Color

Color       

    Six fifty, Friday night, ten slow minutes before the Harbor Market would close its doors to customers. The usual scene was taking place about the registers, cashiers slumping over their computers, staring at the clock, or compulsively cleaning everything about them in order to pass time. A woman approached the check out line and everyone simultaneously straightened up, as if a puppeteer in the office above their heads had pulled invisible strings. A single fluorescent light flickered above their heads and then suddenly went out. For a moment everyone's attention was focused on the sudden dimness about the store, but then they all went back to their perfectly rehearsed roles.

            "Hi, how are you today, ma'am?" The girl behind the conveyor belt said while scanning uniform items of food through the system.

            "Good thanks." The lady replied quietly, as she appeared to be mesmerized by watching her milk, eggs and bread go through the scanner. In a moment the transaction was completed, the receipt printed, and the customary "goodbyes" and "thank you"s said. As soon as the customer rolled through the swinging automated door the cashiers slumped down again and went back to watching the clock.

            Sixty fifty four, friday night, six minutes until the cashiers could escape from their paper bag prison cells. Just as the the anticipation of leaving swept through the front end, the enter door swung open. At first no one appeared, but then a creaking noise fell upon the employee's ears, and they each in turn openly cringed. Soon the noise was accompanied by a rusted, metallic shopping cart, and then by its driver. No one turned to notice the old, yellowed, man walking through the door. They were all too intent on the fact that in three minutes and forty two, forty one, seconds they would be gone. But then as the newcomer came into full view of the torpid cashiers, they realized that their near dreams of relief were just falling farther away as the clock ticked. The man continued his sluggish path down the miscellaneous food aisle. His white skin clashed against the harsh silver of his shopping cart, which clashed against the patches of rust found all the aluminum bars. The artificial lights exposed blue veins through his lucid hands. Slowly the hands reached for something on the rack and they found a single twenty five cent apple pie, which they removed and placed into the decomposing basket of the cart. He gradually turned the cart around in the aisle, nearly knocking over the entirety of the bean section. Then, as the cashiers kept one eye on him and the other still on the clock, he came to a register. There was no friendly greeting from the girl this time as she swiftly rang up the lone cardboard box containing the man's next meal. She waited impatiently as he fumbled in his pockets for the money. She did not note his rugged appearance, she merely kept her distance from the yellowed body before her. He finally came up with a single quarter which she grabbed from between his decrepit nails and soft pale skin. He got no receipt or paper bag, but instead just picked up his pie and put it right back into the cart. His soft white hair glistened translucently under the stares of the lighting and the employees as he wheeled away. Then the next moment he was gone.

            Seven seven, Friday night, seven minutes past the pre-approved departure time of the workers. They grumbled as they all clocked out and made their ways out to the parking lot. None of them noticed the lone old man sitting in the bench under the sole street light next to his , his cottage cheese hands wrapped around the pie as he slowly took the first bite.

A Kindgom for a Horse

A Kingdom for a Horse     

      The steel toed boots left distinct footprints in the dusty Montana dirt. Small sand storms of dust flew from the ground each time the cowboy walked forward, then returned to their origins. The horse’s hooves made similar storms but her steps were less deliberate. She did not know where she was going or where she was coming from, she had nothing to look forward to but nothing in the past haunted her as it did her leader. He did have somewhere to go, but he had not informed his steed. But to any observer the pair just appeared to be walking.

            The harsh Montana sun had caused the mare to falter, which explained  why  the two walked as equals rather than master and servant.  The cowboy had realized long ago that their partnership was based on respect. He respected the fact that their journey was long, the temperature was hot, and he was an excessive burden to her. Thus he had dismounted. Now he scuffed his rowels in the dust, and she played with the copper roller in her mouth complacently. If he had wanted to, he could have draped the leather reins around her neck; she would not stop following. But the worn strips were an anchor; a reminder that they were attached and they had a destination. And still they just walked.

