Clip-Clop

I watch her march to the counter in her calfskin boots. The way they make a clip-clop on the slate tiles of the coffee shop. The way her blonde pony tail sweeps back and forth as she walks with her latte back to her seat. The way her tired eyes roll across the ceiling as she thinnks about whatever it is she's working on at her little netbook at her table in the corner.

And idle Wednesday in a quiet cafe, just like every other Wednesday before it. Ever since they dumped me from my desk, the weekends feel like weekdays and everything bleeds into everything else. I turn back to my screen, clicking up my resume, clicking through the listings, clicking on that last email from the headhunter who made all those promises.

Someone comes in, silver hair, nice suit. He has that executive sheen to his clean chin. The new guy has a plastered-on smile, like a decal on a robot. Of course he's meeting with the blonde in the boots. She stands up to shake his hand. She's nervous. Maybe this is an interview, or an evaluation. She's smiling too wide, eyes flashing. The executive's comfortable, tells a lame joke. She laughs politely.

I feel a thousand times better. If she were into that guy, if she really fell for that phoney robot-in-a-suit bullshit, she'd laugh for real. She'd tip forward, a laugh from the diaphragm. She'd look at his eyes and find an excuse to lay her hand on his wrist, just for a moment, just a touch. I write the scene. Directing the action, the woman forgets for a moment the meeting and tells a story of her childhood, the loneliness of the hill she grew up on. I'm in the suit now, and I run a few fingers through my silver hair, making a humble admission, perhaps a set of braces. No, it has to be something more serious. After an accident as a youth, I had to have my jaw reconstructed. I spent two years of highschool with my jaw wired shut. She relates, she moves in closer, my vulerability makes her bold.

His stilted, pained laugh draws me out of the scene. I'm back in the actual cafe, fiddling around, impotent, on my aging laptop. The executive and the blonde are talking. The executive has some sort of list in front of him. He's sipping and reviewing it while the blonde eplains. Maybe she's justifying, or back-pedaling, or apologizing. Things aren't going well, and that empty smile tatooed on the executive's face aren't making things easier.

She's wearing blue sweater and a stylish, black scarf. She looks very casual and professional at the same time. A friendly, welcoming style. She must have a job where people need to trust her. I'd trust her if I met her, if I had any kind of business to offer.

I'm back to my work. My half-finished novel, the blogging gig that pays beans, the screenplay my cousin is always almost ready to start shooting. I check my email again and again. I go through a few sites, looking at pictures of cats, then some other sites, looking at a few artistic nudes, then some other sites, looking at decidedly less artistic nudes.

How long have I been sitting here? I need to piss. I get the key from the counter. I head down the hall. I open the door.

The blonde is waiting in the men's room. I see her, and I stand there confused. It's not till I see her clothes on the floor that I realize she's standing there naked, staring at me. I should apologize and leave. I must have gone in the wrong door. She's looking at me, a little afraid. She's staring right at me.

Oh shit. This is for the other guy. She's trying to keep her job. I've stumbled into some kind of illicit liason. This is what women have to do in this economy. I should leave. I should let her do whatever she has to do. It's not my place to judge her. If I had to do something like this to get my old job back...

But she's looking right at me and I'm frozen. And she nods.

Before the door closes behind me, I'm pressing my lips to her face, feeling her frantic breath. Her hand is on the back of my head, she's forccing her tongue over mine, pushing. Her other hand is working fast, over my hips, down the front of my pants. She's much shorter than me, she's got those boots off. She's trying to climb up, leap up on top of me while we stand there.

We're up against the wall. Her skin is so soft, with lean muscles tensing underneath. She must run everyday. She must go to the gym. She throws a leg over mine, pulling herself up. She must get massages at the spa. She must use oils and salves to keep her skin so...

She gasps a bit, the tiles on the wall are cold. One arms lifts us up, off the wall. The other reaches down, fumbling through my pants. She's pushing forward against me, breathing, moaning in my ear. The heat from between her legs, the light blonde tuft, presses into my waist. I struggle with my underwear. I can't seem to get at my penis.

She's ready, she wants this. Hurry, she tells me. She moves to look me in the eyes, hungry. Come on, right now. I'm lost, somehow, inside my pants.

She's in a rush. She only has a minute or so before the executive gets suspicious. Her breasts are tiny with thick nipples I can feel poking through my shirt. She just needs to blow off some steam for the interview. Where the fuck is my dick.

She smiles, reaching down to help. It's so fun and dirty, this fling during work. So naughty, perverted, to fuck and almost get caught. Breaking rules, taking an extra smoke break, a two hour lunch.

