A Dog's Story? -- Paws

A dog, who claims to know my name, puts its paws on my knee as if it were a badly painted prostitute so down on her luck that she’s been driven to working on the halls of nursing homes, fulfilling the dying wishes of horny old men with her lips, hands, loins, in exchange for the trinkets children have sent to the grandfather they have placed here in lieu of actually having to visit. Occasionally, she may pick up a buck or two in nickels or dimes the men have won in poker games with the orderlies, but she never hopes for even this, just smiles with clenched teeth and plays angel of mercy to put food on her table.

I swatted the dog’s paw off my knee, jumped up and screamed, “Get away from me you mutt, don’t you know dogs can’t talk!” Then feeling rather self-righteous, I kicked the beast in the ribs as it started to disagree.

Sheila's Tale -- A Moment in time

She greeted me with a smile of the ancients shining as a police flashlight into the eyes of a drunk from her swarthy skin, framed by black curls of lacework hair and lips that were rungs of a deep burgundy ladder reaching miles into the night to a space filled with the five senses, a heaven reached only by the gentle caress of a naked hand as you climbed up and out.

I was dumbstruck when her mouth whispered my name, and in the candlelight the sweat shined on my palm as I slowly reached for a balanced grasp.

Sabrina and David's Tale -- The Fourth of July

It’s fourth of July. It’s also 48 degrees and the sun is shinning. The weather has been like this all summer. Freakish. What ever happened to global warming anyway? All that talk and all those warnings, humph.
Sabrina and I have been bundled up and wandering around Billfordstown’s 87th annual Downtown Independence Day Celebration all day. I am full of fritters. Sabrina has abstained from the fried foods and has been sampling various shades of taffy and fudge from every blue haired crooked smile that waved a shaky arthritic hand in her direction. Sabrina’s always been like that. She has an ear the size of a Ford Explorer when it comes to listening to a crone’s tale of past loves, unappreciative grandchildren, various fat-free lunch recipes, or Oprah’s weight loss. I don’t have the patience. I don’t like people much. I especially don’t like people who prattle. I figure I have limited space inside my head to store information, why would I want to take up any of it with odes to Brad Pitt’s divorce or paeans to cousin David’s daughter’s boyfriend’s fraternity brother’s meeting with Bill Gates and what a generous man he is, really. Why? What? Shut-up.
Sabrina, on the other hand, laps it all up. She’s fascinated, honestly, genuinely fascinated. She likes puppies too. What she’s doing with me I still can’t figure out. Maybe it’s out of pity. I try not to think too much about it. It’s my opinion that the unexamined life carries much less baggage on road trips and I like to travel. I also like Sabrina and she seems to like me. We have a good time together. Why worry? Life is experience, it ain’t anything anyone’s ever going to get their head around. Live. Enjoy. Be as happy as possible. Why not?
I’ll admit that it gets harder and harder to do. Everyone wants to talk so much. They all seem to need to show how much they know and tell you what kind of person they are. Even the guys down at the hardware store. A couple of days ago I was in there to buy a fistful of 16 penny nails, and I overheard Lance saying to Will, “You know, I think Lisa is pushing me away because I am not helping her define her femininity and I am not empowering her with ownership of her sexuality.” This must be a fancy way of saying, “I ought to bathe a bit more often and stop hanging out with the strippers at the Bunkhouse on Route 7,” because that’s what the problem is. Let’s be honest.
All this kind of talk, this endless babble, it serves no purpose. It solves no problems. It keeps people at arms length from experience. It’s hooey. Too much talk.
Sabrina tries it with me every once in awhile. She can’t help herself sometimes. It’s her nature, I suppose. She asks, “What are you thinking?” and I always tell her the truth when she asks. But my answers of “how do my tiny feet hold up my huge body?” or “If you drove along the equator at the same speed as the earth was spinning, except in the opposite direction, would you actually stay in one place for the rest of your life?” are not quite the responses she is looking for. It’s OK though. She lets go quickly. She smiles alot when she looks at me. I try to kiss her every time she smiles. We get along fine.
The Billfordstown Volunteer Fireman’s Orchestra has started to play the Star Spangled Banner. Sabrina grabs my hand and pulls me down onto one of the new pale green park benches the town just put in place so our senior citizens would have more places downtown to sit and complain. Darryl thought the pale green would make the benches stand out better so the seniors could find them easier. They stand out alright. Stand out like cat vomit. But they serve their purpose. Mr. Scofield and Mr. Maynid now have a prime location in which to bemoan teenage fashion and our President’s peccadilloes. They all need a stage. Too much talk.
Sabrina is wearing the white chenille sweater I got her for Christmas last year. It’s a turtleneck. It frames her face nicely. Her thick red hair glows deeply in the light of the sunset.
Old man Cooney starts to sing along with the band. He’s off key. He gets most of the words wrong and he can’t even seem to follow the beat. But he’s misty, his eyes are all misty. Crazy old man Cooney is an American true-blue. He may have stacks of newspapers filling up seven of the eight rooms in his house, there may be potato salad from 1957 in his garage, but that’s potato salad and newspapers made by Americans, for Americans, and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t forget it. Just ask him, and old man Cooney will tell you. He’s seen it all and there ain’t no goddamn better place in the world then America, Darn Tootin’!
The Burton Twins are pointing and laughing. Old man Cooney spits when he sings.
Sabrina snuggles a little closer, my arm is around her. I can smell the shampoo in her hair. The air is crisp and clear, almost like a fall day. The sunset is turning a rich display of oranges and reds. The band has begun a medley of Motown hits. I am breathing easy and deep.
Sabrina exhales deeply. She turns her head to look up at me. “I love you David,” she says, her eyes locked on mine with intensity.
I smile and I clear my throat. I try to speak, but I am still choked up. I clear my throat again but remain unable to say anything. Finally, I cough. It is a loud, barking cough that takes me by surprise. I look down at Sabrina. The beautiful white chenille sweater is covered with all these tiny red dots. They weren’t there before. I think they are blood.
I cough again, loudly. It hurts. There are more dots of blood.
“Ummmmm...” I say, trying to figure out what is happening.
“I said I love you, David.” Sabrina pleads, wanting to make sure I understand. This time when I cough, a big wad of blood hits her right in the face.