            As the Montana sun rose higher, the cowboy appreciated the growing lather on the mare’s neck. He raised a hand to wipe it  away, but the contrast between the blood bay of her coat and the creamy foam impressed him. Rather than admitting his change of mind, he wiped the sweat from his brow instead. His suede hat cast artificial shadows across his face, and he continued to sweat and sweat. The mare wasn’t bothered by her wet neck, she continued to drag her feet and flick flies off her back. Each fly she displaced either returned to her skin or gathered on the cowboy instead. But the heat bothered him more than the bugs, he tried again to wipe away sweat. The salt leaked into his eyes. They paused while he blinked it away. Then they continued to walk.

            The beat of their steps were perfectly timed. The four beat walk of the horse complimented the drag of boots; the spurs provided percussion. Their symphony filled the Montana air. Once they reached a trough, the horse nudged her leader. She did not recognize him as a friend, but as a provider. She did not nudge him in affection, but in necessity. He obliged, letting her drink while he washed his face. He was impressed by her again, this time not by her growing sweat but by the copious amounts of water she took in. He appreciated the way the hollows above her eyes filled with each swallow; the way she inhaled her nostrils so she could breathe and drink at the same time. He saw her as a loyal companion, perhaps the only female relationship he could maintain. He didn’t know that she saw him only as the man who fed her, cleaned her, worked her. Whether it would have effected their relationship, one could not say. To him, horses had always been part of life. They provided work and money, along with company. He had never read literature on the beasts, but a cowboy could appreciate a horse as much as any poet or novelist. He waited her to finish, then they started to walk again.

            They had almost arrived at the destination; the barbed wires common of Montana. They needed checking; the cows were about to be moved to this part of the ranch. It was a usual chore for the pair; one they had done plenty of time before and one they would do again and again. The cowboy could see the first section of fence that needed repair. They didn’t adjust their pace as they walked towards it.

            He took out a screwdriver from the Montana leather saddlebags. The bags had been in the family for ages, made from the skins of the ancestors of the cows that currently roamed. He held the screwdriver skillfully as he twisted together two wires. The horse stood ground tied, half watching the man work, half dozing in the heat. He finished it quickly and they walked on.

            As they approached the next section, they both heard a sound uncommon to Montana. There was a distant rumble of machinery in the distance. The cowboy kept pulling the horse on, but she had pricked her ears in the direction of the noise. Finally, he gave up as well and focused on the growing dust bowl approaching them. He had seen a car before, but never so close to the property. He didn’t understand their use; why was a monster of metal and rubber so much better than a horse. Flesh was simple and predictable. But he had heard of more automobiles in town and in nearby towns as well. He had been told that in Helena there was twenty  of them. A whole army. He could not comprehend it. The horse also analyzed the creature. Its harsh lines reminded her of nothing she had seen before. Perhaps if they had worked on a farm she would have seen a tractor type before. But cattle had no need for engines. She inspected the beast, and decided she did not like it nor trust it. Horses were used to being the biggest and the fastest. These facts had protected them for centuries against mountain lions and wolves. But she was a horse; she still trusted the fact that she was better than the thing. She didn’t know to see otherwise. Once the pair and fully observed the automobile, they started to walk again.

            But this time the air was different. There was a tension between the two, chased into place by the car. Before, they had been equal. Now knowledge separated them. Not that the cowboy knew anything more about cars, but he knew to fear them. He knew they would disrupt his life, perhaps change something. The horse saw it as a freak appearance; she had already forgotten the incident. The tension, like the car, was man made.

            In order to chase the meeting from his mind, the cowboy focused on where he was and what they were doing. It was a mile until the next section. There would be no cars there. He had a roll of wire strapped to his saddle. The landscape of his home was comforting to him. Every winter it would snow, and he would fight through blizzards to take care of all the animals. In summer there would be unbearable heat, and he would butcher the cows to pay for the next three seasons. He had heard of poisonous snakes inhabiting Montana along with the mammalian predators. No dangerous snakes had ever appeared to him though, and the rumors of rattlers made him laugh. Although summer wasn’t even here, the cowboy felt dizzy in the heat. He craved to sit on the horse again, but he knew respect restricted this. He wanted to hear the creaking of old leather underneath him, a sound that machines could never take away. To him, the most relaxing view was that seen between two horse ears. He knew the view from this mare so well. The terrain of Montana was the same everywhere; dust, sparse foliage, cattle. But from atop a horse it was magical. It empowered a lowly man. Give a man a horse, a pair of spurs and a high port bit and he will conquer the world.

