“Do you need self smoke?”
“What?”
“Do you need some smoke pot for self?” he said pointing to his hand, looking concerned.
“Oh, no thank you, I don’t smoke,” I said gently.
In the hallway light, the small Mexican man with his shiny taut skin looked angelic, crystal, fragile. All the other times I had seen him, he was drunk, and as much as I tried, I couldn't understand his English. There were metal pins writhing beneath my flesh like silver snakes, my hand covered in a cast. The door to my building needed two hands. He lent his. He knew about the pain and tried to offer me his medicine.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Janitor
My janitor was a tall man with a small head. His balding black hair was slicked back and his moustache was well trimmed and fine toothed. He wore a grey and black striped shirt tucked into his high black pants and back supporter. His name was Pierre. As I recall, he had a red bandana tied around his neck and a black beret and walked delicately, dancing, through the halls, around silver puddles, his face twisted like a braid.
Since he was the only janitor, he was my janitor. We only needed one and he was broken into 300 small parts, depending on the size of the child. You would think the grownups would have larger sections of him, but, the children required the most physical cleaning while the adults required spiritual cleansing, that which they received from outside sources. My section of my janitor was located on his left hip, right above the bone. It was a small fleshy area on the rise of becoming a prominent handlebar-perfect for my future spills, psychic even.
My janitor had a small smile and a tiny twinkle in his eye. Somewhere back behind the stage was his small office. I imagined cocoa and wooden walls and one squeaky black chair he would lean back on with a cigar heavy in a musky wood scent with notes of cinnamon. Brooms, dustpans, brown paper towel rolls, and cleaning supplies yellowed and aged amber against the walls. The twins, red-headed Courtney, and I would talk to our janitor after lunch by his office. He always had jolly ranchers or gum to give us. The louder of the two twins was scandalous and full of mischief, Courtney was the pretty rich girl with large gums and new shoes, the quiet blonde twin spoke sweetly but in needles, like a snake. I, luminescent, dirty, plain, smart, saw him as a playful character. They saw him as a man toy.
My memory recedes away from the three girls in the dark hallway. I am watching them flirt mercilessly, the other children are playing in the sunshine outside to my right, his large hairy pink paw rests on their shiny curls. After a while we were not allowed to talk to our janitor. Then, simple Pierre was gone. The girls licked their lips at the boys in the corner of class instead. I remember seeing my janitor years later. His hair had frosted and thinned revealing his shiny red scalp. His eyes were blue sapphires. A thin black moustache stretched over his upper lip. He looked at me and smiled a beautiful French smile. In the distance an accordion player stepped off a curb.
Since he was the only janitor, he was my janitor. We only needed one and he was broken into 300 small parts, depending on the size of the child. You would think the grownups would have larger sections of him, but, the children required the most physical cleaning while the adults required spiritual cleansing, that which they received from outside sources. My section of my janitor was located on his left hip, right above the bone. It was a small fleshy area on the rise of becoming a prominent handlebar-perfect for my future spills, psychic even.
My janitor had a small smile and a tiny twinkle in his eye. Somewhere back behind the stage was his small office. I imagined cocoa and wooden walls and one squeaky black chair he would lean back on with a cigar heavy in a musky wood scent with notes of cinnamon. Brooms, dustpans, brown paper towel rolls, and cleaning supplies yellowed and aged amber against the walls. The twins, red-headed Courtney, and I would talk to our janitor after lunch by his office. He always had jolly ranchers or gum to give us. The louder of the two twins was scandalous and full of mischief, Courtney was the pretty rich girl with large gums and new shoes, the quiet blonde twin spoke sweetly but in needles, like a snake. I, luminescent, dirty, plain, smart, saw him as a playful character. They saw him as a man toy.
My memory recedes away from the three girls in the dark hallway. I am watching them flirt mercilessly, the other children are playing in the sunshine outside to my right, his large hairy pink paw rests on their shiny curls. After a while we were not allowed to talk to our janitor. Then, simple Pierre was gone. The girls licked their lips at the boys in the corner of class instead. I remember seeing my janitor years later. His hair had frosted and thinned revealing his shiny red scalp. His eyes were blue sapphires. A thin black moustache stretched over his upper lip. He looked at me and smiled a beautiful French smile. In the distance an accordion player stepped off a curb.
The Windows
The Windows
Fried pork wafts in through the east-facing window. From this window, on clear days, you can see the mountains against the silhouette of palms and rooftops. Rare dark clouds in the distance, and the new cold wet, gives this view a tropical tint. I could be in Brazil, children running barefoot below, or China with banana trees dipping into the mud. I’ve seen these clouds before on different continents in different times. My age shifts with the season, flight schedule, moon phase. Later, the smell of pot wafts in through the window.
The South facing windows are tricky. They look straight into the building next to me. But my floor is a few feet higher, so my hierarchy is pre-established. On hot days, BBQ smoke fills my apartment from across the alley. Later, in the darkness, drunken men hang off the railing and a blonde child with large buckteeth peer into my space through the bottoms of their bottles and with red laser pens. I give quiet discerning motherly scolds and shut the bamboo shades.
