A new story, from the brilliant mind that brought you, 3 More Stories

Weightless

My grandpa always used to tell me that you won’t know what love is until you’ve found it. Now he’s dead, and I’m starting to wonder if that was a riddle. He sometimes told us riddles, at least we thought they were riddles until the doctors told us his mind was going. Things started to melt together, the way he would describe something, something he was looking at right in front of him. It was usually incredibly poetic, but they turned out to be the thoughts of a dying and senile man. His hands were big, His palm itself seemed like it could cover my face, and so I felt safe around him, no matter how bad his mind got his body always seemed in perfect shape. My sister married young, I always thought too young and so in one of his better days, one of his more lucid less convoluted days we went out to dinner.

We never sat at a booth, ever, it was a golden rule or something. He loved to lean forward and to rock his chair back on two legs, I think he loved that small amount of freedom more than he loved my grandma, well, the memory of my grandma. We sat at the table and he waved a hand to the waitress, she brought us some water and we talked about his doctors visit; everything’s fine. He took a big gulp of water, sucking in an ice cube. He held it between his teeth, letting the squeak of slowly compacting ice reverberate through his jaw and down to his hands. They shook, and as I looked he said, You know, you won’t know what love is until you’ve found it. I told him I knew, and the ice cracked loud. He let his mouth stay closed for a moment and he just repeated himself. I know I told him, but this time there was no pause, he simply said, you don’t but someday I hope you will find out.

He never talked about his parents, and he never talked about my grandmother. When I was younger I asked him about his father, and he picked me up and put me in his lap. He breathed in and said he was the kind of man who would never take a child out for ice cream before dinner, and then he tickled me and we went to get ice cream. My mom said that he didn’t want to think about anything that had hurt him, but that his father was a brave man. Eventually I found out that he was a fireman who died in a building. It was a long time ago, when my mom was just a little girl, my grandfather a young man, and a building collapsed.

My grandfather never mentioned my father either, he would only say in passing that the man never knew love, only how to lose it. I’ve seen him a couple times, my mom would set up meetings saying that he was excited to see us but when me and my sister would see him he would always want to end things quick, he would take us to the zoo or something, ask us some questions about things we liked and disliked and then he would be gone. He always sent us presents, and when we got older money, but after the 4^th visit he started just calling. I used to wonder if he had to call because he was so far away, but he lived within the same state, and so all that was left was disappointment. I don’t know what he is to me, but it isn’t a father and I know I don’t love him. That is why I never talk about my father, and it is the same and the opposite reason my grandpa never talked about his parents and his wife.

I didn’t say anything, and he let it all hang in the air. He took another sip of water and the waitress came back. Without looking at the menu he ordered and I had to make a hasty decision on what to eat. When she left he asked about my sister, I said she was fine and he asked about her husband and I told him I didn’t know. He leaned back and looked at the table, I don’t know if he was thinking about the next question or wondering where he was. He asked why I didn’t like him, his name was Christopher, why I didn’t like Christopher. I shrugged, because it was getting uncomfortable, but he didn’t care because he wanted to help and so he waited till I would give a more satisfying answer. They hardly know each other, or themselves, I just don’t think he’s right for her.

In truth they were and are perfect for each other. For three years in a row they bought each other the same present for Christmas, so they started a tradition of buying one gift together. He leaned forward, shifting weight onto his elbows. My grandpa was a big man, every part was proportionate to each other, but in near giant stature, and sitting there across the table I still felt like a small child in a booster seat. How have you been lately? I’d like to say my grandpa had eyes that became soft when he was being endearing, but instead of becoming soft they gained an intensity. He had the ability to use those eyes to protect and show dominance, they were lion’s eyes and they had a helluva roar.

I knew better, but you can’t lie to him, he won’t confront you, he will simply correct your lie in the next question. I’m fine, work is a little stressful and I’m really ready for a vacation. The problem with complaining to older people about work is that they’ve worked harder and longer than you, and they may say they understand but what they really mean, and what you know they mean is, That’s life. My grandpa was not the type of person to coddle, he wouldn’t try to comfort you in your delusions and so when his time came we wouldn’t comfort him in his. He didn’t want to know about work, he was old fashioned and when I took a desk job he saw it as a betrayal, but he wanted a better life for me and his aching body knew that his objections were irrational.

