Last fall I went to the Observatory to view the Harvest Moon. Just as lovely was an older couple I observed. They inspired me to write this poem.
Autumnal Equinox
In line to view the Harvest Moon
Young and old alike
A woman appears slowly, with a cane
The moon pulls us all
She navigates the steps
To the ancient instrument
She climbs them twice
And twice descends
To where her husband waits
He doesn’t look at the moon
He harvests it in her
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
No-See-Ums
This poem is part of a collection I'm working on, titled the No-See-Um Diaries. The collection is about things that bite... that which you cannot see, but certainly feel.
No-See-Ums
Delight in the bite
Feed in the dark
Tiny, painful
Bumps like constellations
I itch, reminisce
Can’t see-um, but feel-um
Like you
No-See-Ums
Delight in the bite
Feed in the dark
Tiny, painful
Bumps like constellations
I itch, reminisce
Can’t see-um, but feel-um
Like you
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Father's Day (published in Penduline magazine, Sept. 2011)
His phone rings half a ring. Maybe. As if he’s expecting a call. In good cheer, “Hi there!” God forbid he’d say hello like everyone else. “What the hell, you sitting there waiting for me to call or something?” God forbid I’d respond with “Hey” like everyone else.He laughs, “Hey, Twig.”Twig is my sister’s nickname.
“Dad, it’s Carrie.”
“Oh, hey, Care, say, uh…you wanna hang up and start the call over again or something, act all surprised and jovial and I’ll get your name right this time? Whaddaya say…”
“No, it’s cool.” I like this better.
Neither of us mentions the fact it’s been twenty years since we’ve spoken.
“Thought it was Twig. She calls from time to time.”
“I know.”
“So, whatcha been up to, Care?”
“Um, nothing much. The kids and I spend a lot of time at the pool. I’m working a few days a week. Mostly fun stuff.”
Such a lie, I know, but after twenty years I don’t know how to answer this question. I don’t know how to say, “I want to feel you. I want to know what being your daughter means, that’s why I’m calling.” In the background, I hear his lighter click. A Zippo. It clicks up and clicks down, always has, always will. Click, Snap.
“How have you been, Dad?”
Exhale, “You know I used to spend so much time at the pool, you can thank me for that skin tone of yours, you know.”
Inhale, “My mom’s getting crazier and crazier every day. I need to find her a place to live.” Another exhale, “It’s getting rough. Your mom’s mom, she’s what—80 somethin,’ and she still does fine, right?”
I know, through Twig, that my father lives with his mom, who has Alzheimer’s. He claims he’s there to take care of her, but I believe she actually takes care of him.
“Yeah, Grandma, she does fine, but she also exercises every day, writes crossword puzzles for a living and doesn’t have Alzheimer’s like your mom does,” I explain.
“Yeah, Twig, well, my mom, all she does is walk from the fuckin’ chair to the cookies then back to the chair again. That’s her exercise. And she watches golf, she could watch that shit all day, loves it ’cause it’s green and has water and stuff.”
I can’t help it. I laugh uncomfortably, not that he could tell the difference. Our ability to jump into light chitchat confuses me. I ask how he is and he talks of golf and cookies, keeps calling me Twig. I wonder if Alzheimer’s is contagious. I realize I’m pacing.
“Hey Care, your sister sent me a DVD, from your uh, 50th birthday party. I can’t get it to play on my DVD player.”
“I’m 35. It was my thirty-fifth birthday.” I knew my sister had sent him the DVD. She asked me if I was OK with her sending it. I didn’t mind; I didn’t care much for the DVD. It seemed more appropriate for my funeral.
“Well, Care, feels like fifty to me, honey.”
“I believe it.”
Now he laughs uncomfortably.
“Did I tell you ’bout the alien baby, Care? The one growing inside my body, I can feel him moving around in there. And I need another root canal, lost another filling, and I saw some commercial for prostate issues and I think I need that medicine.”
“Don’t buy that commercial bullshit, Dad. They just want to sell you medicine. And tell me more about this alien baby.”
