Waterpark

The sudden downpour that cleared the decks has packed up and moved on. The sun blares down. The speakers blast Counting Crows' “Mr. Jones.” Families troll past in swim trunks, teens move in small packs, on the lookout for a brand of adventure they will not find here. The young lifeguard is moving so deeply inside a bored loop—eyes scanning the empty pool in a prescribed route—I worry after his mental health. A job’s a job, I know. A man behind the pizza counter (white) laughs with two women (white and Asian). He has drawn a picture of the Asian woman, who says, “The eyes are too small.” The other woman tells the man, “If you draw me, I’ll slap you.” When the first woman turns to a task, the man alters her drawing, showing it to his coworker. “You’re mean,” she says. He balls it up and throws it a way, laughing. Earlier this morning, the shuttles were full of employees; the halls empty. Now we’re in full swing. I wait at the bar for an overpriced beer. The boys have joined the line for the Vortex, egging each other past their cartoon fear. My boy says, “I heard if you don’t weigh enough, you’ll get stuck.” His friend laughs. “That’s okay, there’s a hatch.”

Specific

Down for breakfast in the Hotel Providence, early. Pulling a menu from a basket, the hostess recites, “Party of one?” I look around for my friends. “I am joining a group.” She smiles: “You’re the first. Right this way.” She gestures me toward an empty dining room. “I guess I’ll come back,” I say and head into the lobby to text my friend. After ten minutes and still no answer, hungry, I decide to start without them. They’ll find me. This time the hostess leads me into the bar area where I immediately spot my friends at a corner table. They are nearly done with their breakfast. I turn to the hostess, pointing, throwing her an incredulous look. “Those are my friends!” She says, surprised, “I didn’t know you were together.” I leave her standing with the menu and walk over to the table in a huff. When I tell my friends what happened, they smile sadly, shaking their heads. This is not an uncommon occurrence. I am white. The hostess is white. My friends are black. “Maybe you needed to specify.”

Dolphins

I’d not been sitting at the end of the long dock more than a minute before noticing a fin break the surface. My walk had been over rivulets inside marsh grass; I didn’t expect to see a dolphin this far up river—dawdling its way inland, checking out each little watery cul-de-sac. First one eye out, then submersion, then under water a beat longer to resurface at a bend in the streamlet. I watched it move forward in this lazy manner, happy to witness such daily routine. Maybe we should work our bucket lists on a daily basis—small achievements, nearby adventures. Baby steps toward fulfillment. The next day, we took out our kayaks. A pleasant young man rented us a map and handed out advice on tidal flats, tides, pocket mud. “We call it that,” he said, smiling. “Because it comes up to your pockets.” He helped us haul the kayaks to water’s edge and gave us each a push into the current, watching us paddle tentatively under the bridge that links James and Folly Islands. The first hour or so out was, of course, stunning, with islands of marsh grass, big puffy clouds drifting by, and one elegant heron standing upright. That windy silence one encounters in such a habitat, sight drawn out to the horizon. It was on the way back that things got interesting: when we got disoriented and misjudged the map so that returning we were both a little late and a little off course. The low tide was draining away our water, and we weren’t sure we’d find an outlet back to the main river. At one point we started scraping bottom, a school of little silver fish jumping and shimmering all around us. The mud flats were iridescent grey in the afternoon light; a single pelican kept watch on a post. If the waterway dead-ended, we realized, or bottomed out, we'd have to wait in our kayaks for a few hours until the tide rose again, lifting us back over the pocket mud and “razor sharp” oyster beds. Eventually we found a way out into the larger river current—raising arms in mock triumph—and paddled into deeper water against a strong wind. Which is when the dolphins appeared, a group of four, fishing close to shore, flopping around to force the fish onto the mud flat—“strand fishing,” a learned behavior first observed in these waters. They broke up when they noticed us; one swam over and passed under my kayak. Soon they reunited downstream, leaving us to struggle against the current and drag our boats through sandy mud onto shore. We were tired, and it was difficult to get the boats onto the car and tied down. Luckily, we'd parked right next to the fish market and so bought shrimp and scallops and a bottle of white wine. We headed home, eager for an outdoor shower. When I unlocked the door, a song on the radio must have come to a soft stop, for a small jazz-club audience broke into applause as we crossed the threshold.

Improvise

I like to sit in 5 Walnut’s back room—a little art gallery—and drink a beer as I read a book or jot notes down on my pad. Usually it’s just me back here. I open the door to let breeze in, play jazz quietly on my phone. Today B. joins me; he plops down in a nearby chair and lets me buy him a beer. He’s talkative, eager to connect. “I was a crack baby,” he says, out of the blue. “That’s why I walk like this.” He points down to his legs. “I tell ya, growing up the way I did in Chicago, it teaches you things.” “Like what?” I ask. I’m not sure B. will talk to me in this manner again. He thinks on it a while, sipping down his beer. “That you need to always work hard. And when there’s no work, you improvise.” I nod my agreement. “That’s the word,” he says. “Improvise.” A man walks past, across the street, stumbling and lurching, shouting out to no one. “It’s too early,” B. comments. “For that boy to be cracked out.” I assume the man is drunk, but looking closer, he seems haunted by ghosts. “I’m not going out there and play Superman,” he says. “That don’t get you anything but trouble.” Later, as I get ready to head out, B. tells me, now that we’ve talked: “We have a thing, you know. We can sit down now and talk to one another.” He takes off his bright yellow cap and rubs his cross-cropped head. “Like adults.”

