Washing Out the Cans

Washing Out the Cans

I wish I could convey somehow the overriding sense of uneasiness I have been experiencing lately. Not that I have not always been an un-easy person. I have. But now more so—much more so.

I was watching Robin Williams last night on the Actor’s Studio. I was perfectly in tune with the manic pace of his presentation. His mouth and his body were manic motors describing in a staccato, rapid (rabid) fire freewheeling stream his thoughts. His thoughts connected and disconnected. connecting the dots of his thoughts never seeming to come to the end of the ribbon of thought until his own energy left him stranded and he would slump into the guest’s chair waiting for his body to recoup and let him have another shot at his mind. Like he was self-medicating. Pushing the button on an invisible motor that released juice intravenously more juice more endorphins more speed…the more he jumped and twitched and spit out the thoughts the more juice he got. It was tiring but I could feel it myself. The energy and strung-out-ness of him…of me.

This morning in the tool room

cleaning off the counter top the work bench the tools

the little bits of paper and tin

the leftovers of a project

of a number of projects

the leftovers that I just couldn’t throw away when I should have.

the hose is coiled

the old hose

the one that is almost collapsed in on itself and useless here in America

What would they do with that hose in Mexico?

or in India?

Would they have a purpose for it?

Would it be treasure found in the garbage dump by the children who pick rags all day

and sell them to the vendors for pennies?

The hot water tank has never been drained

don’t they tell you that you should drain the gunk out of the hot water heater every once in a while?

How often?

Well, I’ve never done it so it must be time.

Perfectly natural. Hose, hot water heater, drain.

Uncoil the hose and lead it out the door.

It has been full of water and it leaks out onto the garage floor like a wounded snake.

Outside the door the empty garbage cans are waiting to be brought in

but they stink.

Hot water heater, hose, hot water, stinking cans.

Perfectly natural.

but not just the two cans that were emptied this morning

what about the recycling cans?

They stink too

line them up on the driveway

all four cans,

detergent, hose, old broom back and forth from the boiler room to the stinking cans

swishing the mucky water around

with the old broom

and the cans come clean and the steam along with the smell of the old cans

escapes into the air.

dump the cans out and run in one more time

into the boiler room for a little more water

open the valve

on the hot water heater and rinse the cans.

dump the rinse water over the edge of the driveway…will the rinse water harm anything?

I don’t think so.

turn the cans over and let them dry.

coil the hose back up and put it next to the hot water heater

it will be good to use one more time

I feel guilty throwing it away

even though I just bought a new one

There is the waste to think about and the landfill and the starving children

picking rags all day who would be happy, I think, to be able to curl up next to the hot water heater

in the boiler room

in place of the hose.

Now on to the books.

It has been an age since I looked at my books.

There are piles of them on the chair next to the table.

I have read most of them but there are a few I haven’t gotten to yet.

Which ones should I put into a box and take to the used bookstore?

Which ones will I want to read again?

It is a huge pile.

I forget--when was the last time I looked through the pile?

I can sort them out on the table but first I have to move the old papers and floppy-disks

out of the way.

I forget what is on half of those disks.

Maybe I should go through them and weed them out.

I have to turn on the computer to do that and find labels and a pen to mark them properly.

I wonder if I have any e-mail?

As long as I am turning on the computer…

Two One Legged Men

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I saw two one legged men today

with rubber tiped aluminum crutches

and pant legs pinned

and flapping.

Each one at a different station

pushing themselves

up the subway stairs.

Two one legged men.

I saw two single legged persons

(why does everyone look away?)

I couldn’t help but stare

and marvel

at my own whole pair.

How does a one legged person swim?

I would like to watch--

both arms pulling

while a foot like a fin

like a dolfins tail

the strong crumpled muscles

of abdomen

and powerful arms

and shortened laps

woosh the single whale tail foot

making grace

where dry land permits

only safety pins

and empty flaps.

I saw two one-legged men today.

Death to the Bastards!

On the way home yesterday, Matt had his iPod plugged into some kind of cassette tape contraption that allowed him to play his music through the system in the car. Pretty good stuff. A group called Mischief Brew. One of the songs was titled “Nomads Revolt”. I was in the passenger seat, daydreaming while Matt drove us home from the Bronx. The music was raw but I liked it. It put me in the mind of days-gone-bye. I began to think about a time when I was concerned and ready to act upon that concern at the drop of a hat. That is what a lot of us were about in the 60’s. Ready to drop acid. Ready to question the proposition of war. Ready to drop acid, consider the war, and get up and ask the governor of the state of Florida, the Senators and the President what the hell they were going to do about the war…but that’s a whole other story.

I became lost in the music Matt had on the system and I let my thoughts run free as a dog. I let my feelings and my thoughts go and this is what I began to think.

I thought, “Why can’t we just hang a few of the bastards? The ones who are unaccountably collecting the rewards of the confusion of the economic catastrophe they themselves caused!” It has been forty years since I have felt like this, I thought, four decades of numbness. Four decades of sleep. I am rested and now I find I have a thirst for blood. I can picture them hanging from the lamp posts, up and down the boulevards of the island of Manhattan The bankers and underwriters and inventors of the instruments of deceit. I can see the citizens in the small towns-the workers from the local furniture factories on lunch break- with their pink slips in their pockets. A week away from collecting unemployment. Under the flag pole in the square in front of the county seat. The bodies of the mortgage brokers lined up on the grass, recently shot with light gauge 410’s. A slow, brutal, painful, educational death. I smiled to myself.

