Silence Returns
Kaen Joyler
I come home from work smelling like fish, put my coat over the chair back and go into the bathroom to wash my hands. There's always an unbelievable amount of scales and fat that collect under my fingernails during the day. Even though I don't cut the fish up, just handling them does it. My wife used to complain about the smell. What can I do, I asked. She didn't have an answer, of course.
In the bathroom I let the water run for a few minutes, the really hot water from the heater working its way through the pipes. I look at my face in the mirror while the water is running. Not a very handsome face, a face that isn't comfortable looking at itself, or being looked at for that matter.
Once the steam begins to rise, covering the mirror, I ease my hands under the tap, a little at a time, feeling the blood rushing into my fingers, then palms, feeling the hair on the back of my hands moving as the water pushes it back and forth.
After my hands are good and red, I take the soap out of the dish and begin to scrub. First my palms with their callused pads, then between my fingers, then each finger individually. Lastly, I scrape my fingernails across the bar to work a little soap up underneath, to help clean out any remaining fish.
Out in the kitchen, my clean hands feel good touching the glass I keep in the freezer. I pop in two ice cubes and take out a bottle of rum and coke. Not much else in the fridge, just some eggs and cheese, a big bottle of salsa.
At one time in my life, I enjoyed cooking. In fact, I was a better cook than my wife was. Later on, she used this as proof of my controlling nature. "What can I say," I said to the judge, "I like to cook."
"Can we talk," she says.
I look up from the menu. The diner is mostly empty, there's nobody sitting in the booth behind her, and there's just a few men sitting at the counter drinking coffee, playing with their food, trying to sober up so they can go home and face their wives.
"Sure," I say. "Why not? Let's talk."
"What are we going to do," she says.
I hand her the menu. "We're going to have something to eat. The breakfasts look good, easy on the stomach," I say.
She puts the menu down, opens her mouth, then closes it. The waitress comes over and fills our coffee cups. She takes our orders. I'm having the Denver Omelet.
"And you, Miss," the waitress says.
"I'm just going to eat his toast, thanks," she says.
The waitress takes the menu away and silence returns.
"What are we going to do?" She says again.
"Beth," I say. "Beth." I take a sip of coffee before I say anything else. All the positive thoughts in the world aren't going to help me, not now.
"Beth," I say again. "I don't know what to say. I mean, should we be doing something? Can you tell me that much? Is there something we should be doing that we aren't doing? Because if there is, for the life of me, I don't know what it is that we should be doing that we aren't doing."
She looks at me, a long look that means she's thinking about what I just said. This is a good sign, I think. It means she's not going to get angry. But I could be wrong.
"How's work," she says. "How's the fish business. Are you doing well, are fish selling, is there a stable market?"
"It's good," I say. I take a drink of coffee, waiting to see if this is leading somewhere, but she just watches me. "It's not a great business," I go on. "But it's stable. There's always going to be a market for fish, especially with all the Asians immigrating."
And I'm doing okay by it. She nods. "You know," she says, "people talk. They talk, every day, mostly about things they don't know anything about. You know the kind, the people who aren't happy unless they're talking about someone."
"Yeah," I say, "I know the type."
"So I want to talk," she says. I want to talk about what we're going to do before they start talking about what we're going to do. I want to know what we're going to do before they start putting words in our mouths or ideas in our heads.
"Yeah," I say. "I see what you mean."
Over at the counter, the men are talking. Their voices are low, but every now and then, one voice speaks up loudly. "Did so," the voice says. The other voices swell just a little bit, to bring the one voice back in with the group. But as soon as they grow quiet again, the one voice rises back up. "Did so!"
One man, sitting on the end closest to the door, stands up. "God dammit, I did," he says, loudly enough for it to sound like a shout in the quiet.
Another man turns to him. "All right, Frank, so you did," he says. And he lets it drop. But Frank, the standing man, he grips the seat of the counter stool and bangs his hand on the counter.
