Aging at the Aquarium

The toddlers soft pale hands were wrapped around the medieval looking shell of one of the horseshoe crabs while the crab’s sword like tail slashed about. “Philip, can’t horseshoe crabs sting with their tail?” Philip was acting as the human encyclopedia for all things nautical while we explored the North Carolina aquarium at Fort Fisher, Kure Beach.

“No, their tails are really just for steering while they swim. Horseshoe crabs don’t really crawl like most crabs, they bend their shell back and forth to propel them through the water much faster than other crabs.” Philip and I were both starring in amazement at the toddler feeding bits of squid to the upside down animal. I could tell Philip was amazed by the inner workings of the crabs feeding habits. I was more amazed at the toddler. Living on campus at college I hadn’t realized until now how long it had been since I had seen a child. It was almost like once I had left youth behind, it had disappeared from the world all together.

Philip was a biology enthusiast and was studying Zoology at Virginia Tech. We hadn’t seen each other since high school graduation, but he was in town so we both felt obligated to see each other, mostly because we had been really great friends before senior year. Philip was staying with his parents at the beach a few miles away from my college, UNC Wilmington. I think it was his parents who pressured him to tell me he was in town.

I looked from Philip back to the child as he squealed. The crab pulled the hunk of thawed squid from his fingers. His mother was now holding the shell and egging the boy to drop the food into the horseshoes mouth. There were at least ten horseshoe crabs in the touch tank, along with an equal number of rays and three or four large hermit crabs. Philip had taken the pile of frozen squid the aquarium worker gave us and was methodically flipping crabs upside down and dropping the food into their mouths.

A group of elementary school students walked into the room, where we were, squealing and jumping up and down in their single file line behind a very tired looking middle-aged teacher.  There were nine students so I assumed there was either another group of rascals bouncing around on the other side of the building, or this group of nine was special. None of the kids seemed intelligent or exceptionally unintelligent to be a part of any special education program. “I’m a rainbow fish, Mrs. Oakes! I’m a rainbow fish!” One of the girls in the middle of the line was shouting to her teacher and suddenly all of the children were claiming to be different aquatic animals.

“I’m a Shark!”

“Well I’m an electric eel.”

“I want to be a dolphin!”

“I’m the lobster! I’ve got pinchers, Mrs. Oakes, look!”

“I’m SpongeBob.”

“Ooo, I’m Patrick!”

Suddenly the children veered off from typical sea creatures and began to yell names of characters from the television show SpongeBob Squarepants. After all nine of the students had adopted a new name, either Gary, Sandy, Mr. Crabs, or Larry the Lobster, they continued past the horseshoe crab touch tank and gasped at the two story glass tank filled with sharks, giant rays, and a variety of other large fish.

The brown haired toddler ran out of squid and was now splashing his hands on the surface of the water. His mother wiped his hands, pushed back his brown curls and slid him into his stroller. In the corner of the shallow open tank I saw a horseshoe crab stuck on its back. Its legs were convulsing and it was bending its shell back and forth trying to turn itself over. Then another crab rammed the overturned one and flipped him back onto his feet. I’m still not sure if the crab realized his fellow was stuck, or if the tank was so small he had no choice but to run into him.

“Did you see that crab turn the other one over?” I asked Philip.

“What? No, I was looking at this manta ray. What happened?”

“Nothing. Lets go downstairs to the Octopus.”
             My favorite animal was an Octopus. I loved how they could fit into almost any shape. They are extremely smart animals; great at camouflage. We walked to the tank and I saw a yellow sign that read, “Octopus temporarily not on exhibit.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s my favorite animal.” Philip was preoccupied looking at the jellyfish, which admittedly were also very cool. But, the jellyfish were no Octopus. “Hey Philip, do you want to go? I think we’ve seen everything after we walk through the fossil section.”

