Seattle: Part 1

PREFACE: Lately I have been working on developing my "narrative voice", if you will. I previously posted the first two parts of a piece of fiction, more of which is to come in the weeks ahead. This is the first part of another project I'm currently working on. Enjoy, and leave criticism!

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Seattle: Part 1

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The Pump ‘N’ Munch. This seemed as good a place as any to gas up.

I pulled up to one of four dusty pumps. As I filled the gas tank I couldn’t help but notice: this place was old. It felt like I was watching a reel of grainy antique stock footage as the analog gauge on the pump clicked and spun.  My white ’92 Chevy Lumina, basically an antique herself, seemed content to take it in. After all, she was going to need it. It was her maiden voyage, and it was a long one.

Perched next to the highway, this was strange scenery. It was a shoebox of a gas station whose cinder block walls were covered with chipping paint. Years ago it must have been a healthy yellow and red. Now the whole place looked like some faded picture from the early 80’s. I half expected my dad to step out in his bright red short shorts and tight blue Rollerina T shirt with his blond mustache glistening in the mid-March sun. Instead, I watched as a scrawny kid with a saggy red polo and a nametag took a hissing draw from his cigarette. He couldn’t be bothered to see who’d just pulled up. He just kept on leaning against that wall, the back of his shirt collecting tiny paint chips, his eyes fixed on his cell phone. We were obviously interrupting.

Kenny and Robert acknowledged Mr. Pump ‘N’ Munch and pushed through the front door, triggering the electronic bell tone. I stood there behind my car while the tank filled, doing some calculations in my head.

Duluth to Brainerd is two and a half hours. Brainerd to Wadena is an hour. So Duluth to Wadena, that’s three and a half hours.

The attendant dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk without putting it out. He slowly blew the last draw out of his nostrils, all the while keeping his eyes on his phone. He turned and walked back inside.

Let’s see, Wadena to Moorhead: that’s an hour and a half. So that’s five hours across Minnesota. Seems about right. Then there’s North Dakota. Ugh…

Robert came back out to the car as I dropped the nozzle back on the pump. He was peeling the plastic wrap off of a pack of gum and had a 20 oz. Cherry Coke under his arm. “Kenny’s in the john,” he said as he popped a piece of gum out of its plastic casing. “I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t trust the bathrooms here. Yeesh.” He ducked into the front seat.

Ok, so North Dakota. That’s about five and a half hours. Five and a half grueling hours.

Opening the car door I could smell wintergreen. “Driver’s fee, gimme a piece.” I held my hand out to Robert, palm up.

Then Montana’s another five. So that puts us at fifteen and a half hours. At least it’s got landscape, a little something to look at.

Eventually Kenny came out the front door, skipping like a child in large, uncoordinated bounds, his bright, shoulder-length blond hair waving behind him like a Norwegian cape. One arm swung wide carrying a full gallon-jug of water, the other curled up at his side holding an apple, two bananas, and a huge box of raisins. He heaped the loot on top of two of our backpacks in the back seat. The packs looked like they were about ready to burst open and spill socks and undies everywhere.

Then there’s a little bit of Idaho, right? I think? For, like, an hour? Then on to Washington, in just under seventeen hours.

“Kenny, did you wash your hands?”

He had already taken a big old horse-bite out of his gas station apple. “Shuggump. Letshko.” I turned the key as Kenny wiped the apple guts off his chin and gulped his bite down hard. “Oh dude, here, let’s listen to this! Just a sec!” He reached for his bag underneath the mound of packed belongings and tried digging out a CD. “Oh my gosh, you guys will love this band.”

“Let’s save it for later, it’s a long drive. I want to listen to MPR while it still comes in.”

Then Washington makes for seven more hours and we’re there. That’s a square twenty four hours A full day. In the car. With these jokers.

I was equal parts excited and preemptively exhausted. “Seriously, you guys, I can’t believe we’ve already stopped. We’re not even out of Duluth yet.” I looked down the hill to where Lake Superior met the St. Louis River.

Ok, Duluth to Brainerd. That’s two and a half hours.

We didn’t know it yet, of course, but we wouldn’t reach Seattle in twenty-four hours. Not even close.

The poem thief

The Poem Theif

Today I woke up and my poems were gone.

So, I became a theif,

First I slunk back into bed, found my lover folded in amongst the pillows and blankets.

“ellen” whispered as I kissed her cracked lips.

But she slips deeper so I

I steal poems off her coffee with cream shoulder which breaks above her shirt .

I untangle the bits of heaven from her hair, which mingles in inky ribbons against the ivory pillows.

Her breath hums against the world, pushing back as dreams are being made, and I steal every one.

In the next room the baby begins to sing her songs of loneliness

Her voice pierces,

shrill silver against so much grey.

Without a noise I slip in…next to her crib…but she sees me.

