Taps

I can tell that it's going to be another scorcher. It's the kind of day that melts any kind of butter. Yet I will persist. I will listen to Charles Ives' Decoration Day. I will make a sweet vanilla butter with flecks of red and blue sprinkles folded into this butter and enjoy it on pumpernickel bread in the cemetery. I will call this butter, the American. I will eat the American with Ronny. That's right, I will call Ronny and invite him to the cemetery. I will invite his wife, also. Together, all three of us will spread the American on pumpernickel bread and savor the American on our tongues and with our tongues, free bits of sprinkled American out from between our teeth.

I will excuse myself from the cemetery. I will hear someone playing Taps from somewhere. I will take Warden and Regrette on a walk and we will smell grilling. I will think of my best friend and how we got high and decided to have a hot dog eating contest. How my Dad came out from the house with his Pepsi and told us to slow down, that if we were that hungry he'd put more hot dogs on the grill! I will think: That was a long time ago.

I will write a letter to Dad. I will write many things. Things that shouldn't be hard to write, but always are for some reason. I will ask him about the war, maybe, or about Mom. I will apologize for certain things I've done and maybe offer an explanation or two for some of my actions. Before I know it, the letter will be several pages long. I will read it and decide not to send it. I will tell myself that I'll call him tomorrow. Or, maybe the day after that. For a split second, I will want to eat the letter, to put everything I've written back into me. But instead, I'll tear it up and throw it away.

I will be tired. I will open the window. I will still hear Taps somewhere, but this time, it will sound much farther away.

The Uncertainty Principle

Do you know somebody who overreacts to everything?

Do you know somebody who underreacts to everything?

My sister called me once not to long ago and was crying. She had gotten a bad haircut. I didn't know what to say. Maybe there was something else that was going on.

Another time, my sister called me and told me she had a tumor that might be cancerous. She dropped this information nonchalantly after about 15 minutes of inane dialogue.

I don't really understand my sister, and I don't know if I ever will.

My Dad is 74 years old. He likes to go down to Wheeling Island and gamble on greyhounds.

My Dad is not very good at picking winning greyhounds, but he thinks with enough practice he will be eventually.

My sister disagrees.

My Dad enjoys Rob Roys.

He has had a hard life, with a fair amount of tragedy. I think he should be allowed to do whatever he wants.

My sister disagrees. She is there, taking care of him. Who am I to say, well anything, really?

When I call her today, she is calm.

"What's up sis?"

"Curt......hey...." I think she is still taking tranquilizers. That's part of why Guy says he left her.

"Something up?"

"No, mmmmmm. Not really."

Who is this woman? Why does she do this to me? I mean, I guess it's not really anything, but geez.

"Nothing at all?"

"Nope. Not really."

When I hang up the phone, I'm shaking. I'm not sure why. Maybe frustration.

I should probably make an effort to get home.

Message

I don't know why I didn't notice earlier.

Maybe it was because I felt like I couldn't move when I woke up this morning. My muscles, taut with soreness, slowly recoiling from the dirt I carried for Ronny. Maybe it was because the diner was busy, the Saturday morning crowd, loud and impatient. Belle Star demanding dishes! Dishes Curt! Keep moving! Raymond asking me questions I don't have time to answer. Don't have time to think about. Maybe it was because I was worried about Warden. He hadn't gone to the bathroom since 9:00 am yesterday. What if he's sick? What if he goes to the bathroom in the apartment? Maybe it was because it was uncomfortably warm outside and my shirt was clinging to my back. Maybe it was the neighbors, screaming. A baby crying. Maybe it was because I was tired. Maybe.

But when I finally checked my phone, a missed call and a message from my sister. A message she left in the morning.

I don't talk to my sister very often. I see her even less. But when we do get together, she says, "Curt, are you alright?" She says, "Curt, you wanna talk about something?" She says, "Curt, you got anything on your mind?" She says, "You're quiet." I guess she feels like I need a mother figure in my life. I guess she thinks I have no one to talk to. I guess she feels like I feel like I didn't get enough time with Mom. Do I feel that way?

I tell her, in one breath: "I"mfinethanksforasking, reallyIam."

Do I feel that way?

I listen to the message. Her voice sounds different. Her voice trembles. I want to ask her if she's alright. If she wants to talk about something. I want to say, "I'm here."

"Curt," she says, "call me when you get this. It's about Dad."

Planet Curt

Last night, I met Ronny at the coffee shop.

I think Ronny might be a good friend for me. He talks a lot. No awkward silences.

The chess wasn't very good--you should have seen him try to properly order the pieces on the board--so I just asked him a lot of questions. Maybe eventually I'll try to help him with his chess game.

I asked him if he spent a lot of time in cemeteries. He said that he had, ever since he was a kid. His Dad was the caretaker for a cemetery in West Lafayette, Indiana. He says that he used to go out there at night with his best friend, and they would climb a tree that grew next to a big mausoleum, and then jump over onto the mausoleum's roof. There, they would talk about their hopes and dreams for the future. Back then, when Ronny grew up he wanted to play French Horn for Leonard Bernstein in the New York Philharmonic. I told about my early aspirations to be a concert pianist. He asked me if I wanted to get together and play some tunes sometime. When I told him I didn't really play anymore, he said he didn't either.

