Infested

The house can be so quiet, honey. Deathly quiet. When the fans aren't going and the birds aren't chirping and I'm fed up with the TV and you're away, it gets downright spooky. The sort of silent where your ears get hungry and you start to hear little nothings, a water droplet plunk or bugs gnawing on the walls. Sort of like a clicking. Do you know what I mean? But it's so faint you have to like strain to hear it. You actually crane your neck to try to make out the sound, what it is and where it's coming from. At least I do. And after you do, you have to really consider whether what you thought you heard was any louder. You can easily talk yourself out of the sensation. As if a sound so faint isn't real but is like the background fuzziness of hearing or like the tones you sometimes hear. Or I hear at least. Has this ever happened to you? It's strange, how going to such lengths makes you more and less convinced you hear anything at all. How, on the one hand, you can't make up noises that're continuous over entire minutes but then how, on the other hand, the noise makes no sense. Not that noises can make sense of course. I mean the physical possibility of the noises themselves makes no sense. Because where could the water be coming from anyway? When it happened last, I was sitting in the living room and there aren't any pipes nearby. It hadn't rained in a few days. And what is there for a bug to gnaw on? The walls are masonry. They can't chew through brick I don't think. Why would they want to? It's just baked clay.

For all of my searching, I still think I hear some crunchy, slap-type noises sometimes. Maybe scraping is the word for it. It's real. I'm sorry to say but that's my honest conclusion, sweetie. I've had all the time in the world to think it over. I feel half-crazy for telling you about it. I can only imagine what you're thinking. What do you think? You're well read. You've had psychology in college. Or was it high school? At any rate, could some part of my brain--a different part than the one that asks questions--invent it? Can my own brain like short cut my ears and pipe in its own fabricated info? It makes my head spin just thinking about it! I think by the persistence of the noise, by its refusal to go away even when I leave the room and come back ten minutes later, that something bigger's going on. Like something outside of my little brain out in the real world, you know? Because Lord knows I want it to stop.

It's funny how memory works. Days are just trigger pulls I think. Everywhere I go my memory is spurred. I hear this sound and remember how I heard a similar sound sitting on a bench in the woods maybe gosh fifteen years ago now. Your father's better with his chronology. I swear the man has a timeline in his skull! So I was taking a breather in a park--Hurst Park off Locust Street--all by myself. I was practically panting (I had gone on this running kick to try to shed a few pounds, which, as you can see, only worked so long as I was doing it. Metabolisms slow, honey. Yours will too I'm sorry to say.) After I caught my breath I must have like let my head droop back and started to sigh or something. The weather on that particular day was splendid. It must have been spring because I clearly remember the temperature was perfect. The sort of day you don't feel on your skin unless there's a breeze. The leaves were far enough along to actually rustle whenever the wind picked up. Because I remember there was rustling and then silence and then like a soft noise. It sounded distant because it was so quiet. My first guess was that it was a squirrel but I couldn't see any squirrels around scurrying and I never heard a bird make such a noise. Birds are so finicky they wouldn't hop around so close by. It sounded more like a dog chewing on a--you know, the toys we get for Bopper?--rawhides. But there were multiple dogs because no one thing could do that much chewing is the only way I can put it. Multiple chewing things. I frightened a bit at first because I couldn't locate the sound. I definitely heard it though, distinctly but faintly. I closed my eyes and tried to map it out. What do they call it with bats? Echo-something. I like rolled my head around. I must have looked insane, I know. I have no idea how the process works, but it sort of helped. I think that's how the blind get by so well. So yes, once the blood stopped rushing through my ears, I determined the sound was coming from beneath me. But between my feet was just this asphalt trail and patches of grass, weeds, and old leaves. There maybe was a wrapper or something. But I'm just rambling.

