But nothing personal.

It did nothing for me. It was blank. There’s nothing here. I’m looking but I can’t find it. When I bend to look for it, it hurts, well not really hurts but it doesn’t feel great when I do, but I should because I really need to. I need to do a lot of things. I need new knees but really need better eyes. But,really, if the mind was better than any of those things, that other stuff wouldn’t matter so much. Then things would make more sense. She would look better. The weather might clear. I might breathe better. Nights wouldn’t be so long. Things would make sense.

It starts with the itch and then itch leads to a scratch and before I know it my shirt is off and i’m digging my nails into my torso. It only lasts awhile. By then I’m left shirtless and wondering what is next.

I knew Karen in the first grade. Her parents were a constant disappointment to her.
She wanted a glossy plastic red ruler. Her mother bought the wooden kind and painted it with leftover semi-gloss from the local hardware store.

When her mother arrived to school, for parties or functions, she usually wore rollers in her hair. She wrapped her daughter’s sandwiches in foil and her Kool Aid was put into empty bottles of Sanka jars.

The kids roared with laughter when Karen’s  mother arrived to put on her new shoes–Why Karen? Why would your mother come to school to put on your new shoes? Didn’t you know she’d fuck that up too? They were loafers that looked like they were made of plastic, maybe even cardboard, the laces were dyed yellow and evidently the dye had not yet dried–her mother’s habit of painting things the way she wanted to be too, like the ruler.

Years later, while we were in our forties, when I happened to run into Karen in a grocery store in our home town–after being gone for so long, I asked her about those shoes.

She didn’t remember. She really didn’t. I realized all this time that I had lived that humiliation alone, without hers. I alone carried it. I didn’t try to force her to remember–for all I knew, the memory was just under the surface, right underneath like the pudding underneath the hard glaze of a creme brulee. A distant dessert of a memory. We ended up exchanging addresses. I looked forward to writing to her. For I also knew of some good memories of Karen. And those I would make her remember. No matter how many letters it took.

She arrived from Andover, on the eight thirty-five. On the train’s platform, she ran into her lover’s arms. He gripped her tightly, beheld her small figure like the ingredients of a splendidly delicious cauldron of nourishment.

They fed off each other, while kissing. But they would never be satisfied. For it would be a short trip. Until the next time, which would also be too short.

As they drove back to his place: “You can take a nap if you want,” he said. “I know it’s been a long day for you.”

“Not long enough,” she responded, while looking at long expanse of pastures jutted by the occasional tree in the distance. The setting sun had turned the landscape purple.

And her slightly blue. “The day is never long enough.”
“Nor the night,” he added.

But they made the best they could of that night. By morning, they promised this would be the last of the short days and the beginning of the longest nights.

And there would be greener pastures.

Kitty, I am not your God. But I thought I was.
I didn’t like thinking that. It felt like a thought handed to me like a hot potato. The other person didn’t like that thought and wanted to unload it onto someone else as fast they could. I am now unloading you onto someone else.
And breaking my heart in the process. I cannot explain to you why you are on your way to yet another foster home.
When it happens, you will be frightened and upset. But I am not your god.
Will the real God please stand up? And convey the message to this kitty? And while you’re at it, to me? Since I too am frightened and upset.

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.