Today I walked for 10 minutes under a noontime sun thinking Nothing. My life flash photography; each moment.
Once I saw a toilet with this inscription around the seat:
"NO SHIT. NO PISS."
Thoughts cast to the ground like a bucket full of child's toys. The pornographic odor of too many blossoming flowers in too little space.
Later with cigarettes and wine we take turns telling dark secrets but I can't think of any. Singing along without knowing any of the words.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Atop a Mossy Rock in Unfamiliar Wilderness
Thinking quickly I write before it is too dark; even now the tip of my pen vanishes into infinity and the words appear on the page through sheer force of imagination. A cardinal on her polyester sweater, jeans hugging tiny legs like bent twigs ready to snap. The single scarlet phantom of a tree on a hillside painted dead brown. It is too dark. I follow the memory of my own profane passing back to my bicycle's hiding spot.
The moon's magical 'cause it's the sun we can look at without going blind.
The moon's magical 'cause it's the sun we can look at without going blind.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Canary and the Coal Miner
(Feature piece written for the Athens News Monday)
As we stepped off the bus the sun was at our backs; we encountered a sea of squinting eyes.
"What are they doing here?" the eyes asked silently. "Why can't they mind their own business?"
It was a valid question. I had spent the last two and a half hours pondering the answer, as myself and roughly a dozen other members of the Sierra Club rode a Greyhound from Athens to St. Clairsville, in Belmont County. Our goal: convince the EPA at a public hearing to deny the Ohio Valley Coal Company (OVCC) a permit to build a new coal slurry pond for its two mines in that area.
Some background: The two mines, Powhatan No. 6 in Belmont County and Century in Monroe County, produce 60 percent of the state's coal. They employ 1,300 workers locally and 10 times that number indirectly. If the company's permit is denied, the head of the corporation which owns the mine, Murray Energy, has stated he will close both mines.
Which explains the cold reception. But there were serious issues with the proposed expansion, I earnestly told myself. Coal slurry, a byproduct from the washing process of coal extraction, is a notoriously toxic substance and has been known to seep into groundwater or spill into local drinking water. One may recall the Buffalo Creek Disaster of 1972 in Logan County, W.Va, in which a slurry spill left 125 dead and 1,100 injured out of a population of 5,000.
The most recent spill at the OVCC mines occurred in 2008 and blackened 10 miles of Captina Creek. Before that there was one in 2005. So accidents are not a remote possibility.
The line of people waiting to speak their mind on the issue stretched out the door of the James Carnes Center and down the road. Judging from the looks we were getting, around 90 percent of them were coal miners, forced to choose between their jobs and water quality.
"Coal Miners Never Die, They Just Keep Digging Their Graves Deeper" read the backs of the shirts of the broad-shouldered men ahead of us.
"It gets colder the closer we get to the door," commented one of my companions, and I knew what she meant as we shuffled past metal detectors into the main auditorium.
Sitting near the front, I took a moment to survey the audience. Businessmen with folded legs and workers with folded arms wore similar stern expressions as we waited for the fireworks to start. I noticed one man in an expensive-looking suit staring at me with a look of exasperation.
"When will you learn?" he seemed to be asking.
Eventually four men seated themselves on the stage in front of us, two representing the Ohio EPA and two the Army Corps of Engineers. Jed Thorp of the former group was the first to take the mic. A squeaky voice asked the attendees in the back row if they could hear him.
"Passions run high on both sides of this issue," he observed. "Everybody here has a right to be heard."
After a fairly dry description of the issue, the panel heard questions from the audience, which would not be recorded as public comments. The first question regarded the 2008 spill.
"We don't have that information here tonight," Thorp weakly explained.
One person misunderstood the meeting format and took the opportunity to make a comment in defense of the mines.
"I dirty more streams fishing than these coal companies do."
"What's he fishing with?" I heard someone whisper behind me.
Lights flicked on as the sun sank beneath the horizon ominously: it was time for public comment, the reason we were all there.
