Raising Men

I watched them through the thin layer of grime on my windshield. The dried yellow goo that had once been some kind of bug, the dried up remains of early morning dew, the fine golden dust of pollen.
There was a wide lawn in front of me. An old fashioned, uneven field full of tiny mounds and clusters of small white flowers that I used to make into garlands and drape over my hair. The square field sat beside an elementary school, partitioned from the collection of single story buildings by several rows of giant eucalyptus.
The day was full of wind and I preferred to remain in the shelter of my car. A 70 year old man jogged along the sidewalk between my car and the field. He had short running shorts on and a wide-strapped baggy white tank top. His face was full of wrinkles and his head was completely white, but his body looked firm and strong. I remembered hearing a 40 year old lithe acrobat saying that the face was the first thing to go. I made eye contact with him as he jogged past and I felt bad about being in my car, sitting on a soft seat, I felt somewhat guilty that I was not exercising too.
In the field were groups of young children led by a few adults. They were spread out, seemingly unaffiliated and congregated in different corners of the field. Closest to me, in the corner to my left, was a group of 20 three year old boys. In charge of them were two men dressed in slightly baggy, yet tailored jeans. The men both looked young, professional, as if this was the place they stopped by on their way home from a high-rise office building.
Two women stood off the side, somehow lending their moral support just with their presence. They talked, angling their bodies towards each other while still mostly facing the group of boys. They were young stay-at-home moms, the type of mothers that proliferated in the tree-lined streets and gated homes of upper-class Hillsborough. They had lovely expensive houses, SUVs, and plenty of time to drive their kids to fields such as this, plenty of time to chat and exchange stories.
A young girl, perhaps four years old, dressed in little shorts and a pink T-shirt, fluttered like a butterfly on the outskirts of the group. No one spoke to her and she spoke to no one. She skipped, jumped, entertained herself entirely while everyone gathered was busy with other things.
The men led the young boys in a series of exercises, each relating to baseball. Each boy had a baseball mitt and matching blue baseball hats that were slightly larger than their heads. The boys were divided into two groups, with one man leading each group. I watched as one man threw the baseball underhanded, practically rolling it along the grass and the little boys, one at a time, would attempt to catch it and throw it back.
The boys were all so short, most of them would fall as they enthusiastically sent a ball flying as high as they could. The would run to the back of the line, jumping into place with the explosive energy that such young children have.
I saw how such mentoring would be applauded by a community and seen as noble. I saw the blind mechanically of it too. These men were teaching the next generation, just as they had been taught. Little boys get pajamas with trucks, cars, hammers and sports equipment. Little girls get flowers. Little boys play baseball, they play soccer, they run, they hit, they jump.
This was the cycle, the process of socialization. The process of turning young boys into men that liked sports and teams and competition.
This process was not only the consequence of being born male. It had happened to them, it had been taught to them by the elders. Blue, gray, black, green, it was part of their conditioning. They were taught by their fathers. By the men that spent time each day teaching them to throw. Those adults in their nice clothes, in their noble position as mentors and teachers, they had once been taught as well.
I watched the young girl try on an oversized catcher’s gear and a helmet. At first I thought she was about to join them, but she danced around for a moment in the large black helmet that wobbled on her head and then put it back on the grass.

