Sweet Florence, On Her Elbows

One seasonably warm Saturday night winter, a grandson took his grandmother, Florence, to dinner in Carroll Gardens. He held his phone, not her hand, as they crossed Court Street to the Marco Polo Ristorante. Florence had not been there since her downstairs neighbor Rosie's daughter's engagement party in early May and had been wanting to go back with her own family. But the late morning phone calls to her children and grandchildren, when she would suggest dinner that night or the next, were rarely received with much enthusiasm or believable regret. Always the tired apology and the empty "wish I coulds." Busy lives; at times, too busy to ever include Florence in their own plans, like live music at the Brooklyn Museum or a walk to the farmer's market to touch tomatoes. Even a quick errand to pick up toilet paper, she would settle for with any of them. Rosie's daughter's engagement party had been just for her though, and she liked that. She'd felt proud of the few hours spent at the Marco Polo Ristorante that sunny, spring day, in all of its gaudiness and mahogany, chit chatting over sesame bread sticks, unconsciously clearing the crumbs off the white linen into the soft middle of her hand. She'd been served seafood risotto, perfectly cooked and enough for two. With leftovers, though, came reminders of Joey, her late husband. It was not that she didn't like being reminded but she had never known a leftover anything when he was alive. Whatever she couldn't finish, he would lick clean. Florence was gracious for the memory, if only for an eye blink. And the bus boy, no more than seventeen, had taken a seat at the piano, wiping his olive oil fingers up his pant legs, and surprising all the pink-cheeked ladies with his Sinatra repertoire. Rosie's daughter sashayed from one table to the next, thanking everyone for coming and Was everyone enjoying themselves? Oh yes, yes, Florence was enjoying herself. It was so nice to be out of the house, where usually she just sat by the window, on her elbows, drinking milk with a little bit of coffee, counting the joggers, waiting for the next zoom! of the bus.

Tired, Travelling Waitress Of A Woman

Ninety-one dollars was the last of the money that went towards the drive to Colorado. All night she had been a tired waitress of a woman delivering french martinis to a professor with a red bow tie who kept asking her for too much, like: Another napkin, or Oh dear! I dropped my fork, or More apple butter if it does not cost extra, please and, of course, her name. While lines of hungry students and their out-of-town parents inched their way up the wheelchair accessible ramp, quickly reaching the trachea of the hostess, Bow tie just sat there looking all academic and pleasant. She felt like saying "Digest your food somewhere else, Professor. We've got a line and I want more tables" but her telepathy was not strong enough. He calculated her tip with an actual pocket calculator. Really? He knows what to give. How much she needs. Sir, that tip is paying for motels and tolls. Gas and snacks. Keno games she will play too many of at a bar in Bassett, Nebraska. She is leaving at six o'clock tomorrow morning so she needs slack to be cut, Bow tie. A tired waitress of a woman in a little, old college town is freaking poor. There is a big trip ahead of her. She delivered him so many french martinis. So many. And after each initial sip, he would look up at her and say "Now that's a drink." Oh, finish your silly drink already. She needs to clock out. Roll socks. Write a check for August's rent. Shower, set the alarm, and fall asleep to either the Cosby show or 93.9's the River.

These Two Scaredy Love Cats

When she calls him up, he is in the bedroom reading The Catcher in the Rye because he has a thing for nostalgia. Her name on his phone is long and hyphenated. He won't say "at last," but he'll think it. He ignores the temptation to think twice. He picks up. He is up for it.

“Well, hey.”

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m good. Good. You?”

It is no prize-winning conversation but it is normal. It helps that he loves her voice. He scoots down the bed and slides down its height, plopping Indian-style onto the wood floor so that he is not too comfortable. Scratches at the remnants of a sticky paper label on an old Poland Spring bottle. Their conversation is quiet now.

“So I’m calling you.”

“Yes. You are. Hi.”

“I take it you're home?”

“Just rolled in yesterday, yeah.”

She wants to meet up – it is obvious. Why she doesn’t just come out with it was always the issue. Skirting around stuff was her favorite diversion. It used to wind him up. In this moment though, he finds it kind of darling. He can hear her girl-music playing faintly in the background. He bets she is pacing. Wonders what she is wearing.

When they dated, they were afraid of the dark together. Ghosts, vampires, monsters, disfigured children, sex-crazed burglars – anyone or thing that could catch them by surprise in their underwear was something they both could agree was just horrible. Camping was always out of the question and they had special night-lights that would be left on while they slept. They would hug each other close under the weight of their blanket before drifting off into simultaneous nightmares.

"How're you sleeping these days?"

"Lights on. Clothed."

