The Walk by Catherine Adel West

Pondering life over a toilet bowl seems normal to Pat. Clear water below reveals the porcelain god needs a good cleaning; a dirty gray-brown ring lies at the bottom of the bowl near Pat’s chubby face.

Bathrooms are where people come to get rid of a vomitous mass in their system; bile springing forth from mouths as hot lava from volcanoes. Bathrooms are where people come to wash themselves; a day's dirt disappearing from skin -- a purification.

The Bathroom is where Pat shuts down; collapses under the weight of the air in an apartment, heavy with hate, and memories, and now blood. Lots of blood.

Feeling strong enough, Pat stands, wobbly at first, bracing on the black granite sink, to keep from slipping on the ivory subway-tiled floor.

When they went to take a look at the apartment, the landlord, a short, bald African man named Nasiramani, called the color of the granite "ebony twilight" and the color of the subway tile "alabaster morning." Pat remembers the heavy Kenyan accent of the nice man marring the words into almost undistinguishable syllables.

It's funny what you think about after you just murder someone. Even if that someone completely deserves it.

Moss-green eyes look down at the delicate, crimson handprints on the toilet; the color is reminiscent of strawberry preserves. Pat is hungry. Stomach rumbling, demanding to be satisfied; a god in need of the sweet-tasting sacrifice only McDonald's processed food can tame.

*                      *                             *

Pat is sitting down to eat before Sam comes in from working at the factory all shrieks and curses. Pat just wants to eat in peace.

That’s all.

"One thing right. I ask you to let out the damn dog and you can't do that! Why in the hell do I put up with your shit?”

Breathing deeply is the only thing Pat can do when Sam is like this. Breathe deeply and be very still. Focusing on small things helps too.

The dining room table provided the perfect distraction. There are four legs on the table. The color is called “midnight chocolate.” It is four and a half feet high. One of the legs has a small chunk missing when Sam tried to stab Pat with the fork on their one year anniversary.

In Sam’s defense, the roast Pat prepared was a little overcooked.

Sam is still talking about the dog, well not talking, but raging -- a tsunami; a hurricane; a tornado -- and there is no escape; no shelter; no one to help.

Just be silent and stay still and maybe …

The first thing Pat feels is the sharpness of the hit; the pain comes a few seconds later. It always does.

"You hear me now don't you? You moron! I hate it when you try that Buddhist mind fuck stuff! You hear me! Do you fucking hear me?!"

"I hear you."

Pat’s hands are trembling; the burger lays, still warm and juicy and inviting, on a square, blue plate.

"Good. Now take the dog out so he won't piss everywhere."

Pat rises. Barnaby pads next to his master all love and golden fur.

“Come on boy,” Pat says. Barnaby follows Pat to the living room.

Draped on the tan sofa is Barnaby’s black leash. Pat hooks the leash onto the collar. Barnaby, anxious to take care of business, almost drags Pat to the back door.

Looking back, Pat witnesses Sam click on the television, sit down, and watch the highlights of last night’s football game. Pat hates football. Pat hates the sounds and roar and violence of the sport.

Pat especially hates that Sam can pummel and pound and punch and then sit down to look at television like nothing happened.

Light scrapping of claws on the back door and an impatient golden retriever’s high pitched whimpers center Pat’s thoughts.

Opening the door, the Chicago wind, unyielding and harsh, slices through Pat’s body. Barnaby pulls Pat down the wooden, snow-covered steps of the second floor apartment to the icy concrete landing of the first.

Rounding the corner, the duo walk down the block. Pat can make out the skyline, and though it is only a 15-minute train ride from Lakeview to the Loop, the distance seems unreachable and vast. Happiness seems that way too.

Pat sees Sam’s car: a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner two-door hardtop. A former piece of ancient, rusted scrap metal discovered in a junkyard, Sam says three years were spent restoring the car. Normally Sam puts the car in the garage rented from a neighbor. The car parked in front of the apartment means Sam is going out tonight …again. Going out and coming home drunk, which means a beating.

Pat shivers, but it has nothing to do with the wind or cold.

Barnaby finds a sapling tree nearby and relieves himself. They turn around and make their way back to the apartment.

Another beating.

The last one included a black eye, bruised ribs, and a fractured left wrist. Pat nursed the wounds and didn’t bother with the hospital; didn’t want to deal with the stares and the questions.

Not wanting to go back to the apartment just yet, Pat walks down the street to the park a block away. Aside from the solid crunch of snow beneath feet and Barnaby's panting, no other sounds or people inhabited the park. It looked to be a haunted place; the snow and ice visible apparitions roaming celestial, wooded territory.

The park is a place for Pat to think, mostly about Sam and how to get away.

