In the store Del and Simon race to the drinking fountains, Simon gets a mouthful and gleeks it at my slacks, says, Oh hey, pisspants, Del points and laughs. In the magazines they say men are sometimes cruel because they are testing your emotional boundaries, I want Del to know I am boundless, I am a universe, I grit out a smile and follow them to the toys, they arm themselves with swords and commence to stabbing me, Simon saying, Lop off her tiddies, Simon saying, I wish these blades were real, and I wish you were dying like old ladies are supposed to, Del chops me in half. A woman smiles at me, says, Boys, I want to tell her Del is my man, tell her he is not a boy, but she is wearing a pink hair clip and a wooden necklace and this convinces me she would not understand. In the video games aisle I stand behind Del as he and Simon shoot at homeless people and prostitutes, I wait while they throw basketballs at each other’s crotch, I buy them hot dogs and Simon says, I knew you was lying about the money. I wait outside the bathroom while they relieve themselves, Simon comes out and says Del barfed up his hot dog, I don’t know if this is true or not. In the recreation area Simon and Del spin the wheels of the hanging bikes and dare each other to stick their fingers in the spokes, I am desperate for Del to look at me, for his gray eyes to meet mine, all I require is a single moment, it is all I need in this world, I cannot go home to the bed and the walls and the single channel on the television and the white plate on the table and the drying tulip from Del’s momma’s garden without my moment, and I know what the magazines say about jealousy being a powerful motivator when a man can’t commit, I grab for Simon and push my lips onto his, his smell like mold and ketchup and dirt, his heart beating out his whole body, his lips cold and wet, the snot, the snot, I pull away and he is wiping his mouth and gagging, the snot smeared across his cheek now, a glistening wing, his glasses fogged, Simon saying, What? What? Del emitting a high whining ewwwww, all eyes fixed on me, marbles of horror, I back away, I turn and walk through the blender aisle the baby clothes all the lotions and powders and mints and magazines asking me questions about myself, me thinking, How should I know? Me wondering why they don’t say nothing about a kiss being salty as a tear.

  CANDLES

  I AM IN THE CANDLE SHOPPE I CAN’T HELP IT

  THE NEW AUTUMN LINE IS ORANGE NUTMEG AND IT IS AS CLOSE TO BARF AS THE BOTTOM OF A DIP CUP

  I DIPPED ONCE RIDING IN THE CAB OF THE TRUCK OF MY ONE TRUE LOVE, HE WAS DRIVING HE WAS GETTING A HAND JOB FROM A PUERTO RICAN PUTA WE WERE GOING ABOUT FIFTEEN MILES AN HOUR NOT EVEN ENOUGH FOR THE WIND TO LIFT MY HAIR IN A POWERFUL FUCK YOU WAY

  I HAD STOLEN THE DIP AND THE CUP AND NO ONE NOTICED

  THERE WAS A WEB OF JIZZ ON THAT BITCH’S SKORT, I SAW IT WHEN WE STOPPED FOR CIGARETTES SHE STOOD IN THE MAGAZINES AISLE DOING NOTHING

  THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO

  JULIAN IS THE MANAGER OF THE CANDLE SHOPPE HIS ASS IS LIKE TWO HALVES OF A BASKETBALL I HAVE TRIED MANY TIMES TO TOUCH IT

  MY FAVORITE SCENT IS BEACH SANDALS, IT IS SALTY

  MY SON CALLS IT BITCH SANDALS

  MY SON IS FOURTEEN HE IS ALWAYS STANDING WITH A BOOK A TOWEL A HAT HIS FOLDED CLAMMY HANDS COVERING HIS CROTCH HE DOES NOT KNOW I KNOW AND IT IS BETTER THAT WAY

  I READ THAT IN A PARENTING MAGAZINE

  WHEN JULIAN DESCRIBES SOMETHING AS “EARTHY” I KNOW WHAT HE MEANS IS “SHITTY”