The other east-facing window is not allowed to be open anymore. For a while it had the most freedom and allowed a silky breeze straight passage from sea to land. It allowed all alley sounds in. Drunken homeless men would sing in my ears and the morning clanking of glass bottles in black bags would be the normal schedule of summer. Eventually the heat drove the flies up into my apartment through the screenless mouth, and they would swirl in geometric patterns in the center of the room. This cloud was unwanted, bagged, released. The window was silenced once and for all.
When laying on my bed, the view from the south facing windows is poetic and space age. The sky is blue and silver planes slowly pierce fluffy white clouds silently. There is one grey shingled rooftop slanting against the sun with a field of silver mushroom tops: pipes piping nothing. One large palm tree is always moving. Its dread head with golden dying leaves shakes slowly reflecting the sun on its flaxen skin, shimmering like the surface of an Indian summer pool. At night the moon moves through clouds and when everyone is still, the ocean waves crash.
I can see a man on the top floor of the building with the squeaky metallic garage doors. When we sing, he spies on us. The girl below sings into her microphone a long droning chant, a pop song gone flat. I can see the back of her head. In the alley someone has painted with white paint “I love U” for someone above me to see. I spy on the old Mexican woman that digs in the trash and the dog walkers heading for the park. I play my piano and pretend I am a man in the alley looking up at the east-facing window, listening in awe.
One evening while I singing and playing my guitar, a man yells up from the street below the south facing windows.
"Lady with the guitar singing?!"
I stick my head out and see nothing but a black mass in the alley.
"Yes! I'm sorry, am I being too loud?"
"No, I wanted to tell you that you sound beautiful. Good luck."
I close all the windows and continue playing, quietly.
Fried pork wafts in through the east-facing window. From this window, on clear days, you can see the mountains against the silhouette of palms and rooftops. Rare dark clouds in the distance, and the new cold wet, gives this view a tropical tint. I could be in Brazil, children running barefoot below, or China with banana trees dipping into the mud. I’ve seen these clouds before on different continents in different times. My age shifts with the season, flight schedule, moon phase. Later, the smell of pot wafts in through the window.
The South facing windows are tricky. They look straight into the building next to me. But my floor is a few feet higher, so my hierarchy is pre-established. On hot days, BBQ smoke fills my apartment from across the alley. Later, in the darkness, drunken men hang off the railing and a blonde child with large buckteeth peer into my space through the bottoms of their bottles and with red laser pens. I give quiet discerning motherly scolds and shut the bamboo shades.
The other east-facing window is not allowed to be open anymore. For a while it had the most freedom and allowed a silky breeze straight passage from sea to land. It allowed all alley sounds in. Drunken homeless men would sing in my ears and the morning clanking of glass bottles in black bags would be the normal schedule of summer. Eventually the heat drove the flies up into my apartment through the screenless mouth, and they would swirl in geometric patterns in the center of the room. This cloud was unwanted, bagged, released. The window was silenced once and for all.
When laying on my bed, the view from the south facing windows is poetic and space age. The sky is blue and silver planes slowly pierce fluffy white clouds silently. There is one grey shingled rooftop slanting against the sun with a field of silver mushroom tops: pipes piping nothing. One large palm tree is always moving. Its dread head with golden dying leaves shakes slowly reflecting the sun on its flaxen skin, shimmering like the surface of an Indian summer pool. At night the moon moves through clouds and when everyone is still, the ocean waves crash.
I can see a man on the top floor of the building with the squeaky metallic garage doors. When we sing, he spies on us. The girl below sings into her microphone a long droning chant, a pop song gone flat. I can see the back of her head. In the alley someone has painted with white paint “I love U” for someone above me to see. I spy on the old Mexican woman that digs in the trash and the dog walkers heading for the park. I play my piano and pretend I am a man in the alley looking up at the east-facing window, listening in awe.
One evening while I singing and playing my guitar, a man yells up from the street below the south facing windows.
"Lady with the guitar singing?!"
I stick my head out and see nothing but a black mass in the alley.
"Yes! I'm sorry, am I being too loud?"
"No, I wanted to tell you that you sound beautiful. Good luck."
I close all the windows and continue playing, quietly.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The Cast
The sheet, the doctor, the neighbor, they all tell me to hold my hand above my heart. High in the air, they tell me. My fingers frost like testicles at night. The cast, heavy ice on bone branch, is not as easy to hold high. It wants to pull my hand down toward the ground where both can rest. A winter storm taps stilettos on the glass. Barely, blindly, I pull this cover over my head and brave the night. Slowly, warming, my arm creeps closer to the beating heart mother, and like a sudden gust, I'm forced to push it back out on snowy sheets. Nature must first decide, while man cowers inside.
Today we will cut open this fruit and mend the bone, the first sunny day. Then, back to winter white hand.
Today we will cut open this fruit and mend the bone, the first sunny day. Then, back to winter white hand.
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