I remember feeling like that, back when I had a desk. I only ever wanted to escape it. Her fingers finally find me. I feel a cold jolt through my body. In a moment, she'll be back to work, and I'll be back at my laptop.

By the time I'm out of my shorts, I've gone completely soft. Useless.

My Carolina

At the time, I let myself blame the booze. We were five hours into a big bottle of gin, rolling around on Mother's persian rug. We had reached that point of perfect exhaustion where the entire world and everything in it becomes hysterically absurd. We couldn't stop laughing about his stupid cat and how much it hates purses. He, I think it was him, he put an arm, or let an arm fall on me and... Well at the time I blamed the booze, but now I know. I kissed my first boy. I was seventeen and lying under a black coffee-table when I fell in love.

In time, we did all sorts of unmentionable things to each other at the country club. It was easiest to meet there without attracting suspicion. We'd sneak away from our families and find some hidden, secret place. Even now, when I pass those little changing booths by the pool, I can't help but feel a faint stirring. I know it's awful to suggest, and I certainly don't miss those ignorant, hateful days, but there was something incredible about the danger. North Carolina at the time, though it's not much better now, was a hostile sort of place. Everyone was angry, but no one ever said anything. Maybe they didn't know how, or didn't know any better. They were just angry and couldn't do a thing about it. I don't know if it helped much, but every now and then some boys would go lynch a faggot and everyone seemed to feel better for a day or two. He and I would crowd into a changing booth and he'd stand on the changing bench, so the people passing by would only see one pair of feet. And we'd have to be quiet in there. Oh, that certainly helped. Biting our lips and whimpering, pressing each other up against the rough wooden walls. It was a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else.

That August, we spent a whole two weeks together. Mother kept a boathouse on a lake in Georgia. She didn't have the time to wrap it up for fall, so she sent me off. "Take your time, dear," she slurred over her cocktail, waving me toward the keys, "Bring a friend, have fun," I wondered if she knew, or somehow consented, even encouraged me. I never asked, and I suppose it never mattered. I had my love, a quiet lake, a small cottage. It must be trite to call it paradise, but to a young man... Ah well, I beg you forgive an old man his follies.

I'd like to end the story in proper dramatic fashion. I could paint such a picture of my love slung to the back of a truck and dragged through the night until there was hardly enough to bury. Or perhaps we are discovered entwined and he sends me a tear-stained letter before hanging himself, or vanishing on a train with whatever he could steal from his family to invent himself a whole new self on the other side of the country. But this would all be flattery. The truth is, as truth should be, pathetic.

Toward the end of our two weeks by the lake, he grew cold. On the drive back to Carolina, he wouldn't even look at me. He stopped answering my calls, and turned up a month later with some picture. He nearly shoved it in my face, some girl, his girl. What could I say? He told me he was happy, but he looked so angry. "That's that," he said. And that was it.

Oh I made a big fuss about it at the time, but that passed. I was an old man before I found love again, though... Well, if there's a lesson, it is that there is love to be found in life. It's the same sort of thing in every story. It's what stories are all about. It is the only story.

Her Name Escapes Me

The girl can't be older than twenty-five. She's wearing a simple, white shirt and a flimsy blue sweater, unbuttoned. Her hair hangs loose and light. She tilts her head to keep it out of her eyes. She hovers over a big, thick book. Watch her flip the same page over. She's supposed to be reading there, in the diner. She's well settled in her booth with her coffee and a tiny plate of collected crumbs. She looks like she belongs in this diner. Perhaps the booth is reserved for exactly this sort of behavior. If she were to pack up and leave, within minutes another young woman would sweep in, throw her jacket across the seat opposite, lay her hat next to the salt shaker, and pull out a huge, old book to flip through idly.

But the girl does not leave. She had been sitting for hours, ordering just enough food to keep the manager from throwing her out. She'd picked apart a muffin twenty minutes ago. Watch her eyes scan a page. See her fingers run under the edge. She flips the page over. The action is purely mechanical. This is how a person reads a book. This is how a book is read. The words evaporate in her mind, the meaning of the page leaves her. She turns back to the previous page. There is something to decipher there, among those words, something evading her on that one specific page. Watch her eyes scan it again.

And now here is a man. He can't be younger than fifty. Wearing a plain, old suit. He wears it in just the way every man should, simply, naturally. He wears the suit like every man should, but no one does anymore. He is the only man in a suit in this whole diner. No one wears suits anymore, even though they should. Watch him move slowly down the aisle. A waitress is leading him to his own booth, but he moves slowly, falling behind. He does not want to sit where she places him. The waitress reminds him of a nurse in a hospital, the way she moves, efficient. She places a black, folded menu on the table of the booth where he is to sit. He smiles at her and she leaves him. He does not want to sit at that booth. He'll find another.

