The long nights of cool air and the smell of woodsmoke and rotting leaves frees the brain of its summer torpor, every year, it is the same thing. Three months of oppressive heat and a holding pattern of slack-jawed mental atrophy broken after one solid night of sleep wrapped in blankets and waking to a cold nose, and the smell of coffee, and of apples.
I woke to the memory of February, and the bitter cold, and dad calling me early in the morning to help move the flesh and bones of a 165 pound dog; he had passed on in the night. We wrapped him in a sheet and struggled with him out the door and onto the truck bed and into the frosty morning and how we didn't say much, during the journey. We had coffee and each had on a Carhart jacket, and I felt like a little girl, happy for the time with him. Our hands were cracked and dry from the cold, from winter, and when the man opened the garage roll up door he was sad for us. And offered to help but we declined. We had to finish it, alone, together. A tender moment amidst so much harshness. This life. That in that moment, we could rely on each other beyond anything else.
And then, this morning, the house emptied itself and I looked out onto the shadowy outlines of the pine trees in the yard, and smelled their pitch and the dew, and still the woodsmoke, the lingering trace of a fire, somewhere. How violently I rebel against domesticity but will never, not ever, admit defeat. There are sacred moments in the predawn, they visit me as I sip my coffee, look out onto the world, and remember. Before the infinite loop of laundry, and vacuuming, and dishes, and making beds, and cooking and preparing for the next day begins. To squeeze in a little time for the self, for the grizzled lone-wolf clawing at my ribs. To sweat and to do nothing else but to improve the body, condition the mind.
And I find myself thinking that I cannot be the only one that holds us together.
My heart broke for her when she told me the story about hearing what was not meant for her. And how would I react? What would I do. I imagined an awkward confrontation, and my selfish desire that she be humiliated for her lack of couth. And how the second reaction would be to cut and run, to excoriate myself of any perceived weakness, to patch the holes in my armor. How that has always been a fault of mine, that the lone wolf is the most dominate of the personalities. I would fill my heart with hardness so that the sadness, or the disappointment, or the vulnerability, could not find a way in. And how lonely a realization to make about oneself.
Winter comes slowly, as always, and fall is dangerous for its rumination.
7.9.11
22.8.11
Break
It was cold like the first teasing breaths of autumn from far away north, carried across the lakes by a canadian wind. I was completely distracted from the pain of mosquito puncturing flesh by the delicious smell of acrid leaves, and apples that were left to fall to the ground. Nature in transition.
He called me and told me that the man flagged him down. That he told him the story of hitting a deer (it was a fawn and still had its spots) and stopping there, on the roadway, to see if it was dead. He said the man told him that it was still twitching, so he went to his car, retrieved a sledge hammer, and caved in its brain. And me trying to imagine the look on his face while all of this was being relayed. He is not one who much disturbs, and he was. Disturbed. So I snaked my way east and plain as day in the middle of the road, a pool of blood, drag marks, and a fawn with spotted downy fluff lay on the treelawn with its head stove in. Who does that?
And before that, the confrontation. Life is such a stupid, fickle, short thing. He tried to explain himself to me, lies and contradictions and flat out bullshit while I nodded and said whatever. I am a bitch, I thought. But I couldn't amend my lack of desire to fix things. He looked at me with his beady eyes and stupid hair cut and I thought of the chapter in my life that was Evergreen, and circular logic, and trying to understand MacIntyre. And none of it helped, so I told him whatever and that in two days it wouldn't mean anything anyway, and I drove on.
And the second thought was that I am wasting my life.
My heart is heavy.
It feels like the chaotic energy in the sky before a big storm and I find myself wishing to get swept up. I spent half of the Jeep ride home with my head back, looking up at the clouds and how fast they were moving. That I could see the stars and the blackness of the night in the gaps of fluffy cumulus. I thought about nights on the deck and cigarettes and how long it has been since I got drunk and solved the world's problems and just, plain, waxed poetic. How long it has been since I forgot (or didn't care) that I am an adult.
The juniper berries are sour on my tongue, to match the quinine's bitterness, but, no catharsis.