Inspector

A car creeps along our narrow one-way, turning around at the dead end. It’s the building inspector. He’s lost. He ends up parking half in our neighbor's driveway, half in the street. Before he gets out, I suggest he move into my drive. The guy seems pissed. He puts the car in gear and shoots the twenty yards forward. But, instead of pulling in, he stops at its mouth, the car now almost fully in the road. Uh oh, I think. This won’t go well. The guy’s short, broad, bald. A bulldog to my Labrador. “Our neighbor’s fussy about where people park,” I start to say, ready to shake the guy’s hand. But he steps back, won’t shake my hand, interrupts: “I need to get inside to check the electrical breakers. You know where they’re at?” I do. (It’s my damn house.) But I’ve been told he won’t need to go inside, and by now I am a little ticked. “I didn’t think you had to go inside.” This is the part itching for a fight. “But I can show you.” The guy still hasn’t introduced himself. As we walk to the back fence, I say over my shoulder. “How’s your day going?” The bulldog says, quietly, “So far, so good.” Meaning, Just as long as you don’t keep pissing me off. I open the gate and say, “The dogs are just pups. They’re nice. Come on in.” He doesn’t follow, but steps back. The dogs rush out of the gate. Only then does the asshole step in. I chase after the dogs: “Thanks a lot.” Bulldog has climbed onto the porch and watches me run after the pups. He’s enjoying the spectacle. Says: “Is this a bad time? You seem busy.” He's played his final card. Full house. I don’t answer, dragging the dogs back to the gate. He asks it again. Now I am fed up. I straighten, let the dogs loose. “Yes, you know what? It is.” A look of shock. Then he smiles a mean little smile. Bulldog’s pissed. He comes down off the porch, seething. “You said it!” He walks out through the gates. I can’t help it. I say to his back, loudly. “You asked.”

Useless

I joke with two middle school girls selling us dodge ball tickets. A mom pats Avery’s head as he trots inside. I’ve paid with a twenty, but they only have singles. One girl struggles to count out the bills so the other takes over the task. “You’re useless,” I tease. The girl’s face crumples in shame for half a second then recomposes, replaced by a stoic frown. “I’m just joking,” I say. “I’m the one who’s useless.” But it’s too late. I’ve blown it. “Useless” is what parents say it to children, teachers to students, boss to worker, coach to player. You can’t catch, can’t count, can’t spell, can’t do anything right. There’s power in judgment, in lowered expectations. I try again. “Really, I kid like that all the time.” Avery has come back looking for me. “Isn’t that right? I tease you all the time.” Never one to comply for compliance sake, Avery shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” The mom has come over, a worried look blooming. A dozen bills handed back. I stuff two singles in the tip box as hush money and walk inside.

Law of Three

I arrive early enough to walk the river trail from parked car to garden cabin, pausing at the community garden I toiled in a few summers back (before giving in to the weeds). The porch is empty except one woman typing away on her laptop. The garden cat—a shadow slink in the periphery. My friend shows up next, then her class, one by one, in pairs, until we form a ragged circle. I am today’s guest. The day is warm, finally, after weeks of cold, and the breeze arranging the treetops whispers hoarsely of rain as bamboo rustles and clacks. I hoped the old ceramic Green Man I’d planted in the center of the plot would have remained, but only new rows lined by straw, an indent in the clay. Each student gets a handout and for an hour I speak about poetry. They are attentive and listen well, or make sure to appear so: If you think “Black Mountain Poets,” you must know expand your ideas out to include the land they worked, the visual artists with whom they collaborated, Albers’ learning as doing. And: M.C. Richards says that poetry often comes through “the window of irrelevance.”  I work to keep this loose lecture short. One student has brought her dog, who gets up and sniffs my shoes then resettles under the table. Another student lights a fire and boils water for tea. Thirty minutes left to work on a poem. Play around a little, I say. See what comes up. Place one thing next to another. Does a third thing arise? Some students head out to the river. Others gather round the fire. My friend pours out tea in mismatched cups. The dog returns to my pant leg for a sniff. I sit on a stonewall overlooking the garden and write abandoned garden plot. A pair of crows argues up in the swaying branches. I write: Green Man ceramic pressed into the earth. Gone.

