Speech Impediment: II of III

Walking down the corridor, I get the feeling I could be anywhere—at least anywhere American. This is one of a million such stretches. The wall art is dated and vaguely Southwestern. Turquoise, sage, and terra cotta. It’s hard to imagine the prints ever looking good, even when new. The signatures are anonymous scribbles forged by a printer.

Traffic picks up on the east wing. I suppress my pedestrian road rage equivalent behind two hunchbacked and shuffling guests. Room 185 has been converted into a makeshift dining room. A wall dividing 185 from either 187 or 188 has a passageway cut out of it, opening onto an area where the chef/waitress/janitor is stationed. The kitchen appliances consist of a microwave, toaster, and two industrial-sized coffee urns. A spread of Danish glisten in fatty dullness on a counter. Waxy apples lie in wait. Trashcans already overflow. A TV mounted in the corner is showing a local newscast. The set is outdated and the screen skews colors to blue. Half of the patrons are more decrepit than I am, which is simultaneously relieving and unnerving. People are speaking more loudly than they realize. Over the ambient din, the employee announces “Sausage!” A wave of nausea passes over me at the thought.

A plain packet of instant oatmeal with a grinning Quaker greets me as I riffle through a bin labeled ‘Hot Ceareal.’ Perfect. A steaming pot of clearish water rests on a burner. I swirl some of it into my bowl. A drop splatters and singes the fleshy part of my hand. I wipe it on my pants leg. The pain subsides. I snag a cup of coffee and a napkin/spoon combo pack. The coffee smells like nothing but extreme heat. I walk with caution.

A two-top is open in the corner and I make a gingerly beeline for it. I settle down and unwrap what turns out to be a spork.

The conference goers in the room are easy to spot by their nametags. Nametags make me sad. The handwriting is rarely precise and often calls the wearer’s competence into question. Letters are bunched, slanted, or squiggled. There’s no quicker way to make an adult seem like a child than asking him to write his name on a sticker and apply it to his chest.

The coffee is in fact molten. After many a cooling breath, I discover it may well have been filtered through a comforter. It tastes synthetic, but it’ll due. Desperate times.

“Taken?”

A heavy-set man in his mid-to-late twenties is already pulling out the vacant seat across from me. With the body control of a server, he palms his stacked-high plate. He’s wearing a black T-shirt under a black untucked Oxford.

“It’s all yours.” I rub my reddening hand.

His name is written in indecipherably light pencil. The tag may be blank. He heeded the sausage announcement. He’s ringless. We eat in relative silence for a while except for the chalky noise of his cutting on styrofoam. I am more alert after my second cup of coffee. I notice the brown liquid on his plate isn’t sausage related. It’s syrup. I prod my oatmeal with my spork.

He begins. “So uh, what brings you here?”

“A gig. You?”

He cocks his head and furrows his brow like a dog to a new sound. “Gig? Like stand up?”

“No not quite. I’m giving a speech.”

“Why’d you call it a gig?”

“It’s just what we call them in the business.”

“Oh.” The disappointment is palpable.

“It’s a lot like stand-up, actually.”

He hums through his forkful of meat. He asks, “You talking today?” between chews.

“Yeah at 11. Will you be there?”

“I sorta have to be.” He discovered the actual plastic spoons and uses his on a bowl of Fruity Floats.

“Yeah.” I pause. “But at least you have the day off.”

He frowns momentarily, squishing the lump in his cheek. “Sure. I’m not complaining or anything. I mean I’ll take any chance I can get to get away from the office.”

“You look a little wet behind the ears to be burnt out.”

I’ve caught him with his mouth full, so he angles his head back and speaks around his food. “You ever work a 9 to 5 job? It doesn’t take long. Two, three months tops.”

Watching him does nothing for my appetite. “Decades ago, yes. I was a guidance counselor in another life.”

Conversation trails off. He slurps the sweet dregs of cereal. He consumes the entire contents of his cup in two gulps. Is he in a hurry? He’s drawn to the commotion surrounding the microwave. He leaves to get something more to eat or drink. I take my first tentative bite. The oatmeal tastes like a moist paper towel. I bury the spork in the mound and leave it there.

