IT'S SO COLD IN ALASKA
STORIES AND POEMS
shane kimberlin
“They're asking,
'Is it good or bad?'
It's such an icy feeling,
It's so cold in Alaska,
It's so cold in Alaska
It's so cold in Alaska.”
-LOU REED, “STEPHANIE SAYS”
COMMENTS
Love. Grow. Change. Live. Reach out. Mess up. Look down. Jump. Run down some unknown street holding the hand of a hungry stranger. Dance in a church and don't worry about your feet. Sell all you have and give it to the poor. Bless the worst person you know. Wallow in a fire only to come out cleansed. Weep when you must and sleep when you should. Don't ask directions from someone more lost than you; you may not find what you want. Don't let pleasure get in the way of feeling good. Expect God only to do His will. Don't post too much of anything on social media. Breathe. A lot. Deep. There's no harm in long thoughts. On the other, well, foot, don't feel as if your longer thoughts mean more information or truth. Always tip your barista, server, bartender, and cab driver. Don't work so much you die from stress. There is no “making it.” Nervousness isn't bad, sometimes, but anxiety is a hollow electric thing with teeth.
Everyone is just as nervous as you are. Be kind, it's overrated. Prayer isn't so much about getting your way as much as getting out of it. Changing your mind isn't a sign of weakness. It takes a lot to admit you know very little, and admitting with a grin is canyons full of strength. If you feel like giving up, sometimes your gut knows more than your will. If you feel like giving up, maybe your gut is just hungry. You know you're in love when the thought doesn't cross your mind, because your brain has no part in the decision. Life is really about just doing the next right thing. People change, and to deny otherwise says more about yourself than anyone else. Kale is really as good as everyone says. Don't spit out gum in a public parking area. Working for love is like dancing for air; not all that logical. Place your life in the context of eternity and the issues at work won't overtake any conversation. Be good. Don't make fun of the less fortunate. Don't scorn the better-off. Poke the structures that oppress and see if there's a leak. Don't confuse apathy for open-mindedness. Don't ever get the red-eye flight from Alaska.
BILL HENDERS AND THE REAL BEAR
How Bill Henders got to the moment in his life where he was dressed as Smokey the Bear, staring at a much more real bear in the lonely woods, is very easy to trace.
It all started when Bill was five years old and wasn't called Bill yet, but Billy, and saw someone dressed as Smokey the Bear at the Fairview, Iowa county fair. This Smokey the Bear warned about the dangers of starting forest fires. He said it's bad. He said some kids did it and got in trouble, like, juvie, so, you know, just don't do it, kids. Everyone clapped. Later, Billy went on a merry-go-round and ate cotton candy while wandering behind the row of wooden fairground booths. He turned a corner at the end of the aligned little shacks in the back of the ring toss booth. That's when he saw Smokey.
Smokey no longer had a bear head, however. His was now of a middle-aged human man with a handlebar mustache, half-burnt cigarette dangling from lip, tired and glazed eyes that looked bored at everything. Billy stood there and didn't- couldn't- move.
“Hey there,” said Smokey, “don't smoke. Could start a fire. Ho ho ho. I play Santa too.”
Bill always pointed back to that specific image of the man, half-costumed and coughing up nicotine, as when he lost his childhood. While it's true that the disgruntled park ranger had also poked holes in the Santa belief Bill had believed since he was a toddler, and may have caused yet another innocently whimsical of Bill's worldview to crumble like dust, the truth was more complex. After Billy left the fairgrounds with his mom and dad, he wasn't thinking about the candy, or the rides, or if the strong man was really that strong. He was thinking about Smokey the Bear. Billy admitted that, while it was sad Smokey the Bear was fake and probably in danger of lung cancer, it no longer mattered, because Billy wanted Smokey's job.
When Bill was ten, his family moved to Anchorage, Alaska. Billy grew up and became an adult, Bill, and applied for Smokey's job. He got the job easily, in fact, because to become Smokey the Bear all a man had to do was apply. The lack of drive was a requirement. In this regards, he was a shoo-in. In other areas, it'd been different. Bill had been very driven in ruining his life before barely getting his high school diploma. Figuratively, because Bill had been an awful student, and literally, because at the graduation Bill was really, really high.
He applied for the Smokey the Bear position right after graduation and getting himself kicked out of his house by his step-dad for not sharing his beer. The manager in charge of hiring asked him the regular questions, to which almost all Bill's responses were complete lies and correct answers. No, he never did drugs. Yes, he loved the outdoors. Yes, Anchorage had a wonderful culture. Of course he loved Phil Collins. Yes, the hiring manager's wife was beautiful in the photograph on his desk.
Bill settled into the groove immediately. He worked seven years, part-time, without one bad day at his job. He also had a few early-morning tokes with his coffee every morning. That helped with the heat in the suit.
He didn't work much besides the part-time gigs. It's all he needed. It was the one stable entity in Bill's life. Lovers came and went, mayors were elected and resigned, businesses had their opening days and Out-of-Business sales, but only one thing remained: Smokey.
