the drain

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On Saturday Amber woke up in her new apartment from her first deep sleep in months.  When she ambled over to the kitchen to make some coffee, she happily felt like it was her millionth morning there and not her first.  But when she ran the tap, the water did not swirl downward. Instead, it filled up the sink with a defiant quickness that startled her and when she ran the disposal, it only churned in a way that was taunting not helpful.  It was then that Amber came to realize her drain was clogged.  

Amber texted the landlady who told her to call the super who then called a handyman.  Unavailable until after the weekend, the handyman called a man he knew who could fix the problem.  The man’s name was Stan, and the handyman knew that Stan would be the perfect man for the job.

Stan showed up an hour later.  When Amber let him in, she felt a touch of pride that everything was in order in spite of it only being her second official day in her new home.  (She was also quite relieved that her closets were big enough that they could hide most of the mess she still had left to organize into oblivion.)  Stan hardly noticed.  Stan knew it didn’t matter what was laid out in front of him.  He was a man who had seen the inside of a lot of places and reserved his judgments for elsewhere.  (He had also heard the slam of the closet doors as he waited for Amber to let him in.)

But Stan was there to help, and Amber had the look of a woman who needed more than just a little bit of help. 

Now fully caffeinated, Amber chirped and whistled while retelling her morning discovery and the alarm that she felt about her new drain.  Stan nodded silently; only asking for a plastic bag when he thought Amber was done.  (In reality she was only pausing for breath but after seeing his blank look, she decided less was more in this particular case.)

Stan opened up the white plastic bag beneath his large black boots like the underbelly of a flayed fish.  

He pushed up his sleeve and reached down into the murky water until he touched the disposal.  Grunting, he began to pull out a thin shiny black string of some sort that seemed to go on and on and on; except it wasn’t a string because it was flat with a kind of metallic sheen.  Stan was careful not to get tangled up in it and Amber wondered out loud if he had ever seen such a thing.  Stan did not reply.  He knew the question was more a comment than an inquiry and that his answer did not matter. 

After what seemed like a shorter version of forever, a clear case with pink, blue, and yellow graphics emerged like the tip of an exclamation point dangling from the bottom of the polyester plastic film. The Memorex logo still legible, Amber knew what this endless strand was.  

It was a mix tape.  Specifically, a mix tape that a boy in high school had made for her during her freshman year. The boy was named Tony and, well, Tony hadn’t actually made it for Amber but for himself. He had given it to her out of guilt a few days after the two had played a game of quarters that resulted in Amber & Tony drunkenly “doing it” on the unmade basement bed of Amber’s best friend, Lissette. But the simple “groping-gone-too-far” had been made even more complicated by the untold truth that Tony was secretly in love with Lissette who, unknowingly to Amber and Tony, was secretly in love with Amber.  Tony had felt saddened by the whole experience and inspired by the potential loss of two friendships, had made this tape he proudly titled, “Two Sides of the Same Coin.” Filling one side with heartbreak and angst and the other with anger and angst.  Having not seen the tape in years, Amber suddenly remembered it had meant the world to her back then.  She would scan the music and the lyrics (and especially the angst) for some insight into Tony but found the deeper she dug the less she saw.  

The plumber dropped it onto the white plastic like the pile of nothing it had really been. 

Oh, now I feel foolish, she said.

Don’t worry about it, said Stan. 

You’d be surprised how often I see this kind of thing.

Stan returned to the sink and dug even deeper; his arm seeming impossibly long as it disappeared down the drain.  Slow and steady. 

Next Stan pulled out a book.  Amber, mouth open and still in shock at the resurfacing of Tony’s synthetic offering, recognized the well-worn copy of Nietzche’s HUMAN, ALL TOO HUMAN immediately.  She had purchased the book on the recommendation of some unidentifiably handsome boy.  He had brought it up one white winter morning while they stood huddled about sharing cigarettes and witty quips in between classes, making her run to her college bookstore straight away to buy it with her student loan voucher.  For the rest of the year, it lived inside her bag so that Amber could diligently pull out the dog-eared copy whenever it felt appropriate.  She would open it up with dramatic nonchalance, wrapping the cover around itself and staring intently while pursing her lips over a cup of black coffee (or feeling existentially deep, around a smoke) but never actually reading a word.  To be honest, Amber had no clue what it was all about, as she hadn’t even gotten past the foreword.  

Good book, Stan commented as he threw it down alongside the unfurled, and now silenced, soundtrack of her youth.  

This time it was Amber’s turn to grunt in reply. 

Stan turned his broad back to Amber and went back to work.  He paused for a second and his arm swirled as if he were noodling a catfish until he pulled out a soaking wet pile of cards and day-glo post-it notes. They dropped down with a wet smack onto the growing pile.  

Amber came closer and grabbed a chopstick from the drawer.  Peering down at Stan’s feet, she began to poke through the accumulation of her life’s chaos.  

