the fourth installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of apologizing
i live in a little town in a little state in a big country. five days a week, i drive my little car from my little house to a little office where i work for a little man with a big opinion of himself and a little opinion of me. on the weekends, i putter in my little vegetable garden, go for a swim in the little indoor lap pool in our little community center, and come home to put on my little black dress for a big night out.
my little group of friends tells me i have a little problem with apologizing a little too much, which is a big deal to me. so i got the big idea to keep a little log of all my apologies yesterday for the little space of two hours, when i was doing a little work, a little emailing, and a little grocery shopping. it reads like this:
ooh, sorry. pardon me. sorry. oh, excuse me. i'm so sorry. oops, i'm sorry. i apologize. i didn't mean to--yes, i'm sorry. yikes, what a jerk i am. i'm sorry. could i just--yes, i'm sorry. apologies apologies. sorry, sir. i'm just sorry as i can be. oh crap. sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.
it looks like i have some big changes to make.
Showing posts with label place. Show all posts
Showing posts with label place. Show all posts
10.04.2012
9.27.2012
a place called front porch
the fourth installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of starting again
citronella and cigarettes
the tiny glow of five candles scrounged from various corners of her apartment
and assembled here
on a dusty little table
beside a makeshift ashtray
(she doesn't smoke, but he does.)
her chair creaks as she lifts her butt and folds her feet underneath her in the seat.
wine sloshes as he pours too quickly into each of their glasses.
a car goes by
headlights over-brightening the railing, their faces, the front door
and then it's gone.
she notices the envelopes poking up out of her mailbox
the cobwebs in the corners of the windows
the way she is blinking a lot like some kind of weirdo
and tries to relax.
he is a kind person.
he is not noticing these things.
a breeze blows through as if to remind her
that this is new
fresh
that there is possibility here.
citronella and cigarettes
the tiny glow of five candles scrounged from various corners of her apartment
and assembled here
on a dusty little table
beside a makeshift ashtray
(she doesn't smoke, but he does.)
her chair creaks as she lifts her butt and folds her feet underneath her in the seat.
wine sloshes as he pours too quickly into each of their glasses.
a car goes by
headlights over-brightening the railing, their faces, the front door
and then it's gone.
she notices the envelopes poking up out of her mailbox
the cobwebs in the corners of the windows
the way she is blinking a lot like some kind of weirdo
and tries to relax.
he is a kind person.
he is not noticing these things.
a breeze blows through as if to remind her
that this is new
fresh
that there is possibility here.
8.23.2012
a place called glovebox
part four in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins
one registration, signature smeared
three pens, one that writes
two pencils
one glasses case, empty
one throat lozenge, ricola
four pennies
seven napkins, crumpled but mostly clean
she flips the top open
tosses the glasses case on the passenger seat
and grabs the fistful of napkins
she blinksblinksblinksblinksblinks
not crying
defiantly
not crying
jamming the napkins at her shirt
at her lap
at the sticky sweet diet coke staining her favorite sunshine dress.
the paper tears and leaves little brown bits of detritus on the field of yellow.
she drops the napkins in her lap
she drops her head
she drops it all and sits there
knowing she will not be making the best first impression today.
one registration, signature smeared
three pens, one that writes
two pencils
one glasses case, empty
one throat lozenge, ricola
four pennies
seven napkins, crumpled but mostly clean
she flips the top open
tosses the glasses case on the passenger seat
and grabs the fistful of napkins
she blinksblinksblinksblinksblinks
not crying
defiantly
not crying
jamming the napkins at her shirt
at her lap
at the sticky sweet diet coke staining her favorite sunshine dress.
the paper tears and leaves little brown bits of detritus on the field of yellow.
she drops the napkins in her lap
she drops her head
she drops it all and sits there
knowing she will not be making the best first impression today.