“Yeah I’m about ready to get some lunch. Do you know any sushi places? Looking at all of these fish has kind of gotten me in the mood.” As we were leaving, Mrs. Oakes’ class was pressing their hands and faces against the glass of the puffer fish tank attempting to get one of the fishes to puff up. Philip and I had spent two and a half hours strolling through the many tanks of fish, turtles, and sea creatures and still hadn’t talked much about high school. It was easier to talk about fish and elementary school life than everything that had happened senior year.

How to make Sweet Tea

Every Sunday growing up my family would come home from church and while we ate lunch at the kitchen bar my mother would brew four galleons of sweet tea for the week. Sweet tea was a staple of my mother. She would pour from her glass pitcher over the round half circle ice cubes the refrigerator made; it was practically religious.  During the summer my mom would cut lemon and squeeze it into her drink.

Karen, my mothers friend, would walk across the street after I got home from school and sit with my mom on the front porch in the wicker rocking chairs while they talked and sipped. When I walked outside to get my homework journal signed I would hear bits of their conversations about women in the PTA, or about who had been interviewed on Good Morning America. Karen’s son, Andrew, was my best friend and in my class until fifth grade. We stopped talking when we were sophomores in high school.

My sister never learned how to make sweet tea because she was awful in the kitchen. She was much more like my father who was from New Jersey. My sister got angry quickly, she never read a book from cover to cover, and didn’t have her first paying job until she was a senior in college. Mom taught me how to make sweet tea when I was in the eighth grade.

You can never make tea right your first time, and rarely your second or third. There’s a good bit of feel when you measure the ingredients. To start you need four cups of boiling water. The problem with measuring four cups of water is some of it will boil so you need to put about four and a half into your pot. Before your water comes to a complete boil, you need to start adding a cup of granulated sugar. The sugar needs to be added slowly while you stir the water with one hand so the grains dissolve before they touch the bottom of the pot. If the sugar touches the bottom of your pot before it dissolves it will burn and your tea will taste thick and bitter.

After you’ve mixed all of your sugar into the boiling water you need to take the simple syrup you’ve made off of the stovetop and drop in one galleon size tea bag. My mother always used Lipton tea bags because they came in a family size bulk box at the Lowes foods on the corner. After you’ve taken the syrup off heat you have to let the tea steep for at least twenty minutes. If you leave the tea bag to steep for less then twenty minutes your tea will be weak and if you leave it in for much longer than twenty minutes your tea will be strong. I like my tea a little stronger then my mother made hers.

The worst mistake you can make while brewing sweet tea is to leave your syrup on the stove while it steeps. If the tealeaves continue to be boiled the tea will get very bitter and dry. Once the tea has steeped with the lid on your pot, remove the lid and pull the bag out quickly. There will be some tea trapped in the bag with the leaves but this is too strong so do not press the teabags to drain them.

Now that you have made the concentrated tea, pour it over a galleon pitcher full of ice. The tea is only five cups but as it melts the ice the tea syrup is diluted enough to drink. Pour over ice and enjoy with lemon during the summer or mint leaves during the early spring. 

Facedown in the Crunchy Grass

The raw taste of blood and metal filled my mouth.

I leaned left into the frosty wind

blowing the tails of my jacket,

my scarf,

and the tassels of my hoodie.

The cold crept through the seams of my shoes and chilled my toes.

I plunged my hand

into my front pocket

in search of my chapstick.

No chapstick.

“Damn.”

I needed some chapstick.

My eyes were leaking.

I spit red in the crunchy grass.

My car was about half a mile down the street

But it was out of gas,

and broken down.

I tried to scrape his skin from under my fingernails

but it wouldn’t come out.

My hands felt stained from fighting back.

I wondered if his hands felt stained?

I heard the screen door slam behind me.

I didn’t turn around to see him,

I just listened to the gunshot. 

The Kill

The Homeowner:

It was night

I heard the loud thud and screeching tires

There was a man standing over a body in my driveway

He turned to my house

I was alone

I turned out the lights quickly but he knew I was there

The doorbell

“911 what’s your emergency?”

“A man just killed someone in my driveway and he’s standing at my door!”