I think, I think its time for you to find a woman. He held up a hand, a signal that any objection would have to wait. You’re a good man, and there’s a lot you don’t want to say to another man and I understand that. When, when I first started dating your grandmother. He stopped and moved his elbows a couple of inches back toward his belly. Those were different times. When a man had something on his mind, he told his girl. Everyone had one back then, it wasn’t like today. We married young, we married in love, and we stayed that way. That was the last time I heard him talk about my grandma, but right before he stopped talking my mother saw him playing a game of checkers with her. By the time he wanted to continue the conversation our food had been brought out and was half eaten.

We started talking about my sister again, how she was too young, and he didn’t mind that. She was eighteen, almost nineteen and he was twenty. I never tried to talk her out of it, I always tried to seem happy for her, but she was too young. My grandpa told me he was always proud of us and that he wished I could be happy. We finished up eating and I drove him home. He always said that you wouldn’t know love until you found it, but I had found it, it just made things complicated. It felt like swimming in a great void, being completely weightless without any indication of direction. There was no way to know what to do, and I didn’t have a woman to talk about it with. While I may have found love, love had yet to find her,

We pulled into his driveway and I walked him inside. He’d kept the furniture in the same order, my grandmother had been the one who always wanted things moved around, I don’t think he minded as long as she was there with him and so when she died everything stayed its place. I sat down on the couch and he went to start making coffee for himself and boiling some water for me. He came back and sat in his usual chair, fabric warn from years of abrasion. We started telling stories, me about work and him about growing up on the farm. His life was so simple, he woke up, worked, went to bed. He never had to think about what he was doing, his body simply remembered what to do and did.

His voice created a slow drone in my ears, a pleasant tone that caused my mind to drift. When he was admitted into the hospital I remembered that he wasn’t speaking to me any longer, he wasn’t speaking to anyone, but he always stared at the window like he was waiting for something to break through it. I came in every Thursday after work and sat in the chair by the window as he looked right past me. Sometimes I read a book, sometimes I just stared back at him. Finally the doctors said he didn’t have much longer and so my cousins flew into town, my aunts and uncles met with my mother to start planning a funeral and on the last night they all went out to dinner and left me with him alone for the last time.

I pulled my chair right up next to his bed but at this point his eyes were closed. I told him thanks for everything, I told him that he was the best father I could have ever had, even though he was my grandfather. I wanted to tell him that’d I’d found love and that I was happy, but he hadn’t prepare me for the kind of love that makes you unhappy, that was something my father tried to teach me, so I didn’t tell him anything for awhile. When my mom and cousins and aunts and uncles came back they all hugged me and asked questions like “are you ok?” and “do you need to talk?”. The more they talked the farther I fell into the void, the less direction I had and the more I needed to know where to go. The farther and deeper I got the more I realized that love was a lot like drowning. Before my grandpa died I told him that I had found love, and I lied and told him that I was happy, that we were happy together and then his heart stopped a shrill constant tone rang and he knew that I was lying, but I loved him, so I lied.

Newest Poem

Georgia
It was black coal
made the blues good.
But for the time being
Even the trees were green.
They took the lot
But the rotting peaches
didn’t taste sweet.
All the bruises sank
into the pit
of their stomachs.
Horses pulled
tracts in the soil
as seed falls
but they wont come
till the blue drops rain.

First Completed Poem Since Returning From Kenya (i tend to not write poems on my accord. honda accord)

Who are we
is what the wolves cried in the dark.
whats the desert like to the blind,
the vultures fly and beat their wings
theres no water but im thirsty,
my voice gets tired
and the wolves ask who are we,
i dont think theres an answer
neither do the others
but we try harder,
they say we're in this together
but they always grow apart,
and so we yell louder
asking who are we?

