Living this Moment

I take my daughter to ballet and tap dance class on Saturday mornings - far away from any internet connection or ability to lose myself in a cafe. Last Saturday, the mother of one of Jocelyn's school friends, "Jan", asked if we cut Jocelyn's hair. We didn't, I assured her, and the last time it was cut was a disaster - because few people know how to cut curly hair correctly. I looked over at the now-veteran dancer to my left for validation. The ten year old, "Brenda", (whom I remembered had said something similar in a previous conversation when a relative brought up Jocelyn's hair) agreed, adding her own traumatic experiences. We both noted that there was a salon across the street in this little desert that advertises their propensity for cutting the curly hairs. Brenda, a ten year old dancer, added that her mom was going to take her... and then her voice sort of trailed off.

Being partially hearing impaired and used to voices trailing off to indistinguishable noise, I didn't think much of it. I tend to nod my head and agree - possibly landing me in a lot more trouble than I need to be in.

Brenda is one of several individuals and families that practically camps out at the dance studio on Saturdays between classes, so she's often there for the entire hour that Jocelyn has class. Along with a few other girls and a few parents, including Jan. This time, the girls were joking in the dressing/coat room. Being the only non-Hispanic, she comes out of the giggle-fest to ask the other moms in the room, both of whom are Latina, how to say "stupid" en espanol. Both of the other parents wouldn't bite, telling her that it's really offensive and mean. She lingers, just long enough for me to look up from my typing and tell her, matter-of-factly, "Bella."

She runs back to the closet and we three crack up. Almost literally rolling on the floor.

"'Bella'? Really? That's a nice insult. If anybody gets really upset with me and tells me, 'You're bella,' I'd say, 'Thanks, you think I'm pretty?'"

After class, Joss and I ride the bus with her friend and Jan. The mom looks at me and asks if I know about the curly-haired girl, Brenda. I know who she's referring to, but not much else about her. And then she shocked me. Out of my pants. The girl's mother had just passed. Quickly, with little warning.

They buried her on Friday. Yesterday. And the very next day, Brenda goes to dance class as if nothing had happened to fundamentally shift her world. I don't know how she grieved, or even if she has grieved yet. Heck, I don't understand how I grieve. There are the stages, of course. But we all pass through them differently, in communion sometimes, but mostly alone. And I am not a part of this child's life: I can't mourn with or for her. So I wonder, for a brief millisecond, what I can do.

I can watch my daughter play on the bus.

I turn to her, and I try to burn images into my mind of my daughter enjoying herself with her friend as they watch the streets pass them by.

I can live in the moment and love deeply and madly and not have a single regret. That's what I can do as a parent. That's what I can do as a human being.

Le Moustache

I tried one day. And I wore it. Like a beast... ladies.

Line

Jimmie knew that he needed to go fishing, to feel the cold, shaven wood and old rugged paint on the top ridge of the boat, to run his fingers through the mud and find his own god-damned worms, to shield his eyes from the barely-recognizable sun with a silly hat, to hold the weight of the anchor as if he were going down with it. Jimmie knew it was a bit cold for this. He knew that the fish may not bite. That, in fact, the waters would still be fairly choppy and still iced-over in parts of the lake where the fish were most likely going to reside.

This event - the connection of boat and lake, line and bait - has been grinding in the back of his mind for a moment too long. Maybe him and Stanley. Maybe a couple other guys. Just shooting the breeze, bullshitting all day and early into the night. Till the end of Saturdays and the only thing left to do is to mosey on back home and make a big stink about gutting the fish. Which he never does. Leaves it there to rot, Avrey says. Jimmie forks back up with a shot of orneriness, Hell, no. It's better aged. But they both know the truth, the fish is going to be in the garbage by Sunday morning. Jimmie won't be up yet, the fish is going to rot - with or without its head - in the fridge near the Arm & Hammer baking soda. But that box won't be enough to protect the kitchen from the stench of unforgiving bass.

He and Avrey went on a midnight run last night. And it was well later than midnight when they stopped at the convenience store for some Raisenettes and a Baby Ruth. Jimmie missed the taste of Baby Ruths, but being up late was a perfect excuse for a bite. Somehow he could wiggle in an excuse to buy a super-sized one. One last one. As they were making their way to the register, he distinctly heard the bell at the door and turned his neck just in time to see her. A girl with black hair. Blacker than the night. She wasn't familiar in the way he thought she might have been, but somehow he felt he did cross her path before. Or, wanted to.

Although it's warming up with the sun beating on him now, Jimmie's hands are bitterly cold. Since he's finished baiting the hooks, he puts the mitts on his cracked hands. Looking like a gol-danged fool. He should just take it like a man. Be rugged like the boat.

