FireVaney

The feeding tube that’s poked through Great Aunt Hattie’s * nose clogged up last night. The staff at the nursing home tried various ways of flushing the tube, but it was useless without some device that’s only available at the hospital. Poor, half-paralyzed Hattie kept moaning while the nurses futzed with her tube. During this, her son, Shell, switched on the TV. He kept flipping the channels between race car racing and human track racing. Later, one of the caregivers told me that Hattie wouldn’t have to deal with a feeding tube through the nose anymore. Instead, the doctors will plug a feeding tube directly into her tummy. Since last night, she’s only been “fed” intravenously.  Betty rediscovers the “Screw the Golden Years” sign every time Pop and I pay her a visit and wheel her around the assisted living building. She’ll either agree with the sign, or defend “The Golden Years,” depending on how her day is going.  21 May 2007  * Please note that Great Aunt “Hattie” and ...

I waited. I was early. The staff stared at me. I walked through the place. That is, I walked through the place before I waited. In other words, I didn’t wait first, although I suppose I could’ve waited outside. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t recall that I did, but I might’ve. The staff offered to “help” me. I explained the situation. I don’t recall how they [the staff] replied, but they left me alone. I couldn’t tell you how many [staffers] there were. Perhaps “they” only amounted to one. Regardless, they left me alone. I went back upstairs and stood by the revolving door. I tried to read through more of the book, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell you its title or who wrote it. I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. Was it even written in English? I don’t know. I looked at the time on my cell phone several times a minute. And waited. People revolved in and out. Somebody said that downstairs used to be a nightclub. There is a bar down there. Ten minutes crawl by. I think of ...

Two hours after banana pancakes and chicken links and fresh squeezed orange juice at Flapjackistan’s Famous Flapjacks with Pop and Betty, I’m eating clams and onion rings and fried zucchini and salami pizza at Poppa Pandemonium’s Pizza in a Pan with Spiffy and Rah-Rah. I was surprised that Rah-Rah was surprised that I didn’t have a girlfriend. Naturally, this made Rah-Rah even more attractive. Rah-Rah sat there and looked at me and thought I’d fit in with the male models you’d find in an Eddie Bauer catalogue. She told me this—after I’d asked—because she had a friend who wasn’t looking for the kind of guy I apparently am. Said friend falls for the kind of guy you’d find in an Abercrombie catalogue. And as for Spiffy, he belonged in an H&M catalogue, according to Rah-Rah.  28 May 2007

Pop (and I) sat in a crowded waiting room for an hour and a half before he could see the doctor who’d charge an arm and a leg to scrape the wax out of his ears. That was yesterday. Sometime overnight, Pop’s right ear started to bleed. Dried spots and dribbles of blood have ruined a silken pillow case. But hey, Jackson Pollock might’ve called it art. I called Pop’s internist. He wasn’t available, but the one who was didn’t seem terribly concerned. Doctor Substitute advised me to call Doctor Ears, Nose, and Throat when his office opened, for eardrops. Here’s hoping we don’t have to spend another hour and a half in Dr. E.N.T.’s office waiting for eardrops, if nothing else. Pop keeps asking why it happened; why at night and not when Dr. E.N.T. scraped out Pop’s ears. The ear that bled? Pop’s right ear? It all but quit on him years ago. Sure, it detects sound, but his brain processes the sound as an audible equivalent of mush. Any working hearing aid turns the mush into louder mush. All th...

I’ll go and I’ll see her and I’ll feel all that anguish all over again and for weeks thereafter. So much anguish over someone I know all wrong. She’ll be there—at some point she’ll be there—and she’ll go wild and I won’t be able to wait to want to leave. But because she’s far away, and busy, maybe she’ll be late. And if she’s late, it won’t be so bad for me to leave. I’d feel bad if I had to leave early. Like Bio-Dud often liked to say, “Firey, you need to suffer more,” unless it was, “Firey, you haven’t suffered enough.” So I do my best. I do the best a “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” as Step-Dude likes to say, can do. And it’s true, as a confirmed “snot-nosed spoiled brat,” I do do a lousy job of suffering. If I really, really, really, wanted to suffer, I’d join the military and fight in Afghanistan—and not only because “war is hell.” Setting aside the war, Afghanistan is hot, and I can’t take the heat. Anyway, everything is too late. Why can’t I ever be on time for anything? I don’t mean...

