vermruka

dog in window looking out at me like a person.
snail in the middle of the sidewalk so i grab it, flip it over. looks like a mashed-up clit, one that’s been played around with. i carry it with me, holding it gently.
white cat on steps leading to famous purple house; stopped dead and we stared at each other; i swear it started swaying to the music.
yards full of discarded items, doorways peeling and hidden by shrubs. the brown wooden steps leading up up up. the alleyways. the strange men crossing the streets.
the fog in the distance and the tiny cars sliding down the hills.
fat woman waiting at the bus stop, where’s she going? hispanic long-hair runs out to her car, shopping bag in hand. where’s she going?
Gregory Way in all its perfection – how could every house be so different?
smelled something so nostalgic that i stopped in the middle of the walkway; stood for a long time – maybe minutes – in order to remember better.
two lazy black dogs on the other side of the chain-link; they ignored me and i was glad.
later a big and ugly brown one snapped at me from its grassy cage and i was glad for that, too.
all of the houses for rent, but so broken, who would want them? i would.
the young mother driving by in her turquoise car, used and abused – both of them. baby strapped in back with the cheap grey straps, greasy with grease and doubtless smelling like cigarette smoke.
business card on the ground, pick it up. funny name on the other side so i put it in my pocket.
tennis shoes hanging from the porch – what’s happening in that house, whose shoes are those, what’s their life like?
clocktower slicing through the mist, where did it come from? never noticed it before.
never noticed that big wooden door, that little yellow house – shocking yellow – with the religion goods all crowded in the window.
never noticed the time-trapped junk store with its 80s TV ads and faded road maps stuck to the glass. knick-knacks line the walls inside; it’s dark; no one’s been there in awhile.

don’t forget all of the birds dancing in the bush; an intricate geometric, just for you. they played musical branches because they saw you coming.
and the squirrels, too – there they were, ribboning all over the sidewalk, tiny bodies undulating in perfect S-shaped strides, then up the trees they went.

and don’t forget the retards, the retards. as i went gliding up the hill they came trailing down, right in front of me, just across the street. they all stopped obediently come curb-time and the black woman authority herded ‘em all with her quick, all-knowing glance, counting their silly heads like nothing. one of them stared at me big-time, from the corner of his eye. he had on a little backpack and some headphones wrapped ’round his neck. his face was stubbled and made him look like any old guy, a sleaze too busy for upkeep. his eyes had a bit of the sleaze, his hands grabbed the straps of his bag tight. i noticed that i was doing the same. the whole pack of them rustled in place like pigeons who’ve already eaten, already found all the scraps, don’t know what to do next. one of them lagged behind, he looked older than the others, and more tired. like he had something on his mind. half of his face shielded by an oversized hat, but he threw back his head a bit to get a look. his eyes were cavernous, full of his past. he was dressed in all blues, too bright for his mood. hands were ruddy, could’ve been a serious thinker, a gambling man, a wife-beater. could’ve driven a pickup truck, could’ve cracked open a cold one. could’ve thrown away his dinner, only one bite eaten. could’ve tied a rope around someone else’s throat. could’ve been an expert card shuffler, could’ve laughed loudly with his friends, could’ve been the sort to sigh and grumble whenever the phone would ring – could’ve been anything, if it weren’t for that lip, that dumb, flat lip. one look at it all stretched-out under the shadow from his hat and he was reduced to a one-word answer.

he was sitting coolly atop the yard’s highest knoll, facing away from the goings-on and instead staring wistful out at the water, the bridge, the cars going slowly across. two-tiered greying hair, curly at the bottom, dusty flannel shirt despite the heat, sad-man face and thoughtful eyes. occasionally looked at party-goers with an almost curious glance; outsider’s glance. didn’t mind being an outsider, was aware of it, just observing, taking them in. seemed to delight in them and their conversations. smiled every now and again, tightly.

and another — long wavy hippie hair, roundish glasses magnifying roundish owl eyes, never-blinking. teeth rotting out left and right, zebra-striped and mossy. he waved at me in big chimpanzee arm flings and shouted – HELLO! – and then a high-pitched giggle. got out back and saw that the [delightful, sexy] host was preparing thin strips of beef & fresh-cut vegetables for our delicious meal. i watched this process awhile, took a fully-loaded bowl of marijuana when it was offered and smoked it. instant perspective shift.

the birthday girl’s mother and father were in attendance and had planted themselves directly in front of where i was sitting. dad was posing stiffly in a metal chair where he told loud, bad, ill-timed jokes and munched messily on grimy foods. his lovely daughter had to take care of everything, arranging a plate for him that could have arranged itself, it was so easy. he ended up with guacamole all over his face and fingers and his terrible wife had to come along and smear it off. her wide, flat ass was in my face all night, her cigarette smoke. muddy brown pancake up-make, teenage magenta lips. tarantula eyes batting at no one, at anyone who would look. and why were her teeth so white? why was she stuck with this crippled cripple who couldn’t even muster the energy to die? he was so ready, every bristly hair on his single, flaking leg was crying out for it.

