God's Greatest Gifts

July

Chet,

I get to hear it a few times a month, and it always startles me.
"Momma, can I, can I call my Dad?"
And those words come from our son.
And I feel my heart stop for just a minute and I want to scream at him NO because I hate you. But his eyes are so bright, you know how they get when he is really excited to do something. I tell him yes. I watch him reach up to the phone on the kitchen wall. He used to have to use his tippy-toes, but not anymore.
Fuck. He has probably grown 4 inches since you saw him last.
You piece of shit.
I know you are one because I get to sit and watch his shoulders slump, when you never pick up the goddamn telephone, on your end. I get to watch that bright light in his eyes burn out. I get this shit:

Why does my Dad not love me, Momma?

I say, He does.

I want to see my Dad, Momma.

I say, I hope you get to see him soon.

But I have already watched you break his heart. Been through the nights and the tears and the holding him and his goddamn anger and pain. And after watching that, I do not hope anything for you.
Sometimes, I think it is my fault you aren't coming around here to see your kids. I think it is my fault because I ask God to kill you, so I can give them some sort of reason for why you are doing this to them. I ask God, let him choke on his own vomit, let him swallow his tongue, for making me see this look on Tommy's face.
Every time I let him call you, I am breaking his heart, too.
You fucking bastard.
I hope someone hits you in the head with a baseball bat.

Tumbling After

Jill thought she should maybe write the journal. It was fast becoming her final decision.
Her therapist, Johnson, said it would help.
Jill knew Johnson really meant do something, anything. Don't give up. Life is good!
Whatever.
Jill knew she had never liked writing, but she thought about Johnson's words and she had rationalized down to: when was the last time she had wrote anything besides a grocery list, anyway?
Jill knew she liked to talk and that is why Jill was a telemarketer.
Higher paid than most.
Her therapist was praised often, by others, who seemed sane.
Jill would follow his advice.

Jill thought to stop at the Wal-Mart on her way home. She needed dog kibble. She needed shampoo and a plant.
And she needed a notebook, too, she reminded herself, when she walked through the doors of Wal-Mart.
But Jill soon forgot, and then remembered, while she was in the checkout line. When she saw the bright orange notebooks. For ninety-seven cents.
So, Jill bought one, and a black pen, too, with her dog kibble. And her shampoo and her plant. The cashier's name was LYNDA.

Jill went to the park the next day because it was a Saturday.
This was a nice park.
A nature park.
Except for the benches and picnic tables, that is.
The park Jill went to had lots of trees; Jill chose a picnic bench, beneath one.
Jill wrote the date on the first lined paged of the notebook.
And then that was it.
Jill lived in San Francisco. And Jill was a lovely girl, in all reality.
She truly would have liked Jack.
But more importantly, on that Saturday, Jill had worn her favourite dress to the park. Which happened to be purple, with white polka dots. Jill wore it whenever she could.
But poor, poor Jack.
He lived in Chicago.
This is a guy who gets no breaks, folks.

Bettin' On A Darker Shade of Red

February 14th

Minnie,

I just got home from visiting my grandmother in the hospital. I brought her some flowers. Some pink ones. I think they are carnations. She is always planting flowers. All over her bedroom. And in anything. Margarine containers. Pill bottles. She always buys me things on Valentines Day. Not just a card or some chocolate. I get that stuff, but I also get a new outfit (that is always cool) and things like walkmans and shit, too. It's kinda like it is my birthday. She usually kisses me like a hundred times. I can't stand it, to be honest, when she is kissing on me. She is always buying me shit, and I…never buy her anything. So, I went to cut a few lawns with Bobby on the weekend and bought her the flowers. Then I just sat there with her. She did not wake-up, but she is not going to wake-up, anyway. I remember the first time up there, at the hospital to see her, like three weeks a go. This nurse says to me, 'Talk to her; she will hear you.' And all I thought was what a load of fucking bullshit. I heard Aunt Lynn and my mother talking. The doctors confirmed there is nothing working in her head, but her brainstem. That means she can't think, probably. But when I sit there with her, it is...nice and peaceful, even though, I know, we are all just waiting for her to die. I do not think she knows I am really there with her. But I do think she is probably having a really nice dream about me when I am there. I hope I am smiling in the dream. I feel really bad, Minnie. I don't even like her. It makes me feel real bad. So, I just sit in the room and I talk about you.

Tommy

Jack Shit

Jack was a mighty, jolly chap. It is even what he considered himself to be.
Yes, Jack was quite the fellow.
Jack fancied polka-dots on his ties, only for the wearing of this type of tie, fit his definition of what it meant to be a fellow.
Jack believed the world was his stage, that he was the lead actor and that everyone else on earth were co-stars, but only to each other.
Jack lived his life. His way. Jack was jolly, so he was allowed to, by and large, by others.
And others could never figure out why Jack was as jolly as he was, for Jack was as skinny as hunger.
In his shiny black suits, to outfit his polka-dot ties.