One day, when they were a little older, he and his friend were drinking and his friend fell off the mausoleum and lost the use of the lower half of his body. Apparently he died not too much later, and Ronny never really understood why. I almost told him what had happened between my best friend and I. I didn't though. I worried that I could send our blooming friendship right down the crapper.

He says he thinks that incident is why he never became a great Horn player. His friend's dream was to go to West Point and become a famous general, which his father was. Rather, I guess his father wasn't famous, but thought he should be. Anyways, out of what you might call guilt, Ronny joined the Army.

I asked Ronny if he ever got back on the mausoleum.

"Curt," he said, "what do you think?"

I didn't know what to think.

Ronny is building an urban garden. He told me he needed to buy 1000 pounds of dirt and get it on top of his garage. He called me early this morning.

"I'm an old man, Curt," he said. "Want to give me a hand?"

We went to Home Depot. Ronny has a beat up old Chevy truck. He bought 1000 pounds of dirt. It was in bags, and we had pushed it on flatbed carts up to the checkout area.

"I'll be damned. You guys got enough dirt to make a whole planet!" the checkout man said.

"A planet!" I said. "Huh."

"What's your name, son?" the checkout man said.

I told him.

"Planet Curt," he said. "I like that."

"Planet Curt," Ronny said. "Not bad."

When we got to Ronny's house, I realized what I had gotten myself into. I'm no "spring chicken" myself, and I ended up doing most of the work. It wasn't particularly far to carry the stuff, but the bags of dirt weighed 60 pounds!

Tired and sweating, and huffing a little bit, I told Ronny when he gets his garden going he owes me some fresh vegetables.

He told me his thumb was greener than the Jolly Green Giant's.

I can almost taste the butters now!

Calling

Ronny calls me when I'm at work. His message: "Curt, it's Ronny. I know it's a bit early, but ham salad sandwiches and chess?" He says his phone number, slowly, a pause between each digit. I try to come up with an excuse while washing dishes.

Sorry Ronny, I can't meet today because I'm not feeling well.
Sorry Ronny, I can't play chess because I can't find my chessboard and I only like playing chess on my chessboard.
Sorry Ronny, one of my dogs is really sick and I need to get him to the vet.
Sorry Ronny.
Sorry Ronny.
Sorry Ronny.

The truth is, I'm scared. I'm not good with friends. Even people I've considered to be my friends made me nervous. What are friends supposed to talk about when they get together? How can they keep on talking and talking and laughing and talking some more?

My short shift is over. I am walking home. I am opening my apartment door. I am feeding the dogs. The dogs don't ask me how my day went, but I am telling them,"Work is work. Belle Star was in a good mood. Oh, and Ronny called. You know, the man we met in the cemetery yesterday. Ronny."

Ronny is calling and I am answering the phone. I am saying, "Hello." I am saying, "Sure." I am saying, "What time?" I am saying, "See ya later." I am hanging up the phone. I am standing over the kitchen sink. I am dizzy. I am thinking, Chess tonight, at the coffee shop down the street. I am digging through my boxes. I am pulling out my chessboard. I am finding all the pieces. I am looking for the rook. I am looking for the rook.

Ham Salad Sandwiches

I got up early this morning. I guess I fell asleep early last night. Even at 6:30 am, you could already tell it was going to be a beautiful day, so instead of just taking the dogs back inside after we took care of "business", we just kept on trucking to the cemetery. I figured I'd let the dogs work off some energy before the workers started tending to the grounds and giving me dirty looks.

I had Regrette on her leash, but Warden was off smelling things and claiming tombstones as his own when I lost sight of him. It was then that we had a strange encounter.

There was a man, with a picnic spread. Again, this was pretty early, a strange time for a picnic if you ask me. The man was old, but his features looked well preserved. He was asking Warden why he ate his wife's sandwich when I caught up to them. I leashed Warden and gave him a scolding.

"So sorry!" I said. "What kind of sandwich was it?? Where is your wife?" I was out of breath, and out of sorts, and after I asked about his wife, I realized what he was doing, and where his wife was.

"Ham salad," he said cheerfully. He wasn't mad. He seemed amused more than anything.

"Early for a picnic, eh?"

"It'll be too hot later, by God. And breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"I don't know if I believe that."

The dogs were surprisingly, and thankfully calm. The man offered me a sandwich and asked me if I'd like to sit down. I accepted, and got the dogs to sit, too. They were already hot, and panting.

"Your wife is buried here?" I asked. I took a bite from the sandwich, which was tasteless, but I enjoyed the texture of the Ham Salad interacting with the crispness of the lettuce.
"No" he said.
I asked him where his wife was. He said she was working. I'm not sure why he had a sandwich for her, but hey. I apologized for thinking she was dead. It was awkward.
"No she's fine."

We had been talking for five or ten minutes, about the weather and such things, when a mower started in the distance. I explained that I needed to get the dogs out of there before we got kicked out. I asked the man if he played chess. He said that he hadn't in a long time, but that he'd like to. He introduced himself as Ronny McDonough. I felt like I had heard that name, but I'm not sure where. He packed his basket up and followed the dogs and I out of the cemetery.