For the next two hours a surprisingly diverse procession of concerns were heard.
The businessman I noticed earlier was the first to step up. Revealing himself to be John R. Forrelli, vice president of Engineering and Planning for Murray Energy, he carefully explained his company's commitment to improving the Captina's water quality, though there was "no cost-effective alternative" to the plan being debated.
The loudest response from the audience was earned by John Conway, a resident of Belmont County "for about 100 years."
"I want to point to an endangered species." He gestured dramatically toward those seated behind him. "These coal miners."
Sierra Club representative Nachy Kanfer acknowledged that coal keeps the lights on, but stressed that it wouldn't always be so. "We call on the governor to start working on clean energy jobs in coal country."
When my turn came I didn't use half of my allotted three minutes. My heart pounding in my ears, I tried to argue that miners didn't have to choose between their jobs and the environment, that the company could dispose of the slurry in safer ways. My words sounded more like pleas than promises.
Fellow OU student Stephen Swabek spoke more eloquently about the unsustainable nature of coal power. "In 25, 35 years, when it's all gone, what's going to happen here?"
Perhaps the most poignant comment was offered by a young woman in a pink tee-shirt which read "Wife of a Coal Miner."
"No one is here to say, 'if the coal mine shuts down, we're here for you.'"
By the time the last comment was heard there was a distinctly different atmosphere in the room. Tensions had eased, while the worry remained like a sore thumb. Panelists lauded the audience for their civility and attentiveness.
Col. Michael Crall of the Army Corps called it "a testament to the character of the citizens of Belmont County." The miner's slogan came to mind.
Looking up at a clear starry sky as we filed out of the Center, the words that resounded in my ears more than any other were those offered by an elderly miner, Christoper Rogers, near the hearing's close:
Whatever you decide, he said, "Be smart. Be smart and do it right."
As we stepped off the bus the sun was at our backs; we encountered a sea of squinting eyes.
"What are they doing here?" the eyes asked silently. "Why can't they mind their own business?"
It was a valid question. I had spent the last two and a half hours pondering the answer, as myself and roughly a dozen other members of the Sierra Club rode a Greyhound from Athens to St. Clairsville, in Belmont County. Our goal: convince the EPA at a public hearing to deny the Ohio Valley Coal Company (OVCC) a permit to build a new coal slurry pond for its two mines in that area.
Some background: The two mines, Powhatan No. 6 in Belmont County and Century in Monroe County, produce 60 percent of the state's coal. They employ 1,300 workers locally and 10 times that number indirectly. If the company's permit is denied, the head of the corporation which owns the mine, Murray Energy, has stated he will close both mines.
Which explains the cold reception. But there were serious issues with the proposed expansion, I earnestly told myself. Coal slurry, a byproduct from the washing process of coal extraction, is a notoriously toxic substance and has been known to seep into groundwater or spill into local drinking water. One may recall the Buffalo Creek Disaster of 1972 in Logan County, W.Va, in which a slurry spill left 125 dead and 1,100 injured out of a population of 5,000.
The most recent spill at the OVCC mines occurred in 2008 and blackened 10 miles of Captina Creek. Before that there was one in 2005. So accidents are not a remote possibility.
The line of people waiting to speak their mind on the issue stretched out the door of the James Carnes Center and down the road. Judging from the looks we were getting, around 90 percent of them were coal miners, forced to choose between their jobs and water quality.
"Coal Miners Never Die, They Just Keep Digging Their Graves Deeper" read the backs of the shirts of the broad-shouldered men ahead of us.
"It gets colder the closer we get to the door," commented one of my companions, and I knew what she meant as we shuffled past metal detectors into the main auditorium.
Sitting near the front, I took a moment to survey the audience. Businessmen with folded legs and workers with folded arms wore similar stern expressions as we waited for the fireworks to start. I noticed one man in an expensive-looking suit staring at me with a look of exasperation.
