Marco Polo

She closed the book, placed it on the table and finally decided to walk through the door.
It had taken Allison all night to open the book. She had been sitting on her parent’s couch for hours, shipwrecked, avoiding that next step. But she finally stood up to retrieve her bag, pulled the book out, and flipped to the center, to one of the illustrated pages. This book had been on her parent’s bookshelf for years, why did Paul have it? And as she fanned the pages, flipping from back to the front, a piece of paper fell from between the pages to the floor.

Paul had pleaded with her earlier that day, “Just take a look at it.” She ignored the book, and to change the subject she held the Styrofoam cup of water up and asked if he wanted a sip. This frustrated him. He took his cold hand in hers and said, “I mean it.” His intensity, sharp as a spear, startled her. “Of course,” she said squeezing his hand. She felt embarrassed that her voice was bubbling over with impatience but she kept her face still. She thought she should smile but couldn’t. When the nurse plodded into the room to change his fluid bags, Allison said a quiet prayer of thanks.

While Allison and her mother waited for news in the in that windowless room, she walked in nervous circles. Her mother occasionally snagged her hand to reel her back into a seat as if she was a toy that kept rolling out of reach. She had the book in her bag, wedged next to her on the chair. It was a hardcover with a faded red paper cover, one that had been dinged and worn, a spine that had been cracked open many times. Allison flipped through it avoiding the front pages where Paul would’ve surely left an inscription. He would’ve written something like, “To my little sis,” and without any Kleenex she would’ve had to wipe her tears with the cuff of her sweater. She closed it again, and tucked it back in her bag for later.

Allison’s mother stood up when she saw the doctor. He put his hand on her arm, but when he spoke his words came out muffled and thick.  She thought about the games she and her brother played in their pool, hearing “Marco Polo” shouted from above the chlorinated water.  Her mother started to cry.

Allison bent over to pick up the piece of paper, a page from a wide-ruled wire bound notebook. It smelled musty like their old basement, and it was thin as a postcard. Allison looked it over front and back and then unfolded it. Inside was a map, drawn by a child’s hand. She followed the streets, thin parallel and intersecting ribbons, and realized it was their old neighborhood. Paul had drawn the houses as hollow boxes, the empty field that they had played in, and the path they would take down the lake. A large X was drawn in the middle of the field, the center which he had drawn their whole childhood world around. “Go find it” was written under the drawing as a caption. Allison turned the paper over. Nothing else. She picked up the book, fanned the pages looking for more clues but that was it. “Go find it”? She shook her head. Then she set the book down on the coffee table, took her bag and slipped out the door.

Big Sandy

NPR does a Three-Minute Fiction contest where they ask writers to come up with a story that can be read in 3 minutes (which comes to 600 words exactly.) The task was: write a story where a character comes into town and where a character leaves town.  I took a crack at it..."Big Sandy" and "I'd Like You to Meet Someone" (ugh could've had a better title with more time) are what I came up with.

I saw Big Sandy outside of the Raymond’s place two days after Leon had left town following the new railroad west. This afternoon I found Big Sandy at the chestnut tree that marked the westernmost point in the Raymond’s property. He was walking right along the road, his back bare, his coffee-colored haunches and legs dusty, his reigns draping off to one side. I approached him cautiously and when I took his reigns his neck drooped, relieving the tension with one bow, his saucer-like nostrils flaring to let out a big breath of relief. Like he was collapsing into a loved-one’s arms.

Back at our stable, he drank at our trough so long I wondered if that water would be coming out his other end before he stopped gulping. I found my father inspecting an infected hoof, and I told him where I had found Big Sandy without Leon and he rubbed his neck while he thought. I told him it was on Tuesday morning when we saw Leon, headed toward Sierra Blanca and then El Paso beyond.

“You could get to Sierra Blanca and back before dusk if you hustled. Check in town there. Take your brother with you. And put Big Sandy into the last stall there.”

It took me only a few minutes to prepare, as fast as I had imagined the Rangers would mount their horses when pursuing scoundrels. My brother gladly left his rasp and saddled his horse, instructing me in his know-it-all way that we’d need to watch out for criminals on the road, maybe even Indians.

The road was dusty and the wind was at our face, making it hard to see. I was on Birdie, who drew to a halt after a large gust obscured our view. My brother turned around and smirked at my difficulty.

“You know, once we find Leon I’m going to tell him how Birdie almost bucked you off.”

I thought about Leon, imagining when we’d find him, where we’d run into him, at the saloon in Sierra Blanca maybe. Perhaps Big Sandy had been taken from Leon by bandits and had escaped, deciding to return to our stables to alert us of the misdeed. I looked around us, to the brushy patches of mesquite and bushes around us, and then I imagined Leon laying beyond, just out of sight, bloody and forgotten.

