The Chair, part II: April

I have been trying to squeeze in writing, it has been difficult with the sways of fatherhood, work and other obligations. My goal in the coming months is to finish a story I started two years ago for my daughter, continue writing on these short stories with a discarded chair at the centerpiece and hopefully, the normal stuff I write about.

April:

She was scrubbing the floor, her knees wet from the spill that had run up into the hem of her white skirt, small bursts of purple weaved their way up the pearl colored fabric, making wine soaked canals up her thigh. “Well, this outfit is ruined” she said to herself, pushing the large yellow sponge across the wooden floor as small soap bubbles climbed shortly and then burst in soft quiet explosions, winding their way up the now sopping sleeve and teasing her elbow. Eyes scrunched together, her face a pained grimace, she pushed against the wood with all her might, as if she could clean not just the floorboards but also all the anger and frustration from within her. The wine bottle lay in pieces, shards of dark green glass in a small wet pile of burgundy, she had slid them carefully with a wet dishtowel. After years of cleaning up glass, April had become an expert. The window in the bedroom was open, bringing in the shouts of children, the slow roll and gasp of diesel trucks and the small chatter of her neighbors.

April was twenty-nine, a waitress at the corner diner she had arrived home early this morning after closing the diner down and walking her girlfriend Louise home. She had spent the night at Louise’s home, comforting the older woman whose son had passed away just a month ago in the jungles of Vietnam. “I hate to be alone, oh how I hate it. He comes to me you know, in my sleep. I can see him at the foot of my bed, he’s just a child. Always dressed in his orange and white stripped-shirt and denim jeans. It’s as if he just came in from playing a ball game, he doesn’t say anything, just stands there and looks at me.” Louise continued, “a part of me wants to yell out, while another wants to reach out and touch him, I know he isn’t there. The other night I sat up straight in bed, I leaned forward, and could smell the grass off of him. New cut grass, the kind they only make in the summer and I breathed him in. My little boy, I could smell him, he was right there and I knew I should not move. If you challenge a dream, it will come crashing down.” soft elongated tears rolled down her face, “I reached out to him and there was nothing there. All I heard was the clock ticking in the kitchen.”Louise took a drink out of pearly-white chipped porcelain coffee cup, the sweet bourbon burned her throat like a soft bee sting. “Well, the next night I dreamed about him, and we were driving the old Chevrolet Kingswood we had, the green one. I could hear him prattling on in the backseat, talking about the Indians and how Rocky Colavito was going to be the greatest ball player out of Cleveland. Oh, he could talk baseball for hours. Then he grew quiet, there was nothing, I looked in the rearview mirror and the back seat was dark. I’m not talking backseat dark, or closet dark, I’m talking dark as in a feeling—this was pitch black. I called his name, Eugene? Gene, are you there?” She took another small taste from the coffee cup, paused and continued, “So, I turned around and looked for him, and he was there. Although, he wasn’t my little twelve year old anymore, it was Gene alright but it was the Gene who left for the war, he was dressed in that brown bomber’s jacket he used to wear but he was covered in blood. There was so much blood, it dripped off his head, like spilled paint. And, and he….he just looked at me, his eyes were still little Eugene’s eyes. You know how soft they were, but they were just so sad. It was as if he were asking me why did this happen to him? Of course I woke up, I cried of course. I’m mean who can fall asleep after that?” Louise was crying again, “Well hell, I can’t sleep anymore since that dream. Sometimes, a person just wants to be held. It’s been so long since someone touched my shoulder, held me close. Gene was the last one, y’know, when he went off to war. He hugged me so tight my bones almost rattled loose, I think he knew that this would be it. That was what, over ten months ago?” April looked at her friend, as the nighttime shadows climbed over one another, making patterns of dark pinwheels across the ceiling and walls. Louise whispered, “almost a year, it’s almost a year and it hurts just as bad as it did when I found out. Maybe more, knowing it doesn’t go away not even a dent.” Even though Louise was fifteen years older than her, they bonded over their sameness and struggles, both had men who walked out on them. April of course, had no children and had been struggling with her own loneliness but could relate to Louise whose husband, himself a victim of war had left her and Eugene when he was four. She would get postcards from him occasionally, from Chicago, or even as far away as Billings, Montana—small bent, colorful cards of skyscrapers or canyons, with his scribble on the back, “thinking of you both, how’s my little tiger doing, sending money soon, Jack.” Of course the money never really came, maybe once a year an envelope with a ten dollar bill and another brief note. And then finally they never came, just came to a trickling close.  Then nothing as if that television show was cancelled.

