March 12 - Coffee

Mae walks slowly and deliberately across the room.  A mug from her childhood, from the Adler Planetarium, shakes in her left hand.  She watches it intently, trying not to spill.  Likewise, a man watches her from the kitchen table. 

“How long has it been?”

“What do you mean, Jon?”  She does not look at him.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a cup of coffee?”
“Three days.”

She only spills when she gets to the sink.  A look of “Damn” crosses her face.  Gently, she licks the side of the mug.

“Junkie.”

She looks over her shoulder at him. “I overfilled the mug.”

“Of course you did, junkie.”

She crosses to her laptop.  She always sits across from him at the kitchen table.  Gently, she places the over full mug on the placemat next to her.  Her laptop sits on the surface of the table.  She starts drinking.

“Isn’t that hot?”

“I burned my tongue on the side of the mug.  I can’t feel it if it is.  And you know our kettle doesn’t heat water properly anymore.”

“We can get a new one.”

“It heats water, just not properly.  We don’t need a new one.”

Jon sighs and leans back.  He runs his hand through his dark hair as he does when he knows he’s having the same conversation over.  He looks at Mae.  She looks at him.  They have this conversation every morning, but they haven’t talked about the kettle.  He can tell she doesn’t mean it; proper coffee is too important to her. 

“We can get a new one.”

“We don’t need a new one.”

She is only absent-mindedly continuing the conversation.  She has begun to check her email.  This is more important than coffee.  She needs to know what’s going on elsewhere to be comfortable where she is; that’s what she tells Jon anyway.  He thinks it’s bullshit.

“How’s the coffee?”

“Instant.”

He rises and grabs his mug.  It’s got some kind of modern art on it from their second date when they went to a modern art museum and pretended to understand the art to appear intellectual.  Neither ever admitted to pretending, but they had been.  A mournful saxophone busker had played at them as they left.  He had wanted to give him some money, being from the country and being kind.  She had stopped him, being from the city and being blind to anyone sitting down on a street.  He still uses the mug.  He has a contact addiction to caffeine from being around Mae for two years.

She tips her mug back to catch the last drops as he begins his first cup.  She stands and makes another.  He jokes about her being a junkie again.  She gives him a tired look that calls him a hypocrite for bringing it up every time she boils water.  After all, he drinks just as much as she does.  She is tired, he is just waking up.  She has always needed coffee, he never has.  So it goes.  Every morning.  Beginning with the first cup of coffee.

March 11 - Forces

Mama stands with her arms crossed over her stomach in the doorway.  Mandy carries some roots in the pockets of her overalls and some bark.  She’s clutching a twisted metal bar.  Mama falls.

Mama wasn’t Mama after she woke up.  Her skin stuck to her like the dirt stuck to Mandy.   It wasn’t hers but it wouldn’t let go.  It looked green at golden hour.  She looked like she was crying.  But Mama kept going.  Left hand over her stomach she would stir the pot over our old gas stove that kept working in spite of the Controls.  Mandy started praying to the roots she found.  Something about how if you didn’t cook them enough they’d kill your soul but leave you alive.  Which is worse than death.  Or something.  Mandy’s dramatic and I mostly don’t know what she’s talking about. 

“Ray.  What’d you think happened?”  Mandy looked up at me with a face already smeared with our red dirt 15 minutes after bathing.

“What happened to what?”

“Mama.  What’d you think happened?  She ain’t old.”

“Maybe the doctor gave her some bad news.  There’s always bad news from him.”

“No.  She didn’t go to the doctor we go to.”

“Of course she didn’t.  She’s too old now.”

“Not by much.”

“Mandy, there’s always bad news.  Some one gave her more.”

Mandy hopped up on the mud wall.  It was red like the ground, though probably not from the dirt.  But Mandy didn’t know that.  She got all quiet in a way that wasn’t like her.  Mandy’s quiet, but she’s never blank.  Mandy’s always thinking something.  I could tell she wasn’t now. 

“Maybe,” she said, “that man came back.”

“Couldn’t be.” Maybe she had been thinking. “He left.  He went beyond the wall.”

“No body can go beyond the wall.”

“He always said he had permits.”

“No body can get permits.  I asked around after he said so last time.”

“That was years ago.  He said that’s where he was going.  If he didn’t have permits, it’s even more like that it wasn’t him.”

“He’d have been shot.  That’s what you’re saying.”

“Yeah.  He’d have been shot.  Anyway he hasn’t gotten anywhere near Mama any time recently.  Don’t pay anyone any time that say otherwise.”

