dishwashing

My coworker, a busboy of four years, has left to pursue a plumbing job in a town some thirty miles away. The remnants of a meal and a broken pipe; one is another seen through a foggy mirror; both incidents require a certain level of competence, a fine amount of dexterity, a lack of contempt for grit and detritus. There is also an inherent impulse to clean, repair, tinker.

In saying his goodbyes, my coworker saved his most heartfelt for last: the utility man (dishwasher being too harsh of a title). A hard-working man, he puts in twelve hours of labor a day, every day, in the hopes of accruing enough money for his family. They wait for him in Brazil as he waits to reenter their sanctity. He is a father to children my age; he is a husband; he lives alone in an apartment and self-prescribes three hours of sleep per night. A balding man, he is as proud of his potbelly as he is of his craft, of his language, of his cheer. When the departing busboy shakes this man’s hand goodbye, I do not think there is total comprehension. The boundary of language obscures meanings. While we have a few words to share (Pepsi, water,help), much is lost in the wash; much is still adrift.

My mother once told me about her childhood pet, a collie named Barney. The neighbors loved Barney; they thought ahead to prepare extra food for him, or they left their scraps for him to enjoy. When he was older and in the throes of decline, Barney broke from my mother’s hold and fled to the woods. He wanted to die alone. It was as if he knew he was dying, and breaking free from a tether, an embrace, was part of the experience.

So maybe it is true that dogs are codependent, but when it is their time to die, they welcome the opportunity for escape. If this was not true of Barney, then perhaps he made for the woods to wrestle with oblivion, to look up and see light shimmering through leaves, the rusty bark of trees, the expanse of dirt and underbrush, this despite the looming quietus.

My coworker was good at his work. He understood that the aim of bussing a table is to make a ghost of the customer: the breaking of bread an act of the past, the drinking of the wine now a memory. Thank you, hope to see you soon followed by Here you are, enjoy. A new goodbye followed by a newer hello, a table for two reseated again and again.

I looked for myself

on the rainy highway, there was a woman with an umbrella. she wore a dark coat, heels, and brown hair that fell to her shoulders. though the rain was falling hard, and though cars and trucks buzzed by her with haste, she did not appear disgruntled or even flustered. the manner of her gait implied purpose, credence, stop-time.

"look at that," my father said, arching his head sideways and pointing at the woman through the windshield. "she's in the bad stuff." the bad stuff was this: the other side of the guardrail: the weeds, the dirt, the roadside trash.

under my thumb by the rolling stones played on the radio and my father held up his own thumb so that it blocked the woman's figure from view. my father's actions surprised me. (how could a man bop to the radio, pad the wheel with one hand, and drive on a rapid-paced highway in what is now torrential rain?) a car in the passing lane kicked up a mixture of mist and exhaust. the sound of its acceleration mimicked white noise that moves toward the distance, toward oblivion; it became softer, was fleeting, and then another motorist passed, resurrecting the crackle and thrum.

"uh huh," I said. I wondered if perhaps the woman was walking to her vehicle somewhere up the road, if she had just come from reporting her car's breakdown or failure, if walking was her hallowed mode of transportation. or perhaps she was never there at all. I looked in the side mirrors of our nissan as we sped forward, expecting to see her head bowed, one of her arms outstretched as if she was recently struck blind, her unfurled umbrella.

all I saw was myself.

Well, My Nose Is Dripping, But Maybe It's Not The Flu At All, Maybe It's Just You, Making Me Melt.

We never made it to the planetarium that Thursday afternoon, but, the other night, when we were lying on my floor in our underwear, because it was too hot to sleep on the top bunk, you turned to me and said, "Isn't this nice?"
So I looked up at the ceiling, and I thought:
"Well, how did all of these stars get here?"
Which was quickly followed by:
"Where did the ceiling go?"
And then:
"How about the roof?"
And then:
"Jesus, how the hell can it be so hot in here if there's no roof on this building?"
And then you coughed, so I turned to you, and, wouldn't you know it, by the time I'd turned back to face what I had come to know as the open night sky, I was staring at a ceiling.
But you were right.
It was nice.

Yours,
The Professor

the art of the matter

someone once told me art is anything that is accused of being racist or sexist and in reality is neither of those. my father says art is the man who sings bridge over troubled water. and still others say it is what makes you (the viewer, the recipient, the guest) feel like you belong here, like you are not alone. but when I think of that eternal question (what is art?), I remember a poster I once saw; it claimed art is food. it is no coincidence, then, that an artichoke is entirely edible, even its heart and bracts. so make no mistake: art is an offering of life, of loneliness and companionship, of song and silence, as these are the shapes of the heart. go ahead and feast.

blind faith

my passed neighbor, the craftsman, struck his face in an accident that involved a hammer and wood; it left him blind. now, the son of this man constructs a bird feeder with his hands (the subtle purpose of craftsmanship, of alignment). when he hits the wood, he is either saying hello or goodbye, I am here or where have you gone?, running backward or moving forward, but always for his father.

dropping like lies

the first time I ate at a chinese food buffet I got sick. really sick. the first time I stood on top of a skyscraper I wondered what it would feel like to jump. the first time I lied I remember when my mother said if you lie, your tongue will turn black. I remember my mouth feeling like tar. I remember feeling sick. really sick. I could never jump.