Security Guard

It's impossible to tell the whole story

so I'll mention the parts I think are true

though I know you have forgotten

since you weren't actually there.

But there was a figure clad in a dirty suit jacket

that I thought was you, although

you may have sent an imposter, once or twice.

There was never a way to avoid the train,

I lay on the tracks

daring you to run over me again and again

and you loved it, and so did I.

Sometimes I barely made it to the track on time

and you had to wait, but you were always there

idling with the force of your tiny engine

while I settled down and closed my eyes.

You stopped guarding the train,

and became the train instead.

But that's not truth. The truth is this:

I drove myself from Chicago to Michigan,

my stomach like rancid citrus as exit signs flew by

through Kalamazoo and then Jackson,

fearing the green overhead sign that named your town,

but the town always swallowed me uncomplaining.

I climbed the high stairs to your apartment

past the door that swung inward to a wall,

I could never move forward, only left or right.

It never changed, those gems arranged like ants

on your bathroom windowsill, your guitars and banjo

perched on floor stands, your futon, your stereo.

Afterward, I couldn't sleep, but you had no trouble.

You slept with your head on a mound of blankets,

with lumpy cotton blankets underneath your body, facing the wall.

I never understood your denial of comfort,

you who called me mama, and then

unplugged yourself, turned away from me

and lost consciousness immediately.

In the morning you began a series of rituals,

shaved your face quickly, talked to yourself in the shower

and then dressed for work in layers of polyester

and a clownish striped tie, for your job

guarding the grass for a monolithic building

whose name I refused to learn.

I grew to hate that uniform, not for its ugliness

but for what it meant: you were leaving

and you didn't care,

but I would have the long drive home.

I knew I would make the drive again

as soon as you asked, and you always did,

until the one day you stopped asking,

padlocked the doors, and retreated inside.

Now you crouch behind the glass

and have the nerve to ignore me

while I throw myself in your direction

and thrash my fists wildly in the air--

as if my knuckles could make a dent,

as if I actually knew how to hurt you.

Pest

When thoughts of you come
I wave them away like gnats
until they are almost gone
Still, when I drink my coffee
one or two of them emerge from the kitchen
attracted to the sweetness that remains
around the edge of the cup.
There still is an odor
from that last pool of stale liquid
but I can no longer taste it.
Once there were many, swarms that buzzed
whenever I entered a room
that had been left unoccupied
for more than a minute.
I fired the exterminator
when the gnats returned one day
because I left the light on by accident.
Although I poured poison down the drain, repeatedly,
you wouldn't let me relax
even when I was asleep.
Soon, they will all be dead,
and so will you.
you will breathe in a place where you can't touch me,
you will be someone else's infestation.

I'm Talking About Life, Baby

   My brother Josh died ten years ago at this time, in a car accident in which, fortunately, only he was a part.  Josh was no stranger to chaotic auto travel.  Mom was an aimless, poor driver, who occasionally had notions that it would be a great family experience to drive us to different parts of Mexico.  During these trips, we would stay in the cheapest motels my mother could find, a process that usually involved lengthy negotiations in Spanish at various locations.  Either that, or we camped every time we found ourselves in a rural environment--my mother stayed in the car, smoking and screaming at us that the tent was lopsided. These vacations did not usually provide pleasant memories, but they had occasional moments of hilarity.

   On one occasion, my mother, Josh, my sister Ericka, and I had been traveling for hundreds of miles--or a thousand kilometers, depending upon how you looked at it--in the same direction.  We had a vague, yet determined notion that we would arrive at the Gulf of Mexico, and as dusk fell, we spotted a large body of water. Moments before, as we crossed through a thick patch of tropical woodlands, Mom suffered a meltdown, and began shouting, "I.......DON'T KNOW WHERE WE ARE GOING!!" Without skipping a beat, Josh piped up, "But that will never stop the Mueller family" in his radio announcer's voice.  My mother began laughing hysterically.  Josh often had that effect upon people.

   As we approached the town, we spotted the sign: Salina Cruz.  It was the classic bucolic little town on the seaside, such as you might find anywhere. There were even gulls wheeling overhead. "Look at the map!" my mother said excitedly.  'Find out where we are!"

