I was awoken this morning by a frantic scratching sound that I could not place. It sounded like the cat had somehow fallen into the bathtub and broken her back legs so that she could no longer jump back out again. I ignored it, but the scratching continued and I was forced to drag my sleepy ass out of the toasty warm bed and out into the cold air of too-goddamn-early. (It was just before 8 a.m.)
When I checked the tub, it was bare. Hmm, I thought sleepily, scratching my head. I then used my Sherlock-Holmes-ian powers of perception to deduce that the noise was coming from behind the stereo stand, and lo! there was the cat, madly scratching the wall in her attempt to extricate herself from a decidedly tight spot. I shoved the speaker away from the stand and the cat came scrabbling out. How'd you get back there, goof? I asked her, stroking her fur soothingly. My hand came away wet. What the hell? Her tail was soaked in a liquid that, upon further inspection, seemed to be urine. You fucking PEED? For fuck's sake.
I peered behind the stand (which, incidentally, weighs about a million pounds, give or take a pound or two) and there, sitting in a substantial puddle of what I now knew was indeed urine, was a small paper ball, which at least explained her desire to squeeze her chubby cat butt back there. I knew I could not just leave a puddle of pee behind the stereo stand even though all I really wanted was to climb back under those toasty covers, so I woke Ryan up and we hauled that heavy motherfucker out far enough away from the wall that I could get back there with cleaner and paper towels and remove the offending fluid.
The cat appears to be none the worse for the experience, although the paint job is ruined because of her panicked scratching. (Nobody goes back there except the cat, so I guess it doesn't really matter.)
So here's my question: why do we pee when we are frightened? Do we just lose control of our tenuous hold on maintaining bladder function when faced with the thought of her own imminent demise? Are we ridding ourselves of excess weight in order to better prepare ourselves for fight or flight? Silver lining: at least it wasn't shit.
Jan 7, 2014
Dec 30, 2013
The Legend of Poopy Runs
"Daaamn, girl, you mean you ain't heard da Legen' ah Poopy Runs? Ah cain't recall da las' time I met someone ain't nevah hearda ol' Poopy. You bin livin' undah a rock dis whole time?"
I shook my head and grinned, knowing I was in for a yarn from the mostly-toothless old man known in the yards as the Train-Hopping Hobo. His skin was as wrinkled as the highway map scrunched in the bottom of my knapsack, and he gave off a nauseating odor of soap and sweat and rail stink.
"Poopy Runs useta be known as a tough woman, a rock-hard woman, y'unnerstand, but lately she bin gettin' soft. Real soft. Word on da street was ol' Poopy done los' her edge. Time was when Poopy'd come bustin' out an' damn near blast a place tah bits, she got so much powah. She was the loosest ol' gal you evah seen.A goddamn firecrackah, ol' Poopy. She was always talkin' shit 'bout how she was gonna get it undah control, rein dem ol' urges ah hers in like a pair ah ponies nevah won a race." He stopped suddenly and looked at me.
"How ol' you?"
"Old enough," I told him.
He considered, cocking his head to the side and sucking on his diseased gums. "Nah, you ain't ol' enough. Jes' a kitten still, wet behin' the ears like yo mamma jes' finish cleanin' you up. Nope. You ride dese rails fuh a little longer, mebbe I tell you 'bout Poopy. Mebbe you learn a little sumthin' 'bout life and shit afore you virgin ears hear da legen'." He spat decisively into the railway dust at his feet.
"I hear dat ol' whistle comin' anyway. I gotta train tah catch." And as the locomotive roared by, the old man caught a handle, vaulted spryly into an open car, and was gone, leaving me with a loose, empty feeling in my guts.
I would learn the legend of Poopy Runs. I would go as far as it took. I had the bug now, and there was nothing to do but ride it out.
I shook my head and grinned, knowing I was in for a yarn from the mostly-toothless old man known in the yards as the Train-Hopping Hobo. His skin was as wrinkled as the highway map scrunched in the bottom of my knapsack, and he gave off a nauseating odor of soap and sweat and rail stink.
"Poopy Runs useta be known as a tough woman, a rock-hard woman, y'unnerstand, but lately she bin gettin' soft. Real soft. Word on da street was ol' Poopy done los' her edge. Time was when Poopy'd come bustin' out an' damn near blast a place tah bits, she got so much powah. She was the loosest ol' gal you evah seen.A goddamn firecrackah, ol' Poopy. She was always talkin' shit 'bout how she was gonna get it undah control, rein dem ol' urges ah hers in like a pair ah ponies nevah won a race." He stopped suddenly and looked at me.