One early summer day Bill was given the assignment to go give a speech at the Joan Baez National Park outside of Wasilla. He was told it'd be a hike to the cabins where the kids were. They were special kids. The hiking trail was large enough for walking only. Bill said he could manage.
It was a cold outside by the trail, the back of Spring clawing into Summer's reach. Bill was currently living in his car, because his current ex-girlfriend told him the night before he could no longer sleep on the couch, and he'd made the bonehead move of leaving all his clothes still at her house. He realized he had no coat or even extra t-shirt. When he opened the car door outside the air bit his skin, just. Bill realized what he had to do.
He got high.
Then, he put on his Smokey the Bear outfit, head and everything, and began his trek. Things went fine. Dandy, even. He was, of course, really, really high.
Until.
Until Bill heard the noise from the back then the front then the sides and the crick of the branch and the shriek of the bird and the chill he felt zigzagging his spine like God's piano player and all a sudden he heard it he saw it he saw the thing staring straight at him twelve no eleven no ten feet away.
A bear.
A real bear.
A grizzly.
The real bear on all fours stared at him.
The fake bear on two legs stared back.
Bill said nothing.
The bear growled.
Bill said nothing.
The bear grew in size. Close. Closer.
For a brief half-second, Bill's sober life played back like the worst highlight reel possible. He regretted never calling Suzie Perkins in 9th grade. He wish he had made up with his step-dad. He was still sad that his buddy Roger scratched the crap out of his copy of Metal Gear Solid, but now he almost felt like forgiving him. He was happy he got to watch the series finale of Breaking Bad. He wished he had learned how to make a proper pancake.
The bear moved closer.
If I had just, he thought, not been here. If I had just done anything different. If I had tried. If I hadn't gone to that stupid fair back in Iowa, if I hadn't seen Mr. Handlebar smoking, if-
The bear was now five feet away.
Bill was not a praying man, nor, he figured, was Smokey. Still, he didn't know what to do. Maybe-
The bear leapt forward. All went black.
Nothing.
Bill awoke from his coma at the St. Angelina memorial hospital. Doctors say a group of kids hiking towards the highway came upon the grizzly. The bear scattered as soon as he saw them. Bill suffered no injuries.
According to the beautiful and brilliant and all-around excellent doctor who resembled some blonde actress he loved watching as a kid, Bill was in ship-shape. The Smokey the Bear mask had protected his face from the mauling. The padding in the outfit stopped the claws. A miracle, said the hospital chaplain, an absolute miracle.
Life changed after his hospital discharge for Bill. He no longer felt comfortable sleeping in his car. He didn't want to sleep in his car.
Everything now felt odd and wrong. He felt he was now in someone else's life that didn't fit right, like wearing a little kid's clothes. He was cramped. He hatched an escape. He quit drinking and smoking weed so much. He started doing push-ups. He enrolled into a community college. He met a girl there, a girl who laughed at his jokes and understood the thrill of cornfields in Iowa, and who also thought it was mighty sexy he survived a bear attack while understanding the humor of his fake bear-ness. It was the girl he'd marry, with whom he'd have three children. When he was nearing the end of his life, Bill regaled his many grandkids with the infamous story on the Joan Baez trail, fifty years later.
The grizzly bear lived a long and happy life. She also told a story, to the other bears, about how she had met this really interesting guy, a bear who stood on his hind legs, and how she tried to talk to him and he gave her some silent treatment, maybe because he was shy. She told them how she made her move. She told them before she could win the heart of the bear with the hat, some little hairless monkeys came by and she felt awkward. She sighed. If only, she growled, I'd gotten his name.
BLOOY MARY SUNDAY
Stars shine like saints in the dark blue heaven as I stare at them alone, though the icy window of the 747, in the cramped seat, next to the snoring old man who looks like an older Jeff Goldbum. I'm tired. A half-finished bloody mary fits to my hand perfect, like a toy glass made for a doll's hand, while I sip constant and small. I am a mid-twenties white American woman with white American woman issues but have enough self-awareness to know talking about them, even with feigned detachment, still doesn't change the fact that my sorrows are cliché first-world problems at the core. Knowing this doesn't make the problems any better.
My problems include, but are not limited to: financial woes (i.e. choosing Campbell's soup over Amy's), an older sister who lives in New York and is driven to remain estranged from me, a father who was always there but I never knew, a mother I knew but was never there, a freshly-minted ex-boyfriend who- if I had a gun to my head, or just three drinks in me- will in all likelihood be the first person I'll want to call when the ball drops in Times Square at midnight, general depression that isn't extreme enough to be sexy or exotic, body issues that are only issues when I compare myself to a woman who has more said body issues than me but actually does something about it, a weird pain in my left leg sometimes, an occasional crying spell when I realize I feel lost, and a general dissatisfaction with my life compared to my younger self's expectations. In short, average.
Hey folks, says the captain in a voice more appropriate for a neighborhood mailman than the person responsible for our continuing existence, we're 'bout to enter some turbulence at 15,000 feet. Please be buckled in for your own safety.
Mommy, I hear behind me, what does that mean?