He called me and told me that the man flagged him down. That he told him the story of hitting a deer (it was a fawn and still had its spots) and stopping there, on the roadway, to see if it was dead. He said the man told him that it was still twitching, so he went to his car, retrieved a sledge hammer, and caved in its brain. And me trying to imagine the look on his face while all of this was being relayed. He is not one who much disturbs, and he was. Disturbed. So I snaked my way east and plain as day in the middle of the road, a pool of blood, drag marks, and a fawn with spotted downy fluff lay on the treelawn with its head stove in. Who does that?
And before that, the confrontation. Life is such a stupid, fickle, short thing. He tried to explain himself to me, lies and contradictions and flat out bullshit while I nodded and said whatever. I am a bitch, I thought. But I couldn't amend my lack of desire to fix things. He looked at me with his beady eyes and stupid hair cut and I thought of the chapter in my life that was Evergreen, and circular logic, and trying to understand MacIntyre. And none of it helped, so I told him whatever and that in two days it wouldn't mean anything anyway, and I drove on.
And the second thought was that I am wasting my life.
My heart is heavy.
It feels like the chaotic energy in the sky before a big storm and I find myself wishing to get swept up. I spent half of the Jeep ride home with my head back, looking up at the clouds and how fast they were moving. That I could see the stars and the blackness of the night in the gaps of fluffy cumulus. I thought about nights on the deck and cigarettes and how long it has been since I got drunk and solved the world's problems and just, plain, waxed poetic. How long it has been since I forgot (or didn't care) that I am an adult.
The juniper berries are sour on my tongue, to match the quinine's bitterness, but, no catharsis.
25.7.11
Auf Wiedersehen
Hot humid sun perched in the apex of the blistering sky, it made the long black end of the asphalt look like gin settling to the bottom of the glass, a thick syrupy bitter swirl. He spoke to me while we reconnected and my eyes focused on the few stray hairs his razor missed on his neck this morning. And the faint smell of his aftershave. It has been a long, long, time since I was the girl that he knew. Our tribe disbanded - not that we wanted what fate wanted - but we went gently like dust across a late summer prairie nonetheless. John asked me to come shoot with them one midnight shift, after I had been laid off, and in his omnipotent almost cocky way he told me you never know where we will be in a year.
He killed a man, not two months later. As I took the phone call from a lonely hotel room in Nevada. And I think about that view, sometimes. The sprawling effluent of our society in its decline. Neon cowboys and all. That moment of the three of us in the dank and wonderful range, encased like an orb of amber, for always.
That is how death should be, whether it is of a man or an identity or a memory or a love. Let the bones be laid to bleach under the furnace of a thousand suns, let the pieces that remain be cleansed in fire.
The few stray hairs on his neck made all of those memories come violently back. And how when he speaks to me I stand with my back to my new tribe, but can still feel their heat on my calves, my shoulder blades. I am not that girl anymore.
We got engaged and we will be married in September. For the first time in my life I am not afraid of changing my name, I don't feel like the loss of it will be a priceless sacrifice on my part. His father was George, as was my grandfather, and it makes me grateful to think that his name will be given to me and that I can do right by it. As simple of a desire as that is. A year and a half later and there is still that wild stir within me when he comes home, when I hear his voice. When I see the flecks of brown buried deep within his blue eyes and wonder if George is happy for his son, if he approves.
I got a text one night, several months back, it may have even been last year. From the phone of the man with the stray and rebellious neck hair. And I did not remember it until we were gathered under that oppressive sun seeking shelter in the memories of a time that we will never be able to get back to, bittersweet and just, simply, gone. He said would you like to talk to me, and, I, thought, I would put her on the phone, but I don't know where she's gone to.
He killed a man, not two months later. As I took the phone call from a lonely hotel room in Nevada. And I think about that view, sometimes. The sprawling effluent of our society in its decline. Neon cowboys and all. That moment of the three of us in the dank and wonderful range, encased like an orb of amber, for always.
That is how death should be, whether it is of a man or an identity or a memory or a love. Let the bones be laid to bleach under the furnace of a thousand suns, let the pieces that remain be cleansed in fire.
