On Remembering, a short collection

On Remembering

  A short collection of short stories and poems

  By Wess Foreman

  copyright 2010 Wess Foreman

  (wessforeman.com)

  Introduction

  Good Morning

  —Good morning.

  —I'll be the judge of that.

  —Someone got up on the wrong side of—

  —Don't.

  —Beg your pardon?

  —Don't even start with me; I just want to be left alone.

  —I see.

  —I'm dying here.

  —You're dying.

  —I'm — I'm not dying, Marty — I'm having a terrible day is all and . . . I just want to be left alone.

  —I can see that.

  —To. Be. Left. Alone.

  —I get that.

  —Is that so hard to understand?

  —Not really.

  —I mean for all your euphemisms and, and your cheery-eyed 'good mornings' — I mean, it's a wonder anyone can enjoy stewing in their own misery around here.

  — . . . .

  —Let me stew in my own misery, Marty; that's all I'm saying.

  —I'll just let you stew then.

  —It is a good morning, though, isn't it.

  ***

  On Remembering A List

  I.

  You didn't get a shopping cart. Didn't think you'd need one. Now you're regretting the fact: burdened with an eclectic mix of odd and end — an armload you may or may not need — hastily assembled while trying to remember everything on that list—

  —the one you left in the car, of course — you boasted you could memorize it, remember? You did well, too, until the cool-convenient air blast caught you square in the face as you entered those automated double-doors — it must have been the temperature change, warm to cool, because the 'memorized' list simply vanished. Recovering the list proved a cerebral challenge, indeed, but you managed fair enough. Presently, only one thing missing—

  —Toothpaste! Sadly no, that would have been too easy. You have that here, betwixt pinkie and ring finger, just beneath the quart of turpentine (your wife, bless her soul, had this inexplicable compulsion to paint the kitchen table . . . one of the many reasons you're here in the first place — only this sacrifice doesn't make you a saint, it just underlines your position as husband — not that you're complaining, of course . . . you haven't the resolve). You've lost track of time — you know that, don't you? At least an hour, squandered. Forever gone. Remembering a shopping list — difficult at best. Perhaps next time . . . yes, next time — you almost, nearly, as good as, promise yourself — you will remember to bring the list . . . or perhaps not.

  Needing a quiet place to think, the Live Fish isle catches your eye and compels you toward its gurgling solitude. Goldfish, mollies, guppies, and iridescent shark swim lazily about in algae-tainted water. Bits of unidentifiable cruft float effortlessly around the bottoms of the tanks in a synchronized ballet — a perfect foil for sorting through your dilemma. You gaze at the tanks, seemingly mesmerized by the daunting array of aquatic life from which to choose (in reality seeing nothing, as it is easier to think when you're not actually looking at anything — which is why it'll be so hard for you to look your wife in the eye when you try to explain the missing item). Although you try to stay on task, your mind wanders: What if someone buys an item you chose to 'look' at — you'd, unknowingly, be staring at nothing and you would appear to have slipped into a deep trance. An employee would be summoned, who would, following set procedure, immediately call security — next thing you know, you're being hauled away in an ambulance, groceries still in hand. Early Diagnosis: "Memory stupor. Seen it too many times — you never get used to it, though. Don't bother with the lights, Charlie — poor fella doesn't stand a chance." The whole thing can get a bit messy.

  Minutes later, with no leads on the item, you're now seeing double and decide to move along — there are security cameras after all. Next row over, you discover a large, balding man hugging an armload of odds and ends, staring blankly at a shelf of deodorant. In the distance you distinctly hear the squeal of an approaching ambulance. You move to the gardening section—

  —where you briefly attempt a more advanced, certainly more foolhardy, technique involving walking and thinking at the same time and you manage to knock over two display signs, a carefully stacked tower of watering cans and an elderly woman with a cane, poor dear.

  Lost in a world of discounted pricing and multi-colored tag sales and service with a smile and thanks for shopping so-and-so big-box store! How frightening. You're feeling claustrophobic (or some-other-phobic since this place is cathedral-sized, though a bit more commercial in nature), and your hand is turning numb hauling around that gallon of ice-cold milk, so you decide to cut your losses and find a place in line.

  Could there exist a longer line of grocery-laden husband-shoppers? And no other lanes open, of course (you seriously consider dropping everything and taking your chances with the missus — you could say they were out of toothpaste and you're boycotting the place — or maybe that the store was closed. Construction. Renovation. Fire. Tornado. Earthquake. There are times when the truth sounds more believable). You take a step forward in line, head about to burst, aware that you're forgetting something but unaware of what that something is—

  —until, of course, you reach the car, parked half a mile away, the nearest space you could find. Sandpaper! For the table your wife will be painting.

  Defeated, your head in dire want of aspirin, you make the drive home and take in the groceries, presenting them to your wife as gifts from far away lands. She delights, as ever, at the fascinating collection with which you have returned (or, as you like to think of it: your unique interpretation, or vision, of her exacting, albeit practical, list), and as she falls for the distraction, opening an extraneous, mauve-colored package of boysenberry-scented candles, you slip away to your retreat — your workshop—

  —to lay low awhile — amid sawdust-encrusted tools, dismantled motors and heavy fumes — perchance to find redemption in a few salvaged scraps of used sandpaper.