8.16.2012
a place called boardwalk
part four in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking
the sun is up but the sunrise pinks are still in the sky
and the sounds of flip-flops and tennis shoes slapping against the wood haven't yet begun.
a fat seagull is perched on dumbo's nose
on the flying dumbo ride
right where the shiny gray paint is peeling off.
the garage doors are pulled down and chained on the arcade,
the shop where you can buy jewelry made of fake shells produced in taiwan,
the shop where you can buy airbrushed t-shirts circa 1984,
and the tattoo parlor.
the garage door is up on the doughnut shop
because it's hot in there already
and because the sweet sticky smell is too much
and because there is one more teenager who has yet to arrive for work.
a lost phone chirps a low-battery warning where it was dropped last night in the sand near the trash barrel.
the pavement is heating up down here
as the locals have their coffee in their kitchens
and the tourists sleep off their beers in their hotel rooms and rental cottages.
the sun is up but the sunrise pinks are still in the sky
and the sounds of flip-flops and tennis shoes slapping against the wood haven't yet begun.
a fat seagull is perched on dumbo's nose
on the flying dumbo ride
right where the shiny gray paint is peeling off.
the garage doors are pulled down and chained on the arcade,
the shop where you can buy jewelry made of fake shells produced in taiwan,
the shop where you can buy airbrushed t-shirts circa 1984,
and the tattoo parlor.
the garage door is up on the doughnut shop
because it's hot in there already
and because the sweet sticky smell is too much
and because there is one more teenager who has yet to arrive for work.
a lost phone chirps a low-battery warning where it was dropped last night in the sand near the trash barrel.
the pavement is heating up down here
as the locals have their coffee in their kitchens
and the tourists sleep off their beers in their hotel rooms and rental cottages.
8.09.2012
a place called kitchen floor
part four in a week-long series all about the rituals of being friends.
black and white linoleum:
g's butt covers one black square and one white square
f's butt covers one white square, one black square, and half of another white square
p's butt is in the air because she is laying on her stomach.
the refrigerator just kicked on and g can feel the hum in her back
which is leaned against the bottom door.
f notices the splatter of tomato sauce at the top of the dishwasher
and follows it with her eyes all the way down.
it streaks its way into a dried up river along the bottom edge
where no one will ever get it out from between the white part and that metal border thing.
g wonders what f is thinking about.
p wonders how f will tell her mother.
f wonders if her face is regular-crying-puffy or sobbing-crying-puffy.
she asks them which kind of puffy it is, and g assures her lovingly that it is
indeed
sobbing-crying-puffy.
p agrees.
they are laughing like lunatics
that laughing that hurts and sounds either ridiculous and high-pitched or absolutely soundless
and g crumples the empty ritz cracker sleeve
and throws it at f
they have long since eaten all the crackers, eaten all the pop-tarts, eaten what they could stand of the cool ranch doritos, drank up all the diet coke.
now they are drinking regular coke
and trading the can of easy cheese back and forth
to squirt onto their spitty fingers and eat crackerless until it's all gone.
f lays down and even though she can feel the crumbs poking into her arm as it stretches out beside the stove
even though she is sad and pissed off and humiliated
even though her head hurts in a way that advil cannot touch
she knows there is no place she'd rather be right now.
black and white linoleum:
g's butt covers one black square and one white square
f's butt covers one white square, one black square, and half of another white square
p's butt is in the air because she is laying on her stomach.
the refrigerator just kicked on and g can feel the hum in her back
which is leaned against the bottom door.
f notices the splatter of tomato sauce at the top of the dishwasher
and follows it with her eyes all the way down.
it streaks its way into a dried up river along the bottom edge
where no one will ever get it out from between the white part and that metal border thing.
g wonders what f is thinking about.
p wonders how f will tell her mother.
f wonders if her face is regular-crying-puffy or sobbing-crying-puffy.
she asks them which kind of puffy it is, and g assures her lovingly that it is
indeed
sobbing-crying-puffy.
p agrees.
they are laughing like lunatics
that laughing that hurts and sounds either ridiculous and high-pitched or absolutely soundless
and g crumples the empty ritz cracker sleeve
and throws it at f
they have long since eaten all the crackers, eaten all the pop-tarts, eaten what they could stand of the cool ranch doritos, drank up all the diet coke.
now they are drinking regular coke
and trading the can of easy cheese back and forth
to squirt onto their spitty fingers and eat crackerless until it's all gone.
f lays down and even though she can feel the crumbs poking into her arm as it stretches out beside the stove
even though she is sad and pissed off and humiliated
even though her head hurts in a way that advil cannot touch
she knows there is no place she'd rather be right now.
