The Application form rested on a sticky round table, which wobbled on four ice cream legs, the crisp white paper slowly becoming one with the table, part of its light brown surface. The form was almost filled out. The address, social security number, contact information, and related skills came quickly. Blank were the three former employers and references. After a while he picked up the form, folded it, tucked it into his brown messenger bag between an oversized anthology of Medieval dramas and a King James Bible.
He exited the shop, holding a half-full and cold paper cup. He slipped a band of recycled cardboard from the cup's midsection and dropped this onto an overflowing trashcan. It rolled down onto the sidewalk, which was speckled with blackened quarter-sized splotches of whatever substance graces so many mouths. He walked down this surface a few meters to where his bicycle sat locked to a thick black fence.
Holding the cup off to the side in his left hand he swerved through the four lanes of traffic stopped in gridlock. The light brown contents dripped from his loose fingers. He came slowly to the intersection where the cross traffic remained parked beneath the lights, which cycled through their colors, and set his foot down on the broad white line. Through the thin flip flops he felt the thickness of the dirty paint. Engines pumped heat into the low summer afternoon. He drank from the cup, shook it next to his ear, dropped it on the line, and uprighted it with his foot. Then he stood hard on the pedals and the bike frame twisted as it moved forward on its narrow, soft tires.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
At Long Last, The Missing And Half Complete American Studies Paper
In her horrible little novel, CHARLOTTE TEMPLE, Rowson leans heavily on the tired convention of the moral. Her particular moral can be summed up as "you should seek to be wholly protected from the world by keeping yourself under the care of your family." The reason this might make sense within the story is because the main character, Charlotte, falls victim to a plot hatched by the opportunist Miss La Rue. Had Charlotte followed this moral more stringently, she would supposedly have fared much better than she actually did. From a contemporary perspective, this is hardly a worthwhile practice, but Rowson may be excused somewhat for her shortsightedness. After all, she wrote this during the Sentimentalist period, so we should not expect too much from her. One of the key markers of this period is a stout display of naivete by the main character. However, it is hard to imagine how this would be a good moral to follow during any period, whatsoever.
The moral appeals to what I will call a shelterist mentality. Charlotte should have sought the shelter of her family, particularly her father, instead of trusting her own supposedly inferior judgement. This kind of thinking presupposes that her own judgement is inherently worse than her parents', specifically, her father's. It seems rather intuitive that if she were to make that supposition, she would tend to see herself as an unintelligent individual. It would discourage her from facing any challenge whatsoever that is not first approved by her parents. And this essentially means that as long as she lives according to this moral, she will not face anything more challenging than her own loving father.
Yes, this might work, given one of two conditions are met. She either has to live in a hermetically sealed bubble, or her father has to be God. In a bubble, she would be totally safe, as long as she never stepped outside of the bubble. If her father were God... all bets would be off. In the real world, either of these conditions are seldom met. It turns out that there are in fact many Miss La Rue types out there. In order for the moral to be worth while, it would have to give us a clue as to how to deal with these kinds of people. Simply avoiding them would only be possible if we knew everything about them without going through the trouble of being duped by them in order to learn anything valuable about them them.
Rowson might respond that you don't need to know EVERYTHING about La Rue, just the important stuff, like whether or not she is trustworthy. You can get that information from other people you already trust. The best source for this would, of course, be your family. And the best family member would be, as always, the patriarch.
But, how does your family know whether or not its sources are trustworthy, which leads to questioning the structure of determining trustworthiness, which leads to a never ending loop of paranoia, ad infinitum? At some point someone has to be up to the challenge of dealing with La Rue.
Rowson would say to ignore all this nonsense, that the right person to deal with La Rue would be the patriarch,and that's all you need to worry about. And this works as a systematic approach because Charlotte is living in a fictional, patriarchal society. She will always have a patriarch there to protect her.
But when Rowson invokes the concept of "protecting" a proper translation would be something more like "thinking". Her father will do all the thinking for her until she is married off... then her husband will take it from there.
