wilbur larch knows how to cheat fate

i dig john irving. from chap10 of The Cider House Rules:

“When an orphan is depressed,” wrote Wilbur Larch, “he is attracted to telling lies. A lie is at least a vigorous enterprise, it keeps you on your toes by making you suddenly responsible for what happens because of it. You must be alert to lie, and stay alert to keep your lie a secret. Orphans are not the masters of their fates; they are the last to believe you if you tell them that other people are also not in charge of theirs."

“When you lie, it makes you feel in charge of your life. Telling lies is very seductive to orphans. I know,” Dr. Larch wrote. “I know because I tell them, too. I love to lie. When you lie, you feel as if you have cheated fate – your own, and everybody else's.”

betsy wasn't an orphan, as far as i knew, but boy could she pitch some whoppers. after captain kirk ran away on halloween, betsy made up a story about one of teddy's burnout friends, a party around a bonfire, a nosy neighbor with a german shepherd on a leash that broke, and Animal Control; and she sold the lie to her mother. i guess she couldn't tell the truth because she thought she would get in trouble for taking captain kirk out trick-or-treating with us. betsy's mother was real weird about that guinea pig. when betsy would get home from school her mother would be in the living room rocking chair watching General Hospital with captain kirk in her lap, stroking him and rocking back & forth.

she won't GIVE him to me – betsy would complain – nan gave him to ME for MY birthday and if i ask for him back she yells at me and tells me i should be worrying about my grades and not a guinea pig. i can do my homework AND talk to captain kirk. he's MINE. and she's a BITCH. i would watch wide-eyed as she fought back the tears and frustration.

then she started bringing captain kirk to my place and to her sessions and swim meets and even school that one time. she got away with it because her dad stuck up for her. mr billings was great. he looked like one of the hardy boys, not shawn cassidy, the other one. we got along great. he called me “bean” and always cheered for me at swim meets even when i came in last. i wanted a dad like mr billings. once when i went to get betsy he was arguing with betsy's mother because betsy had taken captain kirk with her to her session.

- let her have him, sylvie. my mother gave him to her for a reason. do you want to go against doctor's orders?
- oh, and i can't have my own reasons? is that what you're saying? that i don't need my own tactile whatever-he-called-it? i should just play along like everything is fine, that's what you want isn't it.
his voice rumbled low and from the hallway it was hard to make out.
- just what are you saying, sylvie.
in the long silence i could hear the metronome creak of the rocking chair.
- oh this is all your fault. all your fault. your fault.
- you've had a hard day, syl. i'll make you a cup of tea.
when he rounded the corner and saw me his face brightened.
- hey, bean - he smiled and ruffled my hair - betsy's not home yet, but you can help me grade calculus exams while you wait. i wrinkled my nose. - no? okay. how about we make some tea for mrs billings. she had a hard day and she's tired.

i didn't see what was so hard about sitting in the apartment all day watching television with a guinea pig, but sometimes grownups didn't make very much sense. i felt weird about being in that apartment with mrs billings rocking her way into port charles, so i went back home and waited for betsy and captain kirk but they never came.

complications of the flesh

The first time Eric saw the Snakeman was at the end of his evening commute, five minutes from the house. Kai Ryssdal was wrapping up Marketplace while Eric decompressed after a long day that had ended with an uncomfortable conversation with his manager. Craig cited “concerns” about recent mistakes, oversights, small things here and there that weren't Eric's style. Was there anything he wanted to share with Craig: tension between coworkers, issues with management, problems at home perhaps? Sometimes a second child brought on even more pressure than the first... but Eric insisted no, no everything was fine, just some occasional insomnia that started up after Josh was born.

Craig nodded, smiled accommodatingly and invited Eric to come to him with any problems he couldn't handle on his own.

But Eric could always handle problems on his own – as his mother was fond of saying, problems were just God's way of refining the will. So he was driving home and shedding his work skin for the domestic one when a pedestrian suddenly materialised in the narrow road in front of him.

JESUS CHRIST -- Eric yelped as he wrenched the wheel to the left. As he did so, he felt a curious sensation as though time were slowing, the air turning to viscous liquid around him while a keening in his ears built, deepened and slowed like an ambulance siren passing. The palms of his hands, his thighs and the soles of his feet prickled with adrenalin, and bile bloomed at the back of his throat.

