Perfection On The Corner

Parker sipped at the jar that held her morning cup of tea.  Just 15 minutes after the water had boiled and the milk was added to the decaf earl gray, all the aromas and flavors were blended and it was now the perfect temperature.  She held the jar with her right gloved hand, finding the glass too hot for the touch, but just the right heat for her tongue. Steam danced in brief swirling movements off the top of the liquid, smelling of earthy bergamot and sweet cream. 
She guided the cool plastic steering wheel with her left, ungloved hand, turning it expertly as the road curved just slightly to the left, and then a moment later, to the right.  On her left was the Alemany farmer’s market, which she knew started very early. 
It was 7:30 and already there were groups of two or three middle aged Asian women crossing the street, leaving with heavy bags of produce and vegetables she could not name. She surveyed the sea of white canopied tents from afar as she waited for the light to change. When it did, she was off, scanning the road for potential hazards, as Mr. Dutton had taught her in driver’s ed. 
She went underneath a freeway overpass and was once again delighted to see the mural on the large cement pillar that held up part of the overpass bride.  It was bright, with all the rainbow represented.  The painting wrapped around the wide cylinder and there were huge purple and yellow flowers that guided the eye smoothly towards the predominant subject: the torso of a smiling black woman nearly enveloped in foliage and colors.
She hit another light as she emerged from the shadow of the bridge.  She sat, watching the various lanes of cars take turns moving through the intersection. A Beatles song came on the radio and she sang along with the lyrics. 
“Jai Guru Deva. Om... Nothing's gonna change my world.” 
She noticed the vacant lot on the corner edged with wild fennel over five feet tall.  Where some of a fence remained, scrawled graffiti speckled it like bird droppings on a rusted car. 
“Nothing's gonna change my world.” 
She sang, and it was one of those moments, so early in the morning, when everything seemed perfectly in place. All the thousands of moments that had filled her lifetime, the people she had known- those that had been forgotten and lost, the moments she remembered and the pain that had etched itself into her story, everything at that corner seemed so delicately perfect.
It was now a familiar sensation that seemed mostly to come on these early morning drives, sometimes with a warm jar of tea in her hand and a sense of something at the edge of her skin and awareness more beautiful than she could ever really describe, a wonder that went beyond the knowable.
“Jai Guru Deva. Om... Nothing's gonna change my world.” 
As a tear swelled up and pushed itself over the lip of her eyelid, she remembered that she had cried at the very same spot during a Beatles song just a few weeks before. The same song. The same moment repeated.  She let the tear flow, letting the tiny river stay on her cheek tingling with life. 
Breathe, she remembered.  Her chest expanded as the light changed to green and she pressed on the pedal.
Later she would think about the corner- what was it about that spot, so early in the morning, that brought her to life?  Later she would caress the edges of consciousness and marvel at the mystery of the recurring story.
But for now, before the human remembered itself, she sang and let the tears fall as they would. 

