learning how to finger paint
Date: Jan 12th, 2008 8:25:12 pm - Subscribe
Mood: intrigued
nothing bad ever happens at fusion. not to me, anyways. and mom is closing the cover on her laptop, and there's still an inch of foam in my mug, and i reach back to grab onto something but all i get is a flat wall, and it's hard to hold on to a flat wall, especially when you feel your heart rate rising and there's nothing you can do about it. and sarah's behind the counter in her rock-star t-shirt, and i think about how she's the best barista in the world at the best bubble tea establishment in the world, and if i had a sanctuary, this would be it.
fusion is my haven.
*
nothing bad ever happens at fusion. except tonight there was a couple sitting by the magazine rack, talking children.
"i don't care who teaches my kids how to finger paint," he says, picking up a golf magazine, reading the numbers from something horrible like the PGA tour, or something like it. his wife jabs her turquoise-striped straw through the tight cellophane cover on her bubble tea, and sighs.
my kids too, she seems to say, 6 boba up the straw, without a word. my kids too.
then he starts talking about maybe getting a job, but not if they are going to move, and something about how she prevented him from getting a masters degree. he's put the golf magazine down so she thinks she has his full attention, but he's making a Masters tour connection in his brain while she's saying no, it wasn't her fault, and yes, he could have taken that other class at ISU, she would've watched the baby.
"brian likes me better. always has. remember when he threw up on you that one day when he was sick, but stopped when i held him?"
she shakes her head.
"you didn't hold him that day, dear, because you were afraid he would ruin your work khakis."
she says dear through gritted teeth, like she's holding diamonds behind her tongue, and doesn't want anyone to take them.
"bull crap." he says. "that's bull, jane."
when he says crap he gives it two full syllables, and snaps his head forward on the last one, for emphasis.
her name sounds hollow when he says it, and before she says anything, she swallows up three round balls so fast she almost chokes, each one popping to the roof of her mouth.
as she sets the cup down, i see her thin fingers, and on her left hand, a simple wedding band- a plain silver, no embellishment.
she swirls the boba around her mouth with her tongue, letting the diamonds out.
*
nothing bad ever happens at fusion. the boy next to me on his computer has been there since 2, his girlfriend works the 2-7 shift, and he stays the whole time. i know because i saw him at 3 when i was there, and also at 6. he's studying American history, and has been for so many hours, I'm tempted to ask him something stupid, like, if he could tell me the names of all the presidents backwards, or at least tell me the name of every presidential feline (forwards)- things i know wouldn't be in there, but might stress him out anyways because he's been studying for so long. instead, i realize it's 7, and his girlfriend comes over and says let's go, and he says sounds great, with a smile that makes her smile, and for him, i realize, it's not about the place, it's about the girl who walks with him when he leaves it.
*
nothing bad ever happens at fusion.
Comments: (1)
whatever happens, you knew me. you knew me.
Date: Jan 12th, 2008 1:01:09 am - Subscribe
Mood: sparkly
true story: (actually, this is a fiction piece) :)
the boys that i knew were all too tall. they had wrists without substance, thin baklava, only a few leafy layers of flesh, waiting to be torn from their mediocre arms during a low-exertion basketball game. arms with the muscle given to all boys at a certain age- muscle they didn't earn, but were given, so they felt like they could play sports even if they weren't cut out for it.
my friend jimmy was the only boy i ever understood. we'd sung together in the church choir since we came out of the canal, and jimmy had a beautiful voice. "sings like a songbird, swings like a sloth," my mom used to say- after jimmy's third agonizing year of little league. he was awful, and he knew it. the worst part of the whole thing is jimmy's dad just could not, would not accept that his son was not an all american anything. Mr. Baxter made him try every sport in ashbard county, and when that didn't work out, he even went so far as mccomb just to see if he was made for crew.
he wasn't.
jimmy finally settled on being the manager of the high school varsity basketball team. he said it was near enough to a court to make his dad happy, but took little to no talent in relation to a sport at all. it seemed to about please everyone, anyways, he said. and that was better than he had been able to do before. often i would look from the stands to examine his wrists- thick, meaty, strong enough to hold loads of sweaty towels and keep water bottles on hooks latched firmly on six of ten fingers until time out when the gods of the court required them. jimmy was a sort of servant, and i doubt they really see much of him- always covering him with their sweaty towels. i mean that in a deeper way too, of course- one i can't quite explain, one that i saw on jimmy's face when he locked up the gym at night. i waited by the door after every home game for jimmy to come out. i even had enough time to finish a cigarette, crushing the butt underneath my sneakers when he came out with a sigh, sweat glistening in the cool air.
"i hate this" he said
"you're good at it, jimmy. sometimes you even look like you're having fun with it, talking with the guys and all."
"not really a conversation, joie, usually they want their water bottle, or an advil or something. they don't know me or nothing like that."
"if they did, they'd place the towel on your arm instead of throwin' it at'cha, i know they would."
he paused beneath the lights outside the building for just a second and kind of shook his head, but smiled.
"thanks. thanks for waiting. let me carry that for you," he'd say, putting my messenger sack on his shoulder.
it was always right then, when he hoisted up that bag, i would catch a glimpse of his wrists and think again- they are strong.
and i would wonder if jimmy felt like he was carrying the world, and not just my bag.
Comments: (2)