But nobody else is that stupid. No other man would dare risk unnecessary frost-bite to his hands. Jimmie's sure that Jesus Christ himself wouldn't have put on gloves on in the boat rides he always took in the Bible. Jimmie looks across the lake to notice that he's still the only one out on a Thursday morning.

Back at the gas station, he had turned away, back to the mundane, approachable and fantastic. Jimmie was going for the Baby Ruth. He thought of quickly turning a look to the jet-black haired girl. But no sooner had started that idea and function than a loud boom came shattering through that same area. He looked outside. Everyone looked outside. The whole neighborhood looked outside and saw a fire hydrant encased in a maroon Hyundai. Water pushing out everywhere. Glass. Shards of car. Metallic glimpses. And he's sure blood and flesh.

Jimmie looked at Avrey. He always turned to Avrey in these moments. And every moment. Because she was his home. Avrey knew Jimmie was gonna call in sick.

Jimmie, go sink in that line. Jimmie, go find yourself again.

Tow

It was two a.m. by the time Alvin decided to give in to the clock. His body wasn't tired. And neither was his mind. In fact, he had just had one of the most wonderful nights of his life. He wanted to continue it, somehow, with someone. Even if it weren't her. But he knew the constraints of his body and he remembered the sheer physical audacity of trying to break himself out of his comfortable position (well, as close to comfort as you can get on a futon) before dawn breaks.

Dawn. Her face flashes in the back of his mind.

Alvin almost feels like a nightowl. Like the best work that he could possibly do, he does while everyone else is asleep. He stays a bit off-beat to play his rhythm, to dance out there with many, with none, whichever he pleases at the time. Alvin waves Alexander off. Alexander looks like he needs to go home, and he knows it. He would have stayed all night with Alvin if Alvin had asked him too. But he would not have enjoyed himself. Leaning against pool tables and wait staff and barkeeps to hold his own in the foggy nights does not suit Alexander, but he's usually too socially unconscious to notice or care that he freaks people out with his misshapen eyes and far-gone hair. He'll go home and sleep and forget about tonight, which really had no consequence for him at all. No pretty girl talked to him except to be polite.

Alexander put his head down, turned on the ignition, sighed a deep breath. He would be home in four minutes usually. Less because there was no traffic. But he had a good four Millers in three hours. He can't draw attention to himself again. He almost landed in jail for a long time if Frank and Sarah hadn't held him back the last time. They lied to the cop. Told her he was their grown and mentally retarded ward and that he was off his meds. Some times he feels as if he really does need meds. And supervision. But he doesn't like to think that about himself. So he stops.

Alvin floats to the top like cream. He's on top of the fuckin' world, and he wants to tell the world. So he lets it out. Some window tells him to shut-up. He doesn't mind, he got it out. And he's not sure what was the best thing about this night either. Or why he feels the way he does. It wasn't just one thing. It wasn't every little thing. This night didn't have the finest ingredients. It wasn't a caviar and lobster night. It was more like fine-dining wherein all the ingredients and courses add up to a splendid palate, bite after bite, each one complimenting and improving on the last. The raven-haired girl was like the Cabernet, though.

Alexander turns the ignition, slowly. He checks every mirror. Cranks the wheel. Double checks the mirrors. With a step slower, he imprints the pedal. Hesitates. Is that a cop car or a taxi? Taxi. Stop worrying.

Cabernet-woman. Can't get his mind off her. Since his last girlfriend, Alvin's sworn them off. As dates and relationships, they're just too much. Too much draining, too much time, too much involvement, too much risk. Too much heartache and pain. And the raven-haired girl, with her fiendish yet friendly smile, with her mysterious entrance and ghastly vanish, with her stare-down to take down a general. A very happy general, it must be added. Yet somehow lonely.

Alvin doesn't remember rabbits. Sad rabbits, much less. They look in his direction no less than one second, but it is the most human and intelligent look. It is a look that says, you are part of the shame too. You have caused this.

Alexander shakes his head. Slaps his face around. He passes by the gas station and dwells for a second. No. We're not going on a road trip. Three minutes away from the house. Five minutes from my bed. Just have to make sure the alarm is set. And loud.

Rolls down the window. Spits.

Alvin sees Cabernet. She's just ahead of him. He'll stop her. Ask for her name. And her number. And maybe offer her a ride home. Or somewhere. He smiles faintly at the idea of somewhere.

Alexander wakes from the din. Didn't he just make it home? Didn't he just get in? Did he even have time to fall asleep? And now the goddam doorbell was ringing. Constantly. Awright, awright. I've only got two legs, and I gotta put my pants through 'em first.

Shit! He's been avoiding the boys in blue all night and they find him at home?

Somehow, though, it's not registering. They're speaking in slow, low tones. As if they're apologizing. But why would they apologize for having to pull him in? Wait. That doesn't make sense. They were never looking for Alexander, that's the sleep talking.

They're not apologizing. They're giving condolences.