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tombaragwanath · 7 years

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See How It Runs

“We used to argue about it all the time when we were kids, Junebug.”

“Hmm?”

“About whether or not it was a piece of trash, a plastic bag, or some torn up paper flying around in the wind.”

“What was?”

“The picture on the jar. The salt jar.”

“Jar?”

“You know, the blue and white salt jar with the twisting lid.”

“Right. I don’t remember the name, Jim.”

“Me neither, it’ll come to me. Probably in the morning when I’ve forgotten we had this conversation.”

“I think you’d call it a drum though, not a jar.”

“Sure. It’s late.”

“It is late.”

“It was something with a ‘c’. The brand name.”

“Cherolos? Chelebos?”

“Cerebos! Anyway, Ruth always said it was a plastic bag. I used to say that didn’t make any sense, because the company had been using that same logo for ages, since before plastic bags even. So it couldn’t have been that.”

“What couldn’t?”

“The thing. The thing the kid was chasing on the salt jar.”

“Oh, right.”

“What’s wrong, Junebug?”

“You changed the subject, Jim. We were talking about Little Jim.”

“I thought we were done talking about that.”

“You’re going to wake him.”

“Look June, how long has it been? Seven months?”

“Christ, Jim. Nine. Nine months.”

“If he can’t sleep for at least a couple of hours straight by now then what are we supposed to do? I won’t take him back to that doctor.”

“Please don’t start.”

“If something is wrong I’d rather we found a new doctor.”

“Oh, like it’s so easy. You can start looking tomorrow then. New doctor. Christ.”

“I’ve got to work, June. We’ve talked about this. These late shifts, I’m knackered in the morning. You’ll have to do it.”

“On top of everything else.”

“I suggested we move. Didn’t I suggest it?”

“Yes.”

“We could get a smaller place so I could work less. I could even sell my weights so we’d need one less room. Didn’t I suggest that?”

“Yes.”

“But you wanted to stay, June, and now it’s too late.”

“We could still do it.”

“With Little Jim? You said it would be a disruption.”

“I know. But we could.”

“Why now?”

“We could do a lot of things. We could leave him with Mum for a while. Just a little while, Jim.”

“What?”

“Just to give us some time. It’s been so long since I slept. Really slept.”

“I know, darling. I know.”

“You don’t know.”

“But your mum… you know we can’t do that. Not after Christmas.”

“Christmas wasn’t so bad.”

“June, she lost it. She totally lost it.”

“She’s been better since.”

“I should fucking think so.”

“Don’t be crass, Jim. Please.”

“With the neighbours and everything? They were totally pissed! And for good reason.”

“It’s Christmas. It’s always a hard time for Mum.”

“But still, Junebug. Come on.”

“Okay.”

“Look.”

“You’re right. But we have to do something. We have to change. I’m tired. I’ve been tired for so long. I’m so tired I can’t even talk when you come home.”

“I know. I am too.”

“It’s different with work. At least you have other people to talk to.”

“Please, June.”

“All day I’m in here with Little Jim. Do you know how many times I’ve checked the calendar to count how many days it is until the long weekend? Just to get out of the city? I’m worried something might happen here. Move over, I can’t breathe.”

“We’re in a tough patch, June. He’ll sleep better eventually. He has to. Dad was saying,”

“Please. Please don’t. Not your dad.”

“What?”

“I can’t… okay. Stop.”

“He loves you June. He was just trying to help.”

“Jim.”

“That third week was too much. Okay? We know that now. We know three weeks is too much with him here.”

“One week was too much.”

“Okay, June.”

“Okay.”

“It’s only five weeks away now. Then we have the long weekend. I’m trying to get time off at work, so we can have the extra day. It’s Jeff, he’s been on my case about the roster again.”

“An extra day would be amazing.”

“We can’t get our hopes up, June.”

“An extra day would be just the ticket.”

“See how this has brightened you up? See? Baby, this is a tough time. The toughest we’ve had.”

“I know.”

“But we’re going to be fine, Junebug.”

“Okay.”