The van struck a pothole and lurched back into the right-hand lane, passing within a foot of the pedestrian. As he swerved by, Eric noted the figure didn't flinch or give way at all. In the viscosity of time-slowed-down, Eric registered a cadaverous face and an incongruously lithe, youthful body contained by cargo shorts and a tank top. What drew Eric's attention next was the snake, a thick python or boa constrictor coiled once around the figure's neck and draping down his shoulders like a sleek stole. The Odyssey lurched forward while Eric's eyes remained glued to the apparition, which gazed back blankly. Eric tasted the sharp tang of anise in his mouth and nose and felt the pressure of a vise squeezing both temples. His head was hurting, pounding, collapsing and with the penetrating smell of anise came the sound of a woman gasping, sobbing, the feel of rain constant rain and fog, Oregon pressing its gray-blurred spring against the window, boredom desperation and a house ringing with the sound of a crying infant, a man walking lightly from the kitchen hands jammed in pockets - what you lookin at boy? - then silence. Throbbing, fraught silence for an eternity it seemed, then the tinny cassette in the second-hand tape deck and the sound of Art Garfunkel. I believe when I fall in love with you it will be forever. The woman lying motionless on the sofa, breathing the music, then - hi sweetie, I didn't know you were there. The Snakeman smiled, thin lips pulling back. In the uneven spaces between gapped teeth, Eric saw the glistening, teeming movement of short fat bodies like swollen pieces of rice. The tip of a pink tongue emerged and tested the air, obscenely pulsing in and out.

Pulling away, Eric felt the pressure on his head loosen, but his guts were a tangle of fire and his mouth became oily and wet. As he urged the Odyssey forward he watched the Snakeman getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. When the figure vanished entirely, Eric pulled off onto the shoulder, pushed the door open and vomited, dry heaving until the waves of nausea passed. He wanted to put his head between his knees and gather himself, but he feared a neighbor would drive by and stop to ask unaswerable questions. What had happened back there? He couldn't seem to focus enough to come up with explanations or hypotheses; and eventually he drew himself back into the van and drove home.

When he walked through his front door his body still felt shaky and alien.

-- Well, YOU'RE home late – his wife observed - I don't know if you'll have time for dinner now. Joshua and Kaitlynn have already eaten, and so have I. We waited until 6 like I said, but we couldn't wait any longer than that. You do remember Kaitlynn's recital tonight, don't you? I know you feel like you don't have to come to these, but Donald and Marie will be there, and I told them you would finally come tonight so we're all going to Chuck E Cheese's afterward. So, if you don't have time to eat now, and you probably don't, you can get something there, though it'll be late. I couldn't wait that long I know, but you know I'm grazing now, eating smaller meals more frequently because that's really best for my metabolism... Where are you going?

-- Upstairs.

-- You're coming, though. You need to come tonight. Kaitlynn won't mind if you don't, but I told Donald and Marie that you-- Eric broke in.

-- I'm going upstairs to wash my face.

-- Well. All right. We'll be waiting for you.

Eric climbed the stairs with the impress of the vice still on his temples, his throat raked raw by stomach acid. He dropped heavily onto the bed and sat staring blindly out the window, rubbing the top of his thighs gently, back and forth, until his wife called up to him and he went back downstairs.

the nurse who loved me

saturday night, approx 4 hours after tool left the stage, peter, shoddie and i are sitting outside johnny rockets watching the funnel clouds of aggression whirl and disperse as groups of belligerent drunks move down the atlantic city boardwalk. half an hour ago we left josh at caesar’s, where he pitched a snit and refused to accompany us.

- i meet this awesome girl who will drive to atlantic city alone to see tool and she ends up digging THIS guy. he looks balefully at peter, who rewards him with a blank stare. – oh fuck you guys. this is my vacation and i’m going to ENJOY it dammit. fuck you, fuck you and fuck YOU. i got some gambling to do and i’m NOT hungry.

none of our imprecations worked so here we are at JR’s without josh.

in preparation for the 90min drive back to DE i am stoking up on coffee and chili. eminem – or an 18-year-old version of him – is our server: very white, very trying to be hip and very hyped.

