aplus
07-08-2005, 03:25 PM
I need feedback on this...I dunno if I should keep it or junk it....1
In the Still of December
I go all day mimicking the surly antics of my father. His quick temper slowly swaps places with my reluctant optimism. The transformation starts once the fleeting high from my 7 AM coffee wears off. From that point on, I toss wisecracks at my supervisors. Dad always found reason to be a malcontent in the face of authority.
This is how it starts: I see my reflection in the mirror and think it’s my father, resurrected from the peace of the grave. My facial features are now pushed towards grimness. It’s that way so I can’t do anything radically enjoyable, such as laugh. I frown an etched smile, but that’s the closest I can get to a chuckle. That’s the expression Dad inherited from his father – it’s the restlessness that prodded their souls. And my eyes, well, they’re fiery, filled with the glint of rebellion.
Well, this is the still of December. Air so frigid your lungs freeze when you inhale. Heat is a pathetic weakling wrestling against the muscular cold. Meanwhile, my dog sits around thoroughly bored, licking himself from paw to a**hole. He’s frustrated with being isolated in a drafty apartment, but remains reluctant to venture into the netherworld of winter’s slushy streets. The radiator’s rattle spoils my slumber from midnight to daybreak, until light sneaks through Venetian blinds and invades the bedroom. The sun schemes, a con artist who promises warmth, yet offers only subzero temperatures to any sucker that ventures outdoors.
In the parking lot, the piercing squeal of car engines unwilling to start, and inside, the immobility of people too chilled to exit their insulated hideouts. This is how we lumber towards the hope of New Year’s Day, and later Valentine’s, but right now, it feels impossible that life will ever be bearable again. This is the still of December.
On the news, the glut of depressing stories that accompany the holidays begin. A mother hurrying to buy gifts accidentally hits a patch of black ice, finding a tree with her blue Corolla. A department-store Santa holds customers captive, causing a disturbing standoff with cops. St. Nick barged into the food court, brandishing a revolver and bossing around hostages in a drunken rage. Much to the chagrin of the police department’s public relations rep, storefront Santa is shot by a sniper in the shopping mall. Local kids will no longer want to sit on anyone’s lap and chat about gifts and reindeer, not after this incident.
This can be a dramatic season. Doors slam and icicles tumble downward, landing not on their points, but lazily on their sides. The fire escape testifies that corrosion occurs year-round. Winter, a quiet jailer, joylessly locks citizens indoors, leaving them to their devices of warmth. Overnight, snow arrives and covers everything: front yards, car windshields, cigarette butts, and empty bottles. A blizzard dresses this sluttish city in a virginal white wedding gown, a lie that folks propagate by pretending she’s a pretty bride. Plows scoop aside snowflakes, and I observe, transfixed as they lumber past. Students wearing parkas sulk on the corner, tufts of breath visible as they wait for the school bus. Children, unlike adults, don’t cloak their emotions, so the anger of not having a snow day shows on their reddened faces.
Anger. That’s what Dad’s personality was about. I’m angry, like a scorned boyfriend, because that’s what I am. I can’t understand why my girlfriend sought affection elsewhere, so all I feel now is anger, anger that is as oppressive as the weather outside. Earlier this week, Charlene disappeared to screw some new guy who moved in downstairs. But rather than fully succumb to my anger, I forgave her.
The still of December makes people act out of character. I guess that’s why I didn’t break up with Charlene immediately, why I didn’t cut my losses and send her packing. I was caught in a frozen moment that prompted my compassion. Because of the below zero temps, I was struggling to keep things soul numbingly predictable. I wanted the comfort of having someone to fight with, someone to make miserable, someone to scream at until my body temperature rose. After all, the effort of sleeping alone is too great; I needed someone to be cozy with under the bedcovers, even if it created a hostile sense of harmony.
Not everything cowers from wintry weather. Trees embrace arctic existence, their barren branches coated in an icy glaze. Women accept the consequences of severe conditions just like the trees, which is more than I can say for my befuddled male persona.
It’s uncanny that Charlene knows more about how I am going to act than I do. She didn’t believe me when I forgave her for fu*king the neighbor. At the time, I believed myself. But her intuition turned out to be right. We became two people held together by the desire to hurt each other. Having left after a morning argument, I returned to an apartment that showed no trace of her existence. Charlene left a note saying that I had pushed her away and that she was going home to San Diego. Maybe she’s really running from the cold – I can’t blame her.
I glance through a window at an abandoned car, hood up, begging for a jump start. I am in a sizeable two-bedroom apartment with only a dog and the hum of the refrigerator keeping me company, yet I have a feeling of supreme claustrophobia. Everything is closing in on me. I inventory my pathetic life. I’m now single in an impersonal town where I don’t know anyone. And although I’ve become an expert at farewells, I can’t pretend that Charlene’s departure isn’t slowly killing me. I need change. But things happens slowly in December, especially change. Change can’t happen quickly in the midst of despair, unless it’s misfortune. Like when people slip on ice or get mugged walking through the wrong neighborhood. Broken leg, robbed for your wallet, left behind to deal with the stinging clutch of frostbite, that’s December.