Toni And The Police

I awoke in a haze of sleep, my dreams evaporating instantly. The room was still dark, nearly pitch black to my half closed eyes. I pulled the thick covers away mechanically and stepped onto the carpet. Holding my hands in front like a blind man, I sought the hard realness of the desk against the wall and the glass doorknob I would find to the left of it. Holding the knob, I slipped my feet into the slippers I had thoughtfully left by the door. There was a sea of cold tiles that stretched from my bedroom to the bathroom, and I tried to avoid the frigid shock. I pulled the French-style door open, and a cool air hit my face. Without central heating- a cold darkness lay just beyond the bedroom walls.
It took me a second to realize it, while my brain computed and bumped along, but there was an unmistakable flashing red light coming from the garage. My door was open just a crack, and I pulled on the knob. The garage pulsed with flashing red and blue lights, like an empty nightclub. I urged my feet forward, carefully stepping over the guitar and microphone cords that criss-crossed the floor. The light source came from outside, just beyond the wood panels and high frosted glass windows that made our garage door. I stood on my toes and looked through the diamond shaped window, an architectural necessity for any house constructed in the 50s.
Two police cars were double parked in the street, one just in front of our house, the other in front of the first car, almost out of sight. Both had their lights on- blinking red and blue that seemed to scream silently in the night. There were the cars and the houses on the other side of the street, illuminated in the blazing lights. I immediately thought of our next door neighbors, the ones who had just moved in and brought with them loud voices and almost a dozen children. I listened hard for voices, but heard none. No sobbing women, no shrieking children. I pulled a green and cracked vinyl chair towards me and quietly stepped up, looking through the diamond window once again.
Partially shadowed by the night, then brightened by the lights, was Toni, our neighbor, with her hands behind her back, surrounded by four large police officers. Three of the men were white and large, one of them wearing a black beanie on his seemingly bald head. The fourth officer was a stocky Asian man. Toni looked so small and thin next to them, her chocolate skin illuminated and somehow looking pale.
“They don’t take care of my mom, I do!” she shouted. The men mumbled their responses.
They walked together towards the car closest to our house. One cop in front with the black beanie leading, one next to Toni, the two others following. The man in front was shaking his head, and from where I stood, he seemed to be looking right at me. I wondered if he was. Was it a warning? I felt myself grow cautious, wondering if they could see my curious white face through the small window. I felt a fear creep inside. The men felt dangerous. Men armed and willing, ready to take a life. They closed the backseat door behind Toni, then huddled by the trunk, looking at something the one with the beanie held. Toni shouted from inside the car, but her words were muffled, just the anger escaped through the closed metal door.
“Shut UP!” yelled the man wearing the hat. He turned instantly to the Asian man on his left, smiling. His smile filled me with fear. Bullies from high school, men with a license to shout and abuse, kill if need be. He thought it was funny. He did not have the insight to see that his actions altered the course of lives. What was a job, a routine night perhaps, something he would write a report about and then forget as he put the pen down, it was different on the other end, between the metal cuffs, waiting in the backseat of a car. A river flowing one way was instantly diverted with his presence. Arrest wasn’t a minor thing, though he might have gotten used to being the figure with power. And when he laughed, like he didn’t care, like she was just another piece of trash he had to deal with before his next coffee break, it etched a dread in me I had not felt in a long time.
The men conferred behind the car, looking at something. The Asian man broke away and walked to the police car. He opened the driver’s door and spoke through the metal grate to Toni.
“What’s your name?” he said quietly, but distinctly. I thought I heard her say Jessica, but I probably misheard.
I thought of Toni confessing months ago that she used to do crack, that her grown children were still mad at her for how she had been when she was raising them. What had she done tonight? I imagined her in a yellow lit house, wandering from room to room. Which one of her family members had called the police? Who would take care of her mother with dementia? I thought of the old woman who sat in the easy chair in front of the window, what would happen to her? What would they do with Toni? I imagined her heart shattered, crumbling in on itself as she thought about the helpless mother she was being dragged away from. What had she done?
I left the window and walked back quietly through the garage, careful to step over all the cords. I used the bathroom, never turning on a single light. I stood by the doorway to the garage, wondering if I should go back to bed. But then I heard my friend’s voice, asking me questions. I thought about Toni and thought someone should keep witness. Moving gently to the window again, I stood on my tiptoes. I looked into the windows of the other houses across the street, looking for other faces. If they were there, they were hidden. And if it was just me, watching as Toni was taken by the four men. Then I should watch it through to the end, whatever would be the end at this hour.
As I stood, the word boredom crossed my mind, and I felt guilty that the events had lost my interest. The scene was a bit more quiet, Toni had stopped cursing. Two cops now stood by the hood of the police car closest to me. The steps leading to Toni’s front door was illuminated by the porch light. I could see the purple exterior paint and the metal gate at the landing that was slightly ajar. I watched the quiet scene for a little while, then the light above her garage door came on. I wondered if it was a motion sensor, maybe a cat had walked by. Maybe someone had turned it on. A few minutes passed, then the sound of jingling, perhaps keys, though it sounded more like glass.
One cop came down the front steps, taking each step quickly, with a sort of bounce. His large black Maglight was beaming and down-turned. At the sidewalk by the steps, he began to search the driveway, carefully looking around the red car that was parked there. Toni started cursing again and another cop turned on his flashlight, joining the search. They didn’t find anything and within a few minutes two cops walked towards the car parked just beyond our house. I heard the ignition start.
The cop with the black beanie walked to the other car and took his place behind the wheel, his partner sat beside him. He turned on the engine and then turned his face to the left, in my direction. The shadow of the car’s roof hid his eyes, but I felt like he was watching me, perhaps daring me to do something. A deeper sense of fear moved through me, the man was dangerous, more ugly than many I had met. He stayed like that for several seconds and neither of us moved. Then he looked straight ahead and drove away.
I stood in the garage for several minutes, the space now black again without the police car lights. I moved back towards my room, but lingered in the doorway to the garage, wondering if I should lock my door. The space seemed less safe, not because of whatever Toni had done, but because of those men. The police and what they stood for.
Men without any hero’s code of honor, but simply men that had passed a few tests, a few obstacle courses…men that had been given a gun and the power to enforce laws, the power to hurt, the power to change destinies. They were nothing special, but they were backed by cells and judges and an entire system of repression that would bite down on the prettiest of flowers without a thought.
I was cold. I got under the blankets again and stared at the blackness of my wall until the sky turned blue.

