It's summer, and Matt Domino thinks its a good idea to share some writing. Why? No one knows. Especially not these words. This is just sub-hed text.
Hello again, my Puddlers,
Not much of an update needed this time around—you already got the long and short of it last time around. With my days as busy as they are, I'm trying to get back in the habit of being a somewhat active participant on the Internet. Though I'm helping publish great work on a daily basis at Artsy, writing and performing in sketches, and writing fiction in short bursts longhand and then typing it up on the weekends, I haven't been in my old habit of writing something each day and seeing how it comes out on a glowing screen in front of me.
Maybe it's better off.
But then why do I feel a certain emptiness without posting?
I don't know.
(Sorry, pulled a Knausgaard there. I just can't wait until Volume 6!)
In any event, it's hot out (and its hot too). Outside my window, there's summer and plenty of it. So I'm writing and trying to get better at it and I've decided I'll keep sharing little bits here. Maybe the fiction will turn into something. Or maybe it won't. Or maybe I'll get back in that rhythm of banging out essays and think pieces again.
While you wait in suspense to find out what conclusion I come to. Here's a scene of fiction.
EXCERPT:
In the living
room, heavy maroon light came from the corner lamp. Peter sat in his chair,
with his feet up on a flowered ottoman. The pattern was dark, intricate, there
were sweeps of petals, curls of buds, stiff, dark-hued stems. He folded the
newspaper and set it down on his lap. He reached for the glass next to him. It
was a short, rounded high-ball. He took of drink of his Spanish brandy. It was
all he drank now. There was something about the sweetness of it, something
vanilla but also hard and bitter as well. He loved dessert. As he’d gotten
older, he’d developed an insatiable sweet tooth. In fact, it took the greatest
self-discipline for him to not sneak some kind of chocolate or cookie during
each day. The struggle for him to cut out his nightly dessert had been
gargantuan.
Though he’d
always been thin, he had to watch his weight. And he had to watch his blood
sugar as well. Diabetes ran on his mother’s side. There was a chance he could
develop it late in life as his Aunt once had. Since he couldn’t eat sweets,
instead he drank his brandy, admiring the warm brown color, its reddish glow,
the way it looked like syrup poured healthily in a glass. As he drank and felt
the warmth of the liquor in the back of his throat, his eyes returned to the
story he was reading in Newsday.
There was a fire in Brentwood. A house had burned down. An entire family had burned
alive—a mother, father, three children. There was a small square photo of the
wreckage. A charred doorframe stood in the bottom corner. The photo was grey
and unclear. He felt the hollowness in his stomach that he always felt when he
read about a tragedy in the paper or saw it on CNN. First, empathy ran through
him, from his gut, up into his chest. Then his shoulders tingled, goose bumps
rising and falling down the slowly wrinkling flesh of his upper arm. And after
that, his mind wandered. He thought first of the family and what their final
moments might have been like. The heat of the flames, the smoke, the burning,
the dire knowledge of knowing there was no escape. His mind danced around these
gruesome images, stepping forward entranced, before retreating. And he then
began to wonder what would happen in the wake of the fire. What people or
parties would account for the family’s property: their home insurance, their
taxes, their mortgage, all of the lost items. Who would take control of the
property? The Town of Brentwood? Once he dismissed these petty, insignificant
thoughts about money and paperwork, he felt a general emptiness and confusion
over why the world continued to be so terrible day after day. His mind was
cloudy—from the brandy, from his increasing age, from tiredness and from the
fact that perhaps he just wasn’t very intelligent.
He sifted
through the paper, his eyes darting from headline to headline. Justin had
gotten him a subscription to the Times
for his iPad, but he didn’t care to read anything on the screen. The white of
the page was too bright; when he scrolled, he lost track of where he was
reading too easily. Justin had told him there were things he could do to adjust
the reading experience. There were settings, apps, all kinds of small
inventions, each with their own small, clipped, catchy name and incandescent
logo. Justin even offered to show how to install these things, to tweak
settings so that he could use his device to the fullest. But Peter didn’t have
the energy or the patience for it. Not that he didn’t appreciate Justin’s
efforts. He was a good son. He offered his time without complaint or motive.
