Shaved Bear

My wife and I attended our first marriage conference in the season of change. We woke early on a Saturday. I flicked up a red blinker and turned as the yellow arrow buzzed threateningly. We continued down a hall of oaks toward the church. They provided childcare so we could hear our thoughts. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear them. I was a green leaf dappled with a fiery orange that fought leaving my branch even in the strongest wind. I sipped cold coffee and tapped the bony lump on my medial ankle with my leg crossed and resting on my thigh. My knee formed a right angle. There is some order to our bodies. Most pieces have a pair, some singular, but all needed enough to evoke a gestalt sentiment that lends itself to metaphors of a Christ.

 

A pastor painted an image of financial freedom, sexual understanding, and spiritual intertwining. It all seemed to be built in a furnace that we are charged with stoking. We were told to intentionally feed its destructive flames. In an effort to save our souls we were asked to destroy ourselves. A couple performed an anecdotal shadow play where the small man with red hair and a trim beard played the one addicted to pornography. The bodies of strangers made him feel better about himself and who he wasn’t. He loved the small woman on stage with him. She had wavy hair and a voice that sounded both delicate and strong in one breath. She played the woman who was never enough; the broken creature who had to be okay with that. She seemed to be the kindling. He wasn’t enough either, though. They both were short in stature, as I said before, but we could see them towering as the dust settled. They had ashes resting on their eyelashes. They asked each other if the other wanted to speak with a genuine concern each time. There was a warmth that only fire could bring.

 

We paused for lunch. We ate sandwiches and flowers were set at the table. Flowers are found at funerals and weddings the same. Tiny purple blooms brightened a mood that was understandably heavy. No one was making eye contact with me but maybe it was my half of the equation? We celebrated the ceremony of providing our bodies vitamins, carbohydrates, and proteins to continue all its metabolic functions. It felt enjoyable but we wouldn’t do it if it weren’t necessary, right? Killing yourself after all is the easiest thing to do. You just do nothing. It is what happens if we let the planet run its course. I don’t say that to keep you up at night but for quite the opposite purpose. I want you to sleep and look forward to waking up to the warm smell of sweet cinnamon bread baking or the distinct smell of a freckled yellow banana being ripped into so many pieces. You want to eat it. You want to break the course. You don’t feel obligated. You feel delighted.

After the conference I had a camping trip planned with some close guy friends. The location was in my less than private hell. It was the same site where years back my heart had been broken by two friends and I don’t mean to make that sound so pathetic but if it does I can’t stop what you think of me. We set up our tent and laid out our bedding. I organized the bags of food to sustain us through the night. We decided to walk the trails and the sky changed as it does. The sun no longer lit up everything but transformed into a small lantern on the ledge of the horizon that reminds me that I live on a planet in a galaxy in the universe. Even still, though, it’s all about me. We found a fulcrum in the woods and stood on it playfully aiming to reach a balance. It was a large metal rectangle unevenly resting on some type of rig. It may have been used to load horses into a vehicle. Regardless, we had fun pretending we could see eye to eye and equate to each other.

 

We dragged branches to the site and threw them in a pile and sparked its own destruction to provide visibility and warmth. We laughed, ate and smoked poison, and drank poison. It was so funny. One guy changed the subject to his wife leaving him after she had sex with someone else. We paused long enough for the wind to blow the ash and continued with foolishness. One friend found himself having enough to drink that he found it worth mentioning that he liked something I had written over a year ago. He wanted to read it aloud. I wanted to disappear. He got what he wanted and I never do. We retired to our tents and I couldn’t sleep. I looked forward to the daylight but when it came I didn’t celebrate. We awoke with new wrinkles and maybe some regret as the light hit us. Still laying on the floor we were passing around a cell phone with the picture of a shaved bear. We began laughing at the image but it was an awkward laughter that sometimes we spread over our greatest fears.

The fire was dead, barely warm, completely useless in boiling water for coffee. I looked at the ash. The time had changed. We gained an imagined hour in our minds.

 

I took advantage of this fake time and napped on the couch once home with the tv playing loudly. When I awoke I asked my wife if she wanted to get cheeseburgers. She acted like I had read her mind and agreed with a smile. It’s all thanks to casomorphins. Once at the restaurant we drank soda and our son played with a red balloon tied to a plastic stick. We mocked him for his simple joy and subsequently laughed at the absurdity. We rehashed the marriage conference from the day prior after I walked her through my camping experience when that friend made me feel loved and like a fool simultaneously by reading something I had written. She got it. She got an itch in her throat and the air changed to one of new territory. We both were enamored and horrified by the question: is your marriage a safe space? My wife always has a tear stored in her eyeball. It’s one reason I fell in love with her. She leaned forward and it spilled out as she said that she wants to know my past. She wants to live in my present. She wants to know me fully. She said that she, too, makes no sense on paper; that I can find errors in consistency and would mark up her margins. I told her that there are pages I pulled out of circulation; that for now let’s rest in knowing they exist and that they are available to each other to be checked out. It was the joy and intimidation one may have felt standing in the ancient library of Alexandria. 