Origins

He introduced himself as Guisseppe to the Italian waiter- is that what the name Joseph translates to?
“We’re from Livorno.”
When the waiter was gone I asked if he had just made some names up.
“No! That’s where your great-grandmother is from.  A lot of the streets are named after the family- Romero.”
It took him 25 years to tell me that.
“At most the family lived in Egypt for a few generations, but it might have been less than that.” 
I looked around the small elegant restaurant, the twilight of the night seeping in through the plate glass windows.  We were four stories up, the small tea light glittered over the white tablecloths.
I always felt like there was so much they kept from me- why 25 years to mention that the family was from Italy? 
"Your grandfather’s people came from Israel- before it was even called Israel. They lived there before it was even Palestine.”
“What did they call it?”
He was silent.
My mom sat there quietly.  She flipped through some of the free tourist magazines she got from the concierge at her hotel.  She always seemed bored when it came to family history- for years she had deflected questions about immigration and national origin- I wondered if her past was too painful- the father that abandoned her, the other side of the family she rejected after her mother died when she was so young. 
She abruptly put the papers down. They crinkled and we looked at her.
“Do you use your Costco card much?” 
I nodded, stunned momentarily by the banality of the question. 
My dad ignored her. 
“I want to buy a book called The Jews of Egypt.  It’s rare, someone is selling it for 150.00 on Amazon.”
“You should get it, it’s not too much for a rare book.”
“Your grandfather was a Zionist. The dream of the Zionists was to go to Israel and work on the land.  Through history the Jews had never been allowed to own property- that’s why they went into certain professions, like bankers and doctors and merchants.  But the Zionists wanted to be farmers and work the land and be in Israel.”
“Why did it have to be there?  If they wanted to farm, why did it have to be on that particular piece of the planet?”
He looked at me in disbelief.
“Because it's where the Jewish religion started. If they didn’t go there, they might as well go to the moon! It was only place they could go. There was no Jewish population in Egypt until commerce and management brought them back.”
Later we stopped by their hotel room so my mom could get an extra sweater.  My mom asked me if I had talked to any of the old girlfriends from high school. 
“Not since I missed Aryn’s wedding.” 
I saw a look of sadness go over her face and I realized I had said it only to hurt her. 
I could have gone to the wedding if I had really wanted to, but when they withdrew their initial offer to help pay for the trip, I decided against it. 
She lashed back.
“I don’t know what’s important to you anymore, going to a wedding, being in a relationship, starting a career…” 
She trailed off. She had never known what was important to me, not in high school, certainly not now.
They were about to drive me home. My mom turned around and looked back at the room.
“You know, if there’s an emergency, we can ask the hotel to bring in a cot for you to sleep on.” 
I nodded, my mind filling with visions of fires and floods as we walked down the carpeted hallway towards the shiny elevator. 
“Tomorrow we are going to see Les, my old friend from college,” she said. 
“You mean More.” 
My mom looked at my dad with a smile.
“You’ve been saying that for years, his name is not ‘more.’”

A Moment Alone

The sky is black with a few speckled stars. Isa’s black truck is parked twenty feet away in a row of 10 empty parking spots beside the sidewalk. The only thing separating the cars from the ocean is a wide sidewalk and a cliff side covered in ice plants and a few invasive species of grass. 
Isa is nestled in the thick coiling roots of a Monterrey Cypress. The roots are curved and exposed to the air like tentacles that emerge from the earth and then dive back into it after a series of loops.  The trunk of the tree is massive, the bark scratches against her back which is only covered in a thin cotton long-sleeved shirt. The roots hide her body from anyone that might be walking along the sidewalk or the occasional car that passes by, their headlights illuminating the tree for just a second before driving on. 
She is just a few steps and a leap from the ocean.  Fifteen feet below, the waves crash into the rocks, colliding not with violence, but with a persistent relaxed motion that moves forever without rest.  The sound is calming, like a nighttime lullaby.
Isa looks out into the black ocean sparkling with faint moonlight.  The air is crisp with approaching fall. The elements seem more alive, and she feels more real in it.  With acute clarity, she feels the coolness of the salty cliff covered in fine dust, the rough bark of the trunk, the breeze full of salt and moisture, the roar of elements as water and rock meet. 
Her left hand is in her pants, feeling the warmth of her bare skin.  Her thumb and pointer finger are expertly holding a vibrator to her clit while her others hold back the cotton of her panties.  She is hidden there, alone under the cloak of a dark sky, the protruding tree roots and the ocean sounds.
Her eyes are open, alternating her gaze from the sea to the cypress canopy above, barely visible against the dark sky, to her stomach and her legs.  Isa closes her eyes as she gets closer, clenches her abdomen and imagines tied-up young women on stage in front of a barely visible audience, women bent over metal contraptions, gagged, helpless.
The fantasies quicken her excitement and her clitoris swells with blood. She moves rhythmically and opens her eyes, watching the approach of foam-tipped waves and the serene rise and fall of salt water in the distance. 
She is alone out here, alone but accompanied by all the elements. She begins to ride the tide, pushes her breath out a little quicker, tightens her lower abdomen, and she soars over the edge.

