Wednesday, March 28, 2007
ON LIGHTNING
We are driving. She leaves the air on in the car all the damn time. I swear to God, if it’s over 40 degrees out the A/C has to be blasting forth. If it’s less than 40 degrees out, we have to leave a window cracked. It drives me fucking nuts and I’m sick of it, to tell you the God’s honest truth.
Now we are at a gas station and I am pumping the gas, of course, because she never offers to. We pull into the parking lot, circling the rows of pumps because she has some superstition about using pump number eight, and I unclick my seatbelt because I know she’s not going to offer to get out. She throws it into park and rifles through her giant handbag looking for her pocketbook and I sit there patiently waiting, seatbelt unlatched and retracted to its perch by the door frame and finally, finally she finds the gold Mastercard and hands it to me with a tight little smile, lavender lips pursed with the corners turned upwards. It makes me want to smack her in the face.
I stand at the pumps and the numbers digitally go up and up and up, ever upwards, obscene territory for a price of a full tank. I remember in college when it was a crisis because fuel was reaching $1.50 a gallon. Now all the little price per gallon meters read damn near three bucks, unflinching, unchanging no matter how hard your day has been or where it is you’re rushing to. Whoever coined death and taxes ought to have added a third.
Cars fill up the other pumps. Minivans: kids bouncing around inside and out the sliding door and running towards the inside of the station. Honda Accords with shaved-headed white guys in floppy sweatsuits, their girlfriends: toned, highlight-streaked long hair swaying over their exposed lower backs as they bound inside to hand a ten to the cashier. Fast Japanese motorbikes with helmeted black guys dressed in vinyl coveralls like futuristic soldiers. We’re the most boring people in the place, I think, as the pump clicks and the receipt for $42.13 prints out silently from the little slot next to the credit card reader.
On the interstate now, thin little veins of rainwater streaming to the edges of the windshield as we fly along, keeping a safe distance from the taillights in front of us. Neat, orderly rows of traffic, that’s always the case in this city, no matter what the speed. I’d never seen anything like it when I first moved here. Where I grew up it was a complicated game of weaving and merging and never using the brake until that unforgettable moment before collision. Then you’d sit on the shoulder while the hundreds, thousands, millions of people slowly glided past, glancing to their left to get a good look at your twisted fender. Some would even flip you off or yell comments out of cracked windows. None of that going on here, as far as I can tell.
A/C on blast, radio off, just the sound of her heels tapping the brake and gas pedals as we speed along. A soft swish here and there as cars pass us on the newly wet roadway. The drops are still falling in erratic little sections but in the distance, over the profiles of the semis and highway signs, I see slivers of golden sky peeking through the cigarette smoke layers of cloud.
“Devil’s beating his wife,” I say, staring at the dashboard. She doesn’t say anything.
Elizabeth never left the A/C on blast. She hated to drive, even. If we could get there by any means other than the car, she’d make sure we took it. I never rode the bus so much in my whole life. If you live in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, riding the bus is normal, expected, a viable option. You live in a city like Charlotte and riding the bus is a badge of shame, it takes you down a notch, down with the poor people, the black mothers with three kids in tow, the Mexican housewives heading to K-Mart or some other big-box store out on the perimeter of town. I remember when she said we should ride bikes to her parents’ house in Myers Park for dinner one evening. A real oven of a day—the evening, really, when the heat’s at its worst—and there we were on Independence, straddling our bikes at the stoplight, drenched in sweat. Me in a fancy jacket and tie and her in a navy dress with pearls on. I couldn’t blame some of the stares we got but wouldn’t you know it, when we coasted down into the folks’ brick driveway, there they stood on the front steps, not an eyebrow raised. They knew their daughter well.
I can’t find a woman who just likes to drive normally? Leaves the radio on softly and keeps the windows down when it’s breezy outside? I guess in the grand scheme of things it’s hard to complain about. It’s just a car, after all. It adds up though, the little stuff.
Now we’re sitting still, not even inching along. The electronic sign a mile before flashed “CONGESTION – DELAYS BEGIN AT CAMPBELL RD” but things were still moving. Now it’s just a dead halt. Can’t say they didn’t warn us. I crane my neck to try and catch a glimpse of flashing lights or smoke or anything that might hint at an accident. All I see are windows, though, beaded with the leftover rain, exhaust pipes subtly rattling, faint bass booming from behind tinted glass.