No one was around to ask about whether or not they heard anything too. That's the natural impulse, to have yourself verified. Corroborated. But the park was usually deserted. Suburban parks are underutilized. It's tragic, really. I always say to anyone who'll listen use them because you're already paying for parks with the sales tax and real estate taxes, but I guess what do I know? The outdoors isn't everyone's cup of tea. But so I remember wanting to leave because of this unknown sound and wanting to stay for the same reason. Like, if I didn't find the source, it would haunt me. Maybe not haunt. But irk. It would have irked me to not know what was making the noise because I couldn't disprove my mind was playing tricks on me. It's true what they say about how you're afraid of what you don't know. In this case, what I didn't know could be caused by a brain on the fritz. My friend Susanne--you know Susanne--she had this ringing in her ears some years ago. Tinny-something her doctor called it. I don't know. Miners and military men usually developed it. Well, she'd never been so much as near a mine and back when she and I were young (back when we used to write on scrolls!) women couldn't enlist if they wanted to. Which just thank your lucky stars that era's behind us. She heard that darned buzzing all the time for months on end. She said it nearly drove her nuts. What if I was hallucinating? Was beeping going to be next? It was very disconcerting to say the least.

Then it hit me. The bench's texture registered in my head: wood. Of course! I put my ear nearer the back and the scratching got louder. Not continuous sound but sporadic. I needed to get to the bottom of the noise, even if it came from a nasty little thing like a termite. I've seen termites before. Grandpa had a problem with them on his farm. The damage they can do! He built his own barns, you know, with his country friends. Just imagine raising a barn! Thank goodness we don't have to churn butter because I tell you we'd just dip bread in cream if it were left to me. My point is, though, termites are dreadful. Icky segmented ant-like things. You can sort of see through them. They give me the willies. Even if it meant finding termites, I was going to risk it. That's reasonable I think. Peace of mind means a lot more when you get older as you'll discover someday in the very distant future, darling.

The face of the bench showed no signs of infestation. There was a memorial plaque and bird scat but that was it as far as interest goes. I checked the sides of the back planks. Nothing. But then I saw the shadowy rough ovals on the side of the seat planks. They burrowed in the sides! Just imagine those filthy things were chewing within an inch of my bottom! Can you imagine? I leaned in and strained to see inside the ovals, but obviously light was lacking. So, I got down to check the bench's underside. I braced myself against the seat. What a scene, I know! Looking back, I could have been certified. But so underneath on the second and third plank there were these exposed canals. The shapes were generally tubular, much too large to be termite paths. It looked like Morse code. You don't know about Morse code, do you? Do that teach that still? Probably not--it was dreadfully dull. When I traced these out, scraping along the ground, I came to a fuzzy shape in the track. My first impulse was to poke it with a finger but decided to put my ear nearer to it instead. There was the muted crunching. What a relief! It turned out to be from a carpenter bee. I only saw the one but his friends were probably hidden. Why they're called carpenter bees is a mystery to me. They don't build anything. They only chew stuff up.

So, I'm not crazy is the point. I mean, the sound can be legitimate. Not that we have a carpenter bee problem. It's just that that's what it sounds like in this empty house when your father's gone. A person can only watch so much cable is the thing. Not that it sounds better when he's around. Then it's just pin-drop silence mixed with grunts. You know how he is. So what I mean to say by all of this is come home soon so we can fill this house with laughs again. We can bake cookies. Doesn't that sound nice? Thanksgiving is right around the corner.

Wasted

It's hot as Hell and there's a guy with an awful clean hat making eyes at the waitress. He looks a fool. She don't see.

"It's a fact there's folks who nobody knows... Not just knows like knows good. I mean never even heard of, by they selves," my friend says to me after I've had my fifth or sixth. This comes out of nowhere so I ask him what? I can see he minds me having to ask. I tell him I'm sorry but I can't connect his dots all the time.

"My ma's got this little piece of the newspaper," and he holds up his hand to show me the square like he’s fixing to take my picture, "—looks to be from the first edition of the Post—and she’s got it framed. S'on a table in the back, next to the lamp, so's ev'ry time you flip on the light s'right there to be seen. She couldn't be prouder still. She says s'her way of livin’ on and don’t you dare move it or so much as even touch it. Hell, I seen her dust it and she's not one fer dusting."

