Light hands

I'm a thief. Plain and simple, pure klepto. It's in my blood now. I've tasted it and I crave it more and more every day.

Last week I was out running errands and my car was low on gas. I pulled into a station, parked at the pump, got out of my car and waited for the attendant. I'm not a big fan of waiting for someone else to pump my gas. I've lived in and visited many states where you are allowed to pump your own gas and it seems to be much more efficient. You hardly ever see a long line at a self-service station. I think they have a no-long-lines policy at theses establishments, either that or or they're just much more efficient. Anyway, so I'm waiting for the attendant to catch eyes with me so he knows that I need gas in my car more than anyone else that is here. There's two other people in this showdown with me. A young, professionally dressed woman with a green Chrysler and middle-aged man wearing a rather impressive sweat suit standing next to his mini-van. The man's eyes keep darting between his watch and the attendant as if the gym is going to close soon and the right people won't see him there solidifying his "in-shape" reputation. The woman is running her fingers through her hair, hoping somehow that her highlights will reflect the sunlight in the attendant's eyes or something. We're all looking at each other and then back to the attendant trying to remember which one of us actually got here first while still asserting that it was absolutely us, respectively. Me, actually. I was here first, really.

I have a dominant technique in regards to capturing the station attendant's attention. I've got this little reverse head nod, sort of inquisitive eyebrow raise thing going on. It's what works, you know. Getting that gas, that's what I'm about.

So at this particular station ( I'm not going to give the name and the reason for this will be clear in few moments ) won't let you pay with a debit card at the pump, so you have to go inside and wait for your tank to fill. Maybe they do this on purpose so you have to go in and be tempted by all of the bright colors and familiar logos on your favorite snacks and sodas and condoms or tiny tubes of toothpaste that are more than twice what you would pay at supermarket or drugstore. The longer I wait the more my mouth waters and I start to think, how long ago did I eat lunch? Mmmm Doritos. Snickers? Snapple? Hagen Daas? Nope. Much more unreasonable. I'm going way out of bounds with this decision - pepperoni stick. I know, I know, it's not even really meat. I think it's dirt and napkins soaked in corn syrup, but no mind, I'm putting it in my mouth.

What happens next is an eternity of waiting for the guy at the register to tell me that my car
is ready. And in this eternity, this is when it takes place. My moment. My chance to satiate my most carnal desire - eating shitty food and then forgetting that I did and leaving without paying for it. Yup. That's me, standing in the mini mart chinking away at this wrinkled, soggy tree branch of garlic and paprika telling myself, you'll just pay for it when he runs your card for the gas. But that doesn't happen at all. I just thumb the last little nub in my mouth and blackout.

Swipe you card.
Ok.
Enter your pin.
Yes, machine.
Do you agree to the $.45 service charge?
Yes, but f@%& you.
Do you want cash back? (Maybe to pay for that salty piece of pork ass that you just sucked down like soda slurp...)
No, thanks.

And now for my graceful exit. My get-away chariot awaits me. Here you go Mr. attendant, one stamped little piece of paper that says I'm an upstanding citizen, honest and true. Then, I get in my car, buckle my safety belt and drive off. As I'm pulling out onto the street I look into my side mirror and notice, not the attendant or the register clerk chasing me, but a sweat-suited, middle-aged man and a young, professionally dressed woman still impatiently waiting for their tanks to be filled.

Letters to the editor

 January 20^th, 2011

Dear Mom,

I couldn’t save you.

I couldn’t stop time forever.

I couldn’t give you years at a better age

Or restore your health to youthful days.

I couldn’t fight the parts of you that sought

To spite your strength and wilt your gaze.

I couldn’t take the blame.

I couldn’t find a way to make you free.

I could only hope and plead for these

So I wished for all of this in dreams

And whispered it with lips as desperate as disease.

I knelt beside your bed and wept.

And dwelled within your hanging breath.

I wiped blood spittle from your callused chin

And rubbed your feet to see you grin.

You caught me with my tears and my want and my woe. 

You acknowledged my fears by confessing your own. 

You conceded in that moment that you didn’t want to die.

You required my vigor and begged me not to cry.

You saw me come and go in the days that passed.

You never left my thoughts or wandered from my grasp.

You were the fighter and quite a beautiful pugilist,

A toast every night to your IV-ice chip-popsicle Eucharist.

You were an obelisk of grit, but a pillar of fragility,

Erected on a rock with hairline cracks in its facility.

You tipped when earth shook the fissure loose.

And left the dust and rubble for us to sinter truth.

We gather now here with your hope and your peace your and memories.

We speak and breathe and dream your energy.

We laugh and cry and dine on anecdotes that echo your voice.

We raise glass after glass flowing over with your poise.

We visit the places and points that you held dear and true.

And welcome you on the winds that give the years their youth.