It means, the voice says, we'll be okay, we just have to wait.
My back has a thin veneer of sweat. My overhead fan blows on full setting and does a good job of moving the stuffy air closer to me, meaning it's terrible.
Old Man Goldblum next to me is passed out. He was watching a movie on the little screen attached to the forward chairs. The movie was Night at the Museum 3 or some other terrible thing. About an hour into the movie he started, I swear, crying. I watched him watching Ben Stiller, cheeks turning wet and eyes becoming frail, and had fifteen different feelings mashed inside my gut together. Why was he crying at this terrible movie? Why did he even pick this movie? Why was I watching him watch this movie out of the corner of my eye, no less, just a judgmental coward?
Then I realized I wasn't pitying him. I was jealous. It had been so long since anything, including massive disappointment and even really good, emotional sex, moved me like that. If Ben Stiller can make you cry in a lame scene in a lamer movie, then what is falling in love like, then? Is it not ecstasy? What is a funeral, if not true sadness?
I was born in Boise, Idaho, and got out of there as soon as I realized I could. I went to a small college in Humboldt, California, and studied marine biology. My goal at the time (I think, looking back) was to become the most stereotypical college student who hated their Midwestern past. I experimented in all things: sex (with both genders) drugs (everything once; exceptions being heroin, ice, and bath salts), and even, yes, rock and roll (For a week I played spoons in a band called, I'm so sorry, Cool Dog Down Adventure Jamboree, then renamed that same week to the more striking Soul Anus. Sigh.)
I did the yoga thing, the meditation thing, and even got high in the desert. I tried out political philosophies like new fashion. One week I declared to a roommate I was turning full-on Communist after kind-of seeing this barely attractive boy who wore a fedora and a goatee. The next night I got a job at a rich, capitalist-pig consumerist hell establishment in the mall. I also bought clothes from there. You really should have seen the jeans. A few weeks later I had a silent crush on Ronald Reagan. This was the same two month person I sort-of-saw the dreadlocked girl before I decided I liked men again.
Attention, says the captain, we may experience heavy turbulence. Please do not leave your seats.
The bloody mary is now empty and its glass stares at me like a starving puppy. I feel concerned for its well-being. I must do the right thing. I hit the Help Me button and hear the elevator ding go off.
The man next to me, Jeff, is still snoring, still breathing like his lungs are climbing a mountain. The woman next to him in the aisle seat is middle-aged, black, dressed like a secretary of state, and reading some book you buy at the airport convenience store. You know the book. There's the self-therapy book that masquerades as social science. Those have titles like, “Visioneers: How a Little Vision Changes the World.” They're books that talk about famous and successful people that not-so famous and regular people (with bachelor degrees) idolize, like Walt Disney, Steve Jobs, or that one athlete. The hidden assumption of all this comparing is the reader may be like their idol, and just need to think different, or just do it, or whatever. It's like if someone made Eat, Love, Pray for a person who'd be ashamed to read it, so the title was renamed Success Path: How Travel Changes the Local. It's akin to shoving a comic book in your high school textbook during class and pretending otherwise. I don't judge.
I push the Hey Stewardess Help Me button one more time.
The younger man in the next seat up is watching a new movie where a grizzled white guy with a cool jacket shoots stuff with a gun, so I only have around 1,000 guesses as to what it is. The woman next to him, his girlfriend assuming, is reading a magazine about rich celebrities who don't know she exists. Their kid- how many people my age have kids?- is sitting on the edge seat and playing a bright, colorful game on his tablet.
Hello, says the stewardess from the aisle, I'm assuming you wanted another Bloody Mary, so I made you one just in case.
Yes, I say, uh, that's it.
Alright, she says while handing me the glass, drink service will now be closed till turbulence stops.
Okay, I say, grabbing the glass like Gollum.
She leaves.
Our plane rumbles, but nothing intense.
Then a shake.
The little girl behind me goes, Mommy, and the mother says, it'll be alright, and it is alright for another two seconds, another three breaths, until the plane shakes again, and again, and again, until it feels like we never were not shaking, like we've been shaking for eternity, like the plane is an upset stomach.
My sister, Mara, was born with a small heart, but never was a grinch. She invited me to her wedding as a bridesmaid, raving about the dresses, saying how they were this maroon color she just loved and, oh, Amy, you'll look great in it. I was skeptical- I have no curves, and will most likely be runner-up for best librarian body in the near future- but I didn't care what I looked like, because I'd been single so long that my beauty standards were a basic “No Sweatpants After Noon” rule. In short, perfect sisterly support, questionable bridesmaid, and awful reception guest.
The ceremony was sweet. Mara and Bruce (the groom) both looked stunning. Mom was with her third husband, Dad with her second. After the ceremony I made a toast to kick start the party. I said how I was proud of Mara and thought Bruce was a really great guy. I made some joke about Mara turning into a beautiful and gracious woman after repeatedly cutting the hair off my barbies when she was pissed at me. I also talked about singleness vs. married life, and how singleness was possibly better for some people, about how I loved my sister and hoped her relationship continued to be better than any I ever knew, and in general kept digging my little hole that I wished my speech would just die in already, until some guy stepped in and buried it for me.
