Oleo

Footprints No. 814

She lie in my father’s easy chair. Belly rolled over her hips, supporting her breasts, but the rest of her was withered. Sprawled across the beige leather, she reminded me the old house in Odessa and the long and hot hours spent driving to get there.

Cotton, feathery and thin hair padded her skull. Sitting on the couch across her, I reach and gingerly curl my fingers around her chilly palm. Her skin clings to the bone.

She stirred, realizing her grip on my hand. Her smile was the first thing.

How beautiful she is.

Such joy—vague through all her wrinkle and ache. There is much time between the sparse moments we have lent to each others lives.

I am just as happy, if not more.

Oh—hello you b’utiful baby. Her accent, more apparent now than when I was a child.

She’s always been gray, long as I’ve known her. We sat in a comforting quiet, her hand in mine—she trembled. Her head would lull to the side, then back to me, and she would smile as if she’d forgotten I was there.

I wanted to know about Papi’s time in the second war, and, about her, how life was for them in their youth. My family past—things you read out of books or see in movies.

I have Alzheimer’s you know. She tells me.

Frowning, I did not know.

Only thing good about that—is that there ain’t nothin’ to worry about—because you can’t ‘member anythin’.

She laughs. I laugh too.

Really, I did miss her. Frequently, our family used to visit, and all our relatives—back before the first black president; the housing collapse; before the war on terror and before the cost of gasoline per gallon was higher than the lead content.

Oh—I do wish you would’a come see me up in the hospital.

I’m sorry. Watching her, she is almost expressionless.

It’s okay baby—you busy—got your own life, problems to take care of… and school—of course. Her grip tightens.

They don’t really tell me much about what’s goin’ on. I sigh. You know, with you—and everyone.

Pleading with my sweet grandmother, I ask her—describe to me the past, like learning how she lived could someway help me to live too.

Asked her about Papi again.

Wasn’t he a pilot?

Some point in my memory; Grandpapi’s medals, a purple heart, some other honor, or merit, and through this memory, all my childhood, I believed Papi an ace, that he saved the lives of his men, just like in stories.

He died when I was nine.

Doctor’s could not sway him to linger, I imagine I would not either. His funeral—I remember the formations—fighter jets—screaming across the relentless and blue sky.

No, no child… he, well—

He salvaged parts. There was my father, leaning in the hall, he continued. He was a mechanic.

Joined us on the opposite couch.

Yes—yes, that’s right—he would take apart the broken planes and fix em’ to fly up in the air again.

She flew her hand in front of us like a plane.

Oh—I used to be able to remember some of the planes, can’t remember nothin’ now. Her head rolled over to my father, her son.

I have Alzheimer’s you know. She turns back to me. Only good thing… ‘bout that is that—there ain’t nothin’ to worry about, cause you can’t ‘member nothin’.

She doesn’t laugh—more a statement.

What about when you met—tell me. I rubbed her hand.

Her hand pulled away. Adjusting herself, she half-way laughs, moaning with each stressful shift.

There are only fragments left. I watch her eyes, adoring each shard of her, wanting that I could reach out and sustain them; color has almost faded, some faucets of the spectrum are brighter than others.

Ah—well, that’s one I do remember.

Smiling, I nod.

I have Alzheimer’s you know. She smiles back. The only good thing… about that is—

Cut her off.

I know—Grandma… I know.

Footprints No. 1116

He rifled through the twenty dollar-bills.

There was four-hundred total. Had not expected tuition to cost him so, but, at least he’d been prepared—another roll of eight-hundred was rubber-banded in the corner of the glove-box.

The kid shut the bills into his wallet and locked it all inside.

Not many cars parked out front, it was only ten. Lights were on inside, but no one stirred when he entered.

Didn’t take the barber long at all to finish the first patient. Invited the kid to the chair.

This had all been new to him, but it was slowly growing more familiar. He was comfortable. Never had his hair cut—not until a little over a year ago.

Having a man put his fingers all over his scalp took a little getting used to. Don’s touch was of a seasoned veteran, a man that lived by shears.

Like all barbers he made conversation. Sometimes small talk—but other times, the conversation felt real. That was the thing about the shop. Maybe because he’d felt more akin in an establishment run by black-people, though he’d never regularly come to a barber-shop ever in his life.

He really gets to talking. Home is usually first, the Lakers will come up at some point—or Chicago, then accomplishments and/or aspirations follow, starting with whichever is the largest.

No matter what the conversation—each of them inserts little pieces of their moral into chapters of the discussion.