I assumed he was sick, the alien baby a metaphor for something. Twig had mentioned he wasn’t well, but that he wouldn’t elaborate, wouldn’t seek treatment.
“Ah, hell, I don’t want to talk about that right now, but the tooth thing has me really angry. Limits my food options. Suppose I’ll eat Salisbury steak again tonight, that’s always good in a pinch, isn’t it, honey?”
He called me honey, like we spoke daily. He’s deeply disappointed when I tell him I don’t eat Salisbury steak. I tell him the only time I ever ate it was with him, twice perhaps. This doesn’t stop him from telling me in great detail the specifics of his Salisbury steak recipe. More small talk, more bullshit, the language he’s supremely gifted at.
“God, they’re good even cold, Twig, get ’em out of the fridge around 2 am. Mmm mmm. But enough of that, ’bout ready to watch a movie, some flop with Renee Zellweger in it. Did some laundry today, baked some cookies, that’s my life, what’s up with you?”
“Nothin’ much.” What a lie. My husband has moved out, I’m searching…what do you say when someone asks you that? Rarely the truth, unless you’re paying them, like a therapist. Even then, sometimes you lie. But I can chit chat with the best of them, like Bill.
I’m a hairstylist, and I talk to people all day. I follow their lead. Sometimes it’s deep, sometimes it’s surface. Bill’s surfing.
“So Dad, how’s life in meth country?”
He lives in Blanchester, Ohio. Approximately 45 minutes away.
“Well, did I tell you June has cancer?”
I tell him no, I didn’t know that. How would I know that? June is Bill’s sister.
“Yeah, I tell you this as I sit here smoking a cigarette, Care, she has lung cancer. She’s a hurtin’ cowgirl right now, chemo and radiation, hair’s fallin’ out. It’s not all bad news, though, think it can be cured.”
Oh really.
“Yep, June has cancer, Sharon needs a kidney, I don’t know how the hell Mike is, we haven’t talked in a year, and you know my brother Danny in Texas? I do wonder how he’s doin’, haven’t talked to him in like 15 years, heard he had a stroke a while ago, could be dead for all I know. Family. We’re a close family.”
These names are all familiar to me. They are his brothers and sisters, the aunts and uncles I don’t know, wouldn’t recognize on the street.
He then starts coughing, producing a sound that’s so startling, I stop pacing and pull my phone back.
“Hell, Care, there’s got to be some good news. Oh I know, they’re about to elect another Pork Queen soon. That’ll be big news,” he says with a laugh still laced with the guts of that dreadful cough. Pork Queen. Pork. It goes from squealing pig to ground meat in less than 30 seconds, and then we eat it.
I sense by his jokes that he hates his life in Blanchester, relies on his wit to get him though. His wit, and today, Renee Zellweger’s squint.
“Yeah, I’ll get through this, I’ll get rid of this baby. It’s pretty fucking hard to knock me down. You get that from me, too. Now, poke me in the eye, I’ll cry like a baby. Stab me with a pencil in the arm, that hurts, too. Hey, maybe that pencil lead in my arm is why my fillings keep falling out. Lead poisoning finally workin’ its way up to my teeth. Next it’s my brain.”
“Dad, that’s not pencil lead in your arm. It’s a blue mole. I have one, too. It’s called a Blue Nevis.”
We have the same mole on our left forearm. The mole is hereditary. As far as being knocked down goes, I am once again pacing.
“No kidding. I always wondered who stabbed me? Blue mole. Huh.”
“Sorry ’bout your teeth and stuff, Dad… but I want to know what’s up with this alien baby? Seriously.”
“Yeah, right… me, too….you know, seriously, we should have evolved as humans by now to have shark teeth. One falls out and immediately is replaced with another one. Why can’t we do that? All kiddin’ aside, Twig, we should have every skimmer available out there cleanin’ that shit up. Hell, I know I’m not President, but that’s what I’d do. All those fish swimming in that crap. Next year I’ll run for President, why not, course the baby might be born by then. My only concern is where’s the alien baby gonna come out? I might wish it’d come out just like it does in the movie.”
“Dad, it’s Carrie.”