"How ol' you?"
"Old enough," I told him.
He considered, cocking his head to the side and sucking on his diseased gums. "Nah, you ain't ol' enough. Jes' a kitten still, wet behin' the ears like yo mamma jes' finish cleanin' you up. Nope. You ride dese rails fuh a little longer, mebbe I tell you 'bout Poopy. Mebbe you learn a little sumthin' 'bout life and shit afore you virgin ears hear da legen'." He spat decisively into the railway dust at his feet.
"I hear dat ol' whistle comin' anyway. I gotta train tah catch." And as the locomotive roared by, the old man caught a handle, vaulted spryly into an open car, and was gone, leaving me with a loose, empty feeling in my guts.
I would learn the legend of Poopy Runs. I would go as far as it took. I had the bug now, and there was nothing to do but ride it out.
Dec 22, 2013
John
I bought John a chocolate donut for Christmas. (He has no dietary restrictions, so it was okay.)
John is an old man with Alzheimer's and a broken hip who is stuck in the hospital until someone can find a room for him in a retirement home. He may or may not have a son who may or may not come to visit him on Christmas Day.
When I met John, he was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the nurse's station, wearing red non-slip hospital-issue socks. His old-man boobs were visible beneath the thin blue hospital gown, and his hair stood up wildly in long white wisps from his otherwise-bald head. My mother, standing beside him in her own thin blue hospital gown, introduced us.
When I returned with the donut and a black coffee for my mother, we made our way back to the room they were sharing on the ninth floor, my mother thumping along with her walker, me pushing the wheelchair. Like a gentleman, John invited me to sit down in the hospital chair that was shoved into the corner. I watched as he broke pieces of donut off and ate them. We smiled at each other. He asked me my New Year's plans, twice.
John broke through the fog for a brief moment. He looked around the room, and then he looked at me. "It happens to everyone," he told me urgently, sadly. "This..." And I looked into his old-man eyes and saw the young man there, and I nodded. "Yes."
Hospital rooms during the holidays. The passage of time. Illness and loneliness. Donuts. Death. It happens to everyone.
John is an old man with Alzheimer's and a broken hip who is stuck in the hospital until someone can find a room for him in a retirement home. He may or may not have a son who may or may not come to visit him on Christmas Day.
When I met John, he was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the nurse's station, wearing red non-slip hospital-issue socks. His old-man boobs were visible beneath the thin blue hospital gown, and his hair stood up wildly in long white wisps from his otherwise-bald head. My mother, standing beside him in her own thin blue hospital gown, introduced us.
When I returned with the donut and a black coffee for my mother, we made our way back to the room they were sharing on the ninth floor, my mother thumping along with her walker, me pushing the wheelchair. Like a gentleman, John invited me to sit down in the hospital chair that was shoved into the corner. I watched as he broke pieces of donut off and ate them. We smiled at each other. He asked me my New Year's plans, twice.
John broke through the fog for a brief moment. He looked around the room, and then he looked at me. "It happens to everyone," he told me urgently, sadly. "This..." And I looked into his old-man eyes and saw the young man there, and I nodded. "Yes."
Hospital rooms during the holidays. The passage of time. Illness and loneliness. Donuts. Death. It happens to everyone.
Dec 15, 2013
Minutiae
On a windless winter night, with the world tucked snugly in under a duvet of snow (not a blanket, blankets are wool and scratchy and Hudson's Bay-coloured), I lie awake, thinking of moving the furniture around. It is, of course, 3 a.m. (Isn't it always?)
The night pulls me when I should be sleeping. I have things to do tomorrow (go to the gym, paint my nails, wash the floor), but I can't stop thinking about moving the furniture around.
I slip out from under my duvet (not of snow, this one, but some sort of synthetic material that makes me sweat if I don't stick my feet out, a dangerous prospect since the cat is fond of chewing my toes in the morning), ease the bedroom door mostly-closed behind me, pour a tall glass of cold water, and stand in the middle of the room, surveying.
There is nowhere for anything to go that is not exactly where it already is.
I'm going to get rid of those vases. There are five of them, the kind of thin glass that comes with a florist's bouquet. There has never been a time when I have needed five cheap glass vases. I also have too many decanters. There was a time when decanters were all the rage, apparently. I could probably use a decanter as a vase, should the unlikely occasion arise that someone brings flowers that don't already come in their own cheap glass vase.
It's not moving the furniture around, but it's something.
