This is it, all you get, the final piece. Maybe you deserve more; I don't know. But you wouldn't want more, so we'll just choose to finish things off.
I made the trip just as we'd discussed. The bus to Green Apple Books where I finally picked up a volume of Vollman, someone we'd often discussed but never committed to buy. I figure I owed him--and you--a chance. I walked among the stacks of books and brushed my fingers through the dust and across the dust jackets, thinking of how we'd often forget what we already owned and what we needed. And I thought of the literary conversations that carried us through the books and the dust. After Green Apple it was a beer and fries at The Bitter End, a bar that knows it's a bar and where the bartender was tall and plump and honest.
Then, the walk back toward the financial district, a long walk that started out as a short wait at the bus stop before I got restless and opted for the urban hike, something we'd done so many times in San Francisco and Chicago. Five miles later I checked into the hotel, cleaned up, rested, sat on the balcony and tried to come to grips with what seems to avoid being gripped. Later, dinner at Cafe' Zoetrope. Same meal as usual, top-shelf pinot noir, good bread. Then, on to City Lights, another great bookstore where years ago we'd glance Ferlinghetti sitting in the office, his Beat-era aura a little dull to us but nevertheless significant. Upstairs I found a volume of Jim Harrison's poetry, and I sat in the Poet's Chair for a bit as I read. Both of our bookshelves are full of Harrison's stuff, and you barely blinked the time I told you that his book Dalva is, I think, one of the better American novels ever written.
Next, a latte' at Caffe Puccini. I sat at a table on the sidewalk and watched and listened to the tourists. Traditionally, this was the final stop each night, so I stayed true to that tradition and strolled through the streets of North Beach before heading back to the hotel where I bought a glass of wine at the bar and returned to my room's balcony. I realized the evening's beer, wine, and food didn't seem to measure up to my expectations. It's the end of some things, I guess.
Maybe it's the beginning of things, too. Re-reading your stuff, for one, stuff that seldom made sense to me but now is starting to. And I came up with the official title to my novel at some point, and I owe that to you.
But this is the last piece of this nature. In the end, everything has been said.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Home: Part 38
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
I stood alone at the top of the steps that led to two large wooden doors. The doors were opened, and inside an old man with a patch over one eye smiled and beckoned me forward. "Welcome!" he said. "Are your parents already inside?"
"Yes," I said. "And my sister," I added.
He reached out to shake my hand. "Welcome!" he said again. He let my hand go and rested a gray, wrinkled hand on my shoulder, guiding me inside and out of the snow. "Come on inside and get out of the cold.
"Thank-you," I said. I followed the people ahead of me. The pews were nearly full, and I could see neither Cindy nor Terry in the crowd. I found a seat in the back, pulling one of the hymnals from the back of the pew in front of me. I leafed through the pages and hoped that nobody would talk to me. My parents had taught me so little about god and church that I did not know what to do or what to expect. I knew that my wool coat was too warm and my dress shoes were too tight, and for a moment I considered retracing my steps and simply waiting outside until my sister and her boyfriend found me. Soon enough, though, Cindy tapped my shoulder from behind.
"Why are you in the back?" my sister asked.
"I see better from here," I said.
"Sure, you do. Terry and I are up front. Come sit with us."
I shook my head. "I'm comfortable here."
She sighed and looked annoyed. "This is good for you, you know. I'm going to talk to Mom and Dad about making you go to Sunday school, too."
"I don't want to go to Sunday school," I said.
Her face softened. "You'll like it. You'll learn about things you never imagined. Come on. Sit with me and Terry."
Acquiescing, I emitted my own sigh, struggled to stand, and followed her to the front of the sanctuary. She made me sit between her and Terry, who looked at me in a way that let me know my being there was not his choice. "Just do what everyone else does," he said. "Stand when we stand, sit when we stand."
"He's not stupid," Cindy said to Terry. She turned to me. "You'll be fine." She seemed happy, and I sat and waited.
January 1958
I stood alone at the top of the steps that led to two large wooden doors. The doors were opened, and inside an old man with a patch over one eye smiled and beckoned me forward. "Welcome!" he said. "Are your parents already inside?"