“Oh, hey, Care, say, uh…you wanna hang up and start the call over again or something, act all surprised and jovial and I’ll get your name right this time? Whaddaya say…”
“No, it’s cool.” I like this better.
Neither of us mentions the fact it’s been twenty years since we’ve spoken.
“Thought it was Twig. She calls from time to time.”
“I know.”
“So, whatcha been up to, Care?”
“Um, nothing much. The kids and I spend a lot of time at the pool. I’m working a few days a week. Mostly fun stuff.”
Such a lie, I know, but after twenty years I don’t know how to answer this question. I don’t know how to say, “I want to feel you. I want to know what being your daughter means, that’s why I’m calling.” In the background, I hear his lighter click. A Zippo. It clicks up and clicks down, always has, always will. Click, Snap.
“How have you been, Dad?”
Exhale, “You know I used to spend so much time at the pool, you can thank me for that skin tone of yours, you know.”
Inhale, “My mom’s getting crazier and crazier every day. I need to find her a place to live.” Another exhale, “It’s getting rough. Your mom’s mom, she’s what—80 somethin,’ and she still does fine, right?”
I know, through Twig, that my father lives with his mom, who has Alzheimer’s. He claims he’s there to take care of her, but I believe she actually takes care of him.
“Yeah, Grandma, she does fine, but she also exercises every day, writes crossword puzzles for a living and doesn’t have Alzheimer’s like your mom does,” I explain.
“Yeah, Twig, well, my mom, all she does is walk from the fuckin’ chair to the cookies then back to the chair again. That’s her exercise. And she watches golf, she could watch that shit all day, loves it ’cause it’s green and has water and stuff.”
I can’t help it. I laugh uncomfortably, not that he could tell the difference. Our ability to jump into light chitchat confuses me. I ask how he is and he talks of golf and cookies, keeps calling me Twig. I wonder if Alzheimer’s is contagious. I realize I’m pacing.
“Hey Care, your sister sent me a DVD, from your uh, 50th birthday party. I can’t get it to play on my DVD player.”
“I’m 35. It was my thirty-fifth birthday.” I knew my sister had sent him the DVD. She asked me if I was OK with her sending it. I didn’t mind; I didn’t care much for the DVD. It seemed more appropriate for my funeral.
“Well, Care, feels like fifty to me, honey.”
“I believe it.”
Now he laughs uncomfortably.
“Did I tell you ’bout the alien baby, Care? The one growing inside my body, I can feel him moving around in there. And I need another root canal, lost another filling, and I saw some commercial for prostate issues and I think I need that medicine.”
“Don’t buy that commercial bullshit, Dad. They just want to sell you medicine. And tell me more about this alien baby.”
I assumed he was sick, the alien baby a metaphor for something. Twig had mentioned he wasn’t well, but that he wouldn’t elaborate, wouldn’t seek treatment.
“Ah, hell, I don’t want to talk about that right now, but the tooth thing has me really angry. Limits my food options. Suppose I’ll eat Salisbury steak again tonight, that’s always good in a pinch, isn’t it, honey?”
He called me honey, like we spoke daily. He’s deeply disappointed when I tell him I don’t eat Salisbury steak. I tell him the only time I ever ate it was with him, twice perhaps. This doesn’t stop him from telling me in great detail the specifics of his Salisbury steak recipe. More small talk, more bullshit, the language he’s supremely gifted at.
“God, they’re good even cold, Twig, get ’em out of the fridge around 2 am. Mmm mmm. But enough of that, ’bout ready to watch a movie, some flop with Renee Zellweger in it. Did some laundry today, baked some cookies, that’s my life, what’s up with you?”
“Nothin’ much.” What a lie. My husband has moved out, I’m searching…what do you say when someone asks you that? Rarely the truth, unless you’re paying them, like a therapist. Even then, sometimes you lie. But I can chit chat with the best of them, like Bill.
I’m a hairstylist, and I talk to people all day. I follow their lead. Sometimes it’s deep, sometimes it’s surface. Bill’s surfing.
“So Dad, how’s life in meth country?”