-- he’s got to be on speed – i pronounce as marshall mathers whirls away with our orders – no one can be that fucking cheery at 3 in the morning. shoddie doesn’t even respond; he’s half in the land of morpheus already. peter surveys me with heavy lids.
-- you like bud? – he asks.
-- bud?? get real. you drive a chevy, too?
he frowns at me, processing with an overloaded CPU.
-- no, you like smoke bud?
-- OH. mmm never really worked for me. peter looks at me as though i’ve just outlined the theory of relativity. - and besides, i gotta drive home, remember?

this makes sense to him: he nods slowly and begins to roll a joint. at this point the speakers jack 10 decibels as donna summers’ Last Dance begins, apparently a cue for the johnny rockets staff to assemble and begin the obligatory line dance. for a little white dude, our server's got some funk in his blood, and he gazes confidently out the window at us from first row, center.
-- little man can dance - i note.
-- you think josh is okay? - shoddie wonders for the 10 billionth time. peter tries josh’s cell phone again; it goes straight to voicemail and he sings a couple lines of Last Dance.
-- i’m sure he’s fine. he’s a fucking army ranger. he can take care of himself – i say.
-- not worried about him – says shoddie – it’s the other guys. josh ain’t the same since he come back from afghanistan that second time.

i can’t argue with this, since i watched josh change over the course of several red bulls & vodka in the caesar’s lounge. a pretty nice, charismatic and funny guy who made you feel special by remembering your name and using it liberally, a soldier who guided you through cell phone shots of his 6-year-old in germany, his drumset and his rottweiler puppy, this man changed into something else over the course of those couple hours, the skin around his eyes pulling tighter and meaner.
-- yeah he’s okay unless somebody sets him off – peter mitigates.
-- did he talk about afghanistan at all? - i inquire. he never mentioned this to me; our conversation was all about europe, german techo clubs and endurance sports. before he can answer, peter’s phone chirps dyspeptically; the battery's running low. he answers but loses the connection.
-- dude that was josh trying to call.
i finish my coffee while shoddie tries to reach him.
-- yo, 'sup. you what? where you at? ohhhhhhkay we just gotta pay. we're there in 5. just hang, man. – he snaps the phone shut. – where’s our fucking waiter. we gotta go.
-- what’s up?
-- josh says we gotta go. – shoddie won’t say anything, just squirms while we we settle up. josh calls shoddie twice en route to caesars, while peter knocks off his joint, gracefully pirouetting away when the cops roll by.

when we reach caesars josh is outside pacing, rubbing his fist. he won’t look at me; hones in on peter.
-- hey fuckface what’s up with leaving me like that. i’m at the roulette table just minding my business when some asshole knocks my elbow. it wouldn’t have been nuthin except that i had my drink in my hand and it spilled a little. hey, i said, don’t you have any etiquette or fucking couth and he said what the fuck you say and i said don’t you have any fucking couth and then he shoved me and i fucking nailed him under the jaw and you never saw anyone drop so fast. i mean it was lightening fast and i just walked away from that table as fast as i could. didn’t run, just walked real fast.
josh rubbed his knuckles which, reddened as they were, showed the scars in starker relief.
- are you okay? – i asked.
- i’m fucking fine – he answered peter. fucking fine. that fucker dropped so fucking fast. you should have seen it. – he stops short, sniffs. – you fucking smoking? - peter shrugs nonchalantly. – jesus christ. let’s get the fuck out of here.

we chaperone josh down the boardwalk, away from caesars. peter’s worried about me driving home; says i can crash in their $60/night room at the Golden Flea. much as i’d like to stick around and see if josh ends up in police custody, i’m supposed to meet The Gay Squad in philly in 6 hours for brunch and the King Tut exhibit. drummed up on red bull, there is no way josh will go back to the hotel when there are strip clubs and casinos open for his business but someone’s gotta oversee him and that job’s left to peter, since shoddie is so down for the count i have to drop him off at the Flea on the way out.