Watch him hover down the aisle. See how his hands touch each chair as he passes, like he is counting them. But he is not counting them, or perhaps, just not adding the numbers as he counts. One, one, one. Each chair, each booth, each table is singular like his footsteps. They add up to nowhere.

And then he sees the girl.

He does not speed up or slow down. This is important to remember. He sees the girl and knows that he will go and talk to her. He will tell her everything if he can, answer any question. He does not speed up or slow down because he knows that he is mistaken. Watch him now, smiling in a tired way. Watch him smooth his thinning hair. He knows that he is wrong.

Now he is interrupting her and excusing himself. She doesn't want to chat with anyone, but he caught her off guard. She invites him to sit. She curses her own politeness, all the manners her mother buried in her brain. She doesn't want to be so polite. She tries to smile, but she's not really listening. This works out just fine, because the man is talking, but not to her.

He tells a story. There was this girl, you see. This was all a long time ago, but he met a girl with an Egyptian name. She worked at this gallery, hanging pictures and paintings, dusting up, watching the register. Everything was painted white, and she'd wear black, but her eyes were blue. She had a way of talking like she was laughing.

'You remind me of her,' he tells the girl in the booth. She nods like she turns the page, mechanically. This is how a person listens to a story. This is how a story is listened to.

The man married the girl with the Egyptian name in the story. They lived together and things happened. Some things were scary, some heart warming, some tragic. This is a sad sort of story, it has to be. Watch the man talk to the girl. The way this story goes, it has to be sad.

The man asks about the book. The girl turns the cover to show him the title. Bullfinch's Mythology. She's reading about some king or something. He asks if she likes to read that sort of thing. She tells him that it's for a class. She is lying. Watch her lie about the book. She just grabbed the biggest thing on the shelf as she walked out the door. She doesn't want to go back anytime soon.

'And which one are you reading right now?' he asks her. He wants any topic, any excuse to stay away from the other booth, the place where he is supposed to sit.

The girl looks back at the page, the one she keeps reading. There was a king and he was very clever, but he made the gods mad. When he died, they made him roll a boulder up a hill over and over.

The man smiles, he's heard that one. The girl asks him about the girl with the Egyptian name. What happened to her? Where'd she go?

The waitress walks by. She wants to take his order. He asks for a few more minutes, a little more time. The waitress leaves, she doesn't really care either way. He watches her hips sway as she walks. There was a hallway in a hospital somewhere and a nurse pointing to a door. So casually she pointed to the bed where a woman was going to die. He never had a say. No one ever asked him anything.

On Thursday, We Died

On Monday, we were certain of it. Some things aren't too difficult to figure out, if you're honest with yourself. All the signs were there. It all seemed pretty cut and dried. I ordered a pizza. We didn't have any plates or napkins. We shared it on the bare floor of our apartment, drooping slices dripping greasy onto the sodden cardboard box. It was fun; we smiled to each other despite everything else.

We curled into each other, wrapped up in a dozen blankets. We slept like kittens.

On Tuesday, we sold the rest of the furniture. We didn't need the money, we just agreed it would be cleaner this way. We didn't want to leave any clutter. The thrift store took most of it. They didn't want the old lamp, the paintings from the bathroom, though they took the chipped porcelain butter dish. We found some old books and took them to the park. We lay around, letting the sun cook us slowly. We flipped through the books, skipping chapters, reading lines aloud, smelling the old paper.

I tried not to cry. I failed. You wouldn't look me in the eye.

We walked for hours that night. It got really cold, but we didn't want to go back. The street cleaners were out late, powerwashing the sidewalks. Slim metal wands fired beams of water, peeling gum off the tiles. Mist kicked up in a cloud where they worked, glowing green by the street lights and red by the crosswalk.

It was so late when we got back. We were exhausted, but we couldn't fall asleep. You complained about the blankets. You wished we hadn't sold the bed. I had nothing to say. We just laid there for hours. We must have fallen asleep at some point because I remember waking up.

On Wednesday I couldn't stand you. You were still asleep when I left. Maybe you were just faking. Maybe you were feeling the same thing. It was too early, nothing was open. I slid some change into a newspaper box and pulled out the morning edition. I flipped through a few pages.

All the headlines looked like jokes. One was about a couple of kids starting some fundraiser out of their garage. Another one talked about a local library closing down. Then there was this story about some senator fighting for a bill. He had some really snappy quotes about protecting our rights, safeguarding liberties, setting examples for future generations. He nailed it, he hit all the hot points.

