The Curious Moment of Curiosity

             The train car was nearly empty when Erin boarded. It was a relief after her long day. She didn’t have the patience for the crowded hustling mobs of other exhausted commuters shoving and bustling all around. She took the first empty seat she could find and dropped. Erin rested her head against the elevated train car’s window. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. It was good to be aboard the train and headed home, even as the smell of urine and body odor flooded her nostrils. It was a smell she was quiet familiar with. It was completely disgusting, but nothing new.  It was just another part of living the American dream.

            “Everything about the American dream reeks of urine and feces before becoming the floral bouquets of funeral parlors,” thought Erin. She opened her eyes and took a look around the train, looking at the other believers. The believers are the people that thought that if they just worked hard enough they might be able to make their millions and get out of the rat race. The sort of folks that played the lottery every day, or whose idea of a vacation was headed to the riverboats to gamble for a few hours every Saturday. Erin smirked, even the casinos had that strange piss and shit smell as the train cars.

            Erin considered the smell and wondered if maybe it wasn’t actually urine and crap and body odor, but rather, the smell of desperation. It was always that way, from the slums of the inner city, to the rural dive bars in Satan’s Pocket.  She remembered something from history class, about the old world slums of the last century, where immigrants and the poor lived amongst rivers of corpses and feces polluted drinking water. It was all desperation, not really a matter of smell.

            The train car rattled along, headed south of the city. Erin felt the thrumming of the train as it coasted the steel rails of the tracks, hiccupping every so often over the welded seams. It felt like a lulling heartbeat, something almost womb-like. She took another breath and tried to clear her head. She didn’t want to be down beat about her prospects. She still felt young even though her youth was slipping away. She’d found three new gray hairs on her head the other day. Three! She couldn’t believe she wasn’t even thirty yet and she was already going gray. She didn’t feel like she was ready for that yet.

            The train approached the next station and Erin’s head rolled forward as the train came to a stop. She looked at the opening doors, the passengers disembarking and boarding, their comings and goings, all looking for a place to sit or stand. A young black woman boarded the train with a small black girl in tow. The mother looked around the car for a place to sit and in typical fashion of the modern age, no one got up to offer her a seat. This incensed Erin, not only because she now decided that she had to give up her seat, but because she was so damn tired and how come all these other people didn’t realize how tired she was.

            “Miss,” said Erin, “please, sit here.”

            “Oh, thank you so much,” said the young mother.

            The young mother smiled and took Erin’s seat. She lifted the girl onto her lap. The little girl looked up at Erin and smiled. She was in a little pink and purple coat that was a size too big for her. It seemed to be swallowing her. Erin smiled back at the little girl.

            “What’s your name,” asked the little girl.

            “My name is Erin. What’s yours?”

            The little girl shifted shyly on her mother’s lap. Erin looked at the mother’s face. She looked as tired as Erin felt. She was probably younger than Erin by a number of years but time had taken a far bitterer toll. She offered a tired smile to Erin and encouraged her daughter to answer Erin.

            “My name is Rain. I’m four. I like riding the train,” said the young girl.

            “That rhymes,” said Erin.

            Rain looked up at Erin quizzically. Her little forehead was furrowed.

            “Rhymes?”

            “Yes. Rain, your name, rhymes with train. You made a little poem. You’re a poet” said Erin.

            Rain’s mouth opened wide with amazement and she turned on her mother’s lap with unbridled joy.

            “Did you hear momma! I’m a poet,” said Rain.

            Rain’s mother nodded that she did indeed hear.

            “I’m Rain and I ride the train,” said Rain with a little more attitude. She smiled widely at Erin and bounced happily on her mother’s lap.

            Erin smiled back. The train pulled into Erin’s station and she got ready to go. She looked back at Rain.

            “It was nice to meet you Rain,” said Erin.

            “Nice to rhyme with you,” said Rain.

            Erin laughed out loud. She hadn’t expected that response. Rain’s mother shifted Rain on her lap and nodded another Thank You toward Erin. Erin exited the train and looked back toward the window, toward Rain and her mother. Erin waved as she walked by, Rain waved back, still beaming from the discovery of her poetry.