When they talked on the phone or sat in this room together, Justin would ask
him question about being a father: the methods Peter had used for getting he
and Sonja to sleep through the night, or to eat vegetables, or to potty train.
Justin asked him for financial advice even though Peter was no expert. He’d
saved money conservatively and invested without flash or aggression and things
had worked out just fine. There were Roth IRAs, small trusts, savings and a
general money market account—all accounts accrued modestly. Peter did impart
whatever wisdom he had gained over years of routine, of worry and of living
life practically. He watched as Justin listened intently, his round cheeks and
low-hung jaw would quiver and tighten with focus, the light veins along his
temple would emerge. Peter often marveled at the fact that he had a son whose
face physically altered itself when he was thinking. People always furrowed
their brow or said they were thinking, but for Justin it almost appeared to be
a physical act. In so many ways, he and Sonja could not have been more
different.
And it wasn’t
that he hated electronics or had no use for them. He loved his iPad or, at
least, he admired it. He admired the look of it, the flatness, its solidness,
the sheen of the dark surface like a volcanic stone, the way it looked laying
in contrast on a couch or chair that seemed to say, yes, this is the future
right here in front of you, this is the future, alive and multitudinous, in
this small, shimmering rectangle. He couldn’t remember feeling that way about
any television or VCR or DVD player or even a computer. But despite all that,
he preferred reading on paper. The constant folding of a newspaper, the
breaking in of a spine, the burdensome weight of carrying books and magazines
in the carry-on bag for a flight. He knew it made him something of a Luddite,
not to mention stubborn and probably impractical when it came to maximizing
packing space and his own personal comfort, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t
a crafty or tool-savvy man, so he had to savor the tactile where he could.
After sifting
through the paper from front to back once more, he neatly creased it and placed
it on the floor. He couldn’t focus on anything—not local Long Island news, not
the Mets, Yankees or Knicks, not Obama or Syria or Russia. He lay back in his
chair and took up the glass of brandy again. The shade was drawn next to him,
but the bottom of the window was visible. He saw his neighbor’s back porchlight
shining against the pane. Drops of rain clung at odd angles, their edges
silver. Peter pulled at his shirt, touching the round, contained paunch of his
belly. He palmed it like a worn, deflated basketball. He was tired and he’d
been tired for some time. No matter what he’d tried to do to shake it, he
couldn’t knock the malaise off. More vitamins, more sleep, less coffee. Nothing
worked. He’d started running more. His doctor had given him the name of a
sports medicine specialist who he’d been seeing for more advice on how to stay
fit, to keep his legs and hips and back in better shape. Peter had become a
runner later in life and wanted to continue on as long as he could. Hip bursitis
had nagged him for the last five years and sometimes it overtook him. And he
knew that if he wasn’t careful that at some point he’d have to get a hip
replacement. That would be the end of it. The operation would relieve the pain,
but made you stiff. Didn’t make you the same person you once were. He didn’t
want that. He wanted to keep all his original parts.
It would be easy
to say that his malaise was due to Sonja leaving the East coast, to the fact
that they rarely spoke anymore. And he wouldn’t fault anyone or having that
theory. Their closeness was the treasure in his life. It was embarrassing in a
way how much he had wanted to do nothing more than impress her. Especially as
she got older, it became to odd to him, discomforting. At times he felt like a
teenage boy trying to impress a crush. And it was his own daughter! But she was
intelligent. She had a voracious appetite for books, for knowledge of all
kinds. She was a natural musician as well. It had started with the clarinet at
age eight. Each grade had a certain allocation of instruments. No one had
wanted to pick the clarinet. For girls, it wasn’t the flute; for boys, it
wasn’t the saxophone. So Sonja had picked it. She said she liked it anyway. It
wasn’t as obvious as the gold of the saxophone and as delicate as the flute.