That's what sells, I guess. Something's ending! Something new is about to happen! Look out! It's coming!

I got this idea to make a fire. I wanted to burn up all the trash in a big pile. A big ol' bonfire. I went back and got all the shit together. I took that lamp they didn't want, the pile of paper bags we never used, all the letters we stopped opening, and some other shit, I guess. I made a big pile in the parking lot. I didn't have any matches. I didn't want to ask anyone, so I just left it there.

When I went back inside, you were waiting. We didn't have anything to talk about. We weren't hungry at all.

Idle Sunday

And she walks in the kitchen
picking through the receipts
One, Two, garbage
She crumples them up
Flips through a nearby magazine
Always falls to the same page

How she leans
How she tucks her arm
How she looks at nothing in particular

A sniffle, a scratch
She opens up a cabinet
She doesn't want tea
But she's looking at the tea
She closes the cabinet
And remembers to throw out those receipts

How she moves
How she sweeps her arm
How the papers fall from her hand

She paces the length of the apartment
She opens the closet
Looking at her umbrellas
She remembers a song
And skips back to her computer

It's all so beautiful
I can't believe it
Or explain it

June 24

I'm rolling in my bed
I can't breathe in this heat
You're under the sheets
I'm alone

My head itches
I can't find my hands
It's so dark
It must still be day

I can't see you
You're under the bed
You're hiding
From one little word

My neck is wet
And now, my pillow
The stink of pollen
You're under the floor

Like an ice cube
Cracks in water
I open my eyes
The fever is gone

The Black Out

"When you sleep, it's like you die,"
she smiles into the night
she likes the idea

"The brain shuts down the body,"
she's flirting, but not with me.
she remembers the hospital
and her body filling up with blood

"Then the brain shuts down itself,"
the doctors were going to send her home
a dozen tests and scans
they couldn't find the problem

"That's when you really start to dream,"
she was in so much pain
losing so much blood
delirious

"The brain goes crazy, off the charts,"
in her long, troubled life
she never felt more calm
than on that bed

Orpheus

A drop of cold sweat on your tits
Copper and salt
And you just want to get to sleep

Once upon a time
A woman died on her wedding night
A man walked into hell to find her

You're pushing down on me
Heavy breathing
Just getting it over with

And this man went to the palace
With only a song to offer
And the king shed a steel tear

You roll over in darkness
Closing your eyes
You pretend to sleep

And the man lead his ghost of a wife
Back to the world
And she followed quietly

This night simply adequate
and it pleases you
It is enough

He could not wait. He turned to look
And her spirit fell away into darkness
She lingered long enough to say 'Goodbye'

You do not notice
When I slip out of the bed
And leave.

Chump

We lay on the bed that night
With all our clothes
And all our thoughts
in between us.
I turn away to face the wall
You mumble to me
You want something
But I know
It won't be enough
I want to go home
But I can't leave the room
I can't leave the bed
It took me years to think of the words
I wanted to say then,
"You make me feel like a chump,"

Drinkey O' Drinkey

Lazy blonde curls, she's drawing loops around a currency of time hunched over the bar. She's a bolt from the blue with a tiny tattoo I can't quite make out on her arm. The men brush past and she snickers at their jokes, but cringes when our elbows accidently touch.

Like I'm supposed to apologize.

She looks like a lesbian, but she's not. That's supposed to be a compliment, but I know she won't take it that way so I shut my mouth. She dresses like she doesn't care. Not it'd matter what I think. It never matters what I think.

She says she believes in love and I can't say that I believe in anything.

You ever believe in anything? Looking back, can you honestly recommend it?

There's a little laugh and I see someone's propped their baby up on the bar. They tickle and giggle with it in between sips. I can't fucking take it anymore. I have to get up and run out of there. I have to go anywhere else.

But then, I'm thirsty. There's no beer outside, or back at my apartment, but there's beer here. So I stay and drink. And I order another. And another.

I don't know if I have enough money to cover the tab. I'm hurting so much I can't count.

For a Moment...

I held her all night, it was easy
The ground fell away as we slept
And I had no way of knowing
About the morning
And all the secrets she's kept

Oh, You're Good

How careful you move
Your pieces across the board
And around the room

Such a masterful mind
If you'd ever apply it
Beyond your private castles

Inadequate Account

"I have loved in my time,"
I tell St. Peter
He wears white robes
With golden wings
He holds a quill over a blank book

"I'm sorry," he says
"Come again?"