I'm lost and wonder if it's the beer that done it to me. The losing. What's he carrying on about? I can't stop from grinning and feel bad because I shouldn't be. "She had the best blueberry muffins in the whole wide state of Kentucky back in '76 and that framed scrap of paper's the proof." I check the score which is little even on the big screen. I squint. We're losing and I tell myself it’s not our year. It's no wonder. They's got no heart and are spoilt worse than kids. I hear him go, "Turns out she won Best Muffin in the State Fair back then and so they put the recipe on the back page with her blessing. She didn't like givin' away a secret but said it was the only way to get in the paper so’s what she done."

This is big for him. Listen. Do right by your friend I say in my head. I look at him straight. He goes, "It's so she knows she’s been heard of. Been known. Is my point. That's her piece, you see?" His fingers are fat sausages and got a lot of hair between the knuckles on them. They get pointy on the ends. They're putting out a Marlboro.

What is? I say. He looks at me cross. People get rowdy and I figure we're losing worse.

"Keep up, boy. The dang piece of paper in that frame. The recipe. You heard me? You even listening?" I never catch him holding his glass. I only see it full on minute and empty the next.

Right I say and shake off the cobwebs.  

"But that’s all she’n ever done. A little somethin' on the back page of the local section—about three inches square—more'n… thirty years ago." He laughs but it's no joke. "That takes all. That's her whole deal in a teeny square. All her life. I seen it the other day and it got to me." I've heard him say a thing like this all before. He don't like it here and wishes he were somebody grander. He speaks good but can’t remember when he's drunk. I can remember but can't speak good never. "Not much to show for. Makes me sad. Don't it make you sad? A couple folks may've cut it out back then. Most of 'em went in the trash. Woman's whole life in the can.' He blows out his mouth like he's hot. 'Get this. She don't even bake 'em herself no more. She can't. Arthritis set in." He takes out his rag and wipes his face for the sweat. "And that's it all. That’s her part. What she’s gonna keep givin' to posterity." My head gets real heavy all of a sudden and I nod.

"And that's more'n I've got to show for. You follow? In my…" He cracks open a peanut and dumps it in his mouth. "whole rotten life I've ne'er been in the paper or radio. Don’t even bother 'bout the TV. Shit. I never so much as made it in a yearbook. School's too small fer that." I see a chewed piece of peanut hit the table and stick right where it lands from the spit."What's ever goin' to be known 'bout me?"

I say it's okay I ain’t been in nothing neither but he maybe didn't make it out. I've learnt before I'm not always talking as straight as I think I am. He's worked up somethin' fierce and I can't help him none. I close my eyes but keep on facing him square. "I dunno a single solitary thing that e'er happened in the state of Idaho fer instance. I don’t even know what you call 'em. The people from up there. Idahoers?" He laughs to his self. "The whole cursed state 'cept fer its name in yellow on every bag of taters you buy at the Piggly." He stops to  gulp down some beer. I think his timing's funny but don't let on. "Wiggly. Surely there’s got to be more goin' on there than some spuds getting picked. Nothing wrong with picking taters. Not what I mean…" The table rocks and I look to see he’s leaning heavy on it. "And I'm not just talkin' America, neither. I'm talking 'bout the whole wide great big world, you hear? Just think. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. All of it. All of er'ryplace else especially. What do you know of it really? I mean really know. Not the book stuff, the explosions 'n messes or fights or what not, I mean the folks and what they been through. Where they  been and what they seen with their own eyes." He turns his head and burps loud. "There's so many folks that been here we never known and never gonna know. Who they are is secrets. All the secrets inside people. I got secrets inside me nobody knows." He wipes his forehead again but with the back of this big hand. "or so much as wants to. And they do, too. The ones without names. All the kids wantin' to go their own way, have their own piece or be another one to get up on that moon—went and growed up to what? Sit behind a desk and do some measly what-have-you nonsense, messing over folk’s trifles—hangnails and such when it you get down to it. It gets me down in the dirt ev'ry time." He pours himself another. 