i roll into the driveway at 5:20. the sun’s already rising, the cats are clamoring for food and i wonder how peter and josh fared. this isn’t the first time i’ve hooked up with the psycho kid with anger management issues and his coterie of devoted, understanding friends at a concert; and for the 30sec it takes me to fall asleep i question the influence of the bands i love.

say hello to everything you’ve left behind
it’s even more a part of your life now that you can’t touch it

love: leaving

@ Kim's bed

Behind the veil of her Condition she hears Tad. He's telling her about a movie he, Alex and Geoff saw, something about Spartans and Persians and CGI creatures, and how Geoff hated it. Kim's chest opens a little; she feels as though she's back in the old world. Of course he hated it -- Geoff's cinematic tastes ran more along the lines of Bergman, Kieslowski and Lynch; anything that smacked of bourgeois, post-production excess was sure to invoke his ire. On the first awkward date, the one where you eagerly define yourselves in likes and dislikes, this passionate young man with the choirboy eyes insisted Eraserhead was the best movie ever made, that Kim really didn't know what she was missing. So on the fourth date they rented Eraserhead, and it was truly awful. But since it was a test of her suitability, and she really did like this aspiring artist with the brooding eyes, god forgive her, she effused about the movie's objective correlative and bleak existentialism, dredging up remnants of a college Lit Crit class and acing Geoff's test. And that set the precedent, of course; she could never tell Geoff what she really thought of David Lynch without rewriting her husband's entire definition of her.

Lost in the past, she'd realised she'd neglected Tad and mentally castigated herself. She wished she didn't fade and out like this because every word that dropped from his lips was a feast to her, for it opened up a host of memories she could feed off until the next time he appeared at her bedside. Did he know how much his visits meant to her? Why else would he keep coming?

He was describing a hike they did in Yosemite, how long ago was that, oh he couldn't have been more than what, eight? God he was incredible taking on that mountain – Half-Dome it must have been. She thought she was alone, battling demons every step up that mountain, seeing her past in black and white; but when she turned at the last cairn wanting to throw herself off Half-Dome's rocky profile, she instead found her eldest son staring up at her. God he was incredible. He was her one good thing... and Alex too. If nothing else, she could at least say I made these kids. Geoff and I could put something together at least.

She never pictured this. She never pictured herself lying in a hospice bed, groomed and cared for by a phalanx of aides, at the mercy of others, relying on their sense of duty and pity. She never pictured a son who visited all the time, and another who existed purely though his brother's narratives. She never pictured being forty; she never pictured motherhood. That was Geoff's fault. He had to let the propane run down... typical of her husband, who was so good at engaging at the moment of an idea's conception – honey, we need a gas grill, it'll make dinners so easy – but then melting away when the glamorous idea became dull reality. So of course the propane tank ran empty while she was grilling ribs, so she loaded the tank in the tiny trunk of her Miata, cursing Geoff when paint chips flaked off the tank to drift around her trunk.

She drove to the Texaco, where the tattooed teenager behind the counter summoned his manager to the filler tank. “Elle” read the name tag beneath a deeply lined face that seemed much older than the arms that took the tank from Kim. Elle hefted the tank experimentally.

-- Still a little bit in here. - but not enough to grill ribs, thought Kim.
-- Oh really? How do you know?
-- By weight.
Unable to argue, Kim just nodded, then stepped around the filler tank so she had a clear view of her car and its wide-open trunk while Elle began the refill.
-- Gotta be careful when you fill these things because the propane can escape if you top off, and you don't want want that smell all over you, do you.
-- No – Kim agreed – you probably don't - then craned her head for a view of the Miata and its popped trunk.
-- You got a baby in the car?
-- Excuse me?
-- You got a BABY in the car.
Kim laughed; what a silly notion. Me? With a baby? Elle stared at her, awaiting an answer.
-- Um, no. A baby? No.
Elle stood motionless while propane whirred into the tank, and Kim felt as though she must justify herself.
-- No baby. Just, er, my car's wide open. And it's kind of my baby, you know?

Elle looked as though she didn't know, and Kim felt a chasm open in front of her. The undeniable fact was that she wasn't 17 anymore, and having a baby in the back seat was perfectly natural in Elle's eyes. My car's my baby? What was I thinking?

