cutting out
By Patrick Fealey
seven minutes
. . . did i ever tell you how we spent our days? no? i didn’t tell you about the iron gate slamming behind us at 7 a.m. . . . about the day’s first wince as our feet hit the pavement? and the sun rising over oakland, blasting out our eyeballs? the sound of that gate was the sound of surrender . . . metallic hyenas nipping at our heels . . . i don’t want to go, but i’m going . . . into the concrete garden of dog turds . . . into the amphitheater of car alarms . . . through our violated neighborhood . . . a morgue set on collecting healthy souls . . . the man sleeping on the sidewalk does not stir as we pass . . . jess reaches valencia street ahead of me, yelling: “c’mon! you walk too slow!” her heels on the concrete are the sound of resignation and i don’t want to be a part of it . . . our lives reduced to practicalities . . . i hang onto my banana and chew for life . . . a banana a day prevents suicide . . . a banana a day insures one meets his practical requirements . . . a banana a day . . . “c’mon! you walk too slow!” . . . jess knows the train schedules . . . she’s been taking the train from san francisco to oakland for a year now . . . i just started this job . . . expeditor . . . i got it through a temporary agency, discovered it was very temporary the first day when i returned from lunch and the boss looked surprised to see me . . . on valencia we pass the crack addicts under blankets on the front steps of an abandoned building in a hardscrabble lot of dirt . . . they do not move . . . it is too early for the crack addicts . . . it is too early for me . . . look at that! a dump truck, loud as a baby without a mother . . . bouncing along the pitted street . . . engine screaming in low gear . . . tires jumping in and out of potholes . . . springs squeaking . . . brakes pulsing . . . smacked in the ears by a jackhammer at 16th street . . . the sounds of progress . . . it sounds like war to me . . . men cut holes in the sidewalk . . . men fill holes in the sidewalk . . . always holes . . . always men . . . always filling . . . above us the supreme joke: at 16th and mission, a palm stands over the rush . . . sharp green leaves cut into the powder-blue infinite . . . the last still place vanishing in a brown haze . . . console me, bluesky tree, console me . . . before it is too late . . . console me with one dream come true . . . or go away . . . running down the escalator for a train i don’t want to be on with an aching heart . . . jess is pulling away . . . i can see her legs . . . through her black tights . . . shiny and smooth . . . nice legs . . . when did we last make love? what is happening to us? in the evenings, a television flickers in the dark corner of our cold living room . . . enthusiastic voices and laughter coming from a plugged-in box . . . jess sitting on the imitation oriental rug . . . not laughing . . . she goes to bed early . . . i stay up late, pouring wine into the 2 a.m. void of lonely travelers on the overpass . . . i pour it from a gallon jug . . . it is terrible wine, but does the job and is all we can afford . . . it gives me something to blame . . . when my hands and feet and nose grow cold, i slip into the warm bed beside her . . . my back to hers . . . and pass out . . . alarms ringing . . . here comes the fremont train . . . we stand on the platform as it rushes past a blur of blue steel . . . human beings step up to the black stripes, which mark where the doors will be . . . hair dances in the warm wind, drying . . . the train stops and we run onto it . . . or into it . . . c’mon! c’mon! corralled gladiators in suits and skirts cool their heels before the fight . . . from here, the day will get worse . . . we get off at embarcadero, my stop . . . we sit together here until jess switches to the concord train, which will take her under the bay through the tunnel to rockridge . . . from there, she will walk to oakland . . . we do this every morning . . . sit on the same bench, side by side with our backs to strangers . . . every morning . . . i shove the last of the banana into my mouth and squeeze the bottom of the peel . . . it tastes like dried out bland banana, but i’m not eating it for pleasure . . . i will sit here until jess’s train comes . . . if it is late, i leave when i have seven minutes . . . i can get to the office in seven minutes . . . maybe stop for a coffee at todd’s stand if the line isn’t long . . . i swallow the last of the banana and sit with the slippery peel between my finger and thumb . . . a banana a day prevents suicide . . . but i’m not feeling much better . . . the guy at the aa meeting was full of shit . . . i am still alive . . . alive but i am looking down at those tracks and wondering how much it would hurt . . . how much? cut