The ladies one table over discuss the pros and cons of wool clothing, taking turns to make a statement and reply with enthusiastic affirmation. A peel of laughter erupts from a man with a horseshoe of salt-and-pepper hair. The employee appears despondent. The buzzers of coffee pots and microwaves erupt more often than a single person can manage.

The wallpaper features small bouquets of cornflowers repeating on diagonal axes atop a taupe background. A chair rail of dark wood skirts the room and a border of vintage mechanized farm implements trims the top of the walls. Most of this country is country.

He approaches our table with a cup in each hand a slice of toast in his teeth. Maybe it’s the challenge of free food that drives him. He places his toast in the puddle of greasy syrup on his plate and sits. “So do you say the same stuff everywhere you go or what?”

“Not exactly. The professionals have five to seven canned acts. I don’t have any fixed speeches. It varies.” His eyes are on me but are not focused. He blinks. Perhaps he wants more. “My material—what I say—is mostly in a notebook I keep with me. I basically write my thoughts down in script form, complete with stage directions. It calms my nerves to have it memorized." He's wiping his fingers on a napkin. "I mix all the little snippets together based on what the situation calls for from talking with whoever books me and anybody I talk to from the company beforehand.”

He retrieves a packet of Squeeze-able! grape jelly from his hip pocket and squirts it onto his bread. The deep violet jelly coils haphazardly. He eats it in a fashion reminiscent of corn on the cob: side-to-side. “Is that good?” I ask, not really interested in the answer.

“Eh.”

He leans back in his chair and nurses his apple juice. “What do you say? Like in a nutshell?”

“That’ll ruin the surprise. If I tell you now, you’ll just tune out later.”

“Well, what’s the gist then at least?”

“I don’t have a schtick, really. I think of myself as a realist. No gimmicks.”

“But others have gimmicks?”

“Sure. Most of us have marketing or advertising backgrounds. You’ve got your if-I-can-do-it-you-can-do-it guys, your life-is-too-short guys, your all-you-need-is love guys. You know.”

Two boys yell at each other and come to blows over the last cheese Danish. The mom yells louder than them both. The loser gets a final kidney shot in.

I try to alter the course of where we’re headed. “You’ve been here since yesterday, right?”

“Yeah we had to get here by like noon yesterday.”

“What else have you been doing?”

“Games and stuff. Dinner. The vice president gave a little talk, commencement type thing.”

“What do you think of the VP? You can tell a lot about a company from the people up top.”

His eyes wander again. When they return to me, it’s as though the last five minutes never happened. Burnt toast or bagel diffuses through the air. “How’s a guy become a motivational speaker?”

I cannot determine the level of genuine interest behind his queries. I want to believe he’s only curious. “D’you have a minute?”

He consults his cell phone. “I’ve got a couple hundred.”

“Mm.” I pause and drink from my cup to gather my thoughts. “I haven’t told this story in a while.” Memories tumble out of their pen like bouncy balls. The pictures are foggy and dim from disuse. “Uh... I wasn’t very happy where I was at—the school. The kids rarely listened to anybody over the age of 20. At 27, I was out of the question. The pay was pretty terrible too and my wife and I had a newborn. So, I looked around to see what else I was qualified for. Turns out anyone can be a speaker.” The TV’s volume increases to a distractingly loud level. I lean in to compensate. “The pay was better and had real prospects of improving even more. I could travel and I could help more people or so I thought. Adults are supposed to be able to listen, right?” I sip. “My wife—Debbie, her name’s Debbie—was supportive, at least to me, so I contacted an agency. There were a few of them popping up in Kansas City, which was nearby where we were living at the time—it’s centrally located—and the nation as a whole was much more open to psychotherapy and touchy-feely stuff, so yeah, I more or less signed up. They sent me a few canned lessons and told me whenever I was ready I could do my own. It was extremely liberal, the agency—very hands off so long as you didn’t get negative reviews. It’s a lot like sales—all about your numbers. So yeah I was on a plane in a couple weeks.” I recall that first flight, Debbie’s haggard face, Will screaming in her arms. The plane was peaceful, a deserted redeye to Omaha. “It was unfair to Debbie of course, but she never protested.”

“Do you like it?” He stacks one of the empty cups into the other and begins work on the third.

