Sue Ellen's Party, Part One

"I know it's a lot to ask," she said.

"It's not a problem," I countered. I had had plans for sadness that Friday night, but I could use Sue Ellen to increase my sense of self-martyrdom. "I didn't have anything else to do," I said.

Sue Ellen scrunched her nose and ran her blond ponytail through the circle of her forefinger and thumb. "I'd invite you, but, you know."

I looked at her.

"I don't think it's your kind of party," she finished.

I thought for a few moments what my kind of party might be. Certainly not the seance that had occurred on the second floor last week. I found myself wanting to sympathize with the self-proclaimed Wiccan girl, but I couldn't believe that it was spirits haunting the Ouija board who cared enough to spell out, when asked why Jack didn't have a girlfriend, "B-e-c-a-u-s-e-h-e-d-o-e-s-n-t-k-n-o-w-h-o-w-t-o-t-r-e-a-t-t-h-e-l-a-d-i-e-s." But she claimed it was the spirit of Francine, a girl who died on the seventh floor back in the seventies.

Thirty miles north of Athens. Not a big deal, certainly. The only strange thing was that she had asked in the first place. But then our friendship had grown rapidly. At our first study session I had outed myself, and at our second she had admitted, with much blushing, that she had a crush on our classmate Megumi.

As far as I could tell, this was a lesbian party. And it meant a lot to Sue Ellen.

I had been invited to play Pac-Man in the lobby with Tom, who just last week had played (and lost) that game where you say "I think I'm in love with someone — guess who!" to the person whom you think you love. I told him he'd have to play 1UP tonight; I was hitting the road.

Sue Ellen met me at the front doors. Her long blond hair fell in sharp points at her shoulders and seemed to pull the eyes down to her breasts, which were not lost in an oversized t-shirt tonight but pressed against her blouse with a desperate immediacy. My eyes were caught in the whorl of her party dress; against my will the flesh of her legs caught me, and I marveled at the tiny sliver of her dress, the long legs below stretching into heels I'd never imagined Sue Ellen could wear. Embarrassed, I brought my eyes up to her face; tonight's blush was artificial, and tonight's eyes were lost in mascara.

This Show (Not Much to Say)

Places, places!

The second act is about to begin!

With Fingertips Out These Mitts

Amid other holiday celebrations and preparations (few of which involve shopping), I am working on a new freelance project.

What was billed as a light copyedit has come to this:

An accounting workbook in which high school students can practice using a calculator in a variety of exercises representative of today's business world. In addition to a standard light copyedit for spelling, grammar, and consistency, I am to work through the problems in the student book and check that they correspond with the answers given in the instructor's manual.

Unit One was divided into 16 applications. I worked through these, using the "proper fingering techniques" mentioned in the introduction as best I could on the small solar-powered calculator I bought for this occasion. I tried to achieve other objectives listed in the introduction, such as maintaining a positive attitude toward the exercises and striving to increase both speed and accuracy. The authors gently reminded me that my future employers would expect me to execute my job tasks efficiently and accurately.

Exercises 1 and 2 involved adding up 20 numbers in 5 columns. Some were already totaled, but I had to double-check the sums (they were correct, thank heavens).

Exercises 3 and 4 were variations on this theme; rows in these vast tables had their own totals on the far right, and columns were totaled below.

In Exercises 5 through 8 I got to use the division key and determine percentages.

Exercises 9 through 12 took me into a fictional business where I got to study the relation between daily receipt reports and bank deposits.

In Exercises 13 through 16 I learned how to balance a checkbook.

At the end of each unit is a Unit Review. The first Unit Review was divided into 16 parts. At first things were fine: I had merely to transfer some results from the earlier activities, perhaps so that Teach wouldn't have to check each and every answer from the exercises. But then it got nasty: The tedium was multiplied, and I had to go back through my tables and find new ways of adding:

Unit 1
Exercise 9
1. What were the total cash sales for Tuesdays?
2. Using the 12 sample bank deposit slips, calculate the amount of deposits for CHECKS only.
3. Using the 12 sample bank deposit slips, calculate the amount of deposits for CASH only.
4. What were the total cash sales for Monday, Wednesdays, and Saturdays?