   After some scrutiny, it became clear--we were not on the Gulf of Mexico; we had somehow found our way to the Pacific Ocean.  No, there were not two towns named Salina Cruz--I checked to make sure. At some point, we had turned right instead of left, and headed south instead of north.  Well, that certainly made sense.  After all, the four of us were right-handed.

   We were at the beach, at least, and that meant we could go swimming.  We checked into the first cheap hotel we could find, skipping the usual comparison-shopping process, and put on our bathing suits.  My mother was sullen and quiet as we approached the beach.  For some reason, I wasn't as excited as usual. Suddenly, we saw a sign, written in both Spanish and English.  It explained that the beach was closed for an indefinite period of time. Looking more closely at the water, we could see why.  The waveless surface was covered with a thick, dull coating of oil.

   There would be no swimming in the ocean that evening.  We walked back to the hotel, and decided to make an early night of it.  In the morning, we had a delicious breakfast in a waterfront cafe, while we stared at the ocean. "It's a damn shame about that oil" my mother said. "That goddamn oil ruined our vacation."

   Well, it certainly had, there was no denying it.  Back at the motel, we threw our bags into our car, then drove to the highway.  For at least two hours, we drove in relative silence.  Then, suddenly, Josh tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned around from my front seat perch, and stared at him. "What?" I asked, annoyed.

  "The girl in the berry patch" he said solemnly.

   I had no idea what he was talking about.  "What?" I asked.

  "The girl in the berry patch" he insisted.  "She's more special.  More special than you."

   I was truly mystified, and entirely out of patience.  Jerking around even more in my seat, I demanded, "What are you talking about?!"

   Josh was completely calm.  He smiled at me, and with infinite patience, he said, "I'm talking about life, baby."

   To this day, I have no idea what he meant, and no way of ever finding out.

The Clown Chronicles (Part Three)

Young Leah's saga of clownhood continues.......

I was ten minutes early for work the following morning, a fact that was partly attributable to anticipation of Jeff's gift. Jeff winked as I approached the dressing table, and a feeling of joy almost overwhelmed me. The job would be considerably more bearable with the ingestion of THC, a drug that had seen me through many difficult times. I could hear the boss ranting into the telephone within the confines of his private office. He seemed to be having considerable difficulty instructing one of his New York flunkies in the intricacies of financial management. “No, no, no!” he shrieked. “I told you many times—do NOT put the funds into account number 63547! Put the funds into the OTHER account! Jesus Christ!” There was the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting a table, and then his voice abruptly became calm, and placating. “I understand that it is hard to keep track of such a large allotment of funds. I have every confidence in you. If you let me down, however, keep in mind that I can and will destroy you.”

Jeff stared at me, his eyes huge. “I think we had better put our makeup on fast, and get the hell out of here before he starts in on us” he said. “But where's Will?” I asked plaintively. “This job is going to be impossible without him.” Jeff shook his head, dislodging a shower of red glitter. “I don't think Will is coming back” he said.

At nine-fifteen, we came to the sad conclusion that Jeff was correct, Will had abandoned us. With great sorrow, we piled the stacks of catalogs into a cart and prepared to begin our trek to Michigan Avenue. The boss stayed inside his office for the entire time, although I could hear him clearly. Since his earlier outburst, his mood had shifted dramatically. He emitted a long, cackling laugh similar to that of a cartoon villain. “Yes, yes!” he cried out. “That's a brilliant idea—just brilliant! Money is seductive, isn't it?”

Jeff shook his head. “He has absolutely no idea what a caricature of himself he is” he whispered. At that moment, the office door opened, and our boss stepped into the room. Ignoring Jeff completely, he gestured towards me. “I think I made it extremely clear to you that you are to smile for the entire time that you are on the street” he said, barely restraining his fury and contempt. “I drove past yesterday afternoon, and I noticed that not only were you negligent in your failure to smile at potential customers, you actually appeared to be extremely unhappy. This, of course, is unacceptable.”

