The Earth Movers

    Any day is bound to be weird, if it begins with a man wearing a chef's hat when he has no intention of cooking. I'd been expecting his visit, ever since I'd picked him out of the Tacoma yellow pages a week beforehand. I was drawn to his company name, “The Carpet Chef”, as well as an attached $10.00 off coupon.”Don't be alarmed” he'd told me on the phone. “The hat's just my trademark. You know, so people will remember me. It's not a fashion statement or anything.”

    I was a 42-year old single mother with a white carpet, which is rarely a good idea under any circumstances, but in my case even less so. I was expecting a gentleman caller from California for erotic hijinks the following afternoon, and didn't want his visit to be tainted by the sight of ground-in peanut butter and old wine spills. Most of the carpet cleaning businesses in the area charged prices that struck me as criminal, so I decided to give the young man's enterprise a try.

    He looked to be about twenty-five, blonde, and cute. “Hi, I'm the Carpet Chef” he said by way of introduction. He smiled at me entreatingly, head cocked slightly. “I'll get right to work” he promised. The Chef hoisted a heavy machine over his shoulder. He carried it into my daughter's bedroom, plugged it into a wall outlet, and began rubbing the nozzle on the floor with practiced strokes. The house vibrated pleasantly, as he finished my daughter's bedroom and headed for the dining room.

    It was hypnotic, and I began to daydream. My new boyfriend was a clown who had just been fired from Cirque du Soleil after falling headfirst onto the stage while taking a bow, and I was excited about his impending visit. I wandered aimlessly into my son's bedroom. It was in its usual disheveled shape, with marbles strewn everywhere. I felt a moment of anger. Why hadn't he cleaned up after himself? Didn't he know the Carpet Chef was coming?

    Then the earthquake hit. I watched the marbles roll in slow motion, and marveled at the velocity of the Chef's powerful machine. Suddenly, I realized that the earth itself was moving, and I ran into the dining room, threw myself onto the floor and began to laugh. My face was directly adjacent to the Chef's right ankle. He backed up slightly to give me space, then stood in the doorway of my daughter's room, swaying back and forth like a metronome. “Whoa” he said, smiling dazedly. “I'm dizzy.” He appeared to be delighted by this.

    The Chef rocked as though he was on the deck of a ship, his right hand firmly clasped around the handle of his instrument. His huge white hat bobbed back and forth in mid-air like a cartoon flag. I continued to laugh hysterically, but then the earthquake abruptly stopped. The undulations of the house continued for a couple of seconds, and everything became very still.

    “That was so cool” the Chef said. His face wore an exhilarated expression. Swelling momentarily with emotion, he gasped, “I'll never forget you! I'll never forget this house!” Then he turned away from me, snapped his machine back on, and resumed his cleaning task.

    They didn't call him the Carpet Chef for nothing. I sank back onto the floor, feeling spent and jubilant. The machine resumed its gentle buzzing, and I glanced around the house. Everything was intact. Nothing had moved except for a head that had been crudely carved from a coconut. It usually rested precariously on top of one of my bookshelves. Now it lay on the dirty living room carpet, staring at me with its usual befuddled, vaguely accusatory expression.

    In a daze, I reached over, scooped up the coconut, and placed it back into its usual spot. The rhythmic whooshing of the machine grew louder, and I could hear the Chef chuckling to himself. “Man, that was a big one” he said. “I certainly wasn't expecting THAT.” He stared at me fondly. “I wasn't either” I assured him. I staggered over to the couch, and then my legs gave way and I collapsed into it.

    My Cirque du Soleil boyfriend was scheduled to arrive in less than twenty-four hours, but I wasn't sure whether I would be sufficiently energized for his visit. We were free to wreak our own form of destruction upon my dwelling. It was bound to be anticlimactic, after the earthquake and the Chef. The best things happen when you're not expecting them, and I knew from experience that expectation often leads to failure. But at least the carpet would be clean.

Spiritual GPS

Took a wrong turn

on Sheridan Road

after yoga class

and wound up

at the Baha'i temple,

then sat idling

in my car while

I gazed at the spiraling roof.

It always reminded me

of a gigantic

orange juice squeezer

waiting patiently

for an orange.

There are no accidents,

or so the new agers

always say, but I think

there must be at least a couple,

and this is probably

one of them.

Unattached

Your father always said

you had to let go of the kite

when the afternoon of kite flying was over.

You had to watch it ascend erratically

above the trees, then drift over

towards Lake Michigan

with a new sense of purpose,

hit a wind draft, and disappear.

It was probably just laziness

on your father's part, a refusal

to spend the time gently pulling

on the string, reeling the kite in

and then folding it up

to be used on another day.

You never questioned this, though,

and your parents mouthed platitudes

about nothing ever lasting,

and you can always purchase something new,

and that it was best to be like a kite.

It was too early for anybody

to worry about the environment,

if you were tired of something

you just threw it on the ground

or you let it fly over your head

and miraculously cease to exist.

People were dying in jungles

on the other side of the world,

they either fell or ascended, or

both. It was easier not to

get too attached.