Moonlight Lady

The cheese section was illuminated brightly at the supermarket.  An enormous selection of soft and hard cheeses, swiss, cheddar, brie, goat cheese covered in blueberries or herbs- they snuggled up against an assortment of packaged salami and prosciutto. 
Ethella picked up a few cellophaned chunks of cheese and checked out their weight and country of origin.  As she put the French brie back in its place beside its brothers and placed the cheaper American-made one into her red store-issued basket, she heard the song. It was immediately familiar. 
Most supermarkets play the same songs, about 100 recycled tunes from the last 50 years of rock. This particular familiarity, instead of getting lost in the mire of repetition, struck emotionally, blasting a buried memory into perfect, ringing clarity.  And the cheese, the shoppers around her, the weight of the basket, it all wove into a multitude of threads, experience and perception becoming both more bright and blurry at the same time. Tears came to her eyes and she moved her head softly humming along.

She had a babysitter named Jennifer one summer when she was 10. Jennifer was 15 and had long blond hair and wore red lipstick. She suggested that Ethella and her younger sister prepare a romantic surprise dinner for their parents. They planned a menu of spaghetti and red sauce, salad and dessert, they had Jennifer’s mom drive them to the supermarket to buy the ingredients and flowers. 
At 4pm they started cleaning and creating the space. Ethella set the formal dining table with their nice linens and china reserved for special occasions. The dining room was separated from the kitchen by a decorative angular archway and Ethella tacked a large tablecloth in front of it to block out the view and light from the kitchen. 
Before her parents came home she went to the stereo in the living room.  There was a clutter of tapes and records- none of them familiar to her.  She picked one up at random and put it into the tape player, she listened to it for a second and thought it was perfect.  Smooth, low vocals- it seemed right for a dinner set to candlelight.
Her parents came home. Ethella’s mother changed into a nice dress and sat at the table with Ethella’s father, both of them going along with what the girls had created.  After dinner her mother asked how she had known to play that particular tape, “it’s the most romantic music we have.”  Ethella shrugged, not yet having words to describe intuition and mood.

A familiar song played in the grocery store.  She only remembered hearing the music that one night so many years ago.  She walked through the aisles, past other shoppers oblivious to her joyful tears and open heart.  She swayed her head while singing the few words of the chorus she could make out.

Please Don't Block The Driveway

It was a sunny morning when Charlie sat down to create the sign. Having searched all over town for a pre-made sign that would have suited his purpose, and having failed to find such a sign, Charlie eventually settled by buying vinyl alphabet stickers and a weather resistant Car For Sale sign. He left these in the trunk of his car for several days because he himself had always been offended by signs such as the one he was contemplating creating. Signs that said things like “Please flush the toilet.”, “Keep off Grass”, or “No Solicitors”. Signs that supposed that the reader was a Neanderthal, or inconsiderate, or weak willed enough to be swayed from robbing a house simply because a “beware of dog” sign was propped in a window. 
It offended him that anyone should think that he needed to be told these things, despite the fact that they weren’t meant for him specifically. It offended him that he should be assaulted by blaring red letters because other people were animals, anarchists, or vacuum salesmen. It offended him that other people were animals, anarchist, and vacuum salesmen, and that these signs reminded him of it. Most of all, it offended him that the messages were so cold, so impersonal. If someone were to say to him:
“Excuse me. Hi. I’m Ted. I really work hard to keep my grass healthy. It’s surprising, I know, but grass is really very delicate, so if you could use the pathways that would be wonderful. It will keep the grass alive. Thanks! I appreciate it.”
Well then, that might be less offensive. If, however, someone said:
“Yeah, go ahead it’s right through that door way. Make sure you flush the toilet and wash your hands when you're through.”, it would be condescending. And that, Charlie thought, was at the heart of what aroused his disdain for signs. They often said things that people would never say themselves. They were cowardly, rude, and driven by presumptions of vulgarity.
And yet, he suddenly found himself in a position in which he had a need for a sign. His new neighbors were blocking his driveway. Now, to be accurate, it was Charlie that was new to the neighborhood, having just purchased his first home. It had been a short sale and the previous owner lived in the house right up to the point at which Charlie was handed the keys. Thus the house had not stood long empty before Charlie began the gratifying labor of fixing up his new home. Popping in and out to paint and make repairs, he noticed that at least every other time he pulled up to the house, the driveway was blocked by one car or another.
If he had known which cars belonged to which houses, he would have simply knocked on a door, introduced himself with a smile and asked that his driveway be left open to him. Unfortunately this was not the case and Charlie was not yet ready to walk up and down the street introducing himself to every neighbor. And after five or six frustrating hikes from the car to the house with paint cans and tools, Charlie found himself sitting on the living room floor fingering sheets of vinyl stickers imprinted with bold block letters.
It began simply enough. PLEASE DON’T BLOCK THE DRIVEWAY. Despite his best effort, the letters had not been applied perfectly straight. Soon Charlie found himself adding the word “THANKS” at the bottom to fill what he perceived as an awkward blankness. Before he pressed on the “S” he realized that to keep things more perfectly centered he had better leave off the “S” and apply “Y” “O” and “U” instead. Besides, some extra stickers had peeled of the backing and it would be good to use them up, so he contrived to add the words “FOR UNDERSTANDING”.
After this, of course, there needed to be something further to balance things out visually, and then more stickers came up off the backing and he thought of more words to make with those. Eventually he needed more sign and more letters to complete the half formed words and ideas already in place. Naturally, the additional signs needed to be centered properly upon the garage door, so more signs had to be created to fill that space properly, eventually forming one enormous sign which swallowed up the entirety of the garage door, the vinyl letters tilting and slanting awkwardly like letters cut from magazines and pasted into a ransom note.


