Month: November 2018

Exposed

If you came to visit
I would take you
to the waterfront
Twenty fingers grasp the coldmetal railing
We stare down
mesmerized
by roiling swirling coldwater black
tossing moonlight off its curves
Would you find beauty 
in your fragmented face
rippling
between a mosaic of moonlight
churning
with swells of ocean inside it
Would you find your true reflection here?

It All Comes Out in the Wash

Two men are already in the laundromat. The talkative one is tall and thin, dressed in a button down shirt tucked into office-appropriate pants. He has an old gentleman farmer air about him, the kind of man who could wear a rattan cowboy hat without irony. His friend is quiet, shorter and plumper, and dressed more casually, like he’s ready for gym class.  

I pour my dirty clothes into a washer.  

He used to be a preacher. Or maybe he wants to be a preacher. Either way, I can tell; he has launched into a lengthy, vehement sermon.  

I’m waiting for my laundry to dry. 

“Leading was Moses’s calling. What’s your calling?” 

“I don’t know,” I answer automatically, only half listening.  

“You don’t know?!”

His astonishment snaps me into the present. “I guess it’s writing,” I admit. I’m not used to being questioned by strangers about my purpose in life.  

I check my clothes. Still damp. I flick another quarter into the slot and press “Start.”  

He got shot. Gang violence. From that, he learned that he needed to get out of the city, lead a new lifestyle. His story would make a good after school special, but I don’t think people make those anymore.  

I’m folding towels.  

His laundry is folded and bagged. He tells me that he works as a counselor at the Community Center. Points to his name tag to prove it.  

“I’ve gotta get going,” he says.  

“Okay.”

His friend takes a seat on the other side of the room. I guess he’s heard this line before.  

I’m folding my pants.  

He asks where I’m staying. At a park west of town. He tells me there’s a nice motel in town. Lists the amenities: microwave, kitchen, TV… And it’s not expensive- maybe $80 a night. In fact, he has a brochure in his car.  

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m camping. I don’t think I could afford the motel, anyway.” 

“I’ll get you the brochure,” he says, and walks to the parking lot.  

“It’s nice,” his friend assures me. Echos a list of the establishment’s finer points.  

I’m folding shirts. 

The talkative one comes back in, hands me the brochure. I thank him out of politeness.  

They’re going to a cookout this afternoon. Or maybe they’re hosting a cookout. Whichever it is, they need to go. “Have a good day!” I call out.  

I’m matching up pairs of socks. 

They’re going to grill outside, barbecue. They mention where this get-together will occur, and don’t explicitly invite me, but it sounds like if I wanted to, I could stop by. He asks enough questions to drag out of me that I’m vegetarian.  

Please leave before I get to my underwear, I silently beg. [Yes, I fold underwear.]  

He seems receptive to ESP. We exchange pleasantries, and the men actually leave this time.

It occurs to me that this may be the first time someone has ever asked me what my calling is. And it may be first time I’ve stated it out loud. A few minutes later, I leave, too, with a basket of clean clothes and a reminder my greater purpose.

The Luckiest, By Far

In first grade, my teacher, Mr. Carpenter, let one of the girls in our class play a Madonna tape she’d brought in. A little later, he left the room to make copies. In his absence, all the girls in the class started choreographing a dance to “Lucky Star,” the song that happened to be playing. We incorporated our little blue plastic chairs as props. The big move at the end of the song involved standing on the seats of our chairs, then jumping over the backs of them.  

The best part of the story was our teacher’s reaction. Imagine Mr. C coming back with his copies and finding a dance session in progress. He stood in the doorway for a minute, observing, his hand over his mouth, as if he were stifling a laugh. Since he didn’t seem angry or tell us to stop, we kept working on our moves. Mr. C left excitedly, returning with another teacher. They both watched from the doorway, whispering to each other. Then he went off to get the principal.  

I think about how easily another teacher might have snuffed out our behavior. We weren’t following directions; we weren’t working on an academic task; it was inappropriate behavior for school. I can imagine some teachers barking orders and doling out punishments. As it happened, my class performed the dance routine for our parents at one of the school’s talent shows.  

What would the world be like if we all reacted this way to each other’s natural creativity? Even back then, I felt lucky to have not only witnessed this, but to have experienced this kind of trust. Thank you, Rich Carpenter!

On Display, In Three Acts

Act I 

I’m on the train. It’s an overnight trip, and getting near beadtime. I’m planning to brush my teeth, wash my face, and change into pajamas. As I stand up and reach for my duffel bag from the overhead rack, I notice heads in several of the rows behind me swivel up toward the rack. As I pull the bag down and place it on my seat, the heads swing down. As I remove each necessary item, the heads follow my every move. It’s like they’re watching a tennis match, and I’m the tennis ball. 

The same thing happens when I return to my seat and put each item away. In the morning, we repeat the same routine. 

I want to draw a big star in the air, just to see if the heads would follow. Would they realize I was poking fun at them? Would they become self-conscious and look away? I don’t try it; I’m too ‘nice.’  

I want to say, “If me taking my toothbrush out of my duffel bag is your entertainment, you are in for a pretty pathetic night.”  

 

Act II 

I’m waiting in the airport. It’s a couple hours until my connecting flight. I’ve bought one of those yogurt-fresh fruit-granola combos from a snack cart. I’ve bought them before. Usually, the fruit and yogurt are in a cup, and the granola is housed in a separate compartment built into the lid, to keep it crunchy. There might be a thin plastic film you remove or a top you take off to get to the granola. Well, on this particular cup, the top portion seems to be made of two pieces of hard plastic fused together.  

The three of four people sitting across from me are staring at this plastic container as I turn it over in my hands, try and pry it apart, try to twist the halves away from each other, and bash it with the end of the accompanying plastic spoon. I’m a TV channel, like the one blaring at the other end of the terminal.

If you knew you’d be waiting in an airport for hours, wouldn’t you at least bring a book with you? The people across from me didn’t think so. Why bother, when you can spend the time staring mercilessly at other passengers?

I’m so embarrassed. I can’t figure out how to open the container. (At least, not without a sharp knife or other tool that is now banned from air travel.) I throw the top in the trash. My audience watches as I spoon fruit and yogurt into my mouth.  

I’d like to give them a line made popular in the 80s: “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.” But I don’t want to be that immature. Or that 80s.  

 

Act III 

I’ve just arrived at a campground and pull into my designated site. A couple, stationed in lawn chairs outside of their RV, watches me like the prime time movie that comes on after the news: I just happen to be in their line of sight.  

To be fair, they’re wearing sunglasses and could be asleep for all I know. They sit stadium style, facing me with huge, unblinking insect eyes, staring as I set up my tent, pore over the atlas, eat an apple, and carry my dirty clothes to the laundry room.  

I feel like I should invent some flashy moves, twirl my tent posts or juggle tent stakes, the way a hibachi chef turns chopping and frying into performance art. But then, I already have a rapt audience, so the fanfare seems unnecessary.  

What would these people do if I set up a chair and stared right back at them?  

 

***** 

Since I’ve stayed mostly at campgrounds and RV parks on this trip, I’ve encountered Act Three many, many times recently. If I ever become a celebrity, I can look back and figure that this was all practice for dealing with voyeuristic fans. But if not, or in the meantime, it’s disconcerting, especially for someone who doesn’t like being the center of attention.  

Did people always act this way? Or are we so used to staring at the internet, our phones, TV, Facebook, YouTube, that we can’t tell the difference between that and real life?  

As long as we are actors, writers, directors, and other moviemakers, maybe it’s not that bad. The problem is when we become spectators in our own lives.