He lives in Blanchester, Ohio. Approximately 45 minutes away.
“Well, did I tell you June has cancer?”
I tell him no, I didn’t know that. How would I know that? June is Bill’s sister.
“Yeah, I tell you this as I sit here smoking a cigarette, Care, she has lung cancer. She’s a hurtin’ cowgirl right now, chemo and radiation, hair’s fallin’ out. It’s not all bad news, though, think it can be cured.”
Oh really.
“Yep, June has cancer, Sharon needs a kidney, I don’t know how the hell Mike is, we haven’t talked in a year, and you know my brother Danny in Texas? I do wonder how he’s doin’, haven’t talked to him in like 15 years, heard he had a stroke a while ago, could be dead for all I know. Family. We’re a close family.”
These names are all familiar to me. They are his brothers and sisters, the aunts and uncles I don’t know, wouldn’t recognize on the street.
He then starts coughing, producing a sound that’s so startling, I stop pacing and pull my phone back.
“Hell, Care, there’s got to be some good news. Oh I know, they’re about to elect another Pork Queen soon. That’ll be big news,” he says with a laugh still laced with the guts of that dreadful cough. Pork Queen. Pork. It goes from squealing pig to ground meat in less than 30 seconds, and then we eat it.
I sense by his jokes that he hates his life in Blanchester, relies on his wit to get him though. His wit, and today, Renee Zellweger’s squint.
“Yeah, I’ll get through this, I’ll get rid of this baby. It’s pretty fucking hard to knock me down. You get that from me, too. Now, poke me in the eye, I’ll cry like a baby. Stab me with a pencil in the arm, that hurts, too. Hey, maybe that pencil lead in my arm is why my fillings keep falling out. Lead poisoning finally workin’ its way up to my teeth. Next it’s my brain.”
“Dad, that’s not pencil lead in your arm. It’s a blue mole. I have one, too. It’s called a Blue Nevis.”
We have the same mole on our left forearm. The mole is hereditary. As far as being knocked down goes, I am once again pacing.
“No kidding. I always wondered who stabbed me? Blue mole. Huh.”
“Sorry ’bout your teeth and stuff, Dad… but I want to know what’s up with this alien baby? Seriously.”
“Yeah, right… me, too….you know, seriously, we should have evolved as humans by now to have shark teeth. One falls out and immediately is replaced with another one. Why can’t we do that? All kiddin’ aside, Twig, we should have every skimmer available out there cleanin’ that shit up. Hell, I know I’m not President, but that’s what I’d do. All those fish swimming in that crap. Next year I’ll run for President, why not, course the baby might be born by then. My only concern is where’s the alien baby gonna come out? I might wish it’d come out just like it does in the movie.”
He hears me start to laugh again, he’s reeling me in, sees his grandiose charm working and says, “Yeah, I haven’t changed a bit. Enough about me, what’s goin’ on with you? Seriously. Let’s get serious.” He keeps calling me Twig, making it hard to take him seriously, so I tell him, “Well, I went to Lexington last night to visit some friends, that was fun.”“Why Lexington?”
“Dad, I used to live there, in fifth and sixth grade.”
“Oh yeah, alright, so hey why won’t this DVD work in my player, the one from your 50th birthday?”
I want to tell him I think it’s sweet he keeps trying to watch the video my mom made for my birthday. I also want to ask him if he’s curious to watch it to see all he missed, but I don’t. Too deep, we’re surface here. Instead I ask, “Dad, have you tried watching it on a computer?”
“Honey, my computer’s so goddamn old the number keys are Roman numerals. Maybe I should try it at the library computer, when I turn Renee Zellweger in for Nicole Kidman. And don’t tell me you don’t like Nicole Kidman, I don’t want to hear it, I love that movie Dead Calm, you’re losing my favor now if you tell me you don’t like her, I have all of her movies.”
Dead Calm. Have I ever had favor?
I tell him I’ll check her movies out and revisit my feelings for Nicole Kidman, that I do love Moulin Rouge, does that help? I tell him I’ve called him Dad more times today than I’m comfortable with, that the entire conversation’s been bullshit, and I’d like to know more about the alien baby, to which he laughs and says, “You know, Care, always did love tall redheads.” He’s still thinking about Nicole Kidman.
