Crushed--Part I

When I saw Jake that morning, I didn’t know whether to speak or not.  How long had it been?  Since I’d seen him?  Ten?  Twelve years?  He wasn’t facing me, but what if he heard me?  They say when you lose one of your senses, all the others improve.  Pitch in to make up for the loss.

            I found out he was sick when I saw his name on a jar at the Exxon station at the bottom of the hill—Jake Wilhelm Medical Fund.

            I pointed to his picture.  “What happened to him?”  I asked the cashier. “To Jake?”

            The woman touched the jar lid tenderly.  Outlined his picture with her fuschia fingernail.  Sighed.

            “Poor sweet man,” she said.  “The big C.  Hit him like a tractor trailer.  But he’s a fighter.  He may be blind now, but he’s not dead.  He’ll beat it.  I just know he will.”

            I pushed a five into the jar.  That was ages ago. 

I used to walk past his house every now and then.  Whenever I got the notion I should start exercising again.  I’d raise my hand toward his house and whisper a prayer.

            “Heal him, Lord.  And give him strength.  Jenny too.  Please?”

            After a few years I started to wonder if maybe he died.  I should Google his name. See what comes up.  I never did.

            Then I saw Jenny at the grocery store.  In the produce section.  We stood right next to each other, picking out organic bananas.  She chuckled when I removed the adhesive strip and split an eight bunch in half.

            “I only need four,” I said.

            She nodded.  “I do the same thing,” she said.  “Otherwise they get all brown and spotty and—“

            “And then you have to bake banana bread.”

            “Not that banana bread’s bad.”

            I shook my head.  “I love banana bread.  I put coconut and chocolate chips in mine.”

            Her mouth o’d at the thought.

            I put the bananas in my cart and turned back to her.  “Jenny?”

            She pivoted in front of the green beans.

            “Do you remember me?  From our kids’ preschool?”

            She squinted.  “It’s Dana, right?”

            I nudged my cart closer to hers.  “Yeah.  How’s Jake?”

            Her right eye crinkled.  Her breath sucked in through her nose and sissed out slowly through her teeth.

            “Oh . . .  He’s hanging in there.  He’s with his best friend from college right now.  In Ohio.  I--  I needed a break.  They’re having a great time.”

            I smiled.  “That’s . . . I’m glad to hear . . . That he’s—“

            She nodded and reached into her cart.  Propped her fallen pineapple in the corner so it wouldn’t crash again. 

            I backtracked for raspberries.  Meant to tell her goodbye but when I got back to my cart, she was gone.  Up near the dairy case.

I spoke from the curb.  “Howdy, Jake.”  I considered telling him the top of his head was getting pink.  I didn’t. 

            He turned toward my voice.  “Say something else, but not your name.”

            I wrapped my dog’s leash around my wrist a few times.  Stepped into his yard.

            “I’ve always loved your house,” I said.  “My grandmother had a sleeping porch like—“

            “Dana.  Dana Martinelli.  From Kevin’s pre-school, right?”

            I tilted my head.  “Wow.  You’re good.”

            He swung his arm out to the right.  It brushed the camp chair beside his.  His hand searched for, then patted the armrest.

            “Sit.  Sit.”

            “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m walking my dog.”

            “What’s her name?”

            “Millie.”

            Jake snapped his fingers.  Whistled.  “Here, girl.”

            “Actually, she’s deaf,” I said.  “And old.  She’s fourteen.”

            “Drop her lead,” Jake said.

            I let go.  He kept snapping.  And whistling.  The sound was shrill.  Millie cocked her head.  Moved toward him.  Her nose brushed his hand and he found her ears.  “So soft.”

            “Yeah,” I said.  “I started walking her three times a day, back in March.  When her sister died.”

            Jake cradled Millie’s muzzle in his hands.  Thumbed her cheeks.  “Was she sad?  After her sister died?”

            I waited to see if my eyes would burn.  They didn’t.  “For the longest time, I didn’t tell her.  Wouldn’t let anyone say her sister’s name.  Finally I told her and she didn’t budge or flinch at all.”

            Jake nodded.  “’Cause she’s deaf.”

            “Exactly,” I said.  “Now she’s bonded to me. Has to be right beside me or else she's Moaning Myrtle.”

            Jake looked up at me.  In my direction, at least.  He’s so golden. And those eyes--  I can stare all I want and he'll never know.

            “You sitting yet?” he said. 
            I lowered into the chair.  Millie dropped to the ground between us.  Crossed her front paws in that lady-like way that always makes me smile.

            “So.  How’ve you been?”

            I twisted my hair up in a bun and leaned back to secure it against the chair. 
            “Oh, busy.  You know how it goes.”

            “Used to.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he said.  He touched his head.  Gingerly.

            “It’s burning,” I said.

            “Thought so.”  He pulled a canvas bag out from under his chair.  Rooted in it. Produced a tube of sunscreen.  Took the lid off. Dabbed some on his head.  He missed a spot.  A blob of white.  I made fists.  To keep from reaching out.  To rub it in.

