When lacking that introspection which might conjure bits of a "real"
destination and purpose little related to the external factors surrounding a
life, a self can only seem to be such in its incessant spinning and
preoccupation with movement. And so it is for him, glutton that he is for
movement in his Fiat Coupe with its turbo engine, vibrating phallus of a
gearshift, maximum legal carbon emissions spat into the chaotic world, the
bruit of rap music (his reflection) blaring from the CD player, and the motor's
cacophony flooding him with the sexual rhythms that cascade in his veins.
Together the man and the machine are Descarte's concept of dualism. Together
they are an expenditure of energy and only this.
That is not to say that Nathaniel has been without any contrived sense of
destination and purpose in all these months of itinerant wandering. With the
need to concoct reasons to justify one's movements as a condition of
consciousness, he has feigned his share of plans, purposes, and agendas. The
easiest contrived sense of destination compelled him to travel to San Antonio.
There, for five months, he easily imposed himself into the bed in Hispanic
Betty's one room efficiency since the need for enflaming pleasure and extension
was so pivotal in both the callow man and the older woman. With Betty
perfecting the role of sycophant, being there could have remained exciting to
him for a few more months and tolerable for a great many more had she not
absconded into the battered women's shelter leaving him to face the landlady
and the unpaid rent on that emptied efficiency.
Now there is the long drive to Kansas, but it is only in having come so close
to its borders that the idea of destination seems to be the spurious murmurings
of a self-needing to aver its existence. It is in going so far, so close, that
his mother's relative seems so unrelated to his life. He has no one. He feels
that it has always been this way and that it has been good.
He turns off the engine and places the nozzle in the aperture of the gas tank
triggering certain sexual associations that are part of his adolescent
susceptibilities. Vague impressions of the violence he has imagined himself
capable of perpetrating amalgamate loosely with others he has in fact
perpetrated, making the distinctions less obvious than they should be. In his
naps in the car earlier this day (naps on the side of the road the result of
mesmerizing taps of rain on the car's face and chaise as well as the monotonous
drag of the windshield wipers) both what happened and what could have happened
connected together fully and strangely. Then what might have been was no
different than what was. Each time waking up in his car he was startled by a
fiendish nightmare of himself that was worse than he was; and he wondered if he
could be a less deleterious force if he were to channel his misogyny in small
actions against a woman, any marginally attractive woman, who would think of an
occasional slap as a chastening tool and an aphrodisiac. To subtly ooze out
caustic contempt on a tolerant loving woman instead of allowing it to be
repressed and to foment underground like molten rock ready to disgorge seemed
the kindest thing to do.
There in the rain he stares at a Laundromat, which is adjacent to the
convenience store and the filling station. As he removes the nozzle the nerves
in his neck begin to twitch like the bodies of crawdads when he used to snap
off their heads. He remembers being in such a Laundromat as a young boy: there
with his mother, both eating the French Cream sandwiches that she would order,
and riding around in a cart. Having made the simile of his nerves being as
decapitated crawdads, he remembers scoffing at Rick's horrified and demurred
expressions to the point where the boy, who also had been cornered by
circumstance into a cobbled family structured from two lone adults with their
sexual urgencies and agendas, began to immolate Nathaniel's actions. He
remembers his mother witnessing this snapping of the crawdad heads, and this,
his corruptive influence on the favored one. He recalls how she attempted to
embrace this lachrymose Rick in as much as she was capable of embracing
anything in her hardened hubris walls, the merciless beatings of him alone with
those bear paws of hers, and then taking that favored one shopping without him.
He tries to stop himself from thinking of her, which is difficult for him since
all his years are in some respect intertwined around her.
Gabriele sat at the computer in the bedroom of her house writing email. She had
been in that house for nearly two months and had rarely communicated with
anyone until the change that took place two weeks earlier. As laid back as she
was in her lazy-boy recliner of solitude she was like any couch potato who had
too much of a good thing and it had been like that for a score of days. She
needed to stretch. She needed to extend outward.
Dear Hilda:
Hmm, blisters, cold sores and the like. Gee god. I'm no nurse so what would I
know? Iodine for the former and staying off your feet would be my only
recommendation. Yes, I espouse the same anti-work themes intractably. Work
less and contemplate more and then you can say that you actually lived some
moments of each day instead of this unreal incessant moving, futuresque
planning, and, akin to slavery, catering to the wishes of others to have a few
pesos in one's pockets. All of it thwarts the present moment
Regarding this guy who asked you to the bullfight at the stadium a las playas
you don't need my permission. You are my moon but I'm not Alan Shepherd
staking my flag into your heart. I'm glad the pendulum swing to the same sex
is now over and a more subtle and neutral momentum is beginning. Still if you
are going to give up women why stop there? What's more revolting than a man?
And not to deliberately make you happy, which it will, I am jealous albeit on
a nominal scale as anchored as I am in reason. I must tell you that my happy
month and a half of self-containment in my home, following my politely rude
expulsion of the tenants, ended in a sojourn through hell as one might expect.