"Clear as day," he says loudly, "clear as day he was. Standing at my elbow, pointing where to look. Sure enough, there she comes, just a bright spot at first, but I could see her when she gets to the corner. Wearing that dress with the low back, she turned around, looking for him. And he goes to her, like he said he would, I watched him turn and go off down the path. I saw 'em both, god damn!"
He bangs the counter again, real hard, makes the others' coffee cups jump, slosh some coffee over the side. But they aren't paying him no mind.
The waitress comes back with our order.
She puts our food down in front of us wordlessly. Just as soon as she begins to straighten up, to fish our check out of her apron pocket and say, enjoy your meal, the door slams shut. She stiffens, then relaxes.
"Sorry," she says.
"What was that about," I ask.
"Stu," Beth hisses.
I say, "I'm only asking. If she doesn't want to say, that's okay."
"No, it's okay," the waitress says.
Beth gives me a look. I look at the waitress. "I'm just asking," I say, "that's all."
"Frank's seeing ghosts again," she says. "A few years back, two students at the high school were in some accident. The girl was waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up. They were going to the senior dance. Some drunk driver run up on the sidewalk and run her down. The boyfriend arrived just as the car was driving away, but he couldn't catch it. At least that's the explanation people use for why he drove his car off the bridge."
The waitress fiddles with her pens and order pad, shifting them around in a meaningless fashion. "Most folks think the boyfriend run her down," she says. "Frank's been saying he's seeing their ghosts. He sees them up on the mountain. He says that's where the boyfriend had been drinking that night before he went to pick up his girl for the dance."
Nobody's eating. It's all quiet at the counter. The waitress lowers her voice. "Frank's one of the ones who thinks the boyfriend run her over," she says. "Frank's telling everyone that's where the boyfriend's guilty spirit is trapped. On the mountain, able to see the ghost of his girlfriend waiting for him. She's waiting for somebody who will never arrive."
The waitress smoothes her apron. "Some folks take Frank's behavior," she says, "as proof he, Frank, was the drunk that ran this poor girl down, and it's his own guilty conscience that's making him see these ghosts." She nods at the group of men still sitting at the counter. "Anyway," she says, "you folks enjoy your meal."
"Are you happy," Beth says.
I look up at her. "What's old Frank doing up on the mountain every night?" I say.
She says, "You are unbelievable!" She gets up without having even taken a bite of toast. I've got a mouthful of omelet and I'm buttering a piece of toast for her. She's out the door before I even get a chance to put down the knife.
In the bathroom I let the water run for a few minutes, the really hot water from the heater working its way through the pipes. I look at my face in the mirror while the water is running. Not a very handsome face, a face that isn't comfortable looking at itself, or being looked at for that matter.
Once the steam begins to rise, covering the mirror, I ease my hands under the tap, a little at a time, feeling the blood rushing into my fingers, then palms, feeling the hair on the back of my hands moving as the water pushes it back and forth.
After my hands are good and red, I take the soap out of the dish and begin to scrub. First my palms with their callused pads, then between my fingers, then each finger individually. Lastly, I scrape my fingernails across the bar to work a little soap up underneath, to help clean out any remaining fish.
Out in the kitchen, my clean hands feel good touching the glass I keep in the freezer. I pop in two ice cubes and take out a bottle of rum and coke. Not much else in the fridge, just some eggs and cheese, a big bottle of salsa.
At one time in my life, I enjoyed cooking. In fact, I was a better cook than my wife was. Later on, she used this as proof of my controlling nature. "What can I say," I said to the judge, "I like to cook."
* * *
I take my drink out onto the balcony. Some kids are still in the pool, splashing each other, their voices echoing in the space made by the surrounding apartments.
When I first moved into this place, I went for a swim every evening when I got home. I was still cutting fish then, and the water felt good against my skin. I thought swimming the length of the pool underwater helped me understand fish better, helped me understand my job better, made me a better fish cutter. Then I cut my foot on a broken bottle some drunk threw into the pool.