She said she liked the black and silver—it reminded her of a zebra’s leg or
queen’s scepter. She picked it up right away. They moved her to the sixth grade
band. Her little head barely popping above the music stand as she sat next to
red-faced adolescent boys and long-necked twelve-year-old girls.
That was only
the beginning. At twelve, she wanted a guitar. He couldn’t say no. he got her a
used, cherrywood Cort. She’d come home from school and practice every day.
First it was songs on the radio. Spice Girls. Oasis. Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Then as she grew up, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Bob Dylan. Then it was
REM and Pavement. Chiming, wordy, intelligent music. And she started a band with
her friends when she was fifteen. They needed a bass player. She learned how to
play bass; she bought it from her friend’s brother, along with an amp, for
$100. When Peter asked her if she cared that she couldn’t play guitar, she said
she didn’t mind. Paul McCartney did the same thing. She’d loved his songs the
most. The guitar isn’t the best part of
“My Guitar Gently Weeps.” The bass is. He’d been surprised and pleased to
hear that. She was fifteen and if felt like she was teaching him a lesson. It
was one of those unexpected moments a child will spring on you that makes you
pause and smile involuntarily. And, at the time, he went back and listened to
the song. And she was right.
The sound of the
garage door opener buzzed through the walls. Nancy was home. He waited a few
moments. Heard her shuffling steps in the garage and then metallic opening of
the door into the house. Levon’s collar rattled and he trotted down the hall,
his brown and white spotted tail wagging. He nosed up to Peter. Peter leaned forward,
he gave Levon his hand. The dog licked it and then curled his haunch up to be
scratched. Nancy emerged down the hall. Her hair was pulled in a pony tail
behind her head. Her glasses were on, but tilted slightly. Peter noticed that
her hair was a lighter color than it had been in the morning. She’d had a hair
appointment today—he’d forgotten.
“How were the
ladies?” Peter asked.
Nancy walked in
and sat on the couch facing him. She slipped off her thin, short boots and
rested her feet on the glass coffee table. “Business as usual,” she said.
“Darcy can’t get Michelle to lose weight. Stephanie takes an eternity to show
pictures of her grandson on her phone. Caroline drinks all the wine.”
Peter looked at
her and smiled. “It seems like you may have helped her out.”
“I only had a
little.”
“Don’t you drive
our dog around drunk.”
“How dare you
insinuate such a thing. Come here, Levon,” she said. Levon curled his lip and
half-walked, half-bounded over to her. His rear bouncing from side to side, his
haunches sheen and shining in the sleepy maroon light.
“And how was
class?”
Peter waved his
hand. He pointed at her. “Your hair
looks nice.”
Nancy put her
free hand up to her head and closed her eyes. With her free hand, she scratched
Levon around his drooping jowls. She looked girlish and embarrassed, a
schoolgirl who’d been asked out by the wrong boy. When she had any alcohol, her
adolescent tendencies rose in her like the flush to her cheeks. She had
vitality and she was still spirited. She was her daughter’s mother.
“Oh, she did a
terrible job.”
“That’s why you
have it pulled up.”
Nancy nodded.
She leaned her face down to the top of Levon’s head. One dogseye peeked above
the table. It looked first longingly, then contentedly over at Peter.
“She did a fine
job,” Peter said. “It looks like maize.”
“Maize?” Nancy
stuck out her tongue. “Please, Peter. Is that the best you can do?”
He took a drink
of his brandy. There was just a drop left now. He wanted a little more, just
one more innocent pour before bed. He could taste the last sweetness, the
caramel burn, leaving the edge of his parched tongue.
“You didn’t
answer me,” Nancy said.
“Answer what?”
“How was class?”
He finished the
last of the brandy and held his glass on his stomach. A sigh escaped his lips.
It surprised him when he heard the sound in the air.
“That bad?”
Peter shook his
head. “I don’t know why I sighed like that.” He got up from his chair and felt
a twinge in his right hip. He was used to it now. The pads in his shoes were
wearing out. He’d need to replace them and then the soles as well. Really, he
should be using that roller to stretch out his thighs and hamstring, but it was
easy to forget. Another thing to do, another bit of maintenance. He retrieved
the bottle of brandy from within the squat liquor cabinet at the back of the
room. Nancy watched as he poured just a splash into his glass. In the silence
Levon panted, yawned, panted.
