The Game

The table surface was green felt.  It had a small wrinkle at the edge, Jack noticed, and he tried to smooth it out.  But Henry was going to kill himself after the game, tonight, somehow, somewhere.

“Call.”

The chips splashed on the table as everyone threw in their ante.  Jack was trying to ignore the game, ignore everyone.  He looked at his cards:  King of Hearts and the Three of Spades.

“Henry, it’s your turn!” Carl said, and tapped the table with a red poker chip, one of those heavy real ones that had heft.  ”Quit messing with your phone and ante up, you’re the big blind.”  Jack looked up and involuntarily glanced at Henry.

Then he saw it again; saw what he always sees during these games.  Henry was going to kill himself, it was written on his face, on his body.  I am.  Going.  To kill.  Myself.  When he first noticed, Jack wanted to scream, “Don’t do it!”  He looked at Henry’s eyes, magnified as always through his thick glasses.  They sat there, those eyes, and looked back at him.

Henry threw his ante on the table casually and peeked at his cards.  Jack looked away at the other members of the table; besides Henry and himself there were Carl, Aaron, Sam, Ernie, Frank, and Greg.  Ernie was the waitress, he was out first.  Frank and Greg were also out of the game and lounging by the television in the other side of the room.

The hand came down to Henry and Sam.  Piles of chips were scattered around the middle of the table as they jockeyed for the win.  Jack couldn’t understand what he saw.  Why would Henry want to play if he was just going to end it all afterwards, roll credits, game over?  He quickly glanced at the other guys, and fortunately could only see glimpses of what they were thinking.

“What should I do,” Jack thought.  ”Should I say something to Henry?  Tell him that he shouldn’t kill himself?  How ridiculous is that.  How the hell do you have that conversation?   Uh, dude, I can see stuff people normally can’t when I play poker, you know, like that guy on TV who can see into people’s thoughts?  Yeah well I could see that you wanted to kill yourself, so, don’t.  Why would you want to do that, anyway?  You’re successful, you have a great wife, you’re here playing with the guys and you have friends?”

“Motherfucker!” Sam says.  Henry has won the hand and is $1500 richer in chips.

It is plain as day to Jack.  As plain as Sam’s barely restrained lust for violence.

(Thats all…I will continue this if enough people comment and want me to…)

Breakfast

The smell of breakfast spread gently over his face, like a soft familiar blanket, the kind of blanket that gripped tight in your hand led you through childhood.  He breathed in deep to better taste the air, to remember.

The mouthwatering unami of sausage, that circular brown puck of heaven, equal parts juicy and sizzling.  The deep meaty smell of potatoes in the hash browns, oily in its seductive appeal.  To the sides, waiting, heavy-lidded were the cinnamon and sugar from the cinnamon rolls, saying, Hey buddy you want this, huh?  Lost somewhere in there was a tang, a bright ray of light, the orange juice.

He breathed in and smelled everything again.  The kitchen was directly in front of him, and various items were left on the counter, in the sink, and on the table.  Spilled orange juice and a few grains of kosher salt nestled against a small plate that still had a sheen of grease from the food, with a fork laid jauntily against the side.  He also noticed a few crumbs left on one of the plates, and smiled to himself.

Two plates, two forks, and two seats.  He slowly cleaned the kitchen, pausing momentarily over the plates, almost caressing them as he placed them in the sink.  He walked to the table again, and picked up a bottle cap—Nantucket Nectars, and read under the cap: “Nantucket’s Brant Point is the second oldest lighthouse in the U.S., built in 1746.”

There was nothing else to do now, he thought.  The kitchen is clean, she has left, and the food has been eaten.  All that’s left now is the smell.

This way

The dust underneath my fingernails was gritty, slow to the touch. As I rubbed it on the metal stairs, equally sturdy and rickety, the texture reminded me of the slowness of life. Life as friction, as speed bumps rendered microscoopic, each particle of dust serving as a reminder that the laws od physics still exist, still hold dominion over my life.

Friction defines our lives, our interactions with people. Isn’t sex just two membranes rubbing against each other?  Of course it’s more than that but it is one way of looking at it.  Membranes.

On that metal stoop, on those unyielding stairs, I stared unfocused at everything.  The road sign blinked in saccato rhythm, this way. This way. The arrow blinked at me, I blinked back. This way, please, it said. This. This. This way.

But was it’s advice good?  Was it sensible?  Did I have enough understanding to see its hidden words, its quiet call to go home, to go elsewhere than where i am?

The metal grille behind me, a door, a portal into a home, was doubled up, making my eyes cross as I tried to decipher its tracings, it’s path. Did it have a message for me?  The pattern of the crosshatchings, the Stitchings of metal, weaved in and out with reality, with my senses until I became unfocused, unseeing enough to see what was really there. And what was there was someone special, someone amazing. Someone that meant something more than just a warm body.

The stillness of the night contrasted nicely with the solid activty of the deaf people on the street, on the sidewalk, providing a visual reminder – a visual feast of thoughts that extended into the air, into the quiet night, until the very air shook with their glad words and angsty tidings. As am observer, I sat apart and felt, saw, and smiled at the utter ridiculous sanity of all that I saw. I am simply one of them, but by stopping, by sitting on the stone wall, the cold stone wall that beat in sync with my pulse equally as it constricted it, I was able to see the truth, that we all march inexorably to the same bivalved drummer.