Strength

Lindsay Werner was one of a rare breed of man, the type who dressed impeccably but modestly and showed courtesy to everyone, even those who lacked this quality themselves. He wore crisp white collared shirts and pressed slacks of black or charcoal gray supported by gray suspenders. His ties were shiny, he liked the shiny ones, but of classic hues such as maroon or royal blue embellished with little patterns in gold or gray or black. His glasses had plastic frames to reduce the chance of breakage, and were of a tortoise shell pattern in earthen hues. He wore soft leather wing tipped shoes that were all black so that you would only notice the wing tip quality if you examined them closely, and black nylon socks pulled up over his calves. He had dressed this way in his youth and he dressed this way even now as his years progressed and his neatly trimmed fine hair turned gray at the back of his head but remained black at the crown and his pencil line mustache was all salt and pepper.
He worked for the city arts commission issuing permits to crafters who desired to pedal their wares on the streets of San Francisco. He loved art and music, but lacking the courage, talent, and skill to produce anything himself, he was satisfied with working close to creative people. Although he might only encounter a particular artist once or twice, he enjoyed the momentary proximity. They would come into his office after demonstrating to a panel that they were indeed the artist or crafter who produced the goods they intended to sell, and there, behind the walls of his cubicle, he would accept their check or credit card and write out their permit and laminate their photograph into an official street vender identification badge. It was in this way that he met Alice.
She was a painter with long honey colored hair and blue eyes and skin like milk. She wore long flowing scarves of bright colors and knitted hats and billowing goucho pants. Every gesture, every glance of hers was filled with vitality, and spark. She was too young to sport even crows eye wrinkles or fine lines on the forehead. She showed him an abnormal amount of attention there in his office, standing terribly close to him as he filled out the paperwork on a counter beside the desk. It made him tremble. She touched his suspenders and gazed into his eyes and made him completely dizzy.
“Do you like Dashiell Hammett? The Maltese Falcon?” she asked him and he had been scarcely able to nod and cough out a yes.
“Well you remind me of a character from a book like that, the way you look. But are you the villain or the good guy?” she asked him pulling on the suspender a little and turning her face up to his.
“The good guy I hope.” He said honestly.
“Hmm.” She smiled, “I’m sure you are. But we should find out.” She took a step back from him and began to collect her things.
“I’m not, uh… quite finished with your permit yet.” He told her.
“That’s all right.” She said, “You can bring it to me when you pick me up for dinner.”
“D-Dinner?” he stammered.
She nodded,
“Dinner. Tonight. 7pm. You can pick me up on the corner of Geary and Folsom.”
Then she left him standing there alone, sweating and shaking.
He had picked her up that night, exactly at seven, and soon she was living with him, sharing meals with him, sleeping with him, and making love to him. There had never been a woman like Alice before. He gave her money for clothes and art supplies, he bought her jewelry and flowers. She transformed his living room into a makeshift studio, setting up her easel over a sheet, and soon the room was full of pieces of art. Now he was closer than he had ever been to the creative process. He watched her in awe and even sat for her once.
She had a way of asking him for money that he could not refuse. He gave it to her until his account was overdrawn and he was pulling it from his savings.
Then one evening he came home from the office and found that she was gone, every sign of her had vanished. He sat down in the empty living room, full of shock. The trembling and sweating began as it had on the day that he met her and soon it transformed into tears. In the following weeks he searched for her on the streets, looking for her in the places were she used to sell her art. He asked the other vendors but none of them had seen her, no one knew where she had gone. Then one day a little Italian photographer, a young man with long dark hair stared at him for a long moment after he asked about Alice.
“You’re the one that lives on Lombard right? 326? She had me up there sometimes when you were at work. Forget about her. She’s no good. You seem nice, if I had known you I wouldn’t have gone into your bed with her like that.”
He stared back at the man in shock, in terror in disbelief. For the first time in his life he felt an incredible rage. He wanted to grab the young man by the throat. His skin turned red.
“Do you know where she is?” he asked “Is she with you?”
“With me?” the man laughed bitterly, “No. She took up with some business man living in Nob Hill. She won’t see me anymore either. Forget about her. She is no good. She looks like a lamb, but my friend, we are the lambs. She’s the lion.”
Then he had turned away and busied himself shuffling black and white prints, perhaps to hide his own emotion, and Lindsay wondered away down the windy street huddled under his jacket. Now he felt like a character from a Dashiel Hammet novel, most definitely, the good guy, the one who gets duped, and this new awareness of himself stung him fiercely and unrelentingly in the heart.

