the one which i walk into a bar and witness a wedding

I slouched in my chair with my back to the hosts.

I wasn’t being rude. I was late and every table was taken.

I’d only been to one trivia binge before.

I almost skipped out last night. My head hurt and I spent 10 minutes looking for my license. It snowed recently. But for some reason I walked into the smoky pub.

As it turns out, I know a few things, like the name of the couple that got married on General Hospital, when 30 million people watched.

(Not bad for a kid who grew up without a television.)

But the format switched for one round. The hosts (a guy named Kyle and a girl named Lauryl) asked each team to write wedding vows.

(What?)

Why, just in case these two wanted to get married: “in an alternate universe.”

My teammates scribbled information, but I drew a blank.

I have trouble writing poetry about people I’d never met.

(I think that’s called songwriting.)

So we sat around in our little corner, and watched water drip off our soles onto concrete floors.

I noticed some cue sticks a few feet away.

These guys nearby wailed like profane 2-year-olds.

(And I stared at the cue sticks.)

We turned in our vows. I’m sure they were fine. And Lauryl and Kyle picked up the papers and faced each other.

That’s cute, I thought, a real production.

I figured they’d read the best vows strangers could write.

(Which may or may not have been ours.)

But then he shrugged a tuxedo jacket over his shoulders.

And she wore flowers in her hair, and a red dress.

And a girl screamed, “They’re getting married!”

And they were.

I couldn’t believe it.

What kind of alternate universe was this?

So I stood up, out of respect I suppose. We all did.

A friend of theirs spoke about marriage.

He was surprisingly formal.

But he was ordained, after all.

(Universal Life, that is.)

And they said their vows.

(No, not ours. Just theirs.)

Choking back tears.

And we all raised our glasses, beer sloshing over rims.

And they opened up boxes of miniature cheesecakes.

(And I, for one, hope they make it.)

So I took out a little notebook, the one I carry just in case.

Right then I noticed this guy, and I read the back of his shirt:

“Where nothing much happens, but you better be there when it does.”

Be still, or, my response to the State of the Union in 100 words

There I was, watching the State of the Union.

Actually, I was at the library. I forgot. I saw the end.

Then I had to read what New York Times writers had to say.

And my relatives. Yep.

That takes time.

And friends who keep up on this sort of thing.

I read so much that I forgot what I thought.

Life is like college sometimes.

All that talking and nobody listening.

If you want to know my first reaction, though:

Maybe the government is too big.

Some people say so.

I wonder who will give up his job first.

luck?

I walked past a cop car and opened the library doors.

I picked up a book and sat near the policeman. He was reading a newspaper.

A man spoke:

“Are you on break,”  he asked the cop.

“No, I’m actually trying to read,” he replied crossly.

I looked up at this guy sitting near me. He looked worried.

I looked away.

Later, a kid approached the policeman for directions.

“You know, the place where homeless kids can hang out,” the kid said politely.

The cop thought aloud, then sent him to a building a block or two away.

I watched four or five kids walk down the street.

The cop finished his article.

And I finished mine.

I called for a ride.

“Which car,” I asked, self-consciously.

(The silver one. Of course.)

honesty

I meant to go to a library each day this week. For stories, I guess.

Monday I went to the oldest place.

I had trouble finding it, driving around in this maze of one-way streets.

I needed rules for this mission, like forced play. I wanted to have a purpose. But I hadn’t figured it out. So I walked through the fiction aisles and tilted my head to find titles.

Maybe just one book, the first one I saw. Or movies? Perhaps jazz. No, not jazz. I thought about testing the limits of my card, but I worried about going too far.

I couldn’t decide.

So I wound up with the Spice Girls Greatest Hits and a Van Damme film, the one in which he fights terrorists at a hockey game.

(It’s too violent.)

I sat down at a wooden table, across from some stranger. He didn’t notice me, engrossed in Captain America comic books.

I flipped through Sports Illustrated, engrossed in someone else’s art.

Last night I drank some white wine and cheap beer, and I forgot to drink much else. I like to take B vitamins so I can focus, but sometimes it doesn’t work.

I picked up a notebook to describe the people around me. That guy. But his scruff turned dull on my pages.

I put SI back and walked through non-fiction. I looked for inspiration and found self-help. I wiped away tears and crossed my arms, because I was trying and it wasn’t working. I used to feel okay as long as I got A’s, but now I just felt incomplete.

So I walked back to the fiction and calmed my mind. Tomorrow I would find a new coffee shop, or a different country. It would be easier.

But suddenly I realized that I couldn’t separate writing from my heart, and writing from my life. And I didn’t like any of those things too well. I felt pretentious and worried that I was wasting some creative gift, just because I didn’t feel safe.

So I put down my books, walked to the bathroom and cried.

Then I walked out and smiled. Because I’m good at that.

this guy

I drove up the road to the grocery store to pick up fried chicken.

I eat it when I want to feel little again.

I stopped at a light and waited. This guy in front of me sat on his motorcycle. He reached forward to grip his wide handlebars.

And then I saw his license plate.

I love those adorable miniature license plates, the kind your dad might install on a bicycle if you were little. You can’t forget my name if it’s written in capitals on MY bike.

I guess you could terrorize the neighborhood, if you were into that.

(My neighborhood had big hills.)