  I HAVE NEVER KNOWN A MAN WHO HAS MORE THAN TWO SYLLABLES IN HIS NAME

  I HAD A DREAM JULIAN WAS SHOWING ME A CANDLE THAT WAS CALLED SUCK IT LIKE A STRAW

  ITS COMPANION SCENT WAS LICK YOU LIKE AN ICE CREAM CONE

  I HAVE NEVER BEEN ATTRACTED TO A MAN OF A DIFFERENT CULTURE BUT THAT ASS I AM NOT MADE OF STONE

  I AM FONDLING A CANDLE SET CALLED HERBACEOUS TWILIGHT, I WANT TO ASK JULIAN WHY IT’S NOT JUST CALLED OLD FORGOTTEN BONG BUT HE IS HELPING AN OLD MAN OBSESSED WITH THE SMELL OF LAUNDRY

  I HAVE FOUND THAT THE CANDLES WITH THE PRETTIEST COLORS ARE ALWAYS THE FOULEST, I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE SOME GREEN CANDLES BUT THEY ARE ALL CUCUMBER MELON

  CUCUMBER MELON SMELLS LIKE AFTERBIRTH

  I BREATHE WITH MY MOUTH OPEN WHEN I’M IN THE CANDLE STORE

  SOMETIMES I AM SITTING AT HOME WITH A CRAVING AND I CAN’T PUT MY FINGER ON IT AND THEN BLAMMO, I WILL REALIZE I AM CRAVING THE TASTE OF THE CANDLE STORE

  IT HAS A TASTE, I’M NOT ON GLUE

  I JUMPED THAT PUTA BEHIND THE P.E. TRAILER, SHE PULLED MY HAIR AND SCREAMED AND I PUNCHED A TOOTH INTO HER THROAT

  I TRY NOT TO FEEL VICTORY THINKING OF THAT

  IT IS DIFFICULT NOT TO

  I GOT INTO THAT BOY’S TRUCK AND TOLD HIM WHERE TO DRIVE AND WHEN HE PULLED OVER I CLIMBED INTO HIS LAP, THE LOOK IN HIS EYES

  I LOVE THINKING OF THAT LOOK

  JULIAN IS ASSURING THE MAN THAT THE FRESH COTTON CANDLE SET SMELLS EXACTLY LIKE BOUNCE DRYER SHEETS ONCE LIT

  I KNOW THIS IS NOT TRUE, I KNOW IT ACTUALLY SMELLS LIKE KOOL-AID BACKWASH

  THE OLD MAN IS ASIAN, I CAN SEE THAT NOW, THERE DIDN’T USE TO BE BUT ONE ASIAN IN THIS COMMUNITY BACK IN THE DAY, THE HIGH SCHOOL ALGEBRA TEACHER, BUT NOW THEY ARE EVERYWHERE, I SMILE EXTRA BIG AT HIM TO LET HIM KNOW I AM COMFORTABLE WITH OUR MULTICULTURAL SOCIETY

  AND I AM

  COMFORTABLE WITH IT, I MEAN

  THE OLD MAN IS TELLING JULIAN HE HAS THE ORANGE NUTMEG LINE IN HIS DOWNSTAIRS BATHROOM, I FEEL SYMPATHY FOR THE SWIRLING VOMITOUS TOMB HIS HOUSE MUST BE

  THERE CAME A DAY WHEN I RAN OUT OF CLASS TO BARF UP AGAINST THE LOCKERS, THERE WAS A BABY FOR A WHILE BUT THEN IT WENT AWAY

  THE LORD TAKETH, THANK GOD

  THE TRUCK BABY IS HOW I CAME TO THINK OF IT

  I NEVER TOLD THE BOY, BUT I WISHED I HAD TOLD HIM SO HE COULD THANK ME FOR NOT TELLING HIM

  JULIAN HAS FINISHED WITH THE MAN, I SEE HIM FIDDLING WITH SOME PAPERS AT THE REGISTER, I KNOW HE IS HOPING I WILL LEAVE

  I WANT TO TELL JULIAN THE BESTSELLING CHILDHOOD SUMMER CANDLE HE SOLD ME LAST WEEK SMELLS LIKE BUBBLE GUM WEDGED BETWEEN TWO FUNGUS TOES