Fears

In hopes of earning extra money for Christmas, I decided to audition for a Halloween event at a local theme park. I fear debt. Despite my general lack of charisma and my unremarkable growling ability I was hired on and began scaring paying individuals last week. When I arrived on the property before my shift the sprawling ineffective bureaucracy of it all was apparent. No one told me where to clock in. I parked here. I was bussed there. I walked miles back from the Entertainment building with my face now painted to resemble a fleshless skull. I unfolded a Xeroxed copy of directions to each haunted house and navigated areas that were never intended to be seen by those customers I would be startling later that evening.

The sun set, and honestly, it couldn’t get dark quickly enough for me. I slipped behind a black curtain and cut through the path that the customers walk and swung open the door to my assigned scare area. My counterpart with which I alternated shifts was in the zone and laughing maniacally. He was a large Black man with shoulder-length dreads. He strained through a peephole awaiting someone to amble by the drop-wall. He lifted the latch and shouted a threat to detach limbs and swallow souls. I thought, I can't bring myself to say anything like that. Sweat formed where my hairline met my forehead. We were stationed outside in a plywood prison. He informed me that the drop-wall wasn’t functioning properly so I would have to hold it up between scares. He also told me to complain about needing a fan to our stage manager and then he left. I felt alone and just as jumpy as a paying guest. I lined my eye up with the small hole in the drop-wall for any signs of movement, leaning into the wood panel to hold it in place. I released the wall and caught someone off guard. Making a noise like I was clearing my throat, I made eye contact with a grown man with a beard. It wasn’t fear in his eyes. It was definitely pity.

Time for my break came and I simultaneously felt the rush of ending my shift and the weight of knowing I had 4 more this evening, and 20 more days this season. I spotted an elderly man in similar paint and garb walking toward the cafeteria. His eyes weren’t looking in quite the same direction and he seemed confused on where he was walking.

“What’s your name?” I asked delicately scratching my nostril then looking at the black paint that transferred to my index finger. His white hair was matted to his forehead where his mask had been.

“Otto. How about you?” I told him and he mumbled about my parentage when hearing my name. I mentioned it being from the Old Testament like I do to everyone. It seemed out of place to be talking about the Old Testament. Everything seemed out of place.

“I saw you were in the Bloody Bayou house,” I continued, “I am too.” I remembered now seeing Otto in the line for make-up earlier that night.

“The bloody what? I just stand in a little corner, the light goes on, and I go ‘boo.’” His dialogue was like a spinning top. "They want me to lunge more," he continued without prompt. He was from New York originally. He had worked in social services like I do now during the day. He helped individuals gain employment. He didn’t see the irony that he now had taken this horrible job out of what sounded like a move of desperation when he explained his living situation. He also traveled in from St. Petersburg, living in an age-restricted manufactured home community in the northern peninsula by the mangroves. His wife is also a teacher. I refused to look for any parallels.  

We entered the staff cafeteria. Clowns sat with wooden dolls and werewolves. Young people with blood dripping down their cheeks laughed and clamped down on cheeseburgers with two hands. We headed to the growing line. I regrettably ordered a chili-cheese dog and found a seat with Otto. I watched our time tick down and sent my wife text messages. The baby is in bed while my wife is watching a show that I wouldn’t like. I told her that I’m enjoying myself because I thought typing it would help.

“We should probably head back,” I threw out after 25 minutes had elapsed. Otto stood without responding and waited until I opened the door. His white and black make-up was smeared around his mouth. He barely lifted his feet when he walked. He must have been in his 70s. The night air felt cool as my shirt was still wet with perspiration. My spot was directly in front of the warehouse that the majority of the haunted house was located in. I stood by the shrubbery mentally preparing to pull back the curtain and return to my assigned area. Just then a door burst open and the stage manager in a red polo was walking with a young blonde girl in tribal paint with her arm around his shoulder. She was breathing heavily and holding her left side with her palm as if she were holding her ribs in place.

“Did you see him clearly?” the stage manager barked.


“Yeah, of course. The asshole lunged at me.” She was on the verge of tears. She sounded more angry than sad, though.

“We’ll get him. I need you to ID him.” They hobbled past me quickly. I was craning my neck to see where they were heading. They opened a gate in the fence into the main park. The gate clanged shut and I stood there still staring in that direction, forgetting where I was headed, and feeling the moon looming. Another girl emerged from the black curtain sliding her mask up and off her face. Break is over, I remembered, as if I could feel my feet on the ground suddenly.

