Our Path is Paved in Echoes
Michael Bonady
Our Path is Paved in Echoes
Michael Bonady
Our Path is Paved in Echoes
Michael Bonady
Copyright 2013 by Michael Bonady
ISBN: 9781301971541
DEDICATION
For p
CONTENTS
1 On waffles and the weather
2 x-rays
3 Sam and Alice
4 The needle and the damage
5 Skipping rocks and Jesus
6 We would jump into shallow streams
7 how to hear over music
8 The good doctor
9 the size of your clothes
10 green curry
1 on waffles and the weather
This is part of the reason I stay in bed when it rains, Amelia said to herself, only moments after leaving her rain coat at home and driving down her street at an unreasonable speed. It had been a busy morning, what with the cat and the waffles and the screaming and the strawberry jam and the broken window and the butter knife and that song on the radio, what was it, oh yes, I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing, the Aerosmith version, and she wanted to miss everything. The alarm clock had gone off earlier than usual, to account for the expected traffic due to the expected storm, so when she looked outside and saw blue skies it seemed like a good omen. She told him the same, that it was a good omen, and he just nodded his head, too tired for more acknowledgements.
She went into the bathroom and the tile was cold on her feet, We should get those built-in tile warmers installed, she said, he did not answer, must have fallen back asleep, she turned on the shower and let the water get hotter while she removed her night clothes, which consisted of a pair of men’s boxers and a loose t-shirt, heather gray, until it was just her, and by then the water was warm enough so she got in the shower to get lost in the steam. She closed her eyes and thought about nothing at all, then it was Hurry Up I don’t want to be late, and she hurried up and despite the disruption she managed to remain happy, the sky was blue after all, he was just in a bad mood for the morning, maybe he had odd dreams, the kind that stick with you in a way that suggests they are now a part of your reality, that the effect in the dream world was strong enough to impact the waking one, and things are forever changed, maybe that was it.
She could hear him in the shower, dropping bottles of body wash and conditioner and then picking them back up. She put on clothes for the day, jeans and a light blue t-shirt, pulled her dark hair back and went into the kitchen. Angela was waiting for food, meowing the way you would expect now that Angela has been introduced, we all knew it was going to be the cat after all, no reason for anything but the truth here. Angela began to devour the food as soon as it was poured into the bowl, Sorry pumpkin, I forgot your refill last night. Then Angela finished the food and jumped down, determined to showcase her feline abilities in guilt creation.
Amelia took the waffles from the freezer and set the timer on the oven, after placing the waffles on top of her pizza stone, one that now bore the scars of so many adventures, and she closed the door of the oven faster and louder than she planned.
He came in and went straight to the coffee pot, I wish you could have got this going, didn’t you hear me ask, he said, No, I didn’t, I’m sorry, she said, and she was, at the time, sorry that is, but the sorry faded like his promises, a thought that she nearly said aloud but caught herself at just the last possible moment, which was the only moment she needed to catch.
The cat, Angela, was meowing, but she didn’t notice, You never help around here, she said, and he disagreed, Why just yesterday I took the trash out, didn’t you notice, So you should get a prize just for taking out the trash, I’m not asking for a prize but some sort of recognition might be nice, Then a formal certificate would suffice then, is that your point, I don’t have a point, I know. The silence went out for a cigarette and came back twelve minutes later, she was scrubbing the counter top and he was getting his things together to leave for the office, the car keys and a cup of coffee, with a lid on the container, so he said Goodbye, I love you, then walked out before she could say anything, I love you, too, but he was already in the garage and the garage door was opening and making such an awful racket. The timer on the oven went off but she didn’t notice for several minutes, it continued beeping.
My waffles, she thought, and then, returning to the oven, found the waffles to be indelibly burned, she grabbed them one at a time with her hands and it hurt but she didn’t care, she placed the waffles on the plate and then she threw the plate towards the sink and upon seeing it shatter she felt alive and ashamed and full of power, she took the jar of strawberry jam and hoisted it towards the sink, but it carried on to the window and went crashing through. Oh no, she thought, What have I done, the sky looks so much darker out now, it looks like it is starting to rain, and now this rain has become both literal and wet but also figurative and dry and harsh like sandpaper ripped in a hurry and it may come to be an omen whose motives I cannot discern.
The jar went through the glass and the wind shifted and the rain started to come through the hole. She always hated it when she burned her waffles.
2 things to do with internal damage that does not show up on x-rays
Do not take ibuprofen. It will reduce pain but not swelling. Ice the affected area. Do not use ice. It will only temporarily reduce swelling. Wear long sleeve shirts to provide a thin layer of protection. Do not take anti coagulants, unless prescribed by your doctor. Place sliced pineapple on the affected area, chilled slightly, and do not allow household pets to interfere. Take ibuprofen. Rest. Wait six days and re-examine your life.