            The cowboy reflected back on the mare. She was going on six years old, a good age for a cattle horse. Old enough she knew the job but young enough that her joints gave her no problems. She was a good one, the mutts always were. He knew there was Quarter Horse in her, there was Quarter Horse in every western one. There was a smattering of Paint, her sire had been quite splashy. But it was the Mustang that  made her durable. They were outrageously ugly animals, apparent in her Roman nose. But her good breeding had protected her from bowlegged-ness and weak hocks. In exchange for the exquisite faces of Arabians or Morgans, she had gotten the will power to walk or trot tens of miles every day. The cowboy knew he could ride her if he really wanted to; her Mustang would give her the strength. But it still struck him as against nature to force his weight on her back.                    

            He had been with  her since her birth. He knew her sire and dam, both  trustworthy, hardworking horses. There was nothing equivalent to watching a horse be born. Nothing equivalent to watching it stand for the first time either. He had watched both, and more. He was the first the put a saddle on her back. She wasn’t the kind to collapse underneath it, like he had seen before. Neither did she buck and rear. It almost saddened him, her complacency. But she took the bit in a similar manner, caught on the strength of it quickly. A bit slow to understand leg commands, but within her third year he had her roping and racing. She was one of three he had broken that year, but she was the most promising. The other two were auctioned off to buy new fencing. Such was ranch life; connections were idiotic. Nothing stayed around long.

            When his father had passed, he had ridden this mare away. He had camped on the property for a month with her, biding time before accepting the responsibility of the ranch. However, when he returned, he found relief in his uncle taking care of things. He was told just to keep breaking horses, herding cattle, and fixing fences. The cowboy didn’t know what he would do when he actually had to maintain the land. He didn’t think about it either. His father’s death had been two years ago. Life had moved on.

            The pair arrived at the next section. The cowboy guessed from the sun that it was almost noon time. After his fixed up this broken wiring, he would eat his lunch. As he sat down to work he heard another unfamiliar noise. But this was no machine, but a more natural sound. The horse had noticed it too. But she was taught to fear this, and she began to dance at her ground tie. The cowboy stood up quickly and made  eye contact with a rattlesnake. By the time it registered in his mind, the mare was frantic. She knew to stay with the man, to stay where her reins stationed her, but true instinct told her to run or attack. Pure instinct took over, and she began to fly backwards. Right before she was about to pivot, the cowboy watched her foot step into a small hole, most likely a prarie dog hole of some sort. He watched in slow motion as her perfect, un-bowlegged leg twisted and then he heard the sound every partner never wanted to hear. A perfect crack, a ear piercing scream, a clean bone poking out of blood bay flesh. The scream jarred the man, but even more so the snake, who writhed away. The mare screamed again as all 1000 pounds of muscle and soul hit the ground. But she quieted down as soon as she curled into fetal position. He observed this all as if he wasn’t really part of it. And he wasn’t. It was God’s animals coming face to face and reacting. It was natural, and tragically beautiful. This thought paused in his head for a moment, but his rushed run over to the mare left it behind. This time he did wipe the lather from her, running his hand all along her shaking body, avoiding the obvious. Her entire femur was protruding, stuck out enough that blood couldn’t even seep by. But he knew it wouldn’t matter even if the break was a less drastic one; when a horse broke a leg it was the end. Finally he forced himself to address the fracture. He touched the bone, and was surprised at how real and natural it felt. It wasn’t plastic-y or rough; it could only be described as bony. The jagged end of it was reflected in the mare’s eye, masking the fear and pain she felt. Her chest was rising and falling in a disconcerting pattern. He stopped staring at her eyes, and instead pulled her mane so all the hair fell on one side. He knew what he had to do, but wanted to pretend this wasn’t happening for just a moment more.

