Onze Labs

Turbulent Indigo

From the Covers series

Moments ago a squid spat its warning above the land and the fog sopped up the ink, leaving a streak of pale to mark where the clouds are not.

     Quel jour: what a day, mercifully drowned in a liquid sky.

Nevermind

There is a universe in which this makes sense.

From the Covers series

Happy Birthday to You

     Nathan said he didn't want company and Pauline knew that meant including her, but she preferred to read it as he didn't want to be around anyone other than her. She just had to be sure.

     So she had a vegetable curry, a saag paneer, saffron rice, one garlic and one regular naan sent to his apartment from the place around the corner they used to stop on the way home, where he had first mooned over her, told her her eyes were the color of cilantro and just as refreshing, where she knew at last and after all this was someone worth her weekends and as many nights a week as he would ask.

     It was this place that sent the Indian pizza they ate while baking cookies for Valentine's Day. And it was this place, the next month, where she had tried, in vain, over samosas and papadam to catch his eyes and where she'd left him sitting, sipping the cheap house red, waiting for the chana masala he'd ordered too spicy for her taste anyway—as if he'd wanted her to leave all along. He'd been dropped these signs for two weeks and she had finally noticed them and followed, that was all, and now she was backtracking, wondering if perhaps she'd been mistaken, misread in the warnings in the dim light and exited love's highway too soon. Perhaps he had been sending signal flares—men had trouble expressing need, Nathan had said so.

     Pauline sat in the stark light of the restaurant, gripping her cellphone, fully believing that ny second it would buzz her hand and Nathan would laugh in her ear, tell what a surprise, the card was great, come over and help me eat this food. She kept her hand in her pocket so no one could see what she was doing, even though no one could possibly know what she was waiting for, they surely figured she was waiting for her takeout order.

     But she felt obvious anyway, felt as exposed as she had that first night Nathan had stared at her. She felt as exposed and not nearly as confident that the evening would end so well.  She nodded at the waitress who recognized her, just smiled and shrugged her shoulders when the woman asked her where her friend was tonight. She shifted her weight on the red vinyl seat cushion, sipped a chai until the delivery man came back with his hand full of receipts he passed to the cashier.

     She stood up and reached him in three steps.

     "So he took the food?" She reached out her hand as if to grasp the delivery man's sleeve, but just curled her fingers into her palm. "Did he say anything?"

     The man didn't seem to understand her and she realized he'd delivered three orders on his trip.

     "The first one—the one around the corner, on Page."

     The delivery man's face lit up. "Oh, no, he didn't want to take it, but the lady said why not—free food." He disappeared into the kitchen.

     It seemed to take Pauline forever to turn herself around and find her way to the door. She was several blocks past Nathan's street and halfway home before thinking she might have ordered something for herself.

From the Covers series

Bad

[From Janet's Dream Journal and part of the Covers series]

Jackson Pollack was staring at me, wearing my orange striped blouse and looking at me and acting the little shit, like to dare me to tell him to give it back. He didn't talk, just looked mournful, as if he wanted something from me. But you're wearing my shirt, I thought, what more do you want?

I didn't realize who he was until I woke up in that neighborhood that dreams and consciousness co-inhabit.

A lost man.

That is was my first thought as I hovered over the experience I was still mired in, though I felt far enough from him to be safe.

The dream came back to me in episodes that replayed in reverse chronology:

I panicked, thinking I'd missed his show, missed being there with him, missed him. I realized that I had in fact missed the show but he hadn't told me about it and he hadn't told me about the show because he had died like twenty years before I was born.

I was in a museum all alone. It was incredibly bright, everywhere I walked, even in the rooms with no windows. The brightness didn't seem natural and that was what had my attention, not the paintings and other art work. I walked from room to room not understanding why it was so bright.

