No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
You jerk your head around to examine the pews. They are empty. You cast a glance to the balcony above the entrance where the organ sits. No one. You swivel back to look at the altar, the side doors you assume lead to the sacristy and rectory. You are alone.
When I learned my wife had lost her mother, I assumed she, too, had been chasing impossible expectations.
“Mason.” His voice crackled through the receiver. “What’s the word, my man? I knew you’d be looking to groove.” Loud bass music in the background. He was somewhere on the outskirts, maybe a bathroom stall, I presumed, of an evening pool party, undoubtedly swimming in vices.
Crossing from the bathroom toward the balcony, I saw my phone buzzing on the bed, an incoming call. A 702 number, Vegas area code. My forearm hairs stood at attention. Had to be Lester disguising his number. Maybe to gloat about putting one by me. To warn me—never trust someone like him, and to wish me good luck fixing the unfixable, replacing cash so Sigfried doesn’t kill me. Lester was on his way out of the country. I picked up the phone, defiantly unable to mask my voice from someone insane.
And the biggest change of the last few months is the lack of a straight narrative flow. Wouldn’t that be nice? A happens, and then B, leading naturally to C. Beginnings. Endings. No aimless detours, stuttering repeats or sudden U-turns. A storyline one could count on. It would be logical, and kind.
The endings of the two songs reflect different directions: future and past. Paul M.’s protagonist makes another jaunty request to his partner: “Send me a postcard, drop me a line . . . .” He is planning for life in the future. But Paul S. warns: “Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you.”