Something Not Very Good

I got home at six from my trip to Scotland and had dinner with the house. I brought Margaret something called a Scottish Tablet which was described to me as both buttery and sugary, like fudge. I named these attributes when I gave it to her and she responded with exactly the most gratifying response a person could give when you've picked out something especially for them. Squeals of delight.

After dinner I put on my dad's old jacket and biked to the gym, which was closed. My body was experiencing midnight but the world was having some late evening. The light was soft, the temperature really exquisite. I pedaled down the street to look at a bizarre house I remembered seeing last month. Then I went to a convenience store and bought two ice cream sandwiches and a can of ice tea and walked out into the park.

There was an old man sitting on my bench. I contemplated sitting beside him but I had too much momentum. A fat woman heaved up the stairs wearing full exercise regalia and somehow I smiled at her encouragingly, which now seems like an impossible exchange. The park is really just a giant field with a few demarcations for different sports. I walked across the open grass and settled against a large lamppost to watch some soccer and eat my treats.

This is how I felt: I had had my last cigarettes, three in quick succession, before getting on the plane in Glasgow and my body was noticing the absence of nicotine. The first hours and days of withdrawal always deliver a sensation of alertness that I don't resent. Physically, I was out of synch with the spinning of the globe. I had spent the entire day traveling and nearly every minute of that time reading, first a lengthy, popular thriller, and then a good portion of Susan Sontag's book on photography, both of which had disturbed and excited me. Before that, over the last two weeks, I had spent quite a bit of time contemplating certain griefs and failures. I was quite tired of my own thoughts, though also resigned to them, even a little benevolent. I bit into the first ice cream sandwich. I was content.

On the soccer field the Blues were engaged in mighty contest with the Oranges. I gazed on dreamily. Suddenly the ref blew into his whistle. Off side. The Blues were enraged. The players gathered round the ref, shouting. The Blue goalie came running down the field, waving his arms and shouting. Certain plainclothes came striding out, also pointing and shouting. The beleaguered ref placed the ball at a specific spot, pointed at it, pointed back at the more belligerent of the men, and blew in his whistle with each movement for emphasis.

Things got worse. Three or four of the Oranges circled a Blue aggressively. The Blue began to push back and somehow lost his shirt. Some of the other Blues intervened, corralling their friend off the field and then patting him on the back fiercely. People began to loudly insult the ref, who never ceased from furiously blowing his whistle and pointing. One man took possession of the scene for several seconds by laughing very loudly. People walked on and off the field. Somebody kicked the ball into the net and everybody turn to look.

Nothing was resolved. Eventually those who had come to watch began to leave. The action moved steadily away from me. I watched the ref marching in the middle of a jumble of Blues and Oranges, nobody talking to him now. His outfit was Green. I imagine he had some things lying somewhere on the sidelines, and he had to get them before he went home. I suspect he would need to talk about what had happened, and perhaps eventually realize that he really hadn't done his job, that he hadn't saved the game.

An older teenager was biking in lazy circles behind me, singing R&B songs with his iPod. I got up and walked back across the long grass. Four younger teens were playing makeshift volleyball, three girls and a guy. The guy was spazzing around and one of the girls said to him 'shut up' in such a loving way. Another kid was waiting tensely for nothing behind a bush. And what if the Ref is wrong and everybody knows it? What could anybody do? I don't know the answer.

The Last Man Alive

This is a dark tale. The streets were littered with trash cans. Somewhere there was karaoke. Here was an old woman, here was a fox. It was murder. It was the murder of the century. He corrected himself, "You've got to smile." The bus passed and he wanted to get on it. Same old story. The yellow is out and the fog is literally rolling in and everyone is taking pictures. "I could do this all day." It was a snarl, and then it was gone.