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Green from a different perspective

Here's more Greener Grass. You can find the rest of the story in my right sidebar under I Like To Write.

*****

Dave sat on the edge of the bed with his hands between his knees. He needed to open the blinds. He needed to brush his teeth. He needed to start pouring cereal and milk for the kids. They'd be up soon.

It'd been a whole day since Tamara had called. He'd expected her back by now. He'd thought she would let herself in quietly and slip into bed with him, pressing her body against his and murmuring how sorry she was, how she'd missed him. That he'd sulk for a while, and then let her tease him into slow, languid sex. That it'd be something she'd look back on as her little Escape. Her little Adventure. Possibly her Mistake.

And then they'd go on like they had before.

Which wasn't spectacular. It wasn't an amazing, fun-filled life. Certainly not what he'd planned for himself. But he had  a wife and three kids and managed to fit in some golf. He was relatively respected at work. 

His normal life–it was a lot better than this shit. Than not knowing where Tamara was and having to explain to the kids that she was on a short vacation to clear her head.

He pounded his thigh lightly with his fist. What the hell was she trying to prove, taking off like that? Did she expect them to understand? To muddle through without her and then fall gratefully at her feet when she came back?

Dave stood and rubbed his hands over his bald scalp. He jerked open the blinds and had to duck away from the sun that surged in.

When he turned, Joshua was standing in the doorway holding his mangy stuffed giraffe, Freddy. His eyes were wide, his body humming with energy. Dave had to laugh at him. The kid vaulted from bed at 6:30 and was ready to take on the world, not stopping until he finally gave into sleep late at night. He exhausted Dave, but, just the same, he was a riot.

"C'mon, bud, let's get you some breakfast," he said.

"Waffles, daddy. Okay? Waffles!"

Dave said, "We'll see what we can do." How the fuck did you even make waffles, was what he wanted to know.

In the kitchen, he brewed strong coffee, then dug through the freezer for Eggos. Finding none, he asked Joshua, "How does mom do it? What does she use?"

Joshua was already in front of the TV, mesmerized by some cartoon.

"Hey," Dave snapped. "Did you hear me? I asked, 'how does mom make waffles?"

Joshua turned slowly, still half immersed in Spongebob. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Bisquick, I think."

Bisquick. Of course.

He was whisking Bisquick with an egg and a cup of milk when Caitlyn and Eli tumbled in and took their places on the family room floor. "Are you making pancakes, Daddy?" Caitlyn asked. 

Dave strode over and plucked her thumb from her mouth. In it went again. Always wiggling around in there when she was sleepy. "Waffles," he said.

Her face broke into a thousand pieces. "But I want pancakes, Dad! Pancakes!"

"We're having waffles," Dave said. He pulled her thumb from her mouth. 

It was all Tamara's fault, this thumb-sucking bullshit. She let the kids do whatever they wanted for comfort's sake.

Once Dave had returned to the kitchen, Caitlyn popped her thumb between her lips again.

He shook his head and scooped batter onto the waffle iron. He glanced up at the clock, wondering how much time he could steal to check his email and make a few calls. Just as he was reaching to unclip his blackberry from his belt, the land line rang.

His first inclination was to jump for it. But he stood, back against the counter, letting it ring, twice, three times, four. Then he strolled over, checked the screen, which flashed a number with a 718 area code, and answered.

"Hi Dave," Tamara said, a little breathlessly.

He forced himself to take several deep breaths. "Hey Tamara," he said, casual-like. "What's up?"

"I'm in New York."

"Well," he turned away from the living room and faced the window. He saw his neighbor, Craig, pouring fertilizer into a green broadcast spreader. That guy was something else. Craig and his lawn. To Tamara, he said, "Well, good for you."

She sighed. He heard it, her sigh. She had no right to sigh. "You don't have to be sarcastic," she said.

Dave gripped the phone hard, smelled the waffles burning. "What would you prefer, Tamara?" he said. "Because if I'm not sarcastic, I'm going to yell my head off. So, it's up to you. Either way. But I cannot be all sweet about this and pretend I think you need this, that this is good in any way whatsofuckingever for our family."

She sighed again.

He wanted to hang up on her bad. And he would've. He would've. If she hadn't then said, "I know. I'm sorry."

Fixations

I tend to get a little fixated on things sometimes. Things like movies or songs or books or a particular chair I want for the living room. Mostly, when I'm interested in something, I can pick it up or put it down without caring much. But then, there are the few compelling interests or trinkets I cannot shrug off.

Those things for me, right now, are:

Damien Rice and Lisa Hannigan. I can't get the 9 disc out of my head. It's 3-years-old, but I just recently discovered it and it plays like a soundtrack, through everything I do.

Facebook. It's heroin, crack, strong coffee and milk chocolate all rolled up into one sugary speedball for the isolated "stay-at-home mom".

Red wine. One glass around 4:30 or 5 every night while the kids watch Magic Schoolbus. I look forward to this little window of freedom all day.

Validation. In general. I need it too much.

Quiet. My kids are still at the age where they talk over each other constantly, so absorbed in their own desires and thoughts that they don't stop to listen for another voice before they speak. I understand it, I do. But it also drives me clinging-to-the-ceiling-by-my-fingernails crazy.

White. Plain white dishes. Thick, white towels. Creamy white paper products. (Not snow). But, otherwise, the clean that white conjures.

Stories well told. 

Rust. Layers. Concrete. Mystery. I end up wandering the city looking for these things to shoot with my camera, wondering why I'm so attracted to what is Underneath.

An enigmatic green

Here's more of Greener Grass. You can find the first part of the story in my right sidebar under I Like to Write.