April could not relate to the loss of a son, even a grown son at that, but the loss of a man she trusted in made her skeptical of men in general, although there were times in her past while in the clutches of emptiness she gave herself freely to whomever was paying her attention. Louise had eventually fallen asleep, with her head on April’s lap, her hair wet with tears and the empty coffee cup stuffed between the red and orange couch cushions. April had left gently, putting a pillow underneath her friend’s head and tiptoed out. The sun was splitting the darkness, a small crooked sliver of light on the horizon, as she heard her footsteps echo off the sidewalk and wet asphalt streets. It had rained during the night, a soft shower that made the early morning feel new, just hatched and she smiled to herself. As she grew closer to her apartment she felt the unease rise in her stomach, knowing he would not understand and would suspect the worst. Bracing her body for his insults, he would not listen to her pleas, and she couldn’t have called as the phone bill went unpaid last month. He never hit her, unlike some of the previous men she had, but his words fell on her ears like sledgehammers his roar echoing through the apartment and he would inevitably break something, a fist in the door, a plate against the wall or a window punched out. The last time she was late, after picking up extra hours at work, he accosted her when she walked through the door, flinging her against the wall, his beer soaked breath heavy against her cheek. He split the wall next to her head, with a fist the size of a boot. This was the closest he had ever come to hurting her, he left right afterwards, himself in tears. He was sensitive and would weep at the drop of a hat, get three drinks in him and turn on the water works, nobody would have guessed this tall, sculpted man, who unloaded trucks for a living would cry like a toddler when upset?

Her footsteps clacked against the concrete floor as she waded into her sense of gloom, growing thicker with every step, she felt tired from the lack of sleep but also a sense of purpose after helping her friend but now it was slipping away, in small increments with every clack and echo of her shoes the good feeling was now awash in dark trepidation. The floorboards wheezed slightly under her feet as she put her front door keys into the lock, keys jangling while she held her breath. The door swung all the way open, softly hitting the wall of the entrance. The room was dark, with the exception of the soft morning rays of sunshine splashing against the kitchen floor, they stopped just into the living room as if the kitchen and the living room was a deep sea. He was sitting in the chair, his head lowered almost below his shoulders, the small dining room table filled with bottles, at least eight bottles of beer and two bottles of wine. The room was filled with smoke, from the one cigarette after another that he sucked in with almost every tick of the clock.

“I can explain” she said brightly, her lilting voice breaking the darkness as she wrestled her keys out of the door, her purse dropped to the floor as she heard his cracked voice booming from across the room. “Sure bitch! Go ahead and explain! Fuck you!” his voice was hoarse as it caught against his flem-y throat. Taking a breath in, building up a moment of courage she turned, “no really, I can. Louise needed to talk and I stayed with her. George, I didn’t do anything else.” Slamming his right fist on the table, sending several empty beer bottles clanging against one another,                                                                                 “Fuck that bitch! You have responsibilities to me, to THIS HOUSE not some whore who can’t get her fucking life in order!”

