Why Are You So Sad? (13 page)
Read Why Are You So Sad? Online
Authors: Jason Porter
B)
A
rainstorm had passed through while we were in Schlitzy's and left behind fifteen minutes of cool. The roads were wet, the dirt was hidden in the moisture, the cars were hushing each other.
I wondered if I could freeze my mind in one moment. Press pause. Blow it up like a photo. Highlight the titillating parts. Capture the kiss and me in it in a big block of ice.
A yellow leaf, curled on the edges, was trapped under a wiper. Pinned down like a driver after a crash. It said to me:
Help.
Then it said,
You have a heart. Use it. Enjoy the blood surging through you. I'm tired of your excuses.
I set the windshield wipers in motion, but the leaf wouldn't budge. The rain had him glued to the glass. The leaf said,
Go home. You have a home. You have a lovely wife. You are not a performance artist.
When the traffic is light I like to take the War of 1812 Bridge going back across the bay. Brenda and I had ridden across it on our bicycles once, when that was still legal. I felt a certain loyalty to the structure. The taillights at night arcing over the span were beautiful despite themselves, despite the stupid drivers and their stupid, bloated vehicles.
I thought about Glenda and her project. I thought about her father. His resources. I wondered if he might fund my research or give me my own channel. “
Your Fallen Hopes
, with your host, Raymond Champs, emotional downgrader to the stars.”
I was in the final stretch of my return commute. A Japanese restaurant had taken over the Italian restaurant that had taken over the natural foods store. The Storage Time on East 423rd was offering a special on packing tape. The high school where Brenda had learned self-defense after work looked wet and forgotten. A junker was sitting in the parking lot with its doors open and adolescent beats pouring out in a plea for attention.
I drove past a Garden Mania and a Waterfall of Toys and turned into our subdivision. The landscape went from commercial sprawl to the repetition of five different home designs in semirandom formations. Brown neo-Tudor, green ranch, white Sears Roebuck. Shingle, wood, aluminum, stucco. Mailbox, sprinkler, old car, rubber trash can.
Brenda had left a note on the kitchen table, waiting for me under the spotlight of our imitation Tiffany chandelier.
Nurse Blaatz performed a surgical operation on Nurse Van Cleef when nobody was looking. Your loss. It was awesome. Also, read the fucking letter I left out for you. I gave it to you two days ago. Stop being rude and read it.
I looked around. It was dark. Domestic items united in undefined shadows. The digital clock on the microwave looked extra green. As bad as my job had been, I did not find relief when I realized I would now be spending my days around this kitchen, in this house, choking on reminders of the life I didn't love.
Our lives capture us. They tie our arms behind our backs in insurance payments and greeting cards. The thought of it hurt my head. That's what I wanted to scream, in my most captivating scream, to the people in the shopping mall: We live in a world where we have to pay somebody else to think up something to say on our behalf for our own mother's birthday.
I thought about writing Brenda a note. A confession.
I'm leaving you for a woman who thinks conceptually. I trust that within about a week you'll realize I am doing you a favor. Oh yeah, I more or less lost my job.
Instead I grabbed the letter and took it to the La-Z-Boy we had inherited against our wishes. I kicked up my feet and opened the letter. The paper felt old. My handwriting was better then than it is now. I must be slipping, or I must have cared. It was folded neatly in thirds. It said:
Dear Ray,
I don't want you to forget this moment. The surge in your heart. The way the air feels in your lungs. The way your feet are alive. Every second of your life feels like putting on new socks over clean feet. Is that a corny thing to say? Maybe it is. That's the way it feels. The world feels corny in only the best possible way. You are going to get married. You are excited. I want you to remember this. Brenda just left the apartment to go back to hers. You asked her to marry you. You surprised her. You wrote your proposal out of travel Scrabble pieces that you glued to a drawing of your heart. On the heart you drew little scars that were stitched with Brenda's kisses. I have to say it was a pretty impressive feat to make it clear that the stitches were made of her kisses. And yet it was the only possible interpretation. You nailed it and it floored her. You should quit studying sociology and go to art school or just quit altogether. You really are pretty good. But back to the point, you hid the drawing of your heart in a small tube that you hid in a pie that you served her. It was risky and didn't go well at first. She said, “Why the fuck is this tube in my pie?” But then she opened it and unrolled it and saw the heart. And it all clicked. And she started to tear up a little. And she was radiant. The most beautiful face. The most delicate eyes, looking at you, wanting to take you in, to make you hers, to take care of you when you are an old, doddering man and she is an old, doddering woman. They were beams of golden light, and they bathed you all over. You had felt so completely vulnerable and exposed. And she adopted you with those eyes, with her smile, with a hug that reached the marrow in your bones. Honestly, up until the proposal, you were beginning to wonder if she was going to leave you for Johnny Saunders. No hard evidence. Just a hunch. And so you laid it all on the line because you love her. Because you are not everybody's first choice and you are a little round at the hips and sometimes you complain too much and it has taken you a while to figure out how to satisfy her in bed, and you don't have Johnny Saunders's looks or knowledge of European history, and yet despite all of that she loves you. You frequently say something slightly stupid and most people would laugh right at you, but Brenda grabs you and kisses you and loves you all the more, and you think to yourself,
Thank God for this. It can rain now. It can storm. The snow may come and trap us. The droughts may come. I can lose my legs. I may never eat again. The world may hate me. But I have this love.