"I have known love, sir,"
My only answer

He frowns and shakes his head
"That just won't do,"
His hand hesitates

"I have loved, sir, and failed,"
My only claim

He throws the pen down
"So what am I to write?"

"That I have loved, sir,"

He only scowls at me.

Just A Moment

A moment please, my dear.
Just a moment more.
I want to show you
What I can do
But I'll need just a moment

I want to tell you something, my dear.
But what can I tell you
That you don't already know?
I just need a moment to think.

I want to sing for you, my dear.
A song to frame you face,
To follow your grace,
A beat to sway your waist.
In just a moment, I'll have it.

I want to be a man for you, my dear.
Strong and sure and wise.
Just the man for you, you'll see.
It'll only take a moment.

I Guess It Was Turkeys

He climbed on the bus and stood there with his fucking crazy eyes. Out of breath, he gasped, "You guys see those turkeys?"

No one replied. It was six in the morning. Turkeys could have been out there riding tandem bicycles and no one would have cared. The man was still standing when the bus started back up. He lurched forward and had to catch himself on the rail. He was still looking around. Everyone turned away from him, pretending to play with their phones, or searching for interesting sights out the windows. No one wanted to hear about turkeys.

He eventually found a seat near the back, across from me. He had a plastic grocery bag with a small lunch all wrapped up tight. I know this guy, or at least I've seen him before on the bus. He is a regular. Nearly everyday he has some kind of weird story. One time, he told a guy about a terrible accident he was in. He showed his leg to the guy; it looked like a chunk of strange meat, colored red-brown like liver, and stapled to the place where his calf muscle should be. This other time, he had a cooler filled with porkchops from the store. He bought too many and was trying to sell off the excess on his way to work. The week before, he wouldn't shut up about how he was being chased by ghost, sleeping in a ditch to escape them. That day, I guess it was turkeys.

It was hard to place his age. He carried himself in a perpetual cloud of dust with his mussy, off-blonde hair down around his ears. He had bright, youthful eyes and an excitable demeanor, coupled with the hard lines and wrinkles of a rough lived life, he could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.

"I mean it was amazing," he told me, "I was waiting for the bus and they just came up to me,"

I nodded. There was a part of me that wanted to hear his story, but the rest of me was wrapped in the vast apathy of way-too-early. I wasn't feeling very talkative, but I resolved to humor him with an audience. I can be very patronizing when I'm tired.

"I'm out there, and I have a coffee from 7-11," he demonstrated, holding out an imaginary styrofoam cup.

I settled in with a little smile.

"And then I look up and there's, like maybe twenty big ass turkeys just standing in the road. I didn't see them walk around or climb out of the woods or whatever. They just stood there like they were supposed to stand there,"

He took a sip from his imaginary coffee. I swear he even blew on it to cool it down.

"And some of them were looking at me," He waved his head back and forth as if overcome with some strange energy, "And I knew I just had to protect them. There was a car coming so I ran out and held up my arms. The guy stopped and he didn't honk or anything. And there was another guy who stopped and he didn't honk or anything either. It was like we all just knew that these turkeys had to do whatever they were doing,"

He locked eyes with me. Those last few words he spoke very slowly, making sure he conveyed the proper gravity of such a revelation.

"So I walk back to the bus stop and stand there. The turkeys all follow me off the road. The cars wait and eventually they can drive around the... I guess it's a flock, no wait, a gaggle, right? And so we're all just standing there. Me and like twenty fucking big ass turkeys all waiting for the bus. And I have this coffee and the biggest turkey, like King Turkey or whatever, he is all sniffing around the cup,"

He held the imaginary cup lower, staring down at his empty hand in awe.

"And the big one pecks at it with his beak. He's taking a sip. And he starts..." The guy tried to come up with a word, "I don't know, he's making some crazy noise and then all the turkeys are going for the cup. I had to drop it or get my hands all pecked up,"

He dropped the pretend coffee and snatched his hand back. He scootched away from his seat on the bus, as if distancing himself from the phantom gaggle.

"Those turkeys fucking loved that coffee, man. They were crazy for it. They were licking it off the sidewalk and tearing the cup apart. Then, boom, they all run off together, back into the woods. I look up and the bus is right there,"

He leaned into the aisle and checked the bus driver. He looked out the window at the passing trees.

"That was, like, just now," He hopped around in his seat, excited. He wanted to keep talking about it, but ran out of things to say.

I nodded again and offered a "That's pretty crazy," because it was and the awake part of me enjoyed the story.

He was silent for a moment as the bus rounds a wide corner, passing a Newport Creamery and a small donut shop.

"Is there..." Again, he looked for words, "Something you can do with turkeys? Like a job?"