He wasn't bad looking. Wasn't amazing either. Average in height, weight, and looks except for the bluest eyes ever made real. I was still standing in the center stage rambling to the crowd, my whiskey sour in hand and controlling me via alcoholic Bluetooth, when the blue-eyed man came up and grabbed the mike, put his arm around mine, and somehow made up a speech that tied in my half-ass confession perfectly and made my BS look brilliant in retrospect, like Andy Warhol, or the guy who paints the melted clocks.
Anyway, I received applause (!), exited stage left, and mainlined to the open bar. I was embarrassed for myself and kept thinking, who was that?
The turbulence hasn't changed. We are tumbling, constant. The baby behind me cries. The child in front of me keeps asking when it will be over. The mothers are comforting the best they can, while more than a few fathers are glancing at the exit doors with a look that says, “do I remember the flight attendant safety speech correctly?” The secretary of state in our row- the one who looks like Halle Berry crossed with, honest, Queen Latifah- keeps reading the book, though her lips have tightened and her eyes flash towards the front every ten seconds, then back at the page which is no longer being turned. Old Jeff Goldblum still sleeps. I glance at the window to my right. We are in front of the wing. Darkness is upon the face of the deep, and the face looks ugly. My eyes adjust to the said darkness outside only to see more darkness, only to see the pale outline of the wing in mild spasm, shaking to the limits of its construction. I thirst. My mouth tastes the tomato paste. The vodka seeps into my tongue. I gnaw at the celery like a Cuban cigar. We are all on a very expensive, very mediocre roller coaster ride. I am thankful for the low rumble's weird calming effect. I am more thankful for the drink, because even if the world is on fire I realize all I need to survive is a Delta Airline-quality bloody mary.
At the wedding reception's open bar I stood near the end, combating the embarrassment I felt of my speech, feeling grateful for being saved by the blue-eyed wonder, and then overcome with a new emotion: anger. Who'd that guy think he was? Was this some romantic-comedy ploy? It seemed nice, on his part, but was probably an underlying sexist move. I was the woman in trouble and he comes in to save me. What an ass. What a pretentious ass. Trying to play the hero. Me, damsel in distress. What patriarchal, misogynistic bullshit. What retro-grade, outdated behavior from someone who, in all likelihood, thought Julia Roberts movies were documentaries on the feminine mind and chivalry was something to hide at first, like I'd be offended, but then after I saw him awhile I'd grow fond of it, him opening doors and calling older women 'Mam and the whole Aw Shucks Act he learned off some dating advice website men desperately read, after they're all shocked to discover most women don't care about their fantasy football league, or their anime, whatever, just so typical and demeaning and-
“Hey.”
-typical and demeaning and sad and-
“Hey.”
I turned my head and saw him standing there. He was smiling.
“Listen,” he said, “I don't do this, really, but I was wondering if I could buy you a drink.”
“Uh, uh,” I stammered, “I'm already drinking one.” I lifted my bloody mary (again!) and waved it in front of his eyes like bear spray.
“Alright,” the bear grinned, “I'll wait.”
“Alright, passengers,” says the steward over the intercom with trembling voice, “we are going to experience slightly worst turbulence soon, and it's very important no one leaves their seat or moves around the cabin at all. Please have your seat belts completely fastened and secure.
Thank you.”
“Huh.”
Old Jeff Goldblum's eyes open.
“What's going on?” he asks to no one in particular.
“Plane's in turbulence,” says the Secretary of State next to him.
“Oh,” he says, “that's, uh, that's quite the situation.”
He turns to me, observes the half-full drink in my hand, looks up at me.
“So I see you have the means to get through the storm.”
“Yeah,” I say, “they could probably bring you one too.”
“Me? No, I, uh, am not very much interested in the ol' tomato fixture. Too healthy.”
“Ah,” I say.
The toddler's wail behind us has lowered to a mere whimper. I adjust the overhead fan for more power in vain. It's already full blast.
“So,” says Goldblum,” where you flying from?”
“Anchorage,” I say.
“So this is your first flight?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I'm actually from there.”
“Oh,” he says, “wow, wow, uh, so you're a real-deal Alaskan, huh? Reality show on the way, that sort of thing?”
I laugh.
“No,” I say, “just lived there for a few years.”
“Oh,” he says, “cool, cool. Hey, I realize I just missed out on my, uh, last forty minutes or so of my movie. Huh.”
“Which one?”
“Night at the Museum 3.”
My body cringes on reflex.
“So, yeah, time to get to Act Three.”
He puts on his headphones, excited, giving a Jeff Goldblum smile on his Jeff Goldblum face, and finds his place where he nodded off, Ben Stiller's head staring out from the screen at night, and hits play. The next image is of a monkey throwing feces at an Academy Award winning actress. I take another sip, and look out the window into the clear dark nothing.
The blue-eyed wonder's real name was Peter. He had not been named, he said, after any human Peter, but Peter Rabbit, because his mom was a professional storybook illustrator who loved Beatrix Potter.