“You married two blondes, Dad.”
He replies, “Yeah, I guess. And you’re wrong, I married three.”
I let his laugh over three failed marriages wave into the next subject. “Your sister tells me she found some pictures of me, from when I was a young man, in a sailor suit. She said she’d mail them to me but never did. That, or they’ve just stopped delivering the mail here in Blanchester. I mean, that’s totally possible.”
Click, snap. Inhale.
“I haven’t seen the pictures, Dad, I don’t know where they are. Why were you in a sailor suit, was it Halloween or somethin’?”
“No, it’s from high school, musical theater stuff.” Exhale.
“You were in musical theater?”
“Yes, you didn’t know? I got a full scholarship to University of Cincinnati’s College Conservatory of Music, for singing and dancing. I could sing and dance my way through anything.”
Uh, I had no idea. I’m not surprised, for here he is, here we are, singing and dancing our way through our conversation. I stop pacing my living room, sit down and prop my feet up, and surrender to the show. His voice sounds exactly the way I remember. A song and dance man. I resign to let him just keep dancing.
“So what happened, Dad? Did you go?”
“Well, Care, I did, and then I had to take ballet. Two thirds of the class was guys who talked funny and acted funny, and I thought hell no, you’re not seeing old Bill out there doin’ ballet. I could have been a movie star. Jesus, Carrie, what else you don’t know about me?”
Before I can formulate any type of answer, he continues, pausing to light another smoke. Click, snap. I wonder if he’s pacing or sitting. I wonder what his house looks like. “Did you know, Care, I was going to be a cop, passed the training and exam with colors but then they gave me a lie detector test and I failed it. Son of bitches do work, apparently. Oh well, glad that career didn’t work out, Twig, shit, Care. I tell you what, I’m disappointed you don’t know these things, why don’t you make a list, all the things you want to know, I’ll tell ya. Brutal honesty, ask me anything. Do it now, before the alien baby is born, you know, in case I don’t survive the birth.”
“Really, Dad, brutal honesty? You just told me you failed a lie detector test.”
I hear him shrug. “Why wouldn’t I? You’ve got nothing invested in me and I got nothing to lose.” Now we’re getting somewhere. I sit forward, anticipating, ready, breathing….
He exhales, “You still collecting vinyl records? Twig mentioned you do.”
“Yep, um, I do, I am.” I lean back. “Nothing like you I’m sure. I remember you had quite a collection.”
“That’s a good idea, vinyl’s a dying glory. You get your love of music from me, you know. Have you seen my new turntable? It’s beautiful, gold plated, pendulum, needle rests in this fluid, it moves not only up and down but left and right, you see, follows the grooves…only made 1000 turntables like mine. Have to sell mine, though, pay for this tooth and the alien baby, such a shame. You’d hear the difference, though. I used to have hundreds of albums you know, ’cause I had them all. I hate to have to sell the thing.”
I’m taking it all in, following his grooves up and down and left and right, sitting, listening, pacing, and responding. “That sucks you have to sell it, Dad. People like us can hear the difference. Someone will buy it.” I realize I’ve never said “people like us” to him before, but know I’m referring to the music. He was correct in saying I get my love of music from him. “It sounds cool. If I had the money I’d buy it from you in a heartbeat.”
“If I had the money I’d give it to you. You see, the alien does ache a lot, and my tooth, I’m so damn tired of thinking ‘what can I front chew today?’ I can only use my front teeth, ya see. I think about what’s for dinner and think, ‘yeah, that’s a front chew, what can I front fucking chew today?’ The saddest thing is, I can’t put onions on my chili anymore, you ever try to front-chew an onion the size of half a pea? I do enjoy chewing my food. My whole world’s falling apart, and now no more onions on my chili.”
“Dad, you need to take care of this alien baby.”
“Don’t forget the teeth. First the teeth, I’m hungry. Hey, let’s eat guacamole together sometime.”