At the top of the heap, Amber recognized a note she had once written to herself as an exercise in affirmation, which read, “You are beautiful.” But the words had since run soggy in the water and the affirmation was more of a dripping reminder of unachieved confidence than anything else.  Beneath it, the once thick paper of a greeting card, now nearly transparent, revealed the still recognizable outline of an adorable spunky beagle dancing below a cavalcade of hearts;  “Snoopy in Love.”  

Amber remembered the faded valentine from a boy she hadn’t really liked much.  When they were six the boy had wanted to play a game of “show and tell” which was of the nature that most parents dread.  He had demanded Amber go first and the two children bickered back and forth until ultimately it was his hesitation that Amber found most boring. Annoyed by his fear, she indeed went first with a violence that frightened them both.  Neither had wanted to play with each other much after that but the valentine had still arrived in her cubby a month later bearing his crooked name in block print.  Even then, Snoopy’s dance seemed to taunt her as a reminder of her unwelcomed aggression. 

Amber rolled her neck around.  She was beginning to get tired of the whole process.  The past can be exhausting.  

Do you think that’s it?  Amber asked.  Her vertebrae cracked in a most rewarding way.

Stan looked at Amber.  She realized he had now seen the pieces of her soul and the dirty water they floated in.  She tried to push the thought down (as clearly was her pattern). 

Sometimes you think you’ve got it all out but there’s still something stuck in there.  That’s the gem.  The catalyst of the clog. 

For the first time, Amber noticed Stan had a slight accent.  She thought dismissively that if someone played him in a movie, it would be one of the generic accents that seem to come from Eastern Europe.  She didn’t mean to be rude and hated it when her mind generalized things in such a way.  She blamed the anxiety that was growing again in her belly as he reached back down into her disposal.  


Minutes later, blond shiny hair wrapped around Stan’s fingers as he pulled out the final piece.  Amber knew instantly what it was, and her heart sank. 

Amber’s father had been prone to long trips away from her and her mother.  Her happiness at his return was always balanced out by her dread of the nighttime shouting that would keep her up no matter how deeply she dug her head into her mattress and under her pillow.  The doll Stan was now pulling out from her grown-up drain had been given after one of those childhood trips that took her father away from her.  She now remembered that it had been just before the last trip that the doll was gifted, and after that there was only absence without return. 

The doll had sat nameless on her shelf, where from high above she looked down on Amber with her perfect hair and irresistible countenance. The display a constant reminder to Amber of the years since he had left and the hole that never seemed to fill up.  Amber had hated that doll and revered it all at once – afraid she could never be as pretty, which later translated to smart, which then just meant being the type of girl who held that mysterious key that meant you were the one they went to, not the one they always left. 

Amber leaned over Stan and ran her fingers across where the disposal’s blades had sliced the doll’s face in an attempt to break her down into smaller, more digestive, pieces.  Despite the effort, all they had managed to do was to vaguely mar her toy-like perfection not disfigure her into a more human countenance.  Amber took the doll from Stan and added it to the heap of history that had formed at this stranger’s feet.  It all seemed so silly and sordid and broken when you piled it up on top of itself.   

The Plumber reached in once more but they both knew there was nothing left.  Finally, Stan removed his hands from Amber’s drain and placed them in front of her, palms up, to show her that they were now empty.  

Well, Stan said with a sigh. 

I think that’s it. 

Amber looked down at the pile and had to agree.  

Yes, she said. 

I think it is. 

TO NOTE: You can avoid most clogs by not abusing your kitchen drain line. Don’t overload your disposal with history; foods high in starch, like pasta, potatoes, and rice; or memories high in feelings, like celery and scars. Also, run plenty of cold water down the drain and let the disposal catch up after every cup of emotion you push into it. Never dump sentiments or coffee grounds into the drain. If allowed to settle and cool, they solidify and clog.

surviving life on europa

Europa

 

“I’m dying,” he says.

 

We are all dying. I think but do not speak.

 

I pick him up from the ground. Broken leaves from the tree he fell out of stick out angrily from his hair as if they are growing from his brain. He bites his lip to help hold back the tears. I am his mother and I must love him but he lashes out at me with fists that strike my flesh. I know I will see the bruises later in the mirror when I brush the leaves out of my own hair.

 

You are killing us all. I think to myself.

 

So quiet within my own brain that I imagine it in words, printed out in the smallest type. Possibly they appear in italics just so the thought will takes up less space in my cerebellum. So small and delicate that it looks like this:

 

You are killing us all

 

Meanwhile, his brain speaks like neon art splashed across his forehead. His words appear in bold and I follow them across his brow like ticker tape.

 

LISTEN TO ME

 

How can I help but hear him when he screams at me with mental moonbeams? How can you argue with a seven year old who beats his fists against the wall and then cries for you like you hold his last breath in your arms?

 

He thinks everything is about him and for the most part he’s right.

