Hey all,
I've been AWOL, as of late, and I have good reasons for it: no more wireless leeching. Plus, jobs, jobs, jobs......
Robert sounds like a good guy. I've only spoke with him a couple of times briefly, but the more feedback we can utilize the better. Speaking of which, I posted chapter 2 of my book. Read and hopefully enjoy and give some feedback if you could. :-) I already emailed it to Kris, including some poetry. I haven't gotten much feedback with the poetry on this blog, so if you'd like to read some of my stuff feel free to let me know. I am attempting to write a book of poetry and a fiction piece.
School sounds like school. I don't miss it, except for your peeps' company and good times.
I have an interview with OPB aka PBS on Monday, (12/13/04). The job position title is "Educational Media Assistant." I would edit content for their Teachersource website, besides any other important duties, such as refilling the coffee. Although, it is a considerable and drastic good move-up from the warehouse.
Well, I gotta go drive to the OPB aka PBS location with Laura. Enjoy the writing.
Chris
Chapter 2 - Children
He thinks of her as a child. He was six and confused when he understood that his older sister was different. He was twelve and confused when he understood that his sister, despite any nightly prayer, had no desire to listen. And now, twenty-four, he is still confused when he understands that his sister cannot be saved.
Simon’s sister’s conditioning never leaves him wondering whose lips directs whose. Her classic phone conversations enable him to say yes and no, you’re right, they’re wrong, and always, I love you too. He is sick of this love, but every attempt to rebuke, to speak verily, to love, is left bitter. She begs love to comfort her, but seeks pleasure in his stead.
For now, he remains asleep in his bed; his body exhausted from yesterday’s cash job. Alone, with the blankets on the floor and twisted sheets stitching his legs together, he’ll wake up to another day confused, but for he remains dreaming.
*******
Simon and his sister run with open arms towards Christ, kneeling under the shade of a sycamore. Yet, his sister stops. She sees a fruitful tree, close and magnificent—slowing down, Simon turns away from Christ, crying to his sister to stay close, but she is led away.
*******
Pouring a slew of coffee into his thermos, Simon wonders briefly if his sister will wake before one, but the minute hand ticking towards the ten shifted any concernment directly over to the work day at hand.
The Monday morning brings no surprises, besides a middle-finger posted in his rearview mirror, driving northbound on I-29. It seems as though eastern and western driving philosophies have finally found their way into the Red River Valley.
The dim breakroom of the moving company always took on a distinct and unobtrusive blue in morning light. It complimented his hung-over colleagues. Frankie’s sitting next to Frank sitting next to Johnson sitting next to the punch clock. Miranda (the only woman on the crew), sits across the table from Ricky making every attempt to stimulate conversation. She gets more help than expected as Foreman tramples into the room; mouth blasting.
“Wake up lumpers,” hitting Ricky on the shoulder. Nobody seemed charmed by his toxic enthusiasm.
Foreman has a wife and two kids, and always finds a way to bring his addictions (or past addictions) into a conversation. But thirty seconds of more-or-less watching this brute blonde spin through a story, will leave anyone with the assumption of drugs loco-ing his feet.
Jack the Dispatch, walked into the room and dropped everyone’s job for the day on the table, went through any special shipper requests, and then informed Foreman to cut his cursing for the day, since the shippers were, as Jack noted, “extremely religious.”
Simon looked for his name on the assignment sheet and found it paired next to Foreman’s. He enjoyed working with Foreman, despite the viscous amount of cussing; he was a hard and skilled lumper. And most of his stories supplied the entertainment for the work day. The job for the two and Miranda involved loading fifteen-grand from the shippers’ home in Jamestown, ND. A job usually requiring at least 3 lumpers and a one loader, but Jack knew, unfortunately for Simon and Foreman, they could do it themselves in one day’s time even with the hour-and-a-half drive to the jobsite.
