big-face

I have friends now. I don’t participate in my own oppression. I went to the place today. It was all very impromptu and shit. Bill called.  I said: hey how about we meet at quarter to eleven? And he was like huh? Okay.

I went. There was probably gonna be unpleasantness and meanness on the part of glasses girl, aka his woman. I just prayed to be able to handle it. I mean, I’ve done some fucked up things in the past, but I should be able to meet a friend at the only place in town where you can sit for a while and shoot the shit.

Oh boy. So I see bill and we go in. of course it’s fuckin cold as hell. His face all scrunched beneath his tan baseball cap. His little blue puff coat. We go in.

The nice girl, young, is there.

Hi! She says. So far, glasses girl is absent. Oh good. We get coffee and then there she is. I don’t even look behind the counter. I don’t look at her at all, only out of the corner of my eye to notice damn, she has a fuckin big face.

Ok, be cool. She goes out the door. I don’t look at her. Half an hour later, she comes back. I do not look at her. She made her fuckin point the last time I was there. rudeness. Hostility to the max.  I had no idea what to expect this time. Honestly, I thought the worst: him and his woman were going to gang up on me and start hurling accusations, slurs about my mental unfitness, shit like that. Maybe call the cops and have me trespassed from the premises. But no. it didn’t happen. I never saw him. For all I know, he wasn’t even there. one way or another, I didn’t really care. I’m over it. Over him, or the idea of him anyway. They both put a definite stop to that. Their hatred of me couldn’t be any clearer. Ok, fine. I really just wanted to hang out with my friend and lo and behold, it was possible after all. No confrontation. Just don’t look at the bitch. let her think she put me in my place. Well, she kinda did. They both should live happily ever after, him and his big-face woman: the donut couple of the century.

Dunkin Dump

I hardly ever go there at all. So what’s her problem?  I go to the Dunkin dump today. That’s their latest ad, I swear. Gyrating sweating girls drinking some kind of protein concoction and doing splits.  Lot of lipstick. I don’t go there much. Maybe once a week, once every 2 weeks and goddamn, I make sure it’s after her man leaves. In the afternoon. So what’s her problem?

I go in. bill and bob are there, and bob’s wife. Ok…wave and smile

I go to the counter. Glasses bitch spots me and comes up.

What can I get you? she spits at me, making direct eye contact. Nasty. I look at the ceiling briefly, a little taken aback by her…attitude. Rendered mute for a second there. Then I look her right in the eyes. Study her yellow bottom teeth.

A medium cappuccino

Hot or iced?

Hot I say.

What in it?

Whaddya mean, what in it?

Flavoring. Chocolate, syrups—

No.

That’ll be 4.96. out of 10. She hands me back the 5 and 4 cents. I put the four cents in the tip jar. (There ya go, honey).

Careful not to touch her. She stares daggers at me the whole fuckin time. I stare right back at her. She’s not that great looking. Plus she’s mean. What in the fuck.

She goes to the other counter. Yells out my order and puts the cup down, walks away. I’m a little shook. Does she want to fight me? She definitely hates my guts. she doesn’t even know me. I’ll catch her outside some time, put her in a snowbank. Hot or iced. Jesus. It’s 20 below wind chill outside. I’ll bury her ass, given half a chance. Hypothermia would set  in fast. I’m just not in the mood.

“TEA & HONEY”

 There is a round headed, younger guy there. round all over. Pudgy and obnoxious. Says his name is gallon, like the jug. He has a big wallet chain and gangster style, with a baseball cap that says GOAT.  Tuesday night I drive in the freezing cold to the radio station and everyone is glad to see me . surprising. I belong there. i tell Layal on Thursday that I like the radio station meeting.. she turns up her nose. I went there when I  first got sober, she says condescendingly. Round head guy was at the wed meeting, he blew a fucking gasket.

FUCK YOU YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME FUCK YOU he screamed, smashing his fists on the table, getting his things and stalking off, slamming the door off its hinges.

Like that.

