Monday, November 21, 1994
The Moment After
Numb from the crawl space,
the weight of wrenches, the suck of mud,
the cruel finger-scrape of crusty gas pipe,
I open the cock, dimly aware of
a hoo-oo-ooting sound as wearily, stupidly
to relight the pilot I strike a match and
WHOOSH
a roaring comet of fire shoots across the garage
knocking me back like a high inside fastball.
Fast as flame the body moves
before the mind reacts:
I shut the cock.
The moment after
in stillness
my right arm is smoking.
The moment after
from my sizzled beard
the scent of singed hair.
The moment after
from my lip
the taste of ash.
The moment after
like a wild river
blood throbs through my heart.
Lungs expand with the rush of air.
Before pain can muster,
in the moment after
I have senses, spirit;
the soul burns,
my love, blessed
to the quick
with life.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
365 Jobs: Happiness, Last Chance
December, 1986
Happiness, Last Chance
After the divorce, I helped Cory move a 900-pound piano from the big old house to a funky little cottage that he'd rented nearby. There I met a shy, skinny woman. "This is my lover, Melissa," Cory said by way of introduction.
Cory was in his sixties. An engineer who'd survived cancer. Retired.
Melissa, lover, looked a little younger, fifty-something.
When we'd wheeled the piano into place, Melissa said, "That's it?"
Other than the piano, Cory had brought one suitcase. "That's it," he said. He'd given everything to his ex-wife: house, furniture, all earthly possessions. He would start anew.
Melissa, apparently, was starting over as well. In the living room there was weight-lifting equipment and nothing more. In the bedroom I could see a mattress on the floor. The walls were all bare.
Cory limped into the kitchen. He'd injured his leg in a bicycle accident as a child. Opening cabinet doors, finding nothing but nutritional drinks, he asked, "Don't you have a single pot?"
"You know I don't eat," Melissa said.
They kissed. Taped to the refrigerator was their only decoration, a calendar featuring photos of muscular body-building women.
They had equipped the house with their passions, nothing more.
For a couple years thereafter until Cory's cancer came back, evenings when I was walking my dog by the cottage, I could hear the piano and see the thin shadow of Melissa on the curtains, lifting weights, not eating. He loved that boogie-woogie.
Happiness, Last Chance
After the divorce, I helped Cory move a 900-pound piano from the big old house to a funky little cottage that he'd rented nearby. There I met a shy, skinny woman. "This is my lover, Melissa," Cory said by way of introduction.
Cory was in his sixties. An engineer who'd survived cancer. Retired.
Melissa, lover, looked a little younger, fifty-something.
When we'd wheeled the piano into place, Melissa said, "That's it?"
Other than the piano, Cory had brought one suitcase. "That's it," he said. He'd given everything to his ex-wife: house, furniture, all earthly possessions. He would start anew.
Melissa, apparently, was starting over as well. In the living room there was weight-lifting equipment and nothing more. In the bedroom I could see a mattress on the floor. The walls were all bare.
Cory limped into the kitchen. He'd injured his leg in a bicycle accident as a child. Opening cabinet doors, finding nothing but nutritional drinks, he asked, "Don't you have a single pot?"
"You know I don't eat," Melissa said.
They kissed. Taped to the refrigerator was their only decoration, a calendar featuring photos of muscular body-building women.
They had equipped the house with their passions, nothing more.
For a couple years thereafter until Cory's cancer came back, evenings when I was walking my dog by the cottage, I could hear the piano and see the thin shadow of Melissa on the curtains, lifting weights, not eating. He loved that boogie-woogie.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
365 Jobs: Vigilante, Kelly Moore Paint, San Carlos, California
Friday, April 11, 1986
Vigilante, Kelly Moore Paint, San Carlos, California
As I turn to enter the parking lot, a man is standing in the middle of the lane, a blockade.
I stop the truck.
He says, “You son of a bitch. I could sue you.”
Leaning my head out the window, I say, "Huh?"
A couple of painters are walking by. One says, “Come on, Frank. Let him in.”
Frank doesn’t budge. “It’s an exit,” Frank says. “He’s trying to enter an exit. See the arrow?”