"Yes," I said. "And my sister," I added.
He reached out to shake my hand. "Welcome!" he said again. He let my hand go and rested a gray, wrinkled hand on my shoulder, guiding me inside and out of the snow. "Come on inside and get out of the cold.
"Thank-you," I said. I followed the people ahead of me. The pews were nearly full, and I could see neither Cindy nor Terry in the crowd. I found a seat in the back, pulling one of the hymnals from the back of the pew in front of me. I leafed through the pages and hoped that nobody would talk to me. My parents had taught me so little about god and church that I did not know what to do or what to expect. I knew that my wool coat was too warm and my dress shoes were too tight, and for a moment I considered retracing my steps and simply waiting outside until my sister and her boyfriend found me. Soon enough, though, Cindy tapped my shoulder from behind.
"Why are you in the back?" my sister asked.
"I see better from here," I said.
"Sure, you do. Terry and I are up front. Come sit with us."
I shook my head. "I'm comfortable here."
She sighed and looked annoyed. "This is good for you, you know. I'm going to talk to Mom and Dad about making you go to Sunday school, too."
"I don't want to go to Sunday school," I said.
Her face softened. "You'll like it. You'll learn about things you never imagined. Come on. Sit with me and Terry."
Acquiescing, I emitted my own sigh, struggled to stand, and followed her to the front of the sanctuary. She made me sit between her and Terry, who looked at me in a way that let me know my being there was not his choice. "Just do what everyone else does," he said. "Stand when we stand, sit when we stand."
"He's not stupid," Cindy said to Terry. She turned to me. "You'll be fine." She seemed happy, and I sat and waited.
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Home: Part 37
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
I'd watched Narcie dancing for at least an hour. The band was loud, forcing voices to be even louder as they sought relevance in the large room that was filled with so much military flesh and blood that even walking to the bathroom was a challenge. Narcie seemed to pace her dances evenly, never lingering too long with any one man before sitting on a bar stool by herself, away from the crowd and noise and cigarette smoke. She moved well. Her head bobbed smoothly to the music. Occasionally she closed her eyes and let her partner guide her, letting him lead so he could think he was controlling her. Her brown bangs were wet with sweat from her forehead, and at just the right time during a song she would flip her head back so the bangs lifted away from her eyes.
At some point the crowd thinned. Earlier I had merged into a group that seemed more interested in my status as a civilian more than anything else. That interest waned with each bottle of beer, and soon I was alone in a large booth. I'd been staring at Narcie. She smiled at me, picked up her bottle of San Miguel, and weaved through the dancers. She sat in the booth across from me.
"You alone," she said more than asked. "Your friends leave?"
Her short skirt had risen high on her thighs, which glistened with sweat.
"I suppose they did," I said. "I'm not sure why."
"Ships are leaving tomorrow," she said.
"They are?"
"Yes. Maybe your friends have to get to bed early."
"That could be."
"You thirsty?"
"You want a drink?" I asked.
"Give me twenty pesos. I'll get us beer."
Twenty pesos was a lot of money for two bottles of beer, but I handed her a bill anyway. She walked to the bar, and she returned with four bottles. She didn't offer me the change, and I didn't ask for it.
"You dance?" she asked.
"Not really," I said.
"What's your name?" she asked, and I told her. "My name is Narcie," she said.
"Marcie?"
"No. Narcie. You have a place to stay tonight?"
Surprised at the speed of things, I said that I did. "Not far from here," I said.
"You want to take me home?"
"Your home?"
She laughed. "No, your home. The hotel."
Her skirt seemed to have risen even farther up her thighs, and I was curious. "How much?"
"You buy me dinner, too?"
"Of course," I said.
She nodded. "Good. You get me cheap, then. Come on."