PLEASE DON’T BLOCK THE DRIVEWAY.
THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING THAT THIS HOUSE IS NOT EMPTY.
ALTHOUGH I HAVE NOT YET MOVED IN, I AM MAKING MANY IMPROVEMENTS AND NEED ACCESS TO MY GARAGE. I AM SURE THAT WHEN THE PREVIOUS OWNER VACATED THE PREMISES YOU CAME TO BE UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THIS HOUSE WOULD STAND ABANDONED FOR QUITE SOME TIME.
AFTER ALL, IN THIS ECONOMY THAT IS QUITE OFTEN THE SITUATION.
SOME NEIGHBORHOODS ARE RIDDLED WITH EMPTY HOMES LEAVING THEM LIKE DESOLATE BLOCKS OF SWISS CHEESE, ADOLESCENTS AND VAGABONDS SWARMING THESE GAPING HOLES IN THE COMMUNITY LIKE STARVING MICE.
I AM PLEASED THAT OUR NEIGHBORHOOD WILL NOT SUCCUMB TO THE DIFFICULTIES OF THESE TIMES. THROUGH MUTUAL REPECT AND COURTESY I KNOW WE WILL LIVE PEACEFULLY TOGETHER, EACH WITH FULL ACCESS TO THEIR DRIVEWAYS. THE LAWNS WILL THRIVE AS WE ATTENTIVELY KEEP TO DESIGNATED WALKWAYS. OUR DOGS WILL REST SERENELY, UNDISTURBED UPON OUR PRIVATE PROPERTIES UPON WHICH THERE SHALL BE NO TRESPASSES.
WITH THE PROPER APPLICATION OF AWARENESS AND RESTRAINT WE WILL CO-EXIST PEACEFULLY. OUR HOMES SHALL BE PAINTED INDISTINCT NEUTRAL TONES SO THAT THE ENTIRE STREET WILL BE AWASH IN HUES OF SEPIA AND POWDER BLUE.
GONE ARE THE DAYS OF CLOTHESLINES HUNG IN THE FRONT YARD AND MOTHER IN HER APRON. MOTHER SHALL DRIVE TO WORK IN HER HYBRID CAR DROPPING THE KIDS AT SCHOOL ON HER WAY OUT.
 DUE TO THIS I UNDERSTAND THAT NO ONE WILL BE BAKING COOKIES TO WELCOME ME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
NAY, THE DEFINITION OF A GOOD NEIGHBOR HAS CHANGED FROM THOSE THEY STILL PROPAGATE ON TV SITCOMS.
WE SHALL KEEP TO OUR OWN RESPECTIVE DOMICILES AND REFRAIN FROM SPEAKING TO ONE ANOTHER.
A CURT NOD OR WAVE ON THE WAY FROM THE FRONT DOOR TO THE CAR IS ALL THAT SHALL BE NECESSARY.
FOR ALL WE WILL KNOW, IN ONE HOUSE MIGHT LIVE A SERIAL KILLER,
IN THE NEXT A FAMILY OF MORMONS WITH THREE WIVES DISGUISED AS ELDER DAUGHTERS,
IN THE NEXT A GAY COUPLE SNOGGING ON THEIR RETRO SOFA, TOES LOST IN THE SOFTNESS OF NEW SHAG CARPET,
IN ANOTHER A CHINESE FAMILY IS SECRETLY TUNNELING BENEATH THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD TO MAKE MORE ROOM FOR THEIR KNOCK OFF DESIGNER BRAND PURSE FACTORY,
WHILE IN YET ANOTHER A SINGLE MAN WONDERS WHAT HAS BECOME OF HIS SELF RESPECT AND IDEALS. WITH BLOCK LETTERS HE WILL BE BEGGING STRANGERS TO ADHERE TO THE CONVENTIONS OF CIVILIZED SOCIETY, OR IF THAT IS TOO VAGUE, THEN WITH CITY ORDINANCES THAT ALLOW THAT HE MAY HAVE ANY CAR BLOCKING HIS DRIVEWAY TOWED.
HE WILL REFRAIN FROM ASKING THEM TO FLUSH THEIR TOILETS AND WASH THEIR HANDS BEFORE EATING.
WHAT THEY DO IN THEIR OWN HOMES IS THEIR OWN BUSINESS, UNLESS SOMETHING HE HEARS THROUGH THE WALLS OR GLIMPSES THROUGH A WINDOW GIVES HIM CAUSE TO CALL CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES OR THE HUMANE SOCIETY OR THE DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY.
IT IS IN THIS SPIRIT OF RESPECTING PERSONAL SPACE THAT I HUMBLY ASK YOU TO LEAVE MY DRIVEWAY FREE OF OBSTRUCTIONS.
THANKS.