The few stray hairs on his neck made all of those memories come violently back. And how when he speaks to me I stand with my back to my new tribe, but can still feel their heat on my calves, my shoulder blades. I am not that girl anymore.
We got engaged and we will be married in September. For the first time in my life I am not afraid of changing my name, I don't feel like the loss of it will be a priceless sacrifice on my part. His father was George, as was my grandfather, and it makes me grateful to think that his name will be given to me and that I can do right by it. As simple of a desire as that is. A year and a half later and there is still that wild stir within me when he comes home, when I hear his voice. When I see the flecks of brown buried deep within his blue eyes and wonder if George is happy for his son, if he approves.
I got a text one night, several months back, it may have even been last year. From the phone of the man with the stray and rebellious neck hair. And I did not remember it until we were gathered under that oppressive sun seeking shelter in the memories of a time that we will never be able to get back to, bittersweet and just, simply, gone. He said would you like to talk to me, and, I, thought, I would put her on the phone, but I don't know where she's gone to.
21.2.11
Last Call
Last call, or so I thought, on a long and meandering shift. Monotonous day, in the middle of a number of monotonous days. We had made plans for when I got home and all I could think about was the bed he was warming and his hands on my body, as I turned in a U and snaked back to the address that, I knew, would keep me from all of that. DOA. I didn’t know what to expect when they came to the door because, as has become custom, radio left out several important details as it dispatched me to where I was needed.
There were three of them that let me inside and led me to the back bedroom. They were all crying, and had been crying - eyes red and the skin underneath puffy, and tired. He was laying at an angle across their bed, and his mother crawled in beside him and wrapped her arm around his neck, his face. His skin was waxy, and was the most striking color of yellow that I had ever seen on a body. The first glance startled me, the strangeness of it – so much that I told myself to not let them see me react, lest they be offended. Their loved one, their rock, now departed, absence hanging heavy in the room like cigarette smoke that lingers, hours later. I went through all the procedures in the kitchen while E stood off in the breakfast nook, out of sight, trying to make me laugh. God, we are sick, we are so sick, I thought as I bit down hard on a smile. An hour later and I was the only one, with the three, waiting for the boatman to come and ferry him across the river. We talked about life, and what it was to be a woman with so many men, and how you never know, you just never know. Life is so fickle, and fleeting. When I left they gave me hugs and said they were glad they got me, and I stammered out a few awkward goodbye’s and pointed my cruiser west, to begin the process of going home. His face, and the smell, traveling with me as I drove.
I was on station, inefficiently rushing through my paperwork when the next call came. It was an hour and a half past the time I should have been in that warm bed. But when he said over the radio that a train conductor reported hitting a man, I knew that I was going. There were only two others on the road and they were at the front of the train, talking to the engineers. So I parked where they guessed the point of impact to be, and started walking east in the pitch blackness. It was slow-going, scrambling over the loose-pack of the lava rock that lined the track. My flashlight made moon-shaped orbs of light under the train as I worked my way toward the engine. The woods were deeper as I got farther from the crossing, and the embankment steeper. It was dark, and cold, and windy, and lonely as hell, and I thought to myself this is fucking creepy, as I looked for any sign of death, in the isolated blackness. And then. The orb of light from my flashlight fell upon a red and shining piece of evidence not ten feet ahead, and then I saw the hat he had been wearing, and more pieces of a life that had ended so abruptly. His body twisted and mangled and stuck up under the train, his wallet laying perfectly between two cars, several feet from the carnage. And just all the detritus. The detective came, and the railroad police were there, and the train masters, and we all pretended to know what the procedure for this should be and we went through the motions. Finally after documenting and photographing, the wallet was removed, and opened, and damn if I didn’t know the face on the driver’s license. Damn if it had not been just two weeks since the last time I talked to him. And I looked back at what was left and it was not a picture that I could understand.
I left then, hours later, tired and freezing and drained. When I got home I lay on top of the covers for awhile, just holding him. Just letting his warmth soak into me. I tried to wash it all off in a long, hot shower, I tried to scrub my mind of the images. I crawled in bed and put my arms around him and held him while he slept and I stayed awake. He had a nightmare, and I told him it was okay, that I was there, and he held my hand and went back to sleep. And I thought, I would be like that mother, and I would crawl in next to him too, if he were cold, and I would not be able to let go. Not ever. And I did not want those thoughts in my head, not there, not when I didn’t have on my uniform, or my gun. Because I didn’t think I would be able to flip the switch if I didn’t have those things. That I would be too human, and vulnerable.