“Think he’s around here?”

My brother turned around, and let his eyes survey the land around us, the sky and the trail ahead. He shivered. “No, more like Indians.”

We continued down the road and the brush grew thick around our path, so we watched the mountains on the horizon as they rose before us.

“Why was he named Big Sandy?” I asked.

“He was named after a river near his home in Tennessee. You didn’t know that?” I shook my head. He had spent more time in the stables with Leon and father than I had. “I don’t know why father sent you along, he should’ve come himself. He knows how to track.”

The road continued and up ahead I saw a crumpled pile blocking our path. The wind died, the brush was still but I couldn’t tell what lay up ahead. Maybe a traveler had lost a pack, or a coyote had killed a calf. My brother sped up, leaving a gap between us, which closed when he stopped short when he could see what laid in our path.

“Its Leon’s saddle.”

I’d Like You To Meet Someone

The turkey was golden, oozing with buttery juices, and Dawn was admiring it sitting in the roaster. Looks like we wouldn’t have a dry turkey this year now that Dawn was in charge of Thanksgiving.

“You’re carving it this year,” she said, sliding the knife to me. Just then, the garage door slid open knocking the draft dodger into the hallway.

“Hi Hank,” I said seeing that Dawn’s dad had arrived first. He was wearing his blaze orange hunting cap and his Mossy Oak coat. Only the best for special occasions, I thought to myself.

“Smells like Mother’s dressing in here,” Hank said as he gave his daughter a pat on the back. The door shut, and in the dark the hallway I saw a figure standing behind him.

“Pete, Dawn, I’d like you to meet someone,” he said, gesturing behind him with a jerk of his thumb. “This is Faye.”

Faye stepped out of the hallway into the kitchen, a small woman with tightly permed brown hair. It was probably her natural hair color circa 1985 but some old ladies were like that. Like their hair was the only thing about them that wasn’t getting old.

“Hello, thanks for having us,” Faye said, her voice breathless like an old time actress. She offered up a saran-wrapped pecan pie, Dawn’s mother’s specialty.

I extended my hand and gave hers a shake in welcome but Dawn hadn’t moved at all. The bit of chest right at her throat was speckled with pink spots and her lips were drawn into a thin line. It was the face she made when she was just about to cry or right before she started to yell at me. Those two things often happened simultaneously.

She moved suddenly. The spoon she was holding was thrown down with a clatter and she walked out of the kitchen. Then we heard the front door slam.

I ran after her. She was standing in the driveway crying, her hands pressed to her eyes like she was trying to keep the tears in there. She reached for me and I held her as she cried and shook in my arms.

“How could he?” she asked between breaths. “The first Thanksgiving without Mom and he has to bring her? Do you think they’ve been together all this time?”

I realized then that we had seen Faye before, at our engagement party. That was what, twenty-six years ago? There had been this rumor in town that Margie had heard about Hank and this other woman...God Almighty that had been a night full of confrontations, crying women and doors that were nearly slammed off of their hinges.

The door opened to reveal Hank.  

“Dawn, I didn’t drive an hour for my daughter to walk out on me. Get in here.” He motioned to her like he was calling his springer spaniel to his side.  

“How could you bring her here? Mom’s only been gone for nine months.” When Hank didn’t reply, Dawn turned around and walked to the end of the driveway. She continued onto the sidewalk and just kept walking until she was out of sight.
    “It probably wasn’t the best day for this, Hank.”

“What would’ve been a better time? My funeral?” He went back in, slamming the door behind him. I wandered into the driveway to look for Dawn, and a green sedan coasted into the driveway in front of me. Dawn’s brother with his family, I groaned. At least they beat the girls home from college.

Is There Somebody Out There....

That's reading my pitiful blog? Creepy!

I'm surprised that no one asked me to provide a quote, as I clearly was the inspiration for this story. ("Uh yeah, I'd say that I have a dream about U2 about once a month...No, no, I didn't hear Bono talking about Songs of Ascent...")

Or perhaps I have powers...

It Was Just a Bad Night

Olivia was laying on the floor, her eyes glued to the television. She looked peaceful but the sweat at her brow and her whimpers told us how uncomfortable she really was.

“Think she’d drink more apple juice?” Scott asked, “Is it even working?”

I ran my hand over her pale tummy. I massaged it and noticed her stomach had the sticky and spongy feel of an unfrosted cupcake. “It should be. She’s been drinking juice since this afternoon...”

