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Orchestra

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Seat 8, Row L

Fixed on the great slate of stage scattered with
things and strings
black
shoes shiny, collars white, a parade
to orchestrate.
Seat 1, third from left
Wooden lap covered in Italian sap
black
look out, I came
to
Lights dim
watch you play.
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“The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are. Do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is the center of the world.”
—From a card I received from my mom

The Expressers

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RICK, OR ROGER, OR BOB the amputee is sitting in his duct-taped wheelchair at a table on Thursday afternoon, talking about the weather to Roy or Vern or Dennis, a lonely elder who frequently sits in the corner and stares out the window. My mind decides they’re on their eighth cup of coffee grain water, sipping between words, gazes out the window, tapping the empty cup against the table, chud chud chud—like time, too, is drying up.

Ike, age 73, comes in in a neon vest. He just got off a day’s worth of construction, looking for a doughnut, or a can of nuts that he didn’t need, just wanted to stop and say hello again.
And Dennis—the real Dennis, with both legs, the Dennis that comes in every day, three times a day to read the employee paper and talk about “Senator Shithead,” to circle the donuts, then go eat dinner with Mom—he shows up.
The conniving Vietnam War Veteran (his hat says so every day) that looks like a Larry but acts like a Clyde, the grocery-store-free-donut-abusing-maven (then again, he fought a war), raccoon eyes, leather jacket, waddles in, inspects, walks out. Routine.
Dorothy’s not here today—doesn’t come around much but Sunday mornings since the accident, in the store, in her pants.
Ike, age 73, swings by again after a shower and pacemaker checkup.
When it starts to flow, when limbs and wives and bladder control are lost and a retirement is reckoned with, counted, leaned on, hearts stimulated by artifices, as mornings grow longer, days shorter—you begin to amble within the scene. It’s lax. Rick or Roger and Vern, Dennis, Clyde and Ike—they lean back and stare out the window together, to South University where the college kids fly by and large women—always large women—wait for the next bus on another bygone day, chud, chud, chud, as time dries up.
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Emilio Sosa: I love you. Mostly because you are exotic, hip from Harlem, all-too-confidently gliding through project runway (if you can withstand the swimsuit incident, you’re a WINNER in my eyes). Okay, you’re completely arrogant, but it’s never stopped me before. An ego your size wouldn’t leave room for the both of us. Whatever. Still love you.
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When I begin to think about it too intently, and recall how it unfolded, and where the feelings lie, and every day spent curled up in bed in the basement, and running through the park to run away from everything unfolding, lying, curling up in a basement bed, when I recount on two hands the number of times I dreaded the day, four a.m., defeat, defeat, repeat, curled up in bed…

You’re never going to be

…and trembling, he-who-he-who-he-who’ing until my breathing leveled, de-anxietating, talking myself down to a dull sleep, a song, a happy thought I couldn’t fathom, all brought on by a photograph, an accomplishment, a succession of stark epiphanies. You don’t want to eat, or speak, or become well—you want to curl up in your basement bed and feel defeated—and I did. When I think too intently I recall, I was defeated.

And I could turn off the lights and slowly, he-who-he-who-he-who myself to sleep.

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Indigo creases stacked straight with hatred because I can’t afford them. Slim waists fold the tasteful cotton tops with tags spendy, I remember my bank account as drained. I wonder when it will all come back.

The house shakes. Jim the mistake-taker has a lot of mistakes to take from here, when he’s not driving his Mercedes-Benz around 21st Street, golfing in Arizona heat. Outside he’d greet me on the sidewalk too often, asking if there was any mistakes for him to take from 604. No, I’d say. I wondered when he’d go away.

I’d flip a page, and every trail slid into it’s disposition: San Francisco in her pearls, Jónsi leaking from sound, Charmin in the bathroom. I smiled. It was all coming and going collectively, amends and fractures like ebb, and flow. Weeks away I’ll be bag-packing the wall scraps and knick knacks I’ve arranged in my place, dismemebering nine months of tacit solitude. It’s gone, everything—and I no longer have to wonder. I’m going away.