We never had a formal goodbye. Two nights before it happened we were sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, picking photos out of a Nike shoebox one at a time. Here Is The House We Used To Live In. Here Is My Aunt Linda’s Cat. My Aunt Linda, Her Son Toby Is In Prison In South Carolina. He Broke Into Houses To Support His Drug Habit. These were our small things. These are the rituals of the first year of a relationship, learning the tiny details, trying to remember everything, drinking in another’s past. She handed me a photograph of her on a rooftop in some foreign city. The sun was like a cigarette ember burning through the left side of the photo.
“Bangkok,” she said. I nodded and took the photo. She looked the same, bandanna tying her hair back as she was prone to wear it at home when doing dishes or gardening. But there was something slight about it all that struck me. Maybe something in her smile, maybe something around the edges of her face, some sort of smoothness, some sort of easygoing relaxation. Someone’s going to marry this girl someday, and they’re not going to be making a mistake. I sat there fingering the edges of the photo.
Then she was gone, and now I am gone. I am on new sofas in new houses and looking at new photos. Learning new histories, learning about new aunts, new relatives in prison and at Harvard and married to psychopaths, married to quiet, sullen loners, married to habitual cheaters. Husbands and wives and sons and daughters and cousins and former roommates and so many names. My mind races to keep up.
When that boy that was with her, when he told her to move slightly to the right, just there, when he put his eye to the viewfinder and snapped the picture, did he know what he was shooting? Did he see the picture or who was in it?
Charlotte is a long way away. Bangkok is a long way away.
Translated from the Belgian by Muggsy Bogues.
We are driving. She leaves the air on in the car all the damn time. I swear to God, if it’s over 40 degrees out the A/C has to be blasting forth. If it’s less than 40 degrees out, we have to leave a window cracked. It drives me fucking nuts and I’m sick of it, to tell you the God’s honest truth.Now we are at a gas station and I am pumping the gas, of course, because she never offers to. We pull into the parking lot, circling the rows of pumps because she has some superstition about using pump number eight, and I unclick my seatbelt because I know she’s not going to offer to get out. She throws it into park and rifles through her giant handbag looking for her pocketbook and I sit there patiently waiting, seatbelt unlatched and retracted to its perch by the door frame and finally, finally she finds the gold Mastercard and hands it to me with a tight little smile, lavender lips pursed with the corners turned upwards. It makes me want to smack her in the face.
I stand at the pumps and the numbers digitally go up and up and up, ever upwards, obscene territory for a price of a full tank. I remember in college when it was a crisis because fuel was reaching $1.50 a gallon. Now all the little price per gallon meters read damn near three bucks, unflinching, unchanging no matter how hard your day has been or where it is you’re rushing to. Whoever coined death and taxes ought to have added a third.
Cars fill up the other pumps. Minivans: kids bouncing around inside and out the sliding door and running towards the inside of the station. Honda Accords with shaved-headed white guys in floppy sweatsuits, their girlfriends: toned, highlight-streaked long hair swaying over their exposed lower backs as they bound inside to hand a ten to the cashier. Fast Japanese motorbikes with helmeted black guys dressed in vinyl coveralls like futuristic soldiers. We’re the most boring people in the place, I think, as the pump clicks and the receipt for $42.13 prints out silently from the little slot next to the credit card reader.
On the interstate now, thin little veins of rainwater streaming to the edges of the windshield as we fly along, keeping a safe distance from the taillights in front of us. Neat, orderly rows of traffic, that’s always the case in this city, no matter what the speed. I’d never seen anything like it when I first moved here. Where I grew up it was a complicated game of weaving and merging and never using the brake until that unforgettable moment before collision. Then you’d sit on the shoulder while the hundreds, thousands, millions of people slowly glided past, glancing to their left to get a good look at your twisted fender. Some would even flip you off or yell comments out of cracked windows. None of that going on here, as far as I can tell.
A/C on blast, radio off, just the sound of her heels tapping the brake and gas pedals as we speed along. A soft swish here and there as cars pass us on the newly wet roadway. The drops are still falling in erratic little sections but in the distance, over the profiles of the semis and highway signs, I see slivers of golden sky peeking through the cigarette smoke layers of cloud.
“Devil’s beating his wife,” I say, staring at the dashboard. She doesn’t say anything.
Elizabeth never left the A/C on blast. She hated to drive, even. If we could get there by any means other than the car, she’d make sure we took it. I never rode the bus so much in my whole life. If you live in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, riding the bus is normal, expected, a viable option. You live in a city like Charlotte and riding the bus is a badge of shame, it takes you down a notch, down with the poor people, the black mothers with three kids in tow, the Mexican housewives heading to K-Mart or some other big-box store out on the perimeter of town. I remember when she said we should ride bikes to her parents’ house in Myers Park for dinner one evening. A real oven of a day—the evening, really, when the heat’s at its worst—and there we were on Independence, straddling our bikes at the stoplight, drenched in sweat. Me in a fancy jacket and tie and her in a navy dress with pearls on. I couldn’t blame some of the stares we got but wouldn’t you know it, when we coasted down into the folks’ brick driveway, there they stood on the front steps, not an eyebrow raised. They knew their daughter well.