Peter bought me the drink, brought me memorable conversation, caught me off guard enough to convince me to waltz with him on the dance floor, shot me the right look enough that I gave him my number before we said our post-wedding goodbyes outside in the cold parking lot while I stood with freezing folded arms wearing that dark red dress, sought me out a few days later to ask me out, and taught me much about love the next few years we were together.
He was a sweet country boy from Ohio who harbored no grudge against his town. His family now lived in Anchorage, Alaska. He was funny and sweet and idealistic and annoying and occasionally childish and sometimes a good man and other times a little lost boy. I loved him dearly and wondered if he'd ever ask the perfect four-word question on one now-dirty knee, before taking out a ring he couldn't possibly afford with his carpet sales job. Other times I'd imagine walking out our shared apartment door, leaving only behind the clothes he bought me and a note explaining how and why I was sorry, and also understanding why he'd probably hate me forever.
He was in love with being in love with me. It was a kind of energy boost to his day, which was sweet sometimes, but as the days turned to months to years it became worrisome as it was left unchecked. His bond grew while a part of me called Independence or Self-Containment or whatever grew stronger, colder, and more detached. I began to view his words and statements less as genuine reflections of what we were, and more as wishes and dreams he still believed in.
I was the woman waiting at the bus stop with someone I'd met on the bench who seemed at first intriguing, until they started talking about how pigeons were really angel ghosts and God talked to them through the abandoned downtown payphone. I realize this sounds harsh, but it was driving me up a wall. He was paying enough attention to me, or he was paying too much. I became an idol who happened to move, eat, and wear jeans he liked.
I admit, I used to like jerks, but not because they were jerks, but because they at least showed some kind of confidence and didn't ask me for permission. I tried other types of people. I thought Peter might be different, a guy with confidence who wasn't an asshole, but at the end I'd known for a long time Peter would always ask me for my blessing. He'd ask me if it was alright he didn't ask to ask me. The frustration at seeing the potential of this man turn into another burden I had to carry was too much. I didn't want to be responsible for the fact he hated his job, or had issues with his older sister, and I hated how he was always intruding in my space, even when he was gone. I couldn't breathe.
We moved in together in Anchorage, Alaska. His mom had breast cancer and his brother wasn't doing the best, plus he had a better job offer. I had nowhere to go after college, only succeeding in studying marine biology and not in actually, you know, doing it. Anchorage had a sea life center. Peter assured me that getting a job there would be easy. I had a pulse, he assured me, plus a degree. He was right.
Endings are like landslides. They start slow. You hear the warnings. Watch the cracks appear in the dam. Watch the rope bridge across the abyss unable to hold the weight, watch as rope by rope snap and you do nothing to mend the situation, not even run. Something breaks. What was once land to fix yourself on, your anchor, is nothing more than nothing. You watch as what you knew as Fact change into a Mess. Sure, the rock is great to build a house on, Jesus, but only if it ain't moving itself. And what was broken off keep rolling down, faster and faster and faster, until it's gone.
What started us on the end? A remark I made? A look he gave? Was it too much space or not enough sex or just the opposite? What was my fault and what was his? I just want to know because my conscience is hurting in a way I haven't had before with this stuff. It's not cut and dry. It's, yes, confusing. I realize as I think all these things I'm being a “typical woman,” to quote Peter's shifty but kind-of-cute friend Ian, who said as much on the couch one night as we all played Apples to Apples, and I complained about the morality of using Hitler as a joke. I realize that I may be a cliché.
But I also realize that when Ian poked me a little with that comment, challenged me in some way, my heart thrilled like it hadn't in a long time.
And I realized almost everyone else I found attractive besides Peter did this, and a large reason Peter had me was because he used to do this, used to call me on my bullshit, and now our distancing avalanche disaster was due, in part, to Peter no longer treating me like a human being with her own shit, but some kind of precious flower.
My stomach was irritable when I realized this, and a negative expectation arose that I silently held him to, always after. If he bought me a flower, I'd mark that in my Too Much box. If he didn't want to go to the ocean-side with me and collect algae samples for my work, it was another Too Little strike. I know, I know, it was petty, but it wasn't conscious. It happened, just like anything else happens.
So one day a few months ago when he proposed we at least take a break, I was stunned enough to stop eating, even though it was the hangriest I'd been that year and it was pasta. Fettuccine pasta. I asked him why, and he said I seemed unhappy and he was unhappy about my unhappiness. I told him to repeat what he just said. He said I seemed unhappy. No, no, I said, the other part, the part about you being unhappy because I'm unhappy. He said I already said it, so there was no reason for him to say it. I said it'd mean a lot to me if he did it. He said it in his own words. He grasped at the revelation. Then, an annoyance exploded in my stomach when I realized, again, that he'd just did what I told him to do, because it proved my very point that he'd never stand his ground, ever. I pointed this out to him, along with the fact he needed to focus on him and this whole conversation was proof of what was going on. He looked at me with some of the saddest eyes I had ever seen. I wanted to kiss him. Instead, I kept on the attack. Ending this thing would be my decision. He would not manipulate me into staying.