  SOMETIMES YOU KNOW WHEN YOU SHOULDN’T SAY SOMETHING

  IF JULIAN WERE A CANDLE HE’D BE NAMED AMARETTO EXPLOSION OR MOCHA ANGEL

  I WANT JULIAN TO BE A CANDLE

  SO I CAN TAKE HIM HOME

  IT IS FIVE MINUTES FROM CLOSING TIME, I DROVE HERE AFTER THERE WAS NOTHING ON TELEVISION, MY SON EATING HIS DINNER IN HIS ROOM, ME PICKING UP THE PHONE AND PUTTING IT BACK DOWN, ME SITTING ON MY PORCH TO WATCH THE SUN SET, THE SUN MELTING LIKE THE DISCONTINUED PSYCHEDELIC SHERBET LINE

  I DROVE HERE I CAN’T HELP IT

  BEACH SANDALS SMELLS LIKE THE DIRT ROAD ME AND THE BOY PULLED OVER ON

  I CAN’T HELP IT

  I WAS A HOT BITCH IN MY DAY BUT NOW I AM SHAPED LIKE A CANDLE

  DISHES

  At breakfast my kid practices his ABCs and barfs into his cereal bowl just before Q. My other kid points out how the barf splashed onto the table in the shape of Oklahoma. I don’t tell him it looks more like Texas, he’s a little kid and if he wants to mistake Texas for Oklahoma it’s no skin off my tit. My husband wipes up the barf and I watch his shorts bunch in his ass.

  Before I leave for work my kid hands me a brown bag and tells me he’s made my lunch, when I’m halfway down the driveway he yells after me, Big girls gotta eat! and I guess I taught him that saying, it’s what I usually say when I’m eating in front of other people, because I am a big girl, that’s a fact, and it makes people feel better if it’s acknowledged. I give my kid a thumbs-up and oink like a pig, he loves it, standing in the doorway in his undies, doubled over.

  Backing down the driveway I roll over the front wheel of my kid’s bike, but he doesn’t see, he’d gone back inside, the dog in the doorway now, the puddle eyes in that box head watching me balefully.

  At the light I eat what’s in the brown bag, a Fruit Roll-Up and seven Tootsie Rolls, a half-drunk juice box, the single Goldfish cracker way down at the bottom.

  At work a lady wants her hair to look exactly like a bowl of Trix. The girl next to me helps a lady who wants hair the exact shade of maple syrup. Rich, she tells the girl, rich and lustrous. In the back we laugh at her, mime rubbing our nipples in the heat of climax, saying, Lllllustrous! A man with a glass eye tells me his hair used to be more pepper but he was glad for the salt, it’s distinguished, I nick the pink mole on his neck but he doesn’t notice. A girl comes in asking for red Kool-Aid hair but it comes out more like orange Triaminic, she doesn’t seem to care, some people like being ugly I guess.

  Later on I trim the waxer’s bangs and in return she waxes my bikini line. Hold this back, she says, pushes up on my belly fat, layered blobs of tapioca pudding. Big girls gotta eat, I say, and the waxer laughs, holds her legs together like she might pee. You are too funny, she says, you are just too funny. Breathes in deep, rips the strips of paper, holds them up to show me, pube Fruit Roll-Ups. See all that nasty hair we got? See all those roots? Next time we’ll do your arms.

  At lunch we have pizza, someone’s client is the manager at the Pizza Slab. For a snack we order wings from the bar next door. I alternate celery stick, wing, celery stick, wing. We smoke out back, a while ago someone wrote, You so ugly on the seat of the one chair out there, it’s a badge of courage to sit in the ugly chair, the pedicurist declaring me so ugly that I could scare the shit out of poop. Everyone laughs and me the hardest, when she’s not looking I ash into the pedicurist’s side part, go back inside.

