thwartedefforts

My train ride home nowadays takes me through some nice Prairie areas; swaths of land reclaimed by indiginous tall grasses. It must be the Fall, but sitting on the train last Friday, watching the browning weeds wave in the crisp air and casting shadows from the low, glassy sun, brought back the most powerful memories from my youth. I was a sophomore in college, and I’d met a man who would become my best friend for the remainder of my school years. We’d stay up til all hours bearing our hearts about our lonliness, musing about life, and giggling about our follies with women. Anyway, near the end of Fall our sophomore year he prodded me to read Thoreau’s Walden, and both inspired, we decided we’d spend our Fall break living by our wits alone, and by whatever gifts the land would provide. We hopped on a freight train out of Normal, Illinois, and headed north. Riding on the train last week, I could still see those things that Jamie and I would look for: the red tipped tassles that could be boiled and made into a sturdy tea, the low bushes he called “bed and breakfast.” He called them that after we discovered that their berries were delicious, and, a blanket thrown atop them, one could sleep the night as comfortably as if on a mattress. I also recognized areas where hoboes might be hiding, from whom we’d steal smokes, and of course, I could spot the well-worn paths on which rural children would travel to school, where we’d waylay them, beat them up, and take their lunch money.

I’ve had an odd boil or pimple on my chest for about two months now; ever since I started my new job in the Vice Chancellor’s office. It’s about five inches above my right nipple, about an inch around, bright pink, with a small, purple, puckered center. It looks like it should really hurt, but it’s absolutely painless. The truth is, though I didn’t tell Health Services this, it feels great when the boil rubs up against my shirt. So last week I go into the employee restroom, and I see the Vice Chancellor himself leaning over the sink with his shirt undone. It’s a very tiny restroom, and I was really startled to see him hunched over the sink, so I told him that I had the same problem. You know, I described my boil to him, trying to ease the tension. Well, he started to breath a little funny, and for a moment I thought I’d really screwed myself, but then all of a sudden he stood up and faced me. There, above his left nipple, was an odd, long, purplish wart, about a full two inches long. He had a crazed look in his eye, and not quite sure if I’d made him mad or not, I ran out in a hurry. So Friday I find out I’m getting a promotion! I’m now going to work directly for the Vice Chancellor. I think it’s going to be a great job, but I’m a little uncomfortable about how he’s always trying to hug me.

I got a letter from my great aunt Mavis yesterday! She’s the best. Her name is Mavis Belfus, but everyone in the family has called her ‘Ma’ for as long as I can remember. She’s a Polish immigrant, so she’s full of that kind of vibrancy and color that’s lost through the generations. For example, she can’t pronounce the letter ‘w’. Still, she tries to be cool by using common slang phrases. I remember once when I was down, Ma came up to me and shook her gnarled finger at me and said, “Vass is you problem, doot?”. She’s also full of really odd sayings, like, “The vealth off a family is measured in boxes of open tissues,” and “Too much pectin makes the belly grow old.” I hope you’re not getting the wrong impression; she’s not crazy, she’s just got a very unique world view. Some of her habits are maybe a little eccentric, but on the whole I don’t think I’ve ever met a wiser person. For example, she doesn’t put her money in the bank, because she trusts her fellow man. And she never learned how to drive, because she feels like cars isolate us from each other. You always knew when Ma needed to get somewhere; she’d show up at the doorstep with a fresh loaf of honey cake and say, “Zo! Vere are you goink today?”. I remember the day I realized that Ma was our family’s glue; she was audited by the IRS, and they discovered she’d NEVER paid income taxes. She was in deep trouble, and appealed to my family to help her out. It was just like that scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life”; we all gathered at Ma’s house, pouring in from all over the city, brushing the snow off our coats and hugging Ma. Unfortunately, being a bunch of bastards, we all brought open boxes of tissues instead of money. She says her time is going pretty easy, though, and other than that broom-handle incident in the locker room, she thinks she can survive until her parole.

When I was in my late twenties I had to be hospitalized for blue balls. It’s a real medical problem, but it’s not nearly so common as horny men would have the objects of their lust believe. “Balls” has nothing to do with testicles, as it turns out. It actually refers to a small calcified deposit along the vas deferens. Like a lot of unusual deposits in humans and animals, the blue balls are very lovely; since my operation I’ve had them sitting in a baby food jar on my drawing table. On a whim I decided to take them to a craft fair I attended last weekend, and I had a bead-maker drill little holes in them, and I had them strung into a necklace. They worked out really nicely, but I noticed they vibrated very slightly when I passed a beautiful woman, or caught the scent of a musk perfume. So I’m at home tonight, watching TV, and I see that Doublemint Gum commercial where they show a tight close-up of a woman putting a stick of gum in her mouth, and it nearly choked me.

So I’m doing lawn work two weeks ago, mowing the grass and pulling weeds, when curiosity gets the best of me. Underneath our porch there’s this old piece of plywood. It’s weathered gray and warping, and the layers are separating. Still, it seems to have been put there for a reason, because it covers an area that’s surrounded by railroad ties. So I lift it up, and all that’s there is sand. Well, there’s a lot of crickets, and there’s some green stuff. I assumed it was green paint, because it’s the exact color of our porch steps, and it has the same glossy finish. Anyway, I decided to clean it up, so I scooped up the green stuff and threw it into a garbage bag, and scared the crickets away. Some of it got under my nails, so I went in and cleaned my hands before dinner. Well, the next morning, I’m cleaning up and getting ready for work, and I notice there’s still green stuff under my nails! I scrub scrub scrub, clean my nails completely, and go to work. By day’s end, my nails are dirty again! By the end of the week, it was getting out of control. I mean, there was green stains on the sheets when I woke up and I was putting green smudges on everything I touched. I scheduled an appointment to see my doctor, but by the weekend, the problem mysteriously stopped. Then I noticed that these little needly nails were growing on my fingers. Well, they weren’t exactly nails, because they were sprouting up from behind my nails. I thought it was strange, but I figured it was like a hangnail or something, so I just trimmed them. However, starting this past weekend, it’s hurt to trim them, and that damn green stuff comes leaking out of the trimmed end. I was going to schedule another doctor’s appointment, but on a lark I went out to the porch again. Underneath the plywood, the paint has reappeared! I started to touch it, when my entire body was wracked with violent seizures. And then, laying on the ground, gazing at the underneath of my porch, it suddenly struck me. If I can somehow manage to shake hands with the president, everything will be okay.