Fraud

The woman’s voice on the line sounded official enough. “I’m calling from the fraud department,” she said. “We think someone’s using your credit card inappropriately.” I gave her my vital information. “Thank you, Mr. Matthews. We need to make sure we are in fact speaking with you.” But what if she were actually only pretending to work for the fraud department—a fraud fraud department—and I’d just handed her everything she needed to fleece me. “How do you decide what recent purchases look suspicious?,” I asked, now thoroughly paranoid. She explained, but I couldn’t really follow, unable to stop thinking about this “they” she kept talking about; the ones who purchased $200 of airplane model supplies on line then $150 of electronic products from Walmart. And, just that very minute, were ordering pizza from Dominoes. “Don’t worry, we’ve already cancelled your card.” I couldn’t help picturing two teenagers in a suburban upstairs room, sprawled out in front of the computer, laughing and slapping each other on the back. The pizza guy coming to the door. One of them peeking at the window across the way where we once saw a girl from his school undressing in front of a mirror. I wanted to tell the woman on the phone, “Let ‘em get the pizza. They’re young and are still growing.” The woman was reading from a script now—which would have made this hoax quite elaborate and worthy of my respect—but I’d stop listening. I was hungry and thinking about ordering a pizza.

Swimmer

Someone brings out a good bottle of scotch and leaves it out with glasses and a bucket of ice. Fire crackling in its place. K.'s late. I forgot to give him directions. And since I’m not answering my phone, he has been left to find the place on his own. Standing in the corner, scotch in hand, he tells me how he drove around in the dark until he found a party, parked, then went in. It's the wrong party, of course, but someone recognizes him, mixing him a gin and tonic. (“It was good gin, my friend.”) He asks if anyone knows where E. lives, which everyone does. And so K. finishes his drink, thanks his hosts (“If I can’t find the place, I’ll be back.”) and sets out again. I laugh. He’s like Cheever’s suburban swimmer, attempting to cross his county, one swimming pool after the other. K. smiles his sly smile and says something about living in this town long enough to know how to navigate any waters.

Hill

“I am classically trained,” he explained, as he sat down to the stand-up piano. He wore a Beatles Abbey Road t-shirt. We had been talking in the corner. “Who will you be playing?” I asked, to remind him we were there first. “Bach, Chopin…Beatles…” “What’s the Beatles’ classical period?” I asked, smart-ass, not appreciating the intrusion. “’67 to ’71?” Yes,” he said, taking me seriously. “Rubber Soul.” For those three reasons, I decided to dislike this man; that, and now he was playing so loud we couldn’t hear each other, even though we lounged in leather chairs pushed right up together. You could see it in his body, tense in the shoulders, head thrust forward; and you could hear it in the playing. He was battering the keys diligently. Finally, when he came to a stop at the rest of a particularly loud Chopin waltz, I asked if he could play something a little more quiet—meaning “-ly.” “Which Nocturne do you like best?” He was talking Chopin. “Like them all," I said, refusing to play his game. “Sure, sure,” he said. “With this kind of piano, you really have to play loud to get it right. “Sure,” I thought, downing my second beer. “Tell yourself what you need to hear.” He wasn’t a bad guy, really. When he was done and about to leave, I noted what I’d been thinking. “Music seems to torture you.” He bowed his head and stepped back. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’m just back from a long time away.” He was glaring at the piano. “I used to play a lot of Bach, for all its algebra. But Chopin works better now. There are so many ways to play it.” I heard what he was saying. “Perfectionism gets in the way, don’t it?” He nodded. My friend said, “We’re writers, we know all about it.” The guy finally left. We went back to our conversation, happy for the clear headspace. What was it he said, grinning masochistically, about one particularly difficult passage,? “That was sure a hill!”

White Men in Trucks

What is it about them that shoots a brief goose of fear into my bloodstream? Is it imminent threat sounding in the revved engine? Derision caught in side-view mirror snapshot? Or plain old disdain drumming its fingers on the drivers’ side door? A little of each. One barrels past me as I walk my dogs through our suburban neighborhood, not slowing or moving over. Another swerves around me on a bend then meets my upraised hands with a jutting middle finger. Just yesterday, a man steps around me in line and interrupts the conversation I am having with an acquaintance, who is showing me a photo of his five-year old boy holding up a large fish caught in one of the Biltmore ponds. The man behind me says, “That a bream?” He’s got a smile on his face that I read as hostile. He wants me gone. But the father ignores the man, finishing his sentence about the peaceful lake and how quiet it is out there with his boy. “Almost mystical,” he says. The man interrupts again, smile getting bigger. “Hey, Mike, that a bream your boy is holding?” Mike turns to his friend and busts into an equally large smile. “Hell no,” he drawls, and starts listing all the fish his boy has or could have caught. I don’t fish, so I don’t follow. Nor can I make clear sense of the quick-fire exchange. The two men have fallen into a bravado-fueled, friendly back-and-forth—it’s as if they’re flashing each other signs or showing each other their good-old-boy badges. I feel as though I am being erased from the moment, No Trespassing signs staked at my feet. The men chat and laugh in the corner, and I slip back in line. Later, at dusk, one more truck appears; it slows to a crawl and follows me up the street. I’ve had enough. I turn to face my nemesis, who has rolled down the window. “What do you want?” The man smiles, remains silent. There’s power in a comfort with silence. “How old is that dog of yours?” he asks, leaning out the window. He’s talking about the lab, just a puppy, bounding over and standing up into the man’s arms. He laughs, rubs the dog’s head. “I just put my old gal down last week. Just about killed me. Think I might get me a new one.” The look in his eyes is pure sadness, pure love.