The moral is short sighted because in reality you can never be wholly
protected from the outside world, unless of course you were completely
isolated from it. Supposing this principle was known to her all along, I
assume she was at least trying to follow it, and was tricked into stepping
away from it. By adhering to this principle, as well as she knew how,
Charlotte was made especially susceptible to the wiles of such savory
characters as La Rue. In other words, we can try to follow the principle,
but it tends to make us vulnerable to being compromised - to compromising the very principle we are trying to follow. Again, it might work as long as there are no La Rues in the picture. But there are loads of them.
Therefore, it's a doomed principle.
I think this would parallel UNCLE TOM'S CABINn in the sense that the
principle Uncle Tom is adhering to is designed to keep him at bay. The
fact that he is working against his own interests is one thing, but when
Stowe presents it as a matter of fact, she is prescribing a certain moral
standard. Just as it is supposedly better for Uncle Tom to remain docile,
so too is it better for Charlotte to remain completely isolated from the
outside world. They follow the same shitty logic.
The moral appeals to what I will call a shelterist mentality. Charlotte should have sought the shelter of her family, particularly her father, instead of trusting her own supposedly inferior judgement. This kind of thinking presupposes that her own judgement is inherently worse than her parents', specifically, her father's. It seems rather intuitive that if she were to make that supposition, she would tend to see herself as an unintelligent individual. It would discourage her from facing any challenge whatsoever that is not first approved by her parents. And this essentially means that as long as she lives according to this moral, she will not face anything more challenging than her own loving father.
Yes, this might work, given one of two conditions are met. She either has to live in a hermetically sealed bubble, or her father has to be God. In a bubble, she would be totally safe, as long as she never stepped outside of the bubble. If her father were God... all bets would be off. In the real world, either of these conditions are seldom met. It turns out that there are in fact many Miss La Rue types out there. In order for the moral to be worth while, it would have to give us a clue as to how to deal with these kinds of people. Simply avoiding them would only be possible if we knew everything about them without going through the trouble of being duped by them in order to learn anything valuable about them them.
Rowson might respond that you don't need to know EVERYTHING about La Rue, just the important stuff, like whether or not she is trustworthy. You can get that information from other people you already trust. The best source for this would, of course, be your family. And the best family member would be, as always, the patriarch.
But, how does your family know whether or not its sources are trustworthy, which leads to questioning the structure of determining trustworthiness, which leads to a never ending loop of paranoia, ad infinitum? At some point someone has to be up to the challenge of dealing with La Rue.
Rowson would say to ignore all this nonsense, that the right person to deal with La Rue would be the patriarch,and that's all you need to worry about. And this works as a systematic approach because Charlotte is living in a fictional, patriarchal society. She will always have a patriarch there to protect her.
But when Rowson invokes the concept of "protecting" a proper translation would be something more like "thinking". Her father will do all the thinking for her until she is married off... then her husband will take it from there.
The moral is short sighted because in reality you can never be wholly
protected from the outside world, unless of course you were completely
isolated from it. Supposing this principle was known to her all along, I
assume she was at least trying to follow it, and was tricked into stepping
away from it. By adhering to this principle, as well as she knew how,
Charlotte was made especially susceptible to the wiles of such savory
characters as La Rue. In other words, we can try to follow the principle,
but it tends to make us vulnerable to being compromised - to compromising the very principle we are trying to follow. Again, it might work as long as there are no La Rues in the picture. But there are loads of them.
Therefore, it's a doomed principle.
I think this would parallel UNCLE TOM'S CABINn in the sense that the
principle Uncle Tom is adhering to is designed to keep him at bay. The
fact that he is working against his own interests is one thing, but when
Stowe presents it as a matter of fact, she is prescribing a certain moral
standard. Just as it is supposedly better for Uncle Tom to remain docile,
so too is it better for Charlotte to remain completely isolated from the
outside world. They follow the same shitty logic.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Mimi and I now live in that painfully cute town of Lambertville, New Jersey, full of art galleries, antique shops, glass shops, and coffee houses. These venues are nearly completely patroned by well funded baby boomers. They have grey hair, wear fully sponsored spandex leotards, and lean $3,000 ten speeds on the front window of whatever shop they are currently browsing. Inside, they walk awkwardly clacking clacking clacking around in their clipless bicycle shoes. Instead of riding their carbon fiber chariots over the 15-mile-an-hour bridge to the equally cute town of New Hope, Pennsylvania, the cycling enthusiasts gather in the sidewalk at one end of the bridge until their great pack reaches a critical mass. Then they start clacking across, pushing their bikes one-handed, never by the handlebars, but by the saddle thereby displaying a copious degree of balance. The other hand usually holds a formidable water bottle. I have yet to see one of these packs actually riding through the streets. Somehow, this town is not the town for riding my Shogun. It currently sits in our downstairs hallway, unused.