So this guy. His little license plate didn’t mention his name. But I noticed the tiny blue wheelchair outline in the lower left corner.

I tried to read his stickers, the ones plastered to his black helmet. The first one instructed me to, well:

It just wasn’t very nice.

He shifted his weight and reached back to adjust a large silver ring that dangled from his back pocket. Lots of keys.

(Lots of locks.)

Gray strings of hair escaped his helmet and flapped in the warm January breeze.

I wondered what happened. Because something had happened.

Because I could feel this rage surrounding him like a warm blanket. He needed to feel safe. I didn’t know why.

(Most people don’t know why.)

The light flipped to green, and he sped off to the right. I glanced over as I drove straight.

All that was left was a tiny red light that glowed on an empty old street.

dead and gone

I drove out of a parking lot and stopped quickly.

I was startled to see a gleaming white hearse. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the driver. I didn’t care to see anyone else, naturally.

25 or 30 cars followed, flashers blinking in unison.

(A trail of tears, if you will.)

My knee flared for a couple of seconds. Someone once said that means unresolved grief. For whom, I don’t know. I lose count.

As I waited I wondered:

Is this the time to sit in solemn stillness, wiping tears for a stranger’s friend?

NO, I decided.

I wanted it to be a time to blare John Legend, at least while I still can. So I did, windows down.

(Michael Jackson next. You know, I bet he’d trade places with me.)

I almost caught up to the hearse at a stoplight,  but the light changed. I drove away in another direction.

I couldn’t catch the dead, but the dead couldn’t catch me, either. Not today.

new year’s day

I don’t know how he saw me in a dark room.

There were people everywhere.

I took off my coat, but tied a red scarf around my neck.

“You’re cold?” he asked.

I hadn’t noticed him until he walked up to me.

I can’t be rude, not really, not on New Year’s Eve.

Not ever, actually.

“Well, it’s cold outside,” I said.

(About 12 degrees.)

I don’t think he noticed.

“What’s your name,” he asked, stepping toward me.

He stuck out his hand.

I said my name and shook his hand, because I didn’t want to be mean, and because sometimes this Sunday School teacher sits on my shoulder and reminds me to not actually say what I’m feeling.

So I deferred to this guy.

“Mary’s are cool,” he decided aloud.

He gave me his name.

“I can be kind of an asshole,” he offered.

“All right,” I replied.

(I wanted to run.)

“Actually, my friend noticed you first,” he continued.

“Oh, really,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest.

“He said you have a nice butt,” he said.

(I felt sad and angry. Usually the two go together.)

But I laughed instead.

“Well, there’s more to me than that,” I quipped.

“Yeah, my friend doesn’t know that ’cause he doesn’t know you,” he continued.

“Sure doesn’t,” I said, and finally turned away.

He had run out of wisdom, at least for the moment.

And I had nothing to say.

clearance

I told them I would work overnights so I wouldn’t have to work Christmas Eve.

I walked in at 10 p.m. for three straight nights.

I’ve done some traveling. I thought I could adjust.

Maybe I can be a little irritable.

But there I was. It was close to 1 a.m.

I stretched out my legs on the thin carpet.

Bras dangled over my head.

And I tagged thongs and boy shorts, now marked down to $2.10.

I looked at a co-worker. She’d done this for 30 years. During the day time.

She sorted by pattern, polka dots and stripes.

I made piles.

The guy to my left I didn’t know.

He spoke a little English and laughed too much.

We sat in a row, scanning bar codes and printing tiny orange stickers.

Trying to get your attention.

stars

I walked under the lights and rubbed my eyes.

Stars were falling, and snowflakes, too.

This co-worker rode a mechanical ladder, a ridiculous contraption that reminded me of a Segway.

(Those things.)

And then it stopped.

And she hit her head on the ceiling.

But she wasn’t hurt.

She just couldn’t get down.

I hid my laughter behind my fist.

I didn’t even know these people.

Spending our nights together.

Someone rescued her.

We didn’t know how.

Some man, in keeping with tradition.

So she raised her hands.

And pried plastic from the ceiling.

She threw it by my head.

“Be careful!” I hissed, but she didn’t seem to notice.

I sighed and scraped stars off the dirty linoleum.

the one in which i meet santa claus

Usually I fold clothes.

But today there were too many toys on the trucks.

So someone asked me to give the toys a foster home, a temporary space where they could rest before being ripped away from their neighbors.

Certainly.

I was carrying three boxes of dolls, but someone needed my help.

Excuse me? he said.

(And I was grateful for that, at least.)

I turned around … and I gasped!

Shhh!

I cannot say for certain but …

IT WAS SANTA CLAUS.

He had a long white beard and wore wire-rimmed spectacles.

And he was shopping in the toy department, ten days before Christmas.

I didn’t say anything.

But I helped him find a perfect toy.

Don’t ask!

I’m under contract.

Like an elf?

I guess you could say that.

Was it a Nerf football that spirals through the air?

Perhaps a Mr. Potato Head in a clear plastic suitcase.

A wide-eyed Dora doll?

Or a bucket of Lincoln Logs?

(Well, we’re all out of those.)

A board game for the entire family? Could be.

(Santa doesn’t like to wrap presents, if you hadn’t noticed.)

Well.

I guess you will have just have to wait.