Sophia was calling me on the phone—I could hear her voice coming from the phone calling my name but when I picked up the receiver, it was just the dial tone. The room went blue when I realized I'd only imagined that Sophia was calling, all the furniture and the walls turned like a black and white photograph but it was blue.

In the grocery store I watched a pyramid of mangoes tumble and suddenly all the fruits in the produce section were falling in an avalanche of color. My feet were glued to the floor I could not move and the apples and limes and all the other round fruits rolled all around me and every time I thought I would be buried the pile would fall again, so it was a constant stream of fruit towering up and falling down around me. I wondered why I couldn't be buried in bananas, which I like better and would smash if I walked on them.

Everybody wants to save the world.

By the time I remembered that line I couldn't remember who in my dream had said it, if I had or if someone had said it to me and I was awake enough to know that those were the wrong lyrics anyway because they are still playing on the clock radio alarm and the words are Everybody wants to rule the world and right now that seems like such an overwhelming project to take on and why do I want to pick up the phone just in case Sophia is calling me?

 

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

We nursed a low-grade bicker halfway up the hill, following the ruts that tires had plowed through mud the spring sun had since baked into a path. We laughed—to ourselves, at each other—pretended we were just playing because a whole weekend with three other couples was waiting up there for us.

    You kept walking when I stopped, kept talking, and I was about to follow without sharing my find but something made you turn your head and you walked back to me, silenced, and stared down where my eyes were fixed. I felt you share my wonder and delight, I felt you feel, in your held breath, the caterpillar's gait ripple through its bald green length and for a moment I believed anything was possible—even that I had been wrong about the gully between us,  a space that a moment before had been as obvious as the signs around us of the mountain spring: late afternoon sun, swift running creek, budding clover and poppies. We looked at each other and for once that was enough.

    A motor, shifting into second gear and climbing toward us, called my attention away. I bent to pick up a leaf and as you stepped up out of the groove you said What are you doing? and our disagreement rematerialized and you tried to disguise it and said, softly this time,  He'll be OK and I heard in your tone and saw in your eyes how you needed my accord so I stepped up beside you but looked down toward the approaching car.

    I couldn't tell you what kind of car it was or whether there was a mark left there in the dirt afterward but I remember how hot the sun was and how bright the day, how tight the turtleneck around my throat as I watched you shake your head and whisper I thought he'd make it.

    You took my hand and in that gesture I heard your contrition, heard it snap the last remaining thread that had tethered me to you.

Part of the Covers series

Graceland

You challenged me
to use phalanges in a story, a poem,
said you'd be impressed
if I could do it without sounding ridiculous.
That's the way we go: you throw, I catch & run and you chase,
call out the next play, determine the formation,
and that way we get somewhere. That's how it seems so far,
of late—but wait: important to state that not all of this is real
no matter how true it feels. There's the rub, the hub and the risk
of working in words: the more you think you disguise,
the weaker the lies until the digits point and wag and what I never meant
to say you ever said is what sticks, in the throat; chokes. Us. Both.

Your words were real and clever and kind and used to reach my eyes
before my mind had time to spin your coy grin into a sneer.
When you start keeping score, parse out the cost, read fear as frost
is when you're lost. Love means finding a way.

Others would stop there, throw hands in the air, yell
"GOAL!" but not I, not thee—we go all the way, take
the long way 'round, run that ball deep, pound it
into the ground and dance, dance, dance through the end zone.
No, not done yet, a poem about phalanges, a poem "about" you
must include actual fingers on the keys and you and me;
the notes, the nights: restau-bars, chaste au revoirs—
and for the most part no cars—feet, drinks neat, Anglo beat,
and then those kisses, kisses, kisses, all… the way… home.

