I walk down the street, with my collection book
It feels like my chest is the passenger basket to a
hot air balloon and looking down on myself, I can see the fist of my package forming a mound, my
knee caps miles away .I continue to
float as I am collecting.
I am thinking of Dawn.
Music Man seems like another lifetime ago.
Everyone who sees me knows that I am walking on air.
Everyone who sees me knows that I am walking on air.
I am weeding my way through the stumps of chimneys
and arthritic branches of trees tithing pubic ornithological nests. I am
floating through cumulus and bolls of cottony strata. I am getting hit by
Frisbees and kites and errant footballs. I am spawning turbulence for
helicopters and private jets. I am witnessing UFO’s and other cosmic anomalies.
Angels that look like see-through billiards.
Angels that look like see-through billiards.
I can’t set my feet on the strip of earth for the
life of me.
I am thinking about Dawn in the late July afternoon
collection book in tow walking down the geometric ripples of West Peoria,
waiting to skirt back down into the hard gravel of the street. Accompanied by
the clean whistle of a piquant summer breeze waiting to be reborn.
I
am hovering. I am thinking about Dawn. I walk across invisible steps down the
street, past the round house, past the house where the high functioning retarded couple
lives who always asks that I put the paper in a special place so it is easier
for them to access.
It
is the pay phone where I first called Stacia and talked for hours. I have
pocket fraught with quarters. The last machine I fed quarters into was
that inane crane-game where Betsy was, for some inexplicable reason trying to
get the Manatee with the sunglasses.
It
has been almost 50 hours since I last said goodbye to dawn and my chest has been flapping ever since.
There
are several rings. The traffic combing western avenue is heavy tonight. Finally
there is answering machine. It is a women’s voice but it is not Dawns. I hang
up.
I
continue to fly.
***
The first house I stop at is Bob and Frank's. They
note that I am flying. They look up and smile and ask if I am drunk. They
opening the door and grapple the metaphysical gossamer reeling me down into the
felt neon carpeting of their front porch, as if wielding an anchor from the
dyslexic overhead ink of the sea.
“Hey,
you were really good.” Bob and Frank are saying as I stop at their house and
collect the next weekend. I tell them thank you so much for coming.
“Our
pleasure!” Bob says, with a smile, he elbows me in the lower abdomen like we
are old drinking buddies even though I have just turned fifteen and have never
had a beer in my life.”
“Frank
actually saw it twice.” He points to his cousin. Frank takes a puff out
of his 100’s cigarette and then stamps it out.
“You
saw it twice?”
Frank
looks down.
“We
just have one question. “ Bob says to me.
“When
are you going to go to Broadway and be in HAIR so we can see you naked?’
There
is a subtle pause before everyone in the room erupts in laughter.
“No,
you were really good. We boasted to the people sitting next to us that you were
our paper boy.”
“Yea,
and they said you were really sexy. They were a bunch of middle aged ladies and
they asked if that was your anvil or if you were just happy to see them.”
Bob
and Frank erupt into more laughter. They ask me if I want a coke. They slap me on the back.
I
smile. I feel loved.
It’s
hard not to feel accepted and loved when Bob and Frank are around.
***
I
continue to hover amongst the tree limbs and geometry of telephone wires.
Squirrels scuttle past me as if trained on a high wire in an animal circus.
Sometimes when I float above ground I close my eyes and find myself looking
down at the bald patches of the shingles in the only neighborhood I have ever
known.
It feels like I am a balloon. A blimp. A
zephyr. A yawn. An unknown breath.
The
next day I wade in a zipping stream of air down to the payphone again.
The
mostly aquatic turf of the planet I find myself inhabiting has turned the blue
Christmas bulb of its neck into the direction of the sun three times since I
last heard her voice.
I
am not deterred. I am still floating.
I
turn upside down as if dangling my knees from trapeze and juggling as I extend
my index finger and punch out her number, each digits yelping a high-pitched nasal
snort.
The
phone drones and it continues to drone. I am waiting. I told her that I would
call her and that we would make plans and perhaps go to the fair this week.
The
answering machine picks up. It is the mother’s voice again. She is maternal and
sounders like her daughter come two years of elapsed time.
She
is apologizing. She is stating that no one can take my call.
She
beckons me to leave my name and a number.
I
am calling from a payphone. I am hanging upside down.
I
balance the receiver back on the chrome face of the payphone.
I
continue to float home.