The next day they wanted the stories, and the gore, and it made me mad. But I knew I would want to know the same things, if I had not been there.
And then. I was sent to a car crash and when I got there, the SUV was on its side, pitched up in a steep front yard, with its ass end clinging to stability at the end of a utility pole. The driver inside seated where the passenger door should be, me and some passersby trying to keep everything in a precarious balance while the FD was enroute. The man inside began to complain that he was getting rained on, and I could not believe, that as he sat there in someone’s front yard, safety glass all over him, unable to get out of his car, his complaint was that he was getting wet. I was soaked and freezing, and I let him in on my incredulity at his whining. When they cut him out and got him strapped down on the stretcher, the smell of booze filled the entire scene and clung low in the damp, cold air. I knew that I would be following the ambulance back to the hospital. And so I did, and the nurses seemed pissed that they had to deal with his belligerent rambling, as if it was my fault for bringing him there. And I played with him, and he did not understand, and he laughed, and then the hospital staff joined in and we tried to make the whole thing better by making him an ass.
After babysitting him for an hour or so, I was parked at the side door of the station getting my paperwork together, when another city called out a possible drunk driver who had fled the scene of an accident. For a second I sat there, in my running car, thinking, he will not pass through my zone, but he will come through the city. I have so much work to do already, I should just go inside and get started. And then the next second my car was in gear, headed west to where I knew the suspect car would be. And it passed me as I pulled up to the intersection, and I got behind it, and like I was just acting a part I called it out, turned on my lights and sirens, as five or so others caught up and did likewise. The driver did not stop and we went on a slow and icy and anti-climactic pursuit until he finally realized the futility of trying to make it home. That we would follow him there, too. I got soaked again, as we tested him, and he kept asking me can you please close the window to my corvette and I wondered what the fuck is wrong with people. He told me that he didn’t see or hear me, or the five other cop cars behind him, and that was why he didn’t stop. The other city took him, and I went back to my paperwork, and to dry off.
Then, then. Radio called the two other cars, but one of them didn’t listen, and there was no way I could let the one who did acknowledge the call go alone. I knew the house, and when it came out as an unresponsive female, I knew it was going to be her, and that she would be on God only knows what. My partner got there first because I followed the ambulance from station, and they do not go faster than the speed limit. I cussed at them the whole way there. Inside the front door, I could see E on the floor trying to revive the girl, and the grandma approached me and said “there’s one more”. In the house? Another one in the house? Where?? I took a firefighter with me up the stairs, and there he was, in the landing. Jeans around his ankles, dick hanging out of his underwear, t-shirt sweat soaked and drooling on himself. Unconscious. He reared up like a zombie when I knuckle rubbed his sternum and the firefighter and I went about our tasks. A few minutes later and that third car had still not responded, and I could hear the girl downstairs screaming and giving E a battle. The firefighter looked at me and I said, “you just let me know if you need me back up here. Give a yell and I will be right back.” The girl had come back to life and she was pissed at the world for it. We had to hold her down and then strap her down to the cot, and still she got out of the restraints, so that I had to ride in the back of the ambulance all the way to the hospital, holding her down. She looked at me and she kept saying, “I know you, I know you,” with her thick tongue and her pupils as wide as saucers. Again, the hospital was not happy to see me, especially when I told them that my partner was on his way with the male half, and that he was likely to be just as mad when he came around. But it was an hour past the time I should have been at home, and I didn’t care anymore about their lack of desire to do their jobs. E showed up and the male had indeed come around, and he was foaming at the mouth, and was just utterly disgusting, telling us that his life was fucked up and that he couldn’t read or write. And look at you, you are cops, you did something with your life, and I won’t do anything with my life I can’t read or write. Life already over at 23. And I wondered why in the hell do people drink, or get high, if this is how it ends up. Foaming at the mouth tied down to a hospital bed with your dick hanging out.