My head's spinning and I’m struggling to follow his drift. He's been blowing in a great many directions. I need to rest for a spell and get clear. Get straight. He seems hurt bad for all his fine talking. He's smarter than me. I think smarts is mostly trouble, though, so I don't mind. He's busy thinking while he works I can tell. Always off someplace else. I just stare and try not to have anything in my head but this tool or that part. I look close at things. I really feel them.

Why's bein' known sucha thing? I say. There's cotton on my tongue. I'm scared I’m talking funny.

His eyes get bigger like he’s looking forward to biting into what I done put on his plate. He wipes his mouth way up on his forearm. His glass hasn't got a drop in it I see. "Cause it takes a weight off your shoulders is why. Don't play dumb with me. You hear me. It's what we're each of us after. Ya feel easier bein' known. You can breathe." He looks at me head on like I get him, but I don't. "Isn't that what you was after from your parents through all that cursin' and runnin' around you did way back when? Isn't that what your wifey gives you such grief fer with all her arm-crossin' and toe-tappin'? It's being known we're all of us after and I just haveta face I'm not and never goin' to. Doesn't that get you?" He knows it don't get me so I don't bother saying so. I tell him people don't ever know so much but he just frowns.  They can't so who cares.

All our Schlitz is gone somehow. Like on cue the lady with the jean skirt drops by and asks howabout another pitcher, fellas. My friend tells her of course we do. I say I'm out of cash and he waves his hand at me like it's no thing. He's sweet like that.

I swirl what's flat and warming in my glass and set to straightening out. I squint. The room isn't moving but it is to me. It's going round and round slow like. It occurs that I need a swig of water and a bit of shut-eye. But I fight it because my friend is in a bad way here before me. Pay the ball game no mind I tell myself. He's got a thorn in his side and I got to try and pick it out. I put my finger in a puddle on the bar and draw it around in circles. I hear him burp but not so loud as before. I say he's excused after he asked me to. I say he's a fine gentleman. His cheeks are rosy and look full when he smiles now. He nearly tips over reaching into his pocket. He puts money on the table so's not to forget. I'm trying hard to figure something to say.  

The pitcher returns sudsy down one side. She's all flustered. I feel bad seeing her running around crazy like she is. Her legs don't look so hot but she's trying to make them work for her. There's a squiggly tattoo down her calf that makes it look lumpy. I think of mashed potatoes and want salt on my tongue very badly. Peanuts are nearby. I settle on some of them. Then it hits me. I ask are you sad about not knowing or not being known?

He says, "Sad ain't it. I ain't sad. I'm mad," which he makes look pretty with the flick of his lighter mixed in. The cigarette waggles between his lips and looks like its scribbling a message in the air. I lose what I was going to say. The next words I hear are, "Mostly being known I guess. I'm old and got hardly nothin' left. I'm all dried up and have nothin' to show fer it and never are gonna have. Nobody gives me a second look." He tugs hard on his beard. I think I see a hair float down until I lose it in the shadows of his shirt. "I'm just like ev'rybody else. Ev'rybody else that I never known and can't ever get to."

He looks more sad than mad to me. He's said this mess here before more or less. We been friends a long while. I knew him before he was married and divorced and even before tried his luck selling junk for a spell. Now he's drinking his next beer. I'm piecing words together careful. I feel on to something and try to concentrate. I stare into the corner. I'm thinking hard of how to tell him what I see's really wrong here. I want to tell him why it's not such a mess. No such thing as secrets really. We're all of us known according to the preacher. I nearly fall over on account of watching the ceiling fan spin. My stomach ain't right. It gets in the way. I say water aloud to no one in particular. I miss my chance. He starts up talking again and I feel trapped. All I can muster is stuck inside my sloppy head. I want to be sober so I can be a good friend. I don't want smarts but only some way to get him calmed down.