"When will you learn?" he seemed to be asking.
Eventually four men seated themselves on the stage in front of us, two representing the Ohio EPA and two the Army Corps of Engineers. Jed Thorp of the former group was the first to take the mic. A squeaky voice asked the attendees in the back row if they could hear him.
"Passions run high on both sides of this issue," he observed. "Everybody here has a right to be heard."
After a fairly dry description of the issue, the panel heard questions from the audience, which would not be recorded as public comments. The first question regarded the 2008 spill.
"We don't have that information here tonight," Thorp weakly explained.
One person misunderstood the meeting format and took the opportunity to make a comment in defense of the mines.
"I dirty more streams fishing than these coal companies do."
"What's he fishing with?" I heard someone whisper behind me.
Lights flicked on as the sun sank beneath the horizon ominously: it was time for public comment, the reason we were all there.
For the next two hours a surprisingly diverse procession of concerns were heard.
The businessman I noticed earlier was the first to step up. Revealing himself to be John R. Forrelli, vice president of Engineering and Planning for Murray Energy, he carefully explained his company's commitment to improving the Captina's water quality, though there was "no cost-effective alternative" to the plan being debated.
The loudest response from the audience was earned by John Conway, a resident of Belmont County "for about 100 years."
"I want to point to an endangered species." He gestured dramatically toward those seated behind him. "These coal miners."
Sierra Club representative Nachy Kanfer acknowledged that coal keeps the lights on, but stressed that it wouldn't always be so. "We call on the governor to start working on clean energy jobs in coal country."
When my turn came I didn't use half of my allotted three minutes. My heart pounding in my ears, I tried to argue that miners didn't have to choose between their jobs and the environment, that the company could dispose of the slurry in safer ways. My words sounded more like pleas than promises.
Fellow OU student Stephen Swabek spoke more eloquently about the unsustainable nature of coal power. "In 25, 35 years, when it's all gone, what's going to happen here?"
Perhaps the most poignant comment was offered by a young woman in a pink tee-shirt which read "Wife of a Coal Miner."
"No one is here to say, 'if the coal mine shuts down, we're here for you.'"
By the time the last comment was heard there was a distinctly different atmosphere in the room. Tensions had eased, while the worry remained like a sore thumb. Panelists lauded the audience for their civility and attentiveness.
Col. Michael Crall of the Army Corps called it "a testament to the character of the citizens of Belmont County." The miner's slogan came to mind.
Looking up at a clear starry sky as we filed out of the Center, the words that resounded in my ears more than any other were those offered by an elderly miner, Christoper Rogers, near the hearing's close:
Whatever you decide, he said, "Be smart. Be smart and do it right."
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Patty Revere Pt. 7
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Alex barely makes it to the door handle. The tall man is on him with the righteous zeal of someone whose privileges are endangered.
Patty screams for no reason she can articulate.
A cheetah and a man do battle before her. The man is armed with technology but the cheetah is wild: scratching, biting, hissing.
The man prevails. Patty remains at her door, wailing like a kettle.
Alex spits and cries from the chemicals in his eyes. The tall man rises to his feet, his quarry subdued and restrained. He lingers there, his legs astride the beast.
"Ma'am, I'm going to ask you to calm down. Please calm down ma'am."
Patty will not calm down. She watches the tall man standing over her cat, sees the scratches on his arms and face from the recent struggle. Alex is lying on his side sobbing, pulling his knees towards his chin with his hands still cuffed behind his back.
Patty can not hear the tall man because she is no longer standing on her front porch. She is standing in the woods with her father. At her father's feet is a bleeding doe, in his hands a rifle. The doe lies on its back in a perfectly inert state, its haunches splayed open frankly, the tendons in its legs having lost their ability to constrict.
Alex is lifted rudely to his feet. Blinded, he's led to the special car. The tall man pushes his head down.