            Erin walked down the long train station staircase and at the bottom of the stairs she realized she could no longer smell all the piss and shit around her. It was something that smelled hopeful, like bread baking. Erin inhaled deeply. She didn’t feel so tired suddenly. She didn’t feel so worn out. She exited the train station and started the six block walk to her apartment and it didn’t bother her one bit.

        

 

Oh, There I Am

I wondered where I went.
I wasn’t in the usual places.
Or with the usual people.
So I wasn’t sure where I was.

I hadn’t been around,

but I hadn’t gone anywhere,
I was nearby but pretty far
away.

I’d been quiet among the

noise,
disappeared against the din.
I was replaced by others.

Worry, stress, anxiety,

terror, immodesty, arrogance
and obstinacy filled out
what I had become.

The unhappy anger of being

out of control usurped my
rational choices and genuine
peaceful desires.

So this page was as empty

as I felt, until I remembered
I could fill it with anything,
and there I was, reflected.

So here I am, while I can.

For now.

Paper Promises

Tattered and torn,
shredded and shorn,
wrinkled and worn.

Maybe it can,

so I might,
it’s possible.

Probably,

sort of,
could be.

I’ll let you know,

I’ll think about it,
I’m not sure.

Thin and sharp,

Light and heavy,
special and average.

Thick with words,

large and small,
Deep and airy.

Empty and full,

Cutting and dull,
Real nonsense.

My recent contribution

Here's a link to my most recent contribution to the literary world, or at least another web site, Healthy B Daily. http://www.healthybdaily.com/2015/03/09/you-dont-work-here-anymore/

The History of My Socks

             While digging through my sock drawer this morning in an attempt to find that ever elusive matching pair; the history of my socks struck me. I chuckled at the thought of how many generations of socks have gone through the process of covering my feet. I imagined my little baby socks covering my adorable baby feet. It must have been terribly cute for everyone to see my tiny white feet shuffling around on wobbly toddler legs. I’d say it was even a time before shoes. My miniature socks on my undeveloped feet. I’m sure they were a variety of colors, or at least blues, whites or blacks, since I was a little boy. I have a feeling pink didn’t make it into my baby sock repertoire.

            I thought about my little boy socks. It was the late seventies and eighties and frankly, little boy clothes were pretty basic. I do remember walking into Six Flags Great America with my father and sister, or at least I remember the picture my mother took of us walking into the park. She took the picture from behind us as we walked around and there I am, in a matching grey tee-shirt/shorts set wearing black socks with my gym shoes, trying to keep pace with the long strides of my father’s adult legs. It’s clear in the picture I was taking very large steps. The thing that always stood out for me in that picture though was my black socks contrasted with my very pale Irish little boy legs.  

            I remember being a little older and going outside one Sunday morning before church to put my shoes and socks on. I don’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to put my socks and shoes on while sitting on the cement front porch steps. Although it was a very warm Spring day and I think I just wanted to be outside before the drudgery of Church. An hour at Church back then was like a quarter of my life at the time, being so young and all. I remember trying to pull my sock on with the dexterity of a child, unfamiliar with the operations of my own fingers, and I somehow missed putting the white sock on and I scraped my heel on the cement step, cutting it open pretty decently. I gashed it enough that I had to hobble back into the house and deal with my father’s anger as he frowned at the medical care he had to provide, right before we had to go to Church on Sunday morning. It’s no wonder I have such a problem with minor inconveniences in my own life.

            I remember all the pairs of Navy Blue socks I had for Catholic School. The socks had to match the Navy blue school uniforms of course. Except on gym days, that’s when you had to remember to wear tube socks. If you forgot your white socks you looked like a dweeb running around the gym with gym shoes and navy blue socks. It was a terrible source of embarrassment back then. It seemed somehow that the teachers shamed you for not remembering the very simple task of bringing the correct color socks for gym days. They never actually said anything, but the look of, “Oh well, looks like that one isn’t college material”, was plain on their pious faces.

