Still Watching Over Me
In my own recollection, my first and last stuffie, was Lurky. Now, if you have no point of reference, no worries. I also seldom watched Rainbow Brite. But I loved my Lurky. He must have come into my life on my fourth birthday. I see the original issue is 1983 and my parents never moved that fast. But someone had an inkling... about me and Lurky.
Lurky was special. One look at that mug above and you see what I mean. SO much to Love!! The antenna, the boogly eyes, the hair tuffs, the schnoz, the great big open arms, and the sneakers with lighting bolts, just cemented itself to myselfhood from toddler to teen years. If I was going on an overnight, that was the only thing I really need to bring, aside from jammies, pen and notepaper, and toothpaste.
At some point of crisis, I left Lurky at home. Safe.
By then I understood the meaning of the word. Lurk. The irony and how it weighs in on life experience and its lingering impressions. The boogiemen we had faced, the dark, the alone. When I walked out, traveling light, knowing I'd never be back, I left him on the bed with one final hug and kiss. If I ever returned, I'd be older. To the household, I'd be a stranger. But not to Lurky.
Sometimes I think, he's still watching over me.
Knock, Knock
"God be damned," I said under my breath, prayers shot.
"...didn't get the manager job at Alamy, eh?" he said, hoisting his linen trousers at the knees stiffly, as he sat himself down on the hard cold unforgiving park seat next to me. The guy was tall, voice projecting from the arches of his feet, a baritone that could pull down to bass. If need be. Serious.
He looked like he'd been unemployed four score and seven years ago... that founding father look, the anachronistic ill-fitting thrift store vintage threads... He didn't smell foreign, though.
And his skin had this sort of translucent sheen. Not an aura, you know? but delicate constitution, or something.
My guess was he was homeless. And had been. For a while.
He tapped my upper arm with the back of his hand, pleasantly, tap, tap, as we now sat too close on odd ends of this narrow concrete seat. Casually, like we already knew each other. He rubbed his rabbi beard for a think. Then, added, for comfort:
"I didn't get the job either," making light.
There was no way in hell he had applied here. I humored him with respectful silence.
"Shoulda been a shoe in, too," he carried on with a faint smile. I noticed he wasn't wearing any.
"What position?" I hazarded trying to establish context and draw myself out of my own descent.
"Top Gun."
Huh. I remembered how much I don't like Tom Cruise.
"Sure," I said, like one might say to the infirm. Gently, with a kind sincerity.
"No-- I'm God."
I tried hard not to look taken aback and checked my laugh to the inside.
"Well, isn't that a done deal?" I recovered as he looked on ahead with interest.
"Would you believe? No. I gotta reapply every fucking time. In the Trust."
"--what?!"
"Yeah. Like one-on-one... with every member of the Co-op... " he said looking at me deadpan:
"So, what'll it be?"
"You're shitting me, right?"
"No. I'm not."
To Be Had
I've never had a dog. Before you call bullshit, give me a minute to light the story.
Marcus had a dog. This was well back before we were tight. A Boxer, he named Jock. He liked the way it sounded, kinda exotic, kind of sexy, in an unobligating, irreverent way. He was in his late teens and maybe it wouldn't fly now, but at the time, it made sense, alright? Alright.
No leash. Stay at the heel, go everywhere bud. That was Jock. He had just one flaw. One fatal flaw. Cats. He couldn't stand the pretentious oversized rodents and blew a mental fuse whenever he saw one. God meant for cats to be chased. And that was how Jock met his end. It was his blind conviction. He ran a cat into traffic. The rat escaped between the tires, and Jock didn't.
No amount of calling from Marcus could bring Jock to his senses.
Nevertheless, a good dog. No dumb mutt. Loyal and driven.
His Uncle Tonio had a Doberman. I'm no snob for purebreds, but I note it makes an invaluable difference, in character. He died nameless; an important, yet insignificant part of the whole. It remains for me a summary of the selflessness of Dog. Of understanding. Pack and hierarchy.
The tale goes that ol' Tonio was a nice guy overall, but a braggard, and an alcoholic. An unfortunate combo. One night the two of them, the man and the dog, climbed the eight flights to Marcus's flat. There were a few fellas over, drinking and smoking, and they got to talking about bitches and mutts, and what makes a good dog Great.
Uncle Tonio knocked his shot back and rattled the glass on the table, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand, lifting his cap back a bit for emphasis-- letting off some heat.
"I'll tell yah what makes or breaks a Dog. If I whistle 'whewt' here!..."
...and he pointed at his dog with full command, full attention,
"and say '_____ JUMP!' he.... "
He had him. And yeah, the Doberman jumped.
Out the open window, eight stories down.
You might say, that's stupid. But I say, that is Dog. And that is Man.
And I've never been had.