Kim drove home in a daze and found a message from Edward, who'd dropped off her radar a year ago. Hey so I had this dream last night, that you have twins now, twins with your sun-catching blonde hair, and their names are Thaddeus and Karl. So, um, confirm or deny, since my dreams have a way of creeping into reality. Be well. Kim was overcome, weakened by coincidence and fear of a growing distance in her marriage; and that night she made a point of staying awake until Geoff finally came home and she's certain that's when Tad came onto the scene.

He's gone now; Kim doesn't remember when he left. What did he say about Half-Dome, she thinks. Goddammit I wish I could stay present. She wars against herself for ten minutes then drifts away.

<ol>bullets</ol>

1. to test myself
   
2. to see if it's real
   
3. for practice
4. because it’s easier than I thought
   
5. because I can
   
6. because I’m ocean-size
   
7. for the asshole who cut me off on I-81 this weekend
   
8. for the bitch who laughed when I spilled my coffee this morning
   
9. for American Idol
   
10. for Mel Gibson
    
11. for Don Imus
    
12. fuck it, because you want me to say it, for fucking Hitler and
    
13. for Edward Norton
    
14. for Johnny Truant
    
15. for Esther
    
16. because she looks like Rachel Bilson
    
17. and he looks like Chris fucking Daughtry
18. for her dumbass MySpace page
19. because he's wearing a Google t-shirt
    
20. because I’m on a roll
    
21. because of the way they scramble
    
22. for their weakness
    
23. for mine
    
24. for the smell of copper, of action
    
25. to speak
    
26. to be heard
    
27. to prove you were wrong about me
    
28. because it will always be this way
    
29. because I can’t go back
    
30. because I can’t go back
    
31. because I can’t go back
    
32. because I can’t go back
    because I’m sorry
    
33. to leave

love: staying

last july 4th, a local runner fell in the stairwell of her townhouse, suffered a C2 spinal injury and has been in a coma since she was found, hours later, by a friend.

that much is true.

@ kim’s bed

Heya, mom. Yeah, so I’m sorry I didn’t come last week. Alex was sick, he had some kind of stomach flu where shit, sorry I mean stuff, was coming out both ends and Dad wasn’t around and I didn’t want to leave him alone. He’s better now, though. Dad took us to see 300 last night, and it was freakin’ awesome – it’s supposed to be about an ancient battle between the Spartans & Persians, but really it’s like an Ultimate Fighting match with some CGI creatures thrown in. You would have dug it. Dad hated it, of course, and when we got back in the car he yelled at me for tracking mud on the passenger side and Alex didn’t say a thing even though it’s his fault and even Dad could have figured that out if he weren’t so wrapped up in his own… stuff. Anyway, it was cool for him to take us out. And he said we might go to Aspen for Christmas this year. And, um, well it’s spring now, getting warmer, and your daffodils look really nice: the tall yellow ones and the shorter white ones. I know it sounds weird, but they remind me of a picture I have of you – you probably don’t remember cos it was a long time ago, like 10 years when we were all together, camping in Yosemite. We did this long day hike that seemed to go straight up the freakin’ mountain, and you hiked so fast that sometimes I had to run to catch up with you. My pack bounced up on and down on my back and that Nalgene bottle beat the crap out of my kidneys it felt like and I don’t remember anything about the trail, or what we passed, because all I could see was your legs in front of me and the way your calf muscles moved when your foot landed and took off. That was back when I thought you were an X-Man, remember? Like Storm. We finally got to the top, which was all wind-swept rock and a couple scruffy, short trees and you stopped at the last cairn – which was a good thing, cos I was about to freakin’ pass OUT – and when you turned around and saw me, you looked startled, as if you didn’t even know I was there. You looked down at me and there was something in your eyes I had never seen before. It was hard and wild and… oh, something. Do you remember that, Mom? Do you? You were breathing heavy (for an X-man) and you looked at me with those weird, startled eyes. “Wings,” you whispered, or least I think that’s what you said because it was hard to hear you. “Wings.”