There's a racket nearby that gives me a start. Someone yells son of a bitch and slams a heavy thing on the bar. Everyone else gets real quiet and turns to see. We feel better when we see it's just a big glass with a handle on it.  

I want water but louder and the waitress hears me and asks what's this fuss about. "There's no fuss, ma'am. My friend here just is thirsty and can't take no more booze." He's right. She comes back with a glass clear full. I slur my thanks a little but she smiles all the same. She knows what I mean. The water goes quick.  

A fly hops along the rim of our half-filled pitcher. I can see it rubbing its front legs together. It's greedy. They're excited about filth. They can't leave it be. Why come they don't get sick? The natives start in yelling at the TV and my friend's gone quiet. He crumples his Marlboro into the ashtray and the rest of the smoke comes out his nose. He says we should get going and I nod. I say sorry as I get up wobbly.

Breakfast Debate

Aggrieved birds were chirping invective at one another as two long-time companions sat at a table on a diner’s patio. A car, truck, or motorcycle drove by infrequently along the adjacent strip of road.

“Odd isn’t it? Most people would think this place doesn’t exist in the morning hours,” Tom observed.

Earl examined his friend’s countenance, trying to decipher any clues as to the sentiment behind the remark. “Yeah,” he eventually responded.

“Sad isn’t it?” Tom pressed before taking a sip of his black coffee. “What's become of our little town, I mean.”

“Oh, sure. I guess.” Earl paused to think the question over. “Well, maybe. I guess these places lose some of the aura they have about them when they aren't doing what they 're supposed to be doing, like theaters in between shows or uh… ball parks in the winter.”

“Exactly. Sad but good though. A good sad. It’s for the best.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean at least we aren’t deceived about it like the tourists are. I…” A diesel truck boomed past the eatery. “I mean what would change about us and how we, how we thought about theaters if we all saw them being cleaned up with the lights on? Like how employees sees them.”

“There’d be more disaffected children probably. They’re the ones who are usually duped. The tourists though, they just don’t think about it at all. They come here for the night life. But kids—places for children are more special because they don’t make the same assumptions as adults.” Earl rubbed his temples and raked his greasy morning hair with his fingers. “Kids don’t figure everywhere has a cleaning crew. They just figure theaters are automatically ready to play moves anytime.”

“But that’s not right. It’s a bad habit that starts young maybe, the acceptance of ignorance,” Tom lamented.

“That's a harsh way to put it. It’s not so bad. What’s wrong with a little make-believe.?”

“It’s make-believe that’s turning this place into a knock-off Las Vegas. People come down here to make-believe they’re in someplace where they, the travelers, are automatically impressive and important.” Tom looked out at the end of the strip. It was illuminated by streaks from the freshly rising sun. The dimples and cracks in the weathered pavement made the faded asphalt look like elephant skin. “A lot of places would probably shrivel up and die if people knew what they looked like when they weren’t being what you think of them as.”

“Maybe it depends on the sort of place. What places are you thinking of?”

“Take your pick of one of the places up and down here,” Tom said gesturing towards the street with his chin. “That place, for example.” Tom’s finger indicated a rectangular building up the way. It was covered with white siding that grew green from mold in spots. The two windows on the front were covered with alcohol advertisements from inside. Banners with speed boats, white sand beaches, and bottles of beer papered over much of the white siding. The washed out red awning trapped some of the morning rays. “It doesn’t look so great now without the neon signs. Nothing automatic about it, it changing a person. You’re as much of a dope walking in as walking out. More so even.”

“No. It doesn’t look so hot.” Earl raised his mug and smiled to try to get the attention of the waitress who was sitting inside talking with an old man wearing a khaki cap. She nodded to him in acknowledgement and began the process of breaking off the conversation. “But you have to admit unflattering light could ruin a lot of good reputations—of places and people.”

“Yeah.”