At this point I may have been heard to sigh: "Our poor children." But then such is the price we pay to live in a society that has perfected, among other things, the microwavable tater-tot.

Coastward, Part Three

There were also symbols of decay.

I walked over the rocks, orange, green, gray, purple, all striped with white. I lost my balance and righted myself again.

But we must honor those the ocean drinks, as well as those not yet lost.

Coastward, Part Two

The roads devastate Golden Gate Park. I have heard stories of treasures inside: botanical gardens, sequoia groves, the Japanese tea garden. But I've never been able to walk from the outside in; I cannot pass a golf course and think it beauty. I cannot hear traffic and imagine it redwood breezes. I crossed the road and turned back coastward.

I walked up the sidewalk, past the suits discussing the new Cliff House, past the smell of bacon, past the parking lot and my car, and crept along a path into the woods. Soon the ocean opened far below, and soon that golden bridge was visible. A young man and woman carrying backpacks were talking to a shaggy-haired man in sweat pants: "Not years! I'm talking minutes, baby! The Big One. In seconds! Seconds!" and he swept his hand toward the rocks down below.

I hurried away and found a sign for One-Mile Rock Beach. I followed the path down and around and had a choice: steps down, or continue on. I continued on and saw a middle-aged man and woman embracing on the highest outcropping. When they left, I climbed up and embraced myself. Below, between myself and the ocean, was a maze of rock.

Coastward, Part One

After a twenty-minute drive up Van Ness and down Geary, I arrived at the ocean. I parked just north of Louis' diner and stood lost in the parking lot at the beginning of my adventure. There were omelets and a view at the diner, the new Cliff House, Ocean Beach, the baths themselves, and the path where my mom and I lost my dad for a while.

I walked down the many steps, and the ruins were like an old friend. I said hello and walked up the dirt path to the diner. I could see counter space through the glass, but I wasn't that hungry. Fancy older people were hanging about the Cliff House, so I walked down the sidewalk and saw the beach open below me. Lonely people were scattered here and there, sitting on pieces of driftwood or on their knees in supplication to the sea.

I let my shoes fill with sand and walked sunward. It was warm enough that I took off my sweatshirt and remembered how in earlier summers I would lie on the beach with a self-help book to darken and toughen my skin. I walked as far as the windmill, then turned into the park.

In another mirror

Allow yourself to relax. There is no place you need to be. There is nothing you need to do. Nothing but this.

As you read, feel your body relax. Into that small hole in the top of your skull I am pouring liquid Nothingness. Feel it dribble through your head, down your esophagus, trachea, neck, through your chest, lungs, and stomach. Feel it puddle in your abdomen until it drips down into your legs, down through your thighs and knees and calves and ankles. Feel it filling your feet. This Nothing Liquid pours down through your body, easing your muscles, causing them to forget.

Now feel the level of the liquid rise inside you. First it barely covers the level of your toes. But soon your foot is filled with the liquid and forgets. The liquid rises through your ankles, your calves, your knees, your thighs. Your body is filled and forgets. And slowly the liquid rises: your waist, your abdomen, your stomach fill with this Nothing Liquid and forget. It rises and relaxes your chest and lungs, your throat and neck. Now it is in your chin, your jaw, your mouth, your face, your ears. Now it fills your forehead, your temples, your skull, and you forget.

Open your mouth and feel how the world has also been filled with Nothing Liquid. You float in it. You are suspended. You are forgotten.

Stay here. Stay here.

And when you are ready, allow yourself to form a world of yourself.

Use image and sense. Experiment. Smell smells. Taste tastes. Hear sounds. Feel feelings. See sights.

When the world is created, emerge at the top of a heavy stone staircase. Feel the weight of it below you, pulling you. Everything in the stones is drawn downward. Everything on the stones is drawn downward.

Descend. Descend down the stone stairs.

