Fiction, True Blue
I’ve been hanging around Mama Java’s on Indian School Road like I got no real job or anything more important to do. I’m thinking folks who sit and drink coffee in these places are either very lucky or too cool for school. I’m here after hiking Camelback Mountain in the mornings. It’s a dare I make to myself: get out there and meet someone else who is out here. You know where there is. Seems like everyone does but me most times. I’d like to meet a poet and do what poets do in their holy places. I have this idea that because they’re interested they might be interesting. I don’t pretend to believe they’re happy. I imagine they’re not doing much more than noticing what’s going on, and then copying those noticings to paper using words that are nicer than called for, words that use up some of your vocabulary and time. I’m already not doing much. Just ask anybody about that. Now, for my next trick: talk to one of those too cool for school coffee-shop people.
Just about everyone I know wants to talk nick-nack-patty-wack all the time. Nick-nackin’s alright as far as it goes, but I’m thinking we should get to the part where we actually give the dog a bone. I’ve been smiling at people for no good reason for a few months now, like trolling for trout. It’s another dare of mine. It all started not long after I became too tired of being tired all the time, of waiting for things to get good enough for a smile, of waiting for someone to smile at me. Tired of thinking my life should be better without any more effort on my part, of not finding inspiration each day for some bobJuan poetry. Tired of the boneless nick-nack-patty-wackin in and around my so called life.
between me and kindness
unexamined somethingless
you first, really
I hide a smile from you
like I only have a few
silly boy, you can’t save joy
set aside your fear
hold everything else so near
there’s plenty more where this comes from
Everyone looks so damn good in the morning, before the day’s disappointments have time to take off their coats and stay a while. Yesterday was wrested away by a nite under the wooby. The entire beautiful mountain and all day is in front of them and they aint hidin it. It happens while most folks are still in bed, like desert flowers, and there’s nothing you or anybody else can do about it either. I’m already finished with the best part of the mountain by then, except the part when I see them. There are poems in every face coming up and down the mountain. Sometimes I just slow down, way down, on the way down. The sweetness is in the coming down, not in the being down. The sweetness is in the faces on the way up on my way down. I’m not in a hurry; it’s taken me my entire life to get here.
So, last Wednesday morning I shot one of my new dare-powered smiles to my latest victims as they came into Mama Java’s. It’s the bell on the door that makes me do it now, look up and smile, whoever it is, going or coming. They caught it and returned two of their own like they were some kind of professionals or something. Jeeeze-Leweeze, this smiling thing really works. Note to self: keep smiling. The little girl looked at me like she knew why I was there, maybe more than that. She seemed old enough to realize what big people are up to, inside and out no doubt, but not a cup of cocoa older. Don’t ask me how I got all this sensed in a second, but I did. How can eyes send so much juicy info from one pair to another? Across rooms, years and lives, so much is in those eyes. What the hell are they made of anyway, embryonic-soul-cells? It’s early, don’t try and figure out everything about the energy and love going on in Phoenix this morning, all over town from the mountain on down. I will be watching for you.
I winked at her and mouthed good morning. My smile had another second or two left in it. She right-away excused herself from her mom and came to my table. She reached out her hand and said good morning, I’m Blue. I was smitten by her name and address to the stranger. Especially an old scary fart like myself with hair hidden under a bandana and sweat still dark and drying under my arms from the hike. I might be lucky, but I’m not too cool for school. Direct, fearless, and smiling good-mornings is another way to give the dog a bone. You are a blessing addressing me this kind way in the morning love light. How may I bless you too Blue?
She sat down and asked about the William Carlos Williams book I had on the table next to my kiddy-coffee (cream and sugar and all things morning nice). Am I the last guy on the planet to read William Williams? I would have gone by Bill. My name is Robert Ralph Royal and I go by Bob or bobJuan. Those who’ve known me forever call me Bobby. I like to hear it since I know they’ve known me from about the time of forever when our love started. Back when smiles and dares were commonplace and all over the place. I told Blue I was having a hard time with Williams. He’s a bit too vague and poetic in the school-and-classic-kind-of-way for me. I don’t like to work hard at poetry or any reading, or anything else besides really. Just ask anybody about that last part. She said he was a bit long at times, but worth the effort. Long is not the word I would use, effort maybe. We both agreed that some of his poems are too easy; even we’ve done better, lots better, lots of times. She said lots of famous poets she knows are that way. I’m thinking sure; you know lots of famous poets. It’s almost too cute and sweet, this innocence without hesitance. I keep trying I said, not sure if I can be a poet or not, it’s one of my problems. One of my problems is not being amazed by this little Blue girl.
I asked her if she does any writing. She said some, but mostly she’s a writer’s assistant. I picture her helping her mom or dad or teacher in small thoughtful ways while they write. Before I could ask she said she helps writers who have trouble finding their way. I’m like girl, you’re like what, 9 years old, what the hell? Well, that’s what I was thinking anyway.
Blue told me as soon as she saw me she knew I was looking for my way. Why else would I be here this morning, pretending Williams, smiling at everybody like I’ve already found my way. She admitted that some found her directness and sense intimidating, but it only worked with writers, and real writers always want to talk about their writing, even with a young girl who needs a ride everywhere she can’t get to on her bike in time.
I told her I was struggling big-time-all-mighty with a writing assignment. I need to write some fiction. I’m not writing anything; I’m falling behind and stuck, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up, I don’t even blog anymore. I wanted her to know the truth about my fiction, to see what condition my confiction was in. She assured me that this was a commonon phenomenon for poets, and it’s nothing we couldn’t get through together. I’m like, holy-cow-batgirl what are you talking about, the phenomenon and me together here in the holy poet place for chrissakes? There’s no such thing as fiction. You are telling the truth in your stories. Stories are all true and poets write the best ones because they are the rulers of the word. Don’t you see what you want? What you really want is to tell your truth anyway and anywhere you can. You take your stories to bed with you like a koan. They’ll get you up in the middle of the night like a crying wet hungry baby. You’re looking for your notebook without the light, hoping your wife won’t think you’re crazy tonite. Are you writing about that little girl in the coffee shop again? To me, Blue said, my most favorite fiction is the truth dressed up for church or the bowling alley. And the truth doesn’t miss a thing about the fiction going on in the potluck after service. Look around, my god; the stories are rolling strikes and gutter balls all around you.
By this time Blue’s mom came over with a mug of hot cocoa for Blue and a frothy brew with whipped cream on top for herself. She apologized for Blue’s blabbering intrusion. I assured mom that it was alwrite; I was enjoying Blue’s writing insightings. Mom almost blushed and agreed that Blue was special and insightful. It seems these two are not going to rush through this morning or want to be anywhere else but here. Mom asked, so, you’re a writer? I’m thinking like yeah, sure lady, if you only knew. Before I could answer she said Blue’s always talking to writers because she thinks they’re they rulers of the word.
Blue asked if I wanted to finish my story soon, like later today after school. She said we could meet at the park by her house on 42nd street around 3:30. I said absolutely, I could hardly wait, it’s due tonite. She told me to bring my poem about hiding smiles.
On my way home I went by Bashas to get a few things. I called my boss and told him I wouldn’t be in again. I got home in time to see Cathy off to work. Then I went outside on the patio to feel my soul again, at my own pace with the sun in my face. I opened my notebook and crossed off meet a poet, then flipped over to my page of dares while I took another one of my life’s breaths. I pulled the big steak bone from the grocery bag and gave it to my dog Angel.