Olivia looked up at me. “Momma...tummy...” and she pointed to where my hand sat. I cringed. She kept getting stopped up like this.

“I’m going to run to the store to get some drugs. She can’t go to school if she’s still this way tomorrow...”

Scott ran his fingers through her sandy hair coming the tangles out, which made it look like crooked branches were encircling her head. “I just wish she didn’t get stopped up like this, poor thing.”

I picked up my purse. “The drugs will work right away. Anything else I should get?”

“P-o-p-s-i-c-l-e...” Scott said sotto voce while the cheerful cartoon music chimed on in the background. I nodded in agreement and walked out into the garage.

Don't Look Back, You can Never Look Back

"Going out of business" sales make me kind of sad. Borders' downtown Ann Arbor store is closing and their gratuitous signage shows that indeed, they are having a sale. Shopping one of these sales feels like picking through the belongings of the deceased. I'm sure the business owner/bankruptcy entity that administer the sales feels differently, they rely on these sales. I can just imagine the sales people ringing me up thinking, "Wow you saved a two whole dollars on this two year old Vampire Weekend CD. Man too bad you had to wait until the going out of business sale to get it. Our jobs could've been spared, but I understand you needed that two dollars. You know what COBRA costs each month?"

And so on.  (This was just an example, I didn't buy anything from Borders' GOOB sale.The two-year-old Vampire Weekend CD, which I burned from the library, *is* actually quite good, but as you can see, again, I wouldn't pay full price for it.)

So I keep going to Borders each week, and I keep leaving feeling depressed. This is irritating because its a STORE. A business, not a park or a house, an amusement park or anything real. It had gotten tacky over the last few years, with their bargain books piled in boxes outside their front door, and their junky wind-up-toy selection that Leo would gravitate toward every time we visited. (And the super balls displayed at toddler height? Nice try.)

Perhaps the Kindle killed it. Maybe people don't buy physical copies of their entertainment anymore, books included. I'm sure the New York Times or Slate could wax philosophic about The Fall of the Bookstore and What That Means. I know I started to shop on Amazon more, relied on their 99 cent used books with $3.99 shipping. I know I'm part of the problem. It feels like a breakup where both parties were increasingly unfaithful to each other, yet whenever I go back to Borders (hoping for a little taste of what used to be), I'm reminded how over it all is. It's over. That building will be empty then probably it will be an office. It will constantly referred to as the "Old Borders" until five years from now new people in town won't know what that is. "Oh you mean the Initech offices? That used to be a Borders?"

I moved to Ann Arbor in October 2000 and I started to work right around the corner from Borders, and its (to me) the heart of downtown. I bought a Q Magazine in 2003 that had a story in it which inspired a multi-year obsession to write a screenplay. I've bought my pregnancy books there, "how to fix my life" books, "how to write a screenplay" books, book club books, a billion magazines, and CDs. I remember walking down Liberty on a very cold Tuesday in November 2004 to buy "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb" because I felt that even back in ye olden days, downloading music was removing an important tangible part of the "listening to music" experience. (Unfortunately, the art for that album sucked along with most of the music on it so I went back to buying digital.) I did go see Ira Glass there when This American Life a short-lived TV show. He wore a disappointing cardigan. But still! A (NPR) celebrity! I had Jennifer Weiner autograph a book for me too and she was sweet and funny in person.

So Borders will be gone shortly. It will probably be forgotten eventually, after all we don't pine for bag cell phones or Laser Disks. Progress, etc. It just is sad when progress leaves your downtown with a hole in its heart.

Good Things (wait is that a trademark infringement?)

These are things that I've enjoyed over the last few weeks. Perhaps I can be like Oprah or Martha Stewart some day, endorsing books or kitchen implements, but for now its just going to be podcasts and music.

WTF with Marc Maron Podcast - Marc Maron has been living in my head for the last month. The podcast is addicting, funny, sad and it feels honest. Creative people talk about their craft and their calling, their depression and failures! How novel! Marc has said in interviews about the podcast that he feels its become popular because its recapturing a lost art form: conversation.

Joe Henry's"Odetta" is lovely, perhaps another fantastic album is around the corner. (Please come back to The Ark, Joe!)


"Sweet Land" - this had been languishing in my Netflix instant queue for months, but on vacation last week I finally watched it. What a sweet, earnest, romantic movie with more sexual tension than any movie I've seen in years. Plus, Inge (Elizabeth Reaser), the heroine, rocks her huge brunette hair like a goddess. Power to the curly haired women!

And (ok sorry) U2's 360 Tour is done. This video of "40" (the last song, of their last show) also lovely.