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We try.–traverse.
. . . every effort ends.
I don’t. I answer.
Try again.–
The academic would discard those kinds of conjecture. Then—
“You’re chasing the past,” he learned, “and we cannot run in that direction.”
All those stones I endeavored to skip across the river for the most part just plunged right into the water. Yet I envied their defiance against buoyancy. And their skin . . .
“Don’t abandon yourself either.” That voice came late. It’s my regrets that washed out into time’s unfathomable ocean.
I cannot break the surface of the water. My breath, my atmosphere is that very liquid. You become who you are despite every loving instinct.
(Author’s note: I wrote this after the phony ground- zero mosque controversy back in 2010. I still think it is one of the funniest things I’ve ever written. Enjoy.)
Bassline and mouth noises.
Jerry’s apartment. Jerry is in the kitchen
eating cereal. George is on the couch reading
a newspaper. Kramer enters with a flourish.
KRAMER
Jerry, you won’t believe what I just saw.
A Muslim woman, downstairs, on the third
floor. She’s moving into the building. What
are we gonna do, Jer’?
JERRY
Is that so? How do you know she’s a
Muslim? She could be a lot of things.
KRAMER
I could tell she was Muslim. It was obvious.
JERRY
Obvious.
GEORGE
Why was it so obvious?
KRAMER
Well, she was wearing a burqa.
GEORGE
A burqa? Are you sure?
JERRY
Are you sure you even know what a burqa
looks like?
KRAMER
Of course I know what a burqa looks like.
It looks like a bathrobe.
GEORGE
A bathrobe?
JERRY
A burqa doesn’t look like a bathrobe. No
one would walk around outside wearing
anything like a bathrobe.
KRAMER
But it’s not a bathrobe. It’s like a bathrobe.
Only for walking around in.
JERRY
It’s not a bathrobe for walking around in!
You wouldn’t walk around in a bathrobe.
KRAMER
You’re missing the point, Jer’. It’s like a
leisure suit. You wear it casual. It’s a
casual bathrobe.
JERRY
A bathrobe is casual! There aren’t any
formal bathrobes.
GEORGE
I’ve never heard of a formal bathrobe.
KRAMER
That’s what royalty wore.
JERRY
No they didn’t!
Elaine comes out of the bathroom wearing a
black, velvety bathrobe.
ELAINE
So, guys, what do you think?
Kramer freaks out.
KRAMER
Now, she’s wearing a burqa! What do
we do, Jer’?
ELAINE
This isn’t a burqa. It’s the bathrobe I just
bought.
GEORGE
He thinks a burqa is a bathrobe.
ELAINE
Why?
KRAMER
I don’t. But it’s like a bathrobe.
JERRY
It’s not like a bathrobe. It’s a burqa!
ELAINE
Why does everyone keep saying burqa?
KRAMER
Are you sure that’s a bathrobe? Where
did you get it?
ELAINE
I got it at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
KRAMER
Are you sure you didn’t get it at a mosque?
ELAINE
A mosque? No, it wasn’t a mosque.
JERRY
You can’t shop at a mosque.
KRAMER
Maybe they built a mosque inside the Bed,
Bath and Beyond.
JERRY
A mosque is a building.
KRAMER
Right. And they could’ve built one inside
the Bed, Bath and Beyond to sell burqas.
JERRY
You can’t build a building inside another
building! And even if you could, you
wouldn’t build a mosque inside a Bed,
Bath and Beyond to sell burqas!
KRAMER
Why not? They already sell bathrobes
there.
JERRY
A burqa is not a bathrobe!
KRAMER
No, but it’s like . . .
George abruptly breaks down.
GEORGE
I need a job! It’s been three years since
they laid me off, and I need a job. All you
guys can talk about is burqas, and I need
a job!
Awkward pause.
KRAMER
Hey, I have an idea for a make-your-
own pizza place.
JERRY
We already did that!
KRAMER
[expletive deleted.]
Bassline and mouth noises.
Fade out.
“Every story has a happy ending,”
he convinced himself and began to
walk toward a beautiful wish.
Now where has he gone?
His map is no longer a territory.
In the yard tree branches
move with no mutual rhythm.
The sun denies half of its own
feathers.
My toes brush across the cream
-colored fibers, unmarred by
the impressions of furniture
and dark, odorous blots.
The windows shut tight
hold no secrets or lies.
A blackbird banks and dives
into a moment of despair.
Deep sky of hooked stars.
. . . the vast unknown.
I emerged from the blankness of my depression as a man of less than average height began a futile attempt to reach a book upon a high shelf. I suppose my intentional, wordless gaze fell upon him for too long. When he did look in my direction, I lowered my eye level but didn’t turn away, a motion that implied guilt. Yet he seemed to miss my onus entirely.
HIM: “Do you mind lending me a hand? I can’t quite reach it.”
ME: “Sure. I can, sure.”
My words carried me up out of the plush chair I’d slunk into and away from the news magazine that heralded all the ill-fated people and places of recent weeks. I went to this stranger’s aid at only his simple request. He indicated the object of his frustration and I plucked it for him with ease.
HIM: “Thank you, sir. I don’t know why they make these stacks so tall. Shrink them a couple of inches, and I’d have no problem, you know?”
ME: “I know. They’re probably much taller than they need to be.”
That library in particular was spare in its selection. Most of its shelves held less than half their capacity. Why use the top shelves at all? A man of less than average height perhaps required this variety of assistance often. I felt obligated to provide such aid.
HIM: “Thank you again, sir. I do appreciate it.”
ME: “Absolutely. You’re quite welcome.”
He smiled, and I reciprocated as much pleasantness as my mood allowed. After he was gone, my eyes returned to the voids amongst the shelves. It flashed into my mind that movies, TV shows, and other media depicted libraries with books filling the premises almost to their limitations. Reality, of course, demands excess capacity, an open home for everything wandering to return to.
ME: What a strange place to be thinking about nothing.
These last words I murmured to myself, still on my feet, my eyes fixed on the heart of the quiet buzz of activity all around me, any desire for re-engaging that aforementioned periodical gone. Yes. Strange indeed.
(Note: The title of this piece is a reference to the Samuel Beckett play Waiting for Godot.)
I didn’t know her meaning.
She seemed determined
to prove it.
It’s only distance to me,
but I’m not the one
running.
Hey–
Your simile escalated into a metaphor,
Just got up and threw “like” right out the door.
“What on earth was that word ever for?”
Well. Quoth abstraction: nevermore.
Hmm.
“I hope your joy justifies
My suffering.”
I regret every shard of pain
That I have inflicted.
Perhaps that is why happiness
Has so often alluded me.
The heart cannot stand still.
It expands and contracts
As needed.