“Parts of it, yes. I’ve been at it for a long time and have as long of a leash as you can get. I can turn down a gig if I want. Our savings are healthy enough. I’ve missed out on a lot back home, of course, but I’ve seen a lot, too. I get to meet all sorts of people—like yourself—and I like that. Keeps me young. I get a fair amount of positive feedback and most nights when I’m unwinding I feel I’ve given three or four people something to chew on, something that might stick with them and help them get by. That’s a unique opportunity as far as jobs go.” I sip again more to break up the monologue than anything. “But I’m on the road a majority of my time and I don’t really know anybody to be frank. It’s a lonely profession. I’m kind of like an itinerant preacher.” I clear my throat. “It is what it is.”

His posture suggests he’s bored. He’s reclining as much as possible. “I don’t know you but you don’t look too happy to me.”

I’m stunned by the abruptness of his observation. Either he is preternaturally observant or I look even worse than I feel this morning. I consider taking offense but think better of it. “I’m not too happy.”

“How can you make people happier if you aren’t yourself?”

“My job’s not to make people happy, it’s to motivate them.”

“I would’ve thought happy people were motivated.”

“Not usually, no. Happiness is static, stationary. You wallow in it. Soak it up. Motivation is active though. It’s forward movement and most everything else is backwards. Most of my crowds are slipping when they take their seats if you know what I mean. My job is to give them a push.”

“Hm.”

“Happy or not, I can do that.”

We both drink ponderously. “Eggs!” rings out and chair legs squeal against the asbestos tile. The place is a lot less full. An unknown saint turned the TV back down. My oatmeal is clammy. I push the bowl away. I have some saltines in my bag.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Your job. I mean, the life.”

“It depends on the week. We’re scheduled on one week and off the next. In on weeks, you make a swing through a section of the country, landing someplace bright and early Monday, renting a car, driving stop to stop through the hinterland, and you end up Friday morning about 600 or 800 miles away from where you started.” I rub my temples. “Then you’re supposed to go home.”

“You only work like half the year?”

“If you’re doing a terrible job, yes. If you want to pay your mortgage or alimony…” I laugh; he doesn’t. “Well, you’re on the road more than that anyway. All the money is in the extras. Make a good impression, hand out some cards, and you can schedule talks on your off weeks. The agencies let you keep a higher percentage of the fees.”

“I couldn’t do it. I don’t like travelling. You waste so much time waiting in lines or with flight delays or security or whatever.” He pauses, visibly reflecting. “God, you must’ve spent like 10 years in airports.”

“That’s probably true. Travel isn’t so romantic when it’s the rule not the exception.”

“Why are you still doing it?”

There’s a confrontational tone behind his words I used to hear a long time ago. “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

“You’re the closest I’ve come to meeting a rock star.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He grins. It is impossible to read him. “I’m still doing it because I’m comfortable doing it. When you get to be my age, comfort counts for a whole lot.”

“Oh.” He consolidates his trash, stuffing his utensils and napkin into the fourth and final cup of his column.

 “What about you? What brings you here? You look younger than everybody else.”

He crosses his arms and stares at what he’s made. “I am. I started in June.”

“What do you do?”

“My title’s computer support specialist. The IT department’s just me and this other guy. I basically reset people’s passwords and unjam printers all day.”

“Do you like it?”

“What do you think?” He’s tearing off thumb-sized edges of his plate to give it a buzz-saw quality. “It’s not exactly what I got a degree for.”

“Be patient. You’ve got a lot of career to go.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

“At least you have a job. That’s not a given anymore you know.”

“Yeah.”

I feel impotent. He does not want to be encouraged. His eyes are on me and I avert mine. The employee is frantically wiping down her area. A Leaning Tower of Pisa fashioned out of refuse will tip at any moment. A little boy asks his dad to add his plate to the top of the pile. The dad obliges.

We return to silence. The novelty has worn off. I am uneasy in at least two ways. My abdomen is audible now that the ambient noise has diminished. I cannot bare this any longer. “Well, I best be going. I need to figure out where I’m supposed to be and all that.” I pull my bowl and cup toward me. “It was good talking with you.”

He seems caught off guard. “Oh all right. See you later then.”