             Athletic socks came next, those very long kinds that pulled up all the way to the knees. Those socks always had some curious striping on the top, reds, purples, yellows, or green that just looked completely ridiculous. Although they did have to pull up so high since the shorts were so damn short. I remember being really uncomfortable in those 1980’s summer shorts. It wasn’t until the late ‘80’s that shorts got longer and cooler and didn’t require the long, long, long knee socks. Now you could wear short basketball socks with your gym shoes and not look like a pale version of Big Bird.

            Dress socks then entered the history book of my socks. I had to wear them in high school since the environment was what we now call business casual. We had to wear dress shoes and of course only dress socks would do. My high school drawers were filled with all kinds of dark colored socks. I was also coming into my own identity then and I started to have a taste in what I should wear. Right down to my feet. I started getting more novelty type socks. Maybe they had skulls on them like the skate boarders would wear or very specific Christmas reindeer on them for the holidays. I had so many socks then.

            I started wearing combat boot regularly in high school and then dress socks didn’t seem so important. I started getting toughed toed and heeled socks to put up with the rigorous demands we put on our feet. My friends and I walked everywhere in our combat boots. Miles meant nothing to us and all summer we would spend on the streets, going from house to house, walking the train tracks, running away from junk yard dogs, or getting chased by the occasional neighborhood gang. I had so many socks that seemed to wear out almost as fast as I got them.

            College socks were pretty similar to high school socks for the most part. I picked up a few thermal types for the long cold winters commuting from the buses to the trains to get to school downtown and the long late nights of drinking to excess with my upper classmates. I was always the youngest in my classes, the fun classes anyway. I was still wearing combat boots then and there wasn’t a need for any radical change to my socks. Although there were college girls to impress and if the moment ever came when I would have to maybe take my shoes off, I certainly didn’t want to be remembered for having stinky and holy socks in front of the sexy Swedish girl.

            The business world finally arrived and I had to abandon the combat boots and return to the era of dress socks. You think that it is important that your feet are covered appropriately in the many cubicled office world, but soon you discover that no one gives a damn. No one is looking at your socks. So you return to the classic white athletic sock with your dress shoes. It’s not nerdy if your pants hang over your ankles. It’s only nerdy if you were wearing flood pants.

            20 years went by of the same types of socks; office appropriate socks, dress socks, funeral socks, suit socks, wedding socks, christening socks, holiday socks, warm socks, ankle socks, summer socks.  So many that after a while you realize you have two drawers filled with socks. You don’t have anything else in such quantities as socks. So you purge and get rid of them, the holy ones, the threadbare ones, the mismatches, the ones that always bothered your right big toe for some reason. And still, there are way too many socks.

            Today, as I stood at my top sock drawer, trying to match my socks I realized the immense quantity of ankle/summer socks I now am in possession of. I never used to have so many. I have so many summer socks now that finding regular socks is a problem. When did I get so many short summer socks? I think she told me that I looked silly in regular athletic socks with my gym shoes and shorts, so I caved and bought more ankle socks than I know what to do with.

            I found a mismatch pair of tube socks. It is winter after all and ankle socks don’t quite work in this weather.  I laid the socks out on my bed next to my tee-shirt and boxers in preparation for my shower. They are still sitting there as I’m writing this. 

            The History of my Socks is quiet a story. In fact, it’s almost like cutting a large tree down and counting the rings of its growth. My sock evolution, all of our sock evolutions, is simply amazing. We’ve all grown, all changed, all became something different than what those little baby socks could have ever imagined. The History of our socks is the history of us all. (If you wear socks, although I suppose not wearing socks is important for some too. I’m just not a sandal wearer.)

The Human Hole

In all of us,
all the breathers,
the breeders,
the liars,
the lovers,
the open,
the closed,
the right,
the wrong,

there is

a hole.

A hole we fill,

with lovers,
with liars,
the right,
the wrong,
the open,
the closed,
the breeding,
the breathing.