  My husband calls, the TV blaring in the background. Could I pick up some laundry detergent he asks, could I also pick up some beer, something for dinner, dessert, breakfast, lunch for the rest of the week, juice. What are you watching? I ask him. The History channel, he says, but I know better, I hear the childlike yelling of those anime cartoons he loves, I know he is at half-chub and doesn’t want to talk about it, I hang up over him saying, And some string cheeses.

  At the grocery store a song about a man on a boat is playing, he feels so free. I stand in the frozen foods aisle, all the boxes are green or red, stop and go, yes and no, I get raviolis and frozen peas and chicken nuggets and a cheesecake. At the checkout I add two packs of bubble gum, the kids will probably chew three times and swallow just like always. A tabloid shows a young starlet’s cottage cheese thighs. I ask the cashier to wait while I run to the dairy aisle, I am craving cottage cheese now, I get the biggest tub there is, large curd, I laugh to myself, I laugh and laugh, big girls gotta eat. In the car I listen to a song about a small-town slut, the DJ comes on and assures me there’s more where that came from, a song about a lonely desert wanderer starts, I pass tacos pizzas chicken ice cream barbecue. The sky is pink meatblood, is a runny sorbet, the sun is a melting butterscotch, the sky is a dirty plate.

  NIXON IN RETIREMENT

  I had an egg for breakfast. I put too much salt on it so Pat would notice and yell at me. She didn’t. Sipped her coffee like it was tea. Smiled like the machine of her mouth was winding down. A bit of hair had come loose from its setting. Like she was molting. I was grateful to see her flawed, I can’t tell you exactly why. That egg was like eating a jellyfish coated in sand. I endured. The last time I was at the beach a teenaged girl walked over. She was fully developed, I don’t mind telling you. Mr. Nixon, she said. Not President Nixon, or Mr. President. Mr. Nixon. I could try to forgive her for that but who has the time? Her voice was like a cartoon squirrel’s. Some moptop future Democrat might like to climb all over her. I held it together. I just wanted to come over and see if it was really you, the girl squeaked. In the flesh, I answered her. The truth was I could feel every inch of my flesh, even the dark catacombs in my trousers. Could have been the sun. Could have been the girl. Could have been any girl from the neck to the upper thigh. Wow, the girl said. Just wow! Super, was my reply. Whitehead, my day man, cleared his throat. Oh, the girl said. Is this your Secret Service man? If I told you that, I said, he’d have to kill you. I winked up at her. I was wearing sunglasses. No way she saw. I had said the wrong thing, it was clear. The girl went stiff, like she’d been flashed in ice. Could have chipped pieces of her for my drink. And all right, I would have chosen her breasts. Two breasts floating in a tumbler of Scotch, softening with melt into goosepimpled skin. That’s what I call a Saturday. The girl chopped at the sand with her feet, walking backward. Thanks for your interest, I called to her. Her body a ripple of movement. From ice to jelly. Jiggling, you understand. I looked at Whitehead, that block. He looked around, turning in a slow circle. Good man. The girl had vanished, absorbed into the landscape before me, a landscape owned and operated by teenagers. The world’s future leaders. My ulcers went zap. Instead of landscape perhaps I should say channel, should say program. All of them playing a part, all of them in Technicolor. Was there any real dialogue to be had, anymore? My God, what a boredom.