With a large knife Jay begins to slash the doe near its hind legs. Sticking his fingers into the gashes he tugs and like an onion the beast loses its skin. Underneath it is red and purple. Patty screams and she will not calm down. Dead leaves crumble under her boots as she turns and runs. Jay calls after her and she hears him but she will not respond.
The tall man is about to turn to tell Patty that if she doesn't calm down, he'll have to put her in his car too. He doesn't get the chance. The impact in his lower back makes his arms flail out at his sides and his knees buckle. As he falls his forehead slams into the car in the same spot where Alex's would have if he hadn't pushed it down.
Alex makes a yipping noise more reminiscent of a hyena than a cat. Blinking, he rolls out of the special car and joins the rag doll on the ground. Patty has stopped screaming, her massive chest heaving. She is slowly coming out of the woods.
After frantically fidgeting with the keys attached to the tall man's shiny belt, Alex rises to his feet, his hands unbound. He runs to the front of the car and jumps in, gesturing wildly to his friend Patty, who, after hesitating for only a moment, steps over the tall man and into the passenger's seat.
The inside of the car is clean and smells like nothing. Alex smiles at Patty and brings the car humming to life. He leans over to press a button in the center console. Patty gasps and then giggles as the car lights up and plays a song. Alex drums his fingers on the steering wheel and squints into the sun.
END
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Alex barely makes it to the door handle. The tall man is on him with the righteous zeal of someone whose privileges are endangered.
Patty screams for no reason she can articulate.
A cheetah and a man do battle before her. The man is armed with technology but the cheetah is wild: scratching, biting, hissing.
The man prevails. Patty remains at her door, wailing like a kettle.
Alex spits and cries from the chemicals in his eyes. The tall man rises to his feet, his quarry subdued and restrained. He lingers there, his legs astride the beast.
"Ma'am, I'm going to ask you to calm down. Please calm down ma'am."
Patty will not calm down. She watches the tall man standing over her cat, sees the scratches on his arms and face from the recent struggle. Alex is lying on his side sobbing, pulling his knees towards his chin with his hands still cuffed behind his back.
Patty can not hear the tall man because she is no longer standing on her front porch. She is standing in the woods with her father. At her father's feet is a bleeding doe, in his hands a rifle. The doe lies on its back in a perfectly inert state, its haunches splayed open frankly, the tendons in its legs having lost their ability to constrict.
Alex is lifted rudely to his feet. Blinded, he's led to the special car. The tall man pushes his head down.
With a large knife Jay begins to slash the doe near its hind legs. Sticking his fingers into the gashes he tugs and like an onion the beast loses its skin. Underneath it is red and purple. Patty screams and she will not calm down. Dead leaves crumble under her boots as she turns and runs. Jay calls after her and she hears him but she will not respond.
The tall man is about to turn to tell Patty that if she doesn't calm down, he'll have to put her in his car too. He doesn't get the chance. The impact in his lower back makes his arms flail out at his sides and his knees buckle. As he falls his forehead slams into the car in the same spot where Alex's would have if he hadn't pushed it down.
Alex makes a yipping noise more reminiscent of a hyena than a cat. Blinking, he rolls out of the special car and joins the rag doll on the ground. Patty has stopped screaming, her massive chest heaving. She is slowly coming out of the woods.
After frantically fidgeting with the keys attached to the tall man's shiny belt, Alex rises to his feet, his hands unbound. He runs to the front of the car and jumps in, gesturing wildly to his friend Patty, who, after hesitating for only a moment, steps over the tall man and into the passenger's seat.
The inside of the car is clean and smells like nothing. Alex smiles at Patty and brings the car humming to life. He leans over to press a button in the center console. Patty gasps and then giggles as the car lights up and plays a song. Alex drums his fingers on the steering wheel and squints into the sun.
END
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Patty Revere Pt. 6
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
A tall man with a shiny belt is driving a car. The car is painted in special colors and gives him special powers. The radio is playing. It's a commercial for a hardware store.