  The search lasts but a moment as a shadow fills the doorway and a familiar voice rings out (not unpleasantly, truth be told) — "Forget something?"

  You turn to face her, armed with sandpaper and an explanation if it comes to that — but it isn't about the sandpaper.

  II.

  You drive up and down the parking lot, eventually finding an empty space maddeningly far from the entrance and ironically quite near where you entered the lot twenty minutes ago. You hike the distance at a modest pace for one with little athletic ability crossing a blazing concrete desert at high noon with no protection or water or relief until those automated double-doors you remember with great fondness. By the way, you didn't bring a list this time—

  —none that you'd admit to anyway (your wife, bless her determined soul, held you down and, wielding a permanent marker, branded a single word across your open palm to aid your memory before sending you off again on this final expedition). You enter the store and take a casual glance at your palm — a blush of disbelief as you read the word, the item you forgot last trip — your palm reads simply, in bold, permanent letters: "PAINT."

  ***

  Expectation Of Spring

  he moves across the seasons

  in trepid steps

  in turn remembering

  the fire of summer's apex and

  the dropping autumn leaves —

  the beginning of winter and

  the breathless bitter cold

  he stands in place unsure —

  just close enough to spring

&nb
sp; to hear the trees breathe green

  but holding on

  to winter's weak embrace

  the place where hope is fiercest needed

  and golden dreams are precious made

  ***

  Leito And The Sleeping Girl

  LEITO THE ARTIST examines

  the outline of her face.

  Traces every curve

  and subtle aspect

  and darker lines beneath

  the chin to lift it away

  from the nape of her neck.

 

  He articulates the runaway

  strands of loose auburn

  that float across her forehead

  separating left eye

  from the right,

  from the nose,

  from other delicate

  features of her face.

 

  Her eyes are closed.

  She is asleep.

  She sleeps. He follows

  the lines of her brow,

  her eyelids closed,

  soft scallop of the nose,

  soft nostrils and lips

  softer still.

 

  He sketches her features

  quickly and in secret —

  capturing the beauty

  of the sleeping girl

  before she awakens

  to find him there.

 

  LEITO THE ARTIST loses

  track of all time —

  drawing the sleeping girl

  in her deep repose —

  loses track of lifetimes

  in his quiet concentration —

  for how the lifetimes slip by

  when one is in love.

  When one is in love.

  ***

  Otherlands

  Returning home to

  a land I knew once

  to be as large

  as the world (and it was

  until I grew up

  and looked around some

  and found otherlands

  to be just as big or bigger —

  life growing as large

  as can be imagined

  and learning to imagine

  larger, day by day)

  ***

  There Is An End To It

  Stagger-stepping [one two one

  two] staggering solo down

  the hall and steadies the wall

  as he toddles; he thinks

  that there is nothing greater.

  Almost grasping [in his

  fragile mind - you can see it

  in his eyes] the gravity of

  this journey — this assent

  from crumb-crusher to— Is there

  an end to it? There is

  an end to it. Yes. There is

  an end to it, and

  he can reach it [reaches it].

  The echoes [echoes] of footfalls

  down the hall fade away [and

  away], leaving scuff marks and

  fading memories of lower modes

  of transportation and

  spitting-up on mommy's shoulder.

  ***

  J. Archibald Finneus The Third

  J. Archibald Finneus the Third sits in the large picture-window observing the game of catch outside. He cares not for the game but watches anyway. Mama cleans the house, floor to ceiling. She hums as she goes room to room, spreading lemon-scent and ammonia, and glancing once in a while at the game — the boys wave when they see her.

  J. Archibald Finneus the Third closes one eye, feeling the sun's warmth. He keeps his spine straight, shoulders level, flicks an ear on occasion and tries never to giggle or snore or surrender to pettings. He is, after all, a proper tom-cat with excellent lineage. His great, great grandcat was First Double-Duke L. J. Thaddeus of the Royal Finneus Family . . . that’s second brother-in-law twice removed from the throne, practically king. But he doesn’t gloat — one never gloats who is proper and proud — he holds his head high and keeps to his kind (he’s the only one of his kind around).

  J. Archibald Finneus the Third awakens to find the yard barren of boys. He hears them rush into the room, a clamorous gang of commoners, all, and wishes he’d seen them earlier — no sense in fleeing, now (nobility never retreats). He risks a glance back and discovers an authentic, leather-stitched football hurling his way; he moves just in time. The one named Matt, who rhymes with ‘cat’ but acts in a terribly uncattish manner, comes hopping — usually humans walk or run but this one is hopping. Hopping! How dreadful. And Timothy tosses a skateboard which, of course, comes crashing back down. He belts out a song at the top of his lungs, and another boy tackles him. J. Archibald watches, indignant but cool (and hiding beneath an end-table). Micah shoots asteroids, full-volume, huddled two feet from the screen, and Joshua tunes guitar and laughs aloud at, apparently, nothing.

