His half-brother died in the war.
My grandmother died in front of me when I was twelve.
He once told an old man to just go away and leave him alone. The man died the next day, and he still feels responsible.
I think sometimes that Jon just wants to leave me in the house and go somewhere warm, where there are lots of beautiful native women.
He feels, sometimes, that he died a few years ago and everyone else hasn't noticed.
I stopped taking my medication two months ago.
An older gentleman, sitting with a very dignified manner in front of us turns, and tips his hat to me. I give my head a little bow, and he switches his gaze, preparing for a speech.
"You," he declares, "are a pair of highly fucked up persons. Damaged goods, if you will. But� would you mind, perhaps, not discussing it here? I am beginning a slow decline into deep depression: surely the two of you have encountered some kittens in the past? Would you like to talk about them?"
His eyes crinkle, and then he says that no, he was just shitting us. We all laugh: my irritating twitter, this new man's mild roar and a hyena laugh on top of that. A zoo.
We roll into town still laughing, and I bum rides for the two of us from the old guy, whose name, we learn is Stew. He has a very expensive, very old car, and I comment that it looks a little like a hearse. He swivels towards me.
"It is."
I say, "Oh." and my companion hops in merrily, pretending to be a corpse. I invite Stew to dinner, but he declines, regally, saying that he has papers to grade. Apparently, Stew is a teacher, and I guess at AP English, but I am wrong. This elegantly profane man is a middle school gym teacher, who requires written papers each quarter on physical activity. He tells me that it is dull and time-consuming, but more so for them.
I am struck with the realization that he is the sort of man you wink at, merrily. There are not many of these sorts of men living, and I feel blessed. And then there is my driveway, and we are exiting quickly, and I am asking where we might be able to hook up in the future, and he tells me the library.
The library!
And then he drives off into the evening air, majestically. The hearse doesn't make a sound.
I am standing there, sans Stew, and I fumble for my keys and open the door. Jon stares at the two of us, and I begin to tell our story all over again. I ask if he can stay on the porch, for now, and Jon nods and starts talking about how glad he is that I am home. It feels nice.
Jon stirs things well. I have been noticing things like this for the past hour home, like how he puts away his shoes after coming in the door and how his hair always sticks up in back. His stirring, though, is particularly neat, with a little wrist-twist after each turn, refusing to splatter anything anywhere. It is a gesture filled with unmitigated care and practicality.
I am sitting here on the countertops, and Jon and I are both wondering what to do about Andrew, who is setting up his bed on the porch. It took a whole bus ride, but I realized that Andrew is an important person to be around. I kind of need him to play off of; we are like two somewhat platonic peas in a pod. Instead of saying anything about him, though, Jon just tells me about his writing. He's midway through what he describes as "almost a novel, sans maybe a hundred pages". I giggle appreciatively, maybe too loudly. Andrew pokes his head in the door like a sleepy bear, and inquires as to the state of the chili. Jon gets into the military spirit and pronounces it "a near victory for the American people." I just giggle some more, soaking up the feeling of the evening.
It's a nice thing, to be four years old again, swinging my legs against the countertop and wearing no shoes. There is food in the air and I know that if I wanted to, these two men could easily carry me about the house. It's a princessy, four-year old thing to think, and I feel kind of bad, but then again, it would be so nice not to have to use these stupid legs for everything, eh? You don't know, though. You are not four years old.