I often find myself searching for things to get rid of. Old lingerie, expired medicine, socks verging on holes. Exotic condiments used once for a recipe and relegated to the back of the fridge. A lipstick that makes me feel old or ugly when I wear it, a bottle of thickened nail polish. People, sometimes.
I have a secret I can't tell anyone, because if I tell you you'll think I'm the worst kind of person. But I wonder if everyone possesses this secret, and we're all walking around keeping it because we're afraid that everyone else will think we're the worst kind of people. I'm not ready to tell anyone yet.
So instead I will lie awake at 3 a.m. and find things to get rid of and try to move the furniture around.
The night pulls me when I should be sleeping. I have things to do tomorrow (go to the gym, paint my nails, wash the floor), but I can't stop thinking about moving the furniture around.
I slip out from under my duvet (not of snow, this one, but some sort of synthetic material that makes me sweat if I don't stick my feet out, a dangerous prospect since the cat is fond of chewing my toes in the morning), ease the bedroom door mostly-closed behind me, pour a tall glass of cold water, and stand in the middle of the room, surveying.
There is nowhere for anything to go that is not exactly where it already is.
I'm going to get rid of those vases. There are five of them, the kind of thin glass that comes with a florist's bouquet. There has never been a time when I have needed five cheap glass vases. I also have too many decanters. There was a time when decanters were all the rage, apparently. I could probably use a decanter as a vase, should the unlikely occasion arise that someone brings flowers that don't already come in their own cheap glass vase.
It's not moving the furniture around, but it's something.
I often find myself searching for things to get rid of. Old lingerie, expired medicine, socks verging on holes. Exotic condiments used once for a recipe and relegated to the back of the fridge. A lipstick that makes me feel old or ugly when I wear it, a bottle of thickened nail polish. People, sometimes.
I have a secret I can't tell anyone, because if I tell you you'll think I'm the worst kind of person. But I wonder if everyone possesses this secret, and we're all walking around keeping it because we're afraid that everyone else will think we're the worst kind of people. I'm not ready to tell anyone yet.
So instead I will lie awake at 3 a.m. and find things to get rid of and try to move the furniture around.
Nov 19, 2013
Riot On
Let's riot on together, baby. Just you and me and this strip of asphalt in the dark. I'll put my bare feet up on the dash and you'll put your hand on my bare thigh and we'll drive, baby, just you and me, into the black. I'll check my lipstick in the rear-view mirror but we won't look back to see the lights of this two-bit town wink out behind us like an old cigarette butt tossed to the curb, we'll just drive, baby. And we'll play some rock 'n' roll music, turn it up to drown out the noise of the engine, noise of our hearts. And we'll think divided thoughts as the broken lines zip past like years, and we'll remember, baby, you and me and all those moments that link us like this network of asphalt we're driving down in the dark.
Nov 12, 2013
Get up off of the goddamn floor.
Poodles and poppycock, opined the wet nurse as she stepped onto the coals, dark rivulets of warm milk staining her blouse. Her feet blistered and swelled, swelled and blistered. Tell me something nice, she whispered, to no one. Write it in flames and swallow it whole. And the owls moaned and the turtle doves screeched and the tide sucked the life out of it all and then spit it back up onto the beach.
***
Take my vulva, she offered shyly. Paint it grey and buy it some boots to protect it when things get slushy. Put it in a black frame behind glass and hang it on your wall with the others. Slap it when it gets out of line. (It gets out of line sometimes.) I'll be back for it in the morning.
***
Hey fucker, croaked the raven. I was only messing around. Get up off of the goddamn floor.
***
She looped the telephone cord like a Chinese finger trap around her index finger, receiver wedged between her right shoulder and ear, and wondered what to say. Do I dare? she wondered, like J. Alfred. Do I dare? She removed her finger from the trap and placed the receiver gently into its cradle. Tell me something nice, she whispered to the dust motes dancing in the sun.
***
It is important to be wary, she thought wearily. Keep that KEEP OUT sign up, bullet-riddled and rusty. It'll hold for a while yet. Sure, if they really want to, they can just step around that post, step over that chain, walk forward into the black. They won't, though. Probably. Keep a loaded shotgun in your brain just in case. And don't say a goddamn word.
***
Take my vulva, she offered shyly. Paint it grey and buy it some boots to protect it when things get slushy. Put it in a black frame behind glass and hang it on your wall with the others. Slap it when it gets out of line. (It gets out of line sometimes.) I'll be back for it in the morning.