Yesterday, Mister Wisecracker * sent around a text message with a photo of his cocker spaniel in a costume. Said cocker spaniel was looking up at the camera, and the message below it read, “Dinka says, ‘Happy Easter. Now get the damn ears off me.’” Like most fringy theatre folks I know, Mister Wisecracker doesn’t take care of himself. He stays out too late, gets up too early, drinks too much, eats too much, and smokes packs and packs and packs. I don’t do any of that, but I am a yo-yo dieter. That said, I exercise pretty hard, so I figure I’ve got a better chance at a longer life—not that I want a longer life. Who can afford to live? Even if I could (afford to live), I’ve no interest in outliving Mister Wisecracker and his company of assorted misfits. Odds are, though, I will. I’d bet they’ll pretty much all have strokes or get cancer before hitting sixty. Inside of twenty years, I’d bet, half of everybody I know will be dead.  9 April 2007 * Formally and foolishly referred to a...

Nearly every weekend, Betty says to me, “Firey, don’t get old.” She means it in both a funny and an honest way. She tells me she was perfectly healthy before the radiation treated her breast cancer, some twenty years ago, when she was sixty-something. The cancer is all gone now, but arthritic aches and pains affect her daily. She can easily recall her phone number and her home address and also the game show that’s on Channel 7 every day at 6:30 post meridiem. She has no problem naming the show’s host and co-host. Monday through Thursday, over the phone, she’ll say to Pop, “Time to watch Vanna.” She means it, too. Ever the accountant, Pop will dryly confess that he “likes to look at figures.” Betty never forgets to call Pop first thing in the morning and last thing at night. But ask Betty to ask her pharmacist three little questions? Forget it. Ask her to repeat those three questions right after you’ve stated them, and she’ll get them all wrong. Poor Betty, she’ll fumble all the words i...

Spiffy likened his lovers to meals. Like his relationship with Trussy? That was a solid meat and potatoes sort of meal—only without much in the way of dessert. His relationship with Kandi was all dessert— too much dessert. Imagine being trapped in a Twinkie factory for a year, that was Spiffy’s relationship with Kandi. His relationship with Nummy was harder to match because he rarely ever gave her an orgasm. That said, she told him he’d given her the first she’d ever had. As for me, I wasn’t terribly interested in likening my lovers to meals. I’ve had so few (lovers) and most of those were basically “appetizers.” So then Spiffy asked, “If you were any sort of restaurant, what sort would you be?” Easy. I’d be one of those early-to-mid Twentieth Century roadside diners—the sort that had a long lunch counter and a line of booths with a clear view of the highway and the cornfields. I’d be open 24hrs. I’d be comfortable—clean and comfortable—and never too busy. And if I had to be a chaine...

Pop spent his 96th birthday in hospital room 4132, recovering from the removal of his gallbladder. His dinner tray came with a frosted cupcake he couldn’t eat. Why? Well, he’s lactose intolerant. That aside, in honor of his birthday, the doctors cancelled the liquid-only diet he’s been on since last Wednesday. Pop’s birthday was yesterday (Sunday). Today is Monday (duh) and I really hope he’ll get to go home. By the way, I learned a new word a few days ago: “sundowning.” According to one of the nurses, this happens when an elderly patient forgets where they are and hallucinates that they are anywhere else. As you might’ve guessed, it often occurs around sunset. Nobody really knows for sure, but it might have something to do with “circadian rhythms.” Supposedly, thanks to “sundowning,” all new hospital rooms are required to have a window. * Last night, in room 4132, Pop kept asking me for the time. Repeatedly, he wanted to know how much “this house cost to rent.” Again and again, he’d ...

His helplessness makes me mad. Where they operated, where they removed his gallbladder, it hurts like nothing else, it hurts like it’s the end. All that morphine they gave him, and it still hurts. Just this morning he was bragging about all his childhood fighting, bragging about all those bones he broke. Tell him he’ll get through all this pain, too, and he’ll reply at you by wincing more pain. Ever the accountant, he’ll tell you his estate is in order. Tell him the market went up today and he’ll try a smile, but then his body jerks in more pain. He tells you he’s wiped out, he tells you he’s got no energy left—and then he tells you he’s got to get out of bed. Because he feels like vomiting and urinating and shitting all at once. But, thank God, none of that actually happens.  10 August 2005