“Class was
nothing special,” he said, sitting. “It was one of those nights where for the
first twenty minutes I thought I’d have them the whole time.” His waxy, flushed
cheeks were like two rounded halves of apples. He swirled the brandy. “But
after that, I got the usual questions. Why
did so many sad things happen to Jane Eyre? Did it have to be so long? And,
of course, one student had gotten confused and read the Sparknotes to Emma and referred to all the wrong
characters.”
Nancy took off
her glasses. She folded them and leaned forward on the couch. “That’s just how
certain classes can be,” she said. “You should be used to it by now.”
“Its still
frustrating.”
“Then retire,”
she said.
“Just because
you did?”
“Yes!” Nancy
said. “Not teaching trigonometry to sixteen year olds has made me a younger
woman.”
“And keeping my
books is better?”
“There’s less
profanity working for you.”
Peter laughed.
He sat straight up and bent one leg toward him. He put pressure on his knee
joint, stretching his hip. “I don’t know, Nancy,” he said. “I just don’t think
anyone wants to learn anything anymore. They just want to know.”
“How many have you had?”
“I’m serious.”
Nancy lay down
on the couch. She placed her feet on the arm. They looked tiny from across the
room. She massaged her toes in their black stockings.
“Don’t just
complain,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
“Maybe I’m
wrong,” Peter said. “But with all these devices, all anyone does is look up
answers. If they don’t know something, they can just look it up. No one
remembers or learns anything. No one goes through the work.” Peter wiped his
mouth. He knew he sounded old and irrational. Nothing was ever any one way.
People never did only one thing. Somewhere in the world at that moment, a
student at MIT or Harvard or, hell, even some state university in Nebraska or
Idaho was sitting up trying to learn—to truly study biochemistry or politics,
computer science or law. Computers or iPads or iPhones weren’t crutches, they
were tools. It was obvious. He knew it. But it didn’t stop him from feeling the
way he did. He was tired.
“That’s one way
to look at it,” Nancy said.
“I had to drive
a student home tonight,” Peter said.
“Was that his
iPad’s fault too?”
Peter laughed in
the middle of a sip of brandy. He almost spat out the liquor but kept it down. It
burned sharply in his throat. “No,” he said, his voice squeaking. “Just classic
car problems.”
“Who was it?”
“This kid,
Jonathan. One of those boys that just seems kind of lost.”
“Drugs?”
Peter shrugged.
“Maybe. He just said he’d messed up a lot. That can mean a lot of things
though.” He was quiet for a moment and thought of Jonathan Pomerantz’s white
doughy face, how it was almost porcelain in complexion. “He’s a nice enough
kid. Not very bright.”
“Did you have to
drive far?” Nancy fought through a yawn.
“No. He actually
lives off Wireless. Near where Melissa Murphy used to live.”
“Oh, Melissa,”
Nancy said. Her voice was soft; she almost sang the words. And he could see his
wife’s own memory of the girl, as if it filled the room.
“You know its
been seven years since Sonja moved out west. Seven years exactly today.”
Nancy clicked
her tongue. “Peter, you’ll lose your mind keeping track of time that way.”
“Maybe I’ve
already lost it.”
“No,” Nancy
said. “You’re not casual enough to be crazy.”
“What does that
mean?”
“I don’t know,”
Nancy said. She yawned again.
Peter stared at
his glass. He felt the sweetness of the brandy coating his back teeth. He
rubbed his tongue along the broad edge of his molar. “She hasn’t called you or
anything has she?”
Nancy sat up and
looked at him. Her eyes were small without her glasses on, but she stared at
him intently. “Don’t you think I’d tell you that?”
“Sometimes you
haven’t in the past. And she’d be more likely to call you than to call me.”
“Children go
through phases.”
“She’s almost
thirty. This isn’t a phase.”
“Well, then,
people also go through phases.” Nancy turned her legs and feet off the couch.