I can’t find a woman who just likes to drive normally? Leaves the radio on softly and keeps the windows down when it’s breezy outside? I guess in the grand scheme of things it’s hard to complain about. It’s just a car, after all. It adds up though, the little stuff.
Now we’re sitting still, not even inching along. The electronic sign a mile before flashed “CONGESTION – DELAYS BEGIN AT CAMPBELL RD” but things were still moving. Now it’s just a dead halt. Can’t say they didn’t warn us. I crane my neck to try and catch a glimpse of flashing lights or smoke or anything that might hint at an accident. All I see are windows, though, beaded with the leftover rain, exhaust pipes subtly rattling, faint bass booming from behind tinted glass.
We never had a formal goodbye. Two nights before it happened we were sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, picking photos out of a Nike shoebox one at a time. Here Is The House We Used To Live In. Here Is My Aunt Linda’s Cat. My Aunt Linda, Her Son Toby Is In Prison In South Carolina. He Broke Into Houses To Support His Drug Habit. These were our small things. These are the rituals of the first year of a relationship, learning the tiny details, trying to remember everything, drinking in another’s past. She handed me a photograph of her on a rooftop in some foreign city. The sun was like a cigarette ember burning through the left side of the photo.
“Bangkok,” she said. I nodded and took the photo. She looked the same, bandanna tying her hair back as she was prone to wear it at home when doing dishes or gardening. But there was something slight about it all that struck me. Maybe something in her smile, maybe something around the edges of her face, some sort of smoothness, some sort of easygoing relaxation. Someone’s going to marry this girl someday, and they’re not going to be making a mistake. I sat there fingering the edges of the photo.
Then she was gone, and now I am gone. I am on new sofas in new houses and looking at new photos. Learning new histories, learning about new aunts, new relatives in prison and at Harvard and married to psychopaths, married to quiet, sullen loners, married to habitual cheaters. Husbands and wives and sons and daughters and cousins and former roommates and so many names. My mind races to keep up.
When that boy that was with her, when he told her to move slightly to the right, just there, when he put his eye to the viewfinder and snapped the picture, did he know what he was shooting? Did he see the picture or who was in it?
Charlotte is a long way away. Bangkok is a long way away.
Translated from the Belgian by Muggsy Bogues.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
SWIN CASH, PLEASE HAVE MY CHILD
Ever had that truly deep boredom? The kind where little thoughts don't even flitter towards the surface before fizzling out; instead you've just got blank, empty blackness where something should be. This must be what it feels like to be shot in the head. This must be how Mussolini felt after eating his last pizza.
I'm not racist, ok? I just think certain races should be able to buy pizzas ahead of others. I mean, let's take the Chinese. Not really known for their usage of cheese or dairy in their cuisine. Been that way for thousands of years. If I'm in the Little Ceasar's on 14th Street and there are six Chinese guys in line, I'm skippin' them. I got dibs.
Wendy's commercial with a woman eating a spicy chicken sandwich. Come on now, are they trying to make me burst a blood vessel? It was bad enough with the Papa John's commercials showing women eating piping hot slices of pizza. Eyes opening all wide and gooey cheese stretching for centimeters. This is worse. I don't need to see some lady blowing on a spicy, jalapeno-laden chicken sandwich. Just cut it out. I don't ask for much. The only food a woman should be seen consuming on television is a nice warm cup of tea. And I'll be damned if that's on color film--black and white only.
While we're on the subject, when did so many fucking Nigerians start living in my apartment? Seriously, I'm tripping over them trying to get to the bathroom. Perhaps this should be an internal memo to my roommates but can we do something about this, please? Is anyone else having this problem?
She's all mad because she came home from work and I was "literally laying in the bushes". You expect them to believe that stupid police report? The dumb cop didn't even spell "obsequious" correctly. I have as much of a right to be in the bushes, minding my own business, as that guy you call your husband has waltzing into your home and eating all sorts of pizzas and calzones in your glorious marble kitchen. That is what he's doing, isn't it? You can tell me. I won't get mad, I promise. Just tell me if he's eating pizza in there. Come on. I just need to know. Tell me. I'm not making a big deal out of nothing. Garlic knots? Is he eating garlic knots? Just tell me. I've come a long way, I deserve at least this. GOD DAMN IT, BETH.