“We just need to sleep. We really should be asleep by now. I’m going to be dead on my feet in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“…”

“I was always sure it was a chicken.”

“Hmm?”

“On the salt jar, June.”

“I’m sleeping, Jim.”

“Ruth used the say it was a plastic bag. She used to go on about it. She’d always take the jar off the shelf and shake it up and down in my face.”

“Right.”

“Then Dad would yell at me to calm down, and yell at Ruth to can it with the bloody salt.”

“Right.”

“This was before they changed the image on the jar. It used to be too blurry to see properly, but then they changed it and you could clearly see it was a chicken the kid was chasing, pouring salt on it.”

“There was a tag line too, right?”

“Tag line?”

“You know, under the heading, above the kid. Something about how easy it was to pour the salt from the jar, what with the addition of calcium silicate.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Yes you can. You know what I’m talking about. It’s right up there, Jim.”

“What?”

“Up there. At the start.”

“The start? What start?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What did you mean, Junebug? Right now when you said that?”

“Look, Jim. Just look up there. It’s there, at the start of all this.”

“Wow.”

“He put it there.”

“He?”

“The man.”

“The man?”

“He gave us the words.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“You need to, Jim. You need to believe it right now. You need to believe it for any of this to work at all.”

“I’m trying, June.”

“What I’m saying is...”

“What? What is it that you’re saying?”

“He’s giving us bits of himself through the words.”

“What do you mean?”

“You need to imagine we’re standing on the banks of a deep, swift river. The sun’s setting in the distance, and we’re bathed in this brilliant orange light. But we’re always on the cusp of the dark. All of us. We’ve been here our whole lives, everyone’s lives. You’ll see it when you close your eyes.”

“What does he want?”

“For us to speak the words, Jim.”

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tombaragwanath · 7 years

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You seek to vanquish and transcend the limited self whose limits make the game possible in the first place. It is tragic and sad and chaotic and lovely. All life is the same, as citizens of the human state: the animating limits are within, to be killed and mourned, over and over again.

David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

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tombaragwanath · 7 years

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If You See Something, Say Something

The doors of the subway car slid open at 96th and the President climbed in with his men. They formed a dark-jacketed line in front of him, but I still got a good look. We were heading downtown. By 86th I could tell some others in the car had noticed. A tall man with a velvet jacket of bright vermillion stood opposite me, his calves tapering into his ankles like the trunks of two strong slender trees. He saw me staring and winked to let me know whose side he was on. I could only presume mine.

At 81st the President stood from his seat, took off his Ray Bans and scanned the faces of the car.

“Egg tarts.”

His voice had the same buttery cadence I had heard on television; there was no disputing that this was an elected man. I noticed that the sound of the words leaving his mouth took a few extra seconds to catch up with the movements of his jaw. It was like seeing a jet fighter banking over the twilit skies of your hometown, before hearing the roar a few moments after the improbable metal shape had already receded far into the skyline. I wondered how the television producers managed to adjust their footage to compensate for the delay and project a broadcast that was coherent to the eye and ear.

An old man next to me pulled a battered suitcase from under his seat and unbuckled its straps, then reached inside with a great rustling of paper.

“How many?”

He snapped on a pair of disposable latex gloves from a coat pocket. They were hypoallergenic and dappled with fine cornstarch produced in Iowa under conditions of ferocious government subsidy, the addition of cornstarch intended to minimize the pulling of the skin identified by focus groups as the most unpleasant trait associated with latex amongst groups of enduring market value, being shut-ins, handlers of food, and western medical professionals.

The President looked to his phalanx of men. Two of them gave tight-faced nods, barely masking a ripple of excitement at the prospect of the treat.

“Four.”

The old man took out a box of white card and loaded it, then reached past me to hand it down the line to the President’s retinue. Eventually it made its way to the man himself, who ripped open the cardboard with sharp fingers and handed tarts to the two men. He took one of the golden discs in his hand and bisected it with a controlled squeeze, then swallowed the two half-moons of custard in quick succession with the throat constrictions of a marsh-dwelling bird. He stashed the remaining tart about the ample flesh of his person.

