caveat emptor

They Know But They Won't Tell Us

The old people know. They know and they won't tell us. They just sit there reading the paper, exerting more effort than seems proportionate to lift a cup of lukewarm coffee to their elderly lips with shaking hands. They move slowly through doors, opening them only as wide as necessary in that economy age teaches you. "You know, you old bastard," I think toward one old man as he waits impatiently for her to come from the bathroom, his mouth hanging slightly open in mild disdain at how late it's gotten in general, all those calendars he's had to throw away. They only talk about it when we're not around. They never tell us. Eventually we just figure it out, I suspect. They take it to their graves, the dead ones. Why won't they tell us the truth? Do they think we cannot handle it? Is it because fuck us, that's why? Here's one now, peering into her purse as though everything in there is strange to her, bewildered and bothered by all these things that aren't what she's looking for. She glances over at me and I smile. She smiles back briefly, and then looks back into her purse. She never says a word, never lets on, but I can see that she knows. I'm no fool. They all know and they're not ever going to tell us. "What's eating you?" the young man sweeping the floor asks me. I guess it was the look on my face. "Nothing," I say. He wouldn't understand. You can't tell anything to these kids.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Year of the Car

When I look back over this past year all I remember is sitting in my car, driving down the highway, parked in whatever shade I can find in some parking lot and eating something less than ideal alone with the radio on, off, on again, MP3, off again. I remember watching birds pecking for insects in the stiff afternoon summer grass at the foot of a young, scraggly live oak tree just this side of the barbed wire fence decorated here and there with old, dry litter shaped by the prevailing winds. I never dreamed a life like this as far as I can remember. I never imagined this mustard splotch on a shirt I've loved for years, a shirt that's seen better days. Haven't we all? "Do you think you're depressed, or possibly mad?" a wounded bird asks, turning to me with a doomed moth fluttering in its beak. I pretend not to hear and take a sip of iced tea from a paper cup, condensation falling darkly just below the mustard. I wish it would rain, rain so hard that you cannot see the tree or the fence, the litter or the birds. I love the sound of rain on the car roof. I love the look of a world warped by water washing down the windshield. "Turn on your wipers," she always tells me. "Why?" "So you can see the road." "I've seen it." In truth, of course, there is no rain. In truth my food is gone and I'm chewing on ice, turning on the radio to NPR, AM, FM, CD, FM again, off. After a few minutes or hours I push the button and the hybrid murmurs to life like a high-tech sigh. I'm off again. I've been off for a while now. Just a little off.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Settling

"What would you do if someone offered you the opportunity to do anything you want?"

"Politely decline."

"What?"

I just chuckled a little and sipped my coffee.

"Seriously, though, what would you do?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I think politely declining is what I might do. That feels like the best response to me."

He furrowed his forehead. "Dude, that's pathetic."

"Is it?" It was a sincere question.

"Hey look, I gotta go. Talk to you soon."

I nodded and he stood and took off. I sat there and sipped my coffee. I'm still sitting there.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Commercial Wilderness

Young ducks move like cadets, so martial and structured. I am standing where the smokers break outside the other of our two office buildings, near one end of the perpetually shaded, arboreal canyon formed by the edifices of the two buildings. I'd like to have an office that faces this lovelier scenery, but I look out over the parking lot. I am on the sidewalk between the two strange, green ashtray receptacles that look like suction bulbs. First I hear and then I spot a hairy woodpecker jackhammering against the high trunk of a tall cypress standing nearby. From the pond I can hear the mating songs of the fire turtles, loud and haunting as it echoes off the office windows all around. Somewhere overhead an eight-winged octopus falcon casts its odd shadow skimming across the grass. The dark silhouettes of brick apes lumber around on top of the buildings clicking indecipherable messages to one another from rooftop to rooftop. A nine foot acorn cobra rifles under the oaks for treasure, whistling through its pressure slits. I am enjoying this break from all the human commotion inside, so contrived and hectic. I am just another animal here in the office park. Just then a sky buffalo comes rocketing down from the clear blue and crashes into the middle of the pond with a terrified screech. The brick apes raise a clicking, howling ruckus that might be laughter and the fire turtles stop their mournful, lustful serenade. This is what I love about reality, all the simple mundane activity of a normal Texas summer afternoon.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

words I don't want to say

Sometimes the hot wind of this fell summer blows hateful on my face and I remember that I am still alive. I forget. If I'm quiet it's only because I've forgotten again. Or maybe I am saying things, but they're so shallow, so casual that I might as well just be quiet. There's plenty of empty noise in the world already: the air conditioner, the swaying creaks of the ceiling fan, the entertainment industry. I suppose it doesn't matter what I say, what I don't say. I'm overflowing with words I don't want to say, words not worth their utterance, words we couldn't bear. I just have to trust you to understand the things that go unspoken, to rely on all the things said and done through all these years to speak for me, to hope in all those words, beautiful and ugly, heavy and light, I told you everything that needed saying. Earlier I told you all about this client with the dead servers and no backups, and about this damned business trip they're sending me on later this month. I cannot imagine that this was interesting to you. I can hardly bear that any of this bullshit exists, but what am I supposed to say to you? I don't want you to die? Lately I like to lay my head on top the the sheet that covers your thighs just above your knees and watch whatever you've got on television or just close my eyes and drift off to sleep as your fingers wander around my shoulders and back. Eventually you tell me to lie right on my side of the bed so my back doesn't hurt in the morning and so my snoring doesn't keep you awake. So I growl and kiss you and lumber over to my pillow, which you hate because you prefer yours, which I hate. The habits and patterns change over time, more slowly as we get older, though time flies mercilessly by, faster and faster. These days are the rhythm of a long song we've sung together for longer than I can remember, though you remember every note. You always remember everything perfectly, so much better than I do, an injustice if I think about it. So I don't. Forgive me if I say I love you instead of everything that's on my mind. At least it's true. At least we can say that.

Unjust Lament

As evening blossoms full I sit sleepy and wonder what will become of me. I am tired in all the ways that a first-world man grown fat on too much ease and comfort can be weary, all those bleary-eyed exhaustions that do not compensate the soul with the mercy of accomplishment or atonement. I'm not sure when all my insides fell out but I'm empty like a beggar's hand, hollow like the penultimate matryoshka, the smallest having been lost long ago in the move. It is almost less than I can bear, this life, and I want to scream in pain but only sighs come out, each quieter than the last, as though my nothingness even were fading away. I am a lucky man, possessed of everything a happy soul needs. This placebo anguish, howling in thunderous silence, is my autoimmune disease, attacking all my joys and blessings as though they were invaders, doing its best to protect me from my own good health and pleasure. My desert is lush and green and I wade through it with lips parched. Soon dehydration will overwhelm my shambling shell and, swooning, I'll fall and drown.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.