I sit forward again, and exclaim, “Oh my God, I love guacamole! You like guacamole?” I can’t hide my excitement over this seemingly simple thing we might have in common.
“Well, no, I’ve never actually had it but it seems like a front chew. Gotta expand my list of choices.”
I lean back, exhausted, confused. All the singing and dancing has me suddenly starving.
“Alright, I gotta go, Dad. Do you have my phone number?”
“No, what is it? I’ll write it down on my grocery list here, under steak, bread and peanut butter. You mind bein’ under the peanut butter?”
“No, I don’t mind being under the peanut butter.”
After our conversation, I feel like I’m beneath the peanut butter already, ground up like pork, pureed like guacamole. I give him my number, and envision his list – bread, steak, peanut butter, Care’s number. I think if you’re on a grocery list, your fate is one of two things: You’re either going to be eaten, or thrown away.
I’m chewing my nails and visualizing myself as various food products when he interrupts my thoughts with, “Thanks for calling, Care, it’s been a really long time. I really do appreciate it. And see, I got your name right this time.”
“Alright, Dad, talk soon. Call me. And, um, you know it’s Father’s Day, right? So, you know, Happy Father’s Day.”
“Dad, I used to live there, in fifth and sixth grade.”
“Oh yeah, alright, so hey why won’t this DVD work in my player, the one from your 50th birthday?”
I want to tell him I think it’s sweet he keeps trying to watch the video my mom made for my birthday. I also want to ask him if he’s curious to watch it to see all he missed, but I don’t. Too deep, we’re surface here. Instead I ask, “Dad, have you tried watching it on a computer?”
“Honey, my computer’s so goddamn old the number keys are Roman numerals. Maybe I should try it at the library computer, when I turn Renee Zellweger in for Nicole Kidman. And don’t tell me you don’t like Nicole Kidman, I don’t want to hear it, I love that movie Dead Calm, you’re losing my favor now if you tell me you don’t like her, I have all of her movies.”
Dead Calm. Have I ever had favor?
I tell him I’ll check her movies out and revisit my feelings for Nicole Kidman, that I do love Moulin Rouge, does that help? I tell him I’ve called him Dad more times today than I’m comfortable with, that the entire conversation’s been bullshit, and I’d like to know more about the alien baby, to which he laughs and says, “You know, Care, always did love tall redheads.” He’s still thinking about Nicole Kidman.
“You married two blondes, Dad.”
He replies, “Yeah, I guess. And you’re wrong, I married three.”
I let his laugh over three failed marriages wave into the next subject. “Your sister tells me she found some pictures of me, from when I was a young man, in a sailor suit. She said she’d mail them to me but never did. That, or they’ve just stopped delivering the mail here in Blanchester. I mean, that’s totally possible.”
Click, snap. Inhale.
“I haven’t seen the pictures, Dad, I don’t know where they are. Why were you in a sailor suit, was it Halloween or somethin’?”
“No, it’s from high school, musical theater stuff.” Exhale.
“You were in musical theater?”
“Yes, you didn’t know? I got a full scholarship to University of Cincinnati’s College Conservatory of Music, for singing and dancing. I could sing and dance my way through anything.”
Uh, I had no idea. I’m not surprised, for here he is, here we are, singing and dancing our way through our conversation. I stop pacing my living room, sit down and prop my feet up, and surrender to the show. His voice sounds exactly the way I remember. A song and dance man. I resign to let him just keep dancing.
“So what happened, Dad? Did you go?”
“Well, Care, I did, and then I had to take ballet. Two thirds of the class was guys who talked funny and acted funny, and I thought hell no, you’re not seeing old Bill out there doin’ ballet. I could have been a movie star. Jesus, Carrie, what else you don’t know about me?”
Before I can formulate any type of answer, he continues, pausing to light another smoke. Click, snap. I wonder if he’s pacing or sitting. I wonder what his house looks like. “Did you know, Care, I was going to be a cop, passed the training and exam with colors but then they gave me a lie detector test and I failed it. Son of bitches do work, apparently. Oh well, glad that career didn’t work out, Twig, shit, Care. I tell you what, I’m disappointed you don’t know these things, why don’t you make a list, all the things you want to know, I’ll tell ya. Brutal honesty, ask me anything. Do it now, before the alien baby is born, you know, in case I don’t survive the birth.”