At first I thought it was the shoe, but now I think it’s the foot. My foot. My right foot. The bottom of my right foot. Because the shoe was new. One of a pair, of course. But then I bought yet another new pair and the same sensation occurred—that is, on the bottom of my right foot. No issue with the left. To be clear, I feel it—on the bottom of my right foot—whilst running. It feels like the sock has bunched up—right under the ball of my right foot. But often the feeling runs halfway down the middle of said foot. The feeling starts at the ball. “Ball,” isn’t that what you call it? Should it be plural? Balls? Balls of my foot? Balls of my toes? But only whilst running. That isn’t to say one ought to refer them as “balls” whilst running. Rather, I’m referring to the feeling, the sensation. Whilst running. Or walking quickly. Said sensation occurs exclusively whilst upon the treadmill— any treadmill—and only whilst said treadmill is in motion. O, how I wish the word “whilst” would c...

BOB Does it matter that a guy goes his whole life thinking he’s “the shit” when he’s not—and he’ll never have a clue that he’s not?  JOE Why should it matter?  BOB Cuz he’s a loser. He’s never gonna get anywhere staying on the track he’s always been on. JOE So long as he thinks he’s “the shit,” doesn’t matter. It’s been said before, many, many times, but it’s true: Life? Perception. ‘S all about perception.    BOB But if you’re fooling yourself—  JOE Doesn’t matter. People told Hemingway he was the greatest American writer—and he still blew his brains out. Obviously he didn’t think he was “the shit.” Even though he WAS, he didn’t believe he was. Well. Maybe.  BOB I’ve never read any Hemingway.  JOE Me neither. Not the point.   13 August 2002

See, I keep knocking things into the wastebasket betwixt the matching wood desk and dresser in my Aunt Redacted’s childhood bedroom. These knocked over things, they’re my things—the pens, the keys, the stapler, the bibelots and baubles that tend to clutter one’s desk. The wastebasket, too, that’s my wastebasket—a metal Chicago Bears wastebasket. Other than being cluttered, it’s kinda neat, this desk. It literally fits into the corner of the room. It would neatly fit into a 90 degree corner of any ordinary bedroom. Suffice it to say, this desk, my Aunt Redacted’s childhood desk, now my desk (for all intents and purposes), its surface is more triangular than rectangular. To be clear, it’s a small room, but still, in and of itself, fairly rectangular. Regardless, things keep falling through the space betwixt the desk and the matching wood dresser, falling into the wastebasket, or rather landing in the wastebasket, because I keep knocking them over into it. So what do I do? I move the ...

What do you believe? Why trust yourself when, time and again, you’ve led yourself astray? Astray, astray. Ashtray. If only leading oneself astray were a lucrative career path. And as for faith: Faith in what? Faith in what you know? Alright. Or, all right. You have faith in knowing what you know is wrong. Or, at best, what you know is riddled with wrongs. Go? BOLDLY go? Where? Spend? How much? Write? How much? Spend it all? Go everywhere? Write until the ink runs out? Write until the paper runs out? Type until the fingers ache? Ah, but recall Mister Rather’s sage advice. * What do you want? What, REALLY ? Self-reliance? Ah, but you get soooooooooooooooooo lonesome, don’t you? Lonesome and loathsome. You suffer soooooooooooooooooo much doubt, no? You want a lover. You want a companion. You want to “go free” with a lover-companion. And you don’t want a boss. Well, who DOES ? Well, frankly? Many do. All too many seek to be led. But you? No. As the Bio-Farter oft said, “You can’t take ...

She’s drunk and she presses your face into her cleavage—twice—and you tell her you think of her as a sister. And but so now, after that, you’re not so sure. You tell her it’s hard not to stare at her breasts and she tells you go ahead, stare. After that, you babble on about the painful crush you have on her best friend. She sits there beside you and she’s very understanding. At one point, for Paparazzo Pete, she bends over and aims her face at your crotch. It’s all for fun and she’s drunk and so are you—a little bit. And but so now, writing this, you’re thinking maybe you should pursue something with her. And you’re completely sober now. It would be a sober relationship. You want a companion and you want sex but you don’t want to break her heart if she falls in love with you.  8 March 2007