I realized when we were almost to my apartment that it was no place to invite someone to. It wasn't just in bad shape now--I was still living out of boxes.

"Ronny," I said.
"Curt?"
"I can't play chess today."
"Tomorrow?"
"Maybe." I gave him my phone number.
"Curt," he said.
"Ronny?"
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay."

I shook his hand, and went inside.

A Housewarming

Today was Regrette's first day in the cemetery. She seemed to like it and even found a wild turkey to chase! After I took the dogs out for a walk, I decided to make Housewarming Butter.

What is Housewarming Butter? Housewarming Butter is any butter that makes you feel at home. So, I decided that a classic rosemary butter would be my Housewarming Butter because it was one of the first butters I'd made after prison. I plugged in the food processor. I brought out the rosemary and heavy whipping cream.
Moments later...
...
...

My first butter in my new place!

My new place has what I'd consider a rustic feel.
A tender amount of dust. Delightful holes in the walls. Doors that purr affectionately and floors that keep me on my toes.

Last night, I closed my eyes. I said to myself:

Imagine. You've just opened the door to an immaculate room that's all yours. There is a king-sized bed in one corner with the finest mattress and linens. You lie down on this bed. You sink into the bed. You stare up into the ceiling and notice that you are looking through a skylight into the night sky. You start counting the stars. You say, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven...

The Year that I Read Dog Books

Was I a dog person before I was a butter person?

When did I become a dog person?

My new apartment is not the nicest place in the world. I have to make it home, I know, but in the short term it kind of sucks. I'm not going to lie. I'm a little mad at my dogs. Maybe mad isn't the right word. How about bitter? If not for them, after all, I wouldn't be here.

I was in prison for a long time. Do you know how many books I read while I was in prison? I counted. 2,384. Sure, a lot of it was Star Wars novels and things like that. Then one day, I read A Boy and His Dog. Sure, it's a strange little science fiction story. But that kicked off what I call The Year that I Read Dog Books, and I developed a little fantasy about getting out of prison and adopting a couple dogs and becoming Curt Jimenez, Dog Person. Or something like that. It was 1986.

I think you have to be a dreamer to get through prison time. I did anyways. Remember, I was 18 when I did what I did, and my life up to that point wasn't necessarily something that I was able to think about returning to. I was a kid when all that crazy stuff happened, you know? I had to invent a life in my head that would be my destination once I paid my debt to society. And the best I could come up with at the time was having a couple of dogs. I couldn't conceive of myself in a serious relationship with a woman. I never really felt adult enough to think about having kids. I didn't hunt or fish. I was terrible at sports. I didn't really consider butter making a serious hobby at the time, and I wasn't writing yet.

But dogs, I could handle dogs, I thought.

I read everything Jack London ever wrote. I read and read. I reread. I read Sounder, and Old Yeller, and Where the Red Fern Grows. I read dog training books, and drew small dogs on my body in ballpoint pen.

I ranked my favorite breeds of dogs, and logged their best and worst features. You won't believe this, but my fellow inmates started calling me Dogman, sometimes just Dog. I'm not sure that it was in a nice way. I think most of them always thought I was a little off.

But The Year that I Read Dog Books ended as inauspiciously as it began. And I moved on to other things, i.e., the year I Read the French Existentialists, and The Year I Was Into Mystic Poetry. And there were others. And dogs faded into the periphery in my fantasies.

But I finally got out, and I needed something.

And I adopted Stella.

And then Warden.

And then I realized how hard it is to be a dog owner.

And then Stella died.

And then I adopted Regrette.

And here I am in my near windowless, filthy apartment, staring at the drab walls while Warden drinks out of the toilet and licks my face and Regrette squats and pees in the corner.

Perhaps I should have given myself to the existentialists, or the mystic poets.

Goodbye!

That's it. The apartment is empty. Even though I didn't have much stuff, it looks much bigger. Goodbye apartment. Goodbye apartment windows. Goodbye apartment kitchen. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Hello, new apartment! Hello new future! Hello beginnings!

It might take a few days to get my Internet up again, so hang in there. I'll be back before you know it!

Keep it butter,
Curt G. Jimenez

Special Family Portraits

There is a place across the street from Belle Star's diner that specializes in Family Portraits. It is called Special Family Portraits, with the motto: Finally, Family Portraits Done by People Who Actually Specialize in Family Portraits, beneath the sign, Special Family Portraits.

Call me crazy, but I wanted to get a picture taken with my family--Warden and Regrette. I walked over to Special Family Portraits after work today and asked a woman with super long fingernails, wearing an airbrushed t-shirt that said, Tiffany, if I could get a picture taken with "two large dogs," to which she responded, "Of course, honey. The bigger the better. Hahaha! Hahaheehee! "

I scheduled an appointment for later in the day. I rushed home and put on my nicest pair of jeans and my only button-down shirt. I brushed Warden and Regrette and gave them kisses, and then treats, and then some more kisses. They are my family, are they not?

When we arrived at Special Family Portraits, the woman I'd talked to earlier greeted us at the door. "You weren't kidding," she said, "these dogs are huge. Heehee!" She ushered us into a room with a white backdrop and a big camera. Warden and Regrette's tails wagged with excitement, smacking my legs. "You look nice, cowboy," the woman said.

