Thursday, June 21, 2012

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. 

Thursday, June 14, 2012

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.”

Monday, June 4, 2012

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?