The next few shifts rotated. People reacted in similar ways. They could be filed based on their responses: the too-cool to be here, typically male, usually didn’t even look at me; then there were those who were coping with the fear by laughing or waving hello or saying that I "didn’t even scare them;" and finally there were the ones who were scared of their own shadow. They jumped and squealed and begged me to leave them alone. I just wanted to console them. They were mostly young women or children under ten. I felt a wave of guilt when the wall would drop and a small child would be standing there with watery eyes in the moonlight and artificial smoke.

As the night dwindled, so did the attendees. The few that were left were barely functional on account of the extensive alcohol consumption. The stage manager walked the house with a flashlight. My shoulder was leaning into the drop-wall and the aching had grown. I dropped the wall a final time. A co-worker in a top hat said, “you know it’s over, right?” and he then walked through the curtain.

I followed. I stood at the bus stop while people wiped their faces with white cloths pulling them back and looking at the red and black paint. When the bus came it filled fast. I sat by a young girl with black hair and a pale gray eyes. I think it was a wig and contacts. I’m not sure. She looked downtrodden or tired or both. The bus driver was playing hip hop music.

“What’d you do tonight?” I asked her over the music.

“I was in Bloody Bayou.” Her affect didn’t change.

“Me too. I was outside; it was so hot,” I complained.

“It wasn’t much better inside with all the people in there. I was toward the beginning so I could still feel the heat.”

“What’d you do?" I paused long enough for a response then when she took too long I continued,"I had a drop-wall. It didn’t work.” I felt akin to her sadness so I played up the negative aspects.

“Oh really? I was up on the ceiling looking down. I’m sore from leaning on the rails.” I was sore too but I didn’t want to try to upstage her and bring it up now. She seemed to enjoy talking it out. “I heard some girl got hurt bad but I didn’t hear anything more about it. Never saw her come back.”

“Me, too,” I agreed. “I saw her come out the side door when I was going back on shift.”

“I’m not surprised. Guys were just awful. The more drunk they got, the more they tried to mess with me. If I got called an ugly fucking bitch one more time,” she trailed off and she was right back to the level of sadness when I first saw her get on the bus. "It's just not necessary, you know?" I nodded. I thought of how scary it was for us to be in the dark with strangers with little supervision; easy targets for groping or an attack. I thought of how it was funny that we faced so much more fearful things than painted faces and carefully placed strobe lights. We faced the frightening lack of respect for one human being from another. It was a reality that just seemed too heavy to contemplate so we dress people up like zombies and monsters in a maze in the dark and we force ourselves to walk through it knowing they can't touch us. We emerge unscathed in a naïve success that is just as foolishly make-believe. We pay slightly above minimum wage for this consolation.

I didn’t know what else to say but just looked out the window with her. The roller coasters were still lit up, the frames of their structure casting shadows of perpendicular lines onto the dark green grass. It was nearly two in the morning. The night was purple with all the light pollution. After a few more breaths it was clear that the conversation wasn’t going to continue. The bus driver pulled up to the stop and said, “all right, everyone get off.” I felt the moment between feeling the motion of the bus halt and the decision to stand. I felt the full feeling of helplessness as our thin layer of skin provides a barrier to the outside world. Is it strong enough to protect against every outside force? My arms were crossed. I got goose bumps and ran both hands gently over the opposite arm as people lined up to exit the bus.

St. Augustine

My wife and I loaded the car for vacation. We were heading to the oldest city in North America presumably entrenched in the oldest argument known to man. The baby was falling asleep again in the carseat. My wife was running late causing us all to run late. She ran to the car in the growing morning light with both our phones in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Both of us were sexually starved. Both of us were actually starved. I thought of how we shared our bodies; how in marriage, neither body is completely ours. The line of separation may not exist within yourself. She placed the water bottle in the console which was the final check mate. I wondered where she thought we would be traveling that there would not be potable water. We arrived late to the meeting point. We met friends, two other couples, one other baby, and ate breakfast hastily before the long drive to St. Augustine. Traffic swallowed us; burped us. The stretch of the Ocala national forest was long green curves. We stopped for gas  or just to use the restroom. We let the babies crawl in a field of a rest stop to relieve the confinement of the car.

When we arrived the sun lit the entire metal roof of the rental. The front door was unlocked, the wooden planks of the exterior unpainted, untreated. The front yard was fenced. The three couples diverged to their chosen rooms. We placed our clothes in the drawers. Finally gathering in the living room, we held our phones and discussed what we wanted to see in St. Augustine. When you look at something both your eyes are seamlessly cooperative. The slight difference in sight provides depth, perspective.