"Nice.

Okay, he is over her. He decides it this second. He is simple in this way. Loves her but in another way. Loves her like he loves old fishing poles. Vintage, bamboo ones.

Twin

As long as he does not have to sit still and think, he feels ridiculous relief. Poor guy who is trapped mainly by wanting things to stay exactly the same, just better, he adds salt to the same old foods when it is not really needed. He thinks the meatballs could use some but he is always wrong. Slowly, without warning, he is tricking himself. Also, there is an ungrateful nature to him. The quiet times in his life, he has no tolerance for, and so he makes sure to bang things together frequently, not paying attention to rhythm. He refuses his own thoughts and denies them like a liar. Treats time like a conspiracy and moves street signs around when no one is looking. Sees a heck of a lot in short moments but will not share a damn thing. Cluttered with too much stuff, he will walk into strange swimming pools to be rid of it all, and then be on his way. He is a hard person to have shared a womb with.

Quickly: Based On My Experience Last Night, The Rules Can Lead To Lovely Things.

I followed the rule and did not call my friend's phone when I could not find the balloon. It was a wonderful thing to practice. My eyes bounced from left to right, right to left like a ping-pong game in slow-motion across thousands of love-birds, families and friends. I walked mindfully across blanket corners, looking lost amongst the incredibly familiar, all because I knew the balloon was out there. I would find it. Spot it in the distance, gotcha!, and walk effortlessly towards it as if seeing it first thing. This was a nice little game. Find the balloon; don't call the phone. Win a symphonic experience in the middle of July under those two city stars. For bonus points, bet you I can find the stars. I walk, holding my turkey hero with one hand, my shoes with the other, grabbing at the grass with my toes. Giving my heels a good stain. Missing my boyfriend for a moment but refusing to forget about that balloon. A rule is a rule.

Small Bits of Excitement.

The three of us are sitting at my parents' kitchen counter on a Tuesday evening. The weather is hot and sticky but the air-conditioner is not running. My Mom is poking at 1/4 lb of tabbouleh on the table with a fork. My Dad is tooth picking cut-up honeydew. This might be what they are having for dinner. You can't be sure.

"Do you think I like it when your mother hounds me for answers?"
"Excuse me! I don't hound you, Paul."
"Excuse me, Debby, but you do."
"I take offense to that!"

While my Mom takes her offense, my Dad turns his attention back to me.

"Are you getting along, Syl?"
"Yeah, we're getting along, we're just annoying each other a bit."
"Do you think your mother doesn't annoy me?"

My Mom shouts my Dad's name again. He laughs this time. She says it's not funny.

These two are what I have to go by and, unfortunately, they are nuts. Smart, good-looking nuts but nuts. They are also in love. My Mom writes that in e-mails to her friends. I've seen the e-mails. It's like they know exactly how to raise the bar on Healthy and Loving Marriages. Even if my Mom is constantly taking offense to my Dad, secretly, this is how they flirt. I would say there is a proverbial ponytail in the house that will never be cut for fear of it never getting pulled again.

"I just worry that this is all there is," I say. "I mean, is it? We wake up, go to work, come home, exercise, shower, eat, watch television, sleep and so on? Like, this is what we'll be doing?" My face looks disgusted.

"Normalcy is a good thing," my Dad says. "You want your life to rest pleasantly in normalcy. But it's up to the two of you to create those small bits of excitement as well. That's why you travel. That's why you try new restaurants. That's why you have senses of humor. But it is always a good thing to come back to the normalcy of the relationship."

I look at my Mom who is looking at me like a proud parent with no words. Ugh. It is depressing. Growing up in front of people. Even that is too normal for me. I try to slow it down by not balancing my checkbook daily but the only person that that bothers is me.

My Mom is obsessed with alarming the house and double-locking doors and seat belts. My Dad listens to Blood, Sweat and Tears, experiments with facial hair and wears socks with sandals. I think that is where their small bits of excitement come in to play.

Ode To O'Brien

Four-thirty in the morning and he is lost in East New York. That is what he gets for driving high on drugs all the way from Boston. I hold off on telling him that he is in the most dangerous neighborhood out of all the five boroughs and that its murder rate is climbing. I hold off for about a minute and then I break it to him. This will be fun. Seriously, he just needs to head west on Atlantic Avenue. Can you find Atlantic Avenue? I ask him this from the comfort of my couch in lovely Carroll Gardens. I am eating expensive fruit and wearing sweatpants.

Sylvie, I have drugs in my car.
It's fine. I'm sure the guy driving behind you has drugs in his car as well. He laughs.