The train continued to crash through glorious channels cleft so long ago under the exacting direction of salaried city officials. The man with the red jacket turned to the line and spoke out over the noise.

“You think maybe the rest of us folks might like a tart? You think about that?” He squinted with no little aggression at the row of men arranged at the front of the subway car. The train slowed for 72nd and the doors hissed open.

“Fake news.”

We couldn’t see the President behind the line of men, but the words came screaming over the top of those dark jackets with the same queer delay. My fine-ankled comrade crinkled his nose in disgust and bent down across the subway car to confer with the old man, but was interrupted by the arrival of a young boy from the 72nd platform trundling a service trolley of steaming hot goulash and fingers of curds. The boy began to ladle out Styrofoam cups of the thick brown liquid, laying a white curd atop each one. The passengers in the car lifted their heads, gazing expectantly at the progress of the cart. The boy had handed out a mere handful of cups when one of the President’s men leaned forward and gave him a robust kick, sending trolley and boy spinning in squeaking circles through the door and into the next car. Splashes of rich gravy sprinkled the cheeks of a number of passengers; things appeared to be getting tense.

I looked sideways to the old man for guidance, or at the very least a few tart crumbs. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. I could see he was not one to be distracted.

At 59th the President’s Education Secretary nominee arrived on board and immediately dropped to her knees, searching for a pen she had dropped nineteen years earlier when she had last had occasion to make use of the subway. The Secretary of State came through from the next car with a face like aggravated burglary correctly charged. The line of men dispensed a number of knowing glances in his direction. The Secretary of State addressed the car.

“What I wouldn’t give for a good knish.”

His eyes stared out from deep within the recessions cleaved into the meat of his face, seemingly working to distance themselves from whatever they were monitoring from the confines of their host animal’s system of optic nerves and jellies. The old man next to me moved to unclasp the straps on his suitcase once again. My new friend reached an arm across the car and took him by the wrist.

“Enough, my man.” He spoke low and clear. “That’s enough, now.”

The old man looked up, his face blank. If you had asked me what was going to happen I couldn’t have speculated; I was just glad to be close to the action. The Education nominee was now on all fours checking under the seats. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing the deep cream of her thighs. The President’s men seemed transfixed, and began to jab each other in the ribs with light guffaws. Red Jacket continued to address the old man, the whites of his eyes transcribing the rich interior of his soul into terms that could be readily appreciated.

“Whatever you’ve got in there, it’s for the whole car. Alright?”

The old man paused for a beat before scrunching his eyes in affirmation. We heard the conductor call for 42nd. The doors slid open once again, and the new head of the Environmental Protection Agency climbed aboard. He carried a fine head of hair with him wherever he went, just like I had seen on television. I lifted my fez out of respect. Again the jet-delayed voice sounded over the top of the men.

“Henry. A moment.”

The head of the Environmental Protection Agency stepped to the front of the car and shook hands past the Secretary of State and through the row of dark jackets. After a brief conference the doors came open for 34th and the head of the Environmental Protection Agency stepped off and moved together with his head of hair through the press of faces arranged on the platform.

The old man next to me began to hand out pretzels, knishes, hot cups of oxtail soup and milky coffee from a samovar all up and down the car. A state of plenty had taken root in the car, and was now working on the steady colonization of our spirits. Someone wheeled out an old Victrola and dropped the needle on some Jelly Roll Morton, ‘Hesitation Blues’. Things were looking up. Red Jacket began to tap his feet against the floor of the car. It appeared for a moment as if he might offer a dance in the aisle for the shared admiration and select arousal of those fortunate enough to be present.

The Education nominee appeared to have given up her search, and was sitting on a bench touching up her makeup with a pocket mirror, retail price 75c. She sipped from a hot cup of soup, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

From the rear of the car came the clink of bottles, that sweet telltale sound of impending larking. A slim girl with wearing a French twist came down the line with a tray of sparkling gin fizz, each glass replete with wedges of moistened lime. One of the President’s dark jackets even defied his line to take one. Merriment had now secured a foothold amongst the occupants of the car. I was glad to be there.