“I was smiling” I said. To my irritation, I noted a hint of a whine in my voice, like a three year old trying to explain to her mother why she'd broken a plate. “Probably I was just tired at that moment.” The boss waved his hand at me dismissively. “There is no excuse” he said simply. “Don't let it happen again. The two of you may go now.” He retreated to his office, shutting the door behind him.

“Where's that joint?” I asked, as soon as we reached the street. “Don't worry, I've got it in my wallet” Jeff assured me. “I won't have any trouble finding it. There's nothing else in there.” We ambled down the street, pushing the cart. “I know of a secluded spot where we can fire it up” Jeff said. “There's a building a couple of blocks from here that has a little wooded area next to it. No one ever goes there. We'll have complete privacy.”

After a few minutes, we arrived at a slanted glass building that had tinted silver windows. It stood approximately thirty stories high. Small, manicured bushes surrounded it like bits of stubble. In an attempt to create a bucolic setting, landscapers had arranged two iron park benches and a tiny tulip garden in a semi-circle, several feet from the building. There was no one else in sight. Jeff took my hand and led me to the side of the building, away from the wind. He leaned against the window and lit the joint. “Isn't this a great place?” he asked. “Don't worry, this building has reflective glass, so no one can see us.”

What a strange grip upon reality Jeff had—he felt certain that, since we were unable to see into the building, no one would be able to look out of the building and see us, either. I didn't ponder this too deeply, however. I leaned against the building, inhaled the smoke into my lungs, exhaled with a relaxed sigh. “Isn't this a bank?” I asked, rhetorically.

Jeff shrugged. “It's some kind of bastion of corporate America” he said. “They're all the same.” He accepted the joint, inhaled deeply. “This is pretty good stuff. There's much more where this came from. I'll bring a joint to work every day.”

Suddenly, I had a sense that we were no longer alone. A man was walking around the corner of the building, making his way directly towards us. “Jeff, put out the joint” I hissed. “We've been spotted.” Jeff rubbed the tip of the joint on the glass behind him, and stuffed it into the pocket of his baggy pants. “I'll handle this” he said.

The man drew closer, and I could see that he was the security guard, with a navy blue polyester uniform and a gun tethered to his hip. The guard's face was pale and covered with old acne scars. He appeared to be only slightly older than we were. He kept walking until he stood only a few feet in front of us, and smiled malevolently. “Good morning” he said. “What's up?”

Jeff assumed an expression of nonchalance, glancing briefly skyward, and then directly at the man. “Not much” he said. “Just enjoying the morning.”

“Just enjoying the morning, huh?” the guard asked. He reminded me of a gunfighter, taunting his adversary a minute before firing a bullet into his chest. “Well, isn't that nice.” He appeared amused, but completely in control. I had a sudden bird's eye vision of how we looked to him—two clowns, in full make-up, smoking a joint while leaning against a bank building on a pleasant Tuesday morning.

The guard paused for effect, then continued mercilessly. “Hey, someone in the bank told me that you two were smoking reefer out here. That wouldn't happen to be true, would it?”

“Of course not” Jeff replied, with a hint of scorn in his voice. “We wouldn't do such a thing.”

“Wouldn't do such a thing, huh?” the guard said. Jeff shook his head. There was a heavy pause, as we waited to see who would make the next move. The guard grinned hugely, but there was no mirth in his expression. “I don't want to pressure you or anything” he said. “But why don't the two of you get the fuck out of here.”

“We certainly will. Thank you very much” Jeff replied pleasantly. We pushed away from the wall and rapidly walked away from the bank, without looking back.

To be continued........

The Clown Chronicles (Part Two)

My life as a clown continues........

We arrived at Michigan Avenue, where we were instantly absorbed into the late-morning business rush. Our boss had given Jeff explicit instructions to position ourselves within a block of the Water Tower, and this we did. We pulled the cart to one side, and stared uncertainly at the stack of magazines for a long, awful moment. Obviously, each of the several hundred magazines needed to make its way into somebody's hands by the end of the day, or there would be hell to pay. To do this, we would have to proceed with our task, bulwarked by the ridiculous belief that the harried business folk would be happy to read literature given to them by a clown. As it turned out, this was not the case. I hurried to the nearest corner, firmly grasping a fistful of magazines, and approached my first prospect, a forty-something woman wearing a fox coat which had certainly cost more money than I made in an entire year. The coat was obviously for show, since it was almost seventy degrees outside. I came to a halt directly in front of her, and held out a booklet with an outstretched hand. “Good morning” I said pleasantly. “I'm from the Discovery Center, and wanted to make sure you had a chance to read this.”