***
Hey fucker, croaked the raven. I was only messing around. Get up off of the goddamn floor.
***
She looped the telephone cord like a Chinese finger trap around her index finger, receiver wedged between her right shoulder and ear, and wondered what to say. Do I dare? she wondered, like J. Alfred. Do I dare? She removed her finger from the trap and placed the receiver gently into its cradle. Tell me something nice, she whispered to the dust motes dancing in the sun.
***
It is important to be wary, she thought wearily. Keep that KEEP OUT sign up, bullet-riddled and rusty. It'll hold for a while yet. Sure, if they really want to, they can just step around that post, step over that chain, walk forward into the black. They won't, though. Probably. Keep a loaded shotgun in your brain just in case. And don't say a goddamn word.
Oct 30, 2013
The Apartment
There is something strange about (wrong with) this apartment.
When I stand directly in front of the main door (escape route), I can look down the narrow (claustrophobic) hall into the bathroom at the far end. I can see the tub (closed shower curtain), the rounded front of the toilet seat. There is no window (escape route) in the bathroom. I have to pee.
I walk slowly (fearfully) down the hall, aware of the pressure on my bladder (the weight of six feet of dirt on a closed coffin). On my left, a door opens onto a bedroom. There are too many beds (an impossible number of beds) inside this room. Who lives here? (Do I live here?) This room is safe. I can feel it.
A throbbing in the air as I proceed (am drawn) to the end of the hall. On my left, another door opens onto another bedroom. This room is empty (no it isn't). I need something from this room (I don't want to go into this room). I'll pee first, and then I'll get the thing that I need and leave (what is it that I need?).
The light switch in the bathroom does not work. I leave the door open. Red light from the second bedroom filters (pulses) in. I do not look in the mirror (look). I do not look behind the closed shower curtain (look). I push my pants down and pee, pushing the urine out of my body as fast as I can, wipe, flush.
The red light throbs (calls) and I enter the room. I look around to find that thing that I need (what do I NEED?) but the room is empty (no it isn't) and my pulse (the pulse in the room) quickens and suddenly there is something in front of me (there is something EVERYWHERE) and I (try to) scream and I (try to) run and I make it out into the hall and there is the doorway (escape route) at the (impossibly) far end of the hall and I somehow reach the door and something is behind me and I fumble with the lock and I am going to die (yes) if I can't unlatch this chain and the chain falls free (no it doesn't) and I twist the doorknob and yank the door open (the door remains closed) and I run out into the hall and past the elevator (there is no elevator) and slam the door to the stairwell open (there is no stairwell) and I fly down the stairs two and three at a time (there are no stairs) until I reach the main floor and I escape (no you don't) into the black, black night.
When I stand directly in front of the main door (escape route), I can look down the narrow (claustrophobic) hall into the bathroom at the far end. I can see the tub (closed shower curtain), the rounded front of the toilet seat. There is no window (escape route) in the bathroom. I have to pee.
I walk slowly (fearfully) down the hall, aware of the pressure on my bladder (the weight of six feet of dirt on a closed coffin). On my left, a door opens onto a bedroom. There are too many beds (an impossible number of beds) inside this room. Who lives here? (Do I live here?) This room is safe. I can feel it.
A throbbing in the air as I proceed (am drawn) to the end of the hall. On my left, another door opens onto another bedroom. This room is empty (no it isn't). I need something from this room (I don't want to go into this room). I'll pee first, and then I'll get the thing that I need and leave (what is it that I need?).
The light switch in the bathroom does not work. I leave the door open. Red light from the second bedroom filters (pulses) in. I do not look in the mirror (look). I do not look behind the closed shower curtain (look). I push my pants down and pee, pushing the urine out of my body as fast as I can, wipe, flush.
The red light throbs (calls) and I enter the room. I look around to find that thing that I need (what do I NEED?) but the room is empty (no it isn't) and my pulse (the pulse in the room) quickens and suddenly there is something in front of me (there is something EVERYWHERE) and I (try to) scream and I (try to) run and I make it out into the hall and there is the doorway (escape route) at the (impossibly) far end of the hall and I somehow reach the door and something is behind me and I fumble with the lock and I am going to die (yes) if I can't unlatch this chain and the chain falls free (no it doesn't) and I twist the doorknob and yank the door open (the door remains closed) and I run out into the hall and past the elevator (there is no elevator) and slam the door to the stairwell open (there is no stairwell) and I fly down the stairs two and three at a time (there are no stairs) until I reach the main floor and I escape (no you don't) into the black, black night.
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