The President stood up to be heard over the medley of clinking glasses, soup, and Jelly Roll. The jet-delay seemed somehow weaker inside the rich chorus of competing noise produced by the eating and the dancing.

“We have tremendous problems in our inner cities. Tremendous. You wouldn’t believe it. But people tell me.”

His eyes shifted about the car like milk jostled from a pair of guilty saucers. The Education nominee thrust down her gin fizz to applaud, her fingers arched backwards from their counterparts to avoid any clanking of jewelry that might be deemed untoward. The President stretched out a stiff finger and beckoned her to him; she stepped past the row of his men to approach his swollen person.

“The things we’re going to do for this country.”

He slipped a moist palm flat inside the hemline of her skirt and let his fingers do what they willed themselves to do. The jacketed men jeered and hollered, all but for the one holding a glass of gin fizz, who appeared shaken and ashen-faced. You could see his heart wasn’t in the work anymore; he was just looking forward to pensioned retirement in a temperate climate. I nodded to him to communicate an understanding, but he could only look away chastened. The doors sped open for 23rd, and the President ordered their whole group out on the to platform with a last dancing rage of his eyes.

We weren’t going to be intimidated by this kind of elected thuggery; not in this place, not moving through stone tunnels levied by city taxes. The gin fizz girl topped everyone up and made sure the various newcomers had fresh glasses. Someone flipped the Jelly Roll to a new side, a tune so warm and bone comfortable everyone immediately identified the subway car as the heart of the absolution we had been seeking all day as we moved through the grey capillaries of the city.

We were feeling so good by Brooklyn that I forgot all about visiting my mother and stayed in the car, dipping the salty dough of my pretzel into the steaming stew and pouring a fine torrent of gin fizz into my gullet. I smiled to my new friend, and he smiled back, the trim flanks of his ankles glowing with assent. A certain knowing was brewing between us, and would soon collapse into maturity. So long as the old man kept the samovar of coffee hot and full I didn’t see any reason why any of this would ever have to stop.

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tombaragwanath · 7 years

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138 Haiku for Ahm-Ree-Kah

Said Whitman one time: “America: that great poem.” The greatest, even.

In this tradition, let me present most humbly a Whitman’s sampler.

Only with fewer Cashew Clusters™ and slightly more facetiousness.

Los Angeles

Who has ever seen such strong light hitting green hills? And highways, highways.

A smiling man in a green and white food truck hands me three tacos.

Golden, delicious, they go well with the soda people keep on hand.

Big Sur

Mountains roll sharply into angry green-white surf. Bridges span chasms.

Where did Kerouac sleep, as a local? Was it in this log cabin?

Likely not. This spot is muddy, expensive, and less than fully Zen.

Cannery Row

Rattlesnakes, dusty- eyed and serene, fill my thoughts of this dream-like place.

In reality, Mac & co have moved on. The hotel looks nice, though.

Steinbeck and Ricketts: dudes sharing their many loves. Got to commend that.

I think I buy this book for people because it is short and punchy.

In that it punches the reader in the heart with warm contemplations.

Look, just go buy a copy for yourself. Hell, send me your damn address.

San Francisco

Orange steel stretches impossibly across churn and wash of green salt.

How could you not love the city of Al Ginsberg? Rain falls in warm streets.

I run up to the big red radio tower. A glorious view.

This one other dude was running close behind me. I felt I knew him.

Amtrak: San Francisco to Chicago

The furnishings may be dated, but the burgers? Salty. Prepared weekly.

Who cares? This train goes through snowy mountains, deserts, and seven (eight?) states.

The viewing car is full of folks taking it in with icy cold drinks.

Everyone wants to talk at lunch. Wrestling, birds, democracy, Trump.

Good thing every one of these passengers is well over sixty.

Plenty of time to gather esoteric facts for polite strangers.

There’s a kindness, a lulling passivity of wheels over tracks.