  Pat took my plate, clacked it to the sink. Clacked back to me. Kissed my cheek. She smelled like the air in a forgotten trunk filled with flowers. I smelled it with my throat, in other words. Words burbled forth from the pink, oiled relief of her lips. That misplaced feather of hair fluttered near her ear. Pat, I wanted to say. Pat! Time is a thing that moves. We are not the ones moving. Back in our early days in the White House I had once balanced her on my lap in the tub. We were nearly sixty. She’d come back from some dinner drunk, my favorite Pat. We went to the bath, we made a froth. Two men waited outside the door. You learned not to care about such things. Later Pat lurched from bed, upchucked into the gold wastebasket. I put her back to bed, handed the wastebasket to one of the men outside the door. In the morning I gave a televised speech. You beautiful citizens, I wanted to say, is there anything more important than having your wife in whatever room you choose? If there had been an amendment guaranteeing such a right, I’d have ratified it then and there. Instead I continued with my speech. Often, I wished for a lever that would allow me to send an electric current from my desk to every citizen’s home. I wish for that still. Did you hear me, Richie? Pat asked. Sure, I said. There came the lips. Other cheek, kissed. I palmed her breast. It was as loose and lifeless as a chicken cutlet. She didn’t notice. Clacked out the door. Her ass these days was still tight in her white pants, but was the shape of two halved apples. An old woman’s ass. Her day man followed a polite three steps behind.

  *

  Late morning, nine holes with an old lobbyist friend. After lunch, nap. During nap, I’ll do my damnedest to enter my favorite dream, the dream in which I’ve mounted Jackie Kennedy on the steps of my alma mater. It’s a cold night and we are under my coat. The stars are like flecks of ice on a dark ocean. After nap, dinner with Pat. After dinner, telephone hour. After telephone hour, bed. Pat calls our bedroom the Secret Garden. Because of all the florals. Like we are preparing for the casket. Tonight I will reach for my wife the way I reach for Jackie in that dream. Like I mean it. Not open to discussion. It’s not Jackie Kennedy that is the draw. It is that in the dream neither of us has seen the inside of the White House. We are just two people getting primitive. History corrected. I can taste it like a brine: so many mistakes. Tonight I want to touch Pat. See her the way she was. Skin like cream, bright bright eyes. Present corrected. Forget how the world has turned on its axis for all of eternity. And will long after I’m gone.

  DALLAS

  Dallas’s momma kicked him out three nights before. He slept the first two nights next to the old man next door on a yellowed twin mattress. The bed was up on cinder blocks and the old man used their hollow centers to display his valuables, which looked to be made up mostly of chipped chess pieces and dinged-up model cars and pink bunches of toilet paper Dallas guessed were supposed to look like paper flowers, or something. The old man was out on his porch when Dallas’s momma chased him out the house with his own switchblade, and soon as she slammed the door the old man waved Dallas over with his old-man claw, said, They’s biscuits and jam and shit in the kitchen, help yeself. The old man had cable, and besides Dallas wasn’t a snob or anything, if the old man needed someone’s arm to hold at night Dallas wasn’t fixing to call the authorities over it, except during the third night the old man tried to roll over onto Dallas, whispering about how Dallas could have anything in the house, money, things worth money, even that guitar in the corner, and Dallas at first just let it happen, he couldn’t quite catch up to why there should be any bother with it, and then something surged up in his gut, something tentacled, and he pushed the man off him and ran out the house with his pants and shoes in one hand and the guitar in the other, and then when his bare feet hit the cold grass in the yard he thought maybe how that was the first time he’d ever actively decided he didn’t want something to happen, and he wondered if that meant he was a man, at least according to what his momma would think was a man. He looked toward his momma’s house, could see the light from the TV in the front room through the curtains, his momma just inside relaxing and enjoying herself with a glass of beer resting comfortably on that big whale belly while he looked longingly in, her own son shirtless, and Dallas put on his pants and shoes and walked past her house and the one after that and then the one after that, and he turned a corner and walked all the way to the park and slept in the soft dirt under the monkey bars. In the morning a redheaded child stood over him and asked him could he please move, she was trying to practice. The sky was the color of the buttermilk his momma drank every morning and it hurt his eyes. He sat on a swing and watched the child for a while. She pumped her legs and grunted. The guitar wasn’t anywhere his eyes could see and he tried to work up some emotion about that but there was none.

 

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