He left my porch and returned to his car

The cops were there

A pool of blood was in my driveway the next morning

The Driver:

10 seconds

I thought it was a person

“It was a deer, it was a deer!”

My voice screamed louder then the other three

The twitching carcass was launched ten feet away

I was still screaming

We walked to the door to tell them

A deer was blocking their driveway

The cop was there

He shot it and drug it away

It was the first thing I had killed

“Don’t look at it man. Look away.”

I looked; I saw its eyes spasm

I saw the blood pool around his head

The cop drug him to the woods

I gave my report

At home he was still looking at me

His eyes were still spasming

And they still are

The Jeep:

The Impact

I wanted to stop but I couldn’t

A brief second

I felt his matted hair pressed to my bumper

My drivers hands tensed around the steering wheel

He shattered my headlight

I shattered his rib cage

He was a reindeer for a second

Maybe it was his dream to fly

He did

He flew away from me and smacked the pavement ahead

I saw him lay there

My driver got out to check on him

There was a police car now

Its driver got out and shot the deer

The gunshot rang through the woods

My driver was in the passenger seat

My bumper was broken

I had never killed anything before

The Passenger:

“Its just a deer! Its just a deer!”

Budd wouldn’t stop screaming

Id never seen him loose his shit

Budd is a quiet guy

We got out of the car and

I could tell Budd wasn’t doing well

“Look away Budd, don’t look at it”

The buck was twitching

Budd dry heaved and I pretended not to notice

He killed it

I drove back to campus that night

The Officer:

“Is anyone hurt?”

No one was

The one boy looked pretty shitty

His buddy did most of the talkin’

Hadn’t shot a deer on duty yet

Felt bad for the thing but I was still excited

Put on my gloves and took out my gun

The thing was twitchin’ real bad

Should’ve warned the kid I was about to shoot

I didn’t even think about the blood

Drug the body to the woods but

The blood was still there

Tipped my hat

“Ya’ll drive safe now.”

The Deer:

I started across

Death hit me in a black Jeep liberty

My antlers ripped from my scalp and flew in the opposite direction of my body

I landed on smooth concrete

I was dizzy, my ribs stuck like thorns

My lungs were deflated

My legs wouldn’t get me off my side

The man stood over me and raised his gun

My blood ran out of my brains

I saw the driver starring at my carcass

I starred through my killer’s eyes

And I’m still starring

Because we love the Pain

We know how it will end but we do it anyway

Make the same mistakes

It’s the breath you hear in your ear

While you shave carrots over the garbage disposal

And try to ignore the lips on your neck

And the picture of me in the frame behind the picture of him that sits on your desk