“So what are you, a cop?” says the painter.
Meanwhile, I'm backing up.
Frank is muttering to himself.
He's sick. Anybody can see.
I salute. With respect. Honest, no sarcasm. With or without pay, every man needs a job. Such as: Parking Lot Vigilante.
Every man needs a purpose.
Vigilante, Kelly Moore Paint, San Carlos, California
As I turn to enter the parking lot, a man is standing in the middle of the lane, a blockade.
I stop the truck.
He says, “You son of a bitch. I could sue you.”
Leaning my head out the window, I say, "Huh?"
A couple of painters are walking by. One says, “Come on, Frank. Let him in.”
Frank doesn’t budge. “It’s an exit,” Frank says. “He’s trying to enter an exit. See the arrow?”
“So what are you, a cop?” says the painter.
Meanwhile, I'm backing up.
Frank is muttering to himself.
He's sick. Anybody can see.
I salute. With respect. Honest, no sarcasm. With or without pay, every man needs a job. Such as: Parking Lot Vigilante.
Every man needs a purpose.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
365 Jobs: I Got Lost
Thursday, April 10, 1980
I Got Lost
In the laundry soap aisle at Payless my daughter, age two, gets separated from me and my shopping cart. I hear screams: "DADDY! WHERE ARE YOU?" I rush to pick her up and hold her in my arms.
She seems baffled by what happened. We were separated for about fifteen seconds.
"You got lost," I say. "You couldn't find me."
In her face she goes from bafflement to surrounding the idea: "I got lost." She's a quick learner.
She's growing so fast. Already I sense: In a blink, she'll be a teen. Another blink, she'll be gone. I tell her so, at dinner, and she tells me she doesn't want to grow up. She wants to grow down and be a hummingbird.
After dinner I go to a nearby house and hook up a stove. Low margin for me, but I promised the landlord. Some new tenants are moving in. First thing the two men do is carry in a television and attach it to cable. While I finish the job, they sit on the bare floor, drink beer, smoke ciggies, have a farting contest, and make jeering comments about some show they're watching called That's Incredible!.
I want to scream.
For a few bucks, I've missed an evening with my daughter and spent it with a couple of louts.
I got lost. I couldn't find her.
I Got Lost
In the laundry soap aisle at Payless my daughter, age two, gets separated from me and my shopping cart. I hear screams: "DADDY! WHERE ARE YOU?" I rush to pick her up and hold her in my arms.
She seems baffled by what happened. We were separated for about fifteen seconds.
"You got lost," I say. "You couldn't find me."
In her face she goes from bafflement to surrounding the idea: "I got lost." She's a quick learner.
She's growing so fast. Already I sense: In a blink, she'll be a teen. Another blink, she'll be gone. I tell her so, at dinner, and she tells me she doesn't want to grow up. She wants to grow down and be a hummingbird.
After dinner I go to a nearby house and hook up a stove. Low margin for me, but I promised the landlord. Some new tenants are moving in. First thing the two men do is carry in a television and attach it to cable. While I finish the job, they sit on the bare floor, drink beer, smoke ciggies, have a farting contest, and make jeering comments about some show they're watching called That's Incredible!.
I want to scream.
For a few bucks, I've missed an evening with my daughter and spent it with a couple of louts.
I got lost. I couldn't find her.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
365 Jobs: Betsy's Door
Tuesday, October 24, 1989
Betsy's Door
Betsy is a grandmotherly sort. Gray hair, sweet face. You can tell immediately that money is tight. She lives alone in a one-room apartment over a garage.
Somebody kicked in her front entry. She's hired me to replace it with a crummy used door that she found leaning against a dumpster. I'll have to swap out the hinges and locks, then adjust the weatherstripping before she leaves for her job at three o'clock.
"Shouldn't the landlord pay for this?" I ask.
"No," Betsy says.
She watches me work. Occasionally she glances at something called The Daily Word, which is a Bible quote with a little sermon. She moves her lips as she's reading. Otherwise, she's silent. A simple, lonely woman, I'm thinking. To make conversation, I ask an easy question: "Where do you work?"