He is there the next day. manspreading. Thanking us all for “coming in tonight.” It was a noon meeting but whatever.

Layal came in and sat next to me. Idiot roundhead was running his mouth. Mark did nothing. Just sat there, writing in his little meeting book. I tried to explain some things to the idiot but he kept talking over the top of me. Finally, I said: listen. just listen to what I’m saying,

Okay, grandma, he says. Angeline is next to me. Are you okay? No I’m not. I look at Layal That was rude, she mutters, looking at her phone. Mark says fucking nothing.

Whatever, Baldy I shoot back. He sits, staring me down. Trying to intimidate me. I ponder throwing sulfuric acid in his face. I should have never stuck my neck out. Layal did not give a flying fuck.   On the way out, she was gushing to the little Indian girl “The Homer meeting is tonight. They have TEA & HONEY at the Homer meeting!” Which I took to mean: pay no attention to the crone walking behind us. She is of no consequence.

this is what makes him a man

Is this good thinking? The b names aren’t working out. I should go with Dave the Original. Is this a good idea? my head! I mouth the words of a prayer. on tv the guy was on his stomach and had been tased by multiple cops, all the while chanting the serenity prayer. I have never heard it said in that context before. Huh. So: total depression and acceptance. Ok, God. I’m old. Okay. I drive the hills for the millionth time, doing the same thing: shopping, meeting. I was gonna fb message him: hey, why’d you ghost me, you putz lol hahaha but I didn’t. It’s all over for me. I am entering the winter of life, forever dead beneath layers of permafrost. Something like that. I am employed this is my job: domestic goddess and meeting attendee to keep my head from falling off. acceptance is key, at least it says so in edition 4, which I’m so fucking old I have edition 3 with join the tribe. Lol hahaha.

I put my cute pink water bottle on the fake wood table. Layla is there. Hi Margaret says Paul. Hi Paul I say and look at Layla, drawing a complete blank. Senior moment I say. So sorry I am a total moron. No you’re good, she says. Like the Clapton song, I just had a brain fart I go to the restroom and come back in. you have got to be kidding me. It’s him, sitting at the table.

He says he’s struggling. That he talks with other men in the same predicament. I think: this is a good idea. I say hi to him.  he looks spooked, but I am calm. Yup.

I watch my black docs against the table legs. Think about the dream I had where Brewster was having a party and stood on the hill, his gray hair blowing in the wind like the guy online who ate too many of his son’s hash birthday brownies as A Voice intones: “this is what makes him a man.” Brewster put the giant sausages into a clear glass oven, turned the heat up to max, and incinerated them in a spectacular flaming fashion. Later, I made a sculpture from the burnt wreckage and put it on an album for him to find.

His gray short hair. His face, pale and sickly. His jumping right leg. His hand running up and down his thigh, ceaseless nervous habit.

I point my finger at him after the meeting.

You really should dress for the weather. It’s winter. Maybe a coat? A hat?

I’m hot all the time, he says.

Are you anxious?

Nah, he says in his Obama voice. My prayers have been answered.

shoe guy

My Justin cowboy boot is coming apart. This is a problem. I get a curved upholstery needle and some embroidery thread on it. Sit there and try to jam it thru the leather. Nope. I can’t see trying to fix this myself. I’ll totally wreck it. So. Go on my phone: “shoe repair near me”.

Mid-city shoe repair in Cortland.

Oh. I’m glad they’re still around. The site says call for an appointment kind of formal. So I call. I get a weird message and an instant text: “I’ll call you back.” Which he does. Instantly.

Hi i’ve never used  a shoe repair company. I say nervously. Do I just drop them off?

Yes you just drop em off the guy says. In a tone. Like: yes, you moron, that is what you do. Like that.

How long are –

We’re open til 4 he says, talking over me.

 Thank you so much. I say like a fool. After putting a tarp on the front tent and bringing in a load of firewood, I’m tired. But what the hell. A car ride will do me good. Plus they’re open til 4, like the guy said. I put both boots in my car and take off into the late afternoon sun.