“So a bar at sunrise may burst a few bubbles, but so would showing kids what’s behind the puppet show set.”

“Right.” Tom and Earl watched the brown stream fill their mugs as the waitress tipped the coffee pot. Earl looked up at her and nodded with gratitude. She grinned meekly and left without saying a word.

“Knowledge doesn’t solve everything, Tom. I can tell you’re frustrated by this atmosphere, but some people walk off cliffs with eyes wide open, you know? Just adding information to this recipe won’t make it sweeter. People aren't always fooled. Some make mistakes on purpose if they think it's worthwhile.”

“Yeah. It just makes sad to think about what this town makes its money off of.”

“Most towns are no better.”

“I suppose.”

“If you closed down all the bars and strip joints and all the other ‘dens of inequity,’ there’d be a lot more hungry people out there—kid’s too. Some people make good livings bartending.”

“That doesn’t make it right, Earl.”

“No, of course not. It just makes it complicated.”

Tom took a swig of his hot coffee as Earl swirled the creamer into his. “I appreciate your frustration, though. It’s not easy for me coming back here either.” Earl added.

“Yeah,” Tom replied with a hollow voice. He rubbed away a drop of coffee that had dripped onto the wooden table. Almost on cue, the flow of traffic increased with the eight o’clock hour. 

“Do you think ignorance is bliss, Earl?”

“It can be.”

“No it can’t! It never can.”

“How do you figure?”

“A person can feel… undisturbed in a state of ignorance, but that’s not bliss. Bliss is more than that.”

“Sounds blissful to me.”

“Then blissful and bliss aren’t the same.”

“Adjectives and nouns aren’t the same, no, but they’re related.”

“Not identical.”

“Most of the time they’re indistinguishable. How are you going to tell the difference between a blissful person and a person in bliss? How would you know in your own case?”

Tom slightly wrinkled his nose. “Well, I guess there’s… Are you just being a contrarian here or do you really value stupidity this much?”

“Who said anything about stupidity? We’ve been talking about ignorance.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Ignorance is a lack of knowledge. Stupidity is an inability to acquire it.”

“Ah. So all stupid people are ignorant, but not all ignorant people are stupid.”

“That about right.”

“Hm. Well, that’s all fine and well—but it’s besides the point. Why are you defending ignorance so much?”

“Because you’re so offended by it.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like seeing my old friend so upset.”

“You’ve got an odd way of calming people down.”

“What? Setting them straight?”

“Straight? Hm. And I though you liked brokenness.”

“There you go confusing ignorance with stupidity again. You Tom, for instance, are not stupid. You’re so far away from it you’re in danger of being ignorant. Some things you know, some things you should know, some things you can’t know, and some things you shouldn’t know. Wisdom is putting the information in the right boxes.”

“And some things you don’t know.” Tom reminded.

“Right. Of course. But you know so many things that you’ve developed a skewed view of knowledge. Knowledge, in general, is not going to make this world a better place all by itself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not. All knowledge is good because everything is related, if only distantly. It’s like…it’s like gravity, you know? Every body has a gravitational pull on every other body in the universe, no matter how small it is. It’s the same with learning. Learning is always going to make you a better person. It’ll keep you out of bars.”

“Buddy, knowing how to bake a cake doesn’t make you a better driver and knowing what’s a waste of time doesn’t make you any more industrious. That’s got more to do with emotions and motivations… personal history and the like. Character. It’s not as simple as just proving to people the vice is a vice.”

“You’re wearing me out, Earl.”

“Good. Maybe then you’ll give this preoccupation of yours a rest and you’ll try to have a nice weekend despite all the debauchery around you.”

“Hm. So if I just don’t think about what’s wrong with everything down here, I’ll have a better time.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds blissful.”

The waitress returned with a pen in her hand. Her faded brown hair twitched in the breeze.

Earl spoke into his menu. “I’ll have the uh…biscuits and gravy with sausage.” 

Tom looked into the waitress’s brown eyes. “Oatmeal, please. No raisins.”