"Who? Me?" I said.

"Haha!" she said. She was very happy. Maybe we were her only customers of the day. Or for the month. "Heehee!"

I sat on a white cube, flanked by Warden and Regrette. The woman made strange noises to get the dogs' attention. "Caw caw!" she said. "Bupee bupee bupee!" she said. Even after the dogs were looking at the camera, she persisted with "Ahh Eee Ooo Eee Ahh!" and always that "Hee hee! Ha!"

After the photo shoot, she pulled up the pictures and asked what kind of background I wanted. "I don't know," I said, "What kind of backgrounds do you have?"

"Hee hee! A ton," she said. Warden, Regrette, and I were in space with a click of a button. Then, in a meadow. Beside a river. In front of the Alps. Riding a wave in Hawaii. At a rainbow's base beside a pot of gold. In a field of sunflowers. Up high in the sky.

In the end, I chose the lasers. The simple red, green, blue, and purple lines, crisscrossing behind our heads, intersecting our bodies randomly.

"Good choice," the woman said. "Hee hee!"

"Thanks," I said.

Blah blah, Blah

I woke up today, and I didn't know what day it was.

I guess for some people that might be disorienting or something. Maybe, for some people, it's a pretty regular occurrence. For me, it was crazy, highly unusual. I couldn't remember the last time I'd woken up and didn't immediately know what day it was. Why? I'm not sure. It was great though, I reveled in it. I took the opportunity to let today be whatever day I wanted it to be.

Wednesday. I decided today would be a Wednesday.

Here is where I'd like to explain how knowing what day of the week it is became so important to me, or rather, how it became something I knew, deep down, without thinking about it at all. I wish I had a story about how, when I was delivering newspapers, Monday's bag was always the lightest, and by Sunday, they were just so heavy, and all I could think about was getting to Monday when the load would be easy again.

No, I never delivered on Sundays, we didn't have a weekend edition. And every day weighed pretty much the same.

But in prison, Tuesday nights were soup night, when we would get bread and soup, which was frequently something edible, quite something to look forward to.

That's not true either. The only regularity in prison eating was counting on a meal's inevitable tastelessness.

I don't know. But today, a Wednesday, I made some oatmeal for breakfast, with lots of Brown Sugar Raisin Butter.

Then I remembered that I have to move on Friday.

And that I have a job.

That's when the phone rang.

"Curt, where the f**k are you? Your a** should be scrubbing pots in my sinks like two f**kin' hours ago!"

"Belle, it's Wednesday!"

We had a good laugh. She told me it was Tuesday, I apologized profusely. No harm no foul.

This isn't working.

Here's the truth:

I made this whole post up. I had nothing to say.

I guess I'm not much of a fiction writer.

Today, I went to work, I was on time.

It is a Tuesday.

I usually have to look at my watch to figure out what day it is.

Blah.

Blah, blah, blah.

Blah blah, blah.

Conrad, revisited.

About the other night.

Uh-huh.

Sorry I left like that.

Like what?

You know. Through the f***ing window.

That's alright. I understand.

Understand what?

That you had to leave through the window.

I didn't have to leave. I didn't have to leave through the window.

Then why'd you leave like that?

I got scared. S**t. This is f****ing awkward, ain't it?

I don't think so.

You remind me of no one. I guess that scares me.

I don't think I understand.

I'm confused.

Me too.

That was a weird night? That was a weird night.

There were dancing stars on TV and I didn't know a single dancing star.

Curt.

Where did all these stars come from?

Curt, I think.

What?

I think, I mean...I think I--

A large man walks into the diner. Hello? he calls. Anyone here? Belle Star rushes out of the kitchen.

What?

Mementos

I started packing today.

I don't have much stuff. Necessities, you know. Some dog toys. A coffee maker. My food processor.

Packing tears me up. My lack of stuff reminds me of souvenirs never acquired, of pictures never taken in exotic locations never visited. The few mementos I do have bookend a period in my life from which I consciously have kept no physical reminders. Prison memories I allow to persevere only in my mind.

I guess I don't count the letters from Lo Mei Fok.

Or the one photo I have of Homes and me, his arm around me, touching me only reluctantly. He was a hardened man, but I had just told him how much he had meant to me. Two hours later my sister and Guy would pick me up, and I would taste freedom for the first time in twenty-five years. I look into that almost-free Curt's eyes, and remember the excitement and the anxiety. It is shocking to me that I don't remember who took the picture, or whose camera it was. I treasure that photo. Homes sits there, on my desk, encouraging me to write, reassuring me that I have something to say. Thanks, Homes, always.

Regrette barely knows this place. I wonder if the smells of Stella linger, and Regrette wonders who this bitch was that was in my life--and Warden's--before she came along. I am thankful that Regrette is a relatively calm puppy. Today, I am mellow, and I couldn't take endless crazy puppy action. She is still growing, and growing fast, and I am anticipating the day that her crate will no longer contain her.

I will miss the windows in this apartment. I think now that I haven't looked out them enough. I suppose small windows with mundane views can only be properly valued when one has to live without them. I guess we'll see.