Destroyer

The destroyer laughed, looking up at the blackened heavens. All above was a blanket of glittering lights, the stars hung in the sky, low, like fruit waiting to be picked by a youngster with sticky hands. The destroyer laughed. The stripes on his sleeve attested to a long-distant past, the battles he had survived, the men he had killed and the ones he had saved. The captain beside him shrugged, he could not laugh with a man who so resembled a skeleton, a creature that had once only existed in the minds of little boys. But the apparition before him was real, as real as the worries that clung to the edges of his being, as real as the wind that brushed close to him like the wife he used to know. There was nothing he could do, he was a powerless lump of skin, shrouded by white flesh and a baggage of pain that rested on his shoulders like heavy bricks. Another chorus of laughs strung his ears, the captain raised his head, following the gaze of the destroyer to the flashing lights above. The stars where out of his control, just like the ship. Above, they moved by the whims of other forces, they would never answer to firepower, they would not respond to taunts of abuse or even soft kisses. Just as everything else, they were beyond his sphere of influence and it was pointless to wrestle with that simple truth.
He shook his head regretfully, and looked to the destroyer. Before him was a tube of metal and steel and white teeth painted like a picket fence. This was no man, but there were no other words to describe this being of decrepit laughter and sickly smells.
The ship bounced reassuringly. The waves were calm, the ocean was a baby asleep, its dreams moving quietly with the sharks below. The captain looked at his watch, the second hand moved slowly, too slowly, as slow as death seemed to approach his hell. Dawn herself seemed just out of reach. Why did she tempt him so? His memories of her were soft… bright golden rays that chased waves from their mountainous forms, pink clouds that announced the rising orb. He watched the movement of time. The hand moved slowly.
The destroyer let out another laugh.
The captain knew he was engaged in a battle that he could not win. The forces were too strong, too violent… even for a man like him. He still had shreds of a conscience, he still felt pain. The others did not.
He was surrounded by a horde of strangers who looked more like vampires and walking skeletons than the humans he remembered. Was he the lone survivor in a game of savages? For a second, he debated his own will. How long would it be until he became like them? How long could his stomach growl before he began to feast on human flesh? Before he went into the ship’s chambers and found the softest girl available and he began to chew on her breasts, bite by bite. There were plenty of girls below, their pastel dresses stained in blood and soot. There were plenty of them, plenty of food for a ship full of animals, hungry cannibals that had not seen the beauty of the moon for years.
The stars continued to shine, but the moon had begun to punish them, taking away their light, blinding them to the movement of a larger time, a larger cycle. Without the moon, they would have died on the sea had they not come across the lost ship, after months adrift.
The lost ship was like a gift from a maker who had given up on existence. When they had climbed aboard, they discovered the ship had a full belly of ample women and their men were too soft to stop the destroyer. He had walked right up to the captain and in minutes had turned him into their first meal in weeks. With the captain gone, and a pile of soft men who knew nothing of true savagery, they made a stew of the men and brought the women aboard as prisoners, as food to be stored til the next meal was needed. Now, with ample supplies, each man, each thing resembling a man, could have what he liked. A nipple, an arm, a piece of a lip. There was plenty for all. The old captain heard the belly of the destroyer rumble, the thing laughed and began to walk towards the lower chamber of the ship.