 

When my husband and I fight, I know where our son gets his anger. Later, I brush my teeth and notice my tongue is sore from licking my own wounds. I long for a daughter and imagine she would be able share my grief like they share that lust for bloodshed. We stay together for him but, then again, he is the one who is tearing us apart.

 

He says these things that are so terrible. My husband whispers to me.

 

I cannot help but wonder if somehow he can read them off of us. I blame my husband for them and as a result another piece of me turns to ice. I am turning into an island afloat on the Antarctic. No matter how hot it is outside, I wrap myself in blankets and scarves and sweaters to fight the chill that stems from inside. Other times, I am afraid to look at our son as if he is a reflection of myself staring back at me.

 

I take him to Griffith Park and we hike all the way up to the observatory. He is a bee buzzing his way through the crowds and it takes everything in me to keep him contained while I buy our tickets to the next show. My arms grow tired from the tension they must endure of constantly reaching out like wiry worn tentacles. I see him eye an elderly man in line and watch as that look crosses his face. Before I can worry about what he will say, his mouth opens like the trap I know it to be. His mind so sharp his words are like razors that cut the innocent.

 

The man smiles (because that is what you do to a child) and exposes his softness. My son’s eyes narrow and he goes in for blood.

 

Do you think about dying more because you’re old and will probably die soon?

 

If this were fifty years ago I would be able to smack the smirk from his face but it’s not and we no longer hit our children. I rush him into the show and try and explain how unkind his words are.

 

But they’re true. Do you want me to lie?

 

When I was pregnant I dreamed of a clever boy but this is too much. How will I survive the cold waters of Europa?

 

Later it is time for a nap that will never come, and we are home. The words continue to hurl from his mouth as I empty the dishwasher.

 

You used to be pretty. He tells me as he picks up a photo from before he was born.

 

I clutch the Tupperware bowl I was putting away. My thumb digs deep inside the lip of the bowl and I feel the fabric like strands where the plastic has been pulled at by forks that once scrapped the sides, picking up the last bits of leftover comfort. I thank him for the compliment and try not to put emphasis on the past tense.

 

How is he today? My husband speaks again in a hushed whisper.

 

There is only enough air in the room for two of us and we look at each other like stranded survivors on a mountain because we are three. Our son is the wind that whips around us in a snowy furry. I wonder which one of us will cannibalize the other in order to survive. Other times I am comforted in the way we still find each other in the middle of the night. Rare moments of limbs entwined we remember how we once loved each other. In the morning glow, that calm lasts like the kiss of a darting tongue, gone before you can realize it was ever there.

 

I was once a free spirit. I think to myself.

 

A voice answers. And now you are a prisoner.

 

How can you blame a child who grew in your belly and taught you how to love only to take it away and use it as a sword with which to make you bleed? I thought love was complicated but had no idea.

 

Later, I tuck him into bed and wrap my arms around him as I read a story.

 

I love you, mama. He curls his hand inside mine and I smell his head filled with sweat and sugar and the baby he once was.

 

I love you, too. I tell him. Because on Jupiter’s moon, it is the deepest truth.

 

the frog in the pond that overlooks the house

IMG_1479 copy (2)

 

 

I am a frog. I am a green frog. I am a green frog with dark green spots. I live in a pond in a field overlooking a house. Or maybe the house overlooks the pond. I’m not really sure which.

There used to be a tree that would give me shade but the man who lives in the house came out one day with his two sons and chopped it down. The sons grew up in the house but I don’t remember them that way. I heard the man talking to himself on the swing that hung from the tree once. He cried a little because he missed them. When his wife called him in he wiped his eyes and pretended he hadn’t been crying.

I don’t know how I came to live in this pond. I think it was before I had memory. Sometimes I think about going to the house but then I get to the edge of the pond and the sounds scare me a little so I hop back down in to the water where it’s safe.

The man’s wife wanted fish so one day the man put fish in the pond. They don’t bother me much. The man does a lot of things the wife wants. Sometimes she comes out to the pond with her sisters. They walk around the pond and the wife tells her sisters with pride about all the things the man does around the house.

I like the man. I don’t know why or how but I do. He comes out to the pond every day. One day the man showed up with a child. She had yellow hair. The man beamed at her and when he smiled, she smiled, and they had the same eyes. They were both the color of the sky.

The man had a net with him and before I knew it the man was reaching out with the net and it caught me. The net was green but not green like I’m green. The net is much brighter and cleaner than me.

The man brought me to the child and as she squealed I could feel her joy as he put me in her hands. They were warm and sticky and felt funny on my skin. She traced a finger along my back. The man told her to be gentle. She listened to the man. It was clear they loved each other.

The man picked me up and dropped me back into the pond. I was happy to be back in my home. I was happy to have been there with the man and the child and their love.

One day the man didn’t come. The wife came to the pond and sat on the ground where the tree had been. She cried and cried and cried until finally one of her sisters came and got her.

I wait for the man every day and night. I miss the man and his sky colored eyes.