Today in Billfordstown

A four-year-old boy sits fat in a swing not moving for no one is there to push him. A feeble old woman stands in front of her refrigerator, hungry, but her hands are unable to open the jar of pickles. A young woman lies on the fire escape making jewelry that not even she will wear. Charles sits on his motorcycle, unemployed for seventeen months, no money for gas anymore.

Nobody seems to be getting anywhere.

Today’s the day the zoo officials installed televisions in the chimpanzee cages to provide them with a more stimulating environment, but three minutes after the sets are turned on, the screens are so covered with feces that nothing can be seen.

And the birds fly south as the air gets colder while cats stare into the sky with remorse.

A half finished beer sits on the table, stale, the bottle dry, no more condensation on its smooth brown sides.

It’s just a few more hours until sunset.

Soon night will be upon us.

Dolores' Story -- A Christmas Tale

The sun has just risen in Billfordstown. Dolores awakes to find herself moist with excitement; last night father told her that this Christmas was to be the greatest of her young life. Flashing out of bed in her flannel jammies, she hurries towards the stairs. Her intensity grows as she hits the first step. After the fifth stair she begins to fly, her feet hitting every third one faster and faster. She kisses the living room carpet with a dull thud, her head bounces once before she is still again. One eye slightly cocked, she sees the Douglas Fir full with its needles bent left slightly under the Gothic weight of colored balls, lights, tinsel and angels. Dolores pulls herself up to her feet and sees the single bright red wrapped package. She stalks towards it like a barnyard mouser as her father enters the room in his fuzzy paisley sweater and announces, “It’s Christmas.”
Dolores takes this as her cue and pounces upon the package, snatching it up in her soft little paws. With primal violence, she begins pulling and tearing at the ribbon and tape, teeth bared in excitement. Finally the wrapping is off and she stands above the plain brown box, panting.
“Open it,” says her father and Dolores gently removes the lid. There is a pause and her father settles into his plush Papa chair. Dolores squeals with delight as she jams her hands into the box and pulls out a pair of beautiful, firm, milk-white breasts. “They’re just what I wanted,” she screams.
“Have your mother read the assembly instructions,” says her smiling proud Papa, rubbing his belly, “I’ll go get my tools from the basement.”

Fishbag's Story -- The Fishbag Stomp

Glassy-eyed, Fishbag screams into the heavens that it’s the Notion of Shoes that has ceased our forward progress into an age of possibilities where the sun shines on the ideas of the truly touched and gleams off the downy blonde hair of lovers embraced while the fires burn dictionary red and persimmon orange in the background.

He screams that it’s the Notion of Shoes at the heart of all our failures, every single fucking one of them, and why the paintings in the museums seem so muddled and devoid of any keen insight or high-cheekboned swagger nowadays.

We’ve been sealed in airless boxes made of the flesh of every baby girl ever drowned in the Yangtze River. Thanks to the Notion of Shoes, these boxes now crash violently into each other as we try to reach out for even the slightest sense of comfort or community, and like mimes we weep at our loss of connection and our inability to touch.

The Notion of Shoes is what semantically keeps us from actually communicating with each other as it dulls the soft tug of a woman’s full lips as they brush gently on our backs in the early morning’s haze and the pungent stench of gasoline.