“I’ll be looking for you in the front row,” I say full of mirth. He glances at me but does not otherwise respond.

I stand and walk to the far corner with the less swollen trashcan. I flip my oatmeal onto the top of the trash. I push down and the contents crumple and spring back slowly. I thank the employee as I pass. She nods and says, “Mmhm,” while unplugging the urns. Checking the corner table, I see the young man watching the news. Exiting, I sidestep a grizzly man with biker garb who smells like the area around a gas pump. My elbow grazes his leather vest and I am more frightened than I should be. The grizzly does nothing.

I check my watch as I walk down the hall. Roughly two hours to go.

Speech Impediment: I of III

The Office light glows with an emphasis on the Off. One of the bulbs is burnt out. Still, in the early morning haze, it’s hard to miss. A bad omen? 

I wrestle with the door, which is entirely too high strung to be welcoming. My satchel slides off my shoulder and compresses with a clank on the concrete sidewalk. I hoist it up again and dance awkwardly using my foot and elbow to get though the threshold. The ground is farther away than I remember. In tow, I drag my overnight bag. The handle isn’t tall enough, so I have to walk a little contorted. An expressionless young woman has been watching this unfold. She perks up behind the counter once I’m through. She darts around, deftly preparing for our exchange. She looks to be sixteen. ‘Julie’ is stitched in cursive white below a screen-printed logo of a river or stream. She’s wearing a dark green polo and her hair in a pony tail. Blonde frizz dapples her temple’s hairline. 

She is bubbly from the first. “Good morning, sir. Do you have a reservation with us?” 

“Miller. Ed Miller.” 

 “Can I see some ID, Mr. Miller?” 

I extract my wallet from my inside my jacket and hold it open for her. The enthusiasm drains from her face as she concentrates, verifying my name letter by letter. She types. 

“Um okay, Mr. Miller. It says here you’re with the conference, is that correct?” 

“Yes. I’m the entertainment.” I look at her with expectation. 

“Okay great.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s see. Says here your room’s already paid for.” The frantic chatter of an inkjet starts and we do not continue until it stops. “So if I could just get your autograph here…” She writes an X and circles in one motion with a Bic pen. “I’ll give you your key and you’ll be on your way. This here just covers incidental charges like long distance calls or any damage to your room and things.” Her high pitched voice and slight shrug effectively trivializes the prospect. 

I scrawl illegibly where I’ve been instructed. 

“Thank you.” The paper quickly disappears behind the counter. “Now, we’ve got you all grouped together on the first floor here on the north wing. You’re in 152. It’s just down this hall on your left before the sign for the ice machine over there. See? On the left.” She points. “Here’s your key. Just drop it off here tomorrow morning and you’re good to go.” 

“Perfect.” I feel slothful in her presence. 

“We’re serving a warm continental breakfast in room 185 until 9:30 am. Room 185 is on the east wing, so it’ll be through the first set of double doors over there on the right.” She points to clarify. “Would you like a map?” 

“No. I’ll manage. 185 breakfast. 152 room.” 

“You’ve got it. Great. Okay then Mr. Miller, is there anything else I can do for you?” 

I recite the numbers in my head. “No, that’s fine.” 

“Okay great. Thank you choosing Midland Inn. We hope you enjoy your stay.” 

She has done well. “Thanks, Julie.” 

I give her a half-hearted smirk and she returns a full on smile as I break eye contact. My satchel starts to slide off as I bend to grip the handle on my bag. I grab it and, in the process, knock over a clear plastic display of maps and visitor information. Glossy pamphlets scatter like dropped mercury. Damn it. 

“Oh I’ll get that, sir. Don’t worry.” She has not stopped smiling.

“No, no. It’s my fault.” I groan as I squat. An extra set of hands joins mine on the carpet-tiled floor. She’s wearing a Claddagh ring on her left ring finger, which puts me in a momentary stupor. God how old I am. 

I collect the brochures for CANDLES Holocaust Museum in Terre Haute and put them on the counter. The photo on the front is of a gray sky split by a line of barbed wire. Never Forget is in stark red block letters. I am unsettled but only for a moment. With key in hand, I murmur my thanks and trudge off. 