I couldn't help but feel love for these fellow travelers, while still wanting to hide it. It's a shame that I don't fully understand yet. I think it's a fear of naiveté. Does that get worse with age? Maybe it's part of what people mean when they say they miss their childhood. Maybe it's one reason people drink. We walked in narrow streets covered in light shaped like branches. Our thoughts were shared. I thought of how we shared our hopes; how as friends, none of us are completely our own. The line of separation may not exist within ourselves.

Cancer

Cells are the smallest part of you but you're outnumbered. There are more microscopic others on and in you than cells constructing you. I think of this when I think of cancer; how it's everywhere. It's in your past, hidden in cupboards, in your future, in the air you breathe. When I was younger I remember my mom telling me that there were little bugs that live in the moss that hung from the trees like curtains casting shadows on the asphalt of a road that came to a point in the distance. It mixed beauty and fear. It makes me think of driving to my uncle's home in the summer as a child, a three hour drive from Tampa to Stuart.

My dad, of course, was exhausted after working a full shift fixing machinery then driving all his family of 8 in a large maroon truck across the Florida peninsula, east to west coast. We weren't buckled in. We sang along with the radio. Although I knew a cigarette would appease him, I was conflicted. We hated his cigarettes. At school we learned that each noxious inhale was counting down to your last. We wouldn't allow him to smoke on the long drive. We were rule-keepers.

Hours later, night fell as we crossed bridges. Lamp posts lit the circle of driveway in front of my uncle's home as we pulled up in darkness. Wooden double doors set in coral blocks swung open. We opened the car doors and the cool night air filled the truck as we stretched our legs. The first night we always sat at the white wicker bar chairs in the kitchen. Fruit were painted on the counter tiles. Copper pans hung behind my aunt's head as she told funny stories. She never ran out of things to say. We ate bowls of ice-cream with black flecks of vanilla. I would then sit on my uncle's lap as he turned his gold ring on his chubby finger asking what I want to be when I grow up. Who knows? I wanted his wealth. He had a wart on his finger as well. My eyes would move from the ring to the wart with concern, having never seen one. He was a cardiologist. He wore light blue scrubs; overweight and over-tired as he had just come home from the hospital. I wondered if it was worth it all; his home, the limit of time on planet earth; telomeres.

My mother and father stayed in the guest home. There was a small fridge and a bed with four tall posts. We would walk through the windy courtyard to visit them and watch the late night news on a 13 inch television. My dad had showered at this point and would have the fuzzy blanket over his legs, snoring intermittently. Back at home, I would find his underwear in the dryer. They were small briefs. The fabric would cut all the way to the waist band. They were solid faded colors like maroon or blue or gray. Eventually we would sleep on the thick, carpeted floors of our cousins' bedrooms back in the main home watching green light dance in the pool outside the window which was frightening or intriguing.

We woke to bacon sizzling, putting our bathing suits on first thing. Not letting our trunks fully dry, we played Super Nintendo with a towel wrapped around our waists. Birthday celebrations were always shared. I don't remember reading the cakes around the oval table in the dining room. My uncle's home had a special room in which you only ate, or a special room where you only read, or a special room where you didn't watch television. Bathrooms were at every turn. At home we did so many things in one room. 

In the living room were soft leather couches and paintings of marlins jumping through the air on teal walls. There was a miniature replica of an old Corvette that would rewind your video cassette. The projection-screen television was large but very dark if you watched from the wrong angle. Their basset hound's nails clacked on the parquet wood floors. My uncle had a chess set. The characters were cartoons in the role of the kings, queens, bishops, knights, rooks, and pawns. We would turn the pieces in our fingers, so amused, as he taught us to play the game. Each player had different rules with different advantages.

When our visit neared ending we would search the pantry. My younger brother was overweight but I enjoyed it just as much he did. It's misleading in that way. Both of us put warm cans of soda in our pockets. The tiles on my uncle's roof were a glazed maroon and sparkled in the West Palm Beach sun as we loaded the car. The tiles had been shipped here from Japan my dad told us when he saw us looking up at them. I didn't understand where Florida and Japan were on the globe. I mentally mapped it but the shapes were in the wrong places.

There was a fast food restaurant nestled in the hump of an overpass where we would stop on the drive home for cheeseburgers with square patties. Even to this day I rarely allow myself to fall asleep against my own volition, but that day I did. It was an occasion where I let my guard down. The road can grow monotonous, you know, lull you to sleep. I had just woken up to the excitement of the stop hearing my siblings bicker. My head rested on the angle of my arm and I felt the tension in my neck. The highway sun had warmed me in my sleep and formed freckles on the curve of my cheek, quietly mutating the cells in my integument; introducing abnormalities. At some point it all causes cancer, right? There were two oak trees sheltering the fast food restaurant. Festoons of Spanish moss adorned the branches.