“It’s not like that, Jesus Christ, George her son died, she’s all alone.” April put her purse down on the soft couch across from the dining room table, she noticed that the flowers on the end table had wilted, drooping towards the floor, she needed to throw them out. Later. As the light shown against his back, he appeared almost ghost-like, an apparition of anger she could feel his eyes burn towards her, his pupils small and drunk. “What did I say about using the Lord’s name in vain!!? Maybe you are the whore? Maybe you are a whore with Louise??! Fucking slut.” Half risen from his chair, he sat back down, and quiet enveloped him. Hesitating, counting four breaths, “George, she is very sad, her son died—she has nobody, just works at that shitty diner and drinks a little bit to cope. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, there is nobody else. Only you.” Stepping slowly she removed her jacket, and tossed it upon the purse. The table was quiet, and in a moment she heard his soft muffled cry, a part of her broke while the other part grew annoyed at this man-child. She grew close coming up to his side, his massive shoulders moving as if there were floating on massive waves, as she reached out and touched his left arm, her small thin fingers lightly tipping the soft fabric of his shirt. He made an almost indecipherable motion, head flinching just a breadth, and in a moment the yawn-like wail of his animal sounding bawl. Clutching his shoulder with her left hand, her right hand now gently petting his back in small circular motions she tried to pull him to her. She was tired, she felt the full weight of the long night now, all the compassion she had given Louise was now almost as dry as the desert in June, but she understood her role, had played it over and over so now it was her default. She could hear his tears dripping onto the table and she kissed his head softly, motherly and with a tenderness he had always yearned for. His hair smelled of sweat, cigarettes and the musty scent of being un-showered for nearly a week. His essence was sickly sweet, the pungent balm of drunken loneliness, the smell was of a barren man. Her lips touched him gently, and she told him she loved him.

Another long pause, then he knocked his head back, slamming against her teeth and knocking her backwards, she awkwardly caught herself, circling her arms beneath her and stumbled. “Get the fuck out of my face!” with a giant motion he upturned the table, the bottles smashing into a pile, the half empty wine bottle bounced against the wood floor and its remnants slowly chugged out, creating a small purple puddle. He towered above her, looming like a cat with a mouse in its paws, his breath came out in huffs, deep wheezes, with  blazing eyes, his mouth turned to a scowl—she took a few steps back, her feet unsure of themselves as she unconsciously raised her right arm in protection. She was focused on one large purple vein that was pulsating on his neck, it looked like a small snake stuck under his skin, trying to break through. He raised his left hand, fingers balled in a fist and glowered—she flinched and suddenly more tears flowed down his face. She thought he looked like a sad little boy, one part of her heart broke for him while the other nine parts cowered in fear and disgust. “Fuck this!” he finally stammered before bolting out the door, she heard his large boots on the stair steps. The clatter of his soles soon diminished as was out of earshot. Placing the soft bottoms of her hands perfectly in her eye sockets, she comforted herself. The weight of exhaustion overwhelmed her for a moment as she slunk to her knees. After a few moments, she collected her thoughts, went to the kitchen and grabbed some towels to commence the cleaning up.

Her hair had been tied up, a haphazard bun stacked upon her head and now, several strands broke loose and swung softly against her face as she pushed the rags against the floor. Her elbows were sore and occasionally she had to brush some of the hair away. After she cleaned up, putting the glass carefully into the green metal wastebasket, the towels into the caramel colored hamper and changing her shirt which had begun sticking to her sweaty body, she made herself some coffee on the stove top. She stood silently and watched the water slowly boil, small bubbles rising and bursting to the top, soon the water quivered and came to a boil, when she lifted the pan slowly and poured the water into a paper towel filled with coffee grounds. The water trickled through the towel and into her cup. She recalled how her father made coffee this way, “the hotter the water the better the coffee” he would say every time he made coffee. This made her smile, a flat grin creasing her face, it was her first smile of the morning. Walking into the other room, she set the coffee on the small table, turned on the radio and sat down on the hard chair. As she leaned back, staring at the ceiling, she hummed softly to the music, singing along with the music, “in your voice I hear a carousal…”

Advertisements

The Chair, part one.

I started writing a story about the life of a chair, over Thanksgiving. This is a work in progress, and I’m not sure where I’m going with it. Thoughts would be appreciated.

 

part one.