We stood there listening to the wind, waiting for Dad and Alex, but the next people up the trail were a couple of Europeans, German maybe? – and you asked if they would take a picture of you and your son, and that’s the picture I’ve got in my desk drawer, under a bunch of back-up CDs nobody will ever need. In it you’re tall and straight, and I’m the knock-kneed, platinum-haired kid with one arm wrapped around your legs. The wind’s blowing your hair back and I can see that your eyes are back to normal, and your smile is your typical picture smile but it’s funny – if I squint my eyes and hold the picture really close, there’s a faint cluster of clouds that almost billows out from your shoulders.

Okay Ma, I gotta go. Alex has soccer practice and Dad says I can drive even more now that the weather’s getting better, so that’s really cool. Maybe I’ll drop Alex off at Ursuline instead, since he plays like a girl anyway. Heh, just jokin’.

Be back next week. I love you, Mom.

staying, part 1

if it’s true that only the dull are brilliant at breakfast, an axiom is that only the truly dull are brilliant in the grocery store before breakfast on a sunday morning. that’s why i eschew all communication, shop in a fog and just shove my debit card at the zingo’s cashiers when they cheerfully sing out my total.

but then there are the lonelyhearts, the desperate old people that emerge from their bedsits on a sunday morning and i swear just roll prop carts around the aisles for hours, striking up inane conversations with likely-looking victims. then they ditch the carts and go to church, probably, where they have more inane conversations with god.

at the entrance to zingo’s early sunday morning, i found myself trapped behind a large, pear-shaped elderly gentleman. he was wearing an obnoxiously bright DuPont Jeff Gordon jacket -- a DuPont pensioner, maybe, or a big NASCAR fan, or both. he’d just accosted a red-vested manager and was telling him what a great job zingo’s did clearing the parking lot after friday’s ice and snow and how was that possible with all those shopping carts floating around.

move it big guy, some of us got places to go - i thought, because i couldn’t maneuver my cart around his ample hips. when he did move along, he did so ponderously, rocking from side to side like a boat anchored in the bay.

i was searching for fennel when he rolled into the produce area. “jenny was a friend of mine” was playing, and a couple stockboys were nodding their heads in time and chatting.

- you like this music? – Pear Man asked them. they once-overed him, then nodded. – it’s interesting. who is the group? what are they called?

- the killers – one replied. Pear Man was taken aback.

- the killers. imagine that. i do like the bass line, though. i used to play bass. do either of you play instruments? - he moved aside as i excused myself past him, shrinking under his slightly wall-eyed gaze, hoping he wouldn’t say he was getting the band back together and was i in. i fled to the juice aisle, and from then on, whenever i peered down an aisle and spotted his rocking hulk, i’d skip that aisle. i did notice that he’d acquired a cart with a bag of potatoes, ground beef and burger buns.

the next victim i saw was a kid stocking frozen pizzas. he was wearing a bright orange Clemson football jacket, and Pear Man went straight for him like a slavering dog to a meaty bone. serves you right, i thought; you don’t see me wearing a Planned Parenthood tee.

Pear Man launched his sally.

- i like your jacket. – Stockboy smiled at him. a genuine smile.
- thanks. so do i. are you a Clemson fan?
- i went to school there. i didn’t play football, but i went to every game i could. that was back in the days of Gary Barnes. have you heard of him?
- heard of him?? his jerseys are still up in McFadden. he’s a legend, man. you were lucky to see him play.
- he was my roommate freshman year. his mother made wonderful oatmeal cookies.
- no shit. that’s awesome.

Stockboy moved away. making an escape, i thought, but no, just moving to the frozen vegetables.

- was he a cool guy? Barnes? – he asked over his shoulder. Pear Man paused before answering.
- yes, yes he was. he could be very quiet, but when he spoke you knew he had carefully considered whatever he was saying. he’s a judge now, you know.

a well-coiffed, attractive woman approached Pear Man and placed a hand on his shoulder. she indicated the frozen spinach soufflé she was holding.

- do you think Sam and Jody would like this, or just peas & carrots?
- oh that, definitely. Sam’s always the one for spinach.
- good - she said, dropping the box into the cart. - are we done here?
- i think we’re done. – Pear Man agreed.

the block of butter i’d been pretending to study was getting soft around the edges. i stole a glimpse as Pear Man and his wife passed by, and he offered me a serene, if somewhat quizzical, half-smile.