“You’re talking about Jimmy.”

“Exactly.  Jimmy likes to stir up trouble.  He’d say The Force was back if it weren’t true if it suited him.”

“I’m not talking about The Force.  I’m talking about that man that came here.”

“He was on The Force.  He wouldn’t come back if he wasn’t with them.”

“Maybe he broke off.”

“All the more like he’s been shot.”

“He hasn’t been shot.  Mama would be able to tell.”

“She’s 19.  She can’t tell nothing.”

“A 19 year old boy wouldn’t be able to tell nothing.  A girl could.”

Mandy kicked her heels against the mud wall.  Then she hopped over and started walking.

“Mandy! Come back!” I hollered.
“No.  You can’t tell nothing.  I can. I’m going to find that man and tell him he owes Mama.”

“You won’t come back.”

She spun around.  She had sweat on her face.  She shrugged.  She kept walking.

March 10 - Twisted in Effigy

"Ray, come look."
It was too hot.  The tall grasses stuck to my legs. Each blade left individually, cutting into my skin with their sharp edges.  It was hot enough that I contemplated ripping my shirt off and wearing it around my head like Johnny did when he was pretending to be what he called an Arab and what Jimmy called a Terrorist.  We didn't blame him, he grew up on his parent's political views.  When I asked Mama about it, she said not to listen to him and that his parents were old conservatives.  I didn't know what she meant, but she was usually right; so I paid Jimmy no time.  But even in this sun, my little sister was still my little sister and I felt weird taking anything off in front of her.
"I'm coming Mandy."
She stood stock still, a little blond head floating above the tall grasses.  I never understood how she managed to wear that denim jumper in this heat and not sweat, but she did.  The wind lazily played with her hair, moving a strand here and there, not really doing anything to relieve the weight of the air.
"Ray! Come look.  I found something!"
Her head flashed toward me to make sure I was coming.  She never believed me, which was just as well.  No one should be too trusting.  The grasses rustled, a dry sound.  It hadn't rained.  She looked up at the sky, shielding a dirt scuffed, pale face with an even dirtier hand.  The ground was red here.
"It's an... impressionist sky."
I didn't know what she was talking about.  She said something about the way the sun was too yellow and the sky was too blue and the sun was a bunch of circles of different shades of yellow drawn on too quickly by God.  She said it meant the sky was beautiful.  I don't know anything about that.  I just know the sun was too hot and the sky looked too cool.  I wanted to drink it, it was so blue.
"What is it Mandy?" I asked.  I arrived panting from walking 15 feet.
"Look."  She pointed.
Some of the older kids liked to use this field. I don't know what they do.  I don't know anything about that.  She bent down to pick something metal out of the ground.  I could see it was too hot for her to hold, but she wouldn't let me take it.  It was a twisted bit of something.  It had been warped by the head, certainly, but it also looked like it had been twisted by an impact.  I looked around for the signs of a race, but I didn't see any.  None of the grass was flattened or burned.
"It looks like Mama."
I didn't see it, but I don't know anything about that.  Mandy was an artist.  You could see it in her little kid drawings.  She connected to it or some shit.  I don't know.  She draws a lot anyway, and some of it looks pretty good.  She twisted the thing around, looking from different angles.
"It looks like Mama" she affirmed.
"It looks dirty. Don't cut yourself."
She's my little sister.  I worry.  And Mama couldn't pay for us to go to a clinic.  She couldn't pay for her usual check up.  She had to go somewhere else and came back looking all sick and drained.  She said she felt like something had died inside her.  Or maybe she said something had died in her.  I don't know.  I just know she didn't want to cook any of the meat we'd brought in from the field because one of the rabbits we found had babies.  Mandy said it was just as well and that it was wrong to eat any kind of a baby, but I just thought it was meat which we don't get enough of.
Mandy just kept twisting that thing and saying it looked like Mama. I told her she could keep it if she thought so but that we had to get back to looking for food.  She just nodded and kept twisting.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
"It looks like Mama.  I want to keep it."
"So do. But why are you looking at it like that?"
"Because it looks like Mama, but I don't know how."
"I don't know why."
"Why?  Because it's all twisted up and scared looking.  Like Mama.  If you look at the middle it's hollower.  Like it's missing something.  Like Mama.  But it's also in the shape of a heart.  Like Mama."
"That's no heart."
"Yes it is!  Look."
"You look better than I do."
"That's cause you're a boy. Boys don't look."
I don't know about Mandy.  She's got some odd notions.  All I know is that it was too hot and that I had to get back to looking.  Mama looked tireder and draineder and maybe if I brought her something worth while to eat it would make her better.  I had to.  I don't know much about much, but I know when I got to get something done.