***
Sometimes while floating I come across
angels. Sometimes I come across wraiths or spirits. Sometimes I come across
things that people who never float, never lose the sheet of their flesh above
the topography of the sidewalk ever see. Sometimes I see spirits. They look
like outlines of their earthly selves made out of sudsy dishwasher
detergent. They hover and they look.
Most go about their business without even realizing they are dead.
There
is a new house I collect from. A house that is four houses down east from where
I live. The house that is next to the Engels, whom I also collect from.
The house with the pool in back that, when it was empty and on the market a
couple of my friends scaled the fence and skateboarded in the empty pool in late
march.
The
house with the lady who always wears sunglasses and smokes Newport
cigarettes.
She
is two weeks late. Twice she has told me to come back because she doesn’t have
any cash on her.
Twice
I have let her slide.
She
answers the door. A cumulus of Newport cigarette smoke drifts out the front
door like a barge when she opens the door.
She
apologizes for making me wait and asks if she can pay what she owes plus two
weeks.
I
tell her no problem. She apologizes again, behind her there are two girls
wearing bikini tops and jeans shorts on the couch. They appear to be giggling.
I can see their cleavage applauding from the top of their respective bikini’s
because I am still levitating. I am still thinking about Dawn Michelle. Kissing
her forehead as if licking the seal to an envelope that cannot clasp shut.
The
lady pays me. The girls look at me and giggle. One offers a little wave that
looks like she is blowing me a kiss with no fingers.
I
think about how when I kissed her forehead and continue to fly.
***
On
Bob and Frank’s front coffee table are several International male magazines
that sell only underwear. Six-pack men posing in skinny white briefs and
looking pensive. As always Bob asks me if I would like a coke.
I accept. I see the Dottie West Shrine. They are talking about building a stage
in their living room to host parties once France retires.
“We’re
thinking about calling it Club thirty since it’ll be Frank’s 30th
year at caterpillar when he retires. We’re even thinking about getting a
karaoke machine. If you like you can sing at the party.”
They
are smiling. They say that its not for about a year but that they are always
thinking. Bob asks me if I have plans for the remainder of the summer now that
I am finished posing nude on Broadway.
I
tell them not much. I tell them that I have been running every day and am
anticipating starting high school while running cross-country.
“Oh,
and this Thursday I have a date.”
“A
date!!!” Bob and Frank proclaim in unison.
“You
didn’t tell us that you had a date.”
Yeah,
it’s with this really cool girl named Dawn. She’s really brilliant. She was the
make up lady in our production. She’s gonna be a senior at Richwood’s in the
autumn.”
Bob
and frank both say the word senior in unison as if they have just received a
list of benefit from AARP.
Frank
takes out a Benson and Hedges from his jacket and fires up. He takes to drags
and then extinguishes it on an old Pepsi bottle.
“WOW.”
Frank is calling me a stud. Bob is elbowing me in my ribcage. Frank
rhetorically asks me if I like my older girls before stating the first North
American vowel.
“She’s
a senior and you, what—just graduated from eighth grade a couple of weeks ago,
right?”
I
tell them something like that.
"I’m
actually kind of nervous. This is my first official date.”
“Your
first date!!” They exclaim in unison again.
“Yeah.
It’s nothing big. We thought about going to the fair but we are actually going
to meet at the mall Thursday afternoon.
"Are
you nervous?”
“Well,
yeah, I mean, I kinda spent the whole summer drooling over two other girls. One
even really messed with my head. But this girl is different. She’s a state
speech champ. She has the most elaborate vocabulary of anyone I’ve ever met.
She’s someone really special.”
Both
“Well
here,” Frank is reaching into his jacket. Before I Know it there is a
twenty dollar bill blooming in front of my face.
“This
is your tip for the week, Take her out and have a good time on us.”
I
tell Frank I can’t. I think about when the lady who entered the door the
weekend Mrs. McQuellen son was murdered by a drunk driver gave me a substantial
tip and when I found out he was dead I applied the difference to her next month
pay.”
“I
can’t I tell them."
“No
we insist. You always have the paper at our house before we get up at
5:30. You always put the paper through the slit in the screen door on the
sun porch so it never gets wet.
I
again tell him its alright. Frank seems to talk for both of them and tells me
they insist.
“Just
one more thing Frank says as I head out the door. I ask him what.
“If
you get lucky on your date you need to feed us all the details.”
They
laugh. I join in. I wonder why they have a male underwear catalogue on their
coffee table.
It
is hard not to laugh when Bob and Frank are around.
