March 5th, 2015 - George Norman
It’s the same dream; everyone is eating together, it starts with you in the kitchen of your apartment the both of you share with her best friend, and you’re facing the stove like you’re making dinner for everyone, which would not be uncommon, however, it’s not long before you realize that you’re wearing one of her thongs and your disposition in the dream is similar to the disposition of your waking life only that you had on one of her thongs—with a pattern that unpredictably changes all through the dream—and suddenly there are other people, sitting unnaturally straight in their chairs and eating and talking and laughing like people who take themselves seriously and ask the really penetrating questions, like how was your day, and do you get satisfaction from your vocation and you are putting all your energy into listening to this because you feel as though there is something to learn here as you discern a small fire just out the corner of your eye and you get up (still with the thong on) and you look at her and she is conversing with someone you don’t know, and no one seems to care about the fire, or the thong, then the fire starts barking at you as you begin to truly spazz-out and everyone at the table continues to show off their social skills as the fire grows larger, and less manageable, and impossibly close, , ,
I am awakened again by a twisted gut in the front bedroom of my mother’s home. I am 34 years old and it feels like Olympic gymnasts are training for floor routines inside my stomach. Flashbacks of last night accost me as I reach for the bottle, or glass, I know to be storing some warm brown liquid on the long dresser mirror next to the bed. Most days, I sit up with the gripe and groan of someone twice, maybe three times, my age. The mirror isn’t any nicer. My eyes squint-strain moving over the glass searching for what is not.
Almost two weeks have passed since she scoured my misplaced android for proof of infidelity. Eventually landing on a Facebook Messenger exchange—between myself and an ancient ex-girlfriend who still keeps in-touch—her takeaway was that my ex and I were “being soulmates.” I reminded her that my discourse with my ex took place within a drunken litany during an ‘untethered’ period. I tried to remind her, that the exchange with my ex meant nothing, and how this ex lived two states away. This ultimately did nothing to tamper her request to immediately remove all of my “dumb-faced shit,” from the apartment before she came home from work that evening.
And so, here I sit looking into a mirror, reflecting. And I can’t help feeling as if there is something I must/should do. However, I do not. I do nothing. I know that if I question this feeling, I will eventually have to leave this room and perhaps this house and I’m not entirely positive this paralysis isn’t because I’m afraid I’ll run into her or if I’m afraid that I won’t…
So, I tell myself… you stay inside until its dark enough to walk into a bar and drink until you forget, then try to fill up the hole she left with someone else. But the hole, you know, won’t fill. Nothing works, but maybe cocaine or strange conversation, and not even your mother’s seafood gumbo can scrape you from bed long enough to mumble two or three incoherent words to your genuinely concerned family members, who all want the best for you but treat you like something they caught outside in a mason jar.
So, I look into the glass, send a signal to the future me, draw me a map, show me where this ends. With the timing of sketch comedy, a state trooper pulls up to the house. Having experienced confinement in city and state custody, my body reflexively tenses-up. My senses are sent spiking with renewed vigilance and focused intelligence in one direction—my parent’s driveway. Stuck in disbelief and fateful anticipation for any number of civic violations, my heart pounds as the driver’s side door opens on the squad car and the sheriff, all square head and body, ambles up the walk. I hear the doorbell like its coming from somewhere far off, like I am outside of all this, like some familiar observance. I am watching myself get up from the bed and move through the house to slowly open the door and then I am being handed papers. I can’t make-out what’s being said because I’m not really part of it. I notice printed copy of her handwriting: cursive bubble-lettering flashing the words: ...pulled out my hair..., ...a history of drugs and violence..., ...tried to kidnap my dog..., ...pushed me so hard I fell into…
Cheap fiction.
Half truths.
All methodically coined to put a safe amount of distance between us
“…approximately 500 feet,” according to the police.
Her revenge, cold-court-ordered-therapy for dessert.
Walking back to the room, my mind volunteers an image of my mother, sister, grandmothers, aunties, and girl cousins, all mournfully shaking their heads in stern condemnation of the idea of me—or any other Black man for that matter—ever dating white girls.
George Norman is co-founder of the non-profit FREEAIR Books & Publishing, offering a space for historically excluded creatives to freely express themselves without the stigma of academic or institutional status. He lives in Columbia, Mo. with his girlfriend, two sons, and a cat named Stevie.
George encourages others to support FREEAIR BOOKS (www.freeairbooks.com) with their goal of amplifying historically excluded voices through publishing and equal access to education and educational tools.