The dust underneath my fingernails was gritty, slow to the touch. As I rubbed it on the metal stairs, equally sturdy and rickety, the texture reminded me of the slowness of life. Life as friction, as speed bumps rendered microscopic, each particle of dust serving as a reminder that the laws of physics still exist and still hold dominion over my life.

Friction defines our lives and our interactions with people.  The negotiation between two people, three people, a group is constant — a word, a sentence, thrown across the chasm that divides us.  When we are more intimate, we let our skin do the talking, a rub or touch, a push here, a pull there.  Just two membranes rubbing against each other.

On that metal stoop, on those unyielding stairs, I stared unfocused at everything.  The road sign blinked in staccato rhythm, this way. This way. The arrow blinked at me, I blinked back. This way, please, it said. This. This. This way.

But was its advice good?  Was it sensible?  Did I have enough understanding to see its hidden words, its quiet call to gothatway, to go elsewhere than where I was?

The two metal grilles behind me, a door, a portal into a home (I think), was doubled up, making my eyes cross as I tried to decipher its tracings, its path. Did it have a message for me, too?  The pattern of the crosshatchings, the stitchings of metal, weaved in and out with reality and with my senses until I became unfocused, unseeing enough to see what was really there.

Later, when I went thataway, elsewhere, down the street and around the block, the stillness of the night contrasted nicely with the solid activity of the deaf people on the street, on the sidewalk, providing a visual reminder—a visual feast of thoughts that extended into the air, into the quiet night, until the very air shook with their glad words and angsty tidings. As an observer, I sat apart and felt, saw, and smiled at the utter ridiculous sanity of all that I saw. I am simply one of them, but by stopping, by sitting on the stone wall, the cold stone wall that beat in sync with my pulse equally as it constricted it, I was able to see the truth, that we all march inexorably to the same bi-valved drummer.

The rain it raineth

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

The wet, gray sidewalk stretched in front of me, seams in between each block of concrete marking the rhythm of my walking.  Step, step, seam, step step, seam, an endless procession tap-tap-tapping the sole of my shoe.  Rivulets of clean dirty rainwater surround each footstep, spreading as I put my weight down.

The rain continues to fall headlong, following gravity’s mad rush downward, inward, striving in vain to reach the center of everything.  The water and cold air are in cahoots, working together to build me a cold rain hat as the rain fills my hair.  Tap tap tap, plit plit, step, seam step the world moves by slowly, cars drive by quickly, and a small gust of wind reminds me to breathe.

I want to keep on walking forever, straight, left, and right down the street, towards no destination (but having one anyway).  I close my eyes and walk for a while, blind, seeing only the dim light filtered through the cracks of my eyelids.  Balancing on my legs, I feel the world embrace me for a moment, wind, rain, earth and the fire in my belly.  For a second, I open my eyes to reassure myself that I am still alive.

I am, and I keep walking, eyes closed, with a smile on my face and streams of water trickling down my cheeks.  After a minute, I open my eyes; the depth of what I saw was starting to overwhelm me and reality needed its due.  Seam, step step, seam squish the endless concrete gave away to a patch of grass.

There, I stopped under a tree not to escape the falling rain but to meet a new species of quiet, still air; the kind of air only you can get beneath a tree, filtered fragrant and full of life.  After that pause, the walk continued, I continued walking, the walking continued me.  I walked.  And kept on walking.

Going to town

To sweat, to dance, to live.

In the line for the dance club, we writhed with serpentine energy around the corners, slowly, quickly, until at last we were in.  There was sweat everywhere; the cold water bottle in my hands, the neck of a tattooed man, the brow of a friend–the very air dripped.

We were in Town, and the town was in us.

It was not until I paused briefly in a closed room on the second floor that I realized that the manic energy of the dance floor had gripped me with full force.  In that cool windowed room, staffed with couches and languorous bodies pausing for an eternal moment, the world stopped in between beats of music.

Exiting the room required conscious decision, the opening of doors, and goals—be it to enter the music again or go to the restroom.  Enter the music I did, looking for my compatriots, my friends, familiar faces in a clean sewer of flowing bodies.

Found, lost, and found again I allowed myself to drown in the beat, heat, and beat of the music.  It pressed against me and danced away, both flirting and repelling, forked tongue and angel’s touch to my whirling senses.  Stepped-on toes and brushes with backs, breasts, hinds, and arms were the currency of the floor, lubricated with sweat and sound, fortified with alcohol and drugs, the dance economy was in full swing.

Shuffles and swings were bid upon and partnerships made and lost in the blink of an eye.  The flickering of the television screens throbbed while we were robbed senseless of our sanity only to be returned to earth in the next moment with a crash of bass.

The restroom was another brief respite from movement, the only remnant was my foot unconsciously tapping as I stood at the stall.  In that small space, in the middle of a large building, in its heart, I was drunk and sober, hungry and full, poised on the precipice between alive and dead.  A choice had to be made, and unmade; I chose to die and through that, live.