            He crawled to her belly and began to undo the cinch. He acted it out as if he was just untacking her after a day of work. He brought up the webbed cinch to its holder, and curled the leather around itself. He pulled it off gently, as always not to twist her spine. Her belly rose and fell.

            He took the worn, wool pad from her back as well. There was a faint sign of a pattern on it, faded years ago from sun and work. Next he went to her head, avoiding eye contact. He put his fingers underneath the head band, feeling the short hair of her bridle path. He pulled it over her ears, and let the bridle fall away from her face. He pretended to be surprised when she didn’t try to hold the bit in her mouth as usual; instead she let it fall away in order to breathe easier. He rolled up the reins into a perfect spiral; it was at this moment he had to admit the change. At this point in untacking he would usually throw a rope halter on her and let her back into the herd. But he could not pretend that now. Instead he finally met her eyes. Her nostrils were still desperately trying to suck in air, but her eyes held only the faintest traces of fear and discomfort. Instead, there was a look of respect. He  mirrored the expression, and they both remained in the dust for a moment just staring. Then the mare’s eyes rolled back and he knew what happened next. He held his hand up to her chest for a brief moment, feeling that strong heart pump away. Then he stood and backed away.

            He could feel the ever cool metal of the pistol in its holster. He had never used it before, although he knew how to. It was a protectant against mountain lions and other things; also to be used as a warning at night for beasts to stay away from the cattle and the horses. He traced the engraving along the top and back, fingering the trigger. Finally he pulled it out. There was a comforting weight in it, the weight of something real and tangible. The weight followed him as he drew it up and aimed. The first shot rose a cloud of dust. The second hit its target. He stood there for a moment, transfixed by what he had just done. Then he put the pistol back in its home and strode towards the mare. Her eyes were as clear as before, but empty. The bone was still bony, but her chest no longer rose and fell.

            He picked up the saddle deliberately, and hoisted it onto his hip. The bridle went on his shoulder. The scuff of boots and clinks of rowels disturbed the air. He walked away into the Montana sun.

            He was a man of horses, or of perhaps a horse. He had no need for horsepower or headlights or rearview mirrors. But he was a man of work, and transportation. So there he stood on the road, saddle on hip, bridle on shoulder, feeling the still warm copper roller as he waited for the next automobile to pass him by.

One Hundred Word Sentence

                The moon does not see such things, pouring in over two soft, blonde heads doting upon each other like primal ancestors, picking at dirt and calluses, remnants of a day outdoors that will always be remembered as being tragic and horrifyingly memorable as a result of the dead pet dog, who will not be forgotten to the two blonde heads, frozen as a vision of running into the street only to be attacked by the harsh blue metal of man’s greatest invention, only to be thrust into a place where fetching the soft, blonde heads’ ball is no longer a possibility.

Care All Day

Care All Day

I woke up to the ringing of my alarm clock and the quiet breaths of Alexa. I looked at the time. 5:45. What the hell? The clock must have malfunctioned, no one in the house got up that early. Then I remembered yesterday, when I talked to Jacob about my next job.

"She wants us there at 7:00? I'm not doing it."

"The lady has a strict schedule. Bingo at eight or some crap like that. And yes, you are doing it," Jacob replied, giving me a dirty look.

"She sounds like she should be going to crazy house, not bingo. She does realize we're cleaning up the remains of her husband, not pruning her tulips or some shit," I countered.

“Yes, she knows. Just get in and get out. It's not our business to know if her brain is functioning or not."

And here I was, 5:45, off to the job. By the time I had pieced everything together, Alexa was awake. "You better get going if you're going to be there on time." She slurred, still half-asleep.

"Yeah, yeah." I answered, kissing her on the forehead. She smiled before rolling over. I got up and went to the bathroom to shower, shave, brush my teeth.

As I finished up, Alexa was in the kitchen, brewing coffee and putting dishes away, while trying to correct some of her student’s English papers..I grabbed my Wheaties and milk before sitting down at the counter. I opened my mouth to tell her to go back to sleep but she put a finger to her lips while whispering, "Don't wake up the kids." I nodded.

“What are the papers on?” I inquired.