When the kite was gone

you always turned around

and went to get something to eat

at a nearby restaurant.

Your momentum needed fuel to continue,

but the kite still soared

unassisted towards unknown territory.

Perhaps being a kite

might be better after all,

not knowing for sure

whether you would hit a wall

or find someone else's hand,

but there always was a certain comfort

in sitting in an upholstered chair

and being able to order from a menu.

Love Child

My last name remained the same
until my stepfather adopted me
when I was thirteen.
My parents said
that my new last name
would entitle me
to an enormous sum of money-
I’d receive a portion
of the Woolworth’s fortune,
which had somehow found its way
into the talons of my stepfather’s family.
Due to the magic of posthumous
trickle down economics
I would become a woman of means,
but this would only happen
after a bunch of older relatives died.
My mother told me
not to get my hopes up too much,
because all of them
were still in pretty good health,
and were likely to protest loudly
when they discovered
that my stepfather had adopted me.
Soon my name was the same
as my mother’s and siblings’
and I was no longer the outsider.
My birth father was indifferent
to my defection from his tribe —
he solemnly intoned that
it was all for the best.
I grew to adulthood
with the name of a man
that had been tacked
onto my own, like a bad poster.
One hot June evening
when I was eighteen
my mother was suddenly stricken
by the need to reveal secrets.
She told me that my father
wasn’t real, he was a stand-in
for another man whom she’d had
a wild fling with for a year,
and my sudden arrival
on the planet was presaged
by bisexual threesomes
and daily arguments that led to
stormy make-up sex in a coach house
behind the Mark Twain hotel
on the near north side of Chicago.
The man whom I’d thought was my father
for so many years
was paying the rent on the house,
even though my mother had rejected
all of his romantic advances.
My biological father fled to Los Angeles
and did six weeks in jail
for shoplifting maternity clothing,
but he bought my mother an airline ticket
and begged for her to fly to California.
She had finally decided
she was better off without him,
so she cashed in her airplane ticket,
moved in with the man who paid the rent
and gave me his name.
After my stand-in father
abruptly departed for another apartment,
my mother took up
with a drunken Volkswagen salesman
and married him a few weeks later.
I bore the surname of
my mother’s most recent failure,
for no reason other than
I’d inherit money some day from
an industry devoted to cheap cosmetics
and three for a dollar underwear.
So it wasn’t a complete surprise
several years later
when my stepfather’s relatives
grabbed the lion’s share of the spoils.
My portion of the dime store fortune
came to less than thirty thousand dollars,
and I was stuck with
a name I never wanted.
The funniest thing is that
the storefronts of Woolworth’s
were once bulging at the seams
with cheap items
that everybody wanted,
but are now utterly empty
and devoid of a legitimate name,
and yet I still bear my false one
with a perverse pride
because I have no need of a father.

Starving in the Land of Privilege

There was a time when I didn't know

I was privileged, and that might

have been when I walked forty blocks

in the New Orleans heat to apply for food stamps

when I was in my early 20s, and should have been

shopping for a rich white husband

to sequester me in an air conditioned mansion instead.

I was heckled the entire way by men

who stood on the perimeters of sidewalks

and offered to give me money for blow jobs

or just stared at my breasts for a few minutes

while making comments about how high they bounced.

I swiveled my entire body and averted my eyes

so I could no longer see how they looked at me,

with the same expression on their faces

as my own, when I stared at cheesecake

and boiled crab in the restaurant windows of the Quarter.

I hustled past them on my way to my waitress jobs

while wearing my unpressed white shirt and black pants

and carrying a folded apron underneath one of my arms,

always running a bit late because I hated to work.

I was fired almost weekly by managers

who thought I was too slow, or too friendly

or not friendly enough, or my shoes were the wrong color,

or I didn't wear a bra and hair spray, or I wouldn't

have sex with them, and then money disappeared from the till,

so I must have been the one who stole it.

I never stole anything, but I should have,

because at least I would have had the satisfaction

of knowing that I stuck it to them

and got away with a small chunk of the spoils,

but the truth is that I was laboring away

in an honest, though deeply resentful manner

carefully balancing platters of fried seafood

and gumbo and omelets and etouffee

on the ends of both of my bony forearms,

trying to make people smile so they would

give me a dollar, and not complain to the manager instead.

They complained anyway, because I didn't refill their water glasses

often enough, or I forgot their basket of rolls

or one of their meals didn't emerge from the kitchen

in a timely manner, or they were overcharged

by fifty cents, and they would draw huge lines

through the tip area on their credit card receipts

or write fat, bulging zeroes with slashes through them

or leave quarters for me in puddles of spilled beer.

They'd tell the manager they were never coming back again,

as if they'd ever had plans to do so in the first place,

and they weren't just going to go back home to their jobs

at oil refineries in Texas, or insurance offices in Omaha,

or wherever the hell they came from.

So I'd be out of a job again, and the next thing I knew

I was pleading for cash with some caseworker

who hated her job, but at least she had one

and she could stare across her desk at me

as if I was leprosy on a plate.

