2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) Read online

  Hollace was unsure what had just happened. He did not meet the gaze of the older woman across the aisle and instead turned his face to the window, to the back of the seat in front of him, to the tray-table’s latch, then into the seat next to him where the girl’s backpack sat agape. A bra hung out from the bag. Hollace put the bra into the bag, touching it with deference, and looked out the window. He felt the pressure change in his ears. They were going down quickly.

  When she returned the girl sat straight in the chair, seat belt fastened, legs crossed away from him, flipping through the onboard catalog without seeing the merchandise. Hollace wished there was something he could say. His fingers ran up and down along the crease of his pants. He pursed his lips repeatedly and tried to breathe against the constraints of his collar around his Adam's apple. The plane landed with a mild jolt.

  Nothing was said.

  Still seated, the girl was ready with her backpack on as they taxied to the gate. Hollace waited to retrieve his briefcase from under the seat. He did not wish to disturb her again. After waiting for the door to open the girl pushed her way to the front of the plane to retrieve her skirts. Hollace sighed and picked up his dirty rumpled handkerchief from her seat where it had been left, used and forgotten. He hoped she would not notice as he passed behind her at the front of the cabin.

  But she saw him coming. A flight attendant was trying to make sense of the hoops and billows of material. Thankful still, the girl smiled at Hollace as she gathered her skirts from the flight attendant’s arms. “Well, be off to your exploits then. And hand out a thousand of your Outstanding Balance business cards."

  Allowing the bustling business people to rush past them Hollace looked at his clean black shoes. Then he cleared his throat and directed his attention toward her. "Actually no. I am afraid you will be the last to receive one. I was fired over the phone at five-thirty this morning." He put his culprit hand in his pocket and cleared his throat. “I found an error somewhere in excess of a quarter million dollars on the company books recently. Apparently the higher-ups did not appreciate my accuracy. Or perhaps having fully realized the error, they needed to downsize in order to cut costs." And he was past her, moving up the corridor with dignity. "Good luck to you, though."

  The girl stood tangled in pink taffeta wishing and unwishing. She dumped the taffeta in the gate entrance and called after him, "Hollace!" He was already quite far ahead and she had to call many times. But he returned earnestly and granted her request to wait in the bar while she made a phone call. In fact made two.

  "Hey, Larise. Yeah, I told Mom last night … Of course she freaked. She gave me the whole why-can’t-you-be-like-your-big-sister talk and then started crying and all that routine … Yeah, I'm happy. Happy enough. I just didn't want to bother with putting together all the invitations and shit … I know … The boat thing wasn't what I had in mind either … Well you can come out in June. We're going to have a reception and everything then when his uncle's family visits.”

  She looked toward Hollace. Travelers streamed through the corridor reading gate information, hugging, hurrying, showing their children the planes and the big windows, and talking. There were everyone: Indians and Blacks and Asians and Hispanics and Whites and Old People on Carts and Hollace waited for her in the bar as though he might never leave. There was nothing on the table and he seemed to be unaware of all those drinking around him. Instead his head was cocked slightly and he stared contentedly at an elevated television.

  The phone conversation went on, “No, don’t worry about it. That was a stupid idea. I'm at the hotel. He's asleep. I just wanted to call and tell you that I'm not really crazy enough to leave him. I just got pissed off when I found those pictures. But he said it didn't mean anything. Kind of a last fling before we got married I guess… Yeah, I'll call you in a few days." And then she called Jake.

  “I know. I know. I'm sorry. Don't cry. I'm coming home tonight and everything's going to be great. Okay? I love you, too."