Sunlight jabbed through the dust filled curtains, in windmill fashion as the large gray cloud battled the sun for space. Bright waves of white almost appeared to peel off sheets of brown from the large mahogany chair. As the wave dispersed, a sheer glean would slip into the wood, a momentary slickness the dissolved into the thick wooden chair. If the chair could, it would have sighed or groaned under the waiting and crushing memories of its past. The front legs rested atop a frayed rug, worn thin with pacing feet, intermediate dancing and of nervous feet digging deep into its woolen fabric, while the back legs rested on a pine floor, whose stain was just an echo of what it once was. The polyurethane had been rubbed down by years of neglect not only of the apartment but also of the various in habitants. The scars of dropped cigarettes pocked the rug, almost perfect black round holes that sizzled for a moment and extinguished by the yellowed fingers of its owner, while the pine floor had black stains that could easily be mistaken for knots in the wood instead of the carelessness of a shaky hand.

Dust fluttered through the air, small bits of shed skin, hair, grime, and cat hair from a generation ago, swirling in haphazard motions the sunlight acting as a silent traffic cop to the flecks of the past. The air was parched, as faded as the room itself, almost a relic of itself if the room were full people would be breathing it in, coughing against the heavy stagnant air as if they were coal miners. Along the far wall, opposite the widows and beaten formerly red but now faded pink couch sat like a rock carved over years by trickling water although instead of water it was the stoic loneliness that would have created this sad piece of furniture. If it were an animal, it would be shot to be put out of its misery. The bottom buckled from the past weight of bodies clinging tight to flickering television screens, to the slight anticipation of the next card played and always, always the next cigarette to be smoked. The cushions were so imbedded with the stench of cigarettes one could think that the fabric itself was created from the ashes of spent yellowed cigarette butts.

Above the couch, hanging bent but in proud defiance, as if it were saying “the room is bent not me” a small painted picture of a rural landscape made a muffled announcement that the room once held hope. A field of swaying grass running up a small hill with a white farmhouse sitting atop, a group of grouse flew in the blue sky, the watercolor was discolored from the years of cigarettes and the small film of dust that blanketed it with so much oversight of the years. An end table was at one end of the couch, a single shade-less lamp stood proudly with its naked bulb a literal beacon for the past inhabitants of the apartment.

Staring into his glass, as if the center of the universe dwelled at the bottom of the brownish liquid, it would attach itself to his insides like oil, slowly sucking the power of his liver, his stomach and throat. “Jesus Christ, fuck…I almost out. Fer fuck’s sake,” ashes flicked off the end of the cigarette that dangled from his cracked lips. Squinting, he peered closer in as if eyeballing it would make another splash of whisky appear, “somabitch, that cunt drank it all!” he murmured and looked down at the bottom of the chair. A gallon bottle of Jim Beam was at his feet,  not a nary of drop of the corn mash was left in the bottle, with a nudge he toppled the bottle, “damn!” Pulling himself up, his green custodial pants crackling with every movement he made, he stood up, stretched his arms wide, which was going to be the most exercise he would do today he turned and moved towards the kitchen. With every step he mumbled, small curse words tumbling out of his grizzled gob, his amber teeth biting down hard on every word, the frustration being taken out through his jaw. Pulling his a brown coat from hook in the kitchen, itself almost rent useless with holes within holes the pockets emptied into the nether regions of the coat itself, he felt in his back pocket for his wallet, it too was worn thin not from overuse but from neglect as he never had more than $50 at a time. A reminder of the bleakness of his life erupted every time he opened it, like a flutter of wings but these of despair would shudder out when he opened it up. “yup, I got it.’ Already thinking he only had $20 left for the weekend, he breathed deeply, a small but discernable wheeze sprung from lungs that, unbeknownst to him was being feasted upon by cancer. He turned to check the light and on the counter a small pint of whiskey sat unopened with a small note. “Roy, sorry I got lost in your drink. I hope this helps, Love, Pauline.”  A small cracked smile spread across his face, his yellowed teeth peeking behind cracked gray lops as he slapped his thighs in relief. “That wonderful little bitch, I owe you Paulie!” he stretched his head back and cackled to the ceiling.