The pale skin I notice around your finger

The distance he hears in your voice

When you threaten to hold your breath until I kiss you

And how I laugh at you and let your face turn purple before giving in

Because we are weak

And, because we love the pain

Wilmington in June

Harriett Dunnings rocked back and forth in the wide white wicker rocking chair that her nephew had brought her for Christmas the year after he married. It was worn and the strands were beginning to fray and twist away from each other and the white paint had begun to flicker and flake off collecting in small piles on the great old wooden front porch that was harsh and unforgiving in the splinters it gave anyone who decided to walk across it without shoes on their feet. These piles sat and waited for perfectly angled gust of wind to come along and blow them off of Harriett’s front porch. These gusts came often enough because the afternoon breezes that made the azalea and hydrangea bushes flutter and dance around Harriett’s comparatively unkempt front lawn came often enough to be about the only thing that made the place bearable in early June. Harriett was wearing her Sunday clothes even though it was not Sunday, with the exception of her shoes which she wore her gardening boots. The starchy peach dress was stiff over Harriett’s wrinkled liver spotted skin and made her appear both younger and tanner then she actually was. Her white hair like the chair she sat in was flickered and flaked in places unattractively collected on the stiff shoulders of her peach dress. The dress itself was not a summer dress but a conservative two-piece that was the norm for ladies her age to wear to her Moravian church. Her muddy work boots contrasted heavily with the dress but Harriett wasn’t expecting company so her appearance was not a high priority. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon and the June humidity of the outer banks made her toes sweat uncomfortably in her boots. Harriett rocked forward and leaned down to untie the dirty laces that criss crossed up her ankle and to release her feet. She wasn’t wearing socks. The breeze moved the thick Carolina air around her feet like a warm sock she snuck into the dryer with daddy’s shirts rather then on the clothes line where her mother usually hung them after she did the wash many years ago when Harriett was a little girl. Harriett heard the unexpected sound of truck tiers picking up the dry light brown dirt and spraying it into the air making little dusty clouds. About a hundred yards away she saw a familiar blue Toyota turn off the paved road and onto her dirt driveway. It drove towards her slowly and she could hear Patsy Cline on the CD player. She knew it was the CD player because no one played Patsy on the radio anymore. The truck ran over pinecones and tree roots sticking out of the sandy ground gathering more concentrated closer to the base of the pine tree trunks. Harriett loved the pine trees and live oaks in her yard because the Spanish moss would hang and droop like cheese cloth and made them look like the trees out of storybooks. Wilmington was the only place she knew that had much Spanish moss other than the bayous of Louisiana and Mississippi. The truck stopped right in front of her porch and Harriett heard the first line of Patsy’s chorus start “I keep a walkin’ after midnight…” when the engine was shut off and the singing stopped. It was Keith in the rusty blue Toyota; a smile stretched apart her lips to reveal the only thing Harriett wasn’t ashamed to show some pride in which was her teeth. While ageing had affected her skin, hair and bones Harriett’s teeth were still that of a young adults. Keith didn’t immediately get out of his truck but took a deep breath while starring at the top of his steering wheel and looking past to read the number of miles he had clocked over his sixteen years with his pick-up. He sighed again at the screeching noise his driver side door hinge made when he both opened and closed it. Harriett only had her one wide white wicker rocking chair on her front porch so Keith stood once he climbed the few steps. Harriett didn’t bother asking if she could get him a chair because her younger brother would never let her go out of her way for him even if moving a chair onto the porch was no trouble at all. Instead Keith asked if he could grab a chair from the kitchen cause he wanted to talk for a bit if she wasn’t busy. When he came back out and let the screen door slam behind him Harriett explained that she had just gone to get her picture taken for the Church directory and how she decided to enjoy her azaleas while they were in bloom after cutting back her hydrangeas. Harriett had never married and subsequently had no children so she was alone in her picture every year in the churches directory. It was far from depressing though because Keith and his wife were always right beside her on account that Keith was her brother and again she never married so she still kept the last name Dunnings. Keith’s wife Amanda was a stern brown haired woman who raised five boys to have the manners and chivalry of a well to do southern