Mimi and I just got back from a trip to Maine, visiting my father and brother. It is January.
We stayed in Camden, which would give Lambertville a painfully cute run for its money in the summer. But in January, the place is somewhat desolate. We stayed at the Lord Camden Inn, eating free continental breakfasts every morning in the minimally ornate breakfast room, fully staffed by a chef wearing a tall puffy white hat - likely yearning to boil a lobster, and a plucky waitress who stood poised at the doorway with hands neatly folded in front, her head neatly turned away from us, but her attention focused entirely on us. And it turns out we were the only guests in this facility of 75 rooms. Each room had its own balcony, some overlooking the bookshops of Main Street, which were fully stocked with books written by local authors. Our room, however, overlooked a fast-running canal, greatly padded with soft snow, packed with inns and restaurants climbing on stilts from the water's edge. At night I left the curtains open, not fearing anybody would see us in our glory, me picking my ear. Ours was the only lighted window.
Mimi and I just got back from a trip to Maine, visiting my father and brother. It is January.
We stayed in Camden, which would give Lambertville a painfully cute run for its money in the summer. But in January, the place is somewhat desolate. We stayed at the Lord Camden Inn, eating free continental breakfasts every morning in the minimally ornate breakfast room, fully staffed by a chef wearing a tall puffy white hat - likely yearning to boil a lobster, and a plucky waitress who stood poised at the doorway with hands neatly folded in front, her head neatly turned away from us, but her attention focused entirely on us. And it turns out we were the only guests in this facility of 75 rooms. Each room had its own balcony, some overlooking the bookshops of Main Street, which were fully stocked with books written by local authors. Our room, however, overlooked a fast-running canal, greatly padded with soft snow, packed with inns and restaurants climbing on stilts from the water's edge. At night I left the curtains open, not fearing anybody would see us in our glory, me picking my ear. Ours was the only lighted window.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Friendly Advertisement
Welcome to my warm-hearted collection of short fiction, and stuff that should be fiction, about my bicycle, life, etcetera. This blog is basically a glorious showcase of my life's work. It ranges from riding the train to building a closet to pointing out the flaws of Rutgers University in New Brunswick. Why, there's little I've left to do. And I've written it nearly all down. Fact is, I sometimes worry about running out of good meaty material before I die. That's what happened to Hemingway. Wound up writing bootleg Charlie Brown comic strips in Bermuda because all the good wars dried up. Since I don't want that to happen to me, I absolutely refuse to slow down with my wild, breakneck lifestyle. Why just the other day I was realizing the horrible ironies of televangelism... But you'll have to search through my many adventures to find out what I'm talking about. The point is, this is very exciting and adventurous stuff. It's so exciting you can't believe it. You just can't stand it it's so exotic. Why, if you bundled together fifty different species of tropical birds in a pillowcase and trained them all to sing "When the Saints Come Marching Home", that wouldn't compare to the delights you'll find while perusing My Shogun. So get started, and please feel free to make comments galore, since I've no other way of hearing from you, my beloved readers.
A Public Service Announcement
I have to take this math course before I can graduate next spring. It's almost the lowest level of math offered by the fine people here at Rutgers. Elementary Algebra - as if I was supposed to have learned this stuff before leaving the fifth grade. Anyway, it doesn't look good because I keep bombing my tests. It's not that I don't get the ideas, it's just that I can't seem to copy the problems onto my paper. Sometimes 6 turns into x. That's because when I think "six" I see the x. Sometimes 8 also turns into an x because there's an x in the middle of the 8. I also confuse plus and minus signs because there's a minus sign in a plus sign. There are many more that I haven't pinned down yet.