The Little Church and Its Purpose

The sunlight was late in coming, it was early afternoon when it finally broke through the clouds and scattered the low hanging gray masses that had accompanied me through the morning. I walked along a suburban street that was tinged with noise and dirt by its proximity to the big city that loomed just over the bridge. A pit bull barked furiously as I walked past the chain link fence, the thin barrier only made me walk faster, knowing for sure that if this dog escaped, it would tear me apart in minutes. Long after I was out of sight, I could hear the vehement barks and wondered who would be the next victim. I reached the corner, quiet except for the growls that continued.
There was a coral hued church, massive in the neighborhood of one story houses and small lawns. Its roof was a high peak that had a thick metal cross at the very top. Biblical scenes were sculpted into the front façade. I wondered if nuns lived in the back, something about the long hallway that ran from the front door to the small building along the side reminded me of the Sound Of Music, which is the foundation for my knowledge of nuns and Catholicism. I mounted the row of fifteen steps that led to the 2 sets of white double doors. They were open and I stepped inside. Immediately inside was a foyer, a very narrow and small room which presented me with another set of four white doors. In the center of each was a rectangular stained glass scene from the Bible. On the far left was a picture of two young children kneeling and looking forward. Next to it was a simple brown cross with diamond shapes creating the background, there was a scene of Jesus on a hillside with three small children at his feet, and on the far right was a cluster of white robed angels. The scenes were mostly made from stained glass, but there was a strangeness on the depicted faces, Jesus’ face was too detailed and the children’s faces were too placidly expressive. It might have been painted or been an appliqué, but the overall feeling was thick and sweet and unreal. The colors were brilliant and they radiated in the light streaming from the room beyond. There were some fliers on a table near the front doors and a bulletin board with an advertisement for bible study.
On either end of the foyer, there were closed doors. No one came in or out. The whole place was silent except for the sound of my footsteps. My hand reached for the handle of the door bearing the cross, curiosity pushed me through the door and I entered the inner temple. It was a very long room, filled with 60 rows of wooden pews that were separated by an aisle in the center. There were two wooden confessional booths on either side of the back doors, the ones I had come through. Their dark wooden doors were carved into trellised designs. I tried to open a small door that was attached to the booth, I wondered if there would be a priest inside, waiting to hear my sins…what would I say? I turned the silver knob to the right, but it opened to a small broom closet. I tried the more ornate door in the center of the booth, where I imagined a priest would be waiting. I tried to turn the knob, but it was locked in place.
I began to walk down the center aisle. I slowly took out my camera and began taking pictures of the stained glass that covered the top of the walls. The room was long, 4 or 5 hundred feet, and at the top of the tall walls, except for the back wall where I had entered, were long and narrow biblical scenes. Each one was its own unique chamber. There was a bloody Jesus, a group of bearded men…one by one, the panels colored the room in light. I kept snapping pictures, the click of my digital camera echoed loudly in the room and I wondered if I was breaking a rule.
I realized that in my experience, I had only ever walked into a church as a tourist. I had gone into a few in Italy, and one in Chiapas that had been taken over by the indigenous population who had taken out the pews and replaced them with mounds of pine needles. In that church, chickens walked around waiting to be sacrificed while mountains of soda bottles were stacked against the walls, a beverage they drank religiously to get the devil out…he escaped with their burps. This was the first time I had ever been alone in a church, without the crowds of tourists or indigenous believers.
I tried to adjust the manual lighting of my camera, the photos were coming out a little dark. I was looking at my camera when I heard the squeaking of the doors opening behind me. I turned to see two adults stepping inside with a little girl at their side. One was a young woman, perhaps 23 years old. She wore blue jeans over her thick legs and a baggy sweatshirt covered her wide torso. Her skin was a light brown. She walked down the aisle on my left, along the side of the wall just below the panels of stained glass. She did not look at me, she walked solemnly towards the front of the church. Behind her was a little skinny girl. Maybe seven years old. She was wearing light blue jeans and a pink T-shirt. Her hair was shoulder length and smooth and brown, it was styled in two pigtails that hung on either side of her centered part. I assumed the little girl was the daughter of the young woman. Behind the little girl was an older woman, about forty years old. She was the same height as the young woman, no more than 5’1. Her body was slightly more slender than her daughter’s. She wore blue jeans and a loose button up blouse. All three walked silently past me, just beyond the long length of pew that separated us. None of them looked in my direction.
I sat down in the pew, noticing the pads people knelt on to pray. I watched the women climb two carpeted steps in the front and approach a large painting of Mary that hung on the left side of the wall. The painting was five feet tall and very simple in execution. The colors were slightly faded. The three women knelt in unison upon the step that began three feet from the wall, constructed for this exact purpose. The little girl’s head was turned to the right, watching her mother as she crossed herself, the little girl followed along, lagging a couple seconds behind in each move. All three bowed their heads and remained in silence. The little girl held her head down for a minute, then she looked up at her mother who was deep in prayer. The little girl turned to her grandmother, who was also busy in prayer. She put her head down again, she kept it that way for a couple of seconds, then she began to walk on her knees towards the alter that was just a couple of feet away from the step. The grandmother looked up and shook her finger at the little girl, who seemed to freeze in place for a minute, fearing authority, but as the grandmother hung her head again, the little girl began walking on her knees again. Then she crawled down the step, walking on all fours over the carpet and down another step. Then she turned around and crawled back up. The sound of her limbs making contact with the floor was loud and I tried to time the sound of her movement so that I could turn on my camera and take a picture of them, but the sound of my camera seemed too loud to be discreet and I was reluctant to intrude on their private moment.
The little girl crawled back onto the step where her mother knelt, her mother looked up and wagged her finger at the girl in anger, another warning to be quiet. The little girl remained still for a moment, then started to crawl down the step again. Her legs were on the step behind her and her hands were on the floor below. She suddenly stopped and looked up at me. I was watching and we held contact for a second. She raised one of the hands that supported her body and waved at me. I smiled and waved back. She held eye contact with me for another second, then began to crawl. The two older women stayed kneeling for another five minutes as the girl crawled on her hands and knees across the carpet, finding a playground in the quiet church. The younger woman released her posture and sat back on her heels and wiped tears from her eyes. I wondered who she was crying for. I wanted to ask, but although we were in the same room, I felt we were separated by something strong and palpable, a barrier I could never cross.
The three of them stood up and walked out the church the same way they had come in, in the same order, without words and without eye contact. When I heard the door close, I looked back to see if I was alone. I turned my camera on and began to take more pictures. Like the little girl, I would find my own purpose and my own work in this little quiet church in the suburbs. And there was nobody there to wag their finger or say no.