I receive an unexpected call from Charlene, who has dialed from a pay phone halfway between here and California. After some long-distance phone silence, she asks whether I’m okay and several other phony questions. She really wonders if I still like sleeping in the nude, if my cock still swings to the left, and if I’m planning on having anonymous sex to fill the void she has created. The answers are all yes, but since Charlene fails to ask, she hangs up with doubt. I have doubt, too. The snowdrifts outside mimic this topography of doubt. That’s December for you, a month when nothing can grow except doubt. I begin to believe that I’ll never feel warm again. Never sleep though an entire night again. Never again regain my own personality.
Charlene’s call inspires me. I build up the nerve to venture out alone. But first, I shave to make myself presentable. I throw on jeans, a Polo sweater, and a coat that looks fashionable yet blocks the biting wind. I wander a few blocks along a strip, the strip that is the same strip all over America. I pass McDonalds, KFC, Wal-Mart, and a Dairy Queen until I hit a local tavern that caters to a posh clientele. I am not cool enough for this place, but I don’t care. The only way to survive this exercise in humiliation is to get magnificently drunk.
Tonight I’m not going to drink Budweiser or Coors or any other cheap beer. I want to splurge. The bartender, a bony, almost pretty girl named Michele (she announces that it’s spelled with only one “l”) suggests Newcastle Ale, claiming it’s actually quite good. She boasts, “Not too many places have it on tap, but we do.” I’ve never tasted it and I’m hesitant to try something drastically different. Nonetheless, running the risk of one day evolving into a full-fledged beer snob, I order a Newcastle and begin flirting with Michele.
Any other time, I probably would have found excuses to not chat with Michele. She would be deemed too skinny, too suburban, too prissy, etc. But this is the still of December, and I don’t want to feel alone. Her voice has a melodic lift of strangeness, which I like. I’m forced to find something I like; now that I am drinking imported brews and tipping Michele generously with the hope of getting some action, the night has just gotten a little more expensive.
The place isn’t busy, so Michele jokes, “All the regulars must be at home, mending their family problems before Christmas.” I enjoy her sarcasm. I laugh, albeit slightly, but for the first time in days. She has the complexion of a baby, but not the innocence. She keeps her head titled at a tough-girl angle, her mouth showing a little pout, her bangs falling just right across her forehead. Michele’s lips look juicy, like the meat of a pink grapefruit. She shivers periodically, so I know that she senses the icy desperation of December, just like me.
In the Still of December
I go all day mimicking the surly antics of my father. His quick temper slowly swaps places with my reluctant optimism. The transformation starts once the fleeting high from my 7 AM coffee wears off. From that point on, I toss wisecracks at my supervisors. Dad always found reason to be a malcontent in the face of authority.
This is how it starts: I see my reflection in the mirror and think it’s my father, resurrected from the peace of the grave. My facial features are now pushed towards grimness. It’s that way so I can’t do anything radically enjoyable, such as laugh. I frown an etched smile, but that’s the closest I can get to a chuckle. That’s the expression Dad inherited from his father – it’s the restlessness that prodded their souls. And my eyes, well, they’re fiery, filled with the glint of rebellion.
Well, this is the still of December. Air so frigid your lungs freeze when you inhale. Heat is a pathetic weakling wrestling against the muscular cold. Meanwhile, my dog sits around thoroughly bored, licking himself from paw to a**hole. He’s frustrated with being isolated in a drafty apartment, but remains reluctant to venture into the netherworld of winter’s slushy streets. The radiator’s rattle spoils my slumber from midnight to daybreak, until light sneaks through Venetian blinds and invades the bedroom. The sun schemes, a con artist who promises warmth, yet offers only subzero temperatures to any sucker that ventures outdoors.
In the parking lot, the piercing squeal of car engines unwilling to start, and inside, the immobility of people too chilled to exit their insulated hideouts. This is how we lumber towards the hope of New Year’s Day, and later Valentine’s, but right now, it feels impossible that life will ever be bearable again. This is the still of December.
On the news, the glut of depressing stories that accompany the holidays begin. A mother hurrying to buy gifts accidentally hits a patch of black ice, finding a tree with her blue Corolla. A department-store Santa holds customers captive, causing a disturbing standoff with cops. St. Nick barged into the food court, brandishing a revolver and bossing around hostages in a drunken rage. Much to the chagrin of the police department’s public relations rep, storefront Santa is shot by a sniper in the shopping mall. Local kids will no longer want to sit on anyone’s lap and chat about gifts and reindeer, not after this incident.