"Young's Hardware, where you can find just what you'd expect to find at a hardware store."
The tall man's fingers drum on the steering wheel. Signaling, he turns left and squints into the sun.
He likes this commercial. He also likes the hardware store. He's met the owner of the hardware store, and he likes him.
The tall man drives his special car through the town all day, and he looks at the houses and the people who live in them and he thinks, "This is alright."
The tall man is very dangerous.
A crackling noise announces the arrival of a coded message on his radio. He interprets the message and presses a button on the center console. Incredible lights and a very loud noise erupt from the special car as it accelerates through traffic.
Moments later, the shiny car rolls into an empty space in front of Patty Revere's squat aluminum-sided house. The sunlight reflects off its hood fiercely, making it glow like a tanning bed.
The tall man approaches the yellow door. He knocks.
Then again.
"Pittsburgh police! Open up!"
The paint on the door is fading. The tall man waits.
The noise of latches coming undone is the same noise vermin make when they've infiltrated the walls of a house, scurrying and scratching. The door opens and reveals Patty looming tall in her blue nightshirt.
"Ma'am we've had calls about a man trying to force entry into your neighbors' house. White, five foot nine, blond hair. A cut on his forehead."
He ended the sentence by bending the pitch of his voice upward, as if he were asking a question. But it wasn't a question. Patty was confused.
"Nothing to worry about, we're acquainted with the perp, just a local pill-popper. Someone thought they saw him on your front doorstep."
Patty continues to stare implacably at the tall man. His words are complete nonsense to her. But she lets him prattle on because she's struck by the way his clothes are so clean and crisp. His belt is very shiny in the noontime sun.
A cheetah is pressed against the aluminum siding of Patty's home. His heart pounds blood through his head like someone was boxing his ears. He is staring at the special car.
Alex sees himself in the car, feels his foot against the gas pedal. He imagines drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and squinting into the sun. His vehicle rolling down wide suburban thoroughfares and potholed city streets. Through the window he sees the citizens of Pittsburgh wave at him and smile. They wave out of respect and smile because they admire him.
Alex waves back and as he does he can feel the starched epaulet of his shirt rub against his shoulder. Looking down he sees he is wearing the uniform of the tall man, shiny belt and all.
He presses a button on the center console and the car becomes a howling banshee, flashing its multicolored lights like a toy. Other cars submissively drop out of view as he accelerates onward, faster, faster, exploding fuel in his heart and a stampede in his gas tank.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
A tall man with a shiny belt is driving a car. The car is painted in special colors and gives him special powers. The radio is playing. It's a commercial for a hardware store.
"Young's Hardware, where you can find just what you'd expect to find at a hardware store."
The tall man's fingers drum on the steering wheel. Signaling, he turns left and squints into the sun.
He likes this commercial. He also likes the hardware store. He's met the owner of the hardware store, and he likes him.
The tall man drives his special car through the town all day, and he looks at the houses and the people who live in them and he thinks, "This is alright."
The tall man is very dangerous.
A crackling noise announces the arrival of a coded message on his radio. He interprets the message and presses a button on the center console. Incredible lights and a very loud noise erupt from the special car as it accelerates through traffic.
Moments later, the shiny car rolls into an empty space in front of Patty Revere's squat aluminum-sided house. The sunlight reflects off its hood fiercely, making it glow like a tanning bed.
The tall man approaches the yellow door. He knocks.
Then again.
"Pittsburgh police! Open up!"
The paint on the door is fading. The tall man waits.
The noise of latches coming undone is the same noise vermin make when they've infiltrated the walls of a house, scurrying and scratching. The door opens and reveals Patty looming tall in her blue nightshirt.
"Ma'am we've had calls about a man trying to force entry into your neighbors' house. White, five foot nine, blond hair. A cut on his forehead."
He ended the sentence by bending the pitch of his voice upward, as if he were asking a question. But it wasn't a question. Patty was confused.
