Meatball War

My father had been having a very tiresome morning.

It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.

"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."

"I'll get to it when I get to it."

I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.

"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"

"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.

My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.

"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."

He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.

As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.

I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.

His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.

"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.

The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.

"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."

My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.

"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"

The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?

Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"

Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.

Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.

Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.

Rain Puddle

I am a constant confusion.
A contradiction of my reflection.
Striving for eclecticism.

The rush in my head
Takes me there
But pulls me back.

I accept my visitor status
In your world.
Doesn't that make
You weep.

I'm also an anachronism
In my own universe.
Doesn't that make
You laugh.

Multi-talented in ways
Your mother would not
Approve of but I was never the
One for pillow talk

Don't try to pigeonhole me.
Or mold, break, crush, bend
Me into your
Safe, square categories.

My left foot is in
The trash can
And my right is in
The rain puddle...

Scratch-Offs

Hmm...I wonder what numba that Break the Bank scratch-off ticket be on. Probably dey done sold all the winners already. Look like Miss Redhead gone buy all of 'em noways.

"Could I get the rest of those Break the Banks, please. Thanks"

Dang, lady, get out the way so I can buy my winners, please, shoo. Oh, I'm sho glad that nice register lady is here today. I thank that the owner's daughter. She remind me of my own lil' gal, Chaleene. Oh Chaleene, if she can see me now. Her ol' pops wastin' his Social Security check on some scratch-offs. Well, if I ain't gonna lose it here, I'ma lose it on the boat over in w'ouisiana. Or on some tv dinners at the sto'. And I always gotta buy me some honey buns for dessert. Maybe I buy me some new razors today. This ol' salt and pepper scene on my face gettin tired.

Only two more people left in front o' me. My poor black, ashy legs can't stand this standing! Let's look over dese winnas I already done scratched off. Two dollars on Coyote Cash....five dolla's on Bingo (man, dat Bingo sho is fun...which reminds me that I gotta tell Zoo I ain't goin to the Bingo tourney this weekend..ooh-wee he sho gone put up a fuss.)

What's this? Awe, why can't people have the right amount of money in dey pockets before they buy something. Who this fool thank he be? Lookin on the floor for some stray change. Oh alright, the regista gal gone let him slide this time. Man, I would told that fool to leave his driver's license and a slap in the face...and tell him to better his manners straight befo he come in dis sto' again. Alright, just one more customa.

Dang, Mrs. Wally from the funeral home. I dint even recognize her from behind. Surprising cause that sho is a big behind..hahaha...some thick hamhocks, I tell ya what! Oh, lord, forgive me. I know, I just know, she gone buy all the winners up now. She always seem to muster to buy at least a hundred dolla worth a tickets. Ooooh, her living room must be scattered with the scratch card shavings...they probably get mixed up in the ashes urns of those cremated folks, sho nuff. If I done known Mrs. Wally was in front of me I woulda brought my sitting chair in line and maybe a beer.

That reminds me of what I gotta do befo my fishin trip this weekend which is why I gotta tell Zoo I can't make it to no silly Bingo tourney. Skeet done already bought the bait and extra fishin line. Just left me with the beer and sandwiches. Now what kinda sandwiches we ate last time? Was it Spam..? Or maybe liverwurst. Hell, if I know. I just bring bologna and mustard this time.

Finally, that Mrs. Thick Hamhocks done finally got all her tickets. I hope she don't win nothing. Always flaunting her money in front of everyone's noses. With all them fancy jewels she be wearin to church ever'eh Sunday and them big toes stuck in her shiney Mizrahi heels. Only reason I know its Mizrahi cause Chaleene done told me. Dat just aint somethin an ol' black man should know.

"Hi, Mr. Sam. What can I get for ya today?"

I squint my eyes cause I can't barely see the names on the tickets but my blood sho is bubbling to start scratchin something good. I better buy some extra so I can scratch on the boat this weekend when I go fishin.

Goodbye

He watched as Heather (....or was it Helen?) get dressed and fix herself up in front of the full-length mirror on his door. She matted her freshly coated lips on a tissue and glanced at him over her shoulder. "This was fun, but I gotta go now. I'll leave my number."

Gavin shifted in bed and thought, Did she wear that much make-up last night?

He looked on in disgust as she scribbled her digits on his mirror with the tube of lipstick she had just finished using.