I didn't drink when I was married, only at parties or on holidays, a glass of wine or something. But things change. Though, the only thing I ever throw in the pool is my cigarette.
I go back inside to fix another drink, light another cigarette, and sit down to think about dinner.
I decide to think about dinner at the bar. My friend comes on about now, so I go to keep her company. I've been doing this at lot lately, going down to the bar to keep her company, but that's as much company as we've been keeping, though there are others who say different. Sometimes if it's slow, she takes a break and we go have dinner at the diner next door.
It seems whenever I decide to think about dinner at the bar, we end up having dinner at the diner next door. I chalk that up to the power of positive thinking. Positive thinking didn't seem to help things with my wife though.
It's slow, so about midnight I suggest having a quick bite next door. The tongue-waggers think this is our code for a different kind of quickie, but they're too lazy to come next door and see for themselves, they'd rather talk about other people in a trashy way.
When I first moved into this place, I went for a swim every evening when I got home. I was still cutting fish then, and the water felt good against my skin. I thought swimming the length of the pool underwater helped me understand fish better, helped me understand my job better, made me a better fish cutter. Then I cut my foot on a broken bottle some drunk threw into the pool.
I didn't drink when I was married, only at parties or on holidays, a glass of wine or something. But things change. Though, the only thing I ever throw in the pool is my cigarette.
I go back inside to fix another drink, light another cigarette, and sit down to think about dinner.
I decide to think about dinner at the bar. My friend comes on about now, so I go to keep her company. I've been doing this at lot lately, going down to the bar to keep her company, but that's as much company as we've been keeping, though there are others who say different. Sometimes if it's slow, she takes a break and we go have dinner at the diner next door.
It seems whenever I decide to think about dinner at the bar, we end up having dinner at the diner next door. I chalk that up to the power of positive thinking. Positive thinking didn't seem to help things with my wife though.
It's slow, so about midnight I suggest having a quick bite next door. The tongue-waggers think this is our code for a different kind of quickie, but they're too lazy to come next door and see for themselves, they'd rather talk about other people in a trashy way.
* * *
"Can we talk," she says.
I look up from the menu. The diner is mostly empty, there's nobody sitting in the booth behind her, and there's just a few men sitting at the counter drinking coffee, playing with their food, trying to sober up so they can go home and face their wives.
"Sure," I say. "Why not? Let's talk."
"What are we going to do," she says.
I hand her the menu. "We're going to have something to eat. The breakfasts look good, easy on the stomach," I say.
She puts the menu down, opens her mouth, then closes it. The waitress comes over and fills our coffee cups. She takes our orders. I'm having the Denver Omelet.
"And you, Miss," the waitress says.
"I'm just going to eat his toast, thanks," she says.
The waitress takes the menu away and silence returns.
"What are we going to do?" She says again.
"Beth," I say. "Beth." I take a sip of coffee before I say anything else. All the positive thoughts in the world aren't going to help me, not now.
"Beth," I say again. "I don't know what to say. I mean, should we be doing something? Can you tell me that much? Is there something we should be doing that we aren't doing? Because if there is, for the life of me, I don't know what it is that we should be doing that we aren't doing."
She looks at me, a long look that means she's thinking about what I just said. This is a good sign, I think. It means she's not going to get angry. But I could be wrong.
"How's work," she says. "How's the fish business. Are you doing well, are fish selling, is there a stable market?"
"It's good," I say. I take a drink of coffee, waiting to see if this is leading somewhere, but she just watches me. "It's not a great business," I go on. "But it's stable. There's always going to be a market for fish, especially with all the Asians immigrating."
And I'm doing okay by it. She nods. "You know," she says, "people talk. They talk, every day, mostly about things they don't know anything about. You know the kind, the people who aren't happy unless they're talking about someone."
"Yeah," I say, "I know the type."
"So I want to talk," she says. I want to talk about what we're going to do before they start talking about what we're going to do. I want to know what we're going to do before they start putting words in our mouths or ideas in our heads.