March 9 - Mari

I felt the familiar pop of my stockings running against the inside of my shoe as I unbuttoned a shirt I refuse to believe is too tight walking in the door.  These little rooms are ours.    I have to look at the opening of my boot to see if they ran twice because the first time I looked was perforce and I did not register any injury to the fake tan of the nylon.  I hope they have not run, because I need more stockings and won’t have time to get more tonight.

“Are you home?”

Silence.

She’s not.  But I always get home first.  That’s nothing new.  I wake up first, I leave first, and I get home first.  I usually go to bed first too, but that’s neither here nor there.  If you take into account the process of going to bed, we go to bed together.  It’s just that she showers in the evenings and I don’t.  I shower when I wake up.  I like to start the day fresh.

“Are you home?”

Still silence. 

Sometimes she doesn’t hear me.

“Mari?”

No response.

So I am alone.

It’s late enough that I don’t mind pouring myself a beer.  It’s hot.  After all, it’s summer.  She won’t mind that I’m drinking.  She never has.  But we barely speak to each other when she’s home.  We live separate lives that happen to converge in bed.  Realistically, it’s the perfect relationship.  For me anyway. 

I can’t find the bottle opener.  I never can.  I don’t really need one to open the bottle, but it would be nice.  Definitely a little classier; I’d feel a lot less like an alcoholic.  But I follow Hemingway’s advice about drinking and writing, so I open it against the edge of a linoleum counter.  I drink.  Perhaps I drink too much.  I’d like to say I have an excuse, but I don’t.  I just drink.

Dear Mari,

I went out for more.  Call me when you get home?

-Liz

I always leave a note.  She doesn’t really care what I went out for, so I just say more.  She won’t accuse me of lying later.  Capricious woman.  I’ll leave.  I did run my stockings after all, so I must make time.

March 8 - Check In Dreams

I'm on drugs again.  Totally legal, totally prescribed, and totally messing with my dreams...

Why do you turn away from me?

I see you there. 

You cannot hide.

Ten thousand guests all look away when I pass

As thought they feared something mighty in this great Islamic, English cathedral

            Underground yet resplendent in iridescent Tiffany glass

Where does the sunlight come from?

This place must radiate from even the blackest corners

            Though there seem to be none

And still the bodies turn away.

Like the whisper of falling leaves they rustle and become still again

            What am I that they are afraid?

When the grandest green velvet staircase turns before you, turn away.

It must remind you of another terrifying dream.

            And though it might be freedom, it would come at the price of passing more

I want to see their faces; they must be beautiful.

Only the truly beautiful would be so shy.

March 7 - To My Child

You will not remember the 1st time you pick up a crayon to draw a house.  For I do not.  And if I do not, I am willing to bet that my gene for forgetting important things has been passed on to you.  I am writing lying down because I am too weak to stand.  But, child, you must remember the important things. Like the first thing you draw in crayon being put up on the fridge.  I do not remember this from my childhood because my refrigerator was wood paneled to fit in with the interior design.  Instead the stairway to our basement was lined with my childhood art and accomplishments.  There was no where else to put anything.  But our refrigerator will be covered in magnets as sitcom moms taught me it should be.  It will chronicle my life in magnets that will be there to support your life in art.  All your art will be good art and I will hang it with pride instead of hiding it away in the basement even though your hands are only getting started and this will be visible in the rhomboid house in our kitchen.

March 6 - Listed

Featuring live links to Craigslist!

“I was 49… and 58.”

“How do you still remember this shit?”

            The four sat sprawled over beds and couches in Lena’s guest room.  Lena stared quietly up at the ceiling on one of the beds while her friends discussed middles school sports.  A Sam Adams Boston Lager dangled from her right hand over the edge.  Amy was once again displaying her memory for novel detail as she sat cross-legged on the floor against a couch. 

            “I don’t know,” replied Amy. “I just do.”

            “It’s a pity you don’t remember names and dates from history.  It would serve you better,” drawled Katie as she rolled over onto her stomach.

            “Yeah well, they aren’t interesting.”

            Katie shot her a look that told the room she thought Amy was a freak and took a sip of her beer. 

            “We aren’t really doing anything, are we?”

            All heads turned to Lena.

            “Are we?” she asked.

            “We were talking I guess…” replied Meg

            “But that’s for you guys.  I wasn’t here in middle school.  I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

            “So let’s do something,” said Amy.