When it had been completed Charlie stood in the driveway admiring his work. He felt a strange mix of dread and elation. The old lady across the street was peering out from behind her curtains. The sun was shining and sparkling off the bright emerald green fibers of the synthetic lawn in front of another neighbor's house. Charlie glanced at his own little patch of lawn, a yellow melee of crab grass and wild oats. Then he walked around the corner to where his truck was parked and drove to the home improvement store in search of fertilizer and weed killer. 

Another Confession

Greta clears her throat softly, looks into the bright spotlight coming from the back of the room- squints slightly then continues.  Inhaling, the smile comes.  Exhaling, her shoulders soften and the words begin to flow. 

“I am not yet what I wish to be.  I am not yet what I yearn to be.  I am covered in layers of dirt and habits that cover my eyes.  I shred my heart with my own hand.  Those knives!  Gleaming!  Kitchen drawers and the rusty tools of the shed.  Give them to me!  You devils, there is no fire that can cover these tears.  It is only me that begins to claw.  I stand around the corner with a knife, watching myself- we are sharp and gleaming in the moonlight.”

She looks up, seeing nothing but darkness and the brilliant light.

“I always think it's them.  Them with their ill thoughts.  With their conspiracy.  I take the bait when they sit together, gulp it down without thought.  Give me your hooks! Gleaming!  I swallow, tearing at my own mouth, cutting these lips!”

Greta’s eyes are glistening with tears.

“ I go outside to pick yellow leaves. I go upstairs, pretending to read.  I watch them like characters in a movie, wishing I was them. Wishing I lived in a Barbie world with new cars and a large house and fashionable clothes. I see others and envy them. I envy the bed they wake up sharing.  I envy them for the human lives they lead. My mind is full of questions.  I am unsettled- standing here.  Can you hear me?  Bring me the knives!”

She shakes her head.

“I am not what I wish to be.  I am not what I yearn to be.”