One time, Jack walked into a house and it had pale blue walls in the kitchen. White, painted polka-dots stood up from these walls, too. Jack bought the house and Jack lived in the house, although the kitchen had been the only room he fancied, in the entire house. Jack found the backyard was too big, too.
But Jack was jolly, anyway.
Fred, who lived next-door to Jack, was…ahem…gay. So, Fred would cut Jack's grass for Jack because Fred saw that Jack would leave his house very early, in the morning, and not come home until later, sometimes much later, in the evening. And Jack was still always wearing his polka-dotted ties, and so Fred believed that this was the way Jack tortured himself, for being...something and so, Fred, being gay (as in happy), wrote poetry about Jack.
And once a song. A song that Fred would hum whenever Jack came to say thank you to Fred, for cutting his grass. Jack would bring Fred things like relish or cartons of milk and say, "Thank you for cutting the lawn, again, Fred."
Fred thought Jack might be psychic.
Because Fred never had, in his house, whatever Jack brought over.
Fred wondered how Jack knew what was needed.
But sadly, for Fred, Jack was not gay (as in...ahem...) and so, a love story did not develop between the two men.
Of course, that is all depending on what your definition of a love story is.
But by jolly old chap, Jack's, standards, he could not continue to be a gay fellow, if he were...ahem...homosexual.
But you and I both know, love stories are a dime a dozen, but did you know sadly, also for Jack, most women who wear polka-dots are fat?

Have You Heard?

I started a new Everyday, just over a month a go.
I was able to ensure what I always have ensured before. That most Everyday is another day that I get to open my eyes and my ears get to hear my Alarm Clock Music. Taking place at a definite 7:30 a.m.
Most Everyday.
This should make me smile.
Except for-there is This Bird.
This Bird that makes noise. Louder than all the other birds.
At 7:30 a.m.
I do not know This Bird.
I have never seen This Bird.
And I do not want to, either.
I am already guilty of throwing a cup of coffee out of my bedroom window, last week. And I can blame it on This Bird, if I want to.
I fear I would become Al Bundy, if I ever laid eyes upon This Bird.

My new Everyday can be a lot of fun.
But it is not as...stimulating as my last Everyday.
And The Voice agrees.
Just admit it, The Voice will say to me. You are getting lazy.
When The Voice says this to me, I get mad.
I tell The Voice to Bite Me.

Because my new Everyday has a more...relaxed atmosphere than my last Everyday, I am able to stay up later.
And I like that.
For I am most fond of night.
I tell The Voice, I am glad to find you up with me.
The Voice says, Everybody has a job, Stupid.

Sometimes, because my new Everyday can be so...easy, I find that I am able to stay-up as late as I want to at night. I am never tired.
Sometimes, I am up until 4 a.m.
When all the other little birds are quiet. Because it is still dark.
Except, there is This Bird. This Bird who makes noise.
Before all the other birds.
At four in the morning.
And it is This Bird who wakes-up all the other birds.
And This Bird is the same bird that I know from 7:30 a.m., Everyday!
The Voice just laughs at me, when I get to complaining about This Bird.
Go to bed, then, The Voice tells me what to do.
And I say, I might as well. You could have a least made This Bird a fucking rooster.
That would have been a story to tell.

Punks-In June

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
She did not think Tommy noticed her in the school parking lot. But he knew she was there. She was always there. It was where they used to go together.
Tommy did not know what to do, after reading Minnie's letter.
So, Tommy put the red envelope into his back pocket and then he just walked away.
Tommy raised his hand only five minutes after his math class had begun and asked if he could be excused to the washroom. He did not have to go.
When Tommy arrived in the blue-stalled bathroom, he sat on one of the toliets and Tommy read Minnie's letter again.
Then, he crumpled her letter into a ball. Tommy had felt his fist clench tightly, felt his hands weild all his mighty, Tommy power upon paper. Which somehow seemed wrong, so Tommy loosened his grip. He smoothed out the paper, on his knee; with his hand.
And Tommy read the letter again, before going back to algebra.

Tommy saw Minnie a lot during the rest of the day, and into the night.
But it was only in his head.
It was after dark, when he rooted around through his closet to find a red envelope; just a shade deeper than the one in his back pocket.
He did not open the darker envelope.
He gave it to Minnie the next day, after his first class, when he passed her in the school hallway.

Say Hello To My Little Friend

A few weeks a go, my son and I were on our way towards home, a short trip to the variety for milk. Terri poked her head outside of her front door.
"You want a cat?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Well, how about a kitten?"
"O.K." I replied back that time and watched a smile spread across my son's face.
"You better pick the cutest one," I threatened him, as we walked up Terri's steps.
And so the parade began.
One unfortunate kitten had lost his paw, after birth. A neglectful mother bothered not with umbilical cords, and his own had twisted around his foot, and now the stump thumped on the floor, when he walked. Thus he was named, 'Thumper'.
An ugly cat with a ugly brown circle of fur above her lip was fondly called 'Madonna"; Terri laughed, bent, as she sputtered the name.
The other four were called Cat. Or sometimes, Kitty.
I had not even looked over the other four, when my son held out a small ball of grey fur.
"She is the cutest," he said.
"It is a boy," said Terri.
So, my son and I took the grey cat home. Heliked being outside. His heart did not race.
"What shall we name this cat?" I asked my son, as the kitten reached for my shoulder, to eye everything better.
"Flower," he said.
"It's a boy," I said.
"I like Flower," he said.
"He does not look like a Flower," I said, outloud.
We thought awhile, and when we arrived inside our front door and let the kitten down to explore, my son said, "Prowler."
And I said, "Okay."

Two days later, Company came, and Company informed me that Prowler was a girl.
The next morning, when I broke the news to my son, he was rather upset.
"How do you know?" he asked me.
"Charles told me," I admitted.
My son demanded we re-name the kitten Flower.
"She does not look like a Flower," I said, outloud.
That is when the kitten poked her nose out from under the couch.
"Come here, Flower," said my son.
"Come here, Prowler," said I.
And the kitten came to me.
So, I won the name game.
My seven year old son asked me to move out.