8.02.2012
a place called farm
in celebration of july 31, the anniversary of the day my husband and i got married, this week’s blog posts will be about the ways we mark the passage of time.
a man is laying down on the wooden porch at the side of the house.
he is listening to the rain on the tin roof while his daughter sits cross-legged beside him
playing with a leaf.
the peas need the rain
and the man, the girl, the birds, the bugs,
they are all silent in their relief.
the tractor sits under the shed on the side of the barn
still warm
an old t-shirt tied over the crumbly cushion in the driver's seat.
the man laughs at his daughter's joke,
and his gaze wanders from her face to the old tractor
and for a moment he sees his own father standing there
in his yellow and blue plaid flannel shirt
with his head under the tractor hood
tinkering and swearing
trying to get it to start.
he sees his father stop suddenly
and look out over the field
the one where the corn is now
and his father sees his own father walking the rows
in his gray work pants, saggy at the butt,
inspecting the tassels and opening an ear here and there.
he sees his father stop suddenly
and look down the row
to the field across the dirt path
and his father sees his own father bent over
in his coveralls sweaty and sticky
pulling the tobacco leaves and stacking them up.
he sees his father stop suddenly
and look up at the house
to the porch with the rocking chair
and his father sees his own father sitting there
in his leather boots and shirt buttoned to the neck
watching the rain come down in silent relief.
and just for a moment
the man sitting on the porch
reaches out to the man laying on the porch
and they each know the other is there.
the sitting man's great-great-great-granddaughter smiles.
she can see that in this moment her father is content.
a man is laying down on the wooden porch at the side of the house.
he is listening to the rain on the tin roof while his daughter sits cross-legged beside him
playing with a leaf.
the peas need the rain
and the man, the girl, the birds, the bugs,
they are all silent in their relief.
the tractor sits under the shed on the side of the barn
still warm
an old t-shirt tied over the crumbly cushion in the driver's seat.
the man laughs at his daughter's joke,
and his gaze wanders from her face to the old tractor
and for a moment he sees his own father standing there
in his yellow and blue plaid flannel shirt
with his head under the tractor hood
tinkering and swearing
trying to get it to start.
he sees his father stop suddenly
and look out over the field
the one where the corn is now
and his father sees his own father walking the rows
in his gray work pants, saggy at the butt,
inspecting the tassels and opening an ear here and there.
he sees his father stop suddenly
and look down the row
to the field across the dirt path
and his father sees his own father bent over
in his coveralls sweaty and sticky
pulling the tobacco leaves and stacking them up.
he sees his father stop suddenly
and look up at the house
to the porch with the rocking chair
and his father sees his own father sitting there
in his leather boots and shirt buttoned to the neck
watching the rain come down in silent relief.
and just for a moment
the man sitting on the porch
reaches out to the man laying on the porch
and they each know the other is there.
the sitting man's great-great-great-granddaughter smiles.
she can see that in this moment her father is content.
7.26.2012
a place called corner store
the bells have jangled twenty-two times today.
it's 10:21 in the morning.
the green 7-up clock above the cigarette display case is about 7 minutes fast.
it reads 10:28.
there's a little patch of sun coming through the front window,
peeking in between the flyers and the advertisements and the lotto ticket station,
warming up the place on the counter where the mini peppermint patties used to sit.
the girl who works the afternoon shift moved them yesterday because they were getting too melty.
the man behind the counter now is thumbing through a book,
folding down pages when he sees something he wants to come back to.
it's a book about organic gardening,
which makes the man who just walked in to grab a pack of tums curious about this man behind the counter.
he doesn't ask any of the questions that run through his head.
he just pays, glances at the book again, and leaves.
the man behind the counter caught the look and took it as a judgment against him,
even though it wasn't.
he misinterpreted.
but then the tums man is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
there is a woman standing over the chest freezer with the ice cream treats.
she has been there for at least 9 minutes.
she's deciding.
it's taking her a really long time to decide.
she opens and shuts the freezer twice without getting anything out of it.
then she pivots abruptly, grabs a pack of honey-roasted peanuts off the endcap, and plunks it down by the register.
the long-delayed decisiveness surprises the man behind the counter,
and he laughs.