If the area in question is located on or near your confidence, do not use ice. If the area in question is located on or near your figurative heart, do not seek surgery. Drown in copious amounts of vodka and start again. Take ibuprofen. Do not use ice to reduce swelling. Apply a heating pad and watch daytime television until your eyes burn. Purchase Visine. Resist temptation to contact the perpetuator of your condition. Do not call. Do not email. Do not purchase a singing telegram to arrive at his doorstep, even if that telegram includes a full barbershop quarter performing “ I Want you Back” in period clothing.
Take every idea that you garnered from romantic comedies and write that idea down on a large piece of college ruled paper. Once all ideas have been captured, walk outside, and using a single match, burn the paper and watch the ashes join the wind onwards to their futures, away from you. Do not ask your friends for advice. Do ask your friends for help moving your stuff to a new location. Celebrate your new location with copious amounts of red wine and make sure not to spill any on the carpet. If your security deposit is non-refundable, make sure to spill red wine on the carpet.
3 Sam and alice
Sam and Alice. Names like a 1970’s sitcom. Not That 70’s Show but a real one, from the 70’s. I wish they lived right next door to me. I’d stop by unannounced all the time, right when they were in the middle of something funny. Or intimate. Sam would cast sideways glances. Alice would roll her eyes lovingly. She wouldn’t care, Sam’s probably not good in bed anyway. Better off having a good conversation and some drinks.
I’d always be up for a drink, and damn it if Sam could resist. He couldn’t. You see, I hold my liquor way better than Sam, he’s a bit of a lightweight. Literally too. Just a skinny old guy. Alice sure is sexy though, you would never think looking at him independently and separate from her that he could ever land a girl as gone as she is. That’s Sam though. I’m much better looking than him, built nicely too, but it doesn’t matter. It’s like women want to protect him, shelter him, mother him, keep him from harm with his little skinny arms and body,
hold him close to their ample beautiful soft breasts. Nurture him from within. Alice, she’s got a real nice rack too. When I tell her this, which I do on occasion, she just shakes her head, says “What are we gonna do with you,” and I tell her all kinds of things she could do with me, dirty things that make her squinch her face up and frown.
“I’d wash your mouth out with soap but I’m sure you’d like that,” she tells me. Sam doesn’t mind though, when I talk to his wife like this. She’s my sister so it’s okay. Just kidding, she’s not. That would be gross even for me. I feel bad for even joking about it. I do that a lot actually. Make bad jokes or gross jokes when I shouldn’t. Alice tells me that maybe one day I’ll meet a girl who has my same sense of humor but I am not so optimistic. Up until now I’m the only one who has my sense of humor. But really, Sam doesn’t mind when I talk like this to his wife Alice because it’s in my nature. That’s what he says. He says, “It’s in your nature.”
He can be pretty matter of fact about things. Just last week I got drunk in the afternoon and came over to visit. Alice was out shopping for jeans or tampons or makeup I figured, so I told Sam this. He got mad for a second then said, “You can’t help it can you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I’ve never tried.”
“When she gets home don’t ask if she was getting tampons or anything else womanly,” he said, rolling his eyes in a way that made it obvious to me that he was rolling them, not the way most people do when they don’t want me to see.
“Ok,” I say, but I don’t believe that I won’t ask her this, and Sam doesn’t either.
If Sam and Alice were my next door neighbors in a 70s sitcom it would be easier than real life. They wouldn’t fight in front of me, and if they did, it would be in a funny, bantering way that would get the audience to laugh, even if the guy who cues the audience to laugh forgot to hold up the sign to tell everyone to laugh. Yep, they’d still laugh their asses off, one guy in the back would laugh like a woman, really high pitched for a guy, and then the audience members would laugh at him too, resulting in a whole bunch of laughter so hard to differentiate between ‘laughing at’ and ‘laughing with’ that it wouldn’t matter.
I try to picture this when they do fight, like last week, when she called him an arrogant bastard and he called her a selfish bitch, like her mom. It was the last part I think, that got her angry. It didn’t help matters much when I said “Yeah, your mom can be pretty selfish sometimes.”
Alice looked at me but didn’t say anything, though later that night she called me and apologized for fighting while I was there. I listened attentively, and almost apologized back about saying her mom was selfish, but it was true, so I didn’t.
“Everyone fights sometimes”, she told me, “And right now Sam and I don’t always see eye to eye.”
My mom and dad told me that once a few years ago, then they got divorced. I told this to Alice, and that I was concerned that her and Sam would be the same way. She laughed, said she loved his skinny ass too much for that, so I felt better. She can be really sensitive sometimes, that Alice. In a good way. Sure, she cries at stupid things on TV, like The Wonder Years and Who Wants to be a Millionaire, but that’s fine with me I guess. She can tell when I’m worried about something, and that’s nice. Most people, they don’t really pay attention to me like that.
Her and I, we go way back, we have history. Or, herstory, as she used to say when we were in high school and she was toying with becoming a feminist. I didn’t mind really, but for a good two weeks she got really pissed anytime I made rude sexist comments. It’s good for me that she didn’t stick to it, since I won’t stop making rude comments. Sometimes I would add an ‘a’ to the end of words like in Spanish , where amiga means a friend that’s a girl, and amigo is for a friend that’s a boy. I did this with English words though, to soften up my dirty phrases, or complaints about women. Like, “That girl is such a whorea, should I take her to the winterfest dance?” I think she appreciated the effort.