Some might feel sorry for Pat. At best, many people would call Pat a wuss in this kind of situation. Well a person might not say "wuss" because that's a wussy thing to say. People would call Pat a "pussy."
*                      *                          *
Patrick Terrance Adkins remembers his dad, Bill, calling him a "pussy" all the time. Bill calls Pat this name so much when Pat is a child that by age nine, he thinks "pussy" is a real part of his name and says the word "pussy" in public, mostly at the grocery store, when shopping with his mom, Karen. Many people in their small town of Rainbow Ridge, Oklahoma believe Pat suffers from a severe form of Tourette's Syndrome.

Pat hears people whispering words of "poor boy" or "strange boy." But Pat's life isn't strange, it is normal. It is a life he knows. He hates it, but he knows it.

Pat knows his father works as a car mechanic Monday through Friday. Pat knows his father has a bowling league on Friday nights. Pat knows when his father comes in from his bowling league, he will be drunk and smell of cheap beer and whiskey and come in his room and whip him for at least ten minutes with a belt or a switch from the apple blossom tree in the front yard. And, Pat knows Karen won't help because she doesn't want a beating, and as long as Pat provides a distraction, she is safe.

Pat knows his life is shit at the house on Terry Boulevard and decides to leave on his seventeenth birthday. There were of course no balloons or cake or friends and family with well wishes. There was only Bill sitting in his recliner, the sound of the football game playing in the background, and the smell of Karen's meatloaf coming from the kitchen.

With $40.00 in his wallet and two small garbage bags full of clothes near the door, Pat desperately wants his dad to be upset he's leaving. He makes the announcement, hoping Bill will turn off the television and stand up and beg his son to stay; to work things out. Pat wants his mom to stop cooking and not act as if her only child walking out of the door is of no matter.

This, however, won't happen because Pat realizes Bill hates his life too and knows his dad feels he's saddled with a girl he knocked up eighteen years ago and a kid he would've kicked the shit out of in high school. Pat recognizes Bill is lost and bitter and daily thinks about killing himself. Sometimes Pat thinks about killing Bill too.

Bending down Pat picks up the bags and walks to the oak door. "Bye dad."

He hears Bill grumble and spit one word out of his mouth from his black recliner. "Pussy."

Patrick opens the door and walks out.

*                  *                            *

Pat meets Samantha Liddane Palmer a year later working as a bus boy at a restaurant on Chicago's north side. Pat is struck by Samantha's beauty. It is dark and cruel, and there is a feeling not quite tangible, which quietly and desperately tells him it will be painful to love her. Living with his parents for so long, Pat is built to know when loving someone is going to hurt, but he wants to do it anyway. So he walks toward her thinking, "Maybe this time, it will be different."

One year, six months, and twelve days after Patrick meets Samantha, Barnaby is the only evidence in his life there is change; the only evidence there can be someone or something capable of love -- even if it is a blindly loyal, furry, slobbering, go-fetch-a-stick kind of love. It is better than nothing.

Breathing in and out, feeling his chest expand and deflate, seeing his frosted breath billow out infinitely and disappear, Patrick feels the splintered edges of the winter-worn wood eat at his thighs. Making a firm decision about what needs to be done, Patrick stands and gently tugs on Barnaby's leash. They head back to the apartment.

*             *               *

Walking in the door, Pat kneels and unhooks Barnaby's collar. The dog quietly pads to the left corner of the kitchen, lies down and closes his eyes.

Sam is still in the living room in her chair eating a turkey sandwich; legs propped up and eyes focused on the television.

To the left in the sink, Patrick sees the knife Samantha used to cut the sandwich; morsels of wheat bread, mustard and meat still clinging to the blade. Patrick picks up the utensil and realizes this is the last time the knife will ever look exactly like this.

He walks toward the living room.

Freedom.

Dear CTA ...

As I live on the South Side of Chicago and work downtown, I have to take the wild, city rollercoaster that is public transit. And honestly, I would take Metra, but seeing as I have to be at work by five o' clock in the morning, an hour that makes the Devil himself say "Damn, that's early as hell!", I am forced to take the Red Line from 95th St. to Jackson.

I hate it. I hate it so much sometimes. The dirtiness and the smelliness are really overwhelming. When I say dirty I don't mean a candy wrapper here and there. I mean chicken bones and empty McDonald's bags and seats with stains in them that I'm sure have some kind of bacteria which has the possibility of becoming the next global pandemic. If I were to give you a scratch and sniff sticker of the CTA, your nose would smell an aroma of stale BO, pee, cheap liquor, and some other stench I just can't quite put my finger on at this moment.

Homeless people make the train cars their abode and sleep on them and are really annoyed if you need to sit down because other seats are otherwise occupied. I'm sorry I have to disturb your sleep sir, but seeing as I have only had about four hours myself and I have to go to work, I'd appreciate you just sitting up. It's hard I know. I'm a bad person for making you take up only one seat instead of two.