Once you have made it down the stairs, allow yourself your senses. Can you smell that candle flame battling the underground damp? Your eyes have not adjusted quite, but you can still make out that flicker before you. Walk toward it. Notice that your feet are bare. The stones are smooth and damp. You feel the depressions where the stones are set in dirt: Your big toe presses into one of these seams. You stretch your arms out, as if to balance yourself, and feel nothing but warm-tinged currents, which sneak by you and up the stairs. But you creep forward, to that circle of light. Now you see that its yellow circle rests on a heavy wooden desk. You see the candlelight reflect and be lost in mahogany grain. A small drop of the pale wax has hardened. Another waxen drop draws your attention to the book sitting just within the circle of light. Your eyes are adjusting, and now you can discern words on the book's worn leather cover. It is your name. This is the book of you.

Open it. Read it.

This vast adventure

As I was walking in the shadow of buildings, a throng of men in business suits pushed through the revolving door of a vast skyscraper and blocked my path. I tried left, right, but they were all around me.

"Hey there, you fast fellas!" I heard in the confusion. The pinstripe mob seemed to freeze, and we all turned to look.

Sitting atop a concrete trash receptacle was a shaggy-headed kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen, who smiled down at us and took a bite from the browning banana in his hand.

"Keep up the good work, guys," the boy said. He flicked the empty banana into the opening between his legs and then jumped off, passed through us, and disappeared around the corner.

Wednesday Afternoon, Melting Pot

On the train I pass an old Asian man
twitching and eating a sandwich and mumbling to himself.
Crazy. He cackles. I walk on, find my own seat.
An old white man with many parcels boards.
He arranges his things around himself,
unwraps his scarf and places it —
“Are you Chinese?” he interrupts his rite in a big white voice.
The train drones forward. The Chinese man answers;
I cannot hear words or language, only the scratchy breaks
between syllables in the old man’s voice. And then
the white man in exaggerated Cantonese, the vowels
long as that Wall, their joints consonants of forgotten honey.
The Chinese man’s laughter breaks into words,
English, Cantonese, I cannot hear. I
turn toward other things, my things. I look down.

How can I read my book when this is here?
I don’t know what I’m witnessing. The meeting
of two crazies; one hungry, without home, humbled by time,
torn by the conflict of places; one fed and fat, living
loud at the head of his family, grown loud and important
with his living, but broken at unknown bones by white wars.
Their introductions over, they have come together.
The old man, hat off his balding white head,
shows the stranger books. “I study Chinese.”
“You study!” the scratchy voice. “You study!”
“And Russian and Greek,” says the scholar. I look down.

Later, overheard, the man’s loud English:
“Fox. Like a little wolf.” That scratchy voice,
now become student: “No wolf! No wolf!”
“No, a wolf is too big.” In my mind, white
now dandles Chinese on his knee. I look down.

Later, a loud voice, American pauses between the words:
“I don’t like big money Chinese men —
Big money, Fancy cars, Uh-uh.”
Dismissal wave of hand.
“I like poor Chinese men —
Like you.” I look down.

Boris and Bruce and the Sandwiches

Boris is a 36-32 man. His lover, Bruce, is a 34-30 kind of guy. Both are brown; that is, they have light to medium tans (at least on those parts exposed to sun) and brown hair and brown eyes. Boris parts his hair on the right and brushes his bangs out of his eyes with his left hand. Bruce parts his hair on the left and brushes his bangs out of his eyes with his right hand. When they walk, Bruce is on the left. Boris holds the door for Bruce.

In nice weather they can be seen without coats. Boris and Bruce both like to wear khaki pants and loafers. Sometimes Bruce will wear his sweater like a cape, lightly tying the sleeves around his neck. He walks with his hands in his pockets until he bumps into Boris. Then he takes out his left hand and intertwines his fingers with Boris’s. They like to hold hands in nice neighborhoods.

Each day, Bruce and Boris eat.

“Tonight we will have sandwiches!” Boris says. Bruce claps his hands together quickly and repeats, “Sandwiches!”

Boris opens the tall cupboard and pulls out the potato and apple apron Bruce gave him for Christmas seven years ago. He puts it on as Bruce grabs the cutting board and places it on the counter. Then he freezes.

“But, Boris. What kind of sandwiches?” he asks.