I was carrying a big platter of nachos and tripped over the motherfucking cat. Those nachos fell to the floor in slow motion, like a waterfall of golden tortilla chips and chunky pico de gallo. It was the most beautiful shit I ever seen.
Back when I was an idealist, I thought that if you told someone they looked like "Screech, except with little cat turds instead of teeth," they'd be able to get the joke. Well, the sad truth is: a) they don't and b) I didn't get the job.
Ever have one of those nights where you're lying in bed and it's very quiet outside and the moon is behind some clouds and it's actually quite warm for March. You just can't get to sleep and you contemplate turning on the TV and watching something boring like the Food Network or HSN. Then it starts, the woman screaming for her life and the sound of the axe hitting bone and the screeching car tires and you're like FUCK IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN and you clamp the pillow around your head. Oh right, that was supposed to be a question. Um
My pick for restaurant of the year? That Taco Bell in the Village that was infested by rats. You know, back in my day, it was perfectly acceptable for animals to join you while you ate. Ever been to Paris, shitbirds? Dogs walk in and out of joints like they had partial ownership of the place. So a few dozen rats are running around the store, copulating and shitting in all the nooks and crannies. Big deal. It's called New York City for a reason, people. Last time I checked, if you wanted a tostada salad without tiny little rat turds all up in it you could move to Long Island.
Spring is around the corner. YIPPEE.
Ever had that truly deep boredom? The kind where little thoughts don't even flitter towards the surface before fizzling out; instead you've just got blank, empty blackness where something should be. This must be what it feels like to be shot in the head. This must be how Mussolini felt after eating his last pizza.I'm not racist, ok? I just think certain races should be able to buy pizzas ahead of others. I mean, let's take the Chinese. Not really known for their usage of cheese or dairy in their cuisine. Been that way for thousands of years. If I'm in the Little Ceasar's on 14th Street and there are six Chinese guys in line, I'm skippin' them. I got dibs.
Wendy's commercial with a woman eating a spicy chicken sandwich. Come on now, are they trying to make me burst a blood vessel? It was bad enough with the Papa John's commercials showing women eating piping hot slices of pizza. Eyes opening all wide and gooey cheese stretching for centimeters. This is worse. I don't need to see some lady blowing on a spicy, jalapeno-laden chicken sandwich. Just cut it out. I don't ask for much. The only food a woman should be seen consuming on television is a nice warm cup of tea. And I'll be damned if that's on color film--black and white only.
While we're on the subject, when did so many fucking Nigerians start living in my apartment? Seriously, I'm tripping over them trying to get to the bathroom. Perhaps this should be an internal memo to my roommates but can we do something about this, please? Is anyone else having this problem?
She's all mad because she came home from work and I was "literally laying in the bushes". You expect them to believe that stupid police report? The dumb cop didn't even spell "obsequious" correctly. I have as much of a right to be in the bushes, minding my own business, as that guy you call your husband has waltzing into your home and eating all sorts of pizzas and calzones in your glorious marble kitchen. That is what he's doing, isn't it? You can tell me. I won't get mad, I promise. Just tell me if he's eating pizza in there. Come on. I just need to know. Tell me. I'm not making a big deal out of nothing. Garlic knots? Is he eating garlic knots? Just tell me. I've come a long way, I deserve at least this. GOD DAMN IT, BETH.
I was carrying a big platter of nachos and tripped over the motherfucking cat. Those nachos fell to the floor in slow motion, like a waterfall of golden tortilla chips and chunky pico de gallo. It was the most beautiful shit I ever seen.
Back when I was an idealist, I thought that if you told someone they looked like "Screech, except with little cat turds instead of teeth," they'd be able to get the joke. Well, the sad truth is: a) they don't and b) I didn't get the job.
Ever have one of those nights where you're lying in bed and it's very quiet outside and the moon is behind some clouds and it's actually quite warm for March. You just can't get to sleep and you contemplate turning on the TV and watching something boring like the Food Network or HSN. Then it starts, the woman screaming for her life and the sound of the axe hitting bone and the screeching car tires and you're like FUCK IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN and you clamp the pillow around your head. Oh right, that was supposed to be a question. Um
My pick for restaurant of the year? That Taco Bell in the Village that was infested by rats. You know, back in my day, it was perfectly acceptable for animals to join you while you ate. Ever been to Paris, shitbirds? Dogs walk in and out of joints like they had partial ownership of the place. So a few dozen rats are running around the store, copulating and shitting in all the nooks and crannies. Big deal. It's called New York City for a reason, people. Last time I checked, if you wanted a tostada salad without tiny little rat turds all up in it you could move to Long Island.
Spring is around the corner. YIPPEE.