Foreman always points out to every shipper that even though he’s like a Hamm’s beer, cheap and always loud on the way out, while Simon’s smooth like a Lienenkugal, never leaving through the backdoor. But he also concluded his allegory saying, “But put us two on any given job, and houses simply empty before the family can cope with leaving.”
Foreman, albeit crude, is right. Shippers have looked on the trailer before closing the docking doors and just stared at every item crammed and tiered with jaws dropped, marveling at the speed at which Simon and Foreman lump; simply clockwork.
The tractor-trailer ride over to Jamestown produced flirtation between Miranda and Foreman in the front seats as Simon lay on the dirty mattress in the back of the cab. Foreman would fervently rub his beer-belly in-between dirty jokes, for what reason exactly is not known, but Simon imagined him as a blonde Buddha indulging in his own good fortune. Simon also thought Foreman’s hair brought out his boyishness, but conveyed a Gilgameshian strength and beauty, or even better matched, Samsonesque qualities. His hair enveloped his character: strong, beautiful and highlighted with infidelities. Simon, remaining invisible in the back, began to match his colleague’s inability to mature with that of his sister’s. The inconsistencies melted with predictability, all powered by an effervescing youthfulness and an all-too-familiar oscillation of values; all-too-scientific for his taste. He then decided to bring a book for the next trip.
Simon shut-out the two in the front and closed his eyes, bringing out the staleness in the air, followed by the distinct smell of mice, most likely coming from the mattress. Nevertheless, he lays content and dreaming.
*******
Simon stands within a long well-lit corridor, like that of the hotel in The Shining: dull yellow, patterned carpet; yellow painted walls; red painted doors; and at the narrowed end of the long corridor contains a mixture of darkness and a sharp light with a silhouetted figure sitting, centered. It’s his sister. She’s begging someone on the telephone not to hang-up. Simon feels the disconnection.
He makes no attempt to walk over to his sister, but he understands that he couldn’t begin to make that first step even if he tried. Her silhouette fades and Simon rests in silence, and for a moment, he feels at peace.
*******
“You got it?”
“Yeah, just go,” Simon replies from the top of the stairs, back parallel with an armoire in arms.
Foreman grunts out, “Oh man, did you see the lucky bastard’s wife? She looks clean between the sheets.”
“Foreman, could you just focus on now for a change, and stop undressing the shippers.”
“Hey, I got my motivation son, and I hope you got yours.”
Their clockwork moves stay consistently creeping, descending up then down the stairs, eventually emptying the Johnson’s house before they get back from their errands.
Foreman yelled from the trailer, “Hey, the church-goers are back. Get the paperwork so we can get the fuck outta dodge. I need a beer. I gotta date with the Flying J.”
Simon, already holding the paperwork, wrapped up the deal before Foreman’s mouth opened again.
The drive back to Fargo started where it left off. Foreman and Miranda couldn’t help but carry on with their philandering gab in the front, as Simon lay asleep on the soiled mattress in the back, exhausted from the day.
*******
“Unlock this damn door. I’m gonna kill myself. You hear me!?”
Simon could only simply sit beside his sister, watching her struggle to open the backseat door. His dad kept his eyes on the road, as his mom would slap his sister’s hands from the radio from the front seat. His mother lifted her voice saying, “No. We’re going to have a quiet drive for a change.”
He knew it was only a five minute drive going to church, but it wouldn’t end soon enough. He could either look inside, staring in with mixed disgust and anger at his sister, ready to throw herself from the car, or stare outside at the streaming white line separating the shoulder from the grassy ditch.
The further out he looked the slower the ground would pass. He found his eyes following a leafless treeline separating two plowed fields across the countryside. He felt distanced and a bit at peace until his mother cried out, “Will you just grow up and stop acting like a child.”
Simon felt something pulling him back into the car; back into the shock of not knowing what exactly was happening just when his sister screamed, “You wish I was like Simon. He’s always right. You love him more than me. I just want to kill myself. Let me out!”
Simon, mouth slightly open, sitting beside his sister, was sucked back into reality. He just kept asking himself, “What happened to my sister?”