At The Compound

The sun comes out in the afternoon. The streetlights were on and I yawned a lot. They say my brains bad, the consistency of a bruised banana, or flan (without the caramel). Maybe that’s why I like giraffes so much, they are mechanized, and I am not. I don’t know what exists anymore, I heard she died, but there she is, what time is it? I lift my tongue and swallow, everything stops, am I breathing? My chest hurts, when did I start bleeding? I swallow again and everything is moving again, am I breathing? Everything is yellow with black spots and I can’t control what I say, it all comes out, the whole enchilada, and then I am served nachos. Thanks ugly woman. I can’t go on dates because I speak my mind with tenacity, and it comes out very loud. Don’t let me stop breathing. When the sun came out the clouds stuck around, someone needed to flush twice, how long has it been now? You lose count from all the sedation, I used to drive, I used to go outside, I want to sing but I can never find my voice when the desire comes.
They say my brains bad but how do they know what’s good, they spend all that time looking at Hitler’s brain and imagining Morgan Freeman’s. I dream of becoming a centaur with a giraffes body, I join a herd and when their long necks swoop toward me I can’t resist the urge, but the suns out and it’s afternoon so everyone can see. They all laugh and I can’t get my tongue to move, its become whipped cream and I can’t control it, it can’t form any words because it’s too busy sloshing, I should have left it in the can. Tony Danza punched me in the throat in spit at me while I laid down recovering, he showed me who was the boss, but his regional manager came and now he is on the streets again, also, Angela is dead and has requested to be buried on the moon (can I make such a request). I have no money, I have no gears, all I have is nachos but they have become cold I don’t want to eat them anymore.
I can hear but my eyes are closed, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a condition, but there is yelling, that might have something to do with it. They say there was an accident and my lungs are burning through me. I hope amputation isn’t an option though if it is I would a kitten leg. I am Lemmy, and I will become a Megazord at last! The voices carry and I go to cover my eyes but they are closed and I still hear them. I want to close them tighter but they are as closed as possible. Is this what love feels like? My brother never told me and now it’s too late, I’m in love and I don’t even know it, am I breathing? I thought I told you to make sure I kept breathing.
Tell my landlord the walls were supposed to look that way, I am sure will keep asking anyway. Sometimes I press really hard on my eyes and see tiny little dots, like static on TV, my eyes are TV but the reception is horrible and no one will spring for cable, instead they autumn and winter with rabbit ears. I want to yell without making a scene so I hold my breath and count, 10 seconds, a new personal best. Tell me what you think of the savannah, I think it’s nice this time of the year, I think it’s a little dry. Drum roll, laughter, thank you, thank you. Your too kind! And then it all comes back to me.
Lemmy? You in there?
Yessum. My back hurts, I’m laying on the ground, on a rock, its imbedded in my back and now my back hurts. I look around and fight the urge to ask why everyone is dressed the same. The world is back to normal but my lungs hurt, I cough, and then my nose is filled with fire ants. They tell me to sit up and I stand, their hands are all around me and I feel like synchronized swimming.
Everything’s going to be alright. It took a couple minutes for her to spit it all out, of course everything is going to be alright, no one would tell someone that everything was going to be awful, well not here, probably back in New York they would. I look and her eyes are all black, she is tanned a nice golden yellow and her black dots are alluring, I’d never noticed before. She leans her long neck in and I can’t resist the urge and it is the afternoon so everyone can see. No one laughs, but I don’t think I’m in the herd anymore. I really need to learn to bat.