They were sedated, and another officer came to get us, and we went back to station, and out of our gear, and home. He was asleep, but had left the bottle of Irish Whiskey and a shot glass out for me (to help combat the cold). I poked my head in the bedroom before I got into the shower and he was sound asleep, with the light on my nightstand left on for me. My God, I am so lucky. And life is so short. And precious. And please, Lord, let me not live with this regret in my heart. Help us to fix what is broken while there is still time. Please fill her heart with love, Lord, and find a way to forgive me and let us move on. After the very long shower I crawled in beside him, and he turned over and his big, strong arms surrounded me and I closed my eyes, and I slept and I did not dream.
There were three of them that let me inside and led me to the back bedroom. They were all crying, and had been crying - eyes red and the skin underneath puffy, and tired. He was laying at an angle across their bed, and his mother crawled in beside him and wrapped her arm around his neck, his face. His skin was waxy, and was the most striking color of yellow that I had ever seen on a body. The first glance startled me, the strangeness of it – so much that I told myself to not let them see me react, lest they be offended. Their loved one, their rock, now departed, absence hanging heavy in the room like cigarette smoke that lingers, hours later. I went through all the procedures in the kitchen while E stood off in the breakfast nook, out of sight, trying to make me laugh. God, we are sick, we are so sick, I thought as I bit down hard on a smile. An hour later and I was the only one, with the three, waiting for the boatman to come and ferry him across the river. We talked about life, and what it was to be a woman with so many men, and how you never know, you just never know. Life is so fickle, and fleeting. When I left they gave me hugs and said they were glad they got me, and I stammered out a few awkward goodbye’s and pointed my cruiser west, to begin the process of going home. His face, and the smell, traveling with me as I drove.
I was on station, inefficiently rushing through my paperwork when the next call came. It was an hour and a half past the time I should have been in that warm bed. But when he said over the radio that a train conductor reported hitting a man, I knew that I was going. There were only two others on the road and they were at the front of the train, talking to the engineers. So I parked where they guessed the point of impact to be, and started walking east in the pitch blackness. It was slow-going, scrambling over the loose-pack of the lava rock that lined the track. My flashlight made moon-shaped orbs of light under the train as I worked my way toward the engine. The woods were deeper as I got farther from the crossing, and the embankment steeper. It was dark, and cold, and windy, and lonely as hell, and I thought to myself this is fucking creepy, as I looked for any sign of death, in the isolated blackness. And then. The orb of light from my flashlight fell upon a red and shining piece of evidence not ten feet ahead, and then I saw the hat he had been wearing, and more pieces of a life that had ended so abruptly. His body twisted and mangled and stuck up under the train, his wallet laying perfectly between two cars, several feet from the carnage. And just all the detritus. The detective came, and the railroad police were there, and the train masters, and we all pretended to know what the procedure for this should be and we went through the motions. Finally after documenting and photographing, the wallet was removed, and opened, and damn if I didn’t know the face on the driver’s license. Damn if it had not been just two weeks since the last time I talked to him. And I looked back at what was left and it was not a picture that I could understand.
I left then, hours later, tired and freezing and drained. When I got home I lay on top of the covers for awhile, just holding him. Just letting his warmth soak into me. I tried to wash it all off in a long, hot shower, I tried to scrub my mind of the images. I crawled in bed and put my arms around him and held him while he slept and I stayed awake. He had a nightmare, and I told him it was okay, that I was there, and he held my hand and went back to sleep. And I thought, I would be like that mother, and I would crawl in next to him too, if he were cold, and I would not be able to let go. Not ever. And I did not want those thoughts in my head, not there, not when I didn’t have on my uniform, or my gun. Because I didn’t think I would be able to flip the switch if I didn’t have those things. That I would be too human, and vulnerable.
The next day they wanted the stories, and the gore, and it made me mad. But I knew I would want to know the same things, if I had not been there.