Boris thinks for a few moments, his bushy eyebrows crinkled into one long caterpillar.

“Tomato,” he begins. He thinks for some time. “And herbed mayonnaise!” he finishes.

“Wonderful!” cries Bruce. “Wonderful!”

Of things above and below (Der Ring)

Once upon a time a strange little man came across a stream sparkling with gold hidden beneath its waters. He stole the treasure from its three guardians (let us call them water nymphs) after learning that a ring forged from its gold would make the bearer all-powerful, and even invisible. He took the ring underground, where he used its magic to force his brother to forge a helmet that would make him even more all-powerful. Then, wearing his hat and jewels, he coerced his other brethren to mine for more gold and otherwise set him up real nice.

Eventually the chief of the gods wrested the ring from the little guy, who in his desperation cursed the ring and anyone who wore it. They would serve the ring and its own evil purposes, not the other way around.



A few nights ago I found myself watching the DVD of Das Rheingold that I had bought so I would be compelled to watch it. Performed by the Staatsoper Stuttgart and directed for the stage by Joachim Schloemer, it is a "Strindbergian chamber piece, presenting people of our time, trapped in complex relationships, not unlike the inhabitants of Mann's Magic Mountain."

My favorite quote from the liner notes (though the previous comes close): "And because the production ignores lofty symbolism, neither Alberich nor anyone else needs the trickery of a magic helmet: a mirror does the job just as well, better even, presenting a startlingly clear metaphor of the characters' (self-)deception."

If you have never met Wotan, I recommend you look him up. He can be found sometimes in Walhalla, sometimes down among us mortals over near the Black Forest. He carries his omnipotence well; sometimes you'd think he wasn't a god at all, but just a man with a gut and a loud voice who's at his best when snapping his fingers from the leather chair in front of the television.

Sometimes it rains in California

Sometimes, driving home late after work, I remember those first months.

I remember being hungry. Jim worked at a Mexican restaurant and was allotted one meal per shift; he would try to get a little extra and then bring it home and divide it carefully between us. On my way to the back porch I would steal a few bites—whatever would fit between my thumb and index finger—from what remained in the corners of the plastic take-out container.

There are three climaxes to this story.

In the first, I am in Target shopping for laundry detergent. It's on the bottom row. I crouch down and feel suddenly lightheaded. The floor is white and inviting, cool to the touch. It beckons like that space around a toilet when you've drunk too much. Let me just rest a moment...

In the second, I am at work. I have a paycheck now. Someone is going out on a food run. I carefully invest: $5. Would you get a small popcorn chicken? When he comes back, there are two or three pieces left. I want to cry. He couldn't resist, he says. But I was welcome to his chicken and potato dinner if I wanted.

In the third, I am in a new friend's bathroom and see, in its own space as if it were important, a white scale. I step on it and laugh: Um, your scale's off a little, huh? He doesn't think so. I'm fifteen pounds lighter than I've been since I was old enough to drink. Back at Target, I sneak a scale off the rack and confirm...

Things That Change (And a Few That Don't)

I got a new computer. There are ramifications.

The Unwriting Hand

Yes, believe it or not, this hand refuses to write.

It is connected to creative apparatus but resists.

It "has nothing to say."

It is not susceptible to fairy appeals; no amount of clapping will bring it back.

When You Live Way High Up

She wears a white robe. It is the height of summer, but the breeze is still cold enough up here that she cannot tell when the smoke has run out and it is only her breath. She stands near the edge, the ringed fingers of her left hand resting on the cold cement ledge of the balcony. Her right hand holds the cigarette at her mouth. Her breakfast—two poached eggs resting on a buttered English muffin, half of a grapefruit, a small cup of coffee steaming in the morning coolness—lies at the edge of the glass table.

“I’m not happy here,” she says. She presses the nail of her index finger against the grains of concrete until it bends.

“You weren’t happy there,” he replies, gesturing down below. “As I recall,” he adds. He steps out from the doorway in which he had been leaning.

She turns to him, brings the cigarette to her mouth and inhales. He is already dressed: the charcoal slacks and jacket, no tie, baby blue shirt. His shoes shine. He will certainly be going in to work today. She must remember to right that place about his left ear where the hair becomes erratic.