And so, you are writing all of this because you don't want to ever forget how it feels. Yo
u are going to give it to Brenda and tell her to give it to you if things ever start to feel like they are slipping.
Love,
Raymond
I checked in. She was in bed. Asleep. The television was glowing the room blue. I turned it off and went to brush my teeth.
I sat on the toilet seat. I cried. There was no cause and effect. A boy, afraid, listening to his guts, unsure about his role in all of the wounds, wondering what had hit him, what he had done, if crime was a choice or a force that takes hold of people and makes them injure their own possibilities. Despite the letter, I wanted to die. I felt weak, like evolution was trying to tell me some bad news in the nicest possible way. I felt like Gus when the wind comes, like my missing fourth leg would come in handy right about now. And then I thought about the letter again. What a sweet idiot the author was.
I wrote a two-line poem on a cube of toilet paper. Maybe it wasn't even a poemâjust a thought. It seemed like the truth. I got into bed next to Brenda. She was more beautiful than when I proposed to her. I put the note under her pillow. She stirred a little, told me I smelled like sauerkraut, and fell back asleep. I slept too.
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The closer I get to death,
the more I like flowers.
I
have a great familyâPorters, Nolds, and McGuires, alikeâwho have always encouraged me to realize my fullest self, regardless of how unorthodox or impractical that self might be.
The Hunter College MFA program saw me through numerous poorly formed half-ideas and provided the conditioning to plod on. In particular, Peter Carey and Colum McCann put me through the necessary calisthenics and were incredibly generous with their time and advice. Additionally, I must thank all of my fellow students for their patience and brilliant observations.
I have the best agent, Emily Forland, who I could also proudly include in the soon to follow list of friends.
I thank Philip Budnick and Matthew Daddona for placing an ill-advised bet, and seeing it through with great intelligence and insight.
I was fortunate to have writing residencies at Caldera, in Sisters, Oregon, and with the Ucross Foundation in Wyoming. Both allowed me invaluable escapes from distraction. Every day since I have wished I could teleport back for the calm productive focus they generously allowed.
I wish I could thank my grandmother Leah Lee, no longer with us in the narrowest sense, but always present in my heart.
For connecting, reading, and advising I thank Corinna Barsan, David Cashion, Eva Talmadge, and Jeffrey Rotter.
For digital hair wrangling, and ensuring the skin tones of a morning news host, I must thank Tami Gargus.
Every time I am at my most misanthropic, one of my extraordinary friends pops up to prove me wrong. For their particular influence in my creative pursuits, I roll out this long and woefully incomplete list: Justin and Eric White, Paul and Sasha Fine, Daniel Davidson, Tricia Keightley, Bernard Jungle, Paul Benney, Brad Mossman, Julia Jarrett, Carrie Bradley, Tom Galbraith, David and Antonia Belt, Damon Chessé, Karen Davidson, Marsha Champlin, Alice Simsar, Johannah Rodgers, Henry Scotch, Nicole Tierney, mis amigos cuencanos, the Merry Corners, the Friends of Thursday Night poker group, and all of the members of the seminal Bay Area rock band Captain Fatass.
Finally, for rooting for me, and putting up with me, and for being so smart and funny, I thank Shelly Gargus.