And then. I was sent to a car crash and when I got there, the SUV was on its side, pitched up in a steep front yard, with its ass end clinging to stability at the end of a utility pole. The driver inside seated where the passenger door should be, me and some passersby trying to keep everything in a precarious balance while the FD was enroute. The man inside began to complain that he was getting rained on, and I could not believe, that as he sat there in someone’s front yard, safety glass all over him, unable to get out of his car, his complaint was that he was getting wet. I was soaked and freezing, and I let him in on my incredulity at his whining. When they cut him out and got him strapped down on the stretcher, the smell of booze filled the entire scene and clung low in the damp, cold air. I knew that I would be following the ambulance back to the hospital. And so I did, and the nurses seemed pissed that they had to deal with his belligerent rambling, as if it was my fault for bringing him there. And I played with him, and he did not understand, and he laughed, and then the hospital staff joined in and we tried to make the whole thing better by making him an ass.
After babysitting him for an hour or so, I was parked at the side door of the station getting my paperwork together, when another city called out a possible drunk driver who had fled the scene of an accident. For a second I sat there, in my running car, thinking, he will not pass through my zone, but he will come through the city. I have so much work to do already, I should just go inside and get started. And then the next second my car was in gear, headed west to where I knew the suspect car would be. And it passed me as I pulled up to the intersection, and I got behind it, and like I was just acting a part I called it out, turned on my lights and sirens, as five or so others caught up and did likewise. The driver did not stop and we went on a slow and icy and anti-climactic pursuit until he finally realized the futility of trying to make it home. That we would follow him there, too. I got soaked again, as we tested him, and he kept asking me can you please close the window to my corvette and I wondered what the fuck is wrong with people. He told me that he didn’t see or hear me, or the five other cop cars behind him, and that was why he didn’t stop. The other city took him, and I went back to my paperwork, and to dry off.
Then, then. Radio called the two other cars, but one of them didn’t listen, and there was no way I could let the one who did acknowledge the call go alone. I knew the house, and when it came out as an unresponsive female, I knew it was going to be her, and that she would be on God only knows what. My partner got there first because I followed the ambulance from station, and they do not go faster than the speed limit. I cussed at them the whole way there. Inside the front door, I could see E on the floor trying to revive the girl, and the grandma approached me and said “there’s one more”. In the house? Another one in the house? Where?? I took a firefighter with me up the stairs, and there he was, in the landing. Jeans around his ankles, dick hanging out of his underwear, t-shirt sweat soaked and drooling on himself. Unconscious. He reared up like a zombie when I knuckle rubbed his sternum and the firefighter and I went about our tasks. A few minutes later and that third car had still not responded, and I could hear the girl downstairs screaming and giving E a battle. The firefighter looked at me and I said, “you just let me know if you need me back up here. Give a yell and I will be right back.” The girl had come back to life and she was pissed at the world for it. We had to hold her down and then strap her down to the cot, and still she got out of the restraints, so that I had to ride in the back of the ambulance all the way to the hospital, holding her down. She looked at me and she kept saying, “I know you, I know you,” with her thick tongue and her pupils as wide as saucers. Again, the hospital was not happy to see me, especially when I told them that my partner was on his way with the male half, and that he was likely to be just as mad when he came around. But it was an hour past the time I should have been at home, and I didn’t care anymore about their lack of desire to do their jobs. E showed up and the male had indeed come around, and he was foaming at the mouth, and was just utterly disgusting, telling us that his life was fucked up and that he couldn’t read or write. And look at you, you are cops, you did something with your life, and I won’t do anything with my life I can’t read or write. Life already over at 23. And I wondered why in the hell do people drink, or get high, if this is how it ends up. Foaming at the mouth tied down to a hospital bed with your dick hanging out.
They were sedated, and another officer came to get us, and we went back to station, and out of our gear, and home. He was asleep, but had left the bottle of Irish Whiskey and a shot glass out for me (to help combat the cold). I poked my head in the bedroom before I got into the shower and he was sound asleep, with the light on my nightstand left on for me. My God, I am so lucky. And life is so short. And precious. And please, Lord, let me not live with this regret in my heart. Help us to fix what is broken while there is still time. Please fill her heart with love, Lord, and find a way to forgive me and let us move on. After the very long shower I crawled in beside him, and he turned over and his big, strong arms surrounded me and I closed my eyes, and I slept and I did not dream.
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