gentleman. Three of them were still living but no one counts Matthew so when people ask Amanda usually says she has two sons. Matthew was the nephew who bought Harriett her wide white wicker rocking chair. The family had grown cold toward him when he moved upstate to pursue a college degree and become a businessman. His aunt Harry was the only Dunning who still kept in touch. The others were ashamed of his lack of humility. Ambition and pride were heavy sins in the Dunning family; but Matthew had done other things to upset his parents. Needless to say Matthew and his wife were not beside Harriett in the church directory. Harry had gotten so caught up in memories about her nephew she caught herself tuned out to what her brother was saying. He was talking about getting a new truck but by the mumbling he was doing Harriett could tell this wasn’t what he had really come to speak to her about. “Keith what do you want to talk to me about, I know you’re not really going to get a new truck.” Keith didn’t hesitate but took a pause before speaking again. An extended wheezing noise from the back of his throat that gave Harry the impression that what he had come to say was painful in one way or another. “Amanda and I are talking about getting separated, Harry.” While the words set confusion ablaze in her head Harriett kept her southern womanhood about her and didn’t let one wrinkle in her face change. “Why on earth would you ever think of that Keith? Why would the pair of ya’ ever do something like that? You’re talking about your wife; Keith divorce isn’t part of marriage.” The same wheezing noise whispered out of Keith’s throat while he thought of an answer or defense to his sister’s questions. “Well Amanda and I aren’t happy together and we haven’t been for some time now.  I can't remember why we’re married Harry.” “You need a reason to be married Keith? You’ve got three sons and five grandchildren. What would the church think? Keith you’re going to be eighty-two this fall don’t you want someone to be with while you’re dying?” Harry could tell her words affected Keith. Again the wheezing noise came from the back of his throat as he tried to prepare another defense but he closed his lips and sat back against the back of the chair he had brought out from Harry’s kitchen. “Well who said anything about dying, Harry, eighty-one isn’t that old.” “Keith we both know eighty-one is old. Daddy died before he turned seventy-six.” Obviously he hadn’t thought about his father’s death recently and Keith began to put the comparisons into perspective. “What about you Harry you don’t have someone to die with.” Of course Keith’s words weren’t meant to be depressing but Harry did feel the bags behind her eyes fill up a bit at the thought. She blinked hard once and didn’t respond. The humid dusty air hadn’t been blown away since Keith pulled up and even out of her boots Harry’s toes began to sweat. Something about her body language let him know that she wasn’t going to respond so Keith ended the conversation. “I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. Maybe Gods just telling me I don’t have much longer and I’m getting antsy. I’m sorry I said anything Harry. Why don’t I cut a few of them Azaleas to take home to Amanda, I know she’d like them.” Harriett didn’t have any problem with Keith taking some of her Azaleas but something about the memories she had just gone through about Matthew made her angry and sad. “Keith you need to go sell that truck. Why don’t you call Matthew and see if he’d like to buy it. I’m sure even if he doesn’t want it he’d take it off your hands just to try and mend things with the pair of you.” Keith was confused how the conversation had turned but for some reason he didn’t argue and he left with the intention to do just what his older sister had told him to. He walked down off the porch and started over to one of Harry’s prettier bushes. “Keith, leave my flowers.” He didn’t break step but turned back towards his truck and left. Harriett stood up to take Keith’s chair back inside and felt a small stabbing pain in her right foot. When she sat back down she saw the splinter of wood sticking out of the bottom of her thick dry skin. Harriett pulled it out and flicked it out into the bushes and spit on the small puncture it left. A little drop of blood swelled up and Harry squeezed to make sure she had gotten all of the wood out. She slipped her left boot on quickly and hobbled into the house where she spit on it again and held a cloth to her toe to stop the bleeding. She sat down at the kitchen table and shuffled through a stack of old mail and recipes to find a blank sheet of paper. Harry wrote a letter to her nephew Matthew to ask him to bring the new baby to see her. She wasn’t sure if he would cause babies that young can’t travel without their mother and Matthews wife didn’t like visiting. Harriett didn’t mention Keith but thought she would be sure to say something if he did come to visit. Matthew didn’t visit because Harriett never found a stamp in her cubbord. Eventually the letter got lost in one of her stacks of papers and Harry forgot about sending it.     