“Really, Dad, brutal honesty? You just told me you failed a lie detector test.”
I hear him shrug. “Why wouldn’t I? You’ve got nothing invested in me and I got nothing to lose.” Now we’re getting somewhere. I sit forward, anticipating, ready, breathing….
He exhales, “You still collecting vinyl records? Twig mentioned you do.”
“Yep, um, I do, I am.” I lean back. “Nothing like you I’m sure. I remember you had quite a collection.”
“That’s a good idea, vinyl’s a dying glory. You get your love of music from me, you know. Have you seen my new turntable? It’s beautiful, gold plated, pendulum, needle rests in this fluid, it moves not only up and down but left and right, you see, follows the grooves…only made 1000 turntables like mine. Have to sell mine, though, pay for this tooth and the alien baby, such a shame. You’d hear the difference, though. I used to have hundreds of albums you know, ’cause I had them all. I hate to have to sell the thing.”
I’m taking it all in, following his grooves up and down and left and right, sitting, listening, pacing, and responding. “That sucks you have to sell it, Dad. People like us can hear the difference. Someone will buy it.” I realize I’ve never said “people like us” to him before, but know I’m referring to the music. He was correct in saying I get my love of music from him. “It sounds cool. If I had the money I’d buy it from you in a heartbeat.”
“If I had the money I’d give it to you. You see, the alien does ache a lot, and my tooth, I’m so damn tired of thinking ‘what can I front chew today?’ I can only use my front teeth, ya see. I think about what’s for dinner and think, ‘yeah, that’s a front chew, what can I front fucking chew today?’ The saddest thing is, I can’t put onions on my chili anymore, you ever try to front-chew an onion the size of half a pea? I do enjoy chewing my food. My whole world’s falling apart, and now no more onions on my chili.”
“Dad, you need to take care of this alien baby.”
“Don’t forget the teeth. First the teeth, I’m hungry. Hey, let’s eat guacamole together sometime.”
I sit forward again, and exclaim, “Oh my God, I love guacamole! You like guacamole?” I can’t hide my excitement over this seemingly simple thing we might have in common.
“Well, no, I’ve never actually had it but it seems like a front chew. Gotta expand my list of choices.”
I lean back, exhausted, confused. All the singing and dancing has me suddenly starving.
“Alright, I gotta go, Dad. Do you have my phone number?”
“No, what is it? I’ll write it down on my grocery list here, under steak, bread and peanut butter. You mind bein’ under the peanut butter?”
“No, I don’t mind being under the peanut butter.”
After our conversation, I feel like I’m beneath the peanut butter already, ground up like pork, pureed like guacamole. I give him my number, and envision his list – bread, steak, peanut butter, Care’s number. I think if you’re on a grocery list, your fate is one of two things: You’re either going to be eaten, or thrown away.
I’m chewing my nails and visualizing myself as various food products when he interrupts my thoughts with, “Thanks for calling, Care, it’s been a really long time. I really do appreciate it. And see, I got your name right this time.”
“Alright, Dad, talk soon. Call me. And, um, you know it’s Father’s Day, right? So, you know, Happy Father’s Day.”
CarrieHerzner
Carrie Herzner falls back on her scissors daily, working as a hairstylist. She falls into her pen nightly, writing poetry and short stories. “Father’s Day 2010” is an excerpt from her upcoming novel. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio and fine-tunes her poetry and prose as a member of the Greater Cincinnati Writer’s League.
© 2011 Penduline Press. All Rights Reserved.
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Monday, September 5, 2011
Prose
prose: (n.) writing or speech in it's normal or continuous form, without the rhythmic or visual line structure of poetry.
Or, that which tumbles from brain to pen to paper.... here you will find short stories, essays, and creative nonfiction.
Or, that which tumbles from brain to pen to paper.... here you will find short stories, essays, and creative nonfiction.
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