            “What?” asked Lena.  “What is there to do?”

            “We could go on Craigslist Casual Encounters,” replied Katie.

            “What?” asked Lena, sitting up.

            “You guys don’t do that?” asked Katie. “Just for a joke, I mean.  Not to respond to anything.  There isn’t a single person on there who isn’t disease ridden or a serial killer.”

            “Can we do that?” asked Meg.

            “Why wouldn’t we be able to?” asked Katie.

            “Because we’re not eighteen,” replied Meg as she took a sip of her soda.

            “Lena’s furnished us with alcohol from her dad’s cupboard and all you have to do to get on is click a button that says ‘Yes, I’m 18’.  It literally couldn’t be less difficult.”

            “But –“

            “Really Meg?” asked Lena. “Since when does anything we do bother you?”

            Meg shrugged and sighed, curling a bit of her hair behind her ear.

            “Great.  Amy, get your laptop.  We’re going on Craigslist.”

            Amy slid up from her position on the floor and left the room.  Lena looked over and saw Meg’s obvious discomfort.  Her green eyes were cast downward, staring at the lip of the Coca Cola bottle.

            “Meg, you good?” asked Lena.

            “Yeah… I. Yeah. I’m fine,” she replied.

            “Lena, where did you find these?” asked Katie, gesturing with her empty bottle.

            “Are you sure you want another?” asked Lena.

            “Who are you?  Meg?” replied Katie.

            Lena sighed and stood.  She left.  She walked heavy in her heels, as though she expected there to be more between her feet and the floor.  Or as though by bringing her foot down so hard she might be able to keep herself from running to wherever she was going. The door closed with a bang behind her.

            Katie fell back onto her bed with a thump. “Fuck.”  Meg looked on quietly staring at Katie with a look of both concern and intense curiosity.   She ran her fingers around the lip of the bottle as she watched Katie melt across the bed.

            “When did it get so hot?” asked Katie.

            “When summer came.”

            “Don’t be a smart ass.  You’re not the kind of person that can say that stuff.” 

            Katie rolled over so that she could look at Meg.

            “Who is the kind of person who can say that kind of stuff?”

            “Not you.”

            Katie rolled over again, apparently done with the conversation.  The door swung open as Amy and Lena entered.

            “We’re back,” Lena said somewhat unenergetically swinging a six-pack.

            Amy again sat down in front of the couch as the others sat down around her so that they could see the screen.  She began typing.

            “Where are we looking?” asked Amy.

            “What do you mean, where?” asked Meg.

            “She means “what city?”  Some are better than others,” answered Katie authoritatively.

            “Oh.” Meg replied quietly.

            “Let’s start with here,” said Amy. “Let’s see who’s desperate in Westchester.”

            “Sweet,” replied Katie.

            “You guys, that seems a little mean,” said Meg.

            “Really Meg?” said Katie.

            Meg sighed.

            With a few clicks Amy was on the Westchester Craigslist.

2 guys seek girl for 3sum - mm4w - 30 - (motel)         

“Meg, they’re looking for you.”  Katie elbowed her.

            “Shut up.”

I need a very, very dirty slut slave - m4w - 35 - (Yonkers)

            “That’s all you Katie!” said Amy

            “Yeah. I’m really into “wet, sticky, slimy, and smelly” sex. Who thinks this kind of writing is a turn on for anyone?”  She replied, shoving Amy.

Any witty multilangual and cynical girl? - 31 – pic

            “Now that’s for me,” said Katie.

            “Cynical, yes.  Multilingual, no.  He’s looking for Amy,” replied Lena.

            “Eh.  I’m not into sideways hipster photos.  The photo makes him look cool, but the fact that he doesn’t know how to rotate it tells me he doesn’t really know how to use a computer,” replied Amy.

***you are late*** - 25 - (carmel) pic

            “Oh shit,” said Lena.

            “Well Meg.  Who knew?” said Katie.

            “That is not me,” replied Meg.

            “She sure looks like you…” said Amy.

            “Right, but it’s not,” said Meg.

            “But… shit” said Lena.

            “Shit is right,” said Katie. “I didn’t know Meg hooked up with the kind of guy who posts pictures of himself shirtless and muscle-y on Craigslist.”

            “I don’t!” said Meg.

            “Sure you don’t…” said Katie, as she pointed to the next link.

            “No!” said Meg as she slammed the laptop shut.

            “Watch it!” said Katie.