  She smiled as she hung up the phone. Hollace watched her pulling her wedding ring off and shoving it into the pocket of her jeans and wondered for a moment what he was getting into, but he didn't really care. He picked up her backpack and carried it on his shoulder. It looked odd next to his conservative suit. With his briefcase in the other hand, he walked upright and gray. She danced around him with curving hips and bright raggedy clothes. He paid for the taxi. She nudged him in the ribs. She rearranged his hair. She said careful things that allowed him to laugh, and easy vengeance was her consummation

  MEANING-MAKING

  I am beginning to find my way along the border of life. Ducking between moments and shifting from one person's shadow to the next: sketching. I am scared and am lonely—wondering if it's a good idea. Sometimes people notice me watching. I suppose I should care—should stop maybe. But I don’t. I am trying to see how far I can pursue the rest of regular life without losing these stories with their breath and heartbeats.

  Writing is a careful wonder that is rarely modulated in the way one would please. Inspiration can come when production is impossible, and it can leave altogether—if indefinitely. A writer must be conscious, listening, patient, and always an invested gatherer of life. At the same time this writer must rip life from reality and position it within his or her work of art. A writer can communicate with an unknown number of strangers but, perhaps more easily, can fail utterly the moment awareness of the reader is lost.

  A writer must know his or her own limitations and be willing to believe they do not exist. So the writer lives in a dream. Caught in creation’s space between sleep and work, the writer seems lazy. Staying in bed for days. Leaning on comfortable bars. Drinking coffee over immovably crossed legs. But during all this time the writer is ready to give up tangible life to pursue an improbable vision with total focus and control. When the time comes to put words down, this writer must be strong enough to survive the wrangle of self with perfection, art, and isolation.

  It is a bleak attitude, but a writer must be able to invest every resource in a story which may never be read. Worse than this a writer must be willing to begin with aggressive conviction knowing that the work may not come out right and very well end up abandoned, to say nothing of what else could have been done with the many hours of frustration, diligence, and ideas lost.

  I am wishing all of it were better and not so bulky. I am wishing I didn't have to start so small. I resent the work no one will appreciate. And I am frightened of what I might say. Yet my dreams of writing are stale. Action on any level is preferable to regret.

  And so it may be transient. It may fail. It may rip me apart. But this is the beginning of what I will write.

  ON A SWELTERING SUMMER EVENING

  On a sweltering summer evening when the campus at Purdue was swarming with conference attendees, Kathy Bates stopped me for directions to the armory. She was a pug-nosed woman with a peeling red face accompanied by a rotund gentleman wearing BluBlockers. I knew she was Kathy Bates because a yellow name tag hung awkwardly from her shirt.

  It sucks to be lost. I said, "It's just the other side of this one. That long brick building."

  To which she quickly replied, "Like all these other brick buildings?” It was acid but jovial, some mask for being snide.

  Shocked and nodding, I moved on. In a voice too high-pitched to go unnoticed, the man in BluBlockers gave an apologetic thank-you over his shoulder. I walked home reminded that Purdue is one solid edifice of baked clay and wondered why a layer of gasoline swirled dirty pink translucent disruption on top of the hose-water running out from the petunia planters in front of Krannert.

  DATELINE ’99

  The Midwest has been incredibly hot this July; I suppose partly in anticipation of the millennium. In all of this heat many people have resorted to the utilization of air conditioners. I have never been a big fan of climate control. This is not born of environmental awareness or of a fiscal nature to save tax dollars on electrical resources that are
sapped by all the public offices. The fact of the matter is, and I'm rather embarrassed to say, I just think air conditioning is creepy.

  So in the sweltering heat of the past month, I have not had air conditioning at home or in my workplace. No air conditioning has allowed me to wallow in such a delirious state of naked inactivity that I have never found myself happier.

  And whether or not it’s related, I will make an effort to lose what social graces I have acquired over twenty-some years of wearing a breathtaking corset around my lips. I feel that it is best to invite the world into my true self—a crazed bitch with weird paranoia. In the words of A.D., "I'm all about salvation … just not an army of it." So I’ve been saying the wrong thing in social situations more and more often. Take last night, for instance.