He screams all this into the star-struck blackness above, standing in these woods, his arms pinwheeling as if propellers on a plane dropping food and medical supplies on yet another camp full of starving refugees, his bare feet black in the snow, and we, with our heavy eyes and fleece-lined boots, watch huddled by the fire, shivering in the cold.

Willard's Story -- Cleaning the Basement

Willard sits in the oak breakfast nook trying to sink the few remaining Oateeos floating mockingly in his bowl. “Damn dinghies got a hole in ‘em,” he thinks as the clacking of his spoon gets louder.
“Willard!” comes the nails on a blackboard screech of his wife’s holler floating down the stairs from the bedroom above, “Willard!”
“What?”
“You promised to clean the basement today!”
“What?”
“The basement!”
“Yes, yes, the basement.”
“Clean it out!”
“I am!”
“The basement?”
“Yes!”
“You’re cleaning the basement?”
“I’m cleaning the basement!” Willard enjoys shouting back at his wife and takes every opportunity he can to do it.
Pushing his Oateeos aside with a promise to come back later “and teach you a few goddamn things about dinghies,” Willard makes his way to the stairs of the basement.
His slat crusted work boots hit each riser hard letting out a little parrot squawk echoed by Willard’s own hollow thoughts about his descent and the sea. Clicking on the light, he takes an initial survey: broken oars, moldy lifevests, tangled fishing gear, empty scuba tanks, jammed harpoon guns, rotten chunks of old rowboats and kayaks, welding torches, half eaten sandwiches -- the plunder of Willard’s passion unfulfilled. He sits down on one of the lifevests, starts poking through a cracked tackle box, and sighs.
“Willard!” A rat caught in a glue trap sounding shrill this time.
“Yes, yes, I’m cleaning the basement. I’m cleaning!” Willard chuckles to himself, proud of how loud he can shout.
He thinks, “Piles are the key,” if he can just get everything into piles, then that would be enough. Plan settled, task at hand, Willard sets to work.
“Fins with snorkels, oars together, sandwiches with the dinghies...” For thirty minutes or so, Willard picks up his treasures and moves them from side to side.
“I’m still working!” Willard shouts because he can, because it feels good, “I’m cleaning the basement!”
By now, Willard has cleared a path to the far side of the basement where a pitted, rotten rowboat leans against the wall.
“May have to cut this in two to fit it on the pile,” Willard thinks as he blows the dust off the hull. He grabs it and tugs but it seems to be stuck in place. He strains and he pulls but it won’t budge.
“I’ll use an oar as a lever!” he yells.
“What?” comes the screech from above.
“Oar!”
“Oar?”
“Lever!”
“What are you talking about, Willard?”
“I’m cleaning the basement!”
Flush with the pleasure of having shouted once again, Willard does as he said he would and grabs one of the least rotten oars he can find. He jams it behind the boat and with all of his strength he pulls back on it. With a grinding “SQUANK” the boat shudders from the wall and Willard falls flat on his back.
“What was that?” the screech yells.
“The dinghy...” a breathless Willard mumbles, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling.
“Willard, what was that?” comes the screech again.
“I’m cleaning!” Willard shouts and climbs back on his feet.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m cleaning the goddamn basement!”
Invigorated from shouting but winded from the work, Willard looks at the wall where the boat had been resting.
“Where the hell did that come from?” It looks like it was made of old pine and has a tarnished copper knob shaped like a donut or an Oateeo.
“A door!” he screams as loudly as he can.
“Throw it out!” is the screech’s reply.
“Throw it out?” Willard screams.
“We have enough doors!”
“Aaaaaaaah -- shut yer pie-hole!”
“Willard, really...”
“I’m cleaning!” Willard giggles from the screaming and looks at the door. “Hmmmmm,” he thinks, “might make a good raft...” and Willard sees himself astride the door, shirtless and strong, a patch over his left eye, a saber clenched between his teeth -- the scourge of the seven seas -- avast ye hearties, avast -- and he reaches for the Oateeo shaped knob.
There is a sudden sucking sound, like when you lift the vacuum from the carpet and the engine revs. Willard feels himself being pulled forward, helpless against the force. “Hey now...”
What is it -- seconds, minutes, hours, days -- alone in the darkness, Willard feels himself pulled further and further in, heading towards a light up ahead.
Into the light and out, Willard quickly tries to get his bearing on where he has ended up. From all accounts of his senses, he is high above an ocean -- high above and ocean and falling -- high above an ocean and falling fast.
“Shoulda grabbed me a dinghy!” Willard shouts with all his might as he plunges headfirst towards the briny deep and an uncertain landing for sure.

First Post

Hi. I don't mean for this to be about me. I mean this to be about Billfordstown. The place and people that I love. I am just going to be telling their stories from here on out. Come back often and see what's happening here.