He laughs but he was supposed to be at my apartment by ten o'clock. I stayed in to wait for him. It had been almost a year since seeing him last. One of my best friends from college. Influential in many senses of the word but a real pain in the ass for so many reasons. He does not like to take my advice and so his life is now more his own than ever before. It took a while but I do not feel a responsibility anymore to help him navigate towards a better life aside from

Did you hit Atlantic yet?
Atlantic?
Yeah.
Oh, yeah, I'm on it.
Good. Stay on it.

Having listened to my super difficult directions, he finally makes it to my apartment. He rings the downstairs buzzer knowing that I have roommates. I sprint to the kitchen and buzz him in, sprint back to the front door and unlock it. His footsteps are heavy - hearing them gets me all happy though despite how exhausted / angry I am. He is carrying a faded yellow plastic Stop&Shop bag that I am to assume holds not clothes or toiletries but a few Cd's, a leftover bag of Doritos from the car and, oh, deodorant. Of course. How he believes one can keep clean. He bends down to hug me. Way to get lost in East New York, I say. The story is a good one though, he promises.

As promised, there is a story. The content is not important because it is just another stupid, crazy story that I have heard countless versions of over the years. I am sitting Indian-style on my bed watching his trip finish. The sun is coming up. I am absolutely ready for a paper cup of coffee and only a little bit ready to endure his presence this time around.

It is a sad thing but a tiny bit beautiful.

Invisible Weapon

 
You – the girl in his background. Texting away. Wow. I’m sorry - Who are you? He introduced you all bored and weird, said This is Marissa and then focused on popping the beer cap with his lighter. The cap skipped across the table and you were the only one who laughed like it was funny. Was it funny? You do realize that I hate you because I like him. You met him here after your psychology class. He told you Watch for a bit and when the blinds go up, you can buy-in. You said Cool. Is it cool? I would suggest buying in now and learning now. But I want your money. That is just me. I am guessing he just wants your body. That was mean. You are sitting background in a butterfly chair – a silly, dorm-room butterfly chair that he pulled up for you without realizing that you can barely see our table. The cards, the chips, the bluffing – it is all on the table and you can barely see it because you are sitting background in a butterfly chair. Your girlness is creeping up around my King Queen Suited and that, Marissa, is your invisible weapon. Get that girlness out of here.

Difficult, Untrained, Twenty-Something Conversations

Just about everything made Dawn laugh, and so it was hard to fight. The day he left, the sun came out. This was yesterday and he did not tell her he was leaving.

Dawn's friend Anne says things like "It is what it is, you know?" and does not actually believe that it is what it is. Anne takes things seriously in a nice, little way. She is the kind of girl who will pay $17.50 for individually gift-wrapped soap. She really will. Dawn asked Anne if she should go after him. If she should go find him. Bring him back to the apartment where they painted walls together. She would try to have that last fight without cracking up. It was the least she could do.

"We're good together, right?" Dawn asked Anne. She really meant: Teach me how to properly argue with my boyfriend.

Anne hesitated perfectly before saying "That's not the question you had in mind, is it?"

Dawn laughed. She laughed for two reasons. One because she was nervous and, two, because she hated being friends with women. All conversations between women eventually turned into something they would want Oprah to be present for. It really annoyed Dawn.

"No, I guess not," she smirked.

"No smirking," Anne said. "It does not say what you want to say."

"What do I want to say?"

"You are allowed to say I need to think about this for a moment, Dawn, if you need the time to collect your thoughts." Collect your thoughts. Anne says this like the guy who writes refrigerator magnets for a living and is proud of it. All Dawn does is collect thoughts. Hers, theirs, his - it is hard to keep track of proper ownership. What are thoughts anyway? They never seem to be entirely your own. The world is in a taut spin of thoughts. It has not slowed down in centuries.

Dawn has two notebooks. One is called "Things I Cannot Say Out Loud, Even To My Self." The pages are filled with vapid, spitfire half-truths. The other one is called "Things That Are Lies." She resorts to the Internet for this notebook even though that is not what the notebook intended for. See, Dawn collects lies as well as thoughts.

The tip of her tongue is being bit this whole time to keep from smiling but Dawn releases it to say "I just fucking love him." Resumes biting.

"Why is it funny, Dawn?" Anne shoots.

"It's not!" Dawn snaps. Her frustration pools. They are standing in the kitchen looking at such ordinary household items. Toaster. Microwave. Paper towels. Potholders. Silent witnesses to such quiet melodrama.

"Okay, so it's not funny! You're angry! Why?"

"Because he left!"

"Why?"

"Because I am awful at explaining how I feel when I am feeling it!"