This can be a dramatic season. Doors slam and icicles tumble downward, landing not on their points, but lazily on their sides. The fire escape testifies that corrosion occurs year-round. Winter, a quiet jailer, joylessly locks citizens indoors, leaving them to their devices of warmth. Overnight, snow arrives and covers everything: front yards, car windshields, cigarette butts, and empty bottles. A blizzard dresses this sluttish city in a virginal white wedding gown, a lie that folks propagate by pretending she’s a pretty bride. Plows scoop aside snowflakes, and I observe, transfixed as they lumber past. Students wearing parkas sulk on the corner, tufts of breath visible as they wait for the school bus. Children, unlike adults, don’t cloak their emotions, so the anger of not having a snow day shows on their reddened faces.
Anger. That’s what Dad’s personality was about. I’m angry, like a scorned boyfriend, because that’s what I am. I can’t understand why my girlfriend sought affection elsewhere, so all I feel now is anger, anger that is as oppressive as the weather outside. Earlier this week, Charlene disappeared to screw some new guy who moved in downstairs. But rather than fully succumb to my anger, I forgave her.
The still of December makes people act out of character. I guess that’s why I didn’t break up with Charlene immediately, why I didn’t cut my losses and send her packing. I was caught in a frozen moment that prompted my compassion. Because of the below zero temps, I was struggling to keep things soul numbingly predictable. I wanted the comfort of having someone to fight with, someone to make miserable, someone to scream at until my body temperature rose. After all, the effort of sleeping alone is too great; I needed someone to be cozy with under the bedcovers, even if it created a hostile sense of harmony.
Not everything cowers from wintry weather. Trees embrace arctic existence, their barren branches coated in an icy glaze. Women accept the consequences of severe conditions just like the trees, which is more than I can say for my befuddled male persona.
It’s uncanny that Charlene knows more about how I am going to act than I do. She didn’t believe me when I forgave her for fu*king the neighbor. At the time, I believed myself. But her intuition turned out to be right. We became two people held together by the desire to hurt each other. Having left after a morning argument, I returned to an apartment that showed no trace of her existence. Charlene left a note saying that I had pushed her away and that she was going home to San Diego. Maybe she’s really running from the cold – I can’t blame her.
I glance through a window at an abandoned car, hood up, begging for a jump start. I am in a sizeable two-bedroom apartment with only a dog and the hum of the refrigerator keeping me company, yet I have a feeling of supreme claustrophobia. Everything is closing in on me. I inventory my pathetic life. I’m now single in an impersonal town where I don’t know anyone. And although I’ve become an expert at farewells, I can’t pretend that Charlene’s departure isn’t slowly killing me. I need change. But things happens slowly in December, especially change. Change can’t happen quickly in the midst of despair, unless it’s misfortune. Like when people slip on ice or get mugged walking through the wrong neighborhood. Broken leg, robbed for your wallet, left behind to deal with the stinging clutch of frostbite, that’s December.
I receive an unexpected call from Charlene, who has dialed from a pay phone halfway between here and California. After some long-distance phone silence, she asks whether I’m okay and several other phony questions. She really wonders if I still like sleeping in the nude, if my cock still swings to the left, and if I’m planning on having anonymous sex to fill the void she has created. The answers are all yes, but since Charlene fails to ask, she hangs up with doubt. I have doubt, too. The snowdrifts outside mimic this topography of doubt. That’s December for you, a month when nothing can grow except doubt. I begin to believe that I’ll never feel warm again. Never sleep though an entire night again. Never again regain my own personality.
Charlene’s call inspires me. I build up the nerve to venture out alone. But first, I shave to make myself presentable. I throw on jeans, a Polo sweater, and a coat that looks fashionable yet blocks the biting wind. I wander a few blocks along a strip, the strip that is the same strip all over America. I pass McDonalds, KFC, Wal-Mart, and a Dairy Queen until I hit a local tavern that caters to a posh clientele. I am not cool enough for this place, but I don’t care. The only way to survive this exercise in humiliation is to get magnificently drunk.
Tonight I’m not going to drink Budweiser or Coors or any other cheap beer. I want to splurge. The bartender, a bony, almost pretty girl named Michele (she announces that it’s spelled with only one “l”) suggests Newcastle Ale, claiming it’s actually quite good. She boasts, “Not too many places have it on tap, but we do.” I’ve never tasted it and I’m hesitant to try something drastically different. Nonetheless, running the risk of one day evolving into a full-fledged beer snob, I order a Newcastle and begin flirting with Michele.
Any other time, I probably would have found excuses to not chat with Michele. She would be deemed too skinny, too suburban, too prissy, etc. But this is the still of December, and I don’t want to feel alone. Her voice has a melodic lift of strangeness, which I like. I’m forced to find something I like; now that I am drinking imported brews and tipping Michele generously with the hope of getting some action, the night has just gotten a little more expensive.
The place isn’t busy, so Michele jokes, “All the regulars must be at home, mending their family problems before Christmas.” I enjoy her sarcasm. I laugh, albeit slightly, but for the first time in days. She has the complexion of a baby, but not the innocence. She keeps her head titled at a tough-girl angle, her mouth showing a little pout, her bangs falling just right across her forehead. Michele’s lips look juicy, like the meat of a pink grapefruit. She shivers periodically, so I know that she senses the icy desperation of December, just like me.