It was like a movie. — act six: We Gather Together
Plans change. Situations can breeze in, unstoppable as a surprise drizzle in summer heat — unexpectedly welcome. They circumscribe the mind, leaving us exposed to what's in store while it's currently happening, or not, all around us.
I didn't anticipate I'd get swept up in a sudden flush of the ongoing goings-on, but here we are. Thanks for dropping back by for this action flick/Property of Character combo-bite let's call We Gather Together:
I'm standing on my front porch with the minivan keys in my hand, about to descend upon an impulsive run to the supermarket, just for Cholula sauce. As most things have mutated during the lockdown, a household reassessment was also recently made to decisively switch from red to green. With change comes re-evaluation. It's caused an exhilarating uptick in redressing like a born-again awakening after a bottled-up spiritual breakthrough & every moment counts as immediately eternal, but in this novel case, chew-by-glorious-chew.
It's also hot out. My Pajama Twin is standing over the lawnmower in his sideyard between our street & the large tree behind his house propping up its broken limb. A long-sleeved T-shirt is wrapped around the top of his head, knotted in back resembling disappointed folded arms. Before he can pull-cord the cutter to life, an altercation begins.
It's Gabe & Benny, in the midst of a versus, stationed within their surrounding backyard fences, lobbing insults over My Pajama Twin's property like a DMZ cornhole match. He scans his patchy grass, then looks skyward — either directly at the sun or beyond for the heavens to clarify. He spots an approaching rogue gray cloud, then looks down, expressionless, & goes back into his house.
Benny & Gabe are impositioned in rapid-fire exchanges of short blasts — sometimes informed as a FAQ by Gabe, such as this classic: "You know what you are, Benny? A piece of toilet paper!" Benny returns fire in his always-sets-of-three heh-heh-heh's or yeah-yeah-yeah's.
I inner-voice ask Gabe: "By 'piece,' do you mean a single sheet of TP or a three-to-five pull-&-tear?"
Rose-2 & Romeo-2 file out to their front plot. Both survey the yard, then look at each other as if "Well, time to get to work." — one reaching into the recycling bin for a surprise inspection, the other sniffing a gopher mound easily from its two-inch waddlers.
Rita pulls into her driveway & ever-casually climbs out carrying a complimentary frequent-drinker tote with a liquor store logo. She stops on her stoop & pauses, swiveling her head in the direction of the hollers as if picking up a scent, then goes inside, seemingly now in a hurry.
I twirl the minivan key ring on my finger in dogged contemplation: "Did Gabe, in his reality, actually mean 'piece of shit?' What image is he seeking to convey? Is he being avant-garde? Perhaps, on paper, he's a language poet — placing the responsibility on me to issue my own meaning — challenging me with his low-toned critical thinking-aloud."
I really need to let this go.
The conflict amps up in volume, texture & pitch.
From inside My Pajama Twin's house, suddenly there is music — jagged piano like a Cecil Taylor suite of turrets intricately executed on pounded keys.
(I like Cecil Taylor. I fondly recall seeing him play decades ago at a small club in Berkeley on a double date. There was a drink minimum which wasn't a problem at all until my date & I got home. I wonder if the other couple is still together.
Anyhow, it was a killer show. He even used his elbows. But, let's just romp on.):
Rose-2 looks up from the bin, listening. Romeo-2 lifts a hind nub near a lawn decoration, undeterred.
Rita sashays out to her walkway with a highball glass of something, fine-tuning her neighborhood radar & takes sips as if live on the scene with, the beverage, her reporter microphone.
We've been gathered, it appears — drawn by the distracting charisma of inflamed sky pilots. There is music in the ignited air. The sun is beating its burning heart. My delaying curiosity has left me thirsty.
I never walk out in the middle of a movie, so I decide to put off my shopping & go to the kitchen, twist a beer cap & return to the porch. I sit on the steps under a slight shade from the eaves — near-perfect, but something is missing. Then, oh, yes! . . .
As if on cue, Benny's dog appears in his driveway & charges out to the edge of the street, baying at a woman walking a cat on a leash. (I've never done that — leashed a cat — but occasionally bay at perceived threats.) She picks it up & turns around, retreating in the other direction. The cat looks back from its shoulder perch. I'm surprised at how calm it is.
Now, we're all here, completely free to carry on:
It sounds as if Benny's attention is redirected when I hear him bark, "Ziggy!" The hound continues & Benny snaps again with determined separation "Zig---Gy!?" then completes his threesome "Ziggy!" with a brusque bonus growl "Git ovuh heuh!"
Gabe taunts a lilting "That's right Benny, walk away — just waaaaaalk away!" then laughs out a "Tha-ha-hat's right!"
Benny's rasp fades with one of his yeah-yeah-yeah's & dissolves farther away with a go-tuh-hell! which, needless to say, Gabe can't leave alone, discharging "No, you go to hell, Benny! That's right, you go to hell!" lightening with a finalizing die-out repeater, "Yeah, Benny, tha-ha-hat's right."
I see Ziggy turn its head, wag & run back up the driveway, disappearing into the backyard. There's a faint git-ovuh-heuh again, then the sound of a door slamming.
Rose-2 ends her trash investigation & goes back inside, leaving Romeo-2 on patrol. Her voice creaks in analysis with Gabe, victoriously back in his stronghold, as he rambles his recount in a tremor that rumbles across the street from their open windows.
Rita sits on her stoop, staked out in case the dispute starts up again, with culottes pulled just above her knees, & looks up & down the street, occasionally pressing the drink to her forehead. A few cars give a quick double-honk-hello as they pass — she knows most of the neighbors & everything about them.
The music from My Pajama Twin changes to a George Winston flavor — reflective with a shy touch of sentimental melancholy. I wonder if he's actually playing the piano or if he just changed records to suit the mood. I really know nothing about him or his mate. They seem patient with their dueling predicaments on either side. Maybe they're teachers, I've thought — he, music — & her, possibly science, occasionally taking their pet mini-saurus to class. She appears more animate — a sensed aura of a smile that I imagine also encompasses My Pajama Twin, like he can naturally lean on her as does that fallen branch that rests against the trunk in their backyard.
I make a mental note to my shopping list, adding beer — maybe toilet paper, too, come to think of it — when I eventually go out — if I do. I mull over making a new plan. Or even better: not — make or break — & simply continue to reflect in the shade. The minivan isn't going anywhere. It's almost too quiet, now. That gray cloud passed without relief. I don't quite know what we all should do.
The openness of nothing is forever decided. Every moment happens selfishly chaotic, as usual. We're on our own. Let's just save ourselves for what'll come next & twist off whatever's left, instead, & wait it out.
Until next time . . .