So now I am given to understand

that I was white and privileged the entire time,

and I just didn't realize that obvious fact-

and therefore should tread lightly around the egos

of everyone who didn't have my opportunities

and the sad truth is: I empathize deeply

with everyone who finds herself on the bottom,

regardless of the reason for her unfair placement

on the most rickety rungs of the economic ladder,

scrounging for the tiniest, moldiest crumbs

of the fat slices of cake the rich are devouring.

Just don't tell me that it was easy for me,

because you think I had it slightly better than you did,

because I'm not buying your story

and I can't afford the interest payments.

The same enemy has both of our heads

on a serving dish, with apples stuffed in our mouths

and steam pouring out from underneath the lid,

and if you are unable to see this,

then we have nothing to talk about

and I am just going back to the carnival routine,

and absolutely nothing will change for either of us.

Cities Where You've Lived, As Boyfriends

Portland is your hipster boyfriend with a tongue ring, the one who is always stoned, the guy who can't be counted on for a commitment. He wants to have many other lovers, and doesn't care if you have them, too. Portland will get together with you when he feels like it, not the other way around. Portland insists that you be hyper-aware of popular culture, and treats you as if you are stupid if you are unable to keep pace with him. You won't be able to keep pace, because Portland lives for Doug Fir concerts, shots at the Sandy Hut, and standing in long lines for doughnuts and tacos while sporting a three-day beard growth. You and Portland have a stormy but loveless romance, and you finally leave him for Kalamazoo. When you see Portland again a few years later, you marvel about how much he has matured, and feel sad that the two of you met at the time that you did. Portland then acts like he wants you back, but he really doesn't.

Kalamazoo is the boyfriend who gets drunk, smashes your possessions, and steals your laptop so he can sell it to buy crack. Crack this week, and meth the next. Who's keeping track? Not you, because you're too exhausted to keep track. Kalamazoo wears saggy pants and has a crew cut, and is always lying on his back underneath his car, working on the engine with a cigarette protruding from his mouth. The engine will never be fixed, because Kalamazoo never has a job and doesn't have money for parts. Kalamazoo is always suspicious of your motives and thinks you're sneaking around, but he's the unfaithful one, not you. You don't care what he does, as long as it's not with you. Kalamazoo makes Portland look really, really good by comparison. You can't wait to get away from Kalamazoo, and you leave him in the gravel, staring at his defective car engine, while you split for Chicago.

Chicago was your first boyfriend. He's still standing in the yard of his four-flat, grilling something. He welcomes you back as if you've never been away, and asks what sort of beer you would like to have with your steak. Unlike Kalamazoo, Chicago always has money, and he is congenitally unable to think of much else, but you're oddly okay with this, at least for the time being. Chicago makes good steaks and the beer is always flowing. He sports a stylish, short haircut, wears nice suits, and has a job in the Loop. You don't really understand what he does for a living, but you don't care because he takes you out to eat in fancy restaurants and shows you off to his friends. He's a bit dull and routine-addicted, but that's not really his fault. It's just that you always felt claustrophobic in the relationship, so you eventually leave him for Tacoma.

Tacoma is much smarter than he looks, and that is a big part of his appeal. He's not as important or as fashionable as Portland or Chicago, but although he is rough around the edges, he's not nearly as menacing as Kalamazoo. Tacoma has steady, if menial employment. You'd be tempted to write him off as ordinary, but then he opens his mouth and says something surprisingly intelligent. Tacoma knows about many of the same things that Portland does, but isn't nearly as invested in advertising that fact. You find this endearing. He also treats you with a touching deference, as if he's actually glad to have you around, and would miss you if you left. You decide to settle down with Tacoma for awhile, and the two of you buy a three bedroom house with a fenced yard together, for a quarter of the price it would cost you to live with Seattle.

Seattle won't even answer your calls.

Open Letter to William Burroughs

You told us all

that naked lunch

is the moment when you discover

what is on the end

of every fork,

and I'd love to know

how you could possibly have

such a realization--

bitter old repressed and privileged

white man, addicted to heroin

and shooting your wife to death

completely by “accident”

in a drunken game of William Tell-

as if there were involuntary

flicks of the trigger finger

that lead mysteriously to death-

wow, how did THAT happen?!

And since your father

engaged in every imaginable type

of imperialistic shenanigans, 


you get to make

a video about evil white men

with a backdrop of thundering buffalo,

and you read out loud

in your trademark voice

that drips with contempt

like heated blobs of turpentine

as if it actually enraged you

that the leaders of the country

that gave you every possible advantage

are engaging in a little harmless genocide.

Meanwhile,

your own children are starving

and trying to commit suicide

while you're plotting your entry

into Gap videos during the nineties

and rehearsing your cameos

in Gus Van Sant movies

which depict you as a sage

ranting about the war on drugs

as if you were the first to know about it.

Yeah, tell me what is on the end

of every fork,

we're all dying to know each detail,

please share every

chunk of sagacity you can dredge

from your supremely self-centered brain

as you choose whether or not to dine

upon whatever is on

the end of your gilded silverware-

and who or what you can exploit

at any particular moment,

while the rest of us are just grateful

for whatever scraps you shove

in front of us.