Imagine turning to your high school coach and saying something, bringing up an issue. Or going to the principal or even his secretary and saying, “I know Principal Williams is very busy. So I’d like to set up an appointment with him.”
“What for?” The secretary asks.
“To discuss how I might be a better student.”
And I know she wants more. But I keep my mouth shut.
“I apologize,” I say, finally having to say something. “But I feel that this school really cares, genuinely cares about their students and what I’m trying to say is that I’d like some things to work. P.E. isn’t working. I’d like to be able to work at something that I might enjoy.”
By now the Principal Williams is standing next to the secretary. He says to me, “You will have do like the others do.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I will have to go someone else, then. My parents. My sisters. My cousins. An aunt who once told me I could come to her with any problems. I will go to other teachers. Other adults.”
I take a deep breath, adding: “I know this school cares about its students.”
He thinks about it, sighing and shifting his weight. “Come into my office tomorrow morning, as soon as get here.”
“Yessir.” It was the feeling that I’d managed, little old me, had manage to change something. “Thank you, sir.”

It was their first date. And it had lasted for nearly twenty-four hours. It started around eleven a.m. when he’d invited her over for an early lunch. This was the first time they’d met; they’d been set up on a blind date.

They hit it off. They kept talking and it got dark and they ordered pizza around eight p.m. They both loved anchovies. Things went well.

He asked her to stay.

He was flattered when she said yes. She smiled a celestial smile.

They flirted more with each other. The snow began to fall around midnight.

“So early in the year for snow?” she said. “But then again, I don’t follow weather.”

Which he thought strange. But he was strange too. For although he said he loved anchovies, she noticed the pile of wiggly, hairy specimens on the edge of his plate.

“Don’t try to please me,” she said.

“Don’t try to please me either,” he said.

She wondered what he thought she was trying to please him about?

“That you don’t follow the weather,” he said. “I know how smart you are.”

“But I really don’t follow the weather.”

“Oh.” he looked down at his plate. “And really don’t like anchovies.”

“They why didn’t you eat them.”

He thought a moment, before responding. He thought of all they’d talked about, discovered, not one misstep except the weather and anchovies. Which would always be around. Well, weather would, anyway.

Ho-hum. Here we are again. Saying the same things to each other in different ways.

It’s like we’re on a first date forever.

There is so much emotional punch pooled at the edge of the buffet. Party guests are too busy crying to notice the maroon concoction; no on has yet to ladle any of it onto those intricate crystal cups that I have set out for them. I have made the punch.
And this party is a fucking disaster. That may be my fault too.
Just as I am about to join the other crying guests, someone steps forward: a beautiful woman, elegantly dressed, who may or may not be real, and she pours herself some of the punch.
Everyone stops crying, watches her gulp down the entire cup. She burps.
People wipe their tears. There is a smattering of applause.
The party might not be fucking disaster after all.
Who is the woman? I wonder as I step forward to introduce myself. Will she marry me?
No she says, hearing my thoughts. NO FUCKING WAY.

There was something fossilized about the barn.
It looked like a sun-bleached femur, a humorless bone of a barn, sitting there in the pasture, lazier than all the cows around it. It had lost its red glory of a paint job decades ago, after Les had left. He and the barn peeled away by humidity, responsibilities, lightning, and the ever-after afternoon thunderstorm. This was all Les Grid’s fault. The cicadas seemed to chatter in agreement. Which wasn’t fair, for Delia, his daughter, who had to listen to not only her annoying inner voice but to those summer incessant insects. Her father had left his family in disarray. And that hulking structure out back needed attention–and its creaky boards seemed to be calling her out for it.

Why does stuff like Cirque du Soleil not impress me?
It does impress you–or it does while it’s actually happening. It doesn’t when it’s not happening.
What do you mean?
Well, when you’re in the thick of it, watching the actual feat, while they are actually performing, then you are up to speed with their awesomeness–you’re swept up. It’s like when you say you don’t want to be in a relationship but then one day you find yourself talking to an awesome woman, and all those curmudgeon notions go out the door.
I am a curmudgeon, aren’t I?
Yes. But so am I.
Who are you?
A curmudgeon.
Oh. Okay. Nice to meet you.

I haven’t looked at porn in years and when I–
How long?
Years. I just told you.
Two years?
More.
Ten years?
Less. Do you want to finish my story or not?
I want you to be truthful.
Porn isn’t the truth?
It’s a confession. And nothing more. A confession doesn’t have to be true.
YES IT DOES, YOU DUMB IDIOT!!!
Don’t be so dramatic.
Alright. Fine. Where was I?
Porn.

Oh. Right.

As always.

Hey!

It was daring. Her aerial feats agonized her parents, terrorized her boyfriend and thrilled everyone else. The flips in the air were unassisted and unprotected. But she landed on her feet, like a cat, every time.
Her fans tried to come up with names for her. But Catwoman and Wonderwoman were already taken.
Some thought that she should be named for what she was looking for, when she leaped so high in the sky. Reporters asked after sought-after items in the sky. At first it was odds and ends. Then later, little, multicolored beads on strings. Much later on trinkets, then boxes of Nabisco snacks. A tampon, once.

Nothing earth-shattering. But hardcore fans in the hundreds, puzzled her sundry items.

Eventually she returned from one particular long, high leap, with jewelry. From then on, she was a mega-star to all.

It was daring. She’d been the only one able to pull of a feet.
Deliver eighty-three babies in a one month period. It scared me. What else could she do? I wondered.
“Sleep,” she said, after her incredible feat, laying her head on my lap and almost immediately commenced to snoring.

It wasn’t that she recognized me for what I was. She just accepted me. I told her the truth; my false starts, the money troubles, the gambling, the cavorting and philandering.
She was unimpressed. She told me to get her another drink. A seltzer, heavy on the lime.
By the time I got back three men surrounded her. They were all laughing.
“Here you are,” I said, handing her the seltzer.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed. But her enthusiasm was more for her new-found company. But I was willing to wait for her. It was part of the game, I realized.

By the time she finally materialized next to me, at the pool table, I was already knee-deep in debt and she offered me cash.

I knew cash, from her, always came at a price.

I accepted very enthusiastically, with a “Thank you!” While she waited for the men around me to dissipate.