He applies oil to the tips of his clippers. Bein’ this far is okay, because, you can still get back to home. The man says.

It’s terrible down there—New Orleans, but it’s home still.

The kid watches him through the long mirror against the wall behind them.

Lot’s of crime. He continued.

Kids’ don’t want to work—they sell drugs.

The kids’ focus fades—the man continues to speak; hum of clippers, droning.

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Footprints No. 539

Beaks peck at his tiny fingers—he does not fear them.

Runs back up the hill, to mom and dad, extending his soft palms for more bread. His older brother kneels at the lip of the pond, looking back at him.

Age is relative.

They are children, and to other men that is all. Four or six years means nothing to these men, but, it is an eternity for the little ones. All the wisdom that his brother must hold over him; a thick network overcast like clouds, with no definition of the sun.

You’ve already taken all the crumbs, dear. Warm—she explains to him while he whines to feed the hungry ducks. 

The slim, brick tower reaches like an old and rusted fifties-era fender. There is a clock facing where the rising sun will meet the violent, morning sky. He will remember it’s long expression, droning—far into angst and early on-set adult-hood. And he never sees where its’ gaze meets the sun-rise.

Still—he longs for wheat.

Footprints No. 1123

In this unfamiliar place. Finally—he is with her, and together they float over the light cobblestones. Now, more than ever, he regrets not learning Spanish in grade-school, which he was paying for in full, clueless, among the streets of Spain.

She talks to everyone for him and laughs at his frustration.

Buy the ticket. That’s what she had told him. I’ll take care of the rest. It was more than he could have hoped for; thought a single idea could not endure so much hoping.

He found her one day—or rather, she found him, in the lame hall of a community college. She was beautiful; did not seem to belong in such a plain place; and he would wait each day after his class, biding his time, balancing patience with unimportance.

Until she showed up. Flawlessly he would feign disinterest and it gnawed at her, though she chided him, denying it.

Eventually, one morning in spring, they owned up to one another in the campus court-yard. They only spoke over the phone, by text, and she began to forget his face, slowly at first; he could not quite place the elegance of her, but, only remember his fondess of it; and they did not see each other for near half a year.

But he was patient, still, and she—curious.

Mack the Knife

Serene, a drive home through gray, autumn drizzle. Afternoon sun-beams peak into the thin clouds as they encompass the sky. The same route he takes each day around this time.

For whatever reason, he always found himself either needling through redundant, traffic infested intersections, or, in assenting repose, sifting through the clutter. Today he chose the ladder. Watched people, safe inside their cars. The brush, vibrant green against that cotton sky-line—

Brake lights—fifty yards, at most, glaring, it was a forest green explorer—his foot stomped into the brake. His muscles flexed, taut—joints locked, and, he held his breath.

Silence, in those few seconds.

First there was the screeching of resistance from the peeling brake-shoes. The coupe was small, at least there was that, but the front tires were bald. Waves of droplets skittered all around the car.

Then with a leaden groan from the front-end the wheels stopped turning. The anti-lock indicator flashed orange behind the steering-wheel. Maybe two, three feet from the bumper, his car jerked violently to a stop.

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Chameleon

Head Hunters II

Dust particles climbed the pillars of sun-light. Creeping under the sil of the round cabin windows, they pervaded the small quarters. He stirred under the thin sheets of the cot.

He was alone.

“Big!”

Squinting, he turned over and yawned back into the sheets. They called his name a second time, and then a third. Crabfeathers was banging on the door then.

It flung open.

“Big! God damnit—”

He was at the bedside, rocking Big back and forth.

“Wake the fuck up you idiot!”

Bloodshot—Big opened his eyes, they were sunken into his head. Mumbling, he cursed.

He was still drunk.

“Big! You inconceivably, bumbling, moronic— get out of—”

“Crab!”

Melonae was in the door-frame then.

“Leave him, I need you, now!”

“Big— !”

“Now! Crab, leave him.”

Crabfeathers hesitated a moment, looking down at their partner—his friend—before they fled the room.

Big’s head lulled around some.

Gradually, he began to sit himself up on the cot—the explosion of gun-fire showered the wall of the cabin. Wood splintered around him and he was sprawled onto the wooden floor.

“Ah… shit.”

He shook his head and crawled across the wooden planks to the desk.

The firing ceased.

When the rounds went off again it was in a different area of the boat. He listened as different sections of the yacht shredded under the biting ferocity of the steel missiles.

“Son of a bitch—”

Feeling around the desktop. The gun was gone, the ammunition, the keys, and the blow—everything.

He grunted and pulled on his jeans.

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