"Nothing to worry about, we're acquainted with the perp, just a local pill-popper. Someone thought they saw him on your front doorstep."
Patty continues to stare implacably at the tall man. His words are complete nonsense to her. But she lets him prattle on because she's struck by the way his clothes are so clean and crisp. His belt is very shiny in the noontime sun.
A cheetah is pressed against the aluminum siding of Patty's home. His heart pounds blood through his head like someone was boxing his ears. He is staring at the special car.
Alex sees himself in the car, feels his foot against the gas pedal. He imagines drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and squinting into the sun. His vehicle rolling down wide suburban thoroughfares and potholed city streets. Through the window he sees the citizens of Pittsburgh wave at him and smile. They wave out of respect and smile because they admire him.
Alex waves back and as he does he can feel the starched epaulet of his shirt rub against his shoulder. Looking down he sees he is wearing the uniform of the tall man, shiny belt and all.
He presses a button on the center console and the car becomes a howling banshee, flashing its multicolored lights like a toy. Other cars submissively drop out of view as he accelerates onward, faster, faster, exploding fuel in his heart and a stampede in his gas tank.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Blue Skies Ahead
On Tuesday afternoon I climbed onto my roof and looked at the ivory sky and thought, "White is the worst color a sky could have. Even grey is better than white because it has shade, character. White is the absence of character. It's a heedless halogen light fixture over the world that lays bare all the flaws, all the flat listlessness. I miss the blue sky."
It's not until Friday evening with 200 miles of highway under my wheels and 300 more until I reach Chicago that I get to see it. I-70 curves west towards the coming night, and a timid Sun casts furtive glances at me from behind a veil made of violet-orange clouds. The license plate on the car ahead of me reads, "CUBS GO."
Lonely days are gone, I'm'a going home. Baby just wrote me a letter.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Dangerous Lifestyles
(Sorry for the long post. A short story.)
Lawrence stoically waits out a frigid gust, staring east down Granville Avenue towards the lake. He shifts his weight and feels the foot-warmer packets in his boots squish between his toes and he's reminded of the way the mud in the delta of the Mekong felt between his toes as he stood watch that night.
His company, the 83rd Airborne Division, "The Hirsute Eagles," had made camp under the jungle canopy and it was up to him, First Sergeant Lawrence, to watch for Charlie as they slept. A crunching sound in the dark; there it is again. VC boot? Or just the sound of some other poor creature getting his in this god-forsaken wilderness? A squawk and the noise of futilely flapping wings answers Lawrence's question. Suddenly, to his right, headlights!
Headlights? Lawrence is close enough to the oncoming Xterra to read the lips of its irate driver ("Motherfucker get out the street!") before he jumps out of the way. Picking himself up, he does his best to ignore the blaring car horns, the disparaging gazes, the tsk-tsks and head-shakes. Like a soldier at attention, he stands on the white painted dash line between two lanes of heedless westward Chicago traffic, and holds his cardboard in front of him."Vietnam Vet PLEASE HELP God bless you" reads his signal flare made out in Sharpie.
He hopes and prays for an airlift. Any second now a helo will emerge from that murky horizon over Lake Michigan: the cascading shades of blue where water meets sky will part like a theater curtain and Lieutenant Gumble will appear, grinning that stupid Gumble grin of his and riding that bird for all she's worth to come rescue his comrade-in-arms. Lawrence can see the eagle painted on the side of it, the symbol of the 83rd Airborne, a diving hirsute eagle: its proud beak pointing towards the earth, manly Robert Redford-like auburn hair flowing in the wind.
Traffic changes and Lawrence pivots. His back to the lake, he surveys the perimeter. West-southwest is the CVS where he buys liquor and shoplifts foot-warmer packets. West-northwest, the picture framing shop Lawrence has never had occasion to enter. Someone is crossing the street over there, but they don't have the light.
