Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form

I've been reading a collection of short stories. The first story blew me away. I was like: "Woah, that story blew me away!" In this story, a Father and a son were on a walk. The Father, at the end of the story, wept. I was moved--blown away, really. In the second story, a Father and a son walked to a river. There, by the river, the Father wept, and again, I was moved. The third story, about a Father and a son, had within it, a story about a man who locked himself out of his apartment and rang the door bell, even though he knew no one was inside. Then, in this story within the story, the man cried, and the Father who was reading this story in the story, wept while his son looked on. In the fourth story, the Father wept. In the fifth story, the Father wept. In the sixth story, the Father wept. I was not moved. My father does not weep nearly as often as the Father within these stories. Once, I saw him shed a tear. He was cutting an onion.

I don't know why I'm telling you about this short story collection. I don't know why it matters so much that I need to post it. But it does, for some reason. It matters that a Father in these stories, weeps. It matters to me.

Also!

Also, I got a new job as a bathroom remodel salesman! Can you believe it? Do you know anybody who need a new bathtub? An elderly person in need of a bath-to-shower conversion??? Hit me up!!

You're doing it again

Do you ever talk to an old friend for a long time, and then afterwards realize that you spent the whole time talking about yourself and then you wonder what the heck is wrong with you and how you could be such a terrible friend since there really isn't anything that you could have possibly said in that hour that could have been that interesting to the other person? Yeah, I just did that.

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.