We share a “roomette”. Lordy, to be paid to come up with product names.

Seventy hours on the train. I could have stayed on no problem at all.

Chicago

Where can we find Jeff Tweedy? I guess I thought he would just be around.

Those cake stand towers are right outside our hotel. Black against blue sky.

The freezing wind lifts from Lake Michigan like a swift kick in the teeth.

The lines in the grey city stay sharp as night falls over the water.

In the donut shop a young kid clutches pastry tight in his fingers.

If we lived here I’d likely revert back to him. They were that damn good.

“Fire Cakes”. Hell of a name for sugar, pastry, cream. Better than DD.

Detroit

I keep a lookout for ambiguous danger, but I need not fret.

Once shrines to commerce, now dusty car garages. I guess it happens.

Some dude is buying up city blocks and hiring his own police force.

How do locals feel? Is the cash grab members-only? Who is invited?

Our Uber driver has a kind face. He tutors math on Monday nights.

He drives us to Grosse Pointe. “Old-school rich Detroiters.” He knows a few souls.

A bored waiter feeds us some gourmet duck fried rice. We talk past closing.

New York City (Vol. 1)

Hello again, dear friend. I see your street vendors are still hustling dosas.

We walk in Central Park under light snow. Who keeps knitting dog sweaters?

Bowling, falafel, Animal Collective, beers. Sleepy subway home.

Montreal

We walk a mastiff cross named Mischa. The sidewalk salt hurts her paw pads.

The temperature? Negative butthole degrees. Still kids play hockey.

Poutine, coffee, sleep. When wearing two coats just isn’t enough.

Boston

A guy selling ham sandwiches knows about home. “Mate! Bro!”, he exclaims.

We walk the brick lane of Paul Revere’s freedom trail to get cannoli.

Can one highway off- ramp cleave itself into four? In Boston, it might.

Brattleboro, Vt.

Sweet land of Bernie! Syrup, pie, cider, pecans. Anarchist bookstores.

We find a brewery serving solely sour brews with faux-Catholic names.

“The Angry Bishop.” “Cardinal’s Peach Party Ale.” You get the idea.

Who knew a maple latte could actually be good? Fuck Starbucks™.

Our dear friends have a small human baby! We read Hairy MacLary.

Boston (again)

So much brotherhood present tonight at the men’s candlestick bowling.

They let Dianny rent shoes, but keep an eye out for any girl stuff.

Philadelphia

City of the Roots! Of Federal Fried Chicken! Of Kurt Vile’s soft drawl!

Isaiah Zagar. His name is colour, movement; a poem in itself.

We visit all the historical stuff. Highlight? Hot cheese steaks. No shame.

Washington D.C.

We stand hemmed in with a million other people. And yet, no ruckus.

Except the ruckus of a giant yarn uterus. That’s dedication.

On the bus homeward passengers doze against each other, smiling, spent.

Baltimore

Four-storey spiral shark tank. Kindly swim clockwise, or you’ll be gnawed at.

Aquarium, then Shake Shack™. Penguins, tortoises, wee sloth family.

They have these fishes that aim spit at bugs, knocking them into the stream.

Our Uber driver is a chicken connoisseur. He suggests Popeye’s.

Our burgers make him peckish. We offer to share. He laughs. He’s all good.

We spend the morning with Bloody Marys and some crab cake Benedict.

And the afternoon sharing cheesecake, fudge blocks, and enjoying Face / Off.

Blue Ridge Parkway

It is my birthday. And our anniversary. Waffle House™ it is.

Two lovely old chaps man the lonely tourism centre. It’s winter.

We’re likely the sole visitors for the day. They seem just fine with that.

The long drive rewards us with thick stands of fir trees dripping with winter.

A recreated length of train tracks shows us where commerce once began.

Are the bears sleeping? Unclear. Better keep any Snyder’s™ in the car.

We come upon an abandoned farm house. Trees grow clear through the iron roof.

Grizzled red cattle stand in the shade of an old leaning wooden barn.

Dianny takes a bunch of photos. I prepare myself for locals.