       Keith Dunnings died two weeks later and his older sister laid an Azalea on his coffin during the service. He left his rusty blue Toyota to his well to do son Matthew who brought his wife and baby to Thanksgiving supper that year and was in the church directory the next. Amanda Dunnings never did say anything to Harriett about their marriage but Harry didn’t expect her to. It would be nice to say Amanda forgave Matthew but they never were very close, even after Keith passed. Harriett kept up her flowers for the last years of her life and took up listening to Patsy Cline in the late afternoons. 

Empty Space and Orange Juice

They say the average juror makes up his mind after six minuets of the first opening argument. Open minds are hard to come by.

Empty Space and Orange Juice

There were four of them, pacing on the cracked cold sidewalk. All dressed similar; cheap heels, cheap fur coats, dresses that covered next to nothing, and passive looks of lust thrown across their faces. I rolled down the passenger side window and pointed to the tall blonde on the far left. She swaggered to the side of my car and leaned over with a smug smile. Everything about her was passive. I asked how much for a night and she responded. Sixty, but seventy-five if you want me to enjoy it. I grudgely shoved a twenty and two fives toward her and asked questionably, half now half later? She half nodded and got into the passenger side. I didn’t try to start any sort of conversation. I was thinking about this night, and my home. Turning into 632 Myrtlebrook Lane I opened the door and didn’t wait for my female accomplice. I trudged through the darkness and up my front porch steps. I heard her behind me inaudibly commenting on the landscaping or something, She must have been new to this. The air inside was warm, much contrast to the cool October air outside. We both removed our coats and gloves in turn. I flipped the hallway light on and saw the girls face, really saw it. She was attractive, especially for a girl in her business, but looked tired. Her nose was red from the cold or the cocaine I didn’t know, and her eyes had obviously traveled very far for they both carried dark bags this girl tried to hide with makeup. Her lips were puffy and red. All of it was passive, and all of it was outlined with her blonde curls, something about blonde curls implies innocence. I wondered when the last time she had actually slept at night had been. Her fingers suddenly began to fumble with my belt buckle but I pushed them away. She looked and me questioningly but left the silence alone. I lead her to the bedroom and told her I didn’t want her, not like she thought I did. She asked me what I did want, but I didn’t respond. I told her just to sleep. Just sleep. Oddly enough she listened. Maybe she was tired, or maybe she just didn’t give a fuck anymore. “I’ll be on the couch.”

His bed was soft. Softer than any motel bed, and I had felt plenty. I didn’t get this guy, He paid but now he just wanted me to sleep? I’d heard of some weirdo’s but really? Just sleep? But it was kind of nice ya’ know. A bed. A real bed with pillows for laying your head on and sheets for covering your body with. And he didn’t want to sleep with me. Sleep, Sleep is nice.

I smelled bacon; bacon has a strong meaty waft. It smelled amazing. I’d never slept past nine; it felt nice. Warm morning light poured through the bedroom window like orange juice in a breakfast glass. It illuminated all of the dust particles floating in the air. It reminded me of my home, when I would jump on the old couch and dust would fly out and do the same thing on sunny days. It was beautiful, even if I knew it was bad, unhealthy; it was still beautiful. Then I would sneeze and ruin it, just like I always ruined everything. I pushed back the sheets and rolled my legs over the bedside and onto the carpet. There was a fluffy green towel on the floor beside a bottle of shampoo, citrus lime body wash, and a note that said good morning. Was this guy for real? But again, a shower would be nice. A real shower with warm water and fragrant soaps. A shower, a real shower.

I heard the shower turn and smiled. The sizzling of the bacon continued and the waffle iron beeped to let me know if was finished. She walked in to the kitchen with a bathrobe on. She looked so different than she had last night standing on the sidewalk beside those other girls. She didn’t really say anything just sat at the kitchen table. I said good morning and set a plate of waffles and bacon in front of her. She didn’t eat it, not immediately at least. She stared, not at me but at the food, maybe it was to much for her. Honestly, I didn’t know what her life was like off the streets, or if she had a life off the streets. I didn’t know what she was thinking. Then she cried. Maybe crying isn’t the best way to describe it because she didn’t really sob or make any noise. She didn’t cry with her nose or her mouth just her eyes. She just sort of leaked tears out of her eyes. They just fell out of her eyes, ran down her cheeks and fell onto the plate. I poured her a glass of orange juice and set it in front of her plate. Maybe that was too much but she left. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up still in my bathrobe. And she left. Walked right out my front door and left. I watched her walk down the street, barefoot, hair wet, covered in nothing but the soft white robe. She walked away from the rising October sun and back toward the city. There was seventy five dollars in the left robe pocket. I went into the bedroom she had slept in and took the picture out of the bedside nightstand. I kissed the cold glass my late wife now lived behind and laid her on the bed; until I could fill that space again.