I didn't really have anything helpful to say.

He continued, "I just feel like something changed in me. Like I want to go work with turkeys now. Like my life is changed,"

He wasn't really talking to me anymore, just directing questions to the universe.

"That happens in stories. Someone sees something crazy and everything's different,"

I nodded and looked away. His stop is coming up and mine is ten minutes after. Maybe enough for a nap.

His eyes strayed back to the spot on the dirty bus floor where he spilled his imaginary cup of coffee and all twenty of the pretend turkeys crowd around.

They Just Keep Coming

When you get into this job... When you sign up, you don't want to spend the whole day yelling. You have a few heroes in your head and you want to be just like them. Mentors who helped guide you through rough parts in your life. You see yourself becoming just like them. You feel like you could really help others, really help shape the future. It's a powerful kind of feeling.

Mr. Blowsky was a young guy in the seventies. It was his first year teaching fifth grade. He had a huge pile of curriculum folders and he followed them pretty clearly. We gave him a hard time, those first months, but he had this great energy. You couldn't help but like him, he was so honest and friendly. People like that often burn up quick in this business, but I didn't know that then.

After a few months, he started working in some of his own ideas. He was fresh out of a super-liberal college out in California. He had all sorts of ideas about alternative education. We made special flash cards for math. He set up a pen pal program with another classroom in Australia. He would sometimes stop a boring history lesson to have some of the antsy kids get up and act out the lesson. They would dance around, but he could keep them on task. Everyone would laugh, but it would stick in our heads. Those memories remain some of my favorite childhood moments.

So I got involved, in time, with teaching. And, after a stint as a teacher's aide while working on my master's, eventually found a job teaching fifth grade. The school gave me all the curriculum folders, I brought along a bunch of my own books. Radical, exciting, new paths of education. Games, tricks, management techniques. That first year was really tough. Every day those kids shrieked and bickered and I did my best to keep them working. It was discipline all day. I spent alot of time yelling. In the lounge, the teachers reassured me, "The first year is always toughest".

I kept in touch with Mr. Blowsky. I sent him a letter every month or so and he'd always reply a week later. He loved hearing about my plans for my classes, different approaches to teaching certain topics. He loved reminiscing about his old classes. He was still teaching, still in the same room. That thought used to make me feel powerful, like I was lucky to be connected to something really great.

So year two and now I'm ready to try out some of these crazy techniques. I never really got a chance that first year to do any of the play acting or word games. There was a kid in that class, Gary. Gary had some serious issues. He wasn't too bright, but not otherwise very badly behaved; he just needed constant attention. I tried giving him special duties, like sweeping up or organizing the game closet. I tried isolating him. I tried incorporating him. I tried running more group activities, teaming him up with kids that might help redirect or... Yeah well, nothing really worked. In the lounge, the teachers recommended I complain to the principal, "Send him to the special needs class or something,"

I'd write about Gary in my letters to Mr. Blowsky. He'd just reply "It's okay, you'll get it. I know you will,"

I didn't want to just give up on Gary. I spent the whole year trying to work with him. He never really could keep still, never could stop harrasing everyone within reach. I spent the whole year yelling.

By year three I had a reputation among all the kids. I was the mean one. The big, shouty teacher. The kids were terrified of me. It worked well enough. I got through plenty of material those first few months. I was ahead of schedule by January and ready to try some of the new techniques. I had little costume pieces and huge namecards. We were doing some French Revolution stuff. The class was confused when I brought out the box of props. They marched around, pretending to be nobles or peasants. The kid playing Napolean... Christ I can't even remember his name. Anyway, that kid jumped up on a desk and started dancing. I was shouting at him and he fell. He didn't get hurt or anything, but I lost it. I had everyone put their heads down on their desks. We didn't get anything else done that day.

I wrote to Mr. Blowsky about that day. Again he just said, "You'll get it. It takes time,"

We didn't try any of the play acting again until April. It didn't go over too well. Another year of yelling.

The next year and the next year, it was always something. I started lying in my letters. I told Mr. Blowsky of all the fun things we'd done in my classes. I told him about all the bright, hopeful children I loved working with. In truth, I spent all my time with the awful kids. The bright, well-behaved, thoughtful, pleasant children sat neglected all day while I maintained order. That was my job, really. I was a warden.

And Mr. Blowsky's replies stung me so deep, "Ah, you see? I knew you had it in you. I knew you'd get it,"

When he was close to retirement, I drove back to my hometown to meet him. I brought a couple of sandwiches, he loves egg salad, to his classroom. I got a chance to see his last class of the day. There were no costumes or props. There were no flash cards posted to the wall. They were studying for some standardized testing, filling out booklets. He was yelling.