This is frustrating stuff because even though I know to a large extent what I'm doing wrong, I can't seem to slow down and focus hard enough to stop doing it. So I thought, that sounds like ADD. I called the psychological testing services here at Rugters to see if there was a test I could take.
Oh was there a test. "Let me break this down for you," said the grad student on duty, "because it's expensive. For $450, you can take the ADD test, but for only $250 you can take the ADHD test. Then there's the combined test, where we test for ADD and ADHD at the same time. There you're back up to $450."
Well, the clever pricing alone put a stop to my delusions of grandeur. But there's something strange about it still. Even if I had the money. It's not like you walk in and say, "hey there's something wrong with me can you help?" It's set up like they're selling a product.
I was telling my friend about all this and he warned me that insurance companies consider ADD a pre-existing mental illness. That means they can probably find loopholes to get out of paying for services should I ever need them. That is, of course, if I purchase my test results. I didn't fact-check that one. My assumption that my friend is right is probably tainted with bias. I'm really just imposing my belief that the insurance companies lack a certain pre-existing morality.
So, if you're struggling with a similar problem, there may be no actual resources.
This has been a public service announcement from the ADD Council.
This is frustrating stuff because even though I know to a large extent what I'm doing wrong, I can't seem to slow down and focus hard enough to stop doing it. So I thought, that sounds like ADD. I called the psychological testing services here at Rugters to see if there was a test I could take.
Oh was there a test. "Let me break this down for you," said the grad student on duty, "because it's expensive. For $450, you can take the ADD test, but for only $250 you can take the ADHD test. Then there's the combined test, where we test for ADD and ADHD at the same time. There you're back up to $450."
Well, the clever pricing alone put a stop to my delusions of grandeur. But there's something strange about it still. Even if I had the money. It's not like you walk in and say, "hey there's something wrong with me can you help?" It's set up like they're selling a product.
I was telling my friend about all this and he warned me that insurance companies consider ADD a pre-existing mental illness. That means they can probably find loopholes to get out of paying for services should I ever need them. That is, of course, if I purchase my test results. I didn't fact-check that one. My assumption that my friend is right is probably tainted with bias. I'm really just imposing my belief that the insurance companies lack a certain pre-existing morality.
So, if you're struggling with a similar problem, there may be no actual resources.
This has been a public service announcement from the ADD Council.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Relativism? What?
I don't know about you, but I've been hearing a lot about this thing called relativism lately. It sounds like a trendy thing to talk about and then avoid like the plague.
I happened to see a televangelist the other day. It was the day of the election and behind the speaker there were giant cardboard cutouts of the Democratic ass and the Republican elephant, implying a reasonably balanced perspective. At any rate, I thought it had to do with what was going on at that moment. I normally don't watch televangelists but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
As usual the speaker was rather charismatic, delivering highly abstract messages in crisp 40-second sound bites. The perfect format for an in depth theological analysis. He was giving us an overview of the political landscape right now. He spread his arms apart to show the two sides, also making himself appear much bigger as he stretched the ability of his shirt to remain tucked neatly into his jeans. We were at war, he said. It was truth versus relativism.
I was hooked. Not only did I consider myself a member of the studio audience, I was already very familiar with the two sides, having been steeped in pop-evangelical-culture at youth group in Maine. Truth was obviously the side to be on. Relativism appeared sexy at first, but was quickly revealed to be a brain-fart. It was a philosophy that said something may be right for person A, and wrong for B. Therefore truth is relative. It's like this, the speaker said, Professor Fuzzyface comes into the classroom and hands out a multiple-choice test. Each question has four possible answers, but don't worry. None of them are wrong. That's relativism!
This drew quiet applause and knowing chuckles. Oh those relativists. We had all been avoiding them for years.
In reality, he asserted, it's not like that at all. Truth is absolute and tied to God. God is truth. The Bible is the only source of pure, unadulterated truth. It's got electrolytes.
Electrolytes.
It's not up to us to decide what's right and wrong. Oh no sir.
No sir.
There is a standard for measuring what is right and what is wrong. And that standard is the infallible word of God.
Husbands drew their wives closer and the wives leaned forward and nodded.