"Oh, you know," she says as if I might. Then it comes in a gush: "I used to run the Bar Association but it got too crazy so now I work at Stanford because they have good benefits and I do some extra bookkeeping on the side. I thought I'd be retired by now. I was planning to travel around in the motor home but now I can't afford to and I need to sell it. You interested?"
"No. Sorry." There's a boxy Fleetwood, dented and dirty, parked in the driveway.
We're quiet for a while. She watches me work and glances at The Daily Word.
I don't know why, but for some reason I remark: "I see a lot of motor homes with a bumper sticker that says WE ARE SPENDING OUR CHILDREN'S INHERITANCE."
"You don't like that?" she asks.
"It seems sad."
"Why not spend it? My son's an addict. I used to have a lot of fine antiques. Now look."
"Is that who kicked in the front door? Your son?"
"He's broken," she says. "Like an egg on a sidewalk."
A grandmotherly sort. Gray hair, sweet face. She has one room and The Daily Word.
Betsy's Door
Betsy is a grandmotherly sort. Gray hair, sweet face. You can tell immediately that money is tight. She lives alone in a one-room apartment over a garage.
Somebody kicked in her front entry. She's hired me to replace it with a crummy used door that she found leaning against a dumpster. I'll have to swap out the hinges and locks, then adjust the weatherstripping before she leaves for her job at three o'clock.
"Shouldn't the landlord pay for this?" I ask.
"No," Betsy says.
She watches me work. Occasionally she glances at something called The Daily Word, which is a Bible quote with a little sermon. She moves her lips as she's reading. Otherwise, she's silent. A simple, lonely woman, I'm thinking. To make conversation, I ask an easy question: "Where do you work?"
"Oh, you know," she says as if I might. Then it comes in a gush: "I used to run the Bar Association but it got too crazy so now I work at Stanford because they have good benefits and I do some extra bookkeeping on the side. I thought I'd be retired by now. I was planning to travel around in the motor home but now I can't afford to and I need to sell it. You interested?"
"No. Sorry." There's a boxy Fleetwood, dented and dirty, parked in the driveway.
We're quiet for a while. She watches me work and glances at The Daily Word.
I don't know why, but for some reason I remark: "I see a lot of motor homes with a bumper sticker that says WE ARE SPENDING OUR CHILDREN'S INHERITANCE."
"You don't like that?" she asks.
"It seems sad."
"Why not spend it? My son's an addict. I used to have a lot of fine antiques. Now look."
"Is that who kicked in the front door? Your son?"
"He's broken," she says. "Like an egg on a sidewalk."
A grandmotherly sort. Gray hair, sweet face. She has one room and The Daily Word.
Monday, April 8, 2013
365 Jobs: Fifty-Pound Chandelier
Friday, October 16, 1987
Fifty-Pound Chandelier
I'm installing a fifty-pound chandelier in Atherton. To place my ladder, I have to move a massive walnut table.
Mrs. W is watching me closely. "Don't hurt that table," she says. "It's the reason we bought the house."
"It came with the house?" I ask.
"No. I bought the dining room set for our old house, but it didn't fit, so we bought a new house."
Atherton is a different world.
Fifty-Pound Chandelier
I'm installing a fifty-pound chandelier in Atherton. To place my ladder, I have to move a massive walnut table.
Mrs. W is watching me closely. "Don't hurt that table," she says. "It's the reason we bought the house."
"It came with the house?" I ask.
"No. I bought the dining room set for our old house, but it didn't fit, so we bought a new house."
Atherton is a different world.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
365 Jobs: Fuzzies
Adirondack Sketches: September, 2000
Fuzzies
Alone she cleans the cabin, packs her bag,
takes a last dip and shampoo in the lake.
A soapy cloud dissipates in the water.
A week of voluntary solitude is at end,
a week to wash her heart.
Email, voicemail await.
The wind is from the east — bad sign.
In the car a green caterpillar starts crawling up her leg.
At a stop sign, she tries to catch him, to set him free, outside,
but he panics and squirms out of her fingers to drop
to shadowy spots unseen. Him. He.