The keychain is a maroon plastic diamond with ‘152’ stamped in white courier font in the middle. There’s nothing written on the back. It was created before the days of security preoccupation—anonymous keycards or ciphered numerals. 

The room numbers ascend in an alternating pattern of twos and threes for no discernable reason. The floor underfoot sounds hollow. I am alone in the hall. I note the double doors on my right as I pass them. There’s some action halfway down. An elderly man with chocolate brown Velcro shoes is carefully balancing two plates with two cups precariously wobbling on each. His shirt has a thick teal band at the abdomen’s crest. I l avert my eyes, anticipating a mess. 

Arriving at the door, I slide the key into the lock. The bolt clicks over and the door opens without a turn of the knob. The air is stuffy and smells faintly of detergent or maybe cardboard. I run my finger over the textured wallpaper in search of a switch. Nothing. Red light from the digital clock spills onto the nightstand. 7:22. I’ve been up for nearly three and a half hours. It could be a week. 

There’s enough light diffusing through the drapes to safely make my way to a lamp on the dresser. With a twist of the knob, I reveal my temporary lodging. Golds and hunter greens are everywhere in this tiny rectangle. No desk. 

I lock the door behind me, wheel my bag next to the dresser, and put my satchel next to the bed. By the feel of it, the bed is made of the same coarse springs used in heavy truck suspension. I run my hand over the bedspread, which is two sheets of polyester sewn together with the ghost of something insulative in between. Skinny strands of thread like fishing line twist pubicly from the edges of the sewn pattern. 

I can see myself dimly reflected in the screen of a black plastic television that’s deeper than it is wide. I am slouched. My limbs feel heavy. It is silent except for the wheeze of my nostrils. Allergies reach unfathomable heights in the Midwest. 

 I sit for a long time with my chin nearly resting on my sternum. I ponder the weight of my head, of how tempting even these sheets are, of my desperate need for caffeine. Muffled, a nearby door creaks open and thumps shut. Knocking and passionate inquiry follows. Two women, probably friends since way back when, croak greetings. 7:33. I rise to survey the bathroom. 

Incandescent light filtered through the yellowing plastic fixture gives the space a jaundiced complexion. An exhaust fan drones. The edges of the last square of single-ply toilet paper are folded to create a point in the middle. Does this make the roll more inviting? The hospital-grade curtain rattles cheaply on the rod. Inside the shower, a clump of hairs huddle over the mesh drain. A cylindrical bottle reads Conditioning Shampoo. I unwrap what passes as a bar of soap to wash my face. The label declares it to be moisturizing, but the product proves otherwise. I furrow my brow, scrunch my nose, and exhale sullenly. Three drops drip off my nose into the cream-colored basin. I watch them collect and slide to the drain. I nearly dose off in my inclined position. A white facial towel is startlingly coarse and abrasive. 

My eyes have retreated still farther into my skull. The capillaries on the perimeter outshine the ring of cloudy blue in the center. My under-eye pockets are ominously dark, like a gathering storm. When did this happen? The bridges of my nose bear permanent footprints from my glasses. I massage them between thumb and forefinger. The cartilage beneath has little elliptical divots. My knuckles are cracked and swollen on top of my hands gripping the sink. No amount of lotion will replenish me. I am wrapped in paper, a cochina doll.

With a flick, the room goes dark and quiet. 

My stomach is the sort of unsettled that will be pacified by neither eating nor abstaining therefrom. Debbie says I am nursing an ulcer. No matter. Whatever the culprit, it is not happy and will not be dissuaded. I know I should eat on principle alone. Continental breakfast awaits. I need to mingle. I need to get my juices flowing. Less than four hours to show time.

Time Off

A finch squeezes a sunflower seed with its beak. The black shell cracks open and a dark, scaly tongue pushes the kernel. The shell splits and falls away. The bird’s eyes are glassy black and gazing off into the trees. It seems to be chewing absentmindedly. Its movements are jittery. It punches its head into the feeder’s hole and spherical tan seeds spill to the ground below like a welder's sparks. It extracts another sunflower seed and deftly sets about splitting it, too. The claws are thin and knobby, yet they suffice for balancing. Its head cocks robotically. Spooked, it darts away in a smear of yellow. A blue jay swoops in and lands weightily on the perch. The jay pecks frenziedly and wastes a great deal of feed. I squint up at the sky through the stationary tree branches overhead. It is cloudless.