“They just finished The Bell Jar. It’s a response to the themes.”

I had never read the book, but I nodded. I tried to be interested in her job for Alexa’s sake, but literature was beyond me.

When I was done, I grabbed the keys to our ancient Toyota Corolla, then came over and linked my arms around Alexa. "See you later. Tell Billy and Sarah I love them, and to have a good day at school." She nodded, and I kissed her goodbye. She grabbed my hand as I unwrapped myself from her.

“Hun, I have to go to work.” I said, joking as I tried to pull away. She didn’t look me in the eye, and I became suspicious.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

No answer, she just played with the fraying end of her sweater.

“Babe?”

“Look, I know this sounds weird. But with your job, are you ever worried…worried that you won’t care if someone you knew died? Like…me?” She asked, still avoiding eye contact.

I chuckled. “Babe, I would be devastated if I lost you. Just because I clean up a random guy’s bodily fluids doesn’t mean I would be all right if I lost you.”

She forced a smile, but didn’t look convinced.

“Don’t worry.”

“All right, I won’t. I believe you,” she said, finally looking up. I saw a faint trace of sadness, but I could also see the trust she had in me.

"Just don’t turn into a grumpy old man.” She murmured.

"I’ll wait until it’s time to do that.” I answered and laughed. Then I squeezed her hand, and left.

By the time I arrived at the house of the woman, the cleaning van was already there. My partner, Dan, was sitting in the open trunk, amongst all the cleaning solutions and scrubs and anything else someone might find in a human clean up car. However, these things didn’t catch my eye. Instead my eyes were drawn straight to the two cups of iced coffee Dan was holding.

"You are my savior. Two creams, one sugar?" I asked as I took the coffee.
"You betcha." Dan replied with a grin. He was a bit of a cornball/grown-up nerd, but he

had been my partner for the past year. If putting up with him meant free iced coffee I would deal with with his cheesy conversation.

"Ready, buddy?" He continued, and I nodded. We both grabbed various supplies from the van before heading to the front door. Dan knocked, and while we waited to be let in, Dan briefed me on the job.

 “Old woman, Marjorie la Cleur. 78. Husband, George le Cleur. Was eighty when he decided to hurry up passing onto heaven. In the study, with a pistol." I knew Dan was trying to make a joke out of it for me, to make everything seem a little less real. But he was terrible at it, and his explanation just made him sound like an asshole. But as the door opened, I could see a tear in the corner of his eye. He'd been doing this for 11 years, and each story got a little bit into his heart.

A petite woman stood before us. I’m not very good with age, but the deep wrinkles made her face look like the dark side of the moon, and much older than seventy eight. "Ms. le Cleur?" Dan said gently.

She nodded.

"I'm Dan Smithers. This is my partner Cody Summers. May we come in?" He continued. She nodded again, and let us inside. She said nothing as we walked down a hallway to what I assumed to be the study.

There was an old mahogany desk and matching chair, three sets of  bookcases, countless papers, and an immense bloodstain covering the wall across from the sole window. I immediately thought to myself what a way to go. Staring outside at the world beyond your walls.

By the time I had absorbed all this, the woman had left. I gave a look to Dan and he nodded. He then also exited. In our duo, Dan was the better talker. He would console the client somehow, while I did the dirty stuff. It wasn't how all pairs worked, but it was how we utilized our strengths. I didn't want to see raw human reaction to death. Dan didn't want to see blood and guts. In my opinion, Dan made awkward situations even more uncomfortable. But to other people, he seemed to get rid of tension. Maybe it was his comedy; but either way I let him work his magic.

I started in on the wall. George had done the deed while standing up, so the job was relatively easy. No stained furniture, no suicide note. He had just wanted to be gone quietly, not leave any trouble behind. Perhaps he didn't understand a marriage consisted of pact between two people. I thought of my own wife. Did the couple know it would end this way? Of course not. No one could ever know.

I kicked myself out of this thought trail, as I became too close to connecting my own life with this death. But just at that moment, Dan came back into the room. "What happened?" I inquired.

