Chimera

Volumes where the golden insect crawled fetch glory by the yard, but there is no communication between the ink and the eye, for try as they might, libraries cannot express the depth of what they lack in emotion. Sharp-toothed keys assist the explorer in gaining entry to a world renowned for its emptiness, but there is never any action in the quotidian balance. Read, read, read, they said. However, he was left alone to ponder the fruitlessness of his desperation. Sadly, Hugo observed the declination of reason as three virgins giggled and proceeded to retain their innocence, which, by the way, was neither innocent nor retainable. They must have known what was on offer without the experience, he calculated, for there was guile in their laughter. One of them, she of the radiant halo, dipped and scooped up the golden spider leaving only its latest unreadable tome in a web of silky verbosity. Virgin or muse, he could not tell. Still, he was news once again without the slightest perception of validation. Everything he touched glowed and shimmered in an ephemeral way. Yet, he never doubted all was at their behest.

Popping, he shriveled almost immediately and shortly thereafter he noticed he was losing hair again and there were liver spots.

…those who can’t, teach.

IT'S ALWAYS US VERSUS THEM. I used to be in the Us camp. You used to be also. We all were. And when we were crossing the bridge to the other side, to this side, we all looked for confirmation that we were making the right decisions; as if decision making had anything to do with the ineluctable crossing.

   When it comes to observation, I’d guess about ninety percent of the literature takes place on the bridge, and they call them Coming of Age or Rite of Passage stories.

   We spend a good number of years complaining how They don’t understand Us and our needs, and dealing with peer pressure. Then there’s a short interval, though for some the experience lasts longer, where all the road signs seem to have been removed. Afterwards, we spend the rest of our lives as Them trying to convince Us, because we still feel like Us inside, that things are not as bad as predicated.

   Stories that show children or older minors acting in sinister, or comedic, adult fashion are always popular, while tales of adults doing what is expected of children are just sad or melancholic. When a male author, like Joyce, writes understandingly from the point of view of a female, he is lauded for artistic achievement; conversely, when a woman writes as a man, it is observed that women have always had that capability. It’s a similar situation between youth and adulthood. A very young author who writes well about adult concerns will be applauded for his or her insight whereas blurbs on the books about childhood written by adults frequently begin with the words, “Never before has a story…” blah, blah, blah. Successes in this area seem to come rarely. They are so few and far between that a Catcher in the Rye or A High Wind in Jamaica can last forever, although again, Catcher takes place on the bridge.

   I’m venting because I wrote what I thought was a sharp little six-sentence “story” that described a teenager’s blasé attitude toward her pregnancy (from the point of view of her teacher) and someone in my peer group reviewed thusly, “I think the flash would evoke more feeling if [it] was from the POV of another student, rather than the teacher. Kids have a much more startled/jaded/sneering take on this stuff than adults.” And I’m thinking, “Ah, but if it was told from the point of view of one of the kids, then it wouldn’t be the story I intended to write.” I was attempting to note observation of one of Us prematurely acting out as one of Them through the eyes of one in Their camp. How and why would I observe one of Us from Our side? My peer also made mention of a so-called run-on sentence, which definably wasn’t – due to grammatical punctuation, but here I am at fault because I did not announce the pre-established conventions of the format. It could be I’m too thin-skinned, or perhaps I was attempting to evoke too much in a limited space, but damn me, I was trying.

   Here is the point of my rant, I spend too much time every day with young people, observing their foibles, failures, and successes; I don’t share enough in the lives of my peers. As a writer, I observe, analyze, and reconstruct what I see. I see the young, who are not writing their own stories, and use this as grist for my fiction, when more than likely, and speaking from an ethical point of view, I should be getting inspiration from a level on par with my current experience. Although, I still stand behind the excuse, that I was once a kid too, you know, I guess it’s not passable. These thoughts, this self-recrimination, can lead to writer’s block, which further leads to the posing of the deadly question, “Hey, why write at all?” I keep falling back on my motto, “It’s a dirty business, but someone has to do it.” I can, to a degree, therefore I do.

Puppet

Susana owns a pesto green Volkswagen. I don’t drive. I didn’t when we lived in New York. She always has. Although I take a bus home from work every day, in the evenings, she says she doesn’t want me taking the bus in the morning too because the school is on the other side of town and I would have to leave an hour earlier to get there on time. So I keep the car in gas and she drives me there every day. We argue every morning because I’m responsible for disturbing her sleep. She’s currently between jobs. Twice when I left early and let her sleep in, she was in a grouchy mood all afternoon, so though I suffer guilt and exchange words in the car, I’d rather continue the ritual. The evenings are better that way. This morning after I said I hoped she’d find work soon, she glared at me. When she dropped me off she drove away in silence.

Here in Chiapas the fifteenth and end of the month are quinceanas, paydays. This autumn semester is the toughest of the six I’ve taught at the Tec. I teach four Advanced English classes five times a week. It’s not the hours performing in front of exuberant teenagers that I find so wearing. It’s all the prep work at night and on the weekends, and the bitacoras and other paperwork. Susy and I don’t get much quality time together, but when I get paid we have a nice dinner out, maybe go to a movie, see some friends for drinks and usually have a more intimate night.

Of course I enjoy those nights but I’m not keen on the social evenings beforehand. All of the friends we spend time with speak Spanish and Susy’s so much better at making conversation than I; being half Mexican she would be. She especially likes getting together with Valentina and Raul. Valentina’s a doll, really pleasant, always smiling. Raul’s a snob. He was educated in Texas and can speak English as well as I can, but he never does anymore. He says I need the practice. The three of them talk while I listen, nodding at appropriate moments and occasionally saying, “Gracias,” to waiters.

Today was a quinceana and I was looking forward to a night of heat and passion, such as I can muster these days. Susy’s also better at that. Not working, she would be, but that’s beside the point. I took the bus to Plaza Crystal, figuring I’d pick something up for her at the mall to make things right. At one of the gift shops I found a harlequin puppet in a costume of black and white diamond shapes, with one black tear painted below his left eye. I know she loves that sort of thing.

When I arrived at the house she wasn’t home and the VW wasn’t parked in front. Once inside, I turned on the fan and propped Pierrot against the fruitbowl on the table, made a cup of coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes. And waited. I reread the next units in my texts and graded thirty-four exams. Three hours later, there was still no word from her. It was unlike her to leave me wondering where she was.

At eight-thirty, Valentina called and asked if we were meeting them at Es-tres. I said I didn’t know yet but didn’t mention that I was alone. “Well, if you decide, give me a ring,” she said, “Raul asked me to call him on his cellphone, if we were going to get together tonight.”

“Oh, he’s not there?” I asked.

“No, he went to San Cristobal today but he’s due back in a while. He said he’d try and get back earlier if something was on.”

After finishing with Val, I noticed I’d smoked my last cigarette, so I headed up to the tienda for another pack. Before I left, I stuffed Peirrot behind some empty luggage in the bedroom closet upstairs. In case, Susy came in while I was out, I didn’t want the puppet to speak for me and say the wrong thing.

I was gone much longer than I’d expected as the store’s security guard, who likes to practice his English on me, caught my ear and then I met a neighbor who tried to convince me that I should contribute more than fifty pesos to the fund she was collecting for her sick tia.

As I entered the house, I saw the harlequin right away. He was back on the table. He was propped against the fruitbowl again, but this time with his head drooping in a sad looking way. Between his legs was a small piece of paper. I read the note.

She’d written, “No llores. It’s been fun. I finally found something. –S”

Six Verses Before the Chorus at Six Sentences

Open publication

San Francisco