Her lips curl, into her wide daddy grin and she begins to giggle.

Her eyes squeeze tight, trying to hold her laughs in, but with ten fingers and two kisses her laughter is mine

It bursts from her belly,

I capture each poem written by her pudgy fingers on my whisker face and give them back one my one, by nibbling her nose.

On my way to work I steal poems from the cars as they crush against each other,

Greedy for each inch of blacktop, each stop light, and every open lane.

They pour themselves into the pavement,

trying to be the first one to go no where

But the winner is a broken down hatchback with a busted blinker and jacked up rear tire,

 the driver lays on the hood

resisting the tide of cars,

and gives me his poem as I pass.

I steal poems from the naked trees longing for their summer garments

I steal pomes from the puddles mixing mud and gasoline rainbows

I steal poems from the shadows following each footstep of the postman

I steal poems from a bum on a bike whose whiskers have survived decades of razor blades

I climb the clouds and begin to steal poems from the sun

It’s sonnets, like lightening, transform puddles, chrome bumpers taxicab windshields, and the waterfall rocks on 6 TH ave below the coppertop church,

The sun sets ablaze the dying mass of 1 billion huddled snowflakes,

I take and take and take… until I can take no more…

With a head full of stolen poems and I sit down to write…

two

grab an oar

he said to me

as my pack laid at my feet

taking in the scent and coolness

of fresh water i'd never explored before

this was new
but oh so familiar
as I've read in books about whales
and men and shipwrecks and the ocean floor

my eyes are full of salt water
my mouth is full of salt water
my ears are muffled from the words you are trying to say to me

Howl With Me

this is our territory

howl with me

howl with me

this is our territory

with no room in the inn, I’ll drive you into the night

find somewhere else to hide, you’ll only give us away

you’re prohibited from being here, read the damn signs

we won’t ever help you, we have no time, no money

I’m sorry boy, there’s always plenty of pine to ride

flee! flee to the tree line, sing with the midnight choir

this is our territory

hunt with me

hunt with me

this is our territory

there’s a ship in that bottle, leading only nowhere

suns will soon rise without a terrific trembling turn

until then the sting will bare witness, bloody markers

press towards immunity, freedom worthy of strife

lay down on that throttle, full speed ahead, make no sound

forget to break and you’ll find your siblings dead ahead

this is our territory

feast with me

feast with me

this is our territory

our breakneck outfit, jagged teeth will find their duty

feast or famine, in plenty or want, we’ll tear foward

wander the days, adventure lying around the bend

sleep the nights, our bed is where our blistering heads lie

home together, your print’s our print, celebrating howls

drink the milkyway cocktail, howl along, join the song

this is our territory

roam with me

roam with me

this is our territory

Bruise again

You touched my arm and it stayed
I wear it now, hidden springs
of black water flowing underneath
my icy river's crust of skin.

If I just wait here long enough
It will come to me.
The reason why I let this happen.

I step out and it creaks and sings
Under my weight. Black feet
body, ice. fear.

I would open my mouth to speak,
But you have taken my tongue.
My lips move and spasm,
But my breath is also in your pocket.

That which is my own stretched
Naked on that bridge between now
And then.  Wet and dry.  Dry and dead.
It is as foolish to clutch at ice
As it is to swim below.

Tuesday

the longings arrived again with a new snow
that pressed the edges of my sight line
and cozied in with a winter's wind,
white and cold and northwesterly.

they pressed in on the corners of my perceptions,
like a sullied and drowsy clown
like a cornered cage fighter
like a monopoly tycoon,
the absence of light closing quickly.

the longings arrived afresh in the morning
that culled confusion from my thought lines
as we waited patiently for sunlight
white and warm and southern.

they shout out now in my ears,
like a catholic bell at Christ Mass
like a feverishly hungry child
like a fish fallen out of the stream,

"Where are you?"

Part 2

Jack’s brain felt as though it were floating in a warm blue liquid. Everything was calm. His eyes were closed, and in the darkness he heard no sound, felt nothing of his body, knew nothing of his surroundings.

Jack’s forehead had directly struck the concrete. Hard. He laid their motionless on the train platform. Some witnesses fled, fearing the supernatural, while others came closer, either intrigued by the impossible or hoping to help the mysterious bleeding man.

As his eyes opened he saw blurry shapes crowding his field of vision from all directions. He heard dull, distant voices.

Jack’s eyes began to focus on the faces staring down at him. He heard unfamiliar voices. “Is he okay?” “Who is he?” “What did he just do?” The questions came from every direction.

A large man in a red sweatshirt knelt over him. “Sir?” He looked straight down into Jack’s eyes. “Sir? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Sir?”

Jack couldn’t respond. He couldn’t quite connect the dots just yet. He could, however, feel a dull, throbbing pressure coming from the right side of his forehead.