I waved, few noticed, I left. Out on the street I mumbled to myself, “What a terrific waste of time.” I couldn’t tell you what my “scene” is, but it sure ain’t the “bar scene.” One light beer made me drunk, so I had to wait for it to wear off. So many conversations… I couldn’t follow a single one. So I watched others laugh and flirt. Damn near every time anybody spoke to me, I  shouted back, “WHAT?” They’d have to shout whatever they wanted to share or ask several times, until I’d give up with a smile and a nod. All of that secondhand smoke still clouds my head a day later. Damn near ever wall was full of muted TVs tuned to one sport or another. Birds of a feather self-segregated in the several available corners. Ms. J. Redacted drank straight from a pitcher of beer. Ms. D. Redacted hugged everybody in the cast—except for me. But then I wasn’t easy to reach (story of my life) and she barely knows me. I did, however, hear what Ms. L. Redacted shouted at me on her first try: “WHY ARE...

You could, if you wanted to, live here, where I live, in this community, blissfully ignorant of what goes on anywhere else. One of my high school history teachers compared the Village of Knotydart to a cocoon. That same history teacher wore leather boots, blue jeans, and a jean jacket to class nearly every day of the week. He tossed the word “groovy” around quite a bit. When we studied the Roman Empire, he rolled a TV with a VCR into the classroom and showed us Jesus Christ Superstar. That was his first year, when he did all of that. He’d moved back to Knotydart from Tinseltown. He’d given up on the pipe dream of becoming the next Frances Ford Coppola. (Incidentally, he studied screenwriting with StepDude at Tinseltown College, but that was many moons ago.) After Mister Argh’s first year of teaching at Knotydart High, he started wearing khaki pants and a professor’s elbow-padded wool sport jacket, a button down shirt, and a tie. He traded his boots for brown oxfords. He shaved off his...

Pop didn’t want a big party for his 90th birthday, but he got one anyway. He had a good time, too. Now his eldest daughter is planning another big bash for his 95th birthday, three months from now. She doesn’t intend for it to be a surprise party, but she’s reluctant to mention it to him. “Hold off until the end of the month,” I told her. By then, he’ll have healed from his fall. He fell yesterday, too, but it wasn’t a serious fall. The man’s always been in too much of a hurry to get wherever he’s headed. Back when I was a kid, and grandma was still alive, and we three went out to eat, Pop was always in a hurry to get from the car to the restaurant, and then, afterward, from the restaurant back to the car. Like it was a race. Grandma, though, she always took her time. If there was ever any need to hurry, I wasn’t aware of it. That said, back then, I was largely oblivious to everything, and obliviousness is more blissful than ignorance. Anyway, if Pop’s sick or hurting now, he won’t be ...

Among Nikki’s fears: Heights, trains, butterflies, and birds—in particular, pigeons and crows. Heights and trains because whenever she’s confronted with either, she contemplates suicide. Trains, too, because she dreams of them oncoming. Butterflies, because she was once engulfed by a swarm of them. Birds, because her mother was once attacked by a crow. Somehow, it had trapped itself in the drying machine. Said crow flapped up into the kitchen and proceeded to attack a red velvet cake. Had you walked into the kitchen (post crow), and nobody told you about the cake (or the crow), you might’ve wondered why the walls, floor, ceiling, and surfaces were all seemingly splattered with chunks of bloody flesh and black feathers. In the end, a neighbor smacked the life out of that crow with a tennis racquet. The kicker? Just the day before, Nikki had sat through all of Hitchcock’s The Birds .  31 March 2006

She’s somewhere around ninety-five, my Great Aunt Hattie. Her three younger brothers couldn’t say for sure when she was born. Hattie can barely walk now. She’s fallen a few too many times. Her hips couldn’t take the punishment. Even with hearing aids, she can hear about as well as she can walk. Pop, Betty, and I pay her a visit nearly once a week. Toward the end of a recent visit, I overheard Hattie telling Betty that every week she expected to die. She choked back tears when she told Betty this. Betty, with her ever-sunny disposition, did her best to raise Hattie’s spirits. As I see it, Hattie couldn’t ask for much more out of her ninety-something years of life, save for a little less death. When I kiss her goodbye, I usually kiss the air near her face. She doesn’t stink or anything. It’s MY hang-up. Well, this last time when I did it, Hattie chuckled and said, “You give cold kisses.” So I went ahead and pecked her cheek. She said it again, “You give cold kisses,” but at least she kep...