"Yeah," I say. "I see what you mean."
* * *
Over at the counter, the men are talking. Their voices are low, but every now and then, one voice speaks up loudly. "Did so," the voice says. The other voices swell just a little bit, to bring the one voice back in with the group. But as soon as they grow quiet again, the one voice rises back up. "Did so!"
One man, sitting on the end closest to the door, stands up. "God dammit, I did," he says, loudly enough for it to sound like a shout in the quiet.
Another man turns to him. "All right, Frank, so you did," he says. And he lets it drop. But Frank, the standing man, he grips the seat of the counter stool and bangs his hand on the counter.
"Clear as day," he says loudly, "clear as day he was. Standing at my elbow, pointing where to look. Sure enough, there she comes, just a bright spot at first, but I could see her when she gets to the corner. Wearing that dress with the low back, she turned around, looking for him. And he goes to her, like he said he would, I watched him turn and go off down the path. I saw 'em both, god damn!"
He bangs the counter again, real hard, makes the others' coffee cups jump, slosh some coffee over the side. But they aren't paying him no mind.
The waitress comes back with our order.
She puts our food down in front of us wordlessly. Just as soon as she begins to straighten up, to fish our check out of her apron pocket and say, enjoy your meal, the door slams shut. She stiffens, then relaxes.
"Sorry," she says.
"What was that about," I ask.
"Stu," Beth hisses.
I say, "I'm only asking. If she doesn't want to say, that's okay."
"No, it's okay," the waitress says.
Beth gives me a look. I look at the waitress. "I'm just asking," I say, "that's all."
"Frank's seeing ghosts again," she says. "A few years back, two students at the high school were in some accident. The girl was waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up. They were going to the senior dance. Some drunk driver run up on the sidewalk and run her down. The boyfriend arrived just as the car was driving away, but he couldn't catch it. At least that's the explanation people use for why he drove his car off the bridge."
The waitress fiddles with her pens and order pad, shifting them around in a meaningless fashion. "Most folks think the boyfriend run her down," she says. "Frank's been saying he's seeing their ghosts. He sees them up on the mountain. He says that's where the boyfriend had been drinking that night before he went to pick up his girl for the dance."
Nobody's eating. It's all quiet at the counter. The waitress lowers her voice. "Frank's one of the ones who thinks the boyfriend run her over," she says. "Frank's telling everyone that's where the boyfriend's guilty spirit is trapped. On the mountain, able to see the ghost of his girlfriend waiting for him. She's waiting for somebody who will never arrive."
The waitress smoothes her apron. "Some folks take Frank's behavior," she says, "as proof he, Frank, was the drunk that ran this poor girl down, and it's his own guilty conscience that's making him see these ghosts." She nods at the group of men still sitting at the counter. "Anyway," she says, "you folks enjoy your meal."
"Are you happy," Beth says.
I look up at her. "What's old Frank doing up on the mountain every night?" I say.
She says, "You are unbelievable!" She gets up without having even taken a bite of toast. I've got a mouthful of omelet and I'm buttering a piece of toast for her. She's out the door before I even get a chance to put down the knife.
* * *
I park my car in the back of the empty parking lot, next to the trailhead. At the top, I look down on the city. I look at the lights and try to see one of them as a young girl waiting on a corner. They all look like girls waiting to me, that's the problem.
Maybe the boyfriend will show up. He'll tap me on the shoulder and point out which light is her. Then we'll both go down the mountain, and maybe, together, we can break away.
Maybe the boyfriend will show up. He'll tap me on the shoulder and point out which light is her. Then we'll both go down the mountain, and maybe, together, we can break away.
copyright 2006 Fear Knocks
Kaen Joyler (pronounced Cain) is an "Off Reservation" student at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, Naropa University, Boulder Colorado. In addition to being a regular guy, Kaen spends his free-time taking long walks on the beach, enjoying sunsets, and impersonating Kim Jong Il at Bar Mitzvahs in Seoul, Korea. Be Cool!