The world has ended, the world has ended and I am Macy’s. What do people buy for their funeral? Should I be buried or should I become lost at sea, I could be found either way. I don’t want a tuxedo, I don’t think I should dress nicer in death than in my short life. I should have known, I should have realized that I too could be affected. No one is immune to death. When I was a child I wanted to be a firefighter, like most boys my age, and then my father read me an article about three firefighters who died in a fire. It’s impossible, no one dies fighting, do they?
The one exception was Apollo Creed of course, he died so that Rocky could finally do what needed to be done. Tear down the iron curtain. There is a nice blue suit, but I think I will be die in khaki, or maybe a denim suit. One time I wore a blazer over a black turtle neck with jeans. The car, what would happen to the car, I was just put on rotation. Should I tell anyone, should i do something, I am not a man of action, I am Lemmy, I am Honey I Shrunk the Kids, I am an accident.
I envy women, when they get bad news they can eat a whole tub of ice cream, when a man gets bad news they drink, and I can’t drink anymore. I can’t drink anymore because it makes me think there are fire ants in my throat, it gets them under my skin, digging through the muscles. I hate insects, almost as much the Chad’s of the world. My dogs eat spiders, so there is no problem. I found a big beastie one in my shower before they moved in, I could see every eye, it was black. I left my apartment and stayed at a Best Western. That was when the pyramid was thriving, I had to rake my money into my wallet, I drank whole milk back then, now I’ve been reduced to skim. Off brand skim.
I should never have taken the bus, I always hear about people being mugged on the bus, I never should have taken the bus. It’s like when your mother tells you not to touch the stove because it’s hot, but you touch it anyway, and now your tongue is black. I’m a limp noodle trying on packages, and at best, I’m thinking a box is more appropriate than the plastic wrap. It’s less noisy, more comfy, maybe with one of those ceiling windows and a corduroy interior. I will have lines on my skin forever, and then I will become an ant farm, but the queen will live in a kidney, and reserve the other as a guest house. Long live the monarchy.
I am dying, the world is ending, and I never should have taken the bus. My hands are sweaty and my stomach hurts, I pull the pink bottle from my jacket pocket, take a quick sip and put it back in. My cheeks are wet, I’m crying, this time I know why.

the rest is a little bit of dialogue that doesnt really make sense without the part before this.

2 in 2 days eh?

            They said their eyes light up, at the carnival.  They said they drank a lot and went on the rides and it made their eyes light up.  I didn’t listen to them because they liked to ride around town in a pink Mazda Miata that I always thought was a little too ironic.  Artists.  I’ve only been taking public transportation for a little while, but I see them all the time, they drive around like vultures, I’ve actually timed their flight plan.  Every thirty-seven minutes, sometimes from the north, sometimes from the East.  I tried painting my apartment, this will all make sense, but I didn’t tape anything down and everything splattered over the furniture.  The fumes filled the apartment and I started to laugh, laugh at the failure, at balding, I saw a commercial of abused dogs and I laughed.  I now have three dogs, the guilt ate me and then licked it’s lips.

            She breathed heavy, paced her words and said she’d never done anything like this before.  She held onto my arms and I wanted her to love me.  I let my fingers fall down her waist to her belt and unclipped her harness.  I wanted her to continue holding on, but the blood went back into her head and she kissed my cheek and ran to the van.  I got out of my harness and started folding the parachute, it would need to be refolded (I messed up).  I frequently get asked how I got into the instructing business, I always reply that I went to catholic school.

            Every time I bring someone home they ask if the room was painted with a wet parasol.  That would have been a good idea, but I just regret bringing them home.  I’ve been looking for a good parasol online with no luck, just umbrellas.  Where’s the line?  What makes one something and the other something else?   I want a hamster, but I have gerbil hands, so it just wouldn’t work out.  I took a sip from their bottle and decided I felt a tingle.  So much burned, me being a protestant, I wondered if Moses would come to my lungs, take off his shoes, and hear God.  You Shmuck!  I started to pray that someone would plug me in, a new line of light brights.  Kid friendly, flammable: Don’t put near curtains.  I see the earth growing smaller and smaller, dangling from a string on the plane.  Every window is a screen, it’s all fake like the moon landing.  I joined a pyramid scheme for comradery, I work for you and you and you and you but they work for me, and my cousin twice removed still wants me to take him skydiving but only if he buys from me and my associates from now on.

            BUZZ ME IN! I FORGOT MY KEYS AGAIN!  The landlady is upset, but I pay her not to be.  She doesn’t remember that I live in a Jackson Pollack so she tries to call the police.  I haven’t been robbed, I just need professional help.  They let me keep the bottle and I keep drinking, I haven’t stopped since they gave it to me.  It is endless, like a dark pit or the food at OCB.  I wrote it in my journal but when I read it later it had been replaced by a picture of two stick figures sword fighting, the peeing way, not the knight’s way.  I’m gallant I scream at the top of the ferris wheel but by the end I’m clear headed and all business.  All hail King Tut!