I said things I'll regret (even though I don't know when. I tend to have less forgiveness for myself as time goes on, not more), he said honest and hurtful things, and in the end we cried in our little apartment as the early autumn leaves first started blushing and our little apartment needed the temperature dial finally set past sixty. Afterwards we held each other in the middle of the room, and decided when we would cut each other off. I hadn't cried so much in years. He cried too. I told him he was acting like a woman. He got mad. He said shut up. I kissed him. He grabbed me. We stripped to naked on the floor.
That was the last time we made love, not sex. That was also the last time I was completely open with him.
It was not, however, the last time he was fully raw with me. That occurred nearly four hours ago at the Anchorage airport when he walked me into the building and went to my gate with me, went through airport security just so he could say goodbye at my gate instead of before the security check. Who even does that? I felt a massive rush of love towards him right then, and my heart began to doubt a million times over. What, exactly, was I doing? How could he stand this? Was this the right thing? I was missing him already because, for once, I was seeing the future as it was, without the hopeful story I'd written the past ten weeks. It was a good story where he'd do great without me and I would continue on fine. I'd miss him sometimes, sure, but there'd be others. I'd heal. He'd heal too. Heck, we might even be friends one day. Sure we would.
We walked to the gate in silence and I pushed back a dam of tears. He looked somber. A song we used to make fun of was playing throughout the airport. I was tempted to mention this to him, but killed the thought because this needed to happen now, we needed to break away.
We sat on the seats near the wall in the gate waiting area, the wall where there's always one outlet meant for the janitor's vacuum but usually has at least one young person sitting there trying to charge their phone with a tired expression on their face. On reflex, I placed my head on his shoulder and that's when the levee broke. I kept crying and crying., and it wasn't just about this event I was crying about but the whole thing, our failed past and the scary future, and all the missed opportunities for us to fix this, and everything new I'd miss with him. I wept and wept. Then, I felt soft paper on my cheek, then the other side, and I opened my eyes to see him looking at me, smiling because if he didn't he knew he'd cry. He just looked at me and wiped my tears with a pocket napkin.
“All rows boarding,” said the intercom.
“Listen,” he said.
“What?”
I can't say what he said to me, because I will start crying now, even in this brittle plane.
It was sweet. I fought against what he was saying though. I put on a mask of adult rational behavior, nodding like I was hearing a decent lecture on starfish, but the facade would break every so often when he made another point, or said another word in that cute, almost-mispronounced way. I'd feel the love again, and I'd pinch my face and cry some more. He kept on with it and never lost eye contact. My fingers shivered.
“Final boarding,” said the intercom.
“Okay,” I said, “I gotta go, I gotta go.”
I kissed him.
He picked up my bag for me and gave over the handle. Our fingers touched for the last time.
Goodbye, I said.
Bye Amy, he said.
I love you, I only thought, but the thought was so powerful it became words without my permission, rushed out unannounced, and when he heard those unauthorized words he responded likewise, saying his final I love you, and I kissed him yet again.
He smiled and I smiled back. I turned around and walked to the gate entrance. The woman checked my ticket and gave me the Are You Alright Dear? Look, and I swallowed my throat. I moved my legs forward like through ice water. My heard turned one more time behind me, and I saw him still standing there, a further speck, and waving. I waved back, and turned my head before the tears overtook all of me and held me down.
Our turbulent plane has only become more turbulent. A fully robed rabbi leads prayers near the curtain which divides us from first class. I wonder, in this moment, if the rich people have their own person leading prayers, or if their God will rip our plane in half right between first class and us poorer peasants in the back, so the rich will land safely in Seattle and we'll drown somewhere in the ocean, or maybe there is no God and the rabbi is just spouting back nursery rhymes.
It occurs to me there's a good possibility I could die soon. Not, you know, like that's any different from any other moment in my life. We're always, theoretically, in danger or whatever of dying, but this feels different. Maybe it's 'cause Peter's gone and I'm missing him, or I'm just scared. I don't know.
Jeff Goldblum has finished watching his movie. He removes the headphones from his ears and just sits there.
“How was it?” I ask.
“It was, uh, not bad, considering the circumstances,” he says.
“Do you normally like Ben Stiller movies?”
“Huh? Oh God no, never, but it's not, uh, not for me.”
Before I can speak, I drop down six feet in the air, we all do, my stomach loops in horror, wondering what kind of elevator that descends so quickly in half a second.
A baby starts to cry in the front. The Rabbi's formal prayers are now desperate chants. There is silence so loud it brings waves of panic into my chest, my breath a gallop of a thing, lungs clopping to fear. My heartbeats thump like shoes in the dryer. This is only my body. My inward woman, the heart and soul or whatever you call it, is observing all this in third person, like I'm gone, like I'm dead already.
A parade of freak show thoughts and mundane observations make their way down the main street of my mind:
I miss Peter.
I wish he was here right now holding my hand.
I could go for another bloody mary.