she doesn't notice his laughter because she gets distracted by the thought of the bill she forgot to pay, so she stays silent when he laughs and she pays and leaves.
the man behind the counter caught her silence and took it as a judgment against him,
even though it wasn't.
he misinterpreted.
but then the peanut woman is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
the door jangles again, and a lady pokes her head in.
she tries to talk to him while still standing outside so that her words flow in at him while the smoke from her cigarette flows out toward the street.
he hates cigarette smoke, but he likes her eyes and her round shoulders.
as she has done every day for the last 21 days he has worked,
she smiles a huge grin at him and starts their conversation with, "hey darlin'."
she's trying to find out whether he has any virginia slims 120s yet.
the man from behind the counter isn't from around here and thinks "hey darlin'" means she's attracted to him,
even though she's not.
he misinterpreted.
but then the virginia slims lady is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
the 7-up clock is ticking loudly, and he can smell the grape blow pops.
they are giving him a headache.
it's 10:21 in the morning.
the green 7-up clock above the cigarette display case is about 7 minutes fast.
it reads 10:28.
there's a little patch of sun coming through the front window,
peeking in between the flyers and the advertisements and the lotto ticket station,
warming up the place on the counter where the mini peppermint patties used to sit.
the girl who works the afternoon shift moved them yesterday because they were getting too melty.
the man behind the counter now is thumbing through a book,
folding down pages when he sees something he wants to come back to.
it's a book about organic gardening,
which makes the man who just walked in to grab a pack of tums curious about this man behind the counter.
he doesn't ask any of the questions that run through his head.
he just pays, glances at the book again, and leaves.
the man behind the counter caught the look and took it as a judgment against him,
even though it wasn't.
he misinterpreted.
but then the tums man is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
there is a woman standing over the chest freezer with the ice cream treats.
she has been there for at least 9 minutes.
she's deciding.
it's taking her a really long time to decide.
she opens and shuts the freezer twice without getting anything out of it.
then she pivots abruptly, grabs a pack of honey-roasted peanuts off the endcap, and plunks it down by the register.
the long-delayed decisiveness surprises the man behind the counter,
and he laughs.
she doesn't notice his laughter because she gets distracted by the thought of the bill she forgot to pay, so she stays silent when he laughs and she pays and leaves.
the man behind the counter caught her silence and took it as a judgment against him,
even though it wasn't.
he misinterpreted.
but then the peanut woman is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
the door jangles again, and a lady pokes her head in.
she tries to talk to him while still standing outside so that her words flow in at him while the smoke from her cigarette flows out toward the street.
he hates cigarette smoke, but he likes her eyes and her round shoulders.
as she has done every day for the last 21 days he has worked,
she smiles a huge grin at him and starts their conversation with, "hey darlin'."
she's trying to find out whether he has any virginia slims 120s yet.
the man from behind the counter isn't from around here and thinks "hey darlin'" means she's attracted to him,
even though she's not.
he misinterpreted.
but then the virginia slims lady is gone, and the moment is over, and the man behind the counter forgets.
the 7-up clock is ticking loudly, and he can smell the grape blow pops.
they are giving him a headache.
7.19.2012
a place called lobby
"it was hiLARious."
"it was FABulous."
"it was aMAZing."
heady praise bounces off leather couch cushions and collides with out-on-the-town jewelry and neckties.
clinkety clink cheers
clinkety clink couldn't have done it withouts
clinkety clink thank yous
clinkety clinkety clinkety glug glug glug
fuzzy champagne smiles swim around in a warm, perfume-y soup
high heels on concrete floors counterpoint hot staccato lady laughter
and the men shake hands and do their rooster dances mostly in the corners.
green plants, popped up and fresh from their morning watering,
stand guard in front of power strips,
can lights,
and a forgotten pair of scissors that the box office staff was looking for all afternoon.
bathroom doors, swooshing open and shut,
secret away the looking-in-the-mirror faces,
the bra adjustments,
the nose-pickings,
the clandestine text messages that aren't appropriate for public consumption.
exit signs, with their red glow and honest lettering,
peer down to bear witness to the enthusiastic tangle of women and men
giddy at having come together
to affirm their humanity
by watching it play out on stage.
"it was FABulous."