Speaking of Guy, he finally called me, and woke me up in the middle of the night.

"Curt!" he said.

"Cuuurrtt!" he said again, turning it into a two syllable word. I always enjoyed the way he says "Curt" in his French accent, but considering recent events, this morning I was not amused. I figured that a logger doesn't worry about what time zone he is in. A logger does things on his time.

I don't remember what all I said, but I know it was a lot, and I know it was emotional. Basically, I guess it was all just what you guys already know from reading the blog.

"Curt," Guy finally said," I know what's up! I've been reading the blog!"

I hadn't, up until that moment, considered that anybody from my family might be reading this thing. Had I been saying things about Guy that I shouldn't, or about anyone else? Should I take this thing off the interwebs, or maybe stick to just writing about butter?

I guess I don't know. I realized pretty quickly that there is only so much I can say about my butter making. My life is a tough stream to navigate, and I guess it really helps me to "air my dirty laundry" on this blog, so to speak.

"Curt," I remember Guy saying, "that ain't my kid. And what's more, you tell Peggy Waters that she still owes me forty dollars."

I'm not too sure Guy was really concerned about my problems.

Maybe my problems weren't really anything to be concerned about in the first place.

A Walk

I walked Regrette and Warden this afternoon. Everyone talked about Regrette. They said, "What a dog!" They said, "Wow! What kind of dog is that?" They said, "Is that a dog or is that a bear?" They said, "Hold onto that leash!"

All these people were making me nervous. I walked down one street, then another. But still, the people appeared, sometimes alone, or in small groups. Sometimes, they were teenagers, other times, girls on tricycles. I've never attracted so much attention. I felt like there was a big X over my head or a sign that flashed, LOOK AT ME. So, I walked down another street, then another. I walked through a hole in a chain link fence. We ended up in a clearing where a factory once stood. This factory caught on fire. This factory was destroyed. The clearing was cement and graffiti now. I let the dogs loose. Regrette bounded over iron rods. Warden followed, his big ears flapping wildly. They chased birds.

I ran with them too, although I couldn't keep up. And the three of us ran, for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only twenty minutes. We ran hard.

And when we walked home, we were so tired that we did not hear anyone who stopped and asked about Regrette.

On Unexpected Storms as a Metaphor for my Existence

I had an appointment to look at an apartment this morning. The landlord's name is Denny.

"Denny, do you allow large dogs?" I asked Denny on the phone.
"Curt, do your dogs enjoy cockroaches?" Denny said.
I guess the place is kind of decrepit. I guess I'll take what I can get.

I walked a mile and a half to check out the place. It was a beautiful morning. I couldn't stand to waste it in a car.

Denny was a small man, with shifty eyes, and from the looks of him, not the kind of man you would want to do business with unless you were desperate.

As you know, I'm desperate. Most rational people who rent out property don't allow large dogs.

There is a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. It has a bathtub, but it isn't functioning. I will have to find alternate means of bathing.

There is heat, or there will be when I need it, Denny says. There is wall-to-wall dirty, dirty carpeting, and the depressing smell of mold. It needs a good cleaning, top-to-bottom.

Low ceiling. Peeling wallpaper.

It is in the basement. A single window, small, with bars.

It will work. It has to work. I gave Denny a deposit, all that I had from payday yesterday.

On my way home, the blue sky suddenly turned gray and a thunderstorm started.

I thought, a perfect metaphor for my life.

I was wet. I was soaked. I was unprepared. I am always unprepared.

But I had crawled out of my hole. It wasn't so deep.

And it was okay. Once I was drenched, I couldn't get any wetter, and I embraced my being with the storm. It was liberating. Rain happens. Like death. You might as well accept it.

Everyone around, whether walking or driving, or biking, was bothered by the rain. An unwelcome intrusion on an otherwise fine existence.

I smiled as big as I could as I returned home to Warden and Regrette. We're moving on Thursday. I can't wait to tell them.

I'm going to savor some more Rainy Day Butter, perhaps on my last muffin.

Hot Beef

Hey, I saw something today. At first, I didn't know what to expect. Listen, I know there are things about Belle Star that are a little fishy. Hot beef. Today, I saw Belle Star buying some hot beef off of some drug addicts. It was 60% cheaper than if she had bought it at the grocery store, but you know what they say about statistics...

Hot beef. If you act like a loon, no one will suspect that you are a thief, I hear. Is it true? 100%

Hot beef. If you go through self-check, you will be able to smuggle out a few sirloins, I hear.

Belle Star told me a story about going down to this Italian market and asking for five pounds of hot sausage. They gave her five pounds of HOT SAUCE!!!"I have heard this story fifteen times, I bet. But I still laugh as though it was the first time I've heard the story.

Hot beef, hot sausage, hot sauce. Hot roast, hot steak, hot ribs.

There are things that happen, and I am compelled to turn my head away, because I just lost a job and I don't want to lose another one. I pretend that hot beef doesn't exist.

There is a five pound bag of hot sauce on the prep table. Sauce.

Lately, it is like things are just happening to me, like I have no control. It's both scary and exciting.

I feel like I could be a cut of hot beef on somebody's prep table. Kidnapped and naked.