The place is on Central Ave. which, in my opinion, is the darkest street in the entire world. Light never penetrates. It has some cobblestone-looking sidewalks, and old brick buildings looming in all directions. It is freakin dark. All day. Stygian gloom, that kind of thing. Early 20^th century Americana Major Depression. I find a place to park and walk down the cold street, looking for number 13.

It is under an insurance sign, in neon on the plate glass. I go in.

Hi I’m dropping these off. I smile, because that is what I do. Must be friendly and all that sort of thing. I put the boots onto the counter. The guy comes out from the back room. Gray hair, pot belly and not nice. I worry about my hair. Is it too messy? Why is he so angry? I show him: right here. The seam is gone. I put my finger through it. But this one is fine.

I don’t want that one then!

Ok. I take the healthy boot off the counter. Quickly.

It shouldn’t take too long, he says. Last name? phone number? he machine-guns at me. I feel like I might be under arrest. After I get a ticket, I leave. The place has big leather-working machines, an old woman who works for him. Fumes in there like you wouldn’t believe. I go sit in my cold car. The sunny day has no place here. I wait. I might be waiting forever. Huh. I put my hat on and go back in. The fumes are intense. The back room is dark. The old woman is there.

I live far away, I tell her. I need to go home.

I don’t know what you are saying she says with an accent.

I look down. My boot is there on the floor, with a yellow tag on it.

Is it done?

No! she says, alarmed.

Oh. Ok. How about I pick it up tomorrow?

That would be a good idea, she says. I give her the thumbs-up. Leave. Drive back into the sun, heat cranked briefly to dispel the chill of that canyon street. What a fool I am. Worried about my appearance. Tying my doc martens two ways. Nobody gives a shit, especially not the shoe guy. I brush my hair out of my eyes. I have muted Brian on the Facebook messenger. I am an idiot who thinks other people notice that I exist. What a fool.    

dragon

I talk to my friend bill. I purposely do NOT look at the pass. The needle, the spoon. I turn my back on it. My curly fuckin back of my head hey get a good look at that, motherfucker. My friend is up against it. I talk to him. At one point the guy walks past me to the bathroom, all black t-shirt and circumspect. I’m so sure he is telling all the women he works with what a piece of shit I am. what a fucking moron. ( one has dragon nails in a very deep shade of red that is to die for. I would compliment her, but I think she’s in on the plot) so he walks past, all fucking weird and I’m like whatever. I have my hair in a corona of unkempt madness.  it was me all along. I am the one and only louche junkie nutjob of misplaced intensity. he walks back, all tip-toe weird. Like I might sink my filed stained teeth into him. I would if I thought I could get away with it. at the cash register, his face. . a joke with the ladies, oh so funny. Laugh, glasses girl. Yeah. You’re cute. Bill and I walk out, after a sideways hug, because like I said, he’s going through it. I believe all the women are watching from behind the counter. I drive out and who should come walking right in front of me but him. In his hat, hanging hair, bagged jeans and a neon orange bag from Kinney’s. I like his style. At this point, that’s really what it all boils down to. My hair writhes. I look right at him and wave with my hand, like go ahead. Walk in front of me. He does, does a little run at the end like I’m gonna hit him or something. Have a nice fuckin day. I’m going to Cortland. Go fuck yourself.

National seashore

Walking in the plaza surrounded by Arabs. Arab families, children crying. “Where are we going? This place sucks!”

I am not sure where I am. In the giant building full of crowds and officials at desks, all old. A flow of humanity. Where is Provincetown? I have no idea. Gilded escalators. Golden thresholds. By the wall, out of the way of the hordes, I see a golf cart with two slouchy men in it. Both on the verge of trisomy 21 but hey, whatever. They’re talking in modern-day slick-speak.

“Hey, do you go to Provincetown?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, great.” I get in. They talk deployment.

“I was taking a massive shit when the rpg hit.”