She leaned forward, locking her hands together. There was a practice to her
movements. So much poise and control had been ingrained in her from years of posturing
before her students, in front of competitive and cynical teachers, in front of
worried, hovering parents. “You know your daughter better than anyone. She
wants what she wants.”
“But I don’t
understand why she wants this,” Peter said. “Why she wants to cut me out.”
“She loves Lee.
And she wants to live her life with him out there.”
“At this point
its more than that.”
“Maybe she
thinks you expect too much of her.”
“Did she say
that?”
Nancy shook her
head. “No, but don’t you think it might be true?”
Peter tightened
his mouth. His lips were dry and he felt the ends of his chapped skin. He
wanted to picture what his daughter looked like, but he couldn’t. She didn’t
have Facebook, there was no online presence he could find. The extent of his
searching was limited to typing her name in Google and then clicking through a
few pages of results before he got anxious and gave up. The last time he’d
heard from her was an email about six months earlier. It had been brief and
professional as usual. Her written sentences were pointed and sharp—they’d
always been that way. And he’d admired it. When she wrote a letter or a note,
she said things plainly and clearly. But nothing seemed labored. Her thoughts
weren’t pored over or revised, her thoughts came fully-formed and she had no
problem laying them bare. It was odd. She was a passionate person, she was
nimble, fiery, a shade to the right of mercurial. But her words were cold and
dispassionate, colored only black and white, letters on a screen.
“Only she knows
what she wants,” Peter said.
Nancy stood up
from the couch and walked across the room. She crossed her arms and held her
neck high. It gave her a thoughtful look, as if she were surveying a painting
alone in a museum. Levon lifted his head to inspect that everything was as it
should be. Seeing that it was, he dropped out of sight behind the coffee table
and let out a sigh. Nancy stepped behind Peter and put her hands on his
shoulders.
“Don’t sound so
defeated,” she said. “Its spring. Life can change.”
Peter was
tempted to put his hand on hers. He could feel her warmth through the back of
the chair, along his shoulders and neck. But he was tired and maybe drunk.
There was work to do tomorrow at the office and then there was class to teach
in the evening. His weeks were regimented and they had a habit of dragging.
“Life is what it
is,” Peter said. “It will never be anything else.” He felt Nancy’s hands lift
from his shoulders. She stepped around the chair and began walking to the
hallway.
“On that note,”
she said. “I’m going to sleep. Don’t stay up too late wallowing.”
He watched her
leave the room. Her small upper body turning into wide, downturned hips, which
then shrunk to her thin, stockinged legs. Levon begrudgingly pulled himself off
the floor and trotted after her. He never let her out of his sight. Peter shook
his head and finished the brandy. He muttered, shit, for some reason. The room felt warm and pleasant, the
dimness, the maroon light felt like a barricade, a refuge from the damp night.
The ache in his hip throbbed, but he stood anyway. Blood rushed to his head,
making him confused and dizzy for a moment. Life
is what it is. It will never be anything else. Did he believe that? And was
it true? Sometimes he said things just to see what Nancy would do. He’d done it
for years—he didn’t know why. More and more it seemed as though he didn’t truly
know anything. He left his glass on the small round table next to the chair. He
went to the window and looked out. Fog and mist were visible through the backyard.
He stared at the porch light against his neighbor’s home. Tree branches still
bare in early spring dripped with slow rolls of water. After a moment, his
neighbor’s light switched off. He felt like going to sleep.
When he’d had a
glass of water, brushed his teeth, relieved himself, stretched his hips,
undressed, and put on his white pajamas with dark blue trim, he lay beneath the
covers next to Nancy. The scent of his toothpaste filled the air immediately
around him. Nancy rolled on her side. He could make out the outline of her face
in the dark. Her cheekbones and skin, slightly loose, silver and slightly
liquid without light.
“I know this is
hard for you,” she said. He didn’t know she was awake. “It is for me too.”
He reached down
and grabbed her unseen hand. It was warm. And in a few moments he fell asleep.
Levon was lying on the floor.
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