July 1974
I'd watched Narcie dancing for at least an hour. The band was loud, forcing voices to be even louder as they sought relevance in the large room that was filled with so much military flesh and blood that even walking to the bathroom was a challenge. Narcie seemed to pace her dances evenly, never lingering too long with any one man before sitting on a bar stool by herself, away from the crowd and noise and cigarette smoke. She moved well. Her head bobbed smoothly to the music. Occasionally she closed her eyes and let her partner guide her, letting him lead so he could think he was controlling her. Her brown bangs were wet with sweat from her forehead, and at just the right time during a song she would flip her head back so the bangs lifted away from her eyes.
At some point the crowd thinned. Earlier I had merged into a group that seemed more interested in my status as a civilian more than anything else. That interest waned with each bottle of beer, and soon I was alone in a large booth. I'd been staring at Narcie. She smiled at me, picked up her bottle of San Miguel, and weaved through the dancers. She sat in the booth across from me.
"You alone," she said more than asked. "Your friends leave?"
Her short skirt had risen high on her thighs, which glistened with sweat.
"I suppose they did," I said. "I'm not sure why."
"Ships are leaving tomorrow," she said.
"They are?"
"Yes. Maybe your friends have to get to bed early."
"That could be."
"You thirsty?"
"You want a drink?" I asked.
"Give me twenty pesos. I'll get us beer."
Twenty pesos was a lot of money for two bottles of beer, but I handed her a bill anyway. She walked to the bar, and she returned with four bottles. She didn't offer me the change, and I didn't ask for it.
"You dance?" she asked.
"Not really," I said.
"What's your name?" she asked, and I told her. "My name is Narcie," she said.
"Marcie?"
"No. Narcie. You have a place to stay tonight?"
Surprised at the speed of things, I said that I did. "Not far from here," I said.
"You want to take me home?"
"Your home?"
She laughed. "No, your home. The hotel."
Her skirt seemed to have risen even farther up her thighs, and I was curious. "How much?"
"You buy me dinner, too?"
"Of course," I said.
She nodded. "Good. You get me cheap, then. Come on."
Sunday, January 15, 2017
What We Talk About When We Talk About Grief (Part 1)
You had to do it that way, didn't you: alone in your apartment and alone in your chair until something inside you stopped or blew up, sitting there until your son found you two days before your birthday, two days before I sent you an email celebrating your new decade and asking what I should expect to see when I get there. Somewhere in your papers was a note to your family to find me if you died, and they did. That alone means more to me than anything. I have a similar note in my own papers, but now it's meaningless.
Your memorial service was wonderful; the church was full of people who stood and knelt and prayed in your honor--the Catholics, the Protestants, the non-believers, the skeptics. Your mother--bent and old and frail--was escorted down the aisle to where your daughter stood waiting, and when the two of them hugged your mother moaned aloud. I managed to hold myself together pretty well, though when your son and daughter carried the ashes and bones of you toward the front of the church, I wanted to be anywhere else--maybe on one of our trips to Chicago or San Francisco--and rather than watch the progression of your brass urn I stared down at the papers in my lap and stared at the picture your family had printed onto small bookmarks. I think now that you might have preferred a small box to a brass urn, because you always seemed more functional than flashy. Not long later a woman sang "Ave Maria," which must be a song for every Catholic ceremony because I heard it at my cousin's wedding, also. And I almost lost myself then, too, and so I watched the people across the aisle wipe their eyes.
In those 90 minutes I drifted between the past tense and the present. Remember Chicago, the bookstores and the bars, and visiting your cousin Henry, and the trip to my hometown where we walked against a cold wind so I could show you where I grew up? Remember the countless hours in San Francisco when we drifted into bookstores and bars and coffee shops, our conversations spread over 30 years and separated by semi-colons? Our kids grew up in parallel, and we could talk about them just as we talked the ebb and flow of our careers, our marriages, and the world around us.
The reception was crowded and noisy; pictures of you hung on the walls and documented much of your life. At one table were artifacts from your apartment: pens, hats, photos, your absurdly large glasses. And there was your can full of notes, too, a can of "bright ideas." I leafed through them and tried to imagine how those ideas would develop...or would have developed, perhaps. I also stole a couple of those notes--cupped them in my palm and slipped them into my pocket. I feel no guilt about this.