He Jumped

I drove down the I-45 westbound towards San Diego.  I was headed toward the mall, which was just a few more miles down the long five-lane stretch of smooth cement.  I had slept in and eaten a quick breakfast, spent an hour on my hair and on finding just the right clothes that might help me sell designer sunglasses. 
I was well past morning rush hour traffic and there were only a few cars following behind me- there were none in front of me for as far as I could see. I approached the I-860 overpass 100 feet away. It was a relatively new freeway that gently curved perpendicularly to the I-45. Every day that I drove this stretch of road I looked up at the overpass, drawn to it for some reason.
Today there was a car parked on the overpass.  A thought occurred to me- it was more like a stamp of words rather than a sequential string- ‘I’ve never seen a car parked there, someone must have a flat tire.’
As quick as this thought marked me, I saw a white man in a dark blue suit come around the side of the parked car. He had on a bright blue shirt which contrasted nicely with the deep rich color of his blazer and matching pants- the collared shirt was the same color as the sky on a bright sunny southern California day.
My car continued forward without my attention and I watched as he approached the overpass rail. In a second, without a moment of hesitation, he swung his legs over the side of the metal rail and jumped. 
The wind pressure pushed his body towards the eastbound lanes of the freeway below.  He floated like a lightweight doll, his limbs moving like thin flower petals in the breeze. His blazer rippled like stunted blue wings- flapping but catching almost no resistance. I turned away almost instinctively as his body approached the asphalt, each cell of my body knowing I could not handle the image of impact.
I pulled my car over beneath the overpass.  In the shade of the overpass where his last moments had been, I fumbled for my cell phone within the leather body of my oversized purse. His body lay contorted fifty feet away in the eastbound lanes. 
A few scattered cars passed by, diverting quickly as they saw the obstacle in their path.  The driver who had been behind me had pulled over too. 
I tried to hold onto the phone but my fingers were numb and tingling. I opened the car door and stumbled along the freeway’s edge, holding onto the side of the car for support.  I made my way just behind the car and fell into the dirt. My entire body was shaking. Then the tears burst out. 
I felt an arm close to me and realized it was the other driver.  I could not stop shaking, rocking, I could not get any words out. 
“The police are coming,” he said.
He got my cell phone from the car and I tried to call Maxwell, Sydney, my parents.  Nobody answered immediately. Eventually my mom called back. 
I tried to explain what had happened, but I was crying so hard I was not sure she understood. 
“Listen Doris,” my mom said, “are you and the car ok?’ 
“I’m fine mom, I mean, I’m not hurt, but it’s horrible.’
“Look, listen to me, you just need to go to work and show them you’re a tough cookie, you can’t let everything bother you.  You might feel better if you go.” 
Pure rage came over me and I hung up the phone, my mom could never say the right things.   I called my boss and sobbed into the phone, barely letting her know what had happened. 
“Don’t worry about coming in, just take care of yourself.”
A few minutes later a swarm of police were close to us. I tried to describe what happened.  I could not get it out of my head, it repeated like a loop, he just put his legs over the side and a second later he was going over.  He didn’t stop to think about it.  
“So you saw it happen?” one of the officers asked. 
He had a wide chest and frame, I looked up at him like a gnome in a forest of giant redwoods.  I nodded, trying to speak but only water came from my eyes. 
I cried some more.  More officers came up to me, they wanted the details.  I kept crying and they sat me back down on the ground.
A chaplain, a woman with very pale brown hair and dark blue clothes came towards me.  She sat next to me and took my hands and then I melted into her arms.  I cried and she let me cry. 
I looked up at her and asked: “Are you a mom?”
"No," she said.  “But I want to be.”
“My parents are just so different.  They asked me if I was okay.  They asked if the car was ok.  They asked me that several times.  Then they told me I should go to work and put a smile on my face.  Can you believe that?  I called my boss and she was understanding, she said- just take care of yourself Doris.  Why can’t my mom do that?”
“Everyone has different ways they react to these kind of things.”
“Yeah, but my mom is a social worker.”
“Maybe she is around this type of thing a lot.  Maybe it’s normal to her.”
Everyone told me not to drive, but I got into the car and went to work.  I couldn’t go home, the freeway going in the other direction was closed. 
As I entered the building the store manager saw me- she took one look at me and led me into her office while she contacted my supervisor.  They had me call Sydney so she could drive me home.
My mom kept calling over and over.  I was mad at her for telling me to put a smile on my face. I was mad that the guy jumped.  I was mad that someone wanted me to see that.   Why had god wanted me to see that?  I spent the rest of the day crying and asking the same questions over and over again.
Who had planned all of it? Why they want me to see this?