“Oh yeah, I hate that.” We take off. There are interstates. Toll booths. 18-wheelers powering through. WHAT? Where is the national seashore?

“There is no more national seashore.”

We go through scrublands.

“Oh there’s Mary’s boat works,” the guy says. “ Still the same.” We arrive at a condo complex in the scrubland. His parents come out. They look normal. They are backlit by the sun. “Mom, Dad! I made it!” unpacking his gear, the parents cry. We go on. Green hills punctured by mansions. Mile after mile of ornate brickwork gothic high-rise cathedrals to living.

“Last time I was here, people were worried about the water table. There wasn’t enough. How is this even possible?”

“There are a lot of rich people here. They have the money. The town lets them.”

Pink rococo. White industrial. Mile upon mile of luxury dwellings.

I hold my head. The driver is so amused by my shock that he doesn’t charge me.

“How far to Provincetown?”

“Oh, about a two-hour walk.”

“Jeez.”

“Just get your move on.” I go through the gold mullioned doors. Golden escalators. Out to find Provincetown.

the rain will come

I go to the place a few days ago. There is a huge amount of work going on behind the scenes in my psyche. in my soul. Bob gets there first, his big red pickup we go in together what’re you having?

You don’t have to

I’ll buy not a problem

Thanks bob. can I have a regular coffee cream no sugar? the girls behind the counter smile at one another. my paranoia flares.

I really like your glasses,” blue sweatshirt girl says.

thanks (ok, maybe overreacting).

the coffees will come up right here.

 Sure. don’t look don’t look a quick glance his back going into the other room in slow motion “thanks bob.” we go sit down here comes bill

what’s that?

tuna salad bill really likes it.

Oh. at this point the rain is trying to come. The sky is swollen. Humid. Bill gets his coffee and sits down next to me we all talk. Stuff. I look behind me, in the entryway there is a space where he could see me from the pass, or at least the back of my head.  There is a great deal of work being done by my hair follicles, my brain, and my stomach. I haven’t looked, no more of that despair but now there is a new type of despair: I won’t see him at all. This is horrible but I persevere. Music plays in the background, like my nighttime tinny radio set to whisper volume to have melodies on in the red light. Then the impossible happens. He comes out from his spot, still behind the counter but he goes to the cash register. From there he sees me, takes something out and goes back. He fucking came and looked for me. We see each other.  shortly after, in his neon blue hoodie.

 “bye bill.” the girls call. he looks back briefly, nonplused, then heads out the door.

Mongo

My brain has a nasty default setting. I said too much, they all despise me now and worse, they know I’m poor. I figure next time they’re gonna get out the cootie spray. Spray me down. Everything is so green because it is underwater. There is a prehistoric fish and his red and black sneakers I took the white cross on route 59 in Nanuet when mongo gave it to me. His brother named him that because he liked to frequent whores, hence whoremonger/mongo. He was tall and lanky, gave good backrubs and lived in a house with his brother off the highway at the entrance to a state park.  Anonymous, completely nebulous territory. For 16-year-old me, perfect. The perfect setup. Plus always weed in those football things. Power-hitters or something they were called, I don’t remember. But they were great. You got high fast. That was a good thing. Anyway we were driving, in his car of course, my parents would never give me a car, what are you kidding? Route 59 scrolled in front of us, a flat expanse of traffic and big box stores that went into spring valley finally, which was uphill and very urban what with the apartments and shopper’s paradise and all that shit. Here, try this, he said, his big hands holding a pill. What is it? White cross. I studied the thing. Indeed it was a white pill with a cross on it. Huh. What are they used for?  Depressed people in the hospital. Down the hatch. Before too long, the scenery of strip malls, traffic and mongo himself were blindingly, achingly beautiful. So beautiful I was bursting out of my skin with a vibrating ecstasy that verged on pain. It was that good. I never wanted it to stop. I turned to him and said “don’t ever give me one of these again.” I knew what I would do if I got strung out on those and someone got in my way. Nothing good.