I threw out the sandwiches. I spent the night visiting my folks. I drove home early.

That's really the thing of it. Every year, you get a whole new bunch of kids with all sorts of problems. You hardly get a moment to help them and they move along. You spend the whole time yelling. Some people are good at this job; it's like they're built to do this work. I'm not one of them.

Humbled

She likes to sit in the sun
By the big window
There's hardly anything left of her
She's been fighting for so long.
Bald and tiny
And fragile,
Like cobwebs and paper.

She holds a small picture in her hands
Smiling through tears,
"My life was so good,"
She tells me,
"In my pride, I asked god for a burden.
That I could help shoulder
The sorrow of the world.
When I got the cancer, I thought,
'This is it, my burden'
But I was wrong,"

She holds up the picture,
"Living without this man,
This beautiful man..."
She is too weak to cry.
She holds a cloth to her face
And turns away from the big window.

Comets and Crazies

Her shift was supposed to end an hour ago. The manager stepped out to run to the bank. The girl that was supposed to relieve her hasn't shown up yet, that selfish bitch. It was already starting to get dark out; the automatic lights in the parking lot clicked on. There was all sorts of things that needed doing: neaten the shelves, vaccuum the mat by the door, total the morning receipts. Like hell she was going to do any of that. She was supposed to be home an hour ago.

Wendy has worked at Shoes 'N More since high school. She's been here for like six years, going full time after college. She's paid more than some of the assistant managers and could run this whole store in her sleep. It was a super slow day and the past few hours have been totally dead. She wouldn't mind the delay if things were busier. She wouldn't mind so much if she had someone to complain to.

The door gives an electric chime as a man struts inside. He seems out of place. Not many men bother coming in here, the aesthetics are geared toward a feminine demographic. This man, however, would likely seem out of place anywhere outside a forest. He wears tight black bike shorts and a stained, faded green shirt under a red flannel. There might have been some kind of logo or picture on the shirt once, but the design has long since worn away. His hair is a tangled grey bird's nest poking out from under a greasy black beret. His needs, however, seem immediate and obvious. He is barefoot.

Wendy watches him with interest. If she wasn't so bored she would've otherwise headed right over and asked him to leave. Crazies sometimes wander in and scare away customers. Shoes 'N More had a few notoriously regular crazies. There's one woman always wearing track suits who comes in once a week or so and, if left unattended, will try to pee herself next to the same spinning display rack of shoes. It never seems to matter which shoes are displayed or where exactly in the store the rack spins. She hunts it down with a single minded focus unless Wendy shouts and claps and shoos her out. This guy is not a regular. He's a new crazy. Well, maybe he's not crazy. Wendy hasn't talked to him yet, he might just be eccentric, or maybe his house just burned down and he didn't save any of his clothes.

The man swings by a shelf, grabs a pair of black loafers without really looking and marches straight up to the counter. He moves with a kind of assured confidence. He could be a Howard Hughes secret billionaire or some loon that builds tiny architectural replicas out of mouse bones and ear wax. 'No wait,' Wendy thinks to herself, 'I don't know if he's crazy or anything yet. Don't be judgemental,'

He slaps the shoes on the counter with a pleased, wild-eyed grin. "I would like these shoes,"

Wendy doesn't remember stocking those. They don't really carry men's shoes. They don't carry children's shoes either. They don't really carry a decent selection of women's shoes, for that matter. The name of the store is very misleading. Shoes 'N More should really be called Some Shoes 'N That's It.

But she just smiles and points the lasery-price-gun at the tag and BEEP. The computer finds a price and displays it on the readout.

"Feet are important sorts of things, you know," he beams at her.

She just smiles and nods.

"You know, some people believe that parts of the foot connect to the rest of the body in special ways," his eyes seem to twinkle.

Ah jesus, he is a crazy. Wendy turns a little green and just hopes that this guy wanders out and away just as quickly as he came in.

"I've even heard there is a place on the foot that, at a touch, can stop a heart!" his voice takes on a theatrical tone, dipping conspiratorial low, then pitching up to a friendly crescendo.

Wendy smiles and gestures to the price readout, "Yep, well... thirty bucks," she paints a forced smile on her face before adding, "for the shoes..."

The crazy continues undaunted, "That seems kind of silly to me though. People walk on their feet all day. If there was a spot that killed you, people would drop dead all the time,"

"Well people do drop dead all the time," Wendy replies without thinking, really. It all falls out of her mouth and she immediately regrets it. If the crazy thought she was a friend, he might never leave.