I smiled to myself when I thought what a few well placed, public executions could do for morale. A little blood in the right places might just turn the tide of thinking in the country. It worked for the French. It worked in Russia. By God, it worked here once and might it not be better than what lies ahead on the road? The road ahead for my children and their children as we descend into the careless stratification of our society?

Make no mistake, I am not a Republican

or a Conservative or an Anarchist.

I guess I am no longer a Democrat

or a Communist

or anything else

I can put a name to.

I am back in Washington DC

and it is Viet Nam all over again.

I am convinced

that there are self-serving forces afoot

who will bleed me dry.

Who don’t care if I die.

Who will take and take and take until I am dry

and blown away

if nothing comes up

and gets in their way

and I am thinking DEATH!!!

The Skipping Stair

The Skipping Stair

I can hear you coming.
I know who is there.
The treads invite
your signature footfalls
up on the skipping stair.

I built the stair
of bits
and pieces
just wood and glue
and carpet
and nails
paint and putty
and a twisting plan--
like Frankenstein
it took on a Life
of its own
It bore the weight
of two young lovers
and three young boys
who into their own lives
have grown.
But they are still pups
when they are on the stair
Bump-t-bump
t-bump
t-bump,
every time they come
back home.

I can hear you coming.
I know who is there.
The treads invite
your signature footfalls
up on the skipping stair.

Be Good to Yourself

Except that there are no filthy clothes
Strewn wall to wall,
How long does a son’s room remain
Configured, un-repainted, musting
After he has moved away?

How long should the bed stay posted
Under the same window, against the same wall?
The stars outside that window have moved on
The sun outside has bowed low
And stood high
And I?
I catch that same train, you know,
Like so many thousands of times,
I am more constant
Than those constant stars
“where is that at, you wonder?”
“if you want me I’ll be waiting in the car,”

Listening to the same old music.
I wonder
If I built this place for them-
And they are gone,
Why do I stay?
Why not find a place of my own.
A home where I don’t peek
Into vacant rooms
Hoping each time I open the door
For wall to wall clothing
Strewn on the floor.

A Miracle Happened at Home Depot

A Miracle Happened Here (at the Home Depot)

I decided to give Lizzy a little surprise for Hanukkah. She has been asking me for a new faucet for the sink in the powder room next to the kitchen. I had the day off and, after running a few errands, I stopped at H Depot and bought a new faucet for the mind numbing price of $140. Much more than I expected but, What the Hell! (as my uncle Sid used to say!)

At home I took the pedestal sink off the wall after disconnecting the water and waste and proceeded to take the old hardware off the sink. This sink is one I had rescued from a demolition at the Doral Hotel on 39^th street about 25 years ago. It was 20 or 30 years old when I got it but it is solid and quite a classic. Waste not-want not!

I am sure the new hardware is worth four times what the sink is worth but I like the sink-it has history. The old faucet was welded on with age and corrosion. It took a very long time and much energy to get it disassembled. I was tired before I got the sink cleaned and the new hardware started.

Two and a half hours after I’d started, I was putting the finishing touches on. I’d reconnected the water and waste and was installing the handles. I’d had a great deal of trouble re-attaching the body of the sink to the wall and I was really tired. I opened the valve on the cold water and BINGO, no leaks. Worked good. I then turned on the hot water valve and tried the faucet but, to my chagrin, the faucet did not work! It would not shut down the flow of steamy water. I looked through the instructions but there were no adjustments indicated. In frustration I called the 800 number to the manufacturer for help (No real optimism behind the call, I can tell you that! The call was recorded for security and training purposes, though!) Sure enough, they said “take the ‘unit’ back! I stared at my days work in disbelief and rage started to build. I began the disassembling process.

Before I got too far I said to myself “Self! Why not just take the one offending portion of the faucet (it was a three piece, non-unit construction product-if that means anything to you…) knowing full well that American Business (capital ‘A’ capital ‘B’) will most likely require a full return of the product, in its entirety in the original packaging.... But replacing only the one piece would mean I could avoid 2 hours of disassembly and re-assembly and maybe even get the job done before Lizzy got home. I girded myself up for battle and took off for the H Depot with the offending Hot Water Faucet section only.

I got into the “return merchandise” line with less than no hope of resolution, and this is what happened.

Liz-the cashier at the return desk-called the manager. He told her to get in touch with ‘Joe’ (not real name, sorry, I didn’t catch the real name) and have him help out. Actually what he said was ‘call him with some bass in your voice so you’ll get his attention. Not some wimpy, girly request, but a really pushy announcement.” So Liz announced “Joe in plumbing. Please come to the return desk for customer help! (with Gusto!)” She did it three times in the next five minutes and eventually ‘Joe’ came up and met me. He took me to the plumbing department and gave me a new faucet. I told him I only needed the one piece, but he said to bring the whole shebang up to returns and take the piece out myself. I did. Home Depot Liz sent me on my way and I went home.

My Liz was not home yet! For Joy! I bent to the labor of completing the job. I polished off the install and tested the new part. Perfect. I cleaned the sink, the powder room and the kitchen (where I’d done the bulk of the work) and managed to look relaxed and un-harried when Lizzy walked in the door. I didn’t mention anything to her. I let her discover the newly changed faucet for herself as she washed up just after nightfall. She was overjoyed.

The first night of Hanukkah and “a miracle happened here”. Oh, yeah! The last thing I did, just before Lizzy got home, was call the H Depot and thank the manager for the help of Liz-the cashier-and ‘Joe’- the plumbing guy. They are my Macabee heros for 2009.