So she drives, reflecting upon, smiling at
her now-conscious assumption:
All caterpillars are male; that's why
they're so stupid and single-minded.
All butterflies are female; that's why
they're so nice.
The solitude healed. She can almost laugh.
Again he wiggles up her leg, the same leg, to her thigh.
Again she tries to grab him but he leaps —
how does a caterpillar leap?
— to the floor.
Either he will be crushed by her feet,
sucked up a Hertz vacuum cleaner,
or he will starve in this sterile Mazda.
She's rushing to catch a boat.
She cannot save him
if he won't be saved.
A hurricane is coming, dark sky.
The ride across Lake Champlain is wild.
Waves slam the shuddering ferry.
Water sprays the windshield.
Wind whips the puddles on the deck
while she searches the car from within, doors closed
to the weather, contorting like a back-seat lover
to peer under floormats. He can't be found.
She reaches Burlington Airport with time, barely,
to escape at the edge of the black storm.
A couple weeks ago, she came upon
a plump brown caterpillar
who was humping across the little lane
in front of her house.
She tried to guide him with the edge of
her flip-flop. He was stubborn.
A car approached.
Reflexively, obediently, she stepped aside.
He was popped
— splattered —
under the tire of a black Mercedes driven by a callow young man.
Now hunched in flight, middle seat, no leg room,
ignoring some bullshit movie
she clutches her belly. In her eyes appear
all things fragile, winged, unborn.
She could have stopped the car. Both cars:
pulled the Mazda to the side of the road
until she found that little beast, Adirondack refugee,
before the squalls trapped her — and he — inside
that metal cage. She could have stood
her ground against the black Mercedes
until the hairy worm could shimmy to the other side.
Air turbulence.
Hands clasped on the seat tray,
she prays: Little caterpillars,
please keep creeping.
Some day
you'll reach
whatever you're seeking.
Fuzzies
Alone she cleans the cabin, packs her bag,
takes a last dip and shampoo in the lake.
A soapy cloud dissipates in the water.
A week of voluntary solitude is at end,
a week to wash her heart.
Email, voicemail await.
The wind is from the east — bad sign.
In the car a green caterpillar starts crawling up her leg.
At a stop sign, she tries to catch him, to set him free, outside,
but he panics and squirms out of her fingers to drop
to shadowy spots unseen. Him. He.
So she drives, reflecting upon, smiling at
her now-conscious assumption:
All caterpillars are male; that's why
they're so stupid and single-minded.
All butterflies are female; that's why
they're so nice.
The solitude healed. She can almost laugh.
Again he wiggles up her leg, the same leg, to her thigh.
Again she tries to grab him but he leaps —
how does a caterpillar leap?
— to the floor.
Either he will be crushed by her feet,
sucked up a Hertz vacuum cleaner,
or he will starve in this sterile Mazda.
She's rushing to catch a boat.
She cannot save him
if he won't be saved.
A hurricane is coming, dark sky.
The ride across Lake Champlain is wild.
Waves slam the shuddering ferry.
Water sprays the windshield.
Wind whips the puddles on the deck
while she searches the car from within, doors closed
to the weather, contorting like a back-seat lover
to peer under floormats. He can't be found.
She reaches Burlington Airport with time, barely,
to escape at the edge of the black storm.
A couple weeks ago, she came upon
a plump brown caterpillar
who was humping across the little lane
in front of her house.
She tried to guide him with the edge of
her flip-flop. He was stubborn.
A car approached.
Reflexively, obediently, she stepped aside.
He was popped
— splattered —
under the tire of a black Mercedes driven by a callow young man.
Now hunched in flight, middle seat, no leg room,
ignoring some bullshit movie
she clutches her belly. In her eyes appear
all things fragile, winged, unborn.
She could have stopped the car. Both cars:
pulled the Mazda to the side of the road
until she found that little beast, Adirondack refugee,
before the squalls trapped her — and he — inside
that metal cage. She could have stood
her ground against the black Mercedes
until the hairy worm could shimmy to the other side.
Air turbulence.
Hands clasped on the seat tray,
she prays: Little caterpillars,
please keep creeping.
Some day
you'll reach
whatever you're seeking.
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