Placing withered hands on the cracked Formica counter top, whose split endings had started rolling up their own ghosts some past inhabitants ago, Roy bent his head down, thinking hard, a small sliver of saliva covered the cracked lips, his right hand, unsteady as it was took its time and he wiped his mouth clean and opened up faded white cabinet above the counter. The cabinet was flecked with small bits of coffee grounds, teeny dots of tomato sauce that boiled unattended below it, and smudged with grubby hands. It, like the rest of the kitchen had been neglected for years. He pulled out a tin of tuna and a red box of saltines, placing them on the counter he gathered up a plate, knife and several packets of mayonnaise he had slipped into his pocket from the deli downstairs he then opened the freezer, cracked the half full tray of ice cubes and made himself a drink.

Roy sat down hard in the chair, his lower back sent a few grumblings up his spine into the base of his neck, “god-damn back” he winced as he centered the sea-green food tray in front of him. He had moved the chair over to the dilapidated brown card table, itself so worn from age, slightly bowing in the middle, appeared that it was unable to hold a deck of cards let alone a tray of tuna fish and crackers. Roy bent his head and mumbled a short prayer of thanks, more of grunt of air than anything, he made a quick dash of the cross, sipped his Jim Beam and water and shoveled a cracker in his mouth. Crumbs tumbled down his chest and stuck to the stubble on his chin, which he brushed off with his sleeve.  Eating slowly, Roy blinked with each bite, he swiveled to his right, leaned down and picked up the small transistor radio that sat on the floor. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hand, the hard plastic was still sturdy nearly forty-five years after he bought it as a teenager from the proceeds of selling Grit newspapers. A faded “Big Red Machine” on the back still intact, so many years after Joe Morgan splashed a single to center field to rob the Red Sox of a the World Series crown. Turning the knob, the small radio burst into static life, the soft sounds of Bread, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap combined with the soft stroll of Bent Fabric, Paul Mauriat and Harper’s Bizarre would flood the room for the remainder of the day, lost songs that gave life to Roy’s pock-marked memories. A fascinating juxtaposition of this hardened man with a soundtrack of a lightness that never existed for him.

The whiskey burned his throat, while calming his nerves as he cleaned his plate whistling to the songs coming from the other room, songs that he had heard hundreds if not thousands of times before. The sun danced off the greasy kitchen windows, casting sidelong shadows across his brow, he smiled to himself, poured another drink and sat down again. The afternoons drifted by like this, one after another a succession of emptiness that fell far short of what he had dreamed of when he was a young boy in the small town picket fences of Ohio, the secrets that stacked up like firewood along such innocent street names like Maplewood, Prairie View and Meadowlark Lane were buried deep as if they were smoldering dry leaves that had tried to burn for half a century. There are memories that can’t be excavated, that are so ingrained, buried so long and so deep that they have deconstructed into the soil and dirt of consciousness. He blinked twice as the sounds of “Wedding Bell Blues” brought his mind into focus, for a moment the feeling of unease that grappled him so many years ago felt as real and present as the fading stench of the tuna fish.