"it was aMAZing."
heady praise bounces off leather couch cushions and collides with out-on-the-town jewelry and neckties.
clinkety clink cheers
clinkety clink couldn't have done it withouts
clinkety clink thank yous
clinkety clinkety clinkety glug glug glug
fuzzy champagne smiles swim around in a warm, perfume-y soup
high heels on concrete floors counterpoint hot staccato lady laughter
and the men shake hands and do their rooster dances mostly in the corners.
green plants, popped up and fresh from their morning watering,
stand guard in front of power strips,
can lights,
and a forgotten pair of scissors that the box office staff was looking for all afternoon.
bathroom doors, swooshing open and shut,
secret away the looking-in-the-mirror faces,
the bra adjustments,
the nose-pickings,
the clandestine text messages that aren't appropriate for public consumption.
exit signs, with their red glow and honest lettering,
peer down to bear witness to the enthusiastic tangle of women and men
giddy at having come together
to affirm their humanity
by watching it play out on stage.
7.12.2012
a place called driver's seat
the windshield is blurry with rain.
trees are green mosaics and the house looks like a painting of a house
streaky and indistinct.
she pulls her legs up into the seat and leans her head back
uses her pinky finger to wipe the dust from the dashboard and the gear shift.
wipes the dust on her jeans
checks the rearview mirror
closes her eyes
the sound of the rain relaxes her and her shoulders drops an inch or so.
she surprises herself by thinking how very safe she feels right now in this minute
and
spends the next thirty minutes like this
happy
that she doesn't need to be anywhere else.
she considers how simply amazing it is to live in a world where water falls from the sky
and how utterly we take that bizarre and wonderful fact for granted.
this thought and others like it are her company
until her sleeping baby starts to wake up in the backseat
and she hops out into the rain to take the baby inside.
7.05.2012
a place called bleachers
he squints at the field
he squints at his dad he scratches his nose
rubbing the toe of his
sneaker at a dried-up wad of gum he wonders
is now the best time to
ask for ice cream
or should he wait
until after the next
batter
will his dad be more
likely to say yes and thrust some dollars at him so that he can concentrate
now
or will he say yes when the team is headed back into the outfield and he’s feeling
safe a few runs ahead
in a few minutes
the noise in the
ballpark sounds happy to him
and he imagines it as a
big purple swirl wooshing up to the sky and overflowing the fences and the
walls surrounding the place
he thinks of it
splashing all over the cars the people the apartment buildings the bars nearby
he smiles at the vision
of all those people purple-y wet with the crowd’s happiness
he scoots over a little
bit to give his dad more room with his sloshy beer
and the hot metal burns
his legs where his shorts end
he lifts his butt and
puts his head down
trying to look
underneath the seats
his mouth twitches as
he scans for lost foul balls
he pops back up when
his dad says, “son?”
nodding a yes at the
question, “’bout time to go get a pretzel and some ice cream?”
he thinks about how
this is his favorite day so far this summer.
6.28.2012
a place called motel
the carpet in the elevator has probably been replaced
one hundred and twelve times since she first stepped on it
sandy chubby feet
two years old.
it still looks the same though
electric blue
flat cheap.
the gears rattle and she relaxes
feeling safer
looser.
the bell dings at the third floor and she puts the black plastic keychain tag between her teeth
so she has two hands free
one for her duffel bag
one for her beach chair.
she smells pall malls and budweisers and suddenly she is hungry
for fried shrimp and hushpuppies.
the room smells the same
salty.
she drops her bag and her chair.
she opens the vinyl blackout curtain and squints at the sun bouncing off the cars in the public access lot.
she flops back on the bed.
laying there on top of the comforter
a news report her friend ezra told her about flits through her brain.
something about germs and jizz and lice that could get all over you because they don't wash the motel comforters like they should.
she opens her eyes and wonders whether she'll break down and call her brother tonight.
one hundred and twelve times since she first stepped on it
sandy chubby feet
two years old.
it still looks the same though
electric blue
flat cheap.
the gears rattle and she relaxes
feeling safer
looser.
the bell dings at the third floor and she puts the black plastic keychain tag between her teeth
so she has two hands free
one for her duffel bag
one for her beach chair.
she smells pall malls and budweisers and suddenly she is hungry
for fried shrimp and hushpuppies.
the room smells the same
salty.
she drops her bag and her chair.
she opens the vinyl blackout curtain and squints at the sun bouncing off the cars in the public access lot.
she flops back on the bed.
laying there on top of the comforter
a news report her friend ezra told her about flits through her brain.
something about germs and jizz and lice that could get all over you because they don't wash the motel comforters like they should.
she opens her eyes and wonders whether she'll break down and call her brother tonight.