  J. Archibald Finneus the Third has places to go when things get too noisy — five boys in a household permit little silence. The hall closet, for instance, is dark and inviting . . . certainly quiet. Likewise, the garage, if properly vented, is a remarkable choice for loud Saturday mornings. Else, there’s the fridge — not within but atop — dusty but dry and sovereignly lofty.

  J. Archibald Finneus the Third strides away. He enters the study and finds Papa asleep on the loveseat, snoring. J. Archibald paces across thick carpet, dirty-gold in color though vacuumed of late; he reaches the loveseat and pounces on Papa, who stirs but naps bravely on. And there, upon ample stomach and chest, J. Archibald Finneus the Third curls into a ball and finds sleep. He dreams of days when alone he wandered — no Mama, or Papa or boys — just he (royalty) and dark streets where quiet was easily found. But to live in a home with family and noise has proved quite superior, allows J. Archibald Finneus the Third now purring, than living out of doors. A stray.

  ***

  Pulling Down Clouds

  he wrote "pulling down clouds"

  and I just thought that was

  golden; thought that was pure

  poetic metaphor for the masses;

  thought that was ap-so-tiz-ly

  golden if you catch my drift.

  then I watched him reach up

  and literally do just that.

  ***

  Tropical Vacation Conversation

  HER: I wonder if there's life out there.

  HIM: This says they're uninhabited.

  HER: I'm not talking about the islands; I'm wondering about our universe.

  HIM: There's over a dozen islands.

  HER: I thought there were more.

  HIM: I mean on our side.

  HER: I was thinking with all those stars and planets and—

  HIM: This island has a secluded beach.

  HER: What do they mean secluded?

  HIM: Nobody bothers you there, I suppose.

  HER: There must be life out there — that's my point.

  HIM: In outer space?

  HER: On other planets.

  HIM: I doubt it.

  HER: What do you know. If that secluded beach is so wonderful—

  HIM: Circumstances would have to be perfect in order for—

  HER: —what keeps everyone from going there?

  HIM: —life to exist anywhere—

  HER: How's that?

  HIM: I was just saying circumstances would have to be perfect—

  HER: Like here.

  HIM: Like here on earth. Yes.

  HER: If it happened here it could happen out there, is my point.

  HIM: Perfection doesn't just happen everywhere.

  HER: I didn't say everywhere. What about that beach?

  HIM: I never said the beach was perfect.

  HER: I was wondering if you wanted to go.

  HIM: Tonight?

  HER: In the morning maybe.

  HIM: Didn't think you were interested.

 
HER: In the morning would be better.

  ***

  A Silent Crash

  I struggle to stay awake — stay awake, stay awake — as bright-orange cones and road signs and distant music whir past my window becoming a single, brilliant, glowing smear across the otherwise dark-distant beyond. My eyelids ton-heavy, my head teetering hazardously on the edge of a nod. I struggle on.

  Stay awake! Stay awake! I warn myself, feeling the needling edge of a void.

  It is the rain, of course. A constant drizzle upon the windshield — stay awake, stay awake — a lulling mist of forgetfulness. Makes the mind go numb. My thoughts meld together, as in a dream. Dream. Dream, it whispers. I must not, no! It is the rain.

  With it, the rhythmic wave of windshield wipers — whish, wish — how they bait the trap. And the tires, a sonorous frictious-tone on uneven highway, lending to the song their mellow throaty throbs. The heat of the defrost does nothing to awaken my senses, sends a fog of warmth instead that cradles my body, wanting rest, solace, a pleasant dream.

  Stay awake! Stay awake! I shake my head, clearing the cobwebs. A violent shake that nearly gives me a headache. Stay awake!

  I curse the rain, silently. I curse the wipers, too, the highway, the warmth. The even-tenored hum in my ears. I long to be there now, my destination, my home, my nice warm pillow on nice warm bed. How I long to be there now. Lying on clean sheets, warm and covered and nestled among thick covers and quilts and ethereal visions in my sleep. Asleep.

  A deer! Or perhaps human?! Or some other lowly creature steps out in front. I turn the wheel severely and mash the brake, sending the car into an instant spin, like nothing I could imagine. The car becomes in that flash-second a carnival ride and, I, the unfortunate rider. I cannot think to brace myself — indeed, I am unsure of my own body's position — am I sitting upright anymore? Falling, spinning, crashing, rising again: up, down, neither seems right. A ton of crumbling steel and glass am I with imitation leather upholstery and lifetime-warranty tire treads. I am afraid. Unable to persist, I close my eyes to the carnage, sure that they will never reopen.

  But they do. Instantly, my car becomes whole again. I am sitting upright. The cones continue their whirring, the wipers their swaying. A jolt of panic consumes me as I realize I managed to fall asleep at the wheel. Only for a moment, an instant, and for that I am glad. My course is slightly awry, and I correct it with a slide of the wheel — a little too much, making the car jerk a bit.