"I don't know, pal. I can't get through to her. Maybe you should take a shot at it. It could be your breakthrough job." He replied. I was surprised. He must really be stumped with this one. He didn't sound corny enough for us to be comfortable. However, I hesitated to help him out. I was already too connected to this one.

"Maybe we should just both clean up. We'll be done faster, and she probably doesn't want any consoling." I said.

"C'mon, partner. Just give it a go." Dan pleaded and I relented. What was there to lose, really? And in the back of my mind Alexa whispered again. Don't lose your ability to grieve. Maybe this was a breakthrough. Maybe I was strong enough to connect but not bond. Hell, a step in the right direction at least.

"Okay. I'll give it five minutes. But if I feel uncomfortable I want to go back to scrubbing." I answered.

"Of course, buddy. Go get her!" Dan looked relieved, and his cheesiness returned. I left him to the cleaning and made my way down the hall. I found the woman sitting in a chair in the living room, looking out a window.

I remained silent for a while. Then, without thinking, I said, "Ever think about what he thought was so terrible out there?" I motioned at the window. She looked shocked for a moment, then grief returned to her features.

"All the time." She whispered.

Silence descended again. But to my surprise, she continued the conversation.
"He was such a quiet man. I always thought he opened up to me. Now I suppose one could argue otherwise." She continued.

"Ma'am, I don’t know anything about your life or your relationship with your husband. But sometimes life can appear to be one unnecessary burden after another." It was an attempt to justify him, but she saw right through it.

"Son, you're right. You don't know anything about us. My husband, may he rest in peace, was a brave man. A god fearing man. He fought in the war and went to church every Sunday. Now can you tell me why a man like that would be so cowardly as to commit such an unpardonable sin." She asked accusingly.

"Maybe he thought, because of the combination of his bravery and fear, that God would understand."

That's when she broke down. I was trapped. I had never seen an old woman cry, not even when my own grandmother had lost my grandfather. I searched for words of consolation, but she beat me to it.

"Understand what? That a perfectly amiable life was still too hard. And if he got to understand, and God got to understand, what about me? There is nothing to understand."

"I don't mean to question your knowledge of your husband. But life is full of mysteries. I hope you wouldn't give up faith just because of this." I didn't know where this was coming from. I had never spoken so eloquently in my life.

"It's hard not to." She replied.

"Well, ma'am, it's hard not to when one has my job."

This stopped her tears. "I can't imagine." She said.

"I just tell myself death is a natural process."

She began to weep again. "Sometimes it isn't. And the worst part is... he didn't even leave a note. Didn't even say goodbye. I'll never forgive him for that."

Just then Dan came into the room. "All set partner. Have a good day, miss." He said, tipping an imaginary hat. I cringed at his lack of timing. She just nodded.

Dan left quickly, but I hesitated. "Just try to forgive him." I finally said. I left before she could say anything else.

The sunshine felt uncomfortable on my skin after being in the musty house. "See you tomorrow, partner?" Dan said, but his voice was distorted to me.

"Yep." Was all I answered with. He paused, but then got into the van while I got into my car. Without thinking I took my phone out and dialed a number.

"Hello?" A voice answered.

"Hey, Jacob." I replied.

"Hey, Cody. Is something wrong?"

"No. I was just calling to let you know today is my last day. Thanks for the opportunity." I hung up before he could convince me otherwise. I ignored his following incoming call.

I drove home in a trance. As soon as I came into the house, Alexa spotted something was wrong.

"What happened?" She inquired.

"I quit."

"What?" She exclaimed.

"You're right. I can't lose my ability to grieve. I may need it when I'm 78 years old."

"I won't ask." She said, but I could see her suppressing a smile.

Later that night, as we were getting undressed for bed, Alexa touched my arm gently. I looked at her, and for a moment was absorbed in the fine contours of her face; so opposite from the old woman from earlier.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart:  I am, I am, I am,” Alexa said, still staring into my face. “It’s a quote from the The Bell Jar. The one my kids read. It’s about suicide.”

            I nodded, still not understanding the significance. She just smiled and crawled into bed. Then in the silence I heard her whisper again, “You are, you are, you are.”

And I was.