Fatherless Daughters of America

They arrange to meet. It won't do any harm. It will be beautiful. His hair parted, her heart skips every other beat; there is future, it's around the corner and it doesn't matter what they do, there will be time to patch and rearrange even if it's a bomb, an apparition, fraud, a fool's paradise. Time will come on its own accord and lay the emergency aids on their table. That's none of their concern.

She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it's there, it's in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.

A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn't let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it's ok because he loves her, he won't leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?

Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.

Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.

Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it's the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.

The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn't come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn't say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You've learned to forget, that's good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That's good. This kind of debt doesn't get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.

A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.

On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.

He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.

Diesel Fuck

He keeps everything she ever gave him in a box. Mostly obselete loose ends and meaningless word couplings, I and you this, I and you that, we then, we would. When the car did this, when your mother cooked that, building up, waiting for a sunny Sunday to be returned; in place and as it should be. The weather gets warmer, blossoms reappear, the days are a bit longer. He still waits for something to fall from the sky, hit him on the head so he never has to return the box wishing it would disappear on its own accord; quietly and without unnecessary debate. Go box, go.

The box doesn't go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn't get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can't comprehend, it forms more words; I can't this, you can't that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let's fuck.

We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can't. Bathroom, fridge, let's make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can't hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.

The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.

On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don't be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.

9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?

Brooklyn

It came fast, it came pretty; your dress and hair in complete unison, unanimous, I don't even know the right word. You know all this. At your age, you're still questioning your reasons for doing it, doing it well, doing it wrong, cheap or expensive, as if there was a camera watching you; slow footsteps, floorcreaks, you're out of there, for a brief moment or a whole night, it's the same thing; all of time is madeup. Not of seconds, minutes or hours but of every decision you made; a phone call, an elevator, taxi ride, Manhattan's lights behind you and then we're in Brooklyn; far from the hotel.