            I go to the pet stores every Thursday morning and look around.  I made two tiny parachutes, but I don’t think I could ever throw them out of the plane, besides, gerbil hands.  I want to invite them over, let them see my apartment and hope that they will think it was intentional.  I want the girl to keep holding on and my landlady to brush her teeth.  The backs of my hands are wet, I’ve been crying, I don’t know about what.  My eyes are dim and lackluster, theirs are tie dye. I don’t have any more money so I wait for twenty-six minutes when they will come back, I will ask them for a ride and what was in the bottle.  I will ask them if they want to go skydiving and what they do for a living.  I will ask them for help painting my apartment and to check my pockets for my keys.  I make a promise that when they come by I won’t laugh at their pink Miata, but I do and they don’t care, were all apart of the pyramid.

I’ve seen them try, they sit cowardly turning blue while the fabric seeps into their skin. They are pitiful. They wallow quietly for months concerned with only their pain, too focused to live. They have forgotten, their minds have become applesauce that their bodies devour from idleness. I don’t know what to do! The weight is unbearable, I feel like I’m drowning. Remember! Long ago we bargained off our right to mourn, we talk and talk and talk and talk about progress or what it means to be civilized, while at the same time demanding so little of ourselves that we’ve gone into atrophy. We’ve forgotten how to grieve.

There was a woman, I don’t know her name, it wasn’t worth learning. She lost her husband and daughter in a car accident. I read about it in the obituary, I looked up the address and took a stroll on over, I needed to see that someone remembered. She hid her face, ashamed that her loss would cause a public outburst. How long had she cradled her daughter for, 12 months, 18 months, two years, or had she ever stopped? Her freckles mapped out like stars across her face, each one in the midst of a solar flare. The black dress held loosely around her shoulders and waist though her make up was applied with a delicate touch that made her look, other than the freckles, like a natural beauty. Now she is like a dog trying to see color.

The bees all left for no one knows why, but millions of dollars were lost, causing us for the first time to wonder what was happening and why we couldn’t control it. I like the way hyenas laugh, without reason or remorse. We should teach kids to laugh like that, buy them hyenas instead of dogs, hyenas instead of cats, clowns instead of teachers. In retrospect, I think all the bees went to Africa where they weren’t being pumped full of glucose syrup and preservatives. They became farmers, tilling red soil till it sifted cleanly through their fast beating wings. Praise God for rain! They buzz in unison, from miles around you’d swear a train was stuck in New York traffic. Ominous, starts low with just a few, maybe even a cricket Crick-Eting, and then its like a wave pool, buzzes coming in slow rising flashes, then they synchronize BUZZ BUZZ! [Expletive] BUZZ BUZZ!

Must have been in the 60’s or 70’s that candles became so popular, I think I know why, but I’ve been labeled a conservative and I like to keep opinions to myself. Before then they were used for very few things, light (quite awhile before that, unless you lived on the set of Little House on the Prairie, though you too may have gone blind), churches, birthdays. Those are my favorites, though they are not in any particular order (Little House would still be first). We’ve taken them over, given them into a part of everyday decoration. People used to seek solace in the little flame they held and now its just a regular part of monotony.

The woman began to quietly cough, trying to play off her sadness as the cold. She couldn’t see the color, she could only tell it smelled wrong; death that is. Maybe if the bees were still around she’d still have a bit of the mystery, she’d need to know why the candle doesn’t all melt at once, how the flame seems to hold everything in it’s grasp. Now she only wonders how long it will take to regain her normal life, her normal life she hasn’t had in the 16 years of her marriage. What everyone else has figured out is that it hurts less over time, you get used to it, like having your feet bundled to stay small. She’s chopped off her legs and now has nowhere left to go.

She’s forgotten how to grieve though her body no longer knows how to relearn it. She is like the rest of them, only caring about the scent the candle brings and the honey they eat instead of the impending noise. It all just continues to run together, meeting at a focal point/an intersection, where the lights green but no ones moving. BUZZ BUZZ! [Expletive] BUZZ BUZZ!