“Oh,” she exhales. “So melodramatic.” She waves the cigarette in front of her face. “Must you listen to everything I say?”

Magic in the Magic Shops

I am here. I walked for an hour and a half or so, turned toward Telegraph Hill, found words written in a cement sidewalk: “Suck my snappy.” Strange that I should end up here at the end of this infamous pier near these famous sea lions. It is a power I have. I’ve been here before, twice, as a tourist. Ten years ago (yes!), then two and a half years ago. Now I have the power to come here whenever I want.

The magic shop is open; behind the counter was a girl who would never make coins disappear and reappear between her fingers. Do you remember that word, legerdemain? I saw the Floating Dollar Bill, was tempted to buy the Amazing Dancing Hanky.

I looked for seafood but was afraid. When I saw a tasty looking fish-and-chips, it was too expensive.

I walked down streets. Eventually I found Columbus. It seemed to be going left-right, even though I thought it should be going up-down. I knew I could reach City Lights; I did. I walked on, and as I passed the Zoetrope building, I thought I saw Francis Ford Coppola. I pretended to adjust my backpack and then turned to follow him. He was wearing a long wool coat and a beret. I caught up with him at a stoplight. It wasn’t Francis. This was a clean-shaven old man who looked important but a little lost. I sped up and made him follow me a few blocks. He turned right, sought refuge in a bus stop. I don’t think he knew he had been following me.

I walked down a street lined with buildings. It was very dark, and there were lots of suits. A few sad people were behind glass. Before long, I saw the Ferry Building again. Oops. There were steps to the tunnels nearby; I descended.

Adventure

I'm off on an adventure. Back soon!

My Own Things Now

“Ethan.”

I stopped.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“Ethan,” she repeated. “Ethan Headington.”

My ears did battle with these words. “Who are you?”

With two fingers she brushed a thick fall of dark hair from her eye. She bit her lip, shook her head, shrugged her shoulders.

I turned and continued walking. It was a late-September Saturday, and the street was thronged with shoppers.

I heard some frantic steps behind me and felt a hand on my arm. A soft hand, not like I was used to. It seemed to hover while touching. I couldn’t do violence to that hand, couldn’t even brush it off. I stopped, and suddenly she was in front of me, her left hand on my other arm.

“Who are you?” she asked, the inflection of that last word tinged with a quiet desperation.

Her hands dropped to her sides. “That’s none of your business, lady.” I could see her fingers twitching, and I considered taking advantage of my freedom and walking away. But the green eyes looking up at me were altogether too wide, soft, and wet.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry. I just —” I put my palm against her elbow, and to my surprise she flung her arms around me.

“There, there,” I said, finding that I was patting her back as if she were a child. I felt her arms squeeze and release me, although at their tightest they seemed hardly to touch me.

“Can we — talk?” she mumbled into my shoulder.

“I guess we’d better,” I said, my breath moving her hair, which tickled my nose. “Coffee?” I asked, and she nodded against my neck.

I began walking, and she moved over to my side, keeping her hand wrapped around my arm. A cafe that I liked lay several blocks away. I tried to imagine us there together. What would she drink? How would she sit?

She was lovely. She wore very little makeup; perhaps she knew that the little fans of creases at her eyes only made the amber glow of her skin all the more lustrous. As I glanced over, she was looking down. I slowed; she slowed with me.

“It’s Monica,” she said suddenly. She looked up at me.

“Monica. . . Headington?” I asked.

“Mills-Headington. Monica Mills-Headington, yes,” she said, smiling up at me and pressing her sleeve against the corner of her eye.

“I didn’t . . . Your hair —,” I said. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How is Ethan?” I asked.

Her hand left my arm. She stopped walking. “He’s —” she trailed off, thrusting her hands into her coat pocket. The wind blew her dark hair around her face.

Ethan blond and blue. Ethan bare-chested and brown-nippled. Ethan long jumper, Ethan soccer player. Ethan who casually held two beer bottles, teetering between the fingers of his left hand, one for me and one for his girl. Ethan sprawled on the futon. Ethan’s eyelids drooping, one-half a jackass smile on his face.