Upon closer examination, Lawrence realizes they aren't actually crossing at all. A dark figure, bundled in work wear and a black beanie, stands in the intersection of Broadway and Granville during evening rush hour, in the middle of January. Who else occupies this no-man's land? Who would risk life and limb so recklessly, but another soul with nothing left to lose?
The light turns and with the same mechanical fluidity so does Lawrence. His soldier's training doesn't allow him to peek at the mysterious person though it's all he can think of. As soon as the ranks of headlights shining in his face begin to slow he spins around, and finds himself almost face to face with a beautiful young woman.
She pulls up the collar on her coat and walks faster through the crosswalk, allowing Lawrence to see the short, plump lady in hunter camo behind her, gathering her surveyor's equipment and walking in his direction. Pretty Woman, walk my way, thinks Lawrence, and he forgets to lower his sign as she approaches with a rosy-cheeked smile on her face and matronly crow's feet around her eyes.
"Helluva cold one, ain't it?" she asks flirtatiously.
Lawrence's chapped lips crack in several places as he returns her schoolgirl grin.
"No worse than it's been," says a voice scorched by cheap cigarettes and lonely nights. "Don't you have kind of a dangerous job?" he asks, nodding at her bag full of calibrating devices.
"Someone's got to do it," she laughs, and reaching into her pocket, procures 55 cents in nickels, dimes and pennies. As she hands it to Lawrence, their fingers linger, wool momentarily caressing wool.
"Hey, uh, listen," says Lawrence lamely. Pretty Woman bats her eyelashes innocently.
"It is getting cold out here. How about we get some coffee at the Dunkin' down the street?"
Pretty Woman glances away, looks at her toes.
Thinking quickly, "Or Beam is seven bucks a handle at that CVS."
"Now you're speaking my language, stranger," says Pretty Woman with a twang of Appalachia in her voice.
Now Lawrence watches dawn start to creep across the sky as the two lounge underneath a dewy sleeping bag in the alley behind CVS, basking in the lingering warmth of liquor and each others' passion. He can tell by her breathing that his companion is awake also, only keeping her eyes closed to shut out the harsh rays.
"There's something I'd like to tell you, just so's were on the same page here."
"Mrhrm?"
"I've never been to Vietnam. I never even served in the military."
Pretty Woman didn't open her eyes, just pushed her face into Lawrence's ribs to stifle her giggling.
"Are you making fun of me?"
Still giggling, she only points to the black duffel bag at her feet. Puzzled, Lawrence reaches for it and pulls open the zipper. Then he starts to giggle as well.
A tough job but someone's got to do it. The surveyor's equipment that he thought he had seen, but of course it was dark and he only assumed that was her job. Empty aluminum cans, a greasy brush with most of its tines missing, broken Fisher-Price toys and junk food wrappers spill out of her bag.
Lawrence lays back, content in his lover's arms, and closes his eyes. There they remain as the morning rush crescendos around them, two soldiers making camp in no-man's land.
Lawrence stoically waits out a frigid gust, staring east down Granville Avenue towards the lake. He shifts his weight and feels the foot-warmer packets in his boots squish between his toes and he's reminded of the way the mud in the delta of the Mekong felt between his toes as he stood watch that night.
His company, the 83rd Airborne Division, "The Hirsute Eagles," had made camp under the jungle canopy and it was up to him, First Sergeant Lawrence, to watch for Charlie as they slept. A crunching sound in the dark; there it is again. VC boot? Or just the sound of some other poor creature getting his in this god-forsaken wilderness? A squawk and the noise of futilely flapping wings answers Lawrence's question. Suddenly, to his right, headlights!
Headlights? Lawrence is close enough to the oncoming Xterra to read the lips of its irate driver ("Motherfucker get out the street!") before he jumps out of the way. Picking himself up, he does his best to ignore the blaring car horns, the disparaging gazes, the tsk-tsks and head-shakes. Like a soldier at attention, he stands on the white painted dash line between two lanes of heedless westward Chicago traffic, and holds his cardboard in front of him."Vietnam Vet PLEASE HELP God bless you" reads his signal flare made out in Sharpie.