*****

Tamara and Paul stood outside a concrete block building with a diagonal orange stripe painted up the front wall and across the door Paul had just pounded on. A black mailbox hung by one screw and a dirty white cat with gray spots sat on the stoop waiting to be let in.

Paul grabbed the cat, scratched it under the chin, kissed its head.

"Do you know that guy?" Tamara asked.

He said, "I know all animals. Especially felines. They love me, man. They love me."

The door opened and a dark-haired, full-lipped guy of 25, give or take, stuck his head out, blinked. When he saw Paul, he broke into a lightning bolt of a smile. "Dude. Holy Fuck." He stepped out and grabbed Paul's hand like he was going to arm wrestle him. He slapped him on the back. "What the hell are you doin' here? In the middle of the fucking night. Jesus." He wore baggy flannel pants and a white t-shirt. His thick hair stood mostly on end.

He eyed Tamara, but his smile didn't dim.

"Just dropping by. You got a sofa or a rug to crash on?"

The cat leapt from Paul's arms and disappeared into the apartment.

The guy said, "I have a rug. Could probably clear a patch for you even." He shook his head again. "Jesus."

Paul gestured toward me. "This is TamARa. She's with me."

Tamara felt such a rush of gratitude just then that her shoulders slumped and she took in a gasp of air. She touched Paul's elbow and he looked at her and his eyes were warm. Butterscotch pudding, she thought. Which made her think of Caitlyn. Caitlyn loved butterscotch pudding. 

She shook her head.

"You coming up?" he asked, taking her head shake for doubt.

"Yes!" she said. "Yes, of course. I mean, duh. Where else would I go?"

They climbed up a creaky staircase littered with dry leaves, dead flies and balls of clothes. It smelled old and musty. The apartment itself was surprisingly decent, with furniture Tamara recognized from the Ikea catalogues she got every year. There were wooden bookshelves and candles in jars and two red chairs facing each across a leather ottoman. 

Tamara found the bathroom, which was grungier than the front room. She peed, found a tube of Aquafresh from which she squeezed a dollop onto her index finger and scrubbed her teeth. She opened the chipped medicine cabinet–(Eternity) cologne, silver razor, extra blades, wrapped bar of Irish Spring, prescription bottle for a couple unpronounceable pharmaceuticals, Chapstick, a box of Trojan Enz–when she closed the cabinet, she saw herself in the mirror and stifled a guffaw.

There were shadows like smudges of charcoal under her eyes. Her cheeks drooped and her lips were puffy and dry. She grabbed the Chapstick, smeared some on and tossed it back into the cabinet. She gazed at her breasts, wondering if they'd get as fucking huge this time. She ran a hand over her stomach. "Goodbye abs of steel," she muttered, then laughed. Because, of course, she'd never had them to begin with.

She and Paul slept for the rest of the night on a scratchy rug with flat pillows and piles of ugly afghans. Some time when the light coming in the windows was still gray, she heard someone clattering around the kitchen, heard the front door open and close.

When she woke again, the sky was blue and a screenless window had been propped open with a two-by-four. The burble of pigeons filtered in, along with the smell of car exhaust and, faintly, garbage.

Still lying there on the floor, she studied Paul's pink dreds. Matted and twisted, bits of lint clung to them. Every few inches she spotted a bead, a colorful bauble like something a little girl would use to string friendship bracelets. She reached from under the warm afghan and, gently, touched one. She ran the (twist) through her hand. It tickled her palm.

He stirred. 

She jerked her arm back and, simultaneously,looked up and noticed the guy from last night watching her from one of the red chairs. He held a mug on his knee. He cocked his head slightly in acknowledgment, but said nothing, just kept staring.

Everything that's good about now might just glide right past

I took the train to Portland this weekend. I make the trek twice a year or so, to see my sweet, thoughtful and fun friend Stacy. She's a crazy person who toils under the twisted system of billable hours an attorney, and is very busy. So I'm grateful when I get so many hours with her.

I'm also full of love for Amtrak, who whisks me away from Seattle on a four-hour ride during which I can do any damn thing I want. (Enough to make any parent of young children swoon). And, also, thank you, Amtrak, for the opportunity to people watch. While not quite as robustly strange and entertaining as Greyhound, you, nevertheless, give me good material.

Here's some of what I noticed:

-A girl of about 8, wearing camouflage pants and a Transformers t-shirt, practicing karate in the aisle of the Seattle station.

-An Asian couple, the woman with a monstrous silver purse jangling with zippers and clasps, a receding hairline and an electric water pot she couldn't bring herself to leave behind.

-A middle-aged man with long hair under a stocking cap and a trailing beard of faded red who is embarrassed when I confirm that he does, indeed, need to stand in the seat assignment line. Who is then full of righteous scorn when he finds out I am wrong.

-A woman older than 65 but younger than 75, wearing a deeply cut top that shows off wrinkled cleavage and huge breasts like peeled, overripe eggplants. 

And then, from the rails:

-Brown smoke rising up from behind the naked trees.

-The reflection of myself with a temple pressed against the window, watching the curve of track ahead.

-The stretch along the water, where, last year, the train I was on killed a man with the squealing of brakes and the smell of hot metal.

-A handful of bald eagles, perched along a river.

-Rows of identical houses painted different sherbet colors.

-I LOVE U spray painted onto parallel boulders. It is not clear if the author meant this to be for one person, or all of train-riding humankind.

-An old man slumped on the porch of a small house whose paint looks to have been blown off by an atomic explosion, watching the train go by. I wonder what he's escaping from, what may be inside. Why sitting out in the gray cold is preferable.

Stacy.