  (Sorry for the interruption but I have just found a patch of blue fur behind my cat's ear. It seems as though she has gotten into some sort of writing utensil, possibly a broken highlighter or one of those nice liquid ink pens.)

  Just last night, in an air conditioned car, I screamed, “God damn it. I'm going to spend God knows how long in a fucking coffin. Do I have to start that shit now?" At which point I began ripping at several little black plastic levers nearby, forcing the windows to perform some sort of up and down vacation bible school dance. “Praise ye the Lord. Hallelujah. Praise ye the Lord. Hallelujah. Praise ye the Lo—” Hmmm. However, I am glad that I said what I said. I think this is a positive advancement on my part.

  Such tirades as the one I uttered in the car are generally reserved for display to my family and closest friends, but this last was directed at a woman I have just met. I suppose most accurately it was directed at the woman's car. It was one of those very clean cars that is too old to warrant being so clean. So I feel it was justified. I hate those cars.

  Obviously the driver of the car was rather taken aback and took the liberty of smacking me across the face with such force that I was knocked unconscious and am unaware whether I spent the remainder of the trip locked in a sealed chamber of conditioning.

  GRAND PRIX PARALLELS

  Boys of the rich, sit.

  Powdery gold eyes

  shadowed by a man at the door,

  by hats, and scaring us all

  left vintage prey, and

  shadowed by a cheap night riot.

  Boys of the rich, sit.

  Boys of the poor, look,

  far away fun. The flesh seared to

  a cookout afternoon. And then

  open. Their hearts perforated

  skeleton shells, eaten through working

  virtue, easy-for-me, eyes.

  Boys of the rich, sit while

  boys of the poor, look, fuckable poor,

  clutching sweaty drunk fists, and

  by parasite faith I am the pretty

  listener today for one man

  playing fool-fueled

  balcony games on a

  cookout grill, chatting weather

  stories, for me.

  Not achievement, or politics, or

  blood-borne fights. Just girls,

  girls, girls, ugly fuckable girls, and beer.

  And his disposable expense of

  how (craning and wide)

  I was the pretty attendant for the

  sweet regular boy, who cooked

  quiet and calm, with the drunken wet

  (beer, beer, ugly fuckable beer)

  glass shattered in patient hands.

  Holding (no money wads in pockets, just)

  the shards and blood alike

  And proud he excused himself

  (ugly, sweet)

  to clean up the mess

  kissing me gently on the way.

  Seventeen days and the wondering time is only beginning. I should have realized long ago that forever is only a day-after-day hell that happens to the best of us. I don't know. I got the high school thing out of the way, and now it's just waiting to see where the wrinkles will go and how the flesh will fill out. The waiting time is here and I’m seventeen days in.

  EMPIRE QUARRY

  I remember once, at night, swimming naked in a quarry. The blackness wrapped around me with its several textures. Deep shifting moonlight supported me with waves and stroked my hair as I lay back in the lap of the water. Stone severed and scarred and hard with confining presence somewhere on all sides of me was harder than my strongest days. And the mystery of the night sky reached so very close to infinity, over and over again, with just as many stars one behind the other.

  I thought about the skyline in New York. How it must be looking very much the same. How its height was nothing more than stars and its hardness no harder than here, wherever the water could go. At no wonder of that at all. Because the rock that had been where I was swimming was taken there and made into a towering piece of windows. Everyone was impressed, so many years ago.

  But what of this earth? What of this hole they left? And how often do they really say it's all from Indiana? All those important people complaining about natural resources and hoarding other cultures' treasures at the same time. There I was swimming where there used to be thick impenetrable land. And that's what they did. Someone important with a dream and some money said, "Let's make the tallest building in the world."

  But you cannot make tall buildings without stealing blocks from the other little boys' piles. And so they came and took our ground and left a hole. Which is good enough for cliff-dive swimming if you know where it is. It is very hard to find. Even more so at night.