Two days later and things have set in harshly. You knew grief, so you know how it comes out of nowhere sometimes and smacks you hard. You were, really, the only audience for this drivel I've come up with in three decades I've pretended to call myself a writer, and now that audience of one has vanished. And, yes, that's a trace of self-pity, but I'm going to allow myself to embrace it for a while. Pure selfishness.
If you could read this, you'd of course understand the title. It might be one of the first literary connections we had. Remember when I visited Raymond Carver's grave in Washington, how I photographed the granite slab and sent the photo to you, and how you worked it and his poem "Gravy" into one of those many booklets you wrote? Here's another of Carver's poems, one we both liked. I have to end this way because I'm not original enough to come up with my own.
It was a long, strange trip, wasn't it?
Your memorial service was wonderful; the church was full of people who stood and knelt and prayed in your honor--the Catholics, the Protestants, the non-believers, the skeptics. Your mother--bent and old and frail--was escorted down the aisle to where your daughter stood waiting, and when the two of them hugged your mother moaned aloud. I managed to hold myself together pretty well, though when your son and daughter carried the ashes and bones of you toward the front of the church, I wanted to be anywhere else--maybe on one of our trips to Chicago or San Francisco--and rather than watch the progression of your brass urn I stared down at the papers in my lap and stared at the picture your family had printed onto small bookmarks. I think now that you might have preferred a small box to a brass urn, because you always seemed more functional than flashy. Not long later a woman sang "Ave Maria," which must be a song for every Catholic ceremony because I heard it at my cousin's wedding, also. And I almost lost myself then, too, and so I watched the people across the aisle wipe their eyes.
In those 90 minutes I drifted between the past tense and the present. Remember Chicago, the bookstores and the bars, and visiting your cousin Henry, and the trip to my hometown where we walked against a cold wind so I could show you where I grew up? Remember the countless hours in San Francisco when we drifted into bookstores and bars and coffee shops, our conversations spread over 30 years and separated by semi-colons? Our kids grew up in parallel, and we could talk about them just as we talked the ebb and flow of our careers, our marriages, and the world around us.
The reception was crowded and noisy; pictures of you hung on the walls and documented much of your life. At one table were artifacts from your apartment: pens, hats, photos, your absurdly large glasses. And there was your can full of notes, too, a can of "bright ideas." I leafed through them and tried to imagine how those ideas would develop...or would have developed, perhaps. I also stole a couple of those notes--cupped them in my palm and slipped them into my pocket. I feel no guilt about this.
Two days later and things have set in harshly. You knew grief, so you know how it comes out of nowhere sometimes and smacks you hard. You were, really, the only audience for this drivel I've come up with in three decades I've pretended to call myself a writer, and now that audience of one has vanished. And, yes, that's a trace of self-pity, but I'm going to allow myself to embrace it for a while. Pure selfishness.
If you could read this, you'd of course understand the title. It might be one of the first literary connections we had. Remember when I visited Raymond Carver's grave in Washington, how I photographed the granite slab and sent the photo to you, and how you worked it and his poem "Gravy" into one of those many booklets you wrote? Here's another of Carver's poems, one we both liked. I have to end this way because I'm not original enough to come up with my own.
Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
It was a long, strange trip, wasn't it?
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Home: Part 36
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
A month to the day after our first lunch together, Shannon and I moved into a small house her father had inherited a decade before and that had stood empty for nearly as long. Her father, Howard, was the epitome of a gruff former Marine. He'd fought in both Korea and Vietnam, but now he was a plumber, just as his father had been. His mother had willed him the house, and the first thing he'd done was remove every bit of pipe, every faucet, toilet, sink, and bathtub. "He didn't really need to," Shannon said to me once. "He just likes keeping busy."
We didn't tell Howard or Marilynn, Shannon's mother, that we were living together for several months. "Daddy might have a problem with it," Shannon said one afternoon as we were arranging books in the room we'd designated as a den. Shannon was working on her teaching certificate at the time, and she had a desk set up with papers, pencils, and a beige IBM Selectric typewriter.
"Dads usually do," I said.
"Moms, too. Sometimes. What do your parents think?"