If you had to relive the last ten years over again, would you want to? I learned a lot in the last decade, but I don't know if I would want to relive it.

Hot beef. I am not the same person I was ten years ago.

Eating Problems

Things have been kind of strange.

I was relieved to have the day off and stayed inside with Regrette and Warden. I taught Regrette a few simple tricks. Sit. Give me your paw. Good girl! I made some butter and named it Rainy Day Butter because it was raining outside and because the butter was grayish blue in color (because of the blackberries). I like this, naming butter something other than the ingredients used to make it. I like the idea of enjoying a rainy day spread on my toast or muffin. Rainy day on my popcorn. Rainy day on my pancakes. Rainy day melting in my mouth. Rainy day buttermilk.

Maybe I will make many butters with many names and eat them all. I will make a butter and name it, Guy, and eat Guy on toast. I will make a butter and name it Peggy Waters. I will smear Peggy Waters on a hotcake. I will say, Peggy Waters I am hungry, and then I will pop the hotcake in my mouth with Peggy Waters melted on top. I will name a butter Problems. I will stick a whole stick of Problems in my mouth. I will eat all of Problems. There will be no more Problems left. That's what I'll do.

Conrad

Belle Star and I are watching Dancing With the Stars. It is the first time I've ever seen the show and I don't know who the "stars" are. Belle is emotional. It is raining cats and dogs.

"Curt, about what happened last night, I don't know, I guess I've been a little on edge or something."

On TV, a "star" is dancing the rumba.

"Curt," Belle Star whispers, "f**k everything."

I don't know why I invited Belle over, maybe because I know that I won't be in my apartment much longer.

"F**k everything," I repeat, without thinking.

Regrette and Warden are sleeping on the couch and Belle Star and I are on the floor. Belle Star told me earlier that she thought my face was handsome. I wonder if Peggy Waters said that to Guy. The judges on the TV are gushing over the dancers, who are breathing hard and smiling big.

I want to brush my teeth. I want to go to bed, alone.

"I don't feel well," I say.

There is silence, and I break it by asking, "why did you shoot at the bird, Belle?"

"I have to go," she says.

"To the bathroom," she says.

The show ends. I think Belle Star is doing lines of cocaine in there. I knock on the door.

There is no answer.

When I open the door, she is not in the bathroom and the window is wide open.

This seems to me to be the best of all possible outcomes. I look behind the shower curtain, and then, out the window. I look deep in my heart of hearts.

It is a heart of darkness.

A Bird Most Fowl

At the diner, I ask the questions.

I say, "How are you Raymond?"
I say, "Raymond, can I ask you a question?"
I say, "Would you rather dig a very short tunnel through hard earth in order to escape from a hole or would you rather climb a long distance in order to escape from this hole?"

I do not know where the question comes from. The diner is all whispers today and my question is heard by all six customers. Three roofers from one roofing company, two roofers from another, and Raymond. I stack the plastic coffee cups. I polish silverware and wipe the counters. Belle Star stops her swearing because she is thinking about my question over potatoes and onions.

The bird comes through the door. A starling that sings an ugly song like wind chimes kicked by too forceful wind. Belle Star stops her cooking. "Motherf***er, I know you didn't just fly into my diner." The bird flits above the stove and then perches on top the coffee maker. The customers exchange quick glances and Belle Star opens a drawer below the cash register.

Raymond clears his throat and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Curt," he says.

Belle Star takes out a gun, a small revolver, and cocks the hammer. "You have five seconds to get the f*** out of here," she says to the starling.

The other customers leave quickly and it is just me and Raymond, Belle Star and the bird. Belle Star shoots. An eruption of sound. A cloud of dust and through this cloud, the bird perseveres. It flies in panicked circles and Belle Star takes aim again, until the bird finds the door from which it came and leaves, carrying with it a new song, like gunfire.

"Curt," Raymond says, "what's outside the hole?"
"Curt," Raymond says, "if you've fallen so far into the earth, how will you know that what's on the outside will still be there when you manage to make your way out of the hole?"
"Curt," Raymond says, "what will you do once you've made your way outside the hole? Don't you think that things would be different because you've achieved a difficult escape? Wouldn't things seem boring?"

Belle Star puts the gun back in the drawer.
I can hear the sirens.
Raymond waits for an answer.

He waits. He stands up. He pays.

He passes the officers on his way out.


They ask Belle Star many questions.

Tires, Spinning

"Guy," I said to the receiver.
"Guy, things are crazy, I need to talk to y0u."
"Guy, boy, I am in hot water."
"Guy, how goes the logging, please call me!"

Those were my first four messages.

Guy, my French brother-in-law. Well, ex-brother-in-law. My best friend.

Guy left my sister, knocked up my landlord (landlady?), and ran away to Wyoming to become a logger. I tell people that he is my best friend, but I suppose that is just because I don't have anybody else. He's a good guy.

I tell myself that he is my best friend. It's nice to think that I have a best friend, even if he is a thousand miles away. Everybody has a best friend, right? Guy can't help me with my situation, I know. I guess I just want someone to talk to. To say to him, Guy, look what is happening to me!

The two people I'd like to talk to the most, Guy and my Mom, can't, or won't answer.

I wish it were a happier Mother's Day.