  LAMELLAR

  "Wait. Don't freak out." Jason kneeled on the curb bent over a sewer grate. He balanced himself on his knees and hands without allowing his feet with new shoes or his new shirt to touch the street. From his maladapted Downward Facing Dog, he said, “They didn't fall that far. There's some kind of shelf or something. Maybe six feet. Or less." He leaned back and briskly slapped his hands against each other. "Jen, why don't you go in and get a hanger or something. Maybe an old shoe lace too. I don't know. Whatever looks good."

  A regular-looking girl with a broken ankle nodded and went toward a white apartment house to search for the tools.

  Jason turned to the other girl. She was lithe but not about to kneel in the street even if they were her keys. Instead, after she had dropped them she had stood over the grate waiting as though the key patrol would quickly be notified. She was not disappointed. This boy, Jason, and his girlfriend, Jen, had just come out of the house to see why she had been standing outside their window for so long with seemingly no agenda.

  She had explained simply. "My keys have fallen." She then pointed in the general direction of her feet and it seemed to Jen that even if her keys had just fallen on the pavement and not into a sewer that she still would have waited for a considerate young man such as Jason to stop and retrieve them for her.

  Jen returned with an armload of interesting objects. She laid them all on the pavement and sat on the curb with her broken foot out in the street. "I got a hanger and all this other stuff. Maybe I should go out on the balcony and get those cookout tongs."

  "No." Jason thought of his grill and his hot dogs and hamburgers and chicken breasts and knew that he did not want those tongs anywhere near the sewer. "Your foot is still pretty bad. Don't bother climbing all those steps. This will be fine." He looked at her haul.

  There were three old metal hangers, a pair of needle-nosed pliers, several twist-ties, a refrigerator magnet that was sizable and had a laminated postage stamp picture of Mount Rushmore on the front, a large plastic candy cane that was partially bent, a gaudy cross on a thick leather necklace most likely assembled in Sunday school by a young admirer, and a roll of electrical tape.

  Jason leaned over the pile adjusting his baseball cap and trying to make sure Jen didn't catch him looking at the other girl’s legs. But neither of the girls was paying any attention to him.

  They were busy and casual, but dressing each other down.

  "What did you say your name
was?"

  "Elisia."

  "That's pretty."

  Elisia looked over Jen from behind her black sunglasses. She looked down the street at a shop window and wondered whether she could get a bottle of water in there. She let her eyes ride back to Jen by means of a sleek Jaguar cruising up the street.

  "How'd you break your leg?"

  "It's not my leg."

  “If it’s not broken, what did you do? Sprain it?" Elisia looked at Jason and thought he was pretty good-looking. Not that good-looking but better than this Jen person deserved. She smiled as best she could with her cheeks drawn in between her teeth.

  "No. It is broken. But it’s my foot.” Jen looked at the girl's tight skirt. The little green sausage casing was so sadly vulgar Jen almost laughed out loud. Pathetic. Blatant. Jen would give anything to have a look into Elisia's purse. What would she find? A silver cigarette case from some foreign country where she had never traveled, an expensive pen and paper too pretty to write on, and ticket stubs from all the plays that advertise in the newspaper, no doubt. Jen didn’t take the bait and allow her ire to rise while Elisia stared at Jason. She just responded to the question. “Broke it Thursday at my uncle's farm."

  Both the girls watched Jason assemble the contraption meant to retrieve Elisia’s set of keys. He periodically looked into the sewer to reassess their location. But when he bent over the grate, his body blocked the sunlight so it was very hard for him to catch a glimpse of the keys. He crawled back and forth around the grate on his hands and knees, still keeping his feet off the ground so as not to scratch up his new shoes.

  Elisia replied with pleasant disdain. "Oh. Your uncle has a farm. That must be nice."

  "Yeah. He lets me board my horse there during the year when I'm here at school. It helps me get out of my head to ride."

  Elisia was mildly interested by the implication of money behind the ownership of a horse. Her attention shifted from Jason to Jen. “So what happened to your foot?"