The people on the train can make my rides pretty interesting though. There was the crazy guy who kept yelling on the train, but knew how to down a can of beer in about two minutes. There was also a gentlemen who had on blue jeans, a dirty t-shirt, and -- I shit you not -- a Batman cape. Running up and down the aisle, he tried to sell a baby doll with a head and no arms and legs. He only wanted $10.00.

You can't make this stuff up!

Chicago public transit, the Red and Green Lines especially, seems to be treated as the trailer park relative with the drunken mom and 3 step dads (Frank Kruesi, Ron Huberman, and Richard Rodriguez).

I've rode the Orange, Pink and Purple Lines and never have to worry about what it's going to smell like or what insane person I might have to fight off.

I sometimes think it's the subconscious disdain the city seems to have for the South Side and its residents or just the fact South Siders have come to accept the way they are treated and never hope for anything better. Kinda like those movies where disenfranchised youth are broken down, but it only takes Michelle Pfeiffer or Sandra Bullock to help raise their hopes.

We need one of those people or -- at the very least -- someone with a mop and a can of Lysol.

Security Blanket

I like it when my situation changes sometimes. And sometimes I hate change. I just plain ole don't like it unless it's the kind of change that involves large amounts of money being thrown in my direction. Let me preface the previous comment by saying, yes I know I can make a ton of stripper jokes, but I don't always like to direct my humor in the most obvious fashion.

My efforts at writing are sometimes affected by my inability to accept change and be okay with it because my mind and my ideas keep rotating one after the other and I can never really settle on a subject because I keep adjusting it; changing it; evolving.

I like the word "evolving" because it seems more mature and not so flaky and young.

Evolution to me denotes some adult-like skill to see change is coming and handle it; be steady; act like a grown up (this is what my father would say to me at 14 years of age which kind of pissed me off because the man was 39 and still didn't know how to handle his money and would ask me for bus fair...another time another blog post).

Placing the idea of change; its philosophic fabric in my mind's hand and trying to weave it into some kind of security blanket, never worked and the threads would stick out at weird angles and unravel into this big mess of cloth that left me; that leaves me crying and confused and inconsolable.
I want to patch things but I can't thread a needle or sew worth a shit and I can't always accept things and people and situations will not always be the same.

I've taking the sewing metaphor too far and I probably sound really stupid or like I'm trying to be overly smart or important and I'm really not. I just want to try and make sense of why I don't want to let go of things as they are.

Miles to Go ....

Sleeping would be a good thing to do right now since I’m tired from work, but I don't have the need to do so just yet so I am going to write. About what I have no clue so I will just try a stream of consciousness method and see where that takes me.

It's late Tuesday afternoon and I am waiting for a movie to come on. Namely, Repo Men with Jude Law. It's sad to even admit because that movie made all of $5.00 at the box office, but it is something to watch and I will get my money's worth of my $200 monthly cable bill.

I also have my ceiling fan on and the heat going at the same time which kind of defeats the purpose of the heat, but that's the only way I can comfortably sleep. But I'm not sleeping right now so having the ceiling fan on is pointless, but I don't have the energy to turn it off so I will just sit here in my bed and have the upper half of my body freeze due to laziness.

All these thoughts are words on a techno which I in small parts make my diary. I haven't had a diary since I was a teenager. It seems pretty silly and juvenile to have a diary so I guess when you become an adult they call it "keeping a journal."

I have something in my left eye and it's tearing up so I'm sorry if there are misspellings.  I also just chipped a nail. Tragic.

This stream of consciousness thing is pretty cool and just saying what comes to mind is liberating and since I tend to do that wherever I am, it’s also pretty common for me.

I am wearing different socks because I can't locate the matching pairs. I think elves really live in my basement even though it's finished and not creepy ...maybe that's why they live there. They need somewhere warm and nice to steal socks and bake delicious, delicious cookies.

My Heart Will Go On....With a Floatation Device



See this doesn't happen if you drown!

I can't swim.

I am the epitome of the stereotypical black person refusing to learn how to navigate the water by flailing their arms like a windmill.

I really don't care if it's good cardio.

I just have an unnatural fear of the water. I don't think it can hold me. I think I will drown and it will not be the romantic kind of drowning as there was in the movie "Titanic."

There will be no hot guy saying precious and loving words.

There will be no James Cameron telling me to look more forlorn and tortured.

There will be no Celine Dion singing passionately about my demise.

There will just be me with my hair getting really messed up and probably no one to save me. This is what I think about any time I see a body of water.

I want to say I blame this on my father as he almost drowned me (unintentionally) on a family trip to Wisconsin when I was a young child.

Let me preface this story by saying I love my father. He is a good man and husband. He just wasn’t very good at keeping an eye on me so I would get lost in a store or slam my finger in a car door. But, as a child, you have to eventually learn that you can’t depend on everyone – not even family.