“He’s — good!” she said. I smiled and stuck my elbow out as I imagined a man might offer a lady his arm. She took it.

We resumed walking slowly. Her hand was wrapped around my arm again, and I could feel her breast pressed to my side. Her breaths were slow; I could not hear them over the noise of traffic, but they made little clouds that my chest parted.

At last she spoke.

“You haven’t changed much,” she said. “I recognized you instantly.” She looked up at me.

I found myself smiling. “What a decade or two can do,” I sighed. I felt cold air hitting my exposed teeth. I remembered where I was, who was with me. I stopped. Her hand left my arm for a moment as her forward motion continued. Then she saw that I had halted and stopped with me.

“What are we playing at?” I asked, exasperated.

“What do you mean?” she asked, pressing her fingers into my arm.

“What do you mean what do I mean?” I exclaimed, trying to wrench free.

She blinked up at me.

“Where should I begin?” I asked. I took my own hands out of my pockets and looked at them.

“First, why are you here?” I asked, counting off my index finger.

She blinked.

“OK,” I began, tapping my middle finger for emphasis, “how did you find me?”

I saw her swallow.

My hands shook.

“Where is — Ethan?” I asked, bending my ring finger back uncomfortably.

I saw her shrug her shoulders, look away.

“You mean . . .” She took her hand from my arm and backed away. “You mean —,” I tried again. She shrugged her shoulders, putting her hands up.

“You mean you don’t know?” I asked, my tone descending.

She nodded her head, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“You thought he might be with me?” I asked incredulously. She nodded, looking like a lost little girl. “But why?” I laughed.

“Please,” she said. Her hands in her pockets, she wrapped the coat around herself. “Please, can it wait for coffee?”

“I’m not sure,” I began, hunting for words. “I’m not so sure I feel like coffee.”

She opened the small purse dangling on her arm and riffled through it. “Look,” she implored, snapping the purse shut and holding a worn piece of paper out to me.

Words written on it were in a familiar handwriting: My name. A date. I turned it around, and there I was, standing in the foreground, surrounded by the chaotic, wild faces of other concertgoers, one of whom, hidden behind my body, was pulling me by the sleeve. I was twisted toward the camera, my hair sweaty and wild. I wore a smile I hadn’t known in twenty years. To the right, a glowing white hemisphere obscuring what would have been the stage. The bright light of — his finger at the shutter.

I heard her breathing over the din of pedestrians. I looked at the photograph, at her, and shrugged my shoulders.

“I found it,” she began. “After he left, I got frantic. I looked through all his clothes, all his things, for a clue, something.”

I shrugged again, flipping the photo around in my hand.

“I found it,” she said, drawing cold air between her phrases, “in a drawer, in his desk. It was locked. I pried it open. That’s all there was. In the drawer. Just the picture.”

The photograph bent in the wind. I held it out to her. I saw her fingers move.

“Look,” I said. “Ethan was — such a long time ago.”

“But —” she began, her hands coming up not to take the photo but to find the lapels of my coat.

“I’m sorry,” I said, placing the photograph within her outstretched hands. “I’m sorry, but this just isn’t my thing.” I pressed her hands around the photo. “Try the police.”

At this she gasped, and I saw again the swelling of moisture below the green circles of her irises. I turned away and took a few steps.

“Coffee?” she murmured behind me.

I kept walking. When I heard steps behind me, I sped up.

“Where is he?” she called behind me. “Where is he?”

We were at the corner, and I raised my arm. She put her hand on it, tried to lower it.

“Look,” I said. “You married him. He’s your problem,” I explained. I closed my eyes so that I wouldn’t see hers, so green and helpless, looking up at me. “I’ve got my own things now,” I said.

A cab had pulled up. I let my arm fall, her hand frozen stiff in the air.

“He’ll turn up,” I said, and kissed her on the cheek.

She did not move as the cab pulled away.



“Where to?” he asked gruffly.

“Gerardo’s,” I said.

“Where’s that at?”

And ten minutes later I sat down to a cup of coffee.