We’ve been lounging on the porch since three. My best guess says it's as early as four or as late as five. My drink is sweating but I am not. An amorphously shaped puddle accumulates around it on the crackled glass tabletop. I heard from a fellow guest the high should be 73° today.

“Something on your mind?” She’s looking up from her magazine, which is now tilted in her lap. The lighting is such that I can see one eye tinted behind a sunglasses lens and the other is opaquely hidden.

Yes. Where did that finch go? “No. Nothing.”

She angles the borrowed magazine back to a reading position. Her legs are crossed at the ankle atop a wicker ottoman with a maroon cushion. The tops of her bare feet glow in the early autumn light as if lit from within. Her toenails glisten red with chipped edges. Little white nets of dried skin frost the side of her big toe.

The blue jay has taken flight, too. The feeder sways gently from its departure.

Faintly on the air is the sound of children. One of them is either excited or upset. Genders can’t be established from the pitch, so they must be little. A family lives up the street judging from the toys strewn about the front lawn. They don’t fret about theft. These people are openly vulnerable. Who would do such a thing? We remarked on the oddity as we passed the house I'm imagining on an earlier stroll. She said she wished we could do such a thing back. I said we'd have to procure a tricycle first. Perhaps that one would do. We shared a brief laugh.

I rub the outside of my ear by the canal opening. The surface feels oily. I can afford to take another bath tonight. I will submerge into the captured warmth and melt. I will leave my nose exposed, pinch my ears shut, and hear the stethoscopic sounds of respiration. The pads of my fingers will become wrinkled like they would during long gone bath times. To finish, I will feel the eerie heft of my body return as the water recedes down the drain. The air is always has a foreign chill to it after exiting the tub.

Watchless, I pat my pocket in search of my phone. There’s nothing to retrieve. I remember my phone is dead on the walnut chifforobe in our room. How am I to know when to get moving? Hunger or boredom will have to lead the charge. So be it. We have no reservations. We are going to try the seafood place tonight. She will order a shrimp dish. We will dress up and walk holding hands. It’s not too far.

This town is not so much sleepy as it is antique. Design is neither showy nor neglected. Ornamentation does not announce itself loud colors but patiently awaits its audience. Lights do not flash at night; the iron street lamps shine steadily. Billboards do not obstruct; sandwich boards splay below eye level. The architecture whispers. The constitutive buildings of the square are mostly made of now-weathered brick. They present assertively. They will stand tomorrow, monumental and undiminished. They are like a grandfather to a toddler to passersby, tall but not imposing. Corbels coil like fiddleheads underneath ledges trimmed with repeating patterns. Each storefront abuts the next with its own tone and texture, unity out of diversity. Skinny plate glass windows reveal high ceilings edged with molding and lined with tin. Doors are topped with frosted transoms. The palate of the surrounding houses contains unabashed pastels. Wood shingles armor the roofs. The sidewalks are rumpled by the girth of sweet gum and sugar maple roots. The lawns are supple and edged to perpendicular perfection. Weeds are not allowed.

Everything gives the impression of wholesomeness here. People are more courteous. The church bells keep time. The drug store serves ice cream by the scoop. Take your seat on a chromed bar stool. It’s a tourist attraction, but I don’t mind. Locals patronize it, too. I imagine semi-annual parades down Main Street with lazily flapping American flags. How can you be nostalgic for an era you never knew?

The children have departed or found muted activities. We are alone once more. I shift my weight. This is nice, not doing anything. I feel empty but am fully here. It is so quiet now I can hear the ginger ale fizzing as I pour more over the ice. The translucent cluster rises and bobs near the surface. The carbonation makes an ephemeral fountain above the rim. I haven’t had ginger ale in ages. It was complimentary. The innkeepers know what they’re doing.

The thought of this, our vacation, ending makes me complexly sad. A fluttering heart and a dingy lifeless inner hue are where the sentiment starts. It stops in paralysis. Checkout time is a looming storm over the lake. There is no stopping it. I long for times like these and can never maintain them as I wish. Even memories will be forgotten. We have one more full day, though. Don’t ruin what's left. Do not think about work. Stop thinking altogether.