i found the lady of honor in the kitchen, cooing over the stovetop with five other women squeezed all around her; two pregnant bellies demanded attention, long wooden spoons were stirring, stirring. laughter flowed, fragrant hair tumbled and twisted and ended. cheeks bloomed their rosy reds, moist tongues rolled in conversation and then the birthday girl was hugging me; introductions all around. i must have been in there 30 seconds and already i was drunk; i was drunk on women. so many breasts so close to one another, but respectful; hiding from each other, just flirting, just playing. i wanted to join in, to let the steam rise from the burners and lick my face, too. i wanted to understand their stories, i wanted us to create a new one. i wanted to call them on the phone that night, afterward, and talk about what a good time we’d had; make plans for the next one. i wanted to hug them all of the time, whenever i felt i should. their speech was so easy; it had never been so easy for me and i wasn’t so sure that it could.

i left them then, slipping from the din, and re-joined the boys on the porch – their denim vibe and their dirty sock dreams and their roaming eyes. they tilted their glass bottles and mumbled into the slurry. they wiped their fat lips with the backs of their fat hands and they stared at me, stared at me, and i knew right then – sick as it made me – i was home again.

“one night i was sitting on my bed, just staring out into the hallway – i had my door open, cause it was hot, you know. summer. and a girl walked by, right past my room. she had a high little ass in blue jeans, a neat sweater that hugged her tits. i jumped right off the bed, out into the hallway there, clapped her on the shoulder – you know, spun her around – and she spit in my face. that was it! no words, no nothing. she just — ” he imitated spitting: “ptooey!”

“well, whatd you expect?”

“oh, i dunno,” he said, peering between the blinds, pulling them down and releasing them with a short snap. “part of me almost saw us getting married.”

i laughed. he suddenly walked to the other end of the room.

“i gotta go, ill be right back,” he said. “weve been talking awhile.”

i waited silently while he hurried out. i tried to imagine him 20 years younger and found that it wasnt difficult.

he came back with a sheet of music and an instrument id never seen before, something small. he arranged the paper on a music stand that had been off to the side the whole time and then sat back down in his chair.

“it really isnt important what you do with that money,” he said, wetting the top of the instrument with his tongue. “id just pretend you never found it. nothing you could buy would mean anything.”

“what about traveling?” i said, surprised.

“every place is the same.”

but i knew it wasnt true. i immediately saw a map of the earth, each region illuminated for a moment; enlarged. the people, eating their different foods, speaking their languages. “thats ridiculous,” i said.

but he wasnt paying attention to me. he was tapping his foot, counting quietly, 1 2 3 4, and then he began to play.

michael stands fairly tall with pasty white washington state legs. he has what i call weak hands, with frog-like flaring at the tips of the fingers and chewed nails; there are no veins evident & the palms are narrow and frigid; he grips everything lightly and with too much consideration.

i heard he has a superiority complex and now it’s all i can think about. i look at him through the eyes of my own superiority complex, judging his hands and his legs and his sweatpants hiked to the hilt with his meager penis swinging. and he has breasts, too, they jiggle a little when he walks. they bounce when he arcs the pool cue back and forth over the table.

he lines up with everyone else for dinner, puts in his order and then holds his tray a mile out in front of him while he scans the room for a seat. he forgets his milk and goes back for it, spilling it on one of the other patients when he wheels around in a hurry to get back to his meal. neither of them say a word or move a muscle for a good five seconds, then michael bursts into laughter. ‘oh my god,’ is all he says. ‘oh my god.’ the other patient, a woman, stands there furiously but still doesn’t move, just stares at her enormous bosom and the fresh, wet spotting there. her giant purple-tinted eyeglasses seem to darken as her anger mounts; she sets her own tray, which is piled high with grease and starch, on the counter and then walks off to her room without eating.

michael ignores the little puddle of milk he’s left on the floor and returns to his tray happily. he holds a single slice of bread with both hands, as one might hold a sandwich, and eats it like one might eat a sandwich; careful, well-timed bites. his feet straddle the wide column that supports the table he’s sitting at; he’s wearing dingy white socks that we’ve provided him and one big toenail cuts right through; a hideous and blackened toenail that’s comical in its length and sharpness. it just sits there while he eats, sticks straight up into the air and doesn’t go anywhere. it has such character; it reminds me of the sort of old, sparse-tooth’d man you might see out in a bar somewhere; makes me think of that kind of jagged smile. makes me think of mummies that i’ve seen, and their toenails, their smiles.

when he finishes he passes me on the way to the trashcan and says something to me and i see that he has food in his teeth. ‘what was that?’ i ask him, even though i heard him perfectly well; i just want to see the bit of food again. he repeats himself and there it is; the translucent green skin of a single pea wrapped neatly around one of his canines like a birthday present. i can’t believe it. i lick my own tooth in pure delight.