I'm a momentary collection of some kind of existence expressing itself through puppetry...I am a bag of blood and bones and veins and shit. I wasn't called upon to take on any kind of heroic quest. There was no call to arms. The world is fine with letting me quietly sit in the back.
I'm not an optimist. I'm not one of those people who makes other people happy with their existence. I think I try to be a realist, but I'm not always reasonable, and, really, I don't like labels. I'm not sitting on the shelf of some grocery store for you to gawk at.
I am engaged with being engaged. I like shiny things. I like to hear birds sing.
I was not sculpted in marble. I am not an archetype. I am not a salesman, and I have no savvy hype. I am so small, I am disappearing as you read this. One more stiff breeze, and I'll be gone.
I am not some kind of art installation for you to stare at. I am not a performance. I am guiding my flesh suit as best I can. I can almost pretend that I'm like you. I'm usually so good at pretending.
I am a beautiful nothing. That's all.
A speck.
.
(Space for Mader comments)
ReplyDeleteLove it. The ending in particular, like a tap running dry to the last drop.
DeleteYou ring, you wait, you stare into the dead potted plants on the porch, into the eyes of a faded old garden gnome and nobody comes to the door. You exchange the same look with your canvassing partner that you did seven houses in a row.
ReplyDelete“I told them,” she says. “I told them nobody’s gonna answer their door, it’s all a waste of our time that we could have—”
A noise from within freezes you both. You turn toward it, readying anticipatory smiles, the quick things to say so they won’t shut it in your face. Didn’t stop some folks, but what are you gonna do? Some folks from your team say people are lying about doors they didn’t visit. That they were in some bar when they were supposed to be knocking doors.
You’re tired of this whole stupid fruitless afternoon, and your feet hurt, and you’ve only checked off two addresses. One because the guy had a dog like yours. The other because he knows your partner, like they used to date when they were kids. Memory lane and all that, while you look at the ugly wallpaper and count down the minutes until you can go home.
But the door. The door opens. Real slow and squeaky, like in a horror movie. In fact it reminds you of one you saw a couple years back. Strangers beckoning you inside to your doom. The place smells like mold and damp and mouse pee. Other stuff you don’t want to think too long about. There’s a feeling in your legs like they want to bolt and by design will take you with them, whether you like it or not.
Then a man appears. Not young or old but one of those quiet steppers, hiding behind the door like we were about to jump him. You know him but you don’t remember how.
His smile is wry, at first. Like he wondered how long you were going to take to seek him out. The smile falls as he looks at us. The clipboards, the phones. Then his smile drops.
“Okay,” he says, in complete resignation. “I’m ready.”
My partner is damn near giddy. “Well, okay, Mr.” she looks at the clipboard “Greenbaum, first, thank you for your time.”
“What else do I have to do?” he says with a shrug. He puts out his hands, palms down. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
You blink at him. Nobody gives it up so easy. We’re supposed to do a little banter back and forth first, then get into the whys and wherefores and leave them with the campaign brochures and remind them when they can vote. But neither of us seems to be saying anything.
“Come on,” he says, a kind of weary impatience coming through. “It’s… I…I’m grateful you came by.” And then he busts down and cries.
You look at each other again. This time with a different question volleying between you. You’d been told about some folk who are shut in, never see people.
He snivels to a stop. “She was just… See, it’s that song she always sings. I liked it at first. Adorable. Charming. And then…forty years, it’s a long time.” He looks up at you, gray mud puddle eyes wet with tears. “Please. Please, take me to the police.”
She beats you to it. “We’re not…cops.”
“Just campaign volunteers.”
“Even better,” he says. “No sirens. I don’t think I could bear sirens. Please. Let’s go.”
You go. He wobbles down the front path. Leading the way. He looks over his shoulder at you. “Also. You might want to call someone. About the blood.”
Wow! This is great. I had a hunch where we were headed but I was wrong which is great. This is a really well balanced, tense story. Well played. JD
DeleteOnce again JD I'm left wondering are you okay? Love you, love your stories.
ReplyDelete