Alice was around during the bad times for me, still she didn’t mind, still talked to me in the halls and stuff. She told me I was her special project. I wasn’t really sure what she meant by that, but I guess I still am. Sam, he’s a good shit too, we also go way back. He’s my brother you see. So when they fight I have to take his side, if I’m over at the house, even when I think he’s being a real prick. For such a small skinny guy he can be a real big ass. Alice, now, don’t tell her she’s being an ass, it really sets her off. One time, I told her, “You’ve got a helluva ass” and she nearly blew her top. She misheard me though, thought I’d said “You’re a helluva ass,” since we’d been arguing, so I can understand the misunderstanding. Sam’s eyes got all big when I said that, he’d misheard me too. He doesn’t mind when I compliment her, in fact it makes him feel good to have such a smoking hot wife. Plus he feels like he’s better than me since he landed such a great little life for himself.
That’s the thing with skinny guys, they’ve always got something to prove. Especially when they’re your brother.
Sam and Alice, they’ve got this big comfy couch, much nicer than the one I have. Mine is actually their old one, they gave it to me. They don’t really stop by my place too often though, it’s pretty messy and has stuff all over the floor. I make my bed most days. I heard Alice and Sam fight about that once, he never made the bed, she said “I bet if you lived alone you would never even think about making your bed, ever. Would you? Would you?” She could sure get worked up over an unmade bed. Women sometimes puzzle me about things like that, like why does it matter if the bed’s made or not? The whole act of making it only to unmake it mere hours later astonishes me. I once heard a comedian talk about it, he was pretty funny. He was like “You’d think women, they must have some god complex or something about making the bed, you know, like the way they can pull your masculinity right out of you, then put it back when they please? They want to tell you, Look motherfucker, I made you who you are, and I can unmake you too, just like that bed!”
Then the comic paused and shook his finger like he was a woman scolding an unruly husband, everyone laughed. Me, I thought he was onto something, but figured he must have lots of trouble with women anyway, since most of his jokes were about them. I was thinking if he laughs about it I bet it makes him feel better, like he understands them more. After that it didn’t seem so funny, instead I got a bit sad, so I turned the channel. Since then though, I make my bed almost every morning. It’s nice to be better than your brother at something.
When the three of us go out to dinner it can get a bit awkward. Like when they pay for me. I always offer, like a true gentleman, but they always decline. I worry that they get tired of paying for me. While I’m eating though, and after when I’m nice and full, I don’t worry about it at all.
It’s best to let things like that go, for me. Otherwise I start to get really nervous and lose my appetite. My hands shake like I’m freezing cold even if I’m burning up. Alice, she can tell when I may be on the brink of freaking out. She says “You’re on the brink of freaking out, aren’t you?” I usually say yes, then calm down a bit. If I say no, then I may end up freaking out anyway. When I say No I mean business. She’ll distract me then, saying something dirty, like “Smack my ass” and then I laugh, since I know she hates talking like that. I love it, she knows it, so that helps. Sam usually just looks at me quietly, he’s seen it all before, though he’ll throw out a ‘’Titties at 10 o’clock!’’ when necessary.
I guess he’s a pretty good brother.
4 the needle and the damage undone
The first time I put the needle in my arm, it didn’t feel real. It still doesn’t. I just wanted to unravel everything that was so… raveled. If I could deconstruct all my thoughts that were perpetually conjoined and jumbled, just for a few moments, it would help. When I play it back in my mind it’s more luc
id than it should be. Every scene is part of an artfully done independent film that won accolades and garnered nominations for most of the cast, except that one guy who always gets overlooked. The lighting sets the perfect amount of seediness and desperation, with silent undertones of hope. All my movements leading up to that moment when it broke through my flesh are vivid. I look in the mirror, I don’t even recognize myself. Like a ghost or a vacant lot, an empty shell of someone who used to matter. Someone who used to be a force. A light in the dark. Now it’s all just grey. Nothing matters. I run the water cold and splash my face.
The lights above the sink flicker. I pick a towel up off the ground and wipe the water off my face. Back into the main room now, my pending decline resting on the bed, still innocent, un-bloodied and un-corrupted. The TV has some local news and they’re talking about the forecast again. The weatherman has the worst tie I’ve ever seen. He borrowed it from 1982 and they didn’t want it back. He seems happy though, and I hate him with the depth of oceans. Life is black and white now, the needle is color. Screaming my name and begging me to deflower it, give it purpose, help it heal me. Fuck you! I yell at the needle and pick it up. I want to squeeze it and break it into a thousand pieces before it breaks me. I am not strong enough and it begs me now to just insert it, just push it in. I do. It goes in and I close my eyes tight. The needle has fulfilled its purpose and given me everything I wanted. I didn’t expect it to hurt. It did, but not for long. Fully spent, I pull it out. My skin tries to close around the tiny hole left in me. Past that second everything is blurry, the tiny hole growing wider inside.