Why do chicks always do that? It's fucking annoying to have to clean up that shit. I think I'm out of Windex too. Fuck.

She bent over and kissed him on the lips and walked out of the apartment. Finally. Another weekend gone by. Another pile of credit card receipts. Another headache. Another crushed cigarette pack, its contents eating away at his lungs. Another forgotten name and another number to clean off of his mirror.

If he had a notch on his bedpost for every girl he had had in that room, he would have a pile of sawdust by now.

He looked at his tired face in the mirror and decided he was tired of this. Let's get some breakfast.

His phone rang and he let the machine pick it up. It was his friend Madeliene. "Hey, stupid, its me, Maddie. Pick up. I'm bored. Ok ok, no doubt you're with another one of your skanks. Man, you should be ashamed of yourself or at least ashamed of all the diseases you've probably racked up by now. Yucks! Anyhow, I'm gonna put a sign on your door for all those poor souls that say, "Beware of wolves in sheep-skin condoms. Call me later."

(to be continued)

By Train

On a particularly insignificant day, the 8:17 A.M. train out of Sydney pulled out of platform 7 on time and with a full cabin. The whistle blew once, twice and the newly oiled wheels went from a slow turn to a speedy buzz. The train headed north.

An old man sat in row 67 alone. No one knew that he had also purchased the seat next to him so he wouldn' t have to bother with a stranger sitting next to him. There was a time when that seat was taken by his wife, Matilda, who had died two weeks ago. He had many memories of he and Matilda taking summer trips by train and he knew he would miss the thrill of the ride. This would be the last train ride he would ever take.

This thought weighed heavily on his mind.

(to be continued)

Singular Descriptive

I wouldn't call myself a stalker, per se.

But I guess I would classify some of my actions...on some occasions...stalker-esque, if you will. But I bet all of us have their own secret-stalker-behavior. I just know it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm just like you. Normal. And for those who say "What's normal?" No one's normal." Well, bullshit. You know the difference between Normal Jack that carries the mail and Crazy Delilah who gets arrested twice a week for shoplifting....or loitering...or solicitation...whatever it is, she's always back on the corner by next weekend with the same pink curlers in her hair and cigarettes and dirty tissues spilling out of her purse. But anyhow, I'm normal. But am I crazy for knowing that if I had to choose between either getting a cup of coffee with Normal Jack or Crazy Delilah, I'd choose the latter? Go figure. (But wouldn't you want to be able to say, "Yea, I can't make it for lunch, I'm having coffee with Delilah the prostitute." Imagine how much more fun life would be if everyone had a singular descriptive at the end of their name. Hmm..mine would be "Indie the Thinker"...."Indie the Observer"..."Indie the Witty"...or "Indie the Stalker"..haha that would be festive, wouldn't it?

There I was, at my window, sitting in front of my computer but more looking out to the street. I wondered where Mr. Ping was. He usually opens the fruit stand promptly at 8:00 A.M. But it was already 8:09. I'd give it another ten minutes before calling the police. That's just the type of considerate slash concerned citizen, I am. That reminds me that I need to buy more plums for my bowl. The ones in it now are all smushy. I don't particularly like to eat plums, I just like the way a fruit bowl looks on my breakfast table. And plums give such a striking color to the amalgamation. It's the aesthetics that are important.

Mom called again this morning and asked whether or not I had a boyfriend yet. Geez. She's always breathing down my back about that but when I do introduce her to someone, she freaks out and says they're gonna beat me. She says she has a sixth sense for wife-beaters. But anyhow, I'm 35 and still no hopeful prospects. There's always Pete down the hall but he always smells like Slim Jims and wears mocassins. I could never ultimately end up with a man who wears mocassins. It's just a thing of mine.

Parry called last night and wanted to go take a run around the park this afternoon. Parry is my twin brother. He's great and probably one of the funniest people I know, but he doesn't do it on purpose. Those are the best comedians--when the humor just comes natural. Last time we were sitting on a park bench and all these white pigeons were huddled on the grass pecking at seeds. And Parry asks, Why did someone put all those white tennis shoes in the middle of the park? He's a genius.

Roughdraft

I lay there as the puddle of blood began to spread wider and wider around my body. My lungs felt as if someone were squeezing them tighter and tighter. But then they let them go, and I was able to inhale again, only to be met with a tighter grip of cold, clammy hands.

