embrace. you finish the last glasses and i collapse on the couch. i pat the cushion next to me and you come skipping ahead, wiping your hands on a towel then dropping it to the floor. as we sit and i play with your hair we say nothing. we sit in the silence, bathed in golden light. the tv is off, the air is still. all is quiet.

i hear the soft rustle of raindrops beginning to hit leaves and i turn to you.

bothered

1983 was hazy and sunny as i expected it would be. there was something sad and yet exhilarating about seeing all my friends as three year olds, running across the playground in swirling circles, all wearing their little striped sweaters and corduroy trousers. each one's hair was lighter than it is now. i looked up towards an oak tree on the perimeter of the schoolyard, and my boss was sitting up there, current age, salt and pepper hair, tapping into his blackberry. glitch.

walked across the vast soccer field by the freeway, over the splashes of gold-lit grass, thinking of mishima and his suicide for the sake of his nation. i thought about 2008 and the afternoon my best friend and i sat in the sushi restaurant and agreed we could never kill ourselves; we loved life too much.

1983 quickly became 2010 and i'm living in a crackhouse outside of charlotte. emma is sleeping on the tartan sofa and when i wake her up she is understandably pissed off. she softens faster than i expect, however, and soon we're walking down the road in light jackets admiring the crisp fall air.

we hitch a ride from a silver SUV, an obese woman with equally silver hair drives up front. she talks about the amtrak train that crashed off a bridge into the bayou years ago. she was on that train. she remembers seeing the water as it came closer to the window at alarming speed, waiting for the impact, the water's first touch on her dry hands. she said keeping yourself above water feels like doing sit-ups with a tire on your chest. the conductor was wading through the compartment, inexplicably calm, as if he knew this day was coming all along.

providence road was as far as she'd take us, so we stood on the side of the road again thumbing.

"i'm starting to like you again," i told her, brushing her hair to one side to fake karate chop her on the neck. we talked about which colleges we got into and which ones we didn't.

we both wanted to smoke, neither of us had cigarettes. the chill in the air became more pronounced as the sun fell.

a middle-aged black guy in a brown leather coat picked us up in his toyota avalon. it was spotlessly clean inside. radio tuned to a gospel station. he made sparse small talk.

we watched the trees go past and soon we were climbing a curving road into the hills. the sky was purple with those pink puffy clouds lit from beneath. i turned to look as the entire city spread out below us. the walls and roofs and roads were all tinted violet from the sky above.

"emma, look at that," i told her, turning her by the shoulder slightly. the sky on the horizon looked like an expansive ocean from another planet.

as the streetlights popped on we pulled into a large shopping center. we walked into a country-style restaurant. we met the man's wife, who was waiting there for him. he introduced us and she politely smiled and nodded. i offered to buy them dinner but the man waved it off.

i'm not sure what happened after. the machine ran out of fuel and i came to in the hallway with a car alarm going off in the street. it was 4:48 am.

showering, i remembered that i still don't like emma. there are things that were said that i won't shrug off. still, the future is another thing altogether.

flashes

whitaker met me at 12 on the dot at my hotel. we embraced and walked down to union square.

well, this is it, i said. i wasn't really sure what to show him. i'd only been here a week myself. we stood in the sunlight staring up at it, eyes burning warmly. the macy's stood there like an old warehouse, decrepit, filled with merchandise.

we took a walk up van ness towards the park. i wanted to show him the golden gate the way i'd first seen it, red and stout in the hazy afternoon.

it was windy up on the top of the hill. a couple rolled in the grass, kissing, yards away. a dog ran towards us then turned suddenly hearing his owner call.

we talked about our families, our jobs. there were fair amounts of silence. we walked down towards the marina district.

i explained how all these buildings crumbled in the quake. the gas mains all caught fire and that idyllic october afternoon remained cool and sunny, with the entire district in ruins and aflame.

of course, i didn't know all this from experience. i was eight and on the opposite coast. but i've seen the video.

we walked down chestnut and had a chat with an employee of the computer store. there was no rush to do anything, one of those days where life is an empty, dusty road unfurled in front of you.

stopped in a bar crowded with people our age, all inside in the shadows drinking cheap bottles of beer instead of being out in the sunlight. they were all a bit preppy and we kind of scoffed inside but tried to pick up a couple girls from marin anyways.

by the time we got fed up and left it was dark.

makes sense, i thought. we'd been at it forever.

rode back into downtown and slept the sleep of anticipation.