The spice tickles my nose, and I try to suppress a cough unsuccessfully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

The soda gently sloshes in the glass as I set it down with a soft clank. I look at her. She is staring serenely into the magazine. The stillness is photographic. What is on her mind? She never seems as bothered as me, even as I am in these moments. She is simpler.

I wipe my fingers on my pants and leave a damp trail of three fat, merging lines. A turning page is all that interrupts the breezeless afternoon. The ginger’s heat lingers in my mouth.

My book lies split open on the table out of the spreading puddle’s range. I am not halfway to halfway. It is a lost cause. A lone and spartan black ant is wandering futilely nearby the novel. Its antennae twitch in syncopation. There’s nothing of interest for it there, no crumb to cart away. How will it get back down? Maybe a bird will snatch it.

Something small and hard under my shoe scrapes the ground as I readjust. The patio is made of irregular white stone peppered with dirt or maybe mold. Emerald tufts of stubbly moss frame a few pieces. Everything is newer back home but not nicer. Everything here is used but no worse for the wear. Age is not to be feared. Preservation is a virtue. These people are investors who don't seek profit. They are a part of their town. They repair instead of replace. 

I slouch, clasp my hands on my stomach, and close my eyes. I should be reading, but I can’t bring myself to try. I’d rather idle. I planned on finishing two books. That would be something to convey, a clear answer to post-trip inquiries. I know I should be taking full advantage of my temporary freedom. This was what I had been anticipating for months. It’s what we worked for, scrimping four hours off for every eighty worked, and it’s almost over. What have I done? I have not done enough. My inactivity is shameful. Wasting time feels felonious. I am a time killer. I plead guilty. Lock me up.

A part of me is uncomfortable with happiness. This part comes into stark relief before the backdrop of time off. There is no earning happiness, no taming it. It just comes and goes on its own. I would rather strive. You can always strive. Striving is practical, actionable.

Why am I classifying this as a waste? The rules do not apply here. We are beyond all jurisdictions. We are unknown and unknowing. We have immunity. It is permissible to rest.

We are different now, children again. Alarms go unset. We walk without clear destinations. There are no dishes to clean and bath towels are left wadded on the floor. Meals are the only requisite items on the list of things to do. We drift, floating on our backs to nowhere in particular. We are disconnected. There are no headlines to process. E-mails are left unread and accruing in neglected inboxes. I cannot remember being so uninformed and out of touch. We are out of touch, though. So much of our relationships have no tactile element. At home, physical distance has been traded for digital proximity. These people shake hands, hold doors, and slap shoulders. I'd rather be one of them, incorporated.

Like a child, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here and now forever.

I warn myself against listening to the Sirens. This place is unreal. It is not your home. Your home is with her. This trip is make-believe. There is more to accomplish than leisure and loafing. We must toil. The lived truth of here is buried a foot deep in snow. The smiling citizens with their cable-knit sweaters, topsiders, and half-moon reading glasses must fight the long cold season. The freeze and thaw cycle, the road salt, and the tire chains disintegrate this place annually. Transience is inescapable. Remember the grass does not stay greener. My back aches at the thought of hefting a shovel.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get ready for dinner, okay?” She closes her magazine and puts her feet down.

“Yeah okay. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She rises from her seat and smooths the wrinkles in her shirt. As she passes, she strokes my shoulder. I follow her with my eyes. A ballpoint pen poked through her hair keeps her bun together. The spiral of brunette arcs is galactic. As she walks away, I notice her neck. Her vertebrae slightly protrude, making a peapod shape. I feel the back of mine. My fingers rise and fall over the bumps. 

The feeder remains unoccupied and will increasingly be so. What can migrate is or soon will. The leaves are starting to turn. Yellow and orange are seeping into the green. The edges are going dormant despite its lively appearance. The trees will be stripped bare shortly. Emaciated winter with its skeletal limbs is closing fast. His frigid grip will clutch those who remain.

I sigh emphatically. I can and cannot move. Moving is dreadful. Sloth is hypnotic. I hate temporality. 

An oak leaf flutters downward. In its twirling, it is balletic. It falls with dignity but lands without hope.

Get up. It is time to go.