Marriage ought to be held to the absolute standard of the Bible. And the Bible says, cover to cover, that marriage is between one man and one woman! Couldn't be clearer.
Except, of course, for all the polygamy. But we all overlooked that minor detail because he was quickly making another much farther-reaching point. A point so big and manly and important that it made monogamy and polygamy look like identical twin sisters. It was a point that brought to light a view that was shearly opposed everything the bible stood for. This magnanimous point was that God hated to see the gays getting married. The speaker strode back and forth across the stage like a lion. You can't say that men marrying men is okay these days because... because... because, he whispered, truth is relative. No my friends, he roared, truth is not relative! The camera cut to a rear shot. You could see the battery pack for the wireless microphone tucked into the back of his jeans. This guy was high tech, yet resourceful. Smart enough to not draw attention to just how high tech and yet resourceful he was.
I think I would like to meet a relativist, briefly. A really prime candidate. One who actually does think that something we universally consider unthinkable here and now is actually okay and maybe even the right thing to do in a different land and a different time. I don't know... take genocide for example? I don't know of ANYONE who would even try to cobble together an argument that says, under these circumstances, it's okay to go ahead and wipe out an entire ethnicity, or race. The whole thing. Every man woman and child.
I'm being facetious. Of course I have met relativists. The speaker was one. He believed the Bible literally. That means that when an Israeli general ordered his men to kill children, it was okay for his men to do so. According to the general, this was God's will and that made it right. But if a soldier received that order today, even with the general's assurance that it was God's idea in the first place, I'm sure the speaker would object. I hope. If he would object, then that's relativism if I ever saw it. Am I wrong? It seems like the people who complain about relativism are generally predisposed to just that.
Or am I just picking low fruit?
I happened to see a televangelist the other day. It was the day of the election and behind the speaker there were giant cardboard cutouts of the Democratic ass and the Republican elephant, implying a reasonably balanced perspective. At any rate, I thought it had to do with what was going on at that moment. I normally don't watch televangelists but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
As usual the speaker was rather charismatic, delivering highly abstract messages in crisp 40-second sound bites. The perfect format for an in depth theological analysis. He was giving us an overview of the political landscape right now. He spread his arms apart to show the two sides, also making himself appear much bigger as he stretched the ability of his shirt to remain tucked neatly into his jeans. We were at war, he said. It was truth versus relativism.
I was hooked. Not only did I consider myself a member of the studio audience, I was already very familiar with the two sides, having been steeped in pop-evangelical-culture at youth group in Maine. Truth was obviously the side to be on. Relativism appeared sexy at first, but was quickly revealed to be a brain-fart. It was a philosophy that said something may be right for person A, and wrong for B. Therefore truth is relative. It's like this, the speaker said, Professor Fuzzyface comes into the classroom and hands out a multiple-choice test. Each question has four possible answers, but don't worry. None of them are wrong. That's relativism!
This drew quiet applause and knowing chuckles. Oh those relativists. We had all been avoiding them for years.
In reality, he asserted, it's not like that at all. Truth is absolute and tied to God. God is truth. The Bible is the only source of pure, unadulterated truth. It's got electrolytes.
Electrolytes.
It's not up to us to decide what's right and wrong. Oh no sir.
No sir.
There is a standard for measuring what is right and what is wrong. And that standard is the infallible word of God.
Husbands drew their wives closer and the wives leaned forward and nodded.
Marriage ought to be held to the absolute standard of the Bible. And the Bible says, cover to cover, that marriage is between one man and one woman! Couldn't be clearer.
Except, of course, for all the polygamy. But we all overlooked that minor detail because he was quickly making another much farther-reaching point. A point so big and manly and important that it made monogamy and polygamy look like identical twin sisters. It was a point that brought to light a view that was shearly opposed everything the bible stood for. This magnanimous point was that God hated to see the gays getting married. The speaker strode back and forth across the stage like a lion. You can't say that men marrying men is okay these days because... because... because, he whispered, truth is relative. No my friends, he roared, truth is not relative! The camera cut to a rear shot. You could see the battery pack for the wireless microphone tucked into the back of his jeans. This guy was high tech, yet resourceful. Smart enough to not draw attention to just how high tech and yet resourceful he was.