"Why?"

"I don't know! Stop!"

Dawn cannot believe she is still believing hard in all things left unsaid as if everything unsaid was always the truth. She has written this down more than once in both notebooks. Why is it her anger that has to get harbored, brewing like an old recipe looking to escape its formula. She does not know how to answer the "Why?" questions. Her children will be unforgiving. It has already been set in stone.

He is coming up the stairs. She is nerve-wrecked and nauseous. Anne is still there, making it worse for her. Now he will see her having a girls-only therapy session. It is such a cliche. Having friends, having arguments, having potholders. It is all terrible.

Fact? she thinks. No. Lies.

Anne leaves.

"Help," she begs of him.

Going With Each Other

It is 1994 and he is quietly singing the lyrics to "Better Man" by Pearl Jam to me over the phone. My homework is more or less finished and I have said Night to my 40-year-old parents who are massaging feet in front of the eleven o'clock news upstairs. He is singing "Better Man" to me but I am not listening to the words. I am not sure what is going on. He is twelve. He needs permission to go places, signatures on math tests, new underpants.

Waitin', watchin' the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop

In French class, he writes me notes from across the room. Out of the corner of one eye only, I watch it move through sweaty hands. It is a little spitball of a note. A little sucker. I pretend to not know what is going on. What is going on? I am learning French here. I sit up straight. I am quenching my thirst for all things French but I am dying for this note to reach me. Please reach me. He is slouched in his chair made of wood and nails and his hands are folded atop his desk like he has done nothing wrong. Nothing wrong whatsoever. Folded like a good boy who will go to the store because his mother needs an onion for dinner. It is tricky because our French teacher likes to face us and not the board. Class is about speaking French, not passing notes. We will make it about passing notes though. This teacher is kind of old.

Tell him, take no more, she practices her speech

We are going with each other. That means we are open-mouth kissing. French kissing. We are doing it publicly in front a line of yellow school buses at three o'clock in the afternoon. Walk-men heads are hanging out bus windows and everybody is chewing gum. It is snapping like claps. Standing ovations because we are going with each other. I am unaware of what is going on. His mouth is huge, our eyes are open. It is disgusting. I want to go home and watch Saved by the Bell or something.

As he opens the door, she rolls over

The movie theater is cold. Two girls that I know sit between us like parents and I am not sure why they have been invited. We are there to see Little Women. I feel bad for him. I don't think about my age. We are on a date, we think. Embarrassed, none of us move a muscle. It is only buttery popcorn that is missing mouths.

Pretends to sleep as he looks her over

High School acceptance letters are distributed in Homeroom. Envelopes tear open. Two seconds, not even, and he is crying. He is not the only one but he is crying. There is a girl wearing heavy gold hoops and a padded bra close by. She hugs him close, continuing her conversation with someone else. None of it seems appropriate. Official letters like these should be mailed to your house.

Him, Her, And What He Does To Her

1. Him
She thinks too much, he thinks. In the mornings she is up before him, always, standing and then stretching, up, up, a bounce down, stop. She's green-eyed and impatient, obsessed with the order of nothing too important while time teasingly curls a finger at her to come forward. Move it, he thinks she hears and he knows she knows he's not the one saying it.

He rolls over in the sheets, his cheeks creased from last night's sleep. Hey, he says. She raises an eyebrow, smiles like she knows something good, and says Hey. It is obvious that one day she will trust that he knows how this all will work. For now though he will say nothing except Come here. She breathes in for a long second and then climbs back into the scoop of his spoon. The day's prologue has come and gone a little too quickly for her liking. He thinks there is more to it.

2. Her
Home alone she feels like waffles - with each of her small squares begging to be filled. She opens the fridge more than once. She dips two fingers into a container of hummus, bumps the door closed with her butt, and gives herself a couple of options. Think about what you want to do or Do it. She sits down in a chair. It is a hard chair that she is hoping will give her a hard time. How is that person doing, she wonders.

3. What He Does To Her
After the rain stops, he takes her out for Italian ices. Inside the bakery there are two girls that are not even playing the part of Italian girl teenagers. They are just doing it. Only halfway decent at the jobs they have been given, one girl with powdered sugar on her too-tight jeans says to the other: I don't even think he was playin'. It is all neither here nor there. He looks at his lemon ice and then gives it a quick lick off the side. She takes pleasure in watching him enjoy something simple. Hopefully he feels the exact same way. The sky looks like sherbert that has been violently stirred and as they walk down the street, saying nothing, just feeling, hopefully knowing, that nothing is better than any of this, the rain begins all over again. They do not lose their pace even though her body says run.