into clean pieces on the track . . . or crushed between the train and the platform . . . twisted like a doughnut while banana shoots out my mouth and asshole . . . fried on the third rail . . . no more stories . . . he came . . . he saw . . . he left . . . don’t ask . . . if you do, i love you and fuck yourself . . . we would see one another again at 6 p.m. by then, i would be shaking . . . sweating . . . pants sticking to my legs and the grape chorus singing songs of salvation . . . the lie i lean on . . . as we push our way through the rushing heads and legs on 16th toward home, jess says she is hungry and can’t wait for someone to cook . . . that someone would be me . . . we fall into a burrito joint on 16th . . . i order a corona . . . she orders a calistoga water with lemon . . . if they don’t have lemon, she orders lime . . . we eat at a small table in the crowded cafeteria . . . we eat quietly . . . around us, spanish is spoken and a cook uses a cleaver to dice up a side of beef on a wood block . . . silence is a lot to hope for . . . we locate ourselves in this noise . . . after a day of fighting other people’s lawsuits, locating oneself takes time . . . first, we relocate ourselves . . . each to the world . . . then to himself . . . then to one another . . . then we might make each other smile or laugh . . . if we are lucky and strong . . . we leave for home, stopping at the liquor store on the way . . . i can’t walk past a liquor store . . . back at the apartment, jess flicks on the tv and i open the bottle . . . i might sit with her for a while, but tv can’t hold me . . . and if she wants tv, i take my glass into the kitchen where the bottle waits . . . drinking is what i am doing . . . drinking . . . mind wandering . . . while she sits in the dark, not laughing at the jokes on tv, not laughing at the joke she lives with . . . i try tv again, glass in hand . . . when it’s empty, i casually walk . . . sneak . . . into the kitchen and pour glass after glass, telling myself she doesn’t know how much i’m drinking because the bottle is big . . . a banana a day prevents suicide . . . sitting in a dim underground train tunnel waiting on another day that promises to get worse . . . like so many days before . . . like so many days to come . . . so many days . . . too many . . . crushed and pissed out without joy . . .
“i’m so tired,” jess says.
“i cannot believe this is living,” i say.
“believe it. this is what people do. if you want to go back east for the weddings, this is what you have to do.”
“i don’t know how we’re going to swing it.”
“we don’t have to go.”
“i only have one sister.”
“we didn’t go to my grandfather’s funeral.”
“it was a worse time then.”
“it’s pretty bad now.”
“maybe i should talk to bob, tell him the weddings are too close together, but not close enough for us to go to both. shit, we’ve been together longer than them.”
“we don’t believe in marriage.”
“maybe we shouldn’t go.”
“but you’re the best man.”
. . . the headlight of an incoming train lights up the grinning faces of a macy’s advertisement . . . a warm wind blows past as people move to the edge of the platform . . . as the train slows, the profiles of people sitting and standing inside become visible . . . i wonder how many of them want to go where they are going . . . how has this happened to us? the train stops. it’s not jess’s train. the doors open. people rush off. other people rush on. people rushing all look the same. the alarm sounds, the conductor sticks his head out to check the platform for strays and latecomers . . . the doors close and the train eases into the dark tunnel . . . two red tail lights getting smaller and smaller . . . fading into darkness . . .
“i just want to vanish,” i say.
“be realistic,” jess says.
“i am.”
“you don’t have to tell me. you just started.”
“why don’t we go back east one-way? why don’t we stay there? we’ll get out of this hellhole. we can go to both weddings. then we can start something new. we’ve been here for three years.”
“i’ve seen enough and i miss my family. but how are we going to do it?”
“we’ll tell dan we’re leaving. we won’t pay this month’s rent. we’ll have a yard sale and ship the rest. we’ll go somewhere new. we don’t have to stay in california.”
“what about maine? i want to go somewhere quiet and slow, where the people aren’t like this.”
“maine is good. we could get a little house. one of those old clapboard houses near the ocean. i hear it makes sense up there.”
“i want to get a cat too.”
“i can live with a cat.”
“can we get a pickup truck?”
“anything you want.”
“i want to drive a pickup truck. a big ford.”
“you? the fashion queen?”
“can’t you see it? a big green ford. i can see it.”
“i can see it.”
“you can? really?”
“yeah. i can see it.”
“i don’t know.”
“what? we can do it. think about it.”