**This is a True Story**
Phototaxis
Tan, with fake eyes in watch, like from behind a death mask, there leaning upon the edge of the wood bucket seat: Persistence. From the intense consternation of the moment, she searched the fuzziness of the expression... for the tiny face that must be somewhere near the base of the antennae.
In this Pass and impasse, in the tunnel-- leading to her just execution-- no detail seemed too small. Vision turned microscopular... or rather, tubular. At nighttime she would have seen the most distant star; and in the expanse of the bleak day, she saw each and every fiber of fluff atop this silvered being, dappled with bronze streaks, and tipped with white at the very ends, near invisible. As upon an eyelash.
Here was a faint symbol of Spring, in brownie form, complete with wings. A natural yet mystical thing. It fluttered softly against the cold draught in the cabin. She wished she could be the white-haired old lady accompanying an old storybook Mister, arm in arm, through Summer to Winter. It would not be.
The rail carriage devoid of all hope, was surrounded by a seal of iced snow, and the Eurail sped on its dispassionate mission. She had killed the Ambassador. There was no denying it. It was her charge, given, and committed. In the singular moment, she loved the displaced neutral moth, seeking heat, alone, with her in their barred alienated containment.
And the moth, in its turn, was drawn to the strange closure, away from the freeze and freedom of the great outdoors... A behemoth of survival.
A fire in her eyes flamed, with indignation, knowing she had done what she had done, with full awareness and would do it all over again, for the cause. When she took the Ambassador's life, she had said prayers at feverish pitch aloud for both of them-- that Death be swift. She knew she was damned, in this life; and what would come after, would not be known. Her lips parted, false smoke of condensation escaping like white volcanic steam in the heat of this realization.
And the tiny moth, flew in...
The Kiss of Dopamine
There's something about not being picked. It triggers something, messing with the dopamine receptors.
"Well, what'll we have, Antoinette? " he said, tilting his head in a critical lean to the left.
I'd done a good job. Better than in the picture on the App profile. He was pleased. Some people just don't photograph as nice as they look in real life. And contra wise, some are romanced by the viewfinder of the camera, but lose their luster when seen actually moving in space, the third- or fourth- dimension revealing asymmetry that is otherwise quite natural, though sometimes unbecoming.
And others endure the knife. Or botox a certain look. Art for art sake, I've always felt was justified. I brushed a strand of cinnamon auburn from my cheek with chic red acrylic French tipped finger.
"Please order whatever you like..." I said, "On me."
A little grin pulled at his cheek, revealing a dimple in the center, like a child's, and I could see he thought the evening was going favorably well, for himself. If he thought anything wasn't quite right, he'd swept it like lint from the Five Star table napkin. Nonexistent.
We chatted pleasantly about nothing.
A convo chameleon, I'd read the transcripts enough times to have the wording verbatim on immediate rolodex. He'd talked about swimming, fishing, sailing, and his latest yacht. Yada, yada, yada, and oh yes the kind of girl he'd love to have on it...
"Your eyes are grey," he interjected over the aperitif in lead crystal. Ching ching.
"Colour changers," I said lowering and raising my false lashes for full effect.
By the sixth course, we were touching toes beneath the tablecloth. We split a sorbet, raspberry-lemon.
I had a very vivid recollection of her apartment. For fun I described it to him. All the odds and ends, those I was convinced he'd like best... "and just outside the bedroom double glass sliding doors there's a balcony, iron rails, overlooking San Franscisco Bay, and a palm screened hot tub in Turquoise tile."
"Wow. Sounds amazing. You've got a great place," he beamed love rays from his chest, an eleven-course meal in itself.
"Would you care for a dance?" I betted on an immediate yes. It was that kind of venue. I knew he'd trained, Latin and Classical.
Soon enough he had me in his arms, and I assessed our fittings. Her dress, impeccable. I didn't have to tuck or hem, though I did select my fullest undergarments and we both appreciated the lift and curvature. His hand lighting on my hip, breast to breast, our breaths just a little bit compressed, capturing the mood of the music.
I let him lead us wherever he liked. Three songs, four... till the band rested.
Back at the table, digging into the savory finger bites, Spring rolls and Lobster Rangoon's, I thought about her leftovers in the ice chest. Saved, to be dealt with later. Together.
"Let's skip the nuts, and head out?" I suggested, pulling out my keys and stroking just the hairs over his hand, stoking what I already knew was electrifying beneath the surface.
"Your place?" he said, surprised and delight, and I gave a little churlish giggle, behind a flirtatious hand with platinum bangles. He was charmed, and gallantly took me under the arm once I'd retrieved her credit card into my sequin clutch.
It was a quick ride, tipsy from the warmth of the revelry and intoxicating novelty, and anticipation of the stretch of evening still before us. I suggested a dip in the swell of the hot tub, and he was entirely game. Even when he saw as I undressed, that I wasn't exactly what he had pictured. Nevertheless, I fit within the breadth of his profile range of preference, as "open to persuasion," and so he reshuffled mentally, roused all the same.
