IN ALABAMA THE TUSCALOOSA
SOMEONE APPROACHED ME ON THE STREET. It was broad daylight, appalling.
Questions were put to me as if I might know something. The first had to do with my birthplace. I told them I couldn’t remember, that I’ve been told different things by different people.
Then they asked me if I was interested in making some extra money. I told them stories need to be verified. I told them I would look into it and get back to them. I said I needed more time.
Then they asked if I had any extra time on my hands. I told them I have carpal-tunnel syndrome. I said it hurts to even shake hands with someone; that I can’t even drink a glass of water. I said I have to use plastic cups and straws like a little girl.
By this time their expressions had changed. I think they wanted to go home now.
This is when they asked about my future. They said, are you ready for it? I told them even the wayside has fallen by the wayside here. I said take a look around you. I said I can’t see three feet in front of me. I said I was near-sighted or far-sighted, whichever one means you can’t see three feet in front of you. I said I shot an elephant in my pajamas once and then I said how he got in my pajamas I have no idea.
This is when they thanked me very much for the time and courtesy and told me to have a great day. I should’ve told them to go do the same, but I asked them to look into my eyes instead. I said which is it; please, tell me, am I near-sighted or far-sighted?
They didn’t even bother looking.
MAYBE THE LOVE OF A ONE-LUNGED WOMAN
PLAYING SOLITAIRE, NAKED AND DRUNK.
Not in a metaphorical sense but actually placing black eights beneath red nines while drinking Polish vodka and wearing no clothes.
The expensive Polish vodka was a gift, otherwise I wouldn’t be drinking it. But I can’t say where this particular deck of cards comes from. I can’t remember ever buying a deck of cards. They’re like umbrellas that way. The clothes I am not wearing vary in size and style. Mostly hand-me-upped jeans and polo shirts from my brother who is in the process of losing fifty pounds. We’re all proud of him.
There is a woman with one lung for whom I cannot speak. The doctors took the other lung when it was of no use to her, when it was doing more harm than good. This is one of those she had it coming deals because she smoked that one lung right into oblivion. The remaining lung has a lot of work ahead of it one imagines.
At some point the word overtaxed will be mentioned and that will be that.
Till then the sound of chronic wheezing.
And yes I’ve been drinking, but it goes right through me without food in my stomach. There is something wrong with my bladder, it’s embarrassing.
I have had relations with the one-lunged woman, the woman for whom I cannot speak. But all this happened when she was two-lunged. I don’t think I could carry on with someone missing a lung.
I haven’t spoken with her or for her since the operation. Someone had to tell me about it although I can’t remember who it was. It may have been my brother. He may have told me about her lung when he brought over the Polish vodka and two pairs of Wranglers.
How he found out I don’t know.
I lose my appetite every spring and eat only once a day. I rarely lose weight, although I could stand to lose a few pounds around the middle. When I tell my brother I could stand to lose a few pounds he scoffs the way fat people scoff at skinnier people who want to lose weight.
The one-lunged woman for whom I cannot speak told me so in no uncertain terms. She said, Don’t ever presume to speak for me.
I have since forgotten the circumstances that moved her to say that. Doubtless it was warranted. Apparently, I either don’t pay close attention or there’s something wrong with me.
There were other bones of contention, which falls under the—Tell me something I don’t know heading. The smoking was one of them, I think. I may have said something like, Better the devil you know, in reference to something important, which was probably a mistake.
I rely on platitudes under duress.
The red deck of cards is worn to a frazzle and a few cards have distinguishing marks. For instance, the ace of diamonds has a fold in one of the corners and the four of clubs has a slight tear.
I can deal fast and play fast. Speed Solitaire. I doubt anyone could play faster.
The only interruptions come when I have to go to the bathroom, which is often.
I don’t know why I’m naked.
When you win at Solitaire, whom have you defeated and what have you won is a question I cannot answer.
Maybe the right to say out loud what you’re thinking because there’s nobody there to tell you otherwise.
Or maybe the love of a one-lunged woman.
The Polish vodka is gone now. I’m into canned beer. I put on my brother’s pants and one of his shirts.
The one-lunged woman is doing as well as can be expected. She has therapy three times a week and is exercising and all the rest of it. I’m told she looks like hell.
That her one-lungedness is the only thing that distinguishes her and me from anyone else is a fact I am acutely aware of. It is our fold in the corner.
I’ve decided to make tuna fish. I’ve decided to dice an onion and toast some bread.
These are the first decisions I’ve made since I decided to take off my clothes and drink and play Solitaire probably two days ago now. Although it was more like I found myself naked and drinking and playing Solitaire.
I win the last game I play despite having to deal with two red threes and two red fours on the flop. The key move was the black jack rearing his devilish head when I was down to the last card. I knew the game was winnable at that point, and after 12 losses in a row, I suppose you can say I had it coming.
I leave the cards there in the middle of the floor, all spread out, all in order.
FULL FRONT NUDITY
NATALIE’S PENCHANT FOR TALKING TO PEOPLE OUT OF EARSHOT and expecting them to hold up their end of the conversation drives me to the bottle of vodka chilling in the freezer. Why vodka doesn’t freeze is another thing I don’t know but should. I imagine the answer is simple. But it is too late in the game to ask questions that beget simple answers.
Otherwise she expects me to be privy to the conversations that take place in her head. She’ll come in and say, “Did you put it away?” or “Do you think he knows what he’s talking about?”
A few nights ago I watched her sleeping. I saw her eyes moving back and forth beneath her eyelids, like she was trying to find someone through the windows of a passing train.
There’s something wrong with her.
I’m mixing 7up with the vodka when Natalie calls from the bedroom. She is taking her clothes off while she putters. I think she thinks we have plans. She catches a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror and examines her backside, gives it a slap and watches the skin ripple. She turns around. She says out loud, Full frontal nudity, then skips off into the bathroom.