I think I would like to meet a relativist, briefly. A really prime candidate. One who actually does think that something we universally consider unthinkable here and now is actually okay and maybe even the right thing to do in a different land and a different time. I don't know... take genocide for example? I don't know of ANYONE who would even try to cobble together an argument that says, under these circumstances, it's okay to go ahead and wipe out an entire ethnicity, or race. The whole thing. Every man woman and child.
I'm being facetious. Of course I have met relativists. The speaker was one. He believed the Bible literally. That means that when an Israeli general ordered his men to kill children, it was okay for his men to do so. According to the general, this was God's will and that made it right. But if a soldier received that order today, even with the general's assurance that it was God's idea in the first place, I'm sure the speaker would object. I hope. If he would object, then that's relativism if I ever saw it. Am I wrong? It seems like the people who complain about relativism are generally predisposed to just that.
Or am I just picking low fruit?
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Egalitariate
Oscar considered his Hummer to be his inner sanctum. It was there he felt most in touch with the mysterious essence of his being. Every man must have a private sanctum, he thought. If they don't, they should get one.
He had had the windows tinted. All of them, even the front two and windshield were like a cop's sunglasses. He had to pay a fine of $250 in order to tint the front ones and the windshield, but he hardly cared. That was the price of two tanks of gas.
He took advantage of his privacy at this point to use his cell phone the way God intended: held to the ear and without fear of being pulled over.
"You got the job?" he said. "Terrific! Where? - Hold on." He was speaking with his soon-to-be-fiance, Nancy. He let the phone drop from his hand so he could grip the large steering wheel with both hands as his giant tires turned a stray dog into a squirt of jelly.
"Where? Seylene's?" He didn't know or recognize the place of business. "Of course, fantastic."
He planned to ask for her hand in marriage that very night at Terhune Orchard. Amidst the sleeping flocks of geese and millions of flashing green fireflies, he would kneel down and present his $30,000 diamond ring. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of.
He said goodbye and fell to rehearsing a small speech he had prepared for the event. "I want an egalitarian marriage. That's the plan here. The goal. Perfect equality between me and you. Husband and wife splitting - no sharing - everything, right down the middle. That includes income, childcare, everything." This speech always made him excited. How could she say no, he wondered. It was a sure thing.
Later that night, he found himself at the restaurant Pad Thai, instead of Terhune Orchard, as he had expected. The little ring box pressed relentlessly against his leg under the table.
"Thanks for coming here," said Nancy. She wore plastic flip flops from two years ago.
He adjusted his chair. "No problem."
"You're upset."
"Seylene's is a lingerie shop? You're selling lingerie?"
"Bras." She changed the way she was sitting in her seat before continuing. "It's very important for a woman to have a bra that fits. If she looks better, she feels better - what?"
He used the cloth napkin to wipe the dry corner of his mouth. "Nothing." He didn't like the fact that she was wearing the tight shorts that said Abercrombie and Fitch across her ass. He wondered if that's what she wore to work.
"I'm helping women to feel better. Besides, it's a lot more money. I can make, like, what I used to make in a day, in like, four hours!"
The waiter filled their glasses with ice water. Oscar raised his hand for attention. "Leave the pitcher, please." He turned back to Nancy. "You're promoting a feminine ideal."
"No I'm not!"
"Whatever." The light came through the leaves and the glass of the window so that they were part shadowed and part illuminated. The sun struck the window in such a way that nobody could see them from outside. The place was not very full. Not many people knew about Pad Thai, even though it was right there on Nassau Street.
"Have you ever heard the story of the overflowing tea?"
"No." The waiter had not brought them anything to much on. Nothing to whet their appetite. She pinched the hem of her shorts and tugged, straightening them down her legs.
He picked up the glass pitcher. "There's this student and a wise man. The student starts asking him all these questions but the wise man just sits there. Doesn't say a thing."
She looked at the pitcher. The sweat trickled down his knuckles and a drop hung from the bottom one. A prism.
"Finally the student says, 'Can you hear me?' and he says, 'Pour me some tea.'" He held the ring box tight in his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. "So she starts pouring," and he threaded the water from the pitcher to top off her already full glass, which quickly overfilled.