The woods were just off the end of Brushberry Street, a small cut-through a patch of tall fern bushes , that hedged against Mr. Studer’s ivy covered brick house, and one was already in the woods, with most of the light blotted out by the far-reaching branches of maple and oak trees. They stood against a small wooden fort built with cast aside lumber from the newly constructed housing complex that had replaced a swath of former train yards where blackened train cars transported coal that had laid dormant for millions of years just fifty miles south of here, but now the mines were shuttered up, a testament to science and that in the end billowing blasts of smoke did indeed cause the environment to choke and wheeze in its own natural way. “Well, now what?” Roger looked directly into Roy’s eyes. Roger was four years older, his cousin by Roy’s father’s side. Standing a full six inches taller than Roy with thick sideburns that made his sixteen-year-old frame appear much older, he was a menacing site, even for a younger cousin who looked up to him. “I dunno” uttered Roy, looking away from Roger’s eyes and into the dirt. A small black spider was slowly wrapping a paralyzed insect in it’s soft, sticky web. Roger inhaled deeply off his cigarette, “you better decide if you are gonna be a man or a pussy, now is the time.” Roy, looked at Roger, his eyes filing with tears—“I don’t know, I’m not sure about this. I think I need to go home.” Roger spit on the ground, tossing the cigarette butt at Roger’s feet, “prolly you’ll  just be a pussy then.” Looking into the small doorway of the fort, Roy could see the large hollow shell of snapping turtle that Roy had dragged from the creek. Flopped over backwards, the head of the turtle, hung upside down, the large sharp hook about its mouth pointing skyward, its golden eyes staring into nothing, it smelled, a pinching stench of rot came covered the area. “I dunno, I’m going home.” Roger suddenly appeared in front of Roy, glaring into Roy’s eyes, Roger stuffed his hands down Roy’s pants pinching his penis and testicles hard enough to make Roy wince out in pain, “yup, just what I thought a pussy!” he seethed through clinched teeth. Roy could smell the nicotine and beer on his cousin’s breath. “I bet if I yanked hard enough, I could turn this pussy into a prick!” Roger snarled loudly into his younger cousin’s face, he tugged again and Roy broke free, “I’m going home!” his tongue stuck in his throat, slashing his arms into his older relative, he darted into the small path and ran as hard as he could. “run you little faggot, run!” he heard behind him.

Stumbling into the path, not thirty feet away he bumped into Jessica Lynn Brumfield, a dark haired girl of fifteen who lived on the other side of the woods, she had moved into the new complex just a few months prior. “hey Roy, what are you doing here?” she stepped back from him, “I’m on my way home, I didn’t know you lived near here?” She was dressed in the red and white colors of the school, the sweater emblazoned with the word, “Knights” across the top left breast. “Nuthin’, see you later Jessica” is what he wanted to say but instead he hesitated, turned around  and looked into the thick thistles then suddenly ran past her, as he heard her behind her lightly singing the “am I ever going to see my wedding day…”

All these years later, even with his cousin long dead from a gun-shot wound to the head, as he climbed out of an office window the song still stung like it did so many years before. He carefully collected the remnants of so many cigarettes he had smoked the days before, piled them in soft brown mounds, and discarded the cottony butts into a spent coffee can, and proceeded to roll the next couple of cigarettes that would carry him into the evening.  On the radio, Maryilnn McCoo continued to coo to her lover, her so far away words being sung into the mist of memory, Roy sniffed and lite a half made cigarette.  Outside the sun had dipped below the apartment buildings across the street, the sky had turned into a smudged watercolor that was left in the rain, smears of purple, pink and blue stretched across the sky, smoldering colors hell-bent on making their last moments of life memorable ones. Roy leaned his head against the small kitchen window, he placed his two hands firmly on the edge of window sill, and pushed hard. The window caught and then gave way, thrusting small curls of yellow paint upwards, “lazy assholes painting the windows shut, what do they want people to die of heat stroke” he muttered and more bits of ash flicked on his soiled shirt. By now, after hours of day-drinking, his head danced a little bit, thoughts swimming as if they were in a draining tub, filled with clouds and gray water. There was no clarity to be found tonight. Roy, poked his head through the window, the thick air of daytime had been sliced into by the cool air of the evening. Squinting into the coming darkness and streetlights flickered on, a small choreographed dance of white lights chasing the shadows away over the concrete and asphalt carpet of the city. Closing his eyes, sucking in the deepest breath his ravaged gray lungs could hold he let out a yell, a holler that almost stopped the traffic below. His voices bellowed high and low, filling the street as if a massive gust of wind had climbed over mountains and oceans. A few passerby’s stopped in their footsteps and looked skyward at the old man whose gnarled face with the tuft of gray and white hair, literally howled at the moon.