            We were quiet there for a few minutes.  I tried to decide if it was comfortable or not.
            “So Jenny tells me you write,"  he said.  "She saw you read at the library.”

             I nodded.  “Yep.  Last fall,” I said.  “She was there?”

            “Yeah.  She said you’re good.”

            I wrinkled my nose and grinned.  “Aw.”

            He clasped his hands behind his head.  Arched his back.  Relaxed.

            “I’ve always loved being read to.”

            I leaned forward and plucked a blade of grass.  “Me too,” I said.  “I reckon most people do.”

            “I wonder . . . “

            I waited a minute.  “Yeah?”  I said, but I knew, thought I did anyway, what he’d say.

            “I wonder if you might . . .  read to me?” His voice rose on me.

            I twirled the grass with my thumb and middle finger.  Bingo. 

            “You don’t have to,” he said.  “If you’re—“

            “No,” I said.  “I can.  I will.  I like reading aloud almost as much as I like to write.”

            He smiled.  At the house, not me.  “Tomorrow?  Same time?”

            I glanced at my watch and stood.  One thirty.  “Okay.  I’ll come tomorrow.  With a story.”

*Saving Booger Hole*

In college I knew this guy named Francis.  Sometimes I called him the Gentle Giant but that all stopped the day I found out he was gonna feed a cute little mouse to a mean old tarantula.

            “No how, no way,” I said.  “Not on my watch.”   

I'm not sure why Frank got a tarantula.  It's not like you can cuddle one or anything.  Frank named it Legs, 'cause he liked ZZ Top.    The mouse was a BOGO item--buy a tarantula, get its first meal free.
            I was walking through the common room on my dorm floor when I heard the announcement. 

            "Frank's gonna feed a mouse to his tarantula.  Who wants to--"
            That's all I heard.  I left a trail of my econ textbook, a spiral notebook, two Bic pens, my gloves, and a hoodie in the hall.  I flung open the door to Frank's room.  He lowered the beer bottle that was en route to his lips.  One corner of his mouth went up.  He didn't say it, but it seemed he was expecting me.
            I put my hands on my hips and glared at him and his red-headed roommate. "Where's the mouse?"
            The guys looked at each other, then back at me.  Frank used his beer bottle to point to the other side of the room.  I walked over and sat at his desk.  Put my hands on the ends of the cardboard pet box.  A half-dozen fiber optic-looking whiskers stuck out of the air holes.  I touched them.  They retracted.  After a minute, a little eraser pink nose poked out, all quivery. 
            "That does it,"  I said.
            I picked up the mouse house and held it close to my heart.  Walked back to the red head's side of the room. 
            "How much?"
            Frank squinted.  "How much what?"
            "How much for the mouse?"
            Frank shrugged.  "I don't know," he said.  "That probably would’ve fed Legs for a good month."
            "Crickets 'til the end of the year," I said.
            Frank shook his head.  "What?"
            "I'll buy your stupid spider a bag of crickets every week 'til the end of the year in exchange for this little guy."  I tapped the top of the box.
            When he didn't answer, I braced the pet container on my hip with one hand and held out my other. 

            "Deal?"
            Frank looked at the ceiling a minute, then stuck his hand out.  "Deal." 

            He took his time letting my hand go.

The next day, Frank and I rode the elevator to the ninth floor after lunch.
            "You want a lift to the pet store?" he said, before he turned left and I went right off the elevator.
            I looked up at him and wrinkled my nose.  "What for?"
            "You know.  Mouse food?  Crickets?"

            "Oh.  Yeah.  I guess I do.  Let me get some cash."
            My mad money from Dad was running low so I bought Booger Hole a glass turtle bowl instead of a fancy Habitrail.  I didn't buy him any food.  I'd just bring him scraps up from the dining hall.  I found a little blue dish for him to drink water out of 'cause I couldn't figure out how to attach a water bottle to the turtle bowl.

            Frank waited for me by the register, hands deep in his Wrangler pockets.  “All set?”

            I grinned.  “Yep.”

I named my  mouse Booger Hole 'cause one of my brothers had told me about a bluegrass band called Booger Hole Revival.  When you revive something, isn't it like snatching it from the jaws of death?  Like Jesus did Lazarus?
            Booger Hole was a silky, charcoal-colored mouse, the size of my thumb.  I could tell he was a boy 'cause--  Well, I could tell.  Even though he was super cute, Booger Hole turned out to be a pain in my butt.  He was forever peeing in my sweatshirt pockets and escaping his turtle bowl.  He didn't seem to realize or appreciate what I'd done for him--the way I'd purchased his redemption and all.  I loved him anyway.
            Booger figured out how to come and go early on.  Every morning he was inside his bowl, but there were always chocolate jimmy-looking mouse presents all over my desk.  I started putting a textbook on top of his bowl with a sliver of a gap for him to get air.  Each of my school books wound up with a crescent moon-shaped hole on the side opposite the spine.  I didn't get cash back for used books that semester. 