A hole,

augured with drills

of neglect or
overindulgence,
shame or pain,
validation or
disappointment,

in us all.

From bad dads,

bad moms,
good dads,
good moms,
from no one,
from everyone,
from teachers,
from companions,
from creeps,
from bullies,
from the distant,
from the closest.

A hole,

made deeper,

through time,

through erosion,
through thought,
through musings,
through ignorance,
through annoyance,
through rage,
through marginalization,
through exclusion,
through inclusion,
through booze,
through drugs,
through smokes,
through hate,
through passions.

The human hole,

stretching the depths
of our widening, ever
shorter life. Swallowing
us, burying us, returning
us to where we came.

A Human Hole.

Double, Double Before I Go

             “I’ll have the large coffee please, double double,” said Allen.

            The barista sneered at Allen for saying Large instead of the copy written “El Grande Macho” size. Allen smiled back. He just didn’t want to say El Grande Macho. It bothered him to no end to have to refer to a cup of coffee as “the big man”. It was just another one of those things chain stores did to try and make themselves stand out from the crowd of other coffee chains. Allen remembered when he was young, in high school, he and his friends used to go to a regular old coffee place after school. They would all sit at the diner counter and just get regular mugs of coffee. There wasn’t a size to request. You just had to flip the mug over and the server poured coffee into it. It wasn’t even fresh coffee most of the time. It was blackened and burned from sitting on the hot plate for hours and hours. It was how Allen had gotten into the habit of ordering double cream and double sugars in his coffee. It was the only way to make that swill drinkable.

            “Alain,” called the barista.

            “Allen”, corrected Allen.

            “Who the hell pronounces Allen like Alain,” wondered Allen. He shook his head and took his coffee from the side countertop. He took the lid off and gave the coffee a good hearty stir. Allen looked up at the other early morning coffee customers in the commercialized French café. It wasn’t really a French café by any extent but it really tried to be. It was part of the chain coffee shop’s image of class or elegance or European civility or something like that.

            In line at the counter was a mix of the neighborhood. There was a young woman, late 20’s or early 30’s at the counter. She kept looking out over her shoulder to the sidewalk where she had leashed her little dog to a parking meter. Allen wondered why so many young women had dogs these days. It was some sort of cultural phenomenon.  She was wearing workout pants under a heavy winter coat. She didn’t have a hat or a scarf or even gloves yet it was a very chilly winter’s day. Allen mused that cute girls never seem cold and maybe then never did. Perhaps it was all the special growth hormones they all ate in their processed foods.

            Behind the cute dog girl was a young black man in heavy outdoors clothes. He had his earphones in and Allen could slightly hear the music he was listening too. Allen could hear a deep bass emanating from the guy’s earphones but he couldn’t make out the tune. He ordered a coffee the same way Allen had, by avoiding the phrase “El Grande Macho”. Allen smiled and tossed his stirrer into the trash.

            The line ended with a very heavyset woman, heavily bundled up against the cold. She had on a red wool cap, a blue scarf over a purple and white puffy coat. She reminded Allen of an ice cream sundae. Right up to the cherry on the top. Her cheeks were wind burned red and she was quite out of breath. She was clearly out of patience with having to wait in line and seemed very agitated. She shuffled on her feet and was clearly exasperated when the cute girl asked the barista to re-toast her bagel because the first one was too burned and she didn’t want a burned bagel.

            The cute girl’s voice was a mix of politeness and snark. It had a very odd tone to it that Allen had a hard time getting. It was mean, yet, direct, yet high pitched and condescending, without sounding elitist. Allen wondered where this girl had learned to speak this way.

 Allen moved from the counter and put on his own gloves. He took a sip from his coffee. It was just right. He stepped outside. The dog tied to the parking meter growled and barked at him as he walked by. Allen ignored it and started the cold walk toward the funeral home. He wondered which of those people in line would visit him first. Which one of them would wind up on his mortuary table before the others? He wondered about the fickleness and randomness of life, of luck.

He took another sip of his coffee and pulled his collar up against the chill.