Four sets of phalanges we have, you and I—each—so
between us fifty-six bones but it only takes one
phalanx to take aim and here's where we come to the point
of this phalangeal fiction: where shields go up
and swords stand out but the worst wounds occur
because armor is difficult to walk in, mi amor,
and in a field littered with bons mots a soldier is bound to trip.
I bled and you said you had expected as much and then fell ill
but still showed a measure of care—but there is where it started,
where the chain mail began to clink
and I heard the first chink in what had felt
like a hale heart and holy frame. You didn't blink. Or wink. I picked,
you bit, and the rest of it was all about believing what we wanted to
and dancing around the sniffles, all the way home.

War is hell and hell is other people and we are not like them—
we agree on that—but what about compatibility?
A compromise is a promise together and compassion
means to suffer with and this tiff is stiffing us each and both
and driving our lives apart.
    What do you want from me?
does not imply a granting of the wish but nevertheless
    I don't know
really blows because we know what we want
and we know what we want is unreasonable:
to jump into the river without getting wet,
without having to trudge home in wet socks,
slipping on rocks, our garbage in tow; exhausted, unmoored, lost;
and we, riven, all the more vulnerable to the bears whose habitat, whose home
and abode we've trampled in our trammelling.
But this is the way of community, of communion, a holy union,
a phalanstery of two: knees scrape, throats chafe, and love is unsafe;
running and falling, calling out to the wild,
    Wait—help—I've never been this way before…

No river is ever the same twice and here the water freezes
where it once was warm and the shallows are steeped with leeches,
after what blood we've left. Back on shore the path is no more, brambles
slice and snare, carpet bomb the way, obscure the where and somehow
there is so much more to pack out than we seemed to carry in.
The bears, they are we—bumbling about, feeling sure, matting fur,
scrounging scraps, dropping scat, having mistaken a warm spell for spring.

Of a winter day the songs that then softened now sting, paralyze the world
your fingers drew forth—each breath, such depth, now bereft
of art; a dearth of mirth—and your recipe, your originality
is again all foreign to me. Complexity equals inscrutability,
and we—that you, that me—reluctantly,
are done and gone. Gone, gone, gone, floating away
on that icy stream, rushing, raging, far out to sea.

Part of the Covers series

Wipe Out (2)

Larraine considered what she might have done to prevent this situation, and first she thought she could have not gone skiing with Leonard and his friends. They were expert skiers and she had never yet stayed standing all the way down a beginner slope. And after the initial invite, Leonard seemed to be more into spending the weekend with these friends, not particularly interested in getting her to know them.

    Leonard was quiet on the drive to the mountains; he would have said, had she remarked, that he was focused on the road, on driving, on making sure they made it to Tahoe safely, but that wasn't it. The roads were clean, the weather clear. They didn't need the chains they'd borrowed, which Leonard didn't know how to put on anyway and was too cheap and proud to pay someone else to do for him; so Larraine was glad that hadn't become an issue.

    Larraine would have liked to talk about something, if not Leonard's friends then what they'd do that weekend, what he liked about skiing in Tahoe, jeez, what they were going to make for lunch when they took their turn cooking for the group of 10—themselves the only couple—in the rented house. But Leonard was hunched over the wheel, squinting into the blue afternoon light, looking like the man he might become, 40 or 50 years hence. Larraine was glad they were driving up during the day but soon began to wonder if she'd made a mistake taking Friday off from work. Not a good sign, she thought, when cleaning up a database is preferable to spending a weekend with your boyfriend.

    From this vantage point—looking past her right leg, enveloped in space-age hot pink plaster and propped up on a chair in front of the couch, to watch a Friends rerun while eating home-delivered Indian food she ordered herself—things probably went the best they could. Yes, he'd not shown her interest or kindness for the three weeks before, up to and including her tumble down the mountain; yes, from the moment they set their bags in the room with three bunk beds instead of one queen he'd been showing off to another girl; yes, he refused to make even one run with her down the beginner slope, just to help her acclimate; and yes, he clearly never had any intention of telling her he just wasn't that into her anymore, after pursuing her as avidly as he was avoiding her now, after being the first to admit falling hard and fast. Yeah well.