***
I
continue to hover amongst the tree limbs and geometry of telephone wires. It
feels like I am a balloon. Sometimes I see peoples thought and prayers flap
past me guised as doves or transparent fish with diminutive wings instead of
gills.
Most
thoughts and prayers come with decimals and digits. Most are stressed and have
to do with paying currency to someone to feel less stressed. Some thoughts and
prayers are people who are lonely. Some prayers look like toddlers falling down
steps and then ricocheting back up as if on a trampoline.
There
is wraith who is wearing a turban and has a three triangles all meshed into one
in the middle of his forehead.
He
floats past me on an invisible yoga mat with a motor attached.
He
is laughing. He is laughing at how easy it is to float. How blissful the sea of the air feels and how
few individuals pray for such things as these.
***
I
stop at the white house that looks like the White House.
Mrs.
McQuellen gives me a cup of lemonade. She is smiling. Behind her there is a
picture of her sun, purportedly his senior picture, taken only weeks before his
untimely demise.
I
want to inquire about her daughter.
Her
son had a corn chip haircut and always referred to me as dude.
It
has been maybe six weeks since she lost her son. She is smiling at me. She wants
to know all about my summer. She says she appreciated my diligence when it
comes to delivering the paper every morning.
I
try not to think that I delivered the paper where the car who crashed into her
son was features on the cover.
“My
summer has been real good. I’ve been acting the all summer. And running,. And
getting ready for high school in a couple of weeks.”
She
asks me where I am going to high school. I tell her Manual.
“You
should go to Notre Dame. Your parents’ are good Christian people. Manual is
just not a safe place.”
I
tell her that I am fine. I tell her that I am already on the Varsity cross
country team and that I run every day with the squad. Mrs. McQuellen adds
a yeah but still.
“Well,
I just really think you have your head on your shoulders and that Manual is not
a good place for you. It's just not a healthy environment.”
I
tell her I’ll be fine. She tells me if I need anything to let her know. I give
her a hug we both begin to rise
I
can tell she is thinking about her son.
As I leave I look for the sudsy residue of her son but all I see is baubles and orbs then when I touch them, they plop, before breaking out in a sneeze.
As I leave I look for the sudsy residue of her son but all I see is baubles and orbs then when I touch them, they plop, before breaking out in a sneeze.
****
I
float home down Sherman ave. Outside the Endres' household Matt and Co.
are firing super soakers at each other and claiming that they are full of a
mixture of stink bomb and pee. As is the status quo everyone is sitting
on the Wahls porch with their dogs. Next door several first graders are
having races on the chapped lip of the sidewalks in big wheels skidding as if
on ice in the loose gravel intermittently patching the sidewalks.
Next
to my house there is a UHAUL. Several college girls with ripped jeans and
side pony tails are lugging what look like a used futon into the living room.
There is stereo equipment. There is a table with mismatched chairs and a
rocking chair with cigarette burns. There seems to be three of them and they
are moving furniture in the house that has remained vacant for almost a
year.
They
look like the two girls who were laughing at me the other day in the house that
reeks of Newport cigarette smoke only they are older and the blond one has
curly hair.. I feel like asking them if they need help. They are lugging a sofa
in the front door and tit gets stuck they begin to laugh. One of them yells out
fuck. The other one says that its stuck before stating that it like sex,
you have to push real hard the first time then after that it just slides right
through. They are sexy. There is simply about them that looks like they
just got back from a Debbie Gibson concert.
I
hope my parents don’t hear them cursing. My father would have no qualms going
next door and asking them to keep the vulgarity down stating he has young
daughters in the house and he does not want them to hear that word.
In
one of the laundry basket I see what looks like a bra leaking out like bleach
road kill.
“Fuck,”
The college girls yelps out again, pushing the couch through the front door by
hitting it with the side of the bottom of her sweatpants.
When
I get home from collecting the my sister
Beth is in the living room practicing her cello.
“Oh,
Dave, by the way, some girl called for you.”
I
ask if she left a message. Beth says no.
“She
was polite though. She said she would call back in a little bit.”
Somehow
my sister Beth intuited that I was marginally involved with a girl from
Washington Illinois while during the production of Music Man.
I
float up the stairs. I can hear college girls next door cursing.
Lying
on the bed in my parents’ bedroom, the room where I was likely conceived I
grasp the phone and punch in her numbers.
I
hit the blades of the ceiling fan when she answers the phone and I hear her
voice.
We
make plans to meet the next day.
When
Dawn asks me what I have been doing I tell her that I have been walking on air.
No comments:
Post a Comment