We need the power of Jesus to keep us sane. One who begins writing in this way I suppose is considered religious. If I began today to write like that and continued until I died people they would say I was a believer. That is the power of words. But I’m not a believer.
He woke me up with something I couldn't discern. A mumble perhaps. Something about the night. I told Adam when I'd gathered myself that the men around the corner were good men. They would give cigarettes to any man who approached them. I'd already asked for two before falling asleep on a bench. He returned a minute later empty-handed. His puffy 49ers jacket reminded me of those I would buy from Sears with my mom as a kid and she would check the tag to see if it was down or not those were low times.
Adam said he was from DEEtroit. He had a young spirit. His face looked like the hood of an old car. One tooth stuck out his deserted mouth at all times like a tic tac. I told him I was glad it was warming up as if I’d been out there several days and turned a bit on my side. I said my old lady threw me out. Shiet, aint that a bitch, he said. He had a comforting smile. I lied about how poor I was and made my life plans sound humble. Like I expected his were. I was vague.
God befit me to wander more. I told Adam (goodnight) that we weren’t to be hopping trains or eating fruit out of the woods together and went in not the direction of home in case he followed me.
I asked a trash man at La Madeline’ for (surely he would) have a cigarette as the thundering arm crashed down above our heads, he said that no he quit thirty years ago during Vietnam. I had assumed that war made people smoke. I looked at him. He was a garbage man who talked like a poet for a brief second and smiled at me as napkins fell down around his head.
People were setting up signs for various elected offices up and down St. Charles. Figures with mallets drove crosses into the ground and stapled signs to them without looking up. There was a large circle of hip democrats setting up a tent. Cool I said, feeling like a creepy uncle, that you’re involved, doing a tango with myself, at the local level.
The republican tent for Fenn French held a sleeping black man in a chair covering his face with his hands. I looked at the creamy and red cheecked faces of the democrats then back at the cold solitary figure beside them. The sun was coming up. I saw flashes of love. I had a bit of a 24 ounce Bud Lite remaining. A girl looked at me with wide eyes. I went home and let myself inside. I watched some pornography and laid down alone in bed to sleep.
3 comments:
This is my favorite thing you've posted so far. It's nearly all "showing" and no "telling," and the showing tells so deeply: "face looked like the hood of an old car," "and smiled at me as napkins fell down around his head," "held a sleeping black man in a chair covering his face with his hands..."
There's a pertinent wander-tone throughout. I feel your sense of placed placelessness, which resonates at the end with "letting" yourself inside your own home.
(First off, your description of Adam from DEE-troit weirdly reminded me of this homeless man I met once whom we call Detroit. "Shiet, aint that a bitch, he said." I loved the picture your bit of description presented in my head.)
Otherwise, your ability to create scenes is well displayed here. As Ryan said, it contains very little telling and tons of showing, and it worked for me as well. Your action in the piece speaks as loudly as any reflection.
I like how you seem to seep in all these people's lives without actually being apart of them. You try and relate to their lives and crawl under their skin and your observations are remarkable. This seems like a story reflecting the day in the life of a stranger.
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