Why do I like bloody marys so much?
How much of my life has been defined, no, dictated by a simple drink?
Is this guy next to me really Jeff Goldblum?
Would it be rude to ask?
It'd probably be rude to ask.
He sure looks like Jeff Goldblum.
Does true love actually exist? And I don't mean in the realistic, “it takes work,” American way, the love you learn to embrace in your later twenties or whatever when all your ideals are brutally massacred by reality's uncaring ass-kicking. I mean real love, the kind of sacrificial, unending love Christians are always talking about but never seem to actually do. That kind of love. Because I need to believe it's there, I need to believe because now that Peter's gone that love he gave me is gone as well, and even if it was imperfect and sometimes just bad, it did exist, glimmers and specks of it existed in me too, and that communion, the connection with something beyond myself through love, could full-on stop me from bitching about my day or making everything into a joke. I could actually be the person I thought I'd be when I was five years old, a person better than what I was, than I am. And as this plane seems to be headed down down down into some dark end, and our storm covers the darkness so filled with stars, I contain both regret and some deep force of love for everyone I've ever known, ever cared for, and everybody I wish I only could have loved more. My parents. My sister. Peter. Dreadlocked girl Melinda. Fedora guy. The postman. That waiter who I shortchanged a tip. My former pet dog Crown.
All light upon light. Distractions and worries just bent notes in a symphony.
The lights go out. Dark. Someone yells. A second later, the lights return.
Then, it's all over. The shaking stops. All is smooth. The Rabbi's eye's open and he looks around.
“Thank you, Lord,” he says.
Our breaths sigh in unison, making the plane momentarily sound like a fridge fan blowing. A frat boy in the back row yells “Wooo!” and we all laugh.
“Attention,” says the captain, who you can almost hear smiling, “we're now out of the storm.”
The remainder of the flight is pure ease. Everyone is a little more open. Rows in which there had been no discussion are now loud with laughter and stories. Possible tragedy has this innate ability to turn the mundane to heaven, candlelight to pure ghostly neon. I order another bloody mary. The stewardess beams, I beam, Jeff Goldblum's beaming, basically any more beaming and we could have a house structure, or a Star Trek episode. I know that was cheesy, but I'm too happy to care and I blame this bloody mary four-fecta, oh yeah.
Yet one thing still irks me in all this joy:
“Why did you watch Night at the Museum 3?”
“Huh?” says Jeff Goldblum.
I didn't even look at him when I asked the question. I stared forward, like I channeling an ancient spirit who happened to also review movies.
I look at Mr. Goldblum.
“It's just....I mean, you said you don't even enjoy Ben Stiller movies is all, and...”
“-Right, right,” he says, “that's very true.”
He turns to the secretary still reading her book.
“Do you, uh, like movies where Ben Stiller protect dug-up dinosaurs?”
“No,” she smiles.
“Mmm, mmm, alright, yes, so we are all in agreement here about not being big, um, Ben Stiller fans then.”
“Yes, yes,” I say, “but then why watch it for two hours?”
“Why?”
“Why?,” I ask like I've just discovered my life has been ruined.
He looks ahead for a time.
“My son,” he finally says, “is eight years old. I'm going to go see him. He's my first wife's kid. And, and- I talked to him a few days ago on the phone and I asked him what he saw recently for, um, you know, movies and the like, and he told me 'Night at the Museum 3, Dad,' and I said, 'Okay,” because he's eight years old and that's what he likes. It's a kid's movie. So I decided to watch it right now before I reach L.A.”
“Huh,” I say.
“Excuse me,” says the Secretary of State as she brushes Jeff Goldblum's shoulder to get his attention, “that's really sweet.”
“Ah,” says Jeff, “it's not, uh, it's not that hard for me to do, it's not, you know, tough, because it's my son. I love loving my son. And when you love someone it's easy to do something hard, uh, even watching, you know, a bad movie with dinosaurs in it, one that isn't....like...what's that movie?”
“Jurassic Park,” I say.
“Right, that's it.”
I look at him and want desperately to ask if he's Jeff Goldblum. I also am not satisfied with his answer.
“You know,” says the Secretary of State, “you look like somebody famous.”
“Ah yes?” he says.
“Yeah,” she says, “somebody.”
“I get Tom Hanks occasionally, yeah.”
“Here's the thing,” I say.
“Yes?” says Jeff.
“How often do you see your son?”
“When I can. His mother has custody.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Second wife?”
“Third. What are you, um, reaching towards here?”
“It just doesn't seem like the biggest sacrifice to watch a movie for two hours. Don't get me wrong, it's a terrible movie”- the vodka is really working now- “but it's just like, compared to what? Ball games? Being there all the time? I mean, sacrifice? That's a big word.”
“Hey now,” says the secretary.
“No, no,” says Jeff, “you bring up a good point. Yeah, it's not a big sacrifice. I'm not saying I've been the best father. But I am trying now. I'm trying really hard,” he says as he looks ahead with lost eyes, “I'm trying to be better.”
“But what if it doesn't work? What if it's not enough?”
“How would you know?”