I shrugged. "I told my mother. She said she'd tell Dad."
Shannon was arranging her hardcopy collection of Dickens. "What did your mother say?"
"That she doesn't think we should ruin the surprise."
"Surprise?"
"I think she's counting on our getting married. That's the surprise, I guess. Finding out about each other while we're blissfully married."
She slid Bleak House onto the shelf. "What do you think?"
"About my mother?"
"About us. About moving in here together."
We were sitting on the floor. I didn't have my leg on, but I scooted over to her as gracefully as I could. "I don't like surprises," I said, and I brushed my forefinger along the base of her throat. She shut her eyes and tilted her chin up. "But your dad will find out soon enough. He isn't stupid."
"No, he certainly isn't. I'm hoping he won't go all Marine on you." She laughed.
"I'm a cripple," I said. "He wouldn't hurt me, would he?"
February 1976
A month to the day after our first lunch together, Shannon and I moved into a small house her father had inherited a decade before and that had stood empty for nearly as long. Her father, Howard, was the epitome of a gruff former Marine. He'd fought in both Korea and Vietnam, but now he was a plumber, just as his father had been. His mother had willed him the house, and the first thing he'd done was remove every bit of pipe, every faucet, toilet, sink, and bathtub. "He didn't really need to," Shannon said to me once. "He just likes keeping busy."
We didn't tell Howard or Marilynn, Shannon's mother, that we were living together for several months. "Daddy might have a problem with it," Shannon said one afternoon as we were arranging books in the room we'd designated as a den. Shannon was working on her teaching certificate at the time, and she had a desk set up with papers, pencils, and a beige IBM Selectric typewriter.
"Dads usually do," I said.
"Moms, too. Sometimes. What do your parents think?"
I shrugged. "I told my mother. She said she'd tell Dad."
Shannon was arranging her hardcopy collection of Dickens. "What did your mother say?"
"That she doesn't think we should ruin the surprise."
"Surprise?"
"I think she's counting on our getting married. That's the surprise, I guess. Finding out about each other while we're blissfully married."
She slid Bleak House onto the shelf. "What do you think?"
"About my mother?"
"About us. About moving in here together."
We were sitting on the floor. I didn't have my leg on, but I scooted over to her as gracefully as I could. "I don't like surprises," I said, and I brushed my forefinger along the base of her throat. She shut her eyes and tilted her chin up. "But your dad will find out soon enough. He isn't stupid."
"No, he certainly isn't. I'm hoping he won't go all Marine on you." She laughed.
"I'm a cripple," I said. "He wouldn't hurt me, would he?"
Monday, January 9, 2017
Home: Part 35
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
Shannon and I met for lunch a few days later in a small cafe not far from where she worked. I got there early and found a small table by the window in the corner farthest away from the kitchen. The place was old and well used. Outside, the gray sky seemed to be settling toward the streets as if dawn had refused to give way to any brightness that tried to follow. Shannon unbuttoned her long coat as she walked to the table. A green silk scarf was gathered around her neck, and the cold air outside had left her cheeks and nose bright red.
"Hi," she said. Her foot brushed against my shin as she sat across from me.
"A nice day to be inside, isn't it?"
She pressed her gloved hands against her face. "I do much better when the sun's out."
"Likewise." I gestured toward the counter where a half-dozen or so old men were seated. "But there's nothing like a fancy restaurant to help, right?"
She laughed in a way that I liked--soft, understated. "Cindy said she recommended the place. She said that it was safe and unpretentious."
I nodded. "My sister's pretty good at thinking things through."
A less-than-interested waitress walked to our table and laid dog-eared and worn menus in front of us. "Coffee?"
"Please," Shannon said.
"Just water," I said.
The waitress turned and walked away. I watched her disappear through double doors that swung open wide as she made her way through them. The coffee pot was behind the counter, and I wondered where the waitress was going.
"You live nearby?" Shannon asked.
"Not too far. And I assume that my sister recommended a place that is close to both of us."
"She did. I've got an apartment a few blocks from here. I must've walked by this window a hundred times and never even noticed it belonged to a cafe."