Once again, life goes out of it's way to show me how lonely I really am.

I woke up yesterday and walked to the liquor store. I bought a bottle of Pinnacle Gin. I drank myself to forgetfulness. I forgot about Peggy. I forgot about prison. I forgot about the Betterbutterblog.

But Regrette wouldn't let me forget about her. She is still here. She is earning her name.
In my adoption post, I wrote as though I didn't really want her, that it just happened, almost against my will. But that's not true. I wanted a dog, and Regrette was there. She is part of our little family now.

My fifth message to Guy:

"Guy, Peggy...Regrette. Regrette, the puppy. Peggy, Preggy. Preggy! Regret. Logger. Regrette! Where are you, Guy?"

Is that how it came out? Why can't I talk sometimes?

Guy is French. His name rhymes with "tree".

Regrette's big indoor poops remind me of how serious our situation is. Peggy will not let this situation go. Who can blame her?

My sixth message to Guy:

"Guy, things here, they've gotten crazy. I need help. How are things going out there? I'm really up s**t creek if you want to know the truth. How big is your place out there? Do they need help, you know with the logging? I wish you'd pick up the phone, I just need to hear a friendly voice. Maybe you just forgot about your old buddy Curt. Hey, call me, k? I'm worried about you!"

I know it's not that bad, my situation. I'll find another place. Like I really have anything to complain about, honestly.

I miss stability.

I miss my Mom.

The Bottom of a Very Deep Hole

Really, it was only a matter of time.

Once, the hole is dug, it must be dug deeper.

Regrette is a tidal wave of dog. Her coat is obsidian. Her paws are saucers. Her jowl, a bear trap. She is a wonder. A frightening wonder. Her appetite is voracious. Her bark is booming. Her movements, sloppy.

And how was I supposed to know?

The contract is binding.

Warden greeted Regrette with kisses. Regrette barked and lifted a paw to Warden's face. They tussled in the living room and in the kitchen and in the bedroom. They shook the apartment with their playful embraces. The windowpanes rattled in their casings with each Regrette-ful bark. Warden was happy. I was happy.

Then the knock on the door.

"Who is it?" I said.

"Peggy Waters," a voice said through the door. "Landlord."

I turned to Warden and Regrette. I lifted a finger to my mouth. "Shh," I said, and the dogs stopped their playing. They sat and looked at me. "Huh," I said. They waited for the next command.

I opened the door to a very pregnant Peggy Waters.

"I've received several complaints," she said, "about loud disruptive noises coming from your apartment."

"I'm sorry, it's the dogs--"

"I'm sorry, did you say dogs?"

"Yes," I said, although I knew from Peggy Water's raised eyebrows and razor-like stare that dogs were a BIG no-no. My heart raced. My stomach folded in on itself.

"I regret to--"

But Peggy Waters could not finish. Regrette barked. The loudest bark I've ever heard in my life. Peggy Waters screamed. She cradled her stomach and winced. I thought she'd gone into labor.

"No, she's a friendly dog," I said. "I swear."

"Out!" Peggy Waters screamed. "The dogs go or you go!"

"I didn't know," I said, "Guy never--"

"Guy?" Peggy Waters said. Her face turned red. Her eyes teared up. "Tell that bastard that his son is due any day now." With that, she turned around and walked down the hallway. "You have one week Mr. Jimenez. The dogs go or you go."

"Preggy!" I pleaded, "I mean, Peggy."

I closed the door. I looked at the dogs. Regrette tilted her head.

As if she'd understood everything.

Regrette

"You're quiet today, Curt."
"I'm always quiet."
"Today though...today seems different."

Today is different. I don't know why though. I had walked to the animal shelter, as I do from time to time. Beth, the woman at the shelter, is the one who noticed that I was a little off.

I spend time with a lot of different dogs, petting them, talking to them. It doesn't make me feel happy, or better about myself. I guess maybe it makes me feel less alone--like I have a kinship with all these unwanted dogs who are perfectly normal and good, and yet the world they find themselves in is not one in which they can just be. They are like me. Out of place. Alone.

I do it because I know it makes Warden jealous, his owner fraternizing with abandoned pitbull mixes and old and depressing beagles. Warden is the most jealous dog I've ever known, and I don't know why I like to bring out this unfortunate side of his, by returning home reeking of foreign dogs. But after a time, he always comes around, and forgives me. What choice does he have?

I do it because I don't have anything else to do. I do it because Beth is compelled to be nice to me just because she is nice to everyone that comes into the shelter and loves animals, and as far as she knows I'm a harmless old man, and she is young and adorable and knows when something is wrong with me even if I'm basically acting the same as I always act.

I surprise myself with the urgency with which I finally respond. "Everything is different, Beth," I say. "Because everything is the same and I was expecting everything to be different and I tried to do things to make everything different but they're not, everything still sucks, if you want to know the truth."

It is supposed to be eloquent and poetic. It is sad and pathetic. I don't know what I'm talking about. I have turned a reasonably pleasant situation into something awkward, a Jimenez Special.

She looks me in the eye, and I can't return the gaze. I am embarrassed.

Trying to make conversation, I ask if the mixed Mastiff/Great Dane puppy is available for adoption.