Instead, he stares at her in surprised awe, "They do, don't they," He takes a full minute to process this idea. It shakes him terribly.

The door chimes again as Sara jogs in. She's wearing some hoodie with her work shirt bundled under her arm. She mouthes an "I'm sorry," to Wendy with a guilty look. It's all an act, though. She's just fucking lazy and always late and now she's going to go in the back and try to stall until the crazy leaves.

"Right," Wendy now wants this guy to vanish more than ever, "So the shoes will be thirty bucks. Then you won't have to worry about the heart attack spot,"

"Hmm?" the crazy is deep in thought.

"On your foot," she tries to explain his own craziness back to him, "the death spot thing,"

"So here's the thing," he explains, "I don't have any money,"

Wendy just raises her eyebrows in a 'So what the fuck now' kind of look.

"But I'll tell you what. I can grant wishes on special occassions," he states in all seriousness, "and you are a very special sort of person,"

Wendy simply stands there.

"And so, if you give me these shoes, I will grant you one wish,"

"A wish,"

"The next wish you make will come true. A wish in your heart," he smiles.

Wow. Wendy just can't believe this guy. He is a good and proper crazy. He likely has a fine collection of tin foil helmets to block out the alien mind control lasers. She looks again at her watch. She looks at the back door, Sara is totally taking forever. She looks at the parking lot, the manager is still at the bank. And she is stuck here with this crazy motherfucker untill...

Wendy blinks. You know what?

"Sure," she smiles along with him, "that'll do nicely. One wish," she punches her code into the machine. The thirty bucks will come out of her paycheck. With the overtime she's racked up today, it shouldn't hurt at all.

He beams at her and picks up the shoes, "Now remember, it is a secret wish of the heart. You can't tell anyone of the wish or that you've wished at all. That's how this kind of thing works,"

"Great, well I only want the one wish," she adds, "so no more shoes unless you bring money,"

"Of course, of course. I can only grant wishes on special occasions," he reminds her.

"Right, got it," she nods, humoring him, "Of course,"

Without another word, he takes the shoes and skips off out the store. The electric chirp of the door chime marks his passing.

Lo and behold, Sara pops out of the back room as soon as the crazy leaves.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Wendy," she begins her prepared excuse.

"Don't worry about it," Wendy had a whole diatribe she was going to use. Earlier, she wanted to lay into this bitch and tell her off. Now, though, she just pulls off her nametag and heads for the door.

Wendy shares a little apartment with a roomate. Everything is pretty cramped, but he lives his whole life on the computer, and she works all the time, so they get along rather well. He's a bad slob, but keeps all his trash in his own room. She watches TV and likes to cook for herself. She brings boys over every now and then and he never seems to mind. The boys don't often stick around long. They never seem to take Wendy seriously. They like her well enough to try to get in her pants, but not much more. She must be the kind of person that boys just don't think about.

She gets home that evening with a little chicken wrap she picked up on the way. She nibbles on it, her heart's not really into it. She's thinking about that crazy man and the wish. She kicks off her shoes and curls up on the couch. She is too tired to change out of her work clothes. She is too tired to hunt for the remote.

She used to believe in wishes when she was little. She looked for falling stars at night. She hoarded pennies for fountains. She had a very special prayer that she would try to say every night. Someone told her once that St. Joseph could grant wishes. If you wanted and wished for something hard enough, and prayed to him every night for thirty nights in a row, he would help. Wendy never made it past nine or ten nights without forgetting. What was she always wishing for? It's hard to remember. Love maybe, or money. Perhaps something silly like a pony or a castle.

She can just make out a flicker of blue light under her roomate's bedroom door. That's how she knows he's home, a computer flickering in a dark, silent room. He'll blast music on his headphones and chew away on a pizza, leaving reluctantly only for bathroom breaks and cans of soda. Oh jesus, her feet stink. Wendy rolls around on the couch, burying her face into a throw pillow. Too tired to change her socks.

And so now, what does she want? More money? Maybe a real job? She went through all the trouble of getting a journalism degree without really thinking why. Love? What would that even look like these days? Everyone's so independant, how can anyone really love anything?

What then can she do with a wish? Perhaps nothing, or more specifically, a want for nothing. Is that legal? Can someone wish to wish that wish away? To become someone who would wish for nothing?

Her laptop is nearby, she clacks a few keys on her iTunes and Ben Folds bangs away on his piano. He sings about people in trees and beautifully weird girls and picking up all the pieces of a broken life. Wendy drifts off to sleep, dreaming about comets and fountains and greasy black berets.