He hopes and prays for an airlift. Any second now a helo will emerge from that murky horizon over Lake Michigan: the cascading shades of blue where water meets sky will part like a theater curtain and Lieutenant Gumble will appear, grinning that stupid Gumble grin of his and riding that bird for all she's worth to come rescue his comrade-in-arms. Lawrence can see the eagle painted on the side of it, the symbol of the 83rd Airborne, a diving hirsute eagle: its proud beak pointing towards the earth, manly Robert Redford-like auburn hair flowing in the wind.
Traffic changes and Lawrence pivots. His back to the lake, he surveys the perimeter. West-southwest is the CVS where he buys liquor and shoplifts foot-warmer packets. West-northwest, the picture framing shop Lawrence has never had occasion to enter. Someone is crossing the street over there, but they don't have the light.
Upon closer examination, Lawrence realizes they aren't actually crossing at all. A dark figure, bundled in work wear and a black beanie, stands in the intersection of Broadway and Granville during evening rush hour, in the middle of January. Who else occupies this no-man's land? Who would risk life and limb so recklessly, but another soul with nothing left to lose?
The light turns and with the same mechanical fluidity so does Lawrence. His soldier's training doesn't allow him to peek at the mysterious person though it's all he can think of. As soon as the ranks of headlights shining in his face begin to slow he spins around, and finds himself almost face to face with a beautiful young woman.
She pulls up the collar on her coat and walks faster through the crosswalk, allowing Lawrence to see the short, plump lady in hunter camo behind her, gathering her surveyor's equipment and walking in his direction. Pretty Woman, walk my way, thinks Lawrence, and he forgets to lower his sign as she approaches with a rosy-cheeked smile on her face and matronly crow's feet around her eyes.
"Helluva cold one, ain't it?" she asks flirtatiously.
Lawrence's chapped lips crack in several places as he returns her schoolgirl grin.
"No worse than it's been," says a voice scorched by cheap cigarettes and lonely nights. "Don't you have kind of a dangerous job?" he asks, nodding at her bag full of calibrating devices.
"Someone's got to do it," she laughs, and reaching into her pocket, procures 55 cents in nickels, dimes and pennies. As she hands it to Lawrence, their fingers linger, wool momentarily caressing wool.
"Hey, uh, listen," says Lawrence lamely. Pretty Woman bats her eyelashes innocently.
"It is getting cold out here. How about we get some coffee at the Dunkin' down the street?"
Pretty Woman glances away, looks at her toes.
Thinking quickly, "Or Beam is seven bucks a handle at that CVS."
"Now you're speaking my language, stranger," says Pretty Woman with a twang of Appalachia in her voice.
Now Lawrence watches dawn start to creep across the sky as the two lounge underneath a dewy sleeping bag in the alley behind CVS, basking in the lingering warmth of liquor and each others' passion. He can tell by her breathing that his companion is awake also, only keeping her eyes closed to shut out the harsh rays.
"There's something I'd like to tell you, just so's were on the same page here."
"Mrhrm?"
"I've never been to Vietnam. I never even served in the military."
Pretty Woman didn't open her eyes, just pushed her face into Lawrence's ribs to stifle her giggling.
"Are you making fun of me?"
Still giggling, she only points to the black duffel bag at her feet. Puzzled, Lawrence reaches for it and pulls open the zipper. Then he starts to giggle as well.
A tough job but someone's got to do it. The surveyor's equipment that he thought he had seen, but of course it was dark and he only assumed that was her job. Empty aluminum cans, a greasy brush with most of its tines missing, broken Fisher-Price toys and junk food wrappers spill out of her bag.
Lawrence lays back, content in his lover's arms, and closes his eyes. There they remain as the morning rush crescendos around them, two soldiers making camp in no-man's land.
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