"You bet!" Beth says.

I am suddenly in a daze. I am signing the papers.

I am walking home with my new, giant puppy.

I am naming her Regrette, after the feeling that remains lodged in my gut.

Fight

Someone asked me if I was in a fight, today. This someone was a woman in scrubs feeding quarters into her meter. She said, "Sir, were you in a fight?" I didn't know she was talking to me. She was feeding quarters into her meter. "Sir," she said again. "Were you in a fight?"

"No," I said. I didn't stop. I wanted to get home and feed Warden and drink coffee.
"I can help," she said.
"I'm fine," I said, "really."

When I got home, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. A scab had appeared on my nose from Warden a few days earlier, there were burns on my arms from the dish detergent, and a cut on my thumb from washing a knife at the diner. I looked a mess. I felt a mess.

Help me

A Goddamn Enema

At the diner, I try not to get overwhelmed when the dishes start to pile up. I take each dish in my hand, and direct my energy fully to it. This is the only dish in the world, Curt. I talk myself down. The diner is sensory overload, every minute that I am there. People chatting about meaningless things. Dinners and breakfast plates with silly names being shouted out, endlessly. Louder than necessary if you ask me.

If there are no customers, Belle Star talks just to hear herself talk. "That son-of-a-bitch the other day Curt," she said to me yesterday, "that son-of-a-bitch had to get a f**kin' enema and he sits his a** down on that f**kin' stool and starts to tell me about it. A goddamn enema."

Belle Star repeated the story to me that she had no desire to hear herself. A goddamn enema.

I don't know how I can like people so much and yet have such a hard time being around them. Is that normal?

Today, I asked Belle Star if maybe I could do a little cooking at some point. Just to break the monotony. "I make butter at home!" I said enthusiastically, perhaps awkwardly. I tried to sell myself, something I'm not very good at.

"You want to cook, Jimenez, you crazy f**k?"

With Belle Star's encouragement, one of the servers let me throw together a couple salads for her. She is in her twenties and dresses like she thinks she weighs 100 pounds and not 150. She flirts with me persistently. She thinks she is doing me a favor, like it is a special thrill for this 51 year old man to be flirted with by such an impressive young specimen.

Curt Jimenez, this is your life.

Son-of-a-bitch.

At the diner, I try not to get overwhelmed when the dishes start to pile up. I take each dish in my hand, and direct my energy fully to it. This is the only dish in the world, Curt.

A goddamn enema.

Curt & Curt

I know so little. There was a door in my house growing up
on the second floor, that could be seen from the outside. It
stood, without a floor to meet it, white and with a glass
doorknob. But, I could not find the door from the inside. It
must have been covered by drywall. At dinner, no one ever
mentioned the door, but I'm sure it was on someone's mind
during some part of the day. Sometimes, I could see the sun's
reflection in the glass doorknob from a distance. Once,
I thought I saw it from a window in prison, and called out
Home.

&

I know so little too. Sometimes, I think I understand many
things, but time is relentless and I will not know the things
to know about soon. Even the things I do not know about
move forward further than I do.

&

My mother's brother, my uncle, once hit a calf. He left it by
the side of the road. But he traveled this road often and
witnessed the maggots devouring the calf. The calf's muscles
exposed to sun. The bones, dry and brittle, sighing into
nothingness. Then, he said, he saw the calf in his driveway,
or in the bathtub, waiting. He saw the calf in his bed, beneath
the sheets. He saw the calf in department store fitting
rooms. In his car. In the booth across from his. In his closet.
In his hospital bed. On the ceiling, grazing on light bulbs and
smoke detectors. Then, he shot himself in the head.

&

I know so little about you and you so little about me. A
woman I knew, told me to listen carefully in order to
know. No one listens carefully. Listen, if you listened
carefully, you would know in which direction I had gone
and why. This woman fed me Brazil nuts and fruit that
smelled like rotting. She had many things to say, I could
tell because her mouth was fixed in a frown. Sadness,
she said, was having to tell too many stories to too many
deaf ears.

&

If you are always here, who is there moving as you do?

Sheep-pig

I had an emotional day yesterday. This guy at the diner, Raymond, asked me a lot of personal questions, and for some reason I was compelled to be really truthful with him. It was hard. Not that I'm usually dishonest exactly, but most of the time, I divert or evade. It's not like I was really uncomfortable at all, or anything like that. It was just heavy, if you want to know the truth. I got home and couldn't blog, I just couldn't. It's like I had gotten so much out earlier, that I didn't have anything left.

So I was off today, and I thought I needed a 'pick-me-up', so I said to Warden, "I think it's time we watched my #7 all time favorite movie together." Babe. It was just what I needed.

I was hoping to get some sort of emotional reaction out of Warden, but he didn't really do anything. He kicked his leg a lot, but that's when I was scratching his "spot". He also licked my face at some poignant moments, but he was licking me basically through the whole movie.

It rained all day, so I'm happy I did something to distract myself in a happy way. Mother's day is coming up, and that's always hard for me. It never gets any easier.

I thought about thinking about looking for another job. Dish-washing is fine for now, but not forever I don't think. We'll see. Maybe tomorrow I'll actually think about it, for real.