No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
Helen grumbled when dispatch sent her on a fifteen-mile drive to pick up a couple in the suburbs. It was a half-hour before the end of her shift, November and already winter cold in Montreal. She wanted to soak in a bath, watch tv. But City Cab made it clear. You took calls or you looked for another job. After fifteen years, she still hated being told what to do. Just once, she’d like to tell dispatch to shove it.
After the gig, I stood in the lobby and in the street outside and there was no sign of Mike. There was an edgy feel to this space that didn’t encourage hanging around. The venue attracted a lot of affluent punters and some of the more predatory locals gathered at the end of gigs to pick off the weaklings, like big cats around a watering-hole.
We used the trashcans to hop on the roof of the garage. There wasn’t much to see up there, and it didn’t make the neighborhood look any different. Old, narrow houses stood too close to each other like a huddled crowd of sick people. The windows made me think of sad eyes. There were never any dogs or children in the small cramped yards. But I no longer thought someone could get stuck here, that a street like this could keep you trapped in one place. Colleen even called us birds, and I pictured us as two tiny ones side by side, wings fluttering, when I saw a flock of black birds take off against the storm clouds.
Weeks after the wreck Dan sat on his couch watching television. He’d gone on a bender and Mary wasn’t pleased. Sometimes they drank together but Mary was a lightweight and prone to nasty hangovers. Three days ago she had called in sick to work and thrown up all day. Subsequently she had lost all desire to drink. Dan’s back and neck were bothering him from the car accident, though he already suffered chronic back pain working construction over many years.
“I’m going to get out of this racket,” Dan said often.
“And do what instead?” Mary always responded.
It was as far as the discussion went.
On a stifling summer day many years ago, Ana and her brother Dan first created the MMV - a Melted Marshmallow and Velveeta cheese sandwich. They were inspired, as so many kids are, by television. Their mom and only parent was at work, leaving the siblings home alone. They were watching a movie which showed the kind of American kids they only saw on TV, making s’mores while camping in the great outdoors. It was then that Dan came up with the idea.
“Let’s go camping, right here, you and I!”
When my mom and I were sitting on her bed talking about life, she shared that her work as a therapist was thriving. Her days as a social worker at an agency were now over, and she loved having her own practice. She even took some Fridays off. She seemed more relaxed overall. Suddenly I blurted out, “I met someone at school, and we are dating and it’s been about two months and it’s going well and I’m so happy.” “Oh, that’s great. Tell me about him.” A big pause ensued.