A Melody From Lost Days

The old man walked down the cement steps slowly, holding onto the metal rail with his right hand while he held the violin case with his left. As he leaned forward, the sunlight fell invisibly upon his short black hair, which showed long streaks of white and little spots of naked pink scalp in the strong clear light. One step at a time he moved, breathing slowly, while small groups of people walked past him in a rush. A Latin couple holding hands and talking in soft whispers, their heads almost touching. A proud middle aged man, his head up high and pulled backwards, examining the plaza as if it was his private kingdom, and his two beautiful brunette daughters in smooth elegant dresses, the thin fabric subtly tracing the outlines of their soft thin bodies. A group of three middle aged women talking loudly about the sunny weather in voices that echoed through the small trees, words that attempted to hide too many afternoons passed away in restless boredom and troubled vague angst.
The old man would nod slowly at each stranger that passed by him, whether they acknowledged it or not, and then he would continue moving at his own slow pace. He stepped down onto the light brown dirt path that led to the dry fountain and he moved a bit faster on the flat surface, carefully looking forward with slim, tired eyes. He came to an empty green bench, next to the short baby trees that were not tall enough or full enough to offer shade from the sun, and there he sat down, nodding his head back and forth in a simple affirmation of his actions. Placing the violin case on the bench next to him, he leaned back and took a few deep breaths with his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in a sincere effort at concentration. The sound of kids playing came from the direction of the fountain. The sound of cars honking came from the direction of the museum. The sound of birds singing came from the short little dry trees all around the path. After a few moments of darkness and deep inhalations, he opened his eyes again and he looked all around him, his eyes blinking at the light as if he had just woken up from a long sleep. Then he stretched his arms and took hold of the violin case.
He opened it carefully, unfastening one lock at a time. Very slowly and methodically, he took out the Gao-Hu, the traditional Chinese violin that his father had given him on a sunny afternoon much like this one, many years ago. He looked at it for a moment, examining its short, fat cylindrical body, its long thin neck, the two taut strings and the two large tuning knobs, all carefully polished, as shiny as the day he had first laid eyes on its delicate curved shapes. He leaned back once again, opened his legs and placed the instrument between them. Then he pulled out the bow and ran it softly across the strings. A thin ghostly sound emerged that echoed over the noisy plaza, trailing away into the distance to become intertwined with bird song. Two older women turned over to look at him. They were sitting on a bench much like the one he was sitting on, but closer to the dry fountain. Their attention held on him for a moment and then it faded and they returned to their conversation. The old man rearranged himself on the wooden bench. He propped up the violin case and left it open, in case someone wanted to pay him for his effort. Then he turned his eyes back towards the violin itself.
He allowed the sounds of the kids playing in the fountain to drift into him, like cool water sliding into a finely crafted vase. The laughter, the screams, the calls, they all resonated within him, and he could almost be a little boy once again, a little boy that could now hear his father calling, asking him to come and play the violin while he ran away into the woods, ‘no, no violin today. I want the creek. I want the forest. I want to run. No violin. No.’ And the kids screamed louder and their screams rang through the plaza and then he pressed the bow onto the strings, and he pressed the strings with his left hand. He closed his eyes once more and then ran the bow over the strings in a single decisive move, and the sound was now loud and present and full, resonating through the plaza with the confident beauty of folk tales and mythic legends, and the sound of running laughing children was like a tinkling counterpoint to the lilting melody that sprang from his hands, growing from a faint whisper to a soaring musical statement and then back again. Up and up, sliding into a higher octave that bounced off the sunlight like electrical explosions over a charged metal plate, he pulled his head back and the light fell on his closed eyes and it was as if the music had flared into fire and the fire was all over his skin and it ran like little incandescent rivers over the trees and up to the sky and the melody was slow and stately and sad and it was all coming from him, through him and around him. In the midst of clear resonant ecstasy and lost conversations that mingled like frenzied ostinatos under the vibrant power of the simple song, only he could remember. Only he knew that it was the same sad melody his father had played, back when time went on forever and no danger could stop a little boy from running into dark waters or jumping over dark holes in the ground. Only he knew that it was the same melody he never learned when he had his father for a teacher, and that he now learned when he only had himself in a cold land of ghosts.
He opened his eyes as the melody came sliding down to its original register. The ladies across the path were looking at him once again, smiling. He had made some mistakes, he knew the melody wasn’t perfect, not yet, it wasn’t quite the same melody that he remembered, but he was getting closer, a little closer every day. He nodded at the ladies as he played the final low note, making the strings rumble with grounded finality. He pulled the bow away from the strings and took a very deep breath. Two men in thick leather jackets walked by talking of finances. He looked up at them but their faces were turned away, not even interested enough to purposefully ignore him. He looked back towards the stairway and saw a teenage girl in a light brown summer dress walking by slowly, her half closed eyes turned towards the thin clouds and their clear blue background. Then he looked back at the two ladies and smiled and nodded.
He leaned backwards and pressed the bow to the strings. He heard the first strains of the little melody roaming through him once again, like the fingers of his father’s hand petting his little head, like his father’s voice telling him about the future, about countries far away where things would be better, about dreams, about disappointment and about sadness. He closed his eyes and slid into the melody with renewed commitment, with a sense of rediscovered passion, letting the notes take him far away, to a place that had no beginning and no purpose, a place where death was an illusion and loneliness was just a drink of cool water from a gentle lagoon in the middle of a meadow. The melody stretched and soared, bursting from his old wrinkled fingers like a flock of pigeons seeking the emptiness of the open sky. It was almost there. Maybe this time he would get it right. If not today, then tomorrow. Soon enough, the true melody, the one he remembered in dreams and hummed while he walked in the morning, the one that made his heart shiver like crystal tears about to shatter, that melody would come out from the old violin, soon it would live again and it would fill this sun soaked plaza in the middle of a noisy urban park, and it would touch it with the same gentle colors of melancholic hope that had once washed over that little wooden cabin, peaceful and delicate, sitting quietly by the side of the forest.