When my father was “teaching” me how to swim, he said to let him know when I wanted him to let me go. I responded by saying, “OK dad. Don’t let me go, yet.”

Readers, we can all guess what happens next so I won’t bore you with the near death experience details except to say that my glorious glimpse of heaven at the tender age of eleven involved mountains of cupcakes and no school.

I’ve never attempted to learn how to swim since that time.

I just use the old psychology trick of blaming a parent for my shortcomings as an adult. It’s an American thing to do – and most convenient.

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

A friend of mine complimented me on my hair this week. It was freshly done; dark and sleek. I knew I looked good. Then again I always believe this.

Curious, my friend asked if I think about wearing my newly relaxed tresses in their natural, kinky form. My diplomatic, soft answer was, "Hell no!"

She wasn't taken aback by the tone in which I answered, but laughed and asked why. Honestly, I had to actually think; delve deep down and wonder why I had such a strong answer to this question.

It's not because I'm ashamed by my hair's natural rough texture or its proclivity to kink up at the mere thought of any kind of rain or moisture.

I simply believe I look better like this. But is this my belief or one of a society that deems me prettier the longer and straighter my hair?

My mom came up in the time of the afros; black power fist combs entrenched and entangled in proudly nappy, dark black and brown manes.

I was raised in the era of  hot combs and Motions chemical relaxer. Long, luscious tresses flowing freely just like in those commercials with, well with white women.

I didn't see very many women of color on shampoo commercials when I was younger so my sense of beauty was somewhat shaped by European standards. I will admit that.

However, I also had my own ideals of African-American beauty and true pride in my appearance. I reveled in my darker skin and preferred my fuller lips. I loved my wider nose and shapelier form. I just didn't like my hair. Not because it was nappy and I was embarrassed. It was just really a pain to comb and style when it wasn't straight.

As a young girl from five to 10, it sometimes took three women to do my hair. My mom washed my hair; my Aunt Dee Dot straightened my hair with a hot comb; my Aunt Rochelle would French braid my hair.

When I was 11 and got my hair relaxed, it hurt like hell. It hurt like walking barefoot on hot coals while eating jalapeño peppers covered in hot sauce, but damn if I didn't look good afterwards. My first major lesson as a pre-teen girl: Beauty is pain.

I don't think anything is wrong with how one wears their hair. Like decisions about whether or not to watch reality television, it's a choice.

I choose to straighten for convenience. I'm not necessarily making a statement about my race and beliefs of maintaining some invisible ethnic code of morality.

A subject no matter how trivial to some can be given power purely off the importance placed behind it. My hair and what I do with it is my decision and no one else's.

The Dream ...

The work never matches the dream of perfection the artist has to start with.  William Faulkner

 
Writing gets so overwhelming for me at times -- actually most of the time.

Doubt is that little shitty devil sitting on my left shoulder (it's on my left shoulder I think because I'm left-handed) telling me how my writing sucks; my thoughts are puerile and trivial.

I believe it sometimes so I'll start writing and then stop.

To sleep perchance to dream -- about ice cream!

I haven't written a book yet. I keep starting and stopping. Nothing I'm writing is good enough. I'm trying to find my voice through my story and my voice is raspy and weak.

Writing is the only time my massive ego folds and becomes small and goes into a little corner in my subconscious and refuses to leave.

I believe this happens because I don't want to be delusional in my abilities or fool myself into believing I'm better than I actually am. I am not trying to be that girl on American Idol swearing up and down she can sing when she can hold a note no better than Rex Grossman did a football in Super Bowl XLI.

This means I feel I have to approach my writing humbly, but in my humbleness, I allow doubt to creep in and it becomes this self-defeating spiral from which I have to claw my way out every time.

Sometimes I fail -- miserably. Other times, I find a way to make that voice, at first raspy and weak, get a little stronger and a little louder and a little clearer. I go step by step, word by word, thought by thought; stacking my collective paragraphs into stories and anecdotes that might make you all think or chuckle.

I always hope it makes you do both.

I also should admit I lack discipline which is a big part of being a writer. To sit down and still write and compose and not get up while that damn cursor blinks at you -- laughing, taunting -- it's, well it's a bitch, and I hate it.

When I don't force my way through, this laughing, taunting little bastard, he sometimes wins and I leave my computer and go eat or watch television or read a book and become jealous of the author who actually had the courage to not stop and work through their petty insecurities. That courage I lack, but I am trying to possess it, to own it.

Each blog post I write and complete, I get a little stronger, a little more confident. With each little bit of feedback, I grow; I improve; and I am grateful.

My frustration, my self-doubt, my fear I will chip away at and overcome. I will continue to write and laugh and cry and doubt and pick myself back up and do it again.