“Jack?” Finally he recognized one voice. “Jack, are you okay? Jack!” Emma was there. She was afraid.

It was difficult, but Jack concentrated and pieced together two words. “I am.”

“Ma’am, you’re with him?” asked the man in the red sweatshirt.

“He’s my husband.”

“My name is Evan. I’m a doctor.” The man in the red sweatshirt was direct and calm. “The way your husband hit his head, I would bet he’s got a concussion. He should be fine to get up in a few minutes, but for now--”

“Emma.” Jack wanted to tell her he felt fine, that he wasn’t even in pain, so he couldn’t have a concussion. His forehead just felt a little sore. He wanted to ask why he was on his back, and why all of these people seemed so concerned for him. He couldn’t quite piece together the words to ask these questions. He remembered that they had been at the stadium. That they had come out of the gates. That they had stood in line for a while. That he had tried to see--

Then it all flooded in at once. He remembered trying to see over this man, the doctor in the red sweatshirt. He remembered jumping. He remembered shrieks and horror and confusion. He remembered a crowd backing away from him. Now that same crowd closed in on him.

“Jack, my name is Evan. You just hit your head on the sidewalk. I need you to relax, ok?” Jack was not paying attention. His mind was replaying the impossible scene from only moments before. “Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?”

He did.

Frantically, Jack reached for Emma’s shoulder but missed. She grabbed his arm to steady him as he flopped onto his side. “We have to go. We have to go.” It was a struggle to put words together, one after another, but now his adrenaline surged and gave him focus. “We have to get out of here.” The confusion. The closeness of the strangers, pressing in. Jack had to escape.

With his palms on the concrete and Emma steadying him by the arm, Jack struggled to stand. “Sir” the doctor sounded concerned and reached for his other arm. “Jack, you need to lie down, you’ve got a concussion, Jack, I need you to stay here, ok? “

Jack got one foot under himself and tried to stand. He fell into Emma who was crouched next to him. “We have to go!” He hoisted himself upwards using Emma’s shoulder. She stood with him, unsure of herself, but not knowing what else to do.

Jack gained his balance and looked up. He was looking into a crowd of faces, a sea of eyes that had seen the whole thing. Some backed away like before. A few stepped forward to help steady him.

“Don’t touch me!” Jack could see to the back of the platform, where the streetlights of the train station ended. It was dark there, down below at ground level, and the street seemed mostly empty. His heart was racing. He had to get out of the light, off of the platform, out of the center of this mass of strangers. He lurched forward.

Jack pushed and pulled at the shoulders of those who boxed him in. Frightened, they made a path, one by one stepping back to make way. Some still held up cell phones, recording Jack’s primal struggle to escape. Emma rushed to keep him from toppling over.

Fans continued to pour out of the stadium and onto the back of the train platform. These people, these newcomers to the scene, had no idea what Jack had just done as he painstakingly fought his way between them, against the flow, bleeding from his forehead and tripping over himself. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving as his momentum carried him unsteadily forward, passing by each curious face with determination.

His progress was abruptly halted when he ran directly into a heavy-set man with a backwards cap and a large soda. ”Whoa! You okay there?” The man could see that Jack was unsteady. He grabbed his arm to help.

As soon as Jack felt the man’s hand grasp his arm, all of Jack’s fear and panic mixed with urgency and confusion, and within an instant, Jack exploded.

He punched the man in the face, just below the left eye. It was a sloppy punch, the punch of a dizzy fighter still reeling from a hard blow to the head, but the surprise of the blow sent the man stumbling backward, spilling his drink on the shoes of others in the crowd. The man put his free hand over his face, sputtering a muffled “what the f---!“.

Emma, too, covered her mouth. She was stunned. She stared at her husband with fear in her eyes.

Jack’s head was pounding now as he saw single drops of blood fall down in front of one eye. He stood, dizzy and in pain, as more onlookers stepped back, tripping over each other, but never taking their eyes off of him.

The way they looked at him…

He started to run. He was desperate and anxious. He made his way as directly as he could toward the stairs that led down to the ground level behind the platform.

He turned back at the top of the stairs and saw Emma directly behind him. She was weeping and trying to keep up. He reached back and took her hand frantically as they descended the stairs that led down six feet to a shadowed sidewalk.

Jack couldn’t stop. They ran down the block, Jack stumbling now and again, Emma keeping him from falling completely. He had to escape, to get out of sight. He heard one or two shouts from behind, but kept running.

They had made their way three and a half blocks when Jack, unable to take the dizziness and the pain, finally ducked into a darkened alleyway. He fell forward onto his knees next to a huge wet dumpster. Emma knelt beside him, sobbing and out of breath.

Jack pulled Emma close, held her tear-streaked face in his hands, and desperately pleaded, “What just happened?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was quiet and weak.

Jack swayed. He fell sideways against the dumpster, dropped to the ground, and vomited.