"What are you doing?"
"Soon the tea started to spill onto the table and onto the floor."
She looked around to see if people were staring. Nobody noticed. The water crept into her lap, soaked beneath her underwear. "Stop it, please!" She squirmed a little and sounded scared. "I don't...."
"And soon there was no more tea and the student asked, 'What's your point?' and the wise man said, 'When the cup is full, it cannot hold more. So it is with you. First you must empty yourself before you can receive knowledge.'"
She scooted away from the table.
"Now you're upset, babe. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I...." She took off her thick green sweater and laid it across her lap. "I don't feel well."
"Well that's just fine." He let go of the ring box and it remained slightly ajar. The hinge was slightly damaged.
"I'm sorry, I've been feeling bad all day. It must be my period."
"No, it's not your fault, hun. I'll make you something at home." They stood up and she tied her sweatshirt around her waist, hiding the wet spot.
The waiter approached them with his hands together. "You're leaving? Is everything okay?"
Oscar bit his lip and looked at Nancy's sweater. "Everything's fine. We're not feeling well is all." The waiter looked also.
They walked down the street and came to her car first. It was a Honda Civic. "I'll drive you to your car," she said.
"Thanks."
The seat was too far forward so he reached down to adjust it.
"It's broken," she said.
He spread his legs as wide as the car would allow and pushed himself into the seat. "Do you really need to go home? or can I show you something?" There was still time to make it to Terhune.
"I guess."
"I want to take you somewhere special tonight." The sun was below the buildings. It shined into their eyes as they came near the Municipal Parking Garage. "Pull over here. Wait for me."
He came out driving his Hummer and pulled up behind her, slowly. She was on the phone and didn't notice him there so he kept inching closer until he tapped the trunk with his bumper. This startled her and she pulled her phone away as if it had become a wasp. She put her car into gear and waited for him to back up. He laughed even though he didn't want to. He bit his lip, but laughed more.
He didn't move because she could easily pull into traffic by turning sharp and moving ahead. By now he had forgotten about Terhune.
She put her car back into park and got out. She walked slowly to his door and waited to be acknowledged. She had to look up and he knew she could not see him. He smiled and waited. She could not see the dog's blood on the passenger side fender, either.
She tapped the glass and he continued to smile. Then he put the phone to his ear and let the window down. He looked at her.
She didn't want to embarrass him so she made it sound like a joke. "You boxed me in, you dope."
He made his eyes big, like he was embarrassed and fumbled to put his vehicle into reverse while maintaining the phone on his cheek. He blocked his mouth from the receiver and whispered, "Sorry."
He had had the windows tinted. All of them, even the front two and windshield were like a cop's sunglasses. He had to pay a fine of $250 in order to tint the front ones and the windshield, but he hardly cared. That was the price of two tanks of gas.
He took advantage of his privacy at this point to use his cell phone the way God intended: held to the ear and without fear of being pulled over.
"You got the job?" he said. "Terrific! Where? - Hold on." He was speaking with his soon-to-be-fiance, Nancy. He let the phone drop from his hand so he could grip the large steering wheel with both hands as his giant tires turned a stray dog into a squirt of jelly.
"Where? Seylene's?" He didn't know or recognize the place of business. "Of course, fantastic."
He planned to ask for her hand in marriage that very night at Terhune Orchard. Amidst the sleeping flocks of geese and millions of flashing green fireflies, he would kneel down and present his $30,000 diamond ring. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of.
He said goodbye and fell to rehearsing a small speech he had prepared for the event. "I want an egalitarian marriage. That's the plan here. The goal. Perfect equality between me and you. Husband and wife splitting - no sharing - everything, right down the middle. That includes income, childcare, everything." This speech always made him excited. How could she say no, he wondered. It was a sure thing.
Later that night, he found himself at the restaurant Pad Thai, instead of Terhune Orchard, as he had expected. The little ring box pressed relentlessly against his leg under the table.
"Thanks for coming here," said Nancy. She wore plastic flip flops from two years ago.
He adjusted his chair. "No problem."
"You're upset."
"Seylene's is a lingerie shop? You're selling lingerie?"