She Got A Job

The woman stepped out of the parked compact car and, turning back towards it, she placed one hand on the roof, her eyes momentarily fixed on the black metal fence on the other side of the street. She was about five feet and six inches tall. She wore a deep red top with very short sleeves and a short white denim skirt, leaving her thick dark thighs exposed. Her hair was curly, full and bouncing, creating a half sphere of radiant black thin tendrils that flowed freely around her deep brown face. She wore small silver glasses and her naked arms were thick and full, the dark brown skin jiggling freely with every little movement of her body. She tapped on the roof of the car, in a show of impatience, and then she reached down with both hands to rearrange her skirt. In a swift motion, she grabbed the lower end of her red top and tucked it in, wiggling her big round ass as she pulled the red fabric under the tight waist of the skirt. It was a bright hot day and her red top was shining like fire under the glare of the sunlight. Cars passed by in constant succession, honking every once in a while. A teen girl laughed happily in the distance beyond the metal fence and two thin men passed by in a blur of color, riding their shiny bicycles with a stern look of serious purpose and calculated intent.
"The thing is…well, look, I understand…it’s very clear to me, you know, but still…", she said it in a very loud voice that was vibrant with shrillness and a sense of defiant presence, as if the big sound of her words clearly communicated what didn’t need to be stated in language: ‘I’m here, whether you like me or not and, one way or another, you will have to listen to me!’
An older couple with shiny white hair, walking slowly down the sidewalk, turned towards her for a moment, their thoughts interrupted by the loud sound of her voice. They quickly turned away and kept on walking, passing right behind her while she continued to wiggle her ass and pull up on the waist of her skirt. Her friend stepped out of the driver’s side and looked at her over the roof of the parked car. She was a bit smaller in height and a lot thinner. Her black hair was pressed tightly over her head, giving her face the look of a complex dark brown egg. Her eyes were deep and insistent, her mouth was wide towards the sides but was kept tightly shut when she was not speaking and her lips were thin and seemed pale when compared to the dark skin of her cheeks. She wore a white loose shirt with colorful African style adornments and a pair of blue jeans, pressed tightly around her curved firm legs.
"It doesn’t… it’s just not the way…." The first woman continued in the same loud voice.
"I don’t see what’s the problem…" the friend answered in a voice just as loud, but with a deeper timbre.
"Here’s the problem…" the first woman tapped on the roof of the car for emphasis and then reached down to adjust her skirt once again.
A family passed by behind them, a tall man carrying a little girl on his shoulders and two other girls, slightly older, running around his legs as if he was a moving play structure that followed them wherever they went. The man’s wife walked behind him, her head lowered, her eyes flying back and forth from one running little girl to the other, making sure she knew where each one was, making sure they didn’t run into any trouble. The man never turned to look at the women by the car, his eyes were fixed on the path ahead, trying to make sure he didn’t stumble over one of his running daughters. The older girls screamed with the pleasure of running freely. The little girl on top of her father’s shoulders laughed with the pleasure of being carried.
"What is the problem then? What is it really? It doesn’t make any sense to me," the friend said it as she was closing the car door. She then looked directly at the first woman, who was still arranging her clothes.
"Here’s the thing… she got a job…."
"So?"
"Well, I’m glad for her… I’m happy for her and everything… but it’s like…"
"What is the problem? Why can’t you just let it be?"
"I’m telling you… it’s like… so ok…she got a job but where’s my job? You know what I’m saying?"The shorter, thinner friend shook her head and started to walk around the car towards the sidewalk. A woman in dark blue athletic shorts and a sweaty white T-shirt ran across the street while two cars stopped to let her pass. She looked straight ahead and ran right past the two women.
"So what if she got a job… good for her, right?… what do you care?" the friend asked as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The first woman wiggled her large round ass once again, pulling up her skirt even higher, revealing more of her thick dark brown thighs.
"Don’t you get it… you know how she got it… you know the deal… it’s like good… you got a job… but where’s my fucking job? Huh? Where is it?"
The smaller woman stepped around the car as a tall bearded man walked behind them on the sidewalk. He was wearing a black button up shirt and black jeans. He had a camera in his hands and he stopped often, taking a new picture every few seconds.
"What do you care? You should just let it go already… so she got a job… so what? She does her thing… you do your thing…it’s like…"
The first woman wiggled her ass once more and stepped back and away from the car. Then she closed the door harshly, and turned towards her friend with eyes of barely repressed anger.
"No! It’s not that simple… look, she got a job… right? … so good for her… but where’s my job? Huh? Where’s my job?"
The friend shook her head. A young girl in a beige top and a loose white skirt walked by listening to loud music through thin headphones. She was shaking her head back and forth as she walked and the shifting rhythmic movements of her body responding to the music made the white skirt dance around her thin pink thighs. The friend stepped towards the car and made sure that the doors were locked. Then she turned back towards the woman who was still staring at her with big round angry eyes.
"It’s over. That’s all there is to it. It’s her life. She got a job. That’s good for her. Be happy for her. And let it go."
The woman in the red top turned away from the car and from her friend, she reached down to the waist of her white skirt and arranged it once again, pulling it up slightly over the edge of her red top and then wiggling it into place. As she did it, she shook her head, letting the world know that the matter wasn’t settled.
"It’s not over. Not at all. Look, she got a job… right… she went and got a job…"
Together, they walked towards the main plaza, while a thin man passed by in a shiny bicycle. In the distance, a young girl laughed.