We slipped into the bubbles of the jets. He closed his eyes and I leaned against his thigh. Now seemed like optimal timing:
"What shall we do with her?" I whispered softly.
"With...?" he murmured lazily, confused but not yet disturbed.
"With her. The woman. You know... the One you picked. From the App."
You & i
But the Ii remains the same. Oh yeah, lowercase or uppercase, as if it matters— like it's the difference in standing between freshmen or seniors, or something evolutionary. I don't see it anymore as different, really, the chip. In freshman year (should that be capitalized?) I toyed with an idea for a philosophical blab book that contemplated differences between the (little) i and the I.
Of course it was brilliant shit. That's the way it is with things in the mind's eye. We see a thing as already polished. That diamond in the rough never got hewn, though. It was about the disconnect, or it was to be about the disconnect. I held possessively to the title, because a good title makes or breaks a work, right?
The dot on The i
—that was the title. The idea never graduated, and, and, the story morphed, or maybe it was i.
"Mr. Caufield? hi," I said. I couldn't get through the gate and up the stairs fast enough. It's hot as hell and anyway I hate when people watch me like I'm on parade. He's ok, though, I guess, so no sweat.
"Jenny, nice to see you, come on in. Come in," he said. He's wrinkled, worn, but just the same old Holden, with ideals. Weird, I know, he got married and has a girl now.
Turns out, we all recover from given Life blows and momentary infamy. Somehow, as long as we get up. He's living a quiet life, even with the book publishing, and multiple editions, and all. Now, you mention "Catcher" down the block, and almost nobody knows what the jackass you're talking about. Caufield says nobody reads anymore. That's not true, obviously, because I do. I even know the good ole Robert Burns poem.
I've read enough yarns to blanket the family my mom says, "...maybe, but just what did you understand, honey, I'll never be quite sure..."
I chose Jenny. I even looked it up. It means white wave. I don't know why but it reminds me more of extinction, than starting again. Something like a verb, rather than a noun, to jenny— it reminds me of the way an ordinary undyed waxed candle is snuffed half-way. It's like the variations on a theme of white, that never really is, white, I mean. It leaves that lingering trace, of the archaic poetry, in the un-scent-ed, and old smoke's tale. I feel those shades of gray, seriously, like a population of ghost sensations.
It's a shrinking population. White folk, I mean, are dying out. I feel kinda responsible.
"They're here!" Mr. Caulfield said, calling up the stairs. He was sort of an idol for us growing up. I'm not here to see him though. He's ok, cause he's not gonna say dumb things like "don't do what I wouldn't do." Life is not a game. He knows that. It's confirmation.
There was quite a fussing and shuffling as they tumbled down. They chose Seamour.
"You didn't look it up?" I said in disbelief.
"Nope, it just fucking fits. I mean c'mon, my parent's picked Tabitha, for chrissakes," you said clenching your lips together like its fact if you say so.
I've been whooped a few times with the Bible so I know that Tabitha is the one St. Peter raised from the dead. I guess it's trivia in the end. It's a cool name, though. I almost took it, but I didn't want them to feel all weird about it, like we were becoming mirror twins or something black lodge Lynchian.
I still feel odd about the clothes you gave me. It's not because these are thrift store. I'm glad to see them, though.
"Do I look ok" I said, tugging at the lilac floral hem a little. I ask this so often I've started leaving out the question mark. It's a hallmark of my insecurity--my social statement. I know they're going to say yes. I mean, it's Seamour, right?
"Did you put your soul strap on today?" they joke, and I have to smile, crookedly. My wisdom teeth have wreaked havoc on my moneymakers. Seriously, poor people used to sell their teeth so rich people could implant them. I'm not even sure there was good anesthesia back then. It's vile. Modern folks sell plasma. I knew a poor unemployed blind guy who sold his plasma so he could Uber his three-year-old to free preschool. It's called Head Start. There were too many on the bus for that one to be picked up.
"Yeah," I said. They've got work brand clothes on, with the goddam label on the outside. I hate that. I'm not even going to give that brand "name". Why, man? Why, I just don't get it would a company do that. Companies are run by people, though sometimes I wonder. Maybe it's like in that movie where you have to put special sunglasses on to see the Aliens. I suppose I shouldn't pay so much attention to labels, and names.
I know, I know, sticks and stones and all, but words and names matter. A kick in the crotch hurts even if it's tangential. I like Seamour, even if the name doesn't 100% fit.
"Are you sure you still wanna to go out?" Seamour said.
Maybe that was the beginning, though it obviously started way before that. That's what they said, later, in the hospital.
"Yeah." I said. "Let's go."
[Chapter 1, in Sequel to The Catcher in the Rye.]
*Themes: being human; race, gender, age, self-identification, social anxiety
**Plot line: Two teens who question their gender identity unexpectedly find themselves expecting a child, and reconsider what it means to be human.