            “I do not hook up with the kind of guy who would post this on Craigslist.  I don’t even hook up.  There is an aggregate total of zero interest in what’s here.  And, you know what, I’m done with this.  I’m tired of Katie and her cynicism and her sarcasm.  Good bye.”

            She stood.  No one protested.  Meg looked at all three girls, grabbed a Sam Adams Boston Lager, cracked it open on the edge of a table, and left.

            “Where’d she learn to do that?” asked Lena.

            “Who cares?” said Katie.

            Amy looked up as though she were about to answer the question with I do, but closed her mouth before she could say anything.  She ran her hand through her hair, tucked a little behind her ear and asked: “What’s next?”

sex once in a while - w4w - 18 (your house)

            “Oh come on, that one sounds boring,” said Katie.

            “Hey, it’s woman for woman.  Those seem rare,” said Amy.

            “Seriously.  Don’t click on that one,” said Katie.

            “As the resident authority, I say click,” said Lena.

            “Who made you authority?” asked Kaie.

            “The fact that this is my house and the fact that you’re drinking my dad’s beer” said Katie.

            Amy had already clicked and was skimming the post.  “She seems boring.”

            “Let’s respond” said Lena.

            “Really guys, this is boring now,” said Katie.

To: gwpqp-3116240006@pers.craigslist.org

Subject: Oral.

Attachments: SAM_0991.jpg

Hey.  I am interested.  I’m in Putnam, white and 5’ 3’’.  Not quite what you’re looking for, but may as well be honest.

Hope to hear from you!

-Amy

            Ping. 

            Katie dived for her phone.

            “Woah.  Why the overreaction?” asked Amy.

            “I’m… just waiting for my mom to text.  She’ll be here soon.  I’d better go wait for her. Outside.”  Katie stood.

            Deftly, Lena came up from behind and grabbed the phone.

            “Stop that!”

            Lena opened the notifications menu and glanced at the email her friend had received: Subject: Oral. 

            “Well Katie.  Who knew?”

March 5 - Cursive

L A U R E N  E L I Z A B E T H  E A M E S

L l Aa Uu Rr Ee Nn.

Lauren. 

Ee Ll Aa Zz Aa Bb Ee Tt Hh.

Elizabeth.

Must I practice every letter twice?  Some repeat…

YES

Ee Aa Mm Ee Ss.

Eames.

Letters ought to be a labor of love.  That is what my teacher said.  Every one must be written with precision.

So I wrote.  And wrote.  And wrote.

Each spindly letter a story of it’s own.

Yet I said nothing.

I wrote my name over and over.  I grew excellent at the letter E.

Which may have served me well, it is the most common letter.

Those perfect sans-serif curls flow from my pen as easily as breathing.

            Curve, Curve.

loop. curve.

Over and over. 

5  E A S T W O O D  S  T R E E T

5.

Ee Aa Ss Tt Ww Oo Oo Dd.

Eastwood.

Ss Tt Rr Ee Ee Tt.

Street.

I addressed thousands of letters and wrote my home address on every one in perfect cursive writing.

Not one was ever sent.

My childhood self expected responses to every one.

She grew used to disappointment.

I practiced my letters in perfect cursive.

It never did me the slightest bit of good.

March 4 - IDL

ideally, everything runs the way it should

But ERROR READING FILE crossed your face every time I tried to flirt with you in a freshman hallway [was I silly to try?]

I feel like I need to print, I AM HERE to tell you that you ought to remember me

exit

exit

exit

            I once dreamed we were kissing in front of our Spanish room [did I ever tell you that?] while you held me and smiled.  But some one knocked before you could leave me and so I am left only with the vague phantom of a relationship that I wish had happened and that I now convince myself that you wanted too.

Can you plot the change in our relationship? I can.

It started in February when you found out that I hooked up with some one.  You seemed to be put out because it wasn’t you – or at least that’s what I consoled myself with later when you left me sitting alone at a lunch table in a perfect reflection of how we had started up the nothing that we had.  You had once refused to let me sit alone; at the time I thought it was gentlemanly but now I grow angry at the thought that you introduced yourself to me.

Are we done then? It’s been a year.  I’ll quit and write and hope for something else to run more smoothly.

March 3 - Fever Dream

My hands feel hot.

I think the bed is eating me whole,

            Like an evil.

            Or something.

            I think there’s a B-Horror movie out there about that

My hands feel hot.

I am floating.

            High as a kite flown on a winter afternoon

            No summer.

            No definitely winter.

                        I feel to stiff for this to be a summer affair.