The parkway sometimes seems to run itself purely into the blue sky.

The precise hue of the blue hills evades capture in these meagre words.

Suffice to tell you: the breath quickens, the heart swells, and everything stops.

Asheville

We wind up stopping in Asheville. They have a sweet pinball museum.

Murakami would thoroughly lose his shit with the range of machines.

We eat salty fried green tomatoes, cheese grits, and Madras chilli fries.

Nashville

Yo La Tengo are fans of Prince’s Hot Chicken. Take their word for it.

Did you ever eat chicken so hot you had to avoid touching…parts?

Trust me, dearest friends. Do not mess about with these rocks of pure hellspice.

The old Drake Hotel. “Stay where the stars stay!” In the seventies, perhaps.

We meet a couple from Carolina outside the Bluebird Café.

They have one ticket between them. She goes in. He peers through the glass door.

We continue to eat the kind of barbeque one might brag about.

Charleston

A sign outside a bar proclaims the presence of Bill Murray. Cheap trick.

Doesn’t stop us from pulling off the road in a cloud of gravel dust.

What a pair of chumps. We practice our lines in case he needs two more friends.

An anti-climax, but we still enjoy foaming ale (and more pinball).

Our BNB host has framed pictures of Xena, Warrior Princess.

She is thrilled to hear where we’re from. Less thrilled to hear we don’t know Lucy.

Savannah

Tickets for Moonlight. Two other people in the cinema. Both leave.

More great barbeque. Cornbread, sticky ribs, collards. One meal for the day.

St. Augustine

A diamond-shaped stone fortress keeps the harbour safe from the English hordes.

Portly volunteers fire the neutered guns hourly just to scare tourists.

Orlando

Okay, we did it. We went to Universal™. We have few regrets.

Di got to pretend to be a wizard for a time. Wand included.

Turns out Butter Beer is a kind of ginger fizz with marshmallow foam.

My younger stomach was far better at dealing with roller coasters.

Still, I ride them all. Because I am a tightwad. And also, reals tough.

Two days of this stuff is enough for me to crave a quiet darkened room.

Miami

Will Smith was correct. Miami certainly does bring the heat, for real.

We sneak in to some hotel lounge chairs and disguise ourselves as ballers.

No one is convinced, but the waiters humour us. I get lobster burnt.

I get to practice my toddler-grade español with real life toddlers.

Donde es Tomas? El es aqui! El es muy fuerte, y tonto!

Es peligroso para tocar los…raccoons... (I don’t know “raccoons”).

New Orleans

There is a riot of big band horns lifting through the hot fragrant air.

Carry your open drink anywhere you like, friend. Just be nice, or leave.

We rent bicycles and spend long warm afternoons avoiding pot holes.

A boisterous young dude yells to us through a broken window as we pass.

Stay off Bourbon Street. It’s like Courtenay Place, but somehow even worse.

We stumble upon an impossibly raucous Mardi Gras parade.

One float shows paper mache Putin gleefully rogering Donald.

Another Donald is roped above a sharp-toothed sarlacc vagina.

Elsewhere, Donalds endure a colourful range of brutal torture.

All of the craft stores must have sold out of his shade of neon orange.

The vile bloat of his maniac features seems a popular float choice.

Just not popular enough for the popular vote. Can’t help myself.

Our cab driver is most delighted to hear us use the term “had beef”.

He tells us he has always wanted to travel to Australia.

New York City (Vol. 2)

NYC round two! It’s so nice to be back in your cathedral streets.

We create habits: Morning run, bagel, coffee, then museums.

A couple of films, a trip to Katz’s deli for pastrami on rye.

An afternoon in Bushwick, fossicking about in the vintage aisles.

Time is running out in a nice way. Three months is likely sufficient.

Last day. JFK. John Mayer sings with great breath in duty-free aisles.

A table of young Russians pick hot pineapple from pizza slices.

Soon I will not speak the language. I think I was alright at charades.

Thank you, Ahm-Ree-Kah. Your people have been a trip. All the best with Trump.

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