Missed Connection

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Dear Missed Connection,

Pastrami. That’s what you bought tonight at 7:43, approximately. One-half pound was all that I had left, you took it all. In a Charles Darwin Research Team t-shirt (that you told me your sister bought for you) and relaxed khakis, a neatly trimmed beard and sleek specs, you, Missed Connection, are the perfect nerd. Your eyes are brown, I think, and you wear practical tennis shoes. If you have a naggy, clingy girlfriend, I’m so glad, Missed Connection, that you didn’t bring her shopping with you, as I am hopeful you are also a single nerd.
Please come buy more pastrami soon. I could possibly see myself with you.
Best,
Deli Wench
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Why I like you:

1. I can’t have you
B. I don’t need you
iii. I’m not your type
4. You’re not mine
e. I need someone to think about in my spare time
IV. We’ll never, ever be together and I know it.

You’re killing me, man

A rant, a rant, and another rant!

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For the sake of making this somewhat organized, I’m just going to number these.

1. Today at the grocery store I work at, I had my 6-month review. I’ve been waiting a long time for this (6 months) because once you’re with the company for half a year, you get a raise (a whole quarter! Twenty-five cents, folks!) In addition to my whopping raise, I had an evaluation with my manager, who’s worked with me for two months. All this was sprung on me when I arrived at work this afternoon.
My manager explained the rating system: A four meant you were really, really awesome, a one meant you were God-awful, etc. “Nobody gets fours except *Roy, and he’s the general manager,” she explained. I wondered what it took to get a four, then prepared myself to see that I hadn’t received any.
We sat down. She pulled out a sheet of paper with numbers and words and several lines filled with handwritings. She then proceeded to run down each category on the front and back side of the paper, explaining her answers to each question.
“I gave you a two for this, which is average…I also gave you a two for this…again, a two…and two again.”
I got a two in every category. Each and every friggin category. Now let me tell you something. My job is not hard, nor is it stressful. I like to go to work most of the time, and I put on a genuine smile when I do my job. I do. I treat customers like gold. I do. I truly try to be the best I can be. I really, really do.
So you can imagine how…grossly unimpressed, slightly offended I was from this report. Just this past month the company gave me a service award (albeit a small award but still)! I mean, I’ve had people ask me what the hell I’m smiling about, and I have to tell them that I’m just… smiling. Frick! Can’t a woman just smile at work? Isn’t that worth a three, even? Really?
I hate to think that all the effort I put in for the company is “average.” So I’m a part-time employee, okay, and I dole out about 16 hours a week. Sure that’s average. But I try—TRY—to make those 16-some hours count to someone—be it a customer, a manager, or even those fricking people that come in and steal the free donuts and coffee. Sure, I’m not *Roy. Does that mean I can’t get his scores? Are those scores reserved for Roy, because he has a shaved head and does a lot of price checks and gets his name in every newsletter and stuff? I sure hope not. And if so, what’s the point? I try to tell myself that they’re just numbers, not even grades, not even important, but they’re bothersome. This is not my career, true, and true, I’ve been with the company for six months. I don’t expect a plaque or a trophy or even a cookie (one of those terrible preservative-packed discs in the bakery section). At least tell me at my review that I’m accomplishing more than “well, you’ve learned to make a few salads, so that’s nice. Hope to have you making a few more.” With “pretty basic” weaknesses such as “not wearing the slicer gloves,” I sure hope I’m worth more than an average-freaking-two.
On the bright side, I made 25¢ more per hour while listening to her tell me these things.
/end/
2. Radio commercials. Nay, the radio in general. Awful.
A friend and I were just talking the other night about the terrible discrimination in this area. He told me about a commercial he heard for a car wash, that made an awful reference to Chinese people. No one notices these things? Turn on your radio.
Since the radio is the only form of noise my car offers, I listen to it more than I’d like. When the DJ’s aren’t being overtly syrupy and loud and OBNOXIOUS (I would love to phone in and tell them this), I am forced to listen to the commercials. I’ve tried to avoid the radio as best I can, but the jingles are ubiquitous. Tonight I turned on the car to hear two bad spots in a row:
a. Pizza place impersonating Italians
b. Soda pop ad impersonating a dude trying to be smooth/pick up women by impersonating a British person. e.g.: “When you’re trying to pick up chicks, use a British accent to look smart…because all British folk are uber intelligent” (paraphrased, but all of this was stated). There was also a bimbo girl voice (my favorite). Bad, bad, and worse.
Maybe just two rants. But I will create a third:
3. It’s flip flop season. Clean your feet.
/end/
*Name changed to protect…the general manager.