    This is what had made Larraine go in the first place, despite a nagging doubt; and this is what had sent her straight to the chairlift, without a lesson; because this is what propelled her into Leonard's arms in the first place, though she hadn't thought about it until she heard two snowboarders on the lift behind her:

    "Dude, it's like, you're gonna fall."

    "Right?"

    "And there are three kinds of falls."

    "Oh Yeah."

    "One, you're all, 'No way am I falling, Dude! Fuck that shit!' And you're like crawling down the slope, not fucking falling, OK, but not fucking boarding either, so I'm calling that a fall."

    "Right on."

    "Two, you're like going along, just gettin into it and whatever and you're like, picking up speed and you start to psych yourself out, you're all like, 'Fuck, man, I'm gonna fall!' so you just make yourself wipe out."

    "Totally. Done that."

    "But those falls suck. Those are beat. Wrong. Way. To. Go. You know why? Because the only way to fall, the only true wipe out, is the one you don't see coming, can't see coming because you are too busy rockin that mountain, getting your powder on, workin workin a little slalom action, you're cool, you're doin it, man, you catch some air, then wham! You're eating snow.

    "Now that's of course the most physically painful fall, the one that's going to get you hoping that bullshit HMO you got is going to cover your ass in a hospital four hours from home, but you gotta love that fall, you're proud of that fall because you know what? You were fucking doing that mountain, man, you were fucking tearing it up and if it spanked you back, that just means you sucker-punched the motherfucker first."

Part of the Covers series

Would I Lie to You?

Desmond tasted the words as he spoke them. They smeared an oily gall across his tongue that stayed there long after the sentence evaporated into the air. It wasn't the words themselves or even their meaning but rather how easily his mouth formed them, automatically, without thinking, they were out there, they had stained him and surprised him before he even realized he was participating in a conversation. He had fabricated fictions before, plenty of them, elaborate fairy tales in which he starred, stories so ridiculous the listener believed the sentiment that appeared to inspire them. But this one, murmured in a tone all earnestness and sincerity, a lame pair of words, the easiest to utter, the least likely to be believed and he hoped that they would not deceive but imagined that the bitter tang signaled they had been well received, his pitiful, wrongful "Me too."

Part of the Covers series

Back on the Chain Gang

    Tommy is running late so he enters the museum through the café instead of going around to the Minna Street employee entrance. He stops and motions to Rogelio behind the counter that he'd like a coffee and Rogelio draws it right away, but not before raising his eyebrows and tapping his wrist to indicate the time.

    "Dude, I know," Tommy tells him. "This is for el Jefe." Rogelio points his chin at Tommy in recognition, then shakes his head. "I know, I know, Roge: You'd never get away with this. Dumb fuckin' luck, man. Shoulda been born white." Tommy raises the coffee in a toast to Rogelio and as he turns, tosses over his shoulder, "Or got a job in security."

    He crosses the lobby, assuming a gait and carriage that he imagines to be efficient and inconspicuous and indeed no one remarks on his passage. Chip Henry is at the main security desk and is listening to his girlfriend or a message from his girlfriend on his cellphone, and he says nothing to Tommy as he waves his ID badge before the card reader that lets him into the museum's inner office.

    When Tommy sees Michael Young, his boss, he hands him the cup and says, "Thought you might need this."

    "Looks like you needed one of those, Parks. The shift starts at 11, not 11:05." Michael looks full forward, ignoring both Tommy's baleful expression and the cup of coffee; keeps walking, his Marine strut still present in his civilian saunter, his officer's authority still coloring the timbre of his voice. Tommy sighs, not sure whether that reaction was better or worse than an outright reprimand, figuring that he will be in this job long enough to have the chance to compare.

A fragment of an unfinished story and part of the Covers series

Little Earthquakes

The invigoration that had spawned the transformation also determined the pigmentation of the entire exasperation.

Part of the Covers series