"Bras." She changed the way she was sitting in her seat before continuing. "It's very important for a woman to have a bra that fits. If she looks better, she feels better - what?"
He used the cloth napkin to wipe the dry corner of his mouth. "Nothing." He didn't like the fact that she was wearing the tight shorts that said Abercrombie and Fitch across her ass. He wondered if that's what she wore to work.
"I'm helping women to feel better. Besides, it's a lot more money. I can make, like, what I used to make in a day, in like, four hours!"
The waiter filled their glasses with ice water. Oscar raised his hand for attention. "Leave the pitcher, please." He turned back to Nancy. "You're promoting a feminine ideal."
"No I'm not!"
"Whatever." The light came through the leaves and the glass of the window so that they were part shadowed and part illuminated. The sun struck the window in such a way that nobody could see them from outside. The place was not very full. Not many people knew about Pad Thai, even though it was right there on Nassau Street.
"Have you ever heard the story of the overflowing tea?"
"No." The waiter had not brought them anything to much on. Nothing to whet their appetite. She pinched the hem of her shorts and tugged, straightening them down her legs.
He picked up the glass pitcher. "There's this student and a wise man. The student starts asking him all these questions but the wise man just sits there. Doesn't say a thing."
She looked at the pitcher. The sweat trickled down his knuckles and a drop hung from the bottom one. A prism.
"Finally the student says, 'Can you hear me?' and he says, 'Pour me some tea.'" He held the ring box tight in his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. "So she starts pouring," and he threaded the water from the pitcher to top off her already full glass, which quickly overfilled.
"What are you doing?"
"Soon the tea started to spill onto the table and onto the floor."
She looked around to see if people were staring. Nobody noticed. The water crept into her lap, soaked beneath her underwear. "Stop it, please!" She squirmed a little and sounded scared. "I don't...."
"And soon there was no more tea and the student asked, 'What's your point?' and the wise man said, 'When the cup is full, it cannot hold more. So it is with you. First you must empty yourself before you can receive knowledge.'"
She scooted away from the table.
"Now you're upset, babe. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I...." She took off her thick green sweater and laid it across her lap. "I don't feel well."
"Well that's just fine." He let go of the ring box and it remained slightly ajar. The hinge was slightly damaged.
"I'm sorry, I've been feeling bad all day. It must be my period."
"No, it's not your fault, hun. I'll make you something at home." They stood up and she tied her sweatshirt around her waist, hiding the wet spot.
The waiter approached them with his hands together. "You're leaving? Is everything okay?"
Oscar bit his lip and looked at Nancy's sweater. "Everything's fine. We're not feeling well is all." The waiter looked also.
They walked down the street and came to her car first. It was a Honda Civic. "I'll drive you to your car," she said.
"Thanks."
The seat was too far forward so he reached down to adjust it.
"It's broken," she said.
He spread his legs as wide as the car would allow and pushed himself into the seat. "Do you really need to go home? or can I show you something?" There was still time to make it to Terhune.
"I guess."
"I want to take you somewhere special tonight." The sun was below the buildings. It shined into their eyes as they came near the Municipal Parking Garage. "Pull over here. Wait for me."
He came out driving his Hummer and pulled up behind her, slowly. She was on the phone and didn't notice him there so he kept inching closer until he tapped the trunk with his bumper. This startled her and she pulled her phone away as if it had become a wasp. She put her car into gear and waited for him to back up. He laughed even though he didn't want to. He bit his lip, but laughed more.
He didn't move because she could easily pull into traffic by turning sharp and moving ahead. By now he had forgotten about Terhune.
She put her car back into park and got out. She walked slowly to his door and waited to be acknowledged. She had to look up and he knew she could not see him. He smiled and waited. She could not see the dog's blood on the passenger side fender, either.
She tapped the glass and he continued to smile. Then he put the phone to his ear and let the window down. He looked at her.
She didn't want to embarrass him so she made it sound like a joke. "You boxed me in, you dope."
He made his eyes big, like he was embarrassed and fumbled to put his vehicle into reverse while maintaining the phone on his cheek. He blocked his mouth from the receiver and whispered, "Sorry."
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