“I...I mean, I don't know.”
“Exactly. You don't. But you try.”
“But what about the fact you'll screw up? Doesn't that make you just paralyzed.”
He takes a sip of bottled water and looks at his feet, then back at me.
“Perfection is boring,” he says.
“What?”
“It's boring. Nobody's perfect. My son isn't even perfect. He's got, you know, horrible taste in cinema, and goodness, his room! His room is a sty! But I love him. And he loves me. And that's all you can do. Just do your best.”
“Huh,” I say as I hide my face in the bloody mary glass to obscure my blushing.
“So, do you have kids?”
“No,” I say, “none.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Dating?” asks the Secretary of State.
“No,” I say, “I mean, I was dating. Uh, like, six hours ago.”
“Ah,” he says.
“I'm sorry dear,” she says.
I just stare into the pool of red in my drink glass. The ice cubes are tiny glaciers. I am fighting wet eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, “it's fine.”
I wish I could say we have a beautiful talk after this, that Goldblum and Halle Berry both helped me out, that they gave me some wise words or said something that made sense.
Instead, after I lie about being fine, I excuse myself and walk to the bathroom. Inside, I lock the door of the small box-of-a-room and wash my hands. The tears gurgle below. I take a deep breath. I focus on my fingers underneath the stream of water. Peter's hand comes into view and takes my wet hand, holds it. I remember the small speck waving. I push back a sob until I fail. I choke for air. Start weeping.
I weep until I can't anymore. I flush the toilet for some reason, probably as a cover, and open the door.
We land in Seattle an hour later. I wish Jeff and Halle Berry the best as we exit off the plane.
“Take care,” she says.
“You too,” I say.
“It'll be alright,” she says.
“Thank you, yeah.”
“Take care…Jeff,” I say.
A confused look spreads across his face, then a thin smile.
“Uh, bye,” he says.
I make it off the plane into the airport. It is quiet. There are a few people at various gates sleeping or wishing they could. A large, older woman moves the vacuum on the thin airport rug while singing Shoop by Salt n' Peppa.
I look down to see my hand already has taken out my phone and, on reflex, went to the call history. The last number to have been called is Peter's. This is all muscle memory, an action done so many different times that it just happened without my consent. But now I'm sad. I want to call him. Really want to let him know I'm safe, to tell him a story about almost dying next to Jeff Goldblum in a storm. I want to to ask him about his day and tell him I love him so much, then wish him goodnight. This is all I want to do. But then what?
Then what?
I look at my phone.
I look at his name.
I look at him
I look at
I look
I
THE HOUSE
I'll put my house in order
before that dying star
set behind the ruins,
of which I carried far
My will has not an answer
nor anything to give
I used up all I had
when I got the chance to live
You can hear the wind howl
There's a whisper in the trees
You can see the night sky now
You can see it call to me
I can hear it call to you
trust me, you will hear the same
but it will not be of comfort
no, it will not be of pain
you cannot recite what's said,
anyway, no one would care
There's a future being read
neither you or me are there.
REAL ALASKAN
What makes a real Alaskan?
Is it
being born in the state?
Or becoming irate
when you're PFD's late?
Or not finding a date?
Having a season you hate
in which you are depressed
and become far less impressed
with the new tourists
who complain about the weather
but should probably know better?
Tell me,
what makes a real Alaskan?
Is it a state ID?
Or not using a key
to lock your house or car
or living in the bar
or forgetting what stars
look like
at least for three months
till it's winter yet again
and you want to move again
to somewhere without the dark
and locals know how to park?
Where they keep their dogs on leashes
and there ain't bears on beaches
along with bonfire gatherings
where there's always a smattering
of women in yoga pants
attempting drum circle dances
with designer xtratufs
and the men lookin' rough
wearing a hoodie (probably black)
on their head a baseball cap
and don't forget the nature types
walking ads for REI
while the artsy hipster music crowd
pretendin' to be so proud
of what every smart person bashes
stupid folk songs and mustaches
tell me,
what makes a real Alaskan?
Is it starting a cult
where it's the government's fault?
and your group is the best?
to hell with the rest
and you've seen you some angels
you know all the angles
a conspiracy scholar
scorning microchip collars
Angels don't play on this HAARP
hence the fifteen-eyed carp
that you saw caught in a net
somewhere on the internet
and you posted, see, it's proof
nobody wants to know the truth
and it's always the end
of the end of the end
You just have to store your guns
gather up, it should be fun
to tell me,
what makes a real Alaskan?
Or are you more it takes a village
fretting 'bout the Exxon spillage?
Your protest pebble creek mine sticker
and a taste for local liquor
and ten public radio donation tote bags
every given dollar equals swag
trying to wake up woke
but you keep going broke
“it's all due to corporations”
that's what you tweet on your iPhone
“It's the system we gotta buck,”
You say at an anti-Starbucks
Anchorage's downtown's great
like the lower 48
You just wish all the hicks
would stay quiet in their sticks
they're ruining the state
from becoming paradise
but wouldn't it be nice
to tell me
what makes a real Alaskan?