Man, I should have thought this through a little better…

The warm liquid seeping from my body was contrasted against the cold chill that began to envelope me from the inside out.

I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Not a sound. One of those eerie silences when things are too silent, when you know something has to be making it that quiet. But nothing pounced from behind the corner and nothing burst through the back door. Just pure silence at its best. Or, had I gone deaf in the last moments of my life?? Or was this the moment of clarity they all speak of right before you pass..?

In my left hand was the long, sharp blade of the kitchen knife. My fingers barely gripping the rubbery handle..my numbing digits were trembling. The tip of the blade which wasn’t stained glistened against the afternoon sun shining through the window. The knife that had in the past cut so many onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, oranges, blocks of parmesan cheese….

In my right hand, I still clutched the Ice Cream Drumstick I had been craving for so bad after lunch. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a bite. The fall had caused most of the nuts to drop to the floor into the pond of scarlet. My mind trickled to the thought of how big the market would be for this vampiric dessert. How many vampires are there in Texas...? But then fell away as I realized I wouldn’t be alive to see the business plan through…but then again the thought wouldn’t have occurred to me if I hadn’t been laying in the pool of blood. If that isn’t the dandiest catch-22, I don’t know what is. Maybe if I gather up all my strength I'd be able to write at least the segmentation of the market in blood next to my body...oh how my professors would be so proud...

Man, I should have thought this through better.

It’s strange the things you think about at the brink of death. The impending doom makes you reflect. I wish it didn’t.

Like how I thought that maybe I should have straightened my hair today, maybe used a little hair gel, to look a little more presentable. But now the paramedics will have to deal with yet another homely looking body. Geez. And it probably would have helped to be wearing something a little more stylish. My plaid sleepy pants and polar bear t-shirt. What was I thinking?

What WAS I thinking?

I blinked a few times. I began seeing flecks of light floating in front of my face and I was worried mosquitoes were already flying around my decaying carcass.

Whose going to be at your funeral? [who said that?]

Everyone has that thought of what if they died, who would miss them. That’s a really narcissistic thought, but I’m 97.5 % sure that every single human being has that thought cross their mind at least once in their lives. If only we could all stage our death and then as we’re being lamented about in our casket layered with cakes and cakes of unnecessary make-up but your perfectionist self wouldn’t see it any differently….you suddenly pop up in an upright position while your Aunt Mae was about to put the carnation on your legs slick and shiny from the panty hose. You jump out of your casket and say with enthusiasm--

Thanks everybody, but I just wanted to see how many people would come and let me tell ya, you people exceeded my expectations. Thank you. Thank you. Lorna, how ya doin? Uncle Bob, always a pleasure. Jesse from college, wow, now that’s a shocker, wow. Alright, how about all the guys untuck their shirts and all the gals wipe away their running mascara and let's get this party started…and let’s have a piece of that cake too. Chocolate, my fav, yum!

But would it make any difference. Would knowing that information really cause a resurrection of yourself and would that version necessarily be better?

I should have thought this through.

But no. People don’t do that. They just hide away in their thoughts the yearning of the attendance of their impending funeral. We all just want to think that people care about us or at least the people who we cared about knew and that was enough to make them show up anyhow.

What are you going to miss? [who is that speaking?!]

That was the next thought that came to my mind. I thought of all the zigzagging and jumps as my tiny brain cells began their last race around.

The way Dad always left his keys in the door.
The way Mom cooked---goddamn, her famous custard tarts.
Bowling and getting drunk with my big sister and friends.
Watching my little brother and sister grow—seeing the mere shadows of the amazing people they were going to inevitably become.
The feeling of a thought being born in my head and the how I always think to write it down but I always get lazy and think I’ll remember, but then feeling it slowly slipping away.
How I loved reading and finishing novels and how perfectly the words lit up as bright sunlight hit the pages at the perfect angle.
When in the middle of the city, I saw a beautiful African woman balancing what seemed to be a heavy box on top of her head without a care in the world.
The complete calm you get when you’re standing in front of a painting in a museum—drowning in the artistic ambiance.
Taking a really good drag from a sweet cigar.

Oh, my life was pretty good. I guess this is it. Man. Everything seems so clear when it’s already too late. I guess that’s the essence of hindsight. Wait…wait…here comes something else.

What do you wish?

I wish I had done more..and hesitated less.