October 28^th, 2011

Dear Mom,

I made my own costume this year. I still have your sewing machine and I’m not afraid of the pedal anymore. I think I’ve started to get the hang of this thing finally. Anyway, I made Super Mario costume, the one with the raccoon tail and the ears on the hat; it’s pretty silly I know, but so was the one you and I made last year. I still have that thing, it’s all covered in red wine or something, but it was the last time that you showed me how to do something creative in life. I’m pretty proud of the things you have taught me. I get compliments all of the time about what a great host I am. We had a barbeque this summer and I made so much food we had to invite my neighbors over to finish it all. That’s you through me, you know. You and dad were always the most welcoming people; giving all that you had to make everyone feel a little more comfortable.

February 15^th, 2016

Dear Mom,

I planted tulips in a small wooden box outside our kitchen window. They’re yellow with those deep red centers like the ones that I got you in Holland. They’re perennial just as you are now. I put them in the window right in front of the sink so as I cook I can watch them bloom. They will remind of you and how you always kept your kitchen spotless. I have that pizza truck now; we’re rolling right along as planned. I named it “Rocky’s”. Now we just need a trailer with some fooseball tables to pull along with it. I’m still trying to hit those sliding bank shots from the one-man. How did you ever get that down anyway?

May 6^th, 2021

Dear Mom,

Ann took her first steps today. She’s been falling for weeks now, struggling to balance on those short little legs. But just as stubborn as you, she finally worked out the movements and made it from the couch to the table and back. We’re so proud I wish you could be here to spoil her. Remember when you would go rollerblading with us even though the skates made your claves swell up and I could tell you were in pain. It took me a long time to realize the things you did to make us happy.

September 9^th, 2032

Dear Mom,

You’d be 80 today! We had a crazy summer this year, even a whole week in the hundreds, plenty of time to lie in the sun and tan all day. I’m so dark from chasing the kids around the pool. It made me think about how we used to compete by putting our forearms side by side to see who had deeper skin tone. I’m taking a drive up to Tyler’s grave this evening to say hi to both of you. I haven’t been up there in years; please forgive me.

                   

...and I can only see her eyes.

 

“If you’re going to clean me up, clean me up.”

This is what she hoarsely whispers as I attempt to wipe the foamy saliva and blackish-red liquid that boiled its way over her bottom lip to cover her entire chin again. Struggling weakly to balance the cardboard ring that gives her translucent blue plastic puke sac its form she shakes and juts her head forward so as not to mess her blankets again. This is when I notice, when I start to see her reality. This is the moment that it becomes serious. Immediately serious, the way an event demands your unlimited attention; like a splintered bone ripped through your skin, proving how white it can be as you carefully roll up your pant leg to assess the injury. The puke sac bulges at its bottom, alluding to the last hour’s efforts. Her stomach doesn’t work and hasn’t for some time. All shall entire ALL shall leave. Later I would be shown pictures of the inside of her throat. The constant weeks of vomiting has caused bleeding sores that weep even more that I and fill her stomach with darkest red soup. Her chin is speckled with red dots, superficial blood vessels rubbed raw and irritated from the paper tissue needed to clean the soup from her. Her splitting chapped lips are swollen almost as much as her abdomen, which contrast the rest of her now eerily frail frame.

All of this exists and I can only see her eyes. Appearing hollow at first glance as if they’re empty, like the medication forced them back, deep inside her to hide from everything. I think wow, she’s checking out. But I stay and study. Peering through the layers in those orbs I learn. And they tell the story of pain, but mostly confusion - the misunderstanding of her body. They tell me how she longs to eat something that is welcome inside her. They show me how scared she is. They tell me how scared to be. They relay a sense of helplessness that is so foreign to this person I’ve known every second of my being, a needing so strong that blankets her most-powerful asset: stubbornness.

Mom: “Are you going to hook up this tube again?”

Nurse: “No, the doctor’s want to just leave it pinched off for now.”

Mom: “Oh, so you just want me to be uncomfortable then?”

Nurse: Silence

At the back of those eyes she’s waiting, bored and tired, but stubbornly waiting for a better hour, minute, second, a moment when she can escape the uncomfortable light in that crowded hospital room, a moment when she can be herself again.

Numero uno.

I guess that it had to start somewhere.

Putting these words together has, for some time, been a passion of mine. I'd like to say that I just can't focus on what I want to say or more appropriately, what I want to be heard. But, when it comes down to it, I've just been lazy. Really lazy. And so, this is an effort to rid myself of those habits. Those habits which, when given time to bloom, only weed out the more eye-catching sections of my creative real estate.

I like to think of a blog in terms of property for sale. You, have your time, and you fill your time as you see fit and you are either rewarded or punished for your use of it. While this is a free posting, mainly to amuse me and allow me a way to get a few things off my chest, it's void without an audience. It's silent trees crashing to the forest floor. It's whispering secrets in space.

Unless...
...you read it.

So with this first posting I vow to be as interesting as I possibly can. I don't intend to waste anyone's time. Especially when you could be watching YouTube videos or stealing music or tending to your farmville.