I liked how she phrased that--creative, not how most people would say it. "I have to be honest, I'm a bit awkward in situations like these. Did Cindy tell you that, by any chance?"
Shannon smiled. "She said you're a bit shy. If it helps, I'm as nervous as anyone could be."
The waitress returned with our water and coffee. "I'll be right back to take your order," she said, and then she was gone.
"We should at least look at the menu," Shannon said. "Then we can be nervous together while we eat."
January 1976
Shannon and I met for lunch a few days later in a small cafe not far from where she worked. I got there early and found a small table by the window in the corner farthest away from the kitchen. The place was old and well used. Outside, the gray sky seemed to be settling toward the streets as if dawn had refused to give way to any brightness that tried to follow. Shannon unbuttoned her long coat as she walked to the table. A green silk scarf was gathered around her neck, and the cold air outside had left her cheeks and nose bright red.
"Hi," she said. Her foot brushed against my shin as she sat across from me.
"A nice day to be inside, isn't it?"
She pressed her gloved hands against her face. "I do much better when the sun's out."
"Likewise." I gestured toward the counter where a half-dozen or so old men were seated. "But there's nothing like a fancy restaurant to help, right?"
She laughed in a way that I liked--soft, understated. "Cindy said she recommended the place. She said that it was safe and unpretentious."
I nodded. "My sister's pretty good at thinking things through."
A less-than-interested waitress walked to our table and laid dog-eared and worn menus in front of us. "Coffee?"
"Please," Shannon said.
"Just water," I said.
The waitress turned and walked away. I watched her disappear through double doors that swung open wide as she made her way through them. The coffee pot was behind the counter, and I wondered where the waitress was going.
"You live nearby?" Shannon asked.
"Not too far. And I assume that my sister recommended a place that is close to both of us."
"She did. I've got an apartment a few blocks from here. I must've walked by this window a hundred times and never even noticed it belonged to a cafe."
I liked how she phrased that--creative, not how most people would say it. "I have to be honest, I'm a bit awkward in situations like these. Did Cindy tell you that, by any chance?"
Shannon smiled. "She said you're a bit shy. If it helps, I'm as nervous as anyone could be."
The waitress returned with our water and coffee. "I'll be right back to take your order," she said, and then she was gone.
"We should at least look at the menu," Shannon said. "Then we can be nervous together while we eat."
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Home: Part 34
What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or
relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's
exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.
Shannon and I were introduced to each other by Cindy. "You'll like her," my sister said. The two of them had met in church, something I said was not a strong selling point.
"So, she's a religious fanatic, too?" I asked.
"Stop," Cindy said. We were at a restaurant where Shannon worked as a waitress, sitting across from each other in a small booth. "She's sweet. Shy, like you, too."
"I'm not shy," I said.
"Yes, you are. You can't even talk to yourself without stuttering. And if you don't start dating someone, mom and dad will keep thinking you're some kind of queer."
"That helps."
"There she is." She pointed to a woman walking toward us. Cindy waved and smiled. "Try to be nice."
Shannon smiled at us both. "Hi."
"This is my brother," Cindy said. "The one I told you about. He's missing half a leg, but he's still not bad."
We shook hands. "Nice to finally meet you," Shannon said.
January 1976
Shannon and I were introduced to each other by Cindy. "You'll like her," my sister said. The two of them had met in church, something I said was not a strong selling point.
"So, she's a religious fanatic, too?" I asked.
"Stop," Cindy said. We were at a restaurant where Shannon worked as a waitress, sitting across from each other in a small booth. "She's sweet. Shy, like you, too."
"I'm not shy," I said.
"Yes, you are. You can't even talk to yourself without stuttering. And if you don't start dating someone, mom and dad will keep thinking you're some kind of queer."
"That helps."
"There she is." She pointed to a woman walking toward us. Cindy waved and smiled. "Try to be nice."
Shannon smiled at us both. "Hi."
"This is my brother," Cindy said. "The one I told you about. He's missing half a leg, but he's still not bad."
We shook hands. "Nice to finally meet you," Shannon said.
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