“i am.”
we kiss goodbye. only one kiss can be a first kiss, but every kiss can be a first . . . i don’t want to leave her in the dim tunnel . . . but i have to go . . . when i reach the bottom of the escalator, i look back for her . . . the light of an incoming train flickers in the tunnel . . . bodies moving toward the tracks . . . i don’t have the glasses i need . . . maybe i see her moving toward the platform . . . but i cannot be sure . . . bodies move into a mass with one mind and i lose her . . . i turn and step onto the escalator . . . people all around . . . a young japanese woman in front of me . . . nice legs . . . amazing ass . . . something moves in my pants . . . my cock is swelling . . . flesh pushing against merino wool . . . at the top of the escalator, i follow her through the turnstile . . . she moves to the left . . . i go right . . . i have to let her go . . . it wouldn’t have happened . . . it wouldn’t have worked out . . . i was mistaken about her . . . she believes in all of this . . . i have to forget her . . . i walk for two blocks with an erection . . . past the beggars who sit with their backs against the polished granite of the us treasury building . . . beggars in rags . . . beggars whose shoe soles flap good morning . . . beggars with paper cups shaking in grimy hands . . . you walk past the beggars . . . you don’t know what you feel anymore . . . except trapped . . . the elevator is always uncomfortable . . . a small crowd you are not part of . . . you don’t belong and you don’t want to talk to anyone . . . the receptionists smile as you walk past . . . into the office you go . . . early in the morning it is almost quiet . . . few have started yet . . . it looks promising, but you know better than to hope . . . you’ve worked here a month and already you have seniority . . . you’ve been offered a promotion . . . they want you on the lawyer side . . . people dial and start talking . . . working the phones . . . you know which desk among the rows is your because there is no one sitting at it . . . you approach, avoiding eye contact . . . you act like you don’t know you’re late . . . you didn’t know you were late . . . it’s the fault of the train . . . you go limp when you see your desk . . . it’s covered with new lawsuits . . . waiting for your touch . . . you take off your jacket . . . sit down . . . breathe in . . . breathe out . . . you pick up a file, open it . . . it’s a subpoena for a woman’s medical records . . . she is suing her surgeon . . . she went in for a breast enlargement . . . she doesn’t like the new ones any more than she liked the old ones . . . you toss the file onto your desk and open another . . . it’s a subpoena for photographs of plane crash victims . . . their families are suing the plane manufacturer . . . everywhere people disconnecting . . . the world becoming a bitter place which has filed one gigantic lawsuit against itself . . . i am not like these people . . . i start counting the days . . . you know you will get out . . . one day at a time . . . you can endure anything one day at a time . . . anything . . . you pick up the phone . . . you dial the los angeles county medical examiner . . . you close your eyes . . . the phone is ringing . . . you see jess behind the wheel of a green pickup truck . . . it’s bouncing down a dirt road somewhere in maine . . . it is an imaginary place . . . will you make it? but you see it . . . the leaves are turning from green to yellow . . . they look like they might be maples . . . you smell fires burning in woodstoves . . . maples in autumn . . . your favorite season . . . when things die . . . everything . . . you want to be a part of it . . . you are a part of it . . . you hear a woman’s voice: “me’s office . . . ” you breathe in and say: “hi, my name is paddy brett.”
Patrick Fealey
7/6/22
Journalist, author, musician, and painter Patrick Fealey was twice voted best art critic by two press associations nationwide. He has performed with many music legends, including opening for Miles Davis at the Newport Jazz Festival when he was sixteen. He is the author of fifteen revolutionary books (fourteen unpublished) and has published some 2,000 works in the company of authors such as Charles Bukowski. His only published novel, the raucous love and sex story Mostly Madly, was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in fiction in 2012, and Bystander, an innovative and radical exploration of the human costs of capitalism, has been ostensibly banned in the U.S. New York’s response to Bystander is: “Superb. It’s not you. The world is not ready.” His work has been read in more than twenty countries, is archived at Yale University, and German Literary scouts chose the serialized edition of his novella Bird’s Island as among the ten best in the world for 2017. His paintings have been exhibited in national galleries and along with his photographs, have been widely published. He is supported by a prominent patron of the arts and is seeking a manager.
Fealey: “You can’t be serious about art. Art is a kid with enthusiasm for nothing walking across a playground who falls and keeps getting up.”
Explore more of Patrick’s work at PatrickFealey.com.