This sister in law, Sharon is--well, I don't want to say anything negative.
She has bona fide reasons to hate me so who am I to stop her? Needless to say
I didn't score any points on the phone asking that she give me Rick too. She
was justifiably irate and although the door did not slam in my face when I
finally did go there (unlike the phone fiasco with the receiver slammed into
my ear) being there was unpleasant. When I came there I didn't know whether I
should play the disoriented ex-wife and the contrite transgressor as an
expedient so I just stayed me throughout my time there opting for being true
to myself and to let the dominoes fall all around me. It seems to me that all
noble people project an image of a given thing to a listening recipient which
shows it to be the way the thing really is regardless of the consequences. A
cat can pretend to be stealth and invisible, but does that mean it is smart?
How clever are disingenuous actions really? Aren't most problems on this
planet due to this animalistic self-preserving cleverness? I think so.
The last thing I wanted to do was to score points with that snobbish hag ("My
family often goes to art auctions to buy real modern European art") or to pull
the kid into the car with sympathy. The idea of being contrite and
ingratiating myself to a child for adult choices that are never ideal is not
my way of spending a day.
Sharon was half way entertaining when it came to talking about Michael
--parents pushing him into a marriage so he ran off to marry this old hag,
yours truly. She thought it would disconcert me but I can't think of anything
more intriguing--nay, not life on Mars or cosmology--nay, nay, nay, nay, but
knowing an ex husband's petty psychological profile and dirty laundry. I asked
her if Michael was always running around with his male friends a lot prior to
my marriage. This shut her up.
She seems to take on and off men like her panties--now with a black candyman.
They are the best sexually. I'd know. Seems to be searching for that man who
will help her define herself and needing the consistency of 2 boys not her own
in the meantime. Now as then I feel sorry for her. She was so lugubrious the
whole time like taking Nathaniel would devastate her world. I told her that we
would often arrange get-togethers with the two boys but this worsened things
by making her despondent.
About Nathaniel, in this room of his with all its rebellious musical noise and
pop culture clutter in accordance with Maslow's hierarchy for adjusted and
less well adjusted children alike, he just stared at me with dead eyes like a
Jew about ready to be gassed. Then, he said, "One bitch is about the same as
another." I had to laugh at first and then I grimaced. When I removed the
arrow from my heart (pardon the clichZ) I almost felt relieved to not be
declared a "f-- bitch" although he is quite young and surely with time this
will no doubt be a forthcoming utterance of his lexicon. After all, boys are
known for their ingenuity. I told him he could choose and once chosen he
needed to own up to his choice like a man and make the best out of it. He said
he hated Rick and for this reason he would go back with me. So this is my fate
granted unto me for wanting a connection, my version of family, and yet not
wanting its obligations to domineer over me. --Always, your friend, Gabriele.
She deleted "always." It was a ludicrous word when probably the universe itself
was temporary as all things within it that were unequivocally temporary. She
changed it to " --your friend, Gabriele." But were they friends, more than
friends, or less than friends? She couldn't decide so she made another deletion
in favor of "--yours intractably, Gabriele."
P. S. Cold sores be dammed should a person keep his/her own tongue in the
happy domicile of his/her own mouth
P.S.S. (not piss even if it pisses you off, and I hope it doesn't) Do you
remember me mentioning the man with an unmemorable name who wired me that
money for my plane ticket? Well, of course I paid him back on the first day
with interest (a 50 percent Gabriele gratuity), but a funny thing happened. I
married him. Don't worry though. It means little beyond spilled ink. So, what
then does it mean? It means what? It means that a child needs the specious
illusion of permanency in family and an adult needs a friendship on paper that
states a committed level of consistency beyond casual friendship. If women
could sign an equivalent document I'd sign one with you, my beloved Hilda.
Both of you are important to me in your own distinct ways.
She remembered an incident from a few days ago:
"Why should this be any different: this Unmemorable Russian guy, Michael, me,
and even the favored one. You push us aside like crumbs on a table."
She laughed. "Crumbs you are not; and there has never been what you claim as
the favored one unless it is you."
"That's a lie."
"No, it isn't. You've always said he is nicer than you so sometimes it is more
pleasant to be with those who aren't so temperamental. But you are my son, and
you are the favored one."
"'Have always.' You haven't seen me for two years so how would you know?"
"At least you used to admit that he was nicer than you are."
"You often took the favored one places."
"To the grocery store to pick out cereal and pop tarts. Unlike you he would
never grab an item of canned food that was stacked like a pyramid. He would
never cause an avalanche in a grocery store. I never had to worry about taking
him anyplace."
"And Rita/Lily Lily/Rita?"
"Was that a question? What about her?"
"Yes, what about her?"
She could have said, "She was too crazy" or "She was too far way" but she opted
for the largest acknowledgement of what seemed to her to be true. "I did care
about her but I guess I did sweep her under her welcome mat."