Snapshot Autobiography

It’s warm with a steady breeze, just enough to sway the azalea bush in my front yard, sway it without eliminating any petals. Distinctly feminine, the color of the petals, bright pink mixed with a lazy hue of purple.  Smoking, drinking vodka with a capful of coke, you know, just to give it some colors, some flavor, I’ve come home from one of my jobs, seen to the babies (food, check; water, check) and am enjoying the sound of unmolested, unpolluted nature.  Back inside my phone rings,  It’s her.  Shouldn’t be.  Wouldn’t be if I’d just delete, block her, but she somehow still needs a connection with me and to me that means everything.  

  “Yes, Em?”

“I want you to know something, Thad.”

I’ve endlessly told her not to call me that; she’d long ago lost that privilege.  Still she persists and I understand that persisting in correcting achieves fuck all. So -

“What’s that?”

It could be many things.  She’s wanted me to know that I’d ranked her behind my job.  That I’d left her three times (for three tours) and she’d left only once.  Just that one time.  And I hadn’t fought for her.  Let her go.  Just let her go.  And, she’s wanted me to know, the times that I hadn’t let her go had been when she’d wanted to be released.  Fucked her up, ain’t I?  

“You sitting down?”

“Ain’t sitting up.”

“Always a smart ass, aren’t you?”

“Just tellin’ the truth.  What do you want me to know?  I can’t wait all day.”

“No . . . no, of course you cant, I mean, all I did was wait  for damn near four years for you to decide that I came first . . . that we came first -”

“Em.”

“Don’t interrupt me cause I think you really need to know this and if you keep interrupting me I’ll probably lose my nerve.”

She’d never been short on nerve.  Spitfire, she’d been.  Still is.  Once she’d had the never to spit in my face and I’d slapped her for it.  Another time her nerve had motivated her to accept drinks from another soldier at the NCO Club.  To make sure I loved her, she’d said later.  To make sure that I would defend her.  Against anything, anyone.  Except herself.  

“ . . . okay . . . so . . . do you remember that fight we had at the NCO Club?”

“Which one?”

“ . . .” - gurgling laughter.

“That’s right . . . so many, right?  I mean the one when you drank some shots of something, something like moonshine, I think, and I wanted a shot and you told me no . . . no, like you had the right to tell me what to put in my body, what . . . what to do with my body.”

“I’m working two jobs.  My spare time is spare.”

“Yeah . . . so say what I want and then shut the fuck up, right?  So romantic.”

“Em - ”

“So I said I was going to order a shot at the bar and you grabbed me and pushed me against a wall” - pause, weeping breath, pause - “you always liked to be against me.  Funny, don’t you think?  Most men would like to lie down and let his lady ride him.  Not you.  You always had to be in charge.  Be against me.”

When it’s breezy, windy, whatever, anything other than perfect calm is against the animals in my neighborhood, particularly the squirrels who’ve nested in the oak in my front yard since as long as I’d taken up residence here.  They’ve survived hurricanes, tropical storms, thunder storms, you name it, just like me.  And I feed them.  Nuts, fruits tossed around the roots of the oak.  If screeching is gratitude in the language of squirrels then they appreciate my efforts; if not, hell, I will continue, after all, I’m the invasive species.  

“I don’t remember you complaining.”

“How could I complain with your hand over my mouth?”

“Don’t remember you fighting.”

“Against you?  You?” - hiccup, gurgle -  “I’m 5’3” and you think I could’ve fought against you?”

“You make it sound like I raped you.”

“Sometimes I felt like you did.”

Sigh of gravel in the throat.  Christ, need another smoke.  Helluva accusation, though not the first time.  Yeah, yeah, so I’d been increasingly more aggressive but never Never NEVER had I raped her.  I mean . . . shit, she’d hugged held kissed me in the end . . . who does that after a rape?

“”Nevermind.  That’s not why I called.  Not what I wanted to tell you.”

Fallen from the nest, I’d reckoned.  This squirrel with a head that’d seemed too big for its body, with eyes that’d seemed, to my drunken perception, to bulge from its sockets.  Writhing, for sure, not living its best life, no doubt, this squirrel in a fallen leaves, eyeing me.  Asking me.  Begging me.  Wordless, voiceless begging.

“Though you should know that even though I never told you to get off or leave me alone I didn’t . . . I wasn’t into it.”

“Okay.”

Begging to be dead as a baby.  It was a baby.  Furry, eyes open, still a baby.  Goofy-headed, bug-eyed squirming baby.  Something had gone wrong.  Somewhere between the womb and the birth something had been fucked up.  Goofed the fuck up.  And there it was:  eyeing me with its rolled eyeballs in its too-big head on its writhing squirming body.  Pawing at leaves.  Weak squeals.  Voiceless wordless begging.  

“I begged you, remember?  Can you even remember?  Being still, just laying there.  But you did your thing anyway.  Well . . . guess what? . . . one of them times made a baby and I . . . I killed that baby.  I killed your baby.  So?”

So I’d decided to kill it.  Kill the baby.  Assumed baby.  Its disease might’ve made it look like a baby, fuck I’d known, but its head was too big, definitely its eyes bulging, no doubt.  Begging begging this creature.  Ain’t killed other creatures?  Human creatures?  Yet here this squirrel, this begging sick squirrel and 

“So what?”

“