On about our fourth trip to the pet store, Frank turned to me at the stoplight right before the Mileground. 
            He looked at my knees instead of my face.  "Legs was scared of Booger." 
            I looked over at him and huffed.  "Are you serious?"
            Frank bent forward to see if the light had changed. 

            "Yeah.  I put Booger in with him and he ran to the other side of the tank."
            I didn't say anything.
            Frank cleared his throat.  "You don't have to keep buying crickets.  If you don't want to."
            I looked out my window and shook my head.  "No.  A deal's a deal."

And then I killed him--Booger Hole.  School was out for summer so Booger Hole and I went home to Huntington.
            One night I had one too many at the Varsity Club and I made a bad choice at two in the morning.  After I brushed my teeth, I got Booger out to play on my bed.  I passed out and when I woke up, I felt like the Princess and the Pea.  What is that lump under me?  It was Booger Hole, dead, but still warm. 
            I held him in my hand and sobbed.  Tried to wash my guilt away with tears.  I stroked his little body with my pointer finger.  All his important stuff was smooshed to one side.  Like when the loaf of bread gets crushed by the gallon of milk in your grocery bag.

I never got around to telling Frank I killed Booger Hole.  If I did, I’d have to face the fact that I’m a giant as sure as he is, only not as gentle.  Not by a long shot.

Ripley . . . Believe It or Not

I arrived at Ripley a hummingbird on acid.  I departed a ghost of a girl.

Three gals packed into a red scoot-about car.  Each with more luggage than the last.  Enough snacks for a nation.  Beverages too.  Brunette, blonde, and flame-colored tresses swung.  Blended.  Connected.  A first date really.  E Harmony without a man.  W Harmony. Words.  Women.  A little bit a wildness.

            Destination?  Ripley.  Believe it or not.  Write Here.  Write Now.  A word summit.  An artesian uprising of literary talent.  Education, entertainment, and then some.  Classrooms filled with folks painting pages with phrases and flourishes.  New.  Experienced. Frail.  Vital.  Trembling with power.  Quaking with fear.

            And me?  For three days I poured myself out, a living sacrifice, like Paul in Romans.  I gave all I had to the cause.  To the moment.  Opened my pores to gulp every item in.  A breath.  A word.  A note.  A memory.

            ~~~~~~~

A giant of a man with a stick he will not always need, fairly roared.  I straightened in my seat, dazzled.  I admired how he twisted and almost shouted.  No notes.  Just a flow.  A rhythmic almost rap.

            A gentle and generous fairy spirit with waist length, mist-like locks simultaneously cantored and spellbound us.

            A chaos of comedy, confusion, and impulses included and amused me.   A “this is where and what I was meant to be and do” feeling gripped me with its  twitching,  velvet gloves.

            And Lord help us.  That was just the prologue.

~~~~~~~       

Not everyone knew it, but the wise ones did.  A legend was among us.  Witty, famous, handsome, infamous.  Brilliant.  Let us not forget brilliant.  Man and woman alike leaned forward, palms exposed.  To catch every single nuance.  A sonorous voice accompanied by six-stringed passion.  In the exact same key.  

            And later, if by chance the man who has lived life so fully it sucked the color from his hair and beard spoke to you, everything behind and around you dissolved.  Dissipated.  And you became a diamond in a beautiful setting.  Elevated, sparkling, and also brilliant.

            Soon after, we ensnared a gorgeous young couple, electric in black, with our admiration.   His hands were a blur while hers caressed a hulking yet graceful dance partner--an upright bass.  An almost virgin song broke us open with the memory (or warning) of how love can cool like coffee.  Be not enough, like portions at a fancy restaurant.  A mere appetizer to a starving soul.

~~~~~~~

And then there were circles.  ‘Round a fire.  ‘Round a porch.  Music.  Fluids.  Laughter.  Words.  Repeat.  A like-minded soil that will surely reap a harvest someday.

            We were a necklace.  Strung with synergy and synchronicity, or both.  Somehow we managed to hover a pinch shy of perfection.  Any closer and the pin of jealousy, or some mean spirit, would've pricked our existence.  And the pieces of us would've floated hither and yon.  Seventeen or more flaps of translucent skin instead of a single, living and breathing, organism.

I am the ghost of the Ripley girl

Bound to travel ‘round this world

Find the folks with words inside.

Say to them, “Write ‘til you die.”

Jot down the verbs and adjectives

Only this will make you live
(fading, slowing)

I am the ghost of the Ripley girl

Every word a precious pearl



-Song verse inspired by Doug and Telisha Williams’ song, “Ghost of the Knoxville Girl.

-Thanks to Sarah Robinson for permission to use her photograph of Cedar Lakes Conference Center in Ripley, WV.