6.21.2012
a place called roadside
he sits down
heavy
the back of his mind noticing how his waistband chafes the roll of fat at his belly
scratching his wrist
and looking for bugs
probably he sat on an anthill or something
probably he'll get all bitten up
he doesn't know how to do nature
the cars are faster than he expects
when he is sitting still
he watches the way they rock the mazda as they rush by
the mazda seems insignificant next to the highway like that
for the millionth time he wishes it were a different color
he has never liked burgundy cars
he lies back in the grass and sits back up again
and now his back is itchy
the combination of grass and asphalt reminds him
inexplicably
of shopping with his mother for back to school clothes
when he was a kid
and she would take him to kmart and woolworth's and rose's
and he would get bored and ask for an icee
he looks down the road and sees
suddenly
that the sunset is a very bright pink
which he loves
he smashes the bug on his knee
and her car pulls over to the side of the highway just past the mazda
he lumbers up
and waves to her to climb over and get out on the passenger side
this woman is the best thing that ever happened to him
and he wants to keep her in one piece
heavy
the back of his mind noticing how his waistband chafes the roll of fat at his belly
scratching his wrist
and looking for bugs
probably he sat on an anthill or something
probably he'll get all bitten up
he doesn't know how to do nature
the cars are faster than he expects
when he is sitting still
he watches the way they rock the mazda as they rush by
the mazda seems insignificant next to the highway like that
for the millionth time he wishes it were a different color
he has never liked burgundy cars
he lies back in the grass and sits back up again
and now his back is itchy
the combination of grass and asphalt reminds him
inexplicably
of shopping with his mother for back to school clothes
when he was a kid
and she would take him to kmart and woolworth's and rose's
and he would get bored and ask for an icee
he looks down the road and sees
suddenly
that the sunset is a very bright pink
which he loves
he smashes the bug on his knee
and her car pulls over to the side of the highway just past the mazda
he lumbers up
and waves to her to climb over and get out on the passenger side
this woman is the best thing that ever happened to him
and he wants to keep her in one piece
6.14.2012
a place called church
it had white cinder block walls
and pews with green velvet cushions
the kind of cushions you could rub one way and then the other to make a pattern when you were a kid
bored during the sunday sermon at big church
she curled up on the pew
and thought of her dad there
at the end of the row
he always sat at the end of the row
second pew from the back
she thought of him in his suit and his red tie
his arm around her
her head leaning on his shoulder
even when she was older
even when she came home from college
his aftershave
brut
and the coarse smoothness of his face
just shaved
she pictured the shaky jowls of the pastor
his small eyes glowing while he preached
she remembered listening intently
cutting her eyes to glance at her dad now and again
looking forward to the conversation they would have in the truck
on the way home
cracking themselves up with their philosophizing
laughing as they opened the back door into the kitchen
which would smell like butter beans and fried pork chops and fried corn bread
where her mama would be sweating
wearing shorts in the kitchen
and pews with green velvet cushions
the kind of cushions you could rub one way and then the other to make a pattern when you were a kid
bored during the sunday sermon at big church
she curled up on the pew
and thought of her dad there
at the end of the row
he always sat at the end of the row
second pew from the back
she thought of him in his suit and his red tie
his arm around her
her head leaning on his shoulder
even when she was older
even when she came home from college
his aftershave
brut
and the coarse smoothness of his face
just shaved
she pictured the shaky jowls of the pastor
his small eyes glowing while he preached
she remembered listening intently
cutting her eyes to glance at her dad now and again
looking forward to the conversation they would have in the truck
on the way home
cracking themselves up with their philosophizing
laughing as they opened the back door into the kitchen
which would smell like butter beans and fried pork chops and fried corn bread
where her mama would be sweating
wearing shorts in the kitchen
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