Two Women On A Small Boat

It was a fall afternoon that tasted like soft wind and gentle sun. The water of the lake was calm and soft and green, a green that spoke of life and sounded like gentle fingers that dissolve into droplets as they run across your cheek. The trees moved slowly in the wind, creaking slightly as the branches adjusted to their slightly new positions. A mother duck was rounding up her ducklings by the side of the flat, gentle waves of the lake and the dark gray pigeons coalesced into great masses of squawking and then dissolved again, each in its own direction, all with the same hungry purpose. There was an old man sitting on a bench, wearing long white shorts and a red and white shirt. He had a red cap on and his head was turned down towards the sidewalk, his eyes closed. There was a world of curious life around him but he wasn’t interested, not today.
Two women pedaled the small boat they had rented. They were both thick and strong and they both gave off an air of masculinity that contrasted with their full breasts and soft skin. They were both wearing dark glasses and they both looked ahead as they pedaled, as if unable to look at each other, as if unwilling to even try. One of the women was wearing gray shorts and a blue sleeveless T-shirt. Her hair was blonde and her bare shoulders were very white and rounded. Her mouth was half open even when she was quiet, as if she was trying to swallow the world with every breath. As she looked straight ahead, her head was tilted slightly upwards, in a subtle acknowledgement of the sun and the wind. The second woman was wearing long light green pants and a black T-shirt, also sleeveless. She had a checkered hat that covered her short black hair. Her mouth was severely closed and it barely opened, even when she spoke. Her head was also tilted, but instead of facing up towards the sky, she looked down, towards the lake, towards her own legs, towards her pedaling feet.
As they turned the boat slightly, the blonde woman said: "I’m glad you decided to come with me."
"It’s ok. We had to talk anyway," said the woman with the hat, still looking ahead and slightly downward.
"But you could have stayed home… I’m just saying I’m glad… I’m glad that you came with me today."
"Good… like I said, we had to talk anyway."
The words rang like loud whispers over the gentle repeated splashing of the water, the repeated impacts of the boat’s mechanical paddles on the surface of the lake.
"You know that I will forgive you… I always have…" the blonde woman said it with a hint of a shiver in her voice, as if making a clear effort to not let it break, an effort she wished to keep secret but that she couldn’t hide.
"I know that… but it’s not good… it’s not fair." The woman with the hat talked in the lowest voice possible, as if digging inside her chest for a place to bury her words and cover them in great mounds of white flesh.
"I can decide what is fair… you know… what is fair for myself…you…", the blonde woman’s voice was still shaking and the effort was just a bit tougher.
"We’ll see what happens… I don’t want to take advantage of you…"
"I know you don’t… but…"
"We’ll just see…"
A little boy screamed in the distance, happy to see the pigeons erupt into a new round of intense squawking. He ran to them, trying to catch the fast birds in his tiny hands.
"All I’m saying…" the blonde woman tried again.
"Like I said…"
"I’m only saying I’m glad… I’m glad you came with me today… that’s all."
The boat turned slightly again and the two women were very quiet, still looking straight ahead. The blonde woman’s head was still tilted up towards the sky. The woman with the hat was still looking down towards her feet. They would keep on seeing, but as their eyes looked in different directions, they would never be able to see the same thing, their eyes would always be lost in distant parallel lines that never quite meet in the horizon.
The pigeons separated once again in all directions. The little boy wondered if he would ever be able to have one in his little hand. Maybe when he grew older and stronger, maybe one pigeon would come down and rest on his thick older hands and maybe the pigeon would then want to stay forever. For now, the pigeons would keep on flying and the boy would stand by the side of the lake, looking up, with wide eyes and open mouth, as they flew far away from his little hands.
The blonde woman was completely quiet.
The woman with the hat said: "We will see."
The blonde woman barely nodded her head and pedaled a little harder. She kept on being quiet and she kept on looking at the sky. The wind caressed their naked arms and shoulders and the pigeons kept on squawking in the distance. But the women didn’t notice any of it. The wind was just too soft. The pigeons were just too far.