The woman's disgust was both visceral and complete. She wheeled on the point of one of her stiletto heels, almost pirouetting in her haste to escape from me. The look on her face was filled with so much revulsion, it was as though I had handed her a venomous snake or a cup of dog shit. “No...thank....YOU” she managed to spit out. Then she hurried rapidly away in the opposite direction.

I had expected rejection, especially at the beginning, but nothing quite like this. Glancing down at my hands, I mentally calculated how long it would take for me to get rid of even half of the magazines. If I managed to convince two people an hour to accept one of the magazines, perhaps out of pity or social obligation, it would take nearly two days to rid myself of half of them. Of course, that would only be true if I worked for 48 hours straight. These were not good odds.

I glanced over at Chill Will , thinking that I could pick up some pointers from him. He was standing on the tips of his shoes, waving his arms around in the air in large circles. “Yes, folks, we're crazy!” he exclaimed to the startled passersby. “We've come all the way from the circus to tell you about the great new learning experience that is coming to Chicago! That's how crazy we are!” Suddenly, without warning, he propelled himself backward onto the cement. Bouncing up again like a beachball, he continued his spiel. “We've got classes in everything from sailing to yoga! Check out our catalogs, people!” He tossed the catalogs onto the sidewalk, and people began cheering and lunging for them.

Well, this was certainly impressive, but there was no way that I was going to compromise my dignity by behaving in such a manner, that was for certain. On the opposite corner, Jeff was handing out catalogs with no difficulty whatsoever, smiling at everyone, even shaking some peoples' hands. If he could do this, why couldn't I? I was a misfit, even amongst the clowns.

Dejected, I shuffled back to my corner, and began the long, arduous task of unloading the booklets. “Please, just take one, for God's sake” I begged one man, and he snatched the catalog from my hand and walked away, without so much as a glance at me. After two hours of this, Chill Will came over. “Let me help you” he said magnanimously. He stared at my disheveled pile. “Shit, girl, you've got a lot of those left over” he said. “Let me show you how to do things.” He approached a young businessman and smiled hugely, and then threw himself backward onto the pavement. This time, however, he did not rebound immediately. Instead, he lay on the ground, looking intently at the sky. He moaned slightly. The businessman and I were both horrified. “Are you okay, buddy?” I asked Will. Will nodded slowly, then shook his head. “I don't feel so well” he said.

We offered to help him to his feet, but he declined, and he staggered back to an upright position, holding his head in his hands. Will's bad-ass clown make-up was utterly ruined. The eagle wings and lightning bolts were smeared across his face. He suddenly looked vulnerable and scared. “I'll be okay, really” he said. “I think I'll just go sit down, and rest for a minute.” Will had already unloaded all of his catalogs, and had earned the right to rest. He sat on the curb, toes pointed towards Michigan Avenue, for a full ten minutes. Then he returned to my side. “Let's get this job done” he said.

At 4:45, we managed to convince a young, giggling woman and her boyfriend to accept the last two catalogs, and Jeff began to look around for a taxi. I had a sudden realization—I was the custodian of the cab fare, and, as such, I had special priveleges not granted to the others, including the ability to decide how the money should actually be spent. “I don't think we should bother taking a cab home” I said, staring at the twenty dollar bill. It was the most money I had seen in a week. “There's a bar across the street—let's go and get a pitcher of beer instead. We can walk back to the office afterward, right?”

I had expected an argument about ethics from Jeff or Will, but there was none. “Damn, what a good idea” Jeff said, awed by my audacity. Grabbing the cart, we sprinted across the street to the bar. To our delight, we discovered that ten minutes of happy hour remained, which meant we had enough for two pitchers, plus change for our subway rides home.

Halfway through the second pitcher, Will revealed that he was married and the father of twin baby girls, a fact that did not seem to make him happy. Jeff confessed that he was couch-surfing at Artist-in-Residence, a cockroach-infested haven for twenty-something slackers where I had briefly lived. “What a coincidence!” I exclaimed. “Who are you staying with? I know everyone at Artist in Residence.” Jeff confessed that he was staying with Carlo, a handsome young Hispanic man who was one of the biggest pot dealers in the building. I was, of course, no stranger to Carlo's wares. “I'll bring a joint to work with me tomorrow” Jeff promised.

The Clown Chronicles

Excerpt from new work in progress, telling of my unfortunate and brief career as a clown for the Discovery Center during the mid-eighties.

It was an afternoon of dejection following a long period of abject poverty that led to my decision to become a clown. I was so broke that I had given up having a checking account months beforehand. It had been three months since I'd paid my rent, and I had received a couple of eviction notices. While sitting at the Heartland Cafe, nursing a small plate of tofu, I noticed the following ad in the Chicago Reader:

Easy job! Man or woman with cheery disposition and friendly personality needed to dress as clown and hand out leaflets on Michigan Avenue, advertising the grand opening of the fun new adult education place, the Discovery Center! Wear own costume. MUST be prompt, professional, and cheerful.

I pondered my possible new clown career. I felt fairly certain that I could fake a cheerful persona, but realized intuitively that my wardrobe lacked standard clown accessories. I had a rather silly looking pair of striped Guatemalan pants and a pair of red Converse high-tops, but that summed up the absurdity of my wardrobe. Perhaps it would be okay if I wore a shirt that didn't match my pants, maybe something in a plaid pattern. I wandered in a daze to the pay phone, and removed a quarter from the bottom of my purse, the sum total of my funds.

The interview was mercifully brief. A man with a loud, nasal New York accent informed me that he was the owner of the Discovery Center, which was set to have its grand opening in Chicago in less than a month. He sounded both harried and arrogant, a combination that never failed to irritate me. “Do you think you have what it takes to be a clown for the Discovery Center?” he barked, without a trace of irony. “Sure” I said meekly. I really needed the job. “Fine” he said. “Be here tomorrow, at exactly ten AM. I'll see you then.” He gave me the address, and hung up.

Well, things were looking up. I had some beans and rice in the cupboard, a carrot, half an onion, and a job as a clown. Hopefully, the pay would be weekly. It wasn't exactly the job I had visualized for myself, when I was a hotshot high school student with a weekly column in the town newspaper and my eye on a journalism career, but it would help to keep me from being homeless and starving, and that was an important start.

In the morning, I checked all of my pockets and the bottom of my purse, repeatedly, but was unable to locate coins for the subway. This meant that I would have to walk the entire eight miles from my apartment in Rogers Park to the Gold Coast, where the Discovery Zone offices were located. I had made such walks before, out of necessity, ever since I had attempted to board the subway with a transfer I'd found on the street, and the African American fellow in the fare window said, “Where'd you find this goddamn transfer? In the STREET? Don't all the pretty white girls have money? Get the hell out of here.” Chicago could be a very cold town. I started walking, cursing my stupidity. It was already 8:45, there was no way I would be there on time.

I walked fast down Sheridan to Broadway, past the vapid Loyola students who didn't have a care in the world (look at them, one of my ex-boyfriends once said, not an ounce of rock and roll in any of them), through the trash-strewn streets of Uptown, then trendy New Town with its hipster bars, and Old Town, where I'd been born twenty-five years beforehand. From there, it was only another ten minutes to Rush Street, home of the Discovery Center. Rush Street was the epicenter of everything I hated about yuppie culture, and there was plenty of hatred in me for yuppie culture. Professional men sat in beer gardens, sun glinting on their Rolexes and their pints of expensive imported beer, staring at coiffed and manicured secretaries who wore mens power suits and carried briefcases. It was 1984, the year I had grown up believing would usher in an era of totalitarianism, the very height of the Reagan era. Greed was more than good, it was essential. My problem was simple—I had plenty of arrogance, and a huge sense of entitlement, but I was not greedy enough.

I found the address, bolted up the stairs to the second floor. It was 10:15,. I had managed to cover eight miles in an hour and a half, a record for me. I decided to take this as a positive sign. I was a clown now; it was important to stay positive. My new boss stood at the top of the stairs, glaring down at me. A handsome but imposing man, his hair was perfectly feathered, and he wore an expensive, navy blue three piece suit. “You're late!” he screamed at me. “Let's get one thing straight, right off the bat—you must be ON TIME, EVERY goddamn day. You understand?”

This was an inauspicious meeting, there was no other way to interpret it, but I didn't have time for regrets. “I'm sorry” I said simply. He gestured at me to enter, and I wandered into a large room that was empty, except for several piles of class catalogs, loosely bound with plastic straps. Two young African-American men sat on a small table, staring into a mirror while trying, somewhat ineptly, to apply clown make-up. “There's a mirror” my new boss said. “And your two new co-workers. Hurry up.” He left the room.

“Well!” I said pleasantly, as soon as he was out of earshot. “He's somewhat of an asshole, isn't he?” My two new co-workers looked startled for a moment, glanced around furtively, and then laughed. I liked them immediately. “I'm Jeff” the older one said. “I'm really an actor, but I'm broke, or I wouldn't have taken this job. I'm sure that's true for all of us.” The three of us nodded simultaneously. The other man was very young, no more than nineteen or twenty. “I'm William” he said softly. “But you can call me Chill Will.”

Jeff stopped applying make-up to his face, looked into the mirror, and squinted in a critical manner at his reflection. “Do you have any experience painting faces?” he asked me. “Because this looks like shit. I'll scare the yuppies away, wandering down Michigan Avenue with a face like this.”

“I'm certain we'll scare them, anyway” I replied. “But yeah, believe it or not, I've done face painting a couple of times on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. Sit down. I can make you look like a clown.” Jeff obligingly settled himself into one of the plastic chairs. Ten minutes later, he emerged from the chair and peered into the mirror again. His face was decorated with Kiss-style, star-shaped eyes and psychedelic rainbow swirls. “Nice” he said.

Chill Will was next. I decided to go for a scary motif, ringing his eyes with sinister black and white eagle wings, with bolts of lightning emanating from them. Will was awed. “This is SO cool” he told me. “Man, I look bad-ass.”

I wasn't certain what our new boss would think of my artwork, but mercifully, he barely looked at us. “There's a push cart in the closet” he said, dismissively. “Load all of the catalogs you can onto the cart, and take them down to Michigan Avenue. These people are busy professionals, they don't have a lot of time. Smile, and make sure you put the catalog directly into their hands. Remember to tell them that you represent the Discovery Center. That is very important. I will be checking up on you periodically, so be on your toes.” He stopped for a moment, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “Here's cab fare for your return” he said. “You are to work until at least five o'clock, and be back here with the cart by six. Do you understand?” We nodded, and he turned away, retreating to his private office at the back of the room. The door clicked shut, and I could hear the dialing of a telephone.

We bundled the catalogs into a pile on the cart, securing them with two bungie cords. Fortunately, the building had an elevator that I hadn't noticed before, and we emerged onto Rush Street—three clowns, with a pile of catalogs advertising classes in sailing and investment banking, ready for action. As we walked down the street, we perused one of the catalogs for sales pointers, trying to determine exactly what we were offering.

“Look at this shit” Jeff said. “How to Flirt. 'Do you have trouble meeting quality members of the opposite sex because you are just too shy to know what to say or do? You are not alone! In this six-week course, you will learn guaranteed ice-breakers, how to keep a conversation going and avoid awkward silences, and how to charm people from virtually the moment you walk into the room! Especially that dreamboat you've had your eye on!'”

“That's ridiculous” I said. “These yuppies are so uptight. Dreamboats are easy to charm. Just get drunk and throw yourself at them. Everybody knows that.” Jeff glanced at me appreciatively.

Gulf

You admit with your silence

there are no words

that will even get halfway to the bottom.

Oil floats on the surface, and that

is the best we can do.

No way to stem the tide

of waste material we thought was fuel.

Nobody thought to research

how it actually works.

We bob on the surface,

stupid with fumes

oil covering our feathers,

afraid to fly.