Hocus Pocus

This just makes me happy:

Invited Guest

There was rain. The yellowed grass husked green. The leaves are turning yellow.
Dad's skin smells like butter, flakes behind his ears into his cereal. O's. Honey O's.
Guy calls in a voice. On the telephone he says, There are toile dishes with peacocks,
blue, and fruit, lots and lots of grapes. Should I pick them up from this house with lemon scented banisters? Too much Pledge I think. Should I put them on a table?
Empty? To sell? To someone?
A crackle in the line. Or is it in his voice?
I say, It's getting cooler outside.
I say, There was a rush of ideas, and now September is nearly ended.
Guy says, What gives?
My sister's here, I say.
Sister opens the door. It squawks. She is holding a head of cauliflower. I picked this, she says.
Dad looks up from his Honey O's. He makes with his mouth the shape: O.
I put down the phone.
I put down Guy's voice.
Outside, the low growl of thunder.
Outside, the churn of weather.
Outside is not invited inside.

Abalone

Ne hao, I say.
Bao yu, I say.  
Shh, Guy says. I can't take it anymore.
What you got here? a man says.
Ne hao, I say in my head.
Stuff, I say in my head.
Junk, I say in my head.
S**t, I say in my head.
Things you probably don't need, I say in my head.
Or want, I say in my head.
Things falling apart, I say in my head.
Fine things we've picked up along the way, Guy says.
Cheap, Guy says.
Sturdy, Guy says.
Bao yu, I say.
Shh, Guy says.
Nice, the man says.
Very nice, the man says.
We are on the sidewalk. The things are on a table. The table separates us from this man. This man says, I'm Paul. This man says, I like old things because they make me feel good, because they don't make em like they used to, do they?
No Paul, Guy says, they don't, Paul.
I'm from Arizona, Paul says. It's hot there, but in a different way.
I know what you mean, Paul, Guy says. Dry heat versus...
Versus all this humidity, Guy says.
Half the time, I feel like I'm melting, I say.
Paul says nothing.
Guy clears his throat.
The other half, I'm freezing, I say.
I know what you mean, Paul says. He says, I'm working on a house.
He says, blah blah blah drywall blah blah blah drywall.
Guy says, I know what you mean about that blah blah blah blah drywall.
Drywall, I say.
Paul waits.
Is tough, I say.
Paul leaves.
I say, Goodbye. It is too difficult for me to say it in Chinese. So I say, Goodbye. Come back soon.

"S.U.P.P.O.R.T."

These days, as you may have surmised, Guy and I are propping each other up from the mud Forrest and Bubba Gump style. The question is never whether, but just what we're going to do with ourselves on any given day. Especially if there aren't any good flea markets or estate sales to go to. Old movies and long walks. Lots and lots of youtube. Guy wallows in his Tammy Wynette obsession, and I like watching him try not to cry when we watch this. We have a few old ladies whose lawns we mow for a few bucks here and there. They like me, which is nice, and I like them. I feel like our lives are not so dissimilar.

We write stories sometimes, Guy and I, and read them to each other. Guy is a horrible writer, and he makes me feel better about my own efforts. Guy loves adjectives. Sometimes we will write stories together, trading off sentences. I will introduce a horse, and Guy will describe the horse. Guy enjoys details.

We traded my accordion for this. I don't know how I was talked into it, but there is this Chinese girl who works at the grocery store who I am always trying to talk to. That might have had something to do with it. So we try to learn Mandarin Chinese together as well, off and on as we have the energy for it. Maybe one day we will sell enough stuff to go to China. Maybe we will just sell enough so we can drink beer that doesn't give me headaches.

Pet Mother

Guy opens a cabinet. He tells me, Curt is to butter as Guy is to kombucha.

There are jars and jars of the stuff. He takes one out and shows it to me, lets me hold it, and says that I should take it, that I should take care of his mother. I say, Don't tell me what I should do, and he says, You can take one if you'd like, it would be something like a pet.
A pet? I say.

Now, at home, the mother is on the table, my new pet. I watch it for a while, but it doesn't do much. But I am afraid that I might kill it, that something will happen and it will get loose and I'll never be able to find it, or that it will get run over by a car.

I pour a little bit of the kombucha into a glass and take a sip. It is sour, burns. It fills me, and Dad walks in and asks what the h*ll it is! I say, It's my new pet. Well, he says, get it out of here, it looks filthy! So I take the mother into my room. I set it on my bureau. I try to come up with a name. I fall asleep.

This is what it feels like

Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!

Guy asks to sell my accordion. Guy asks to sell my food processor. Guy asks to sell my knife collection.

These are all just things, of course, but they are my things, and they all mean something to me. Of course, Guy is my friend--and my family--and it seems like he is going through a hard time right now. I know when I am sad, sometimes it feels really good to sell things, or to clean, or to rearrange the furniture. I have heard that they rearranged the deck chairs on the Titanic, even as the ship was going down, because they understood that that is just the way we are wired as human beings. It is absurd, but we have to keep moving forward, like a shark, even if we know the things that we are doing are meaningless. So I tell Guy, sure you can sell my things, but I tell them they are worth way more than they are. The Accordion, 2000! The Food Processor, 200! And I tell him we are pricing them to sell! Cheap Cheap Cheap! If we cannot be free, at least we can be cheap!

That is what friendship is all about. We sit outside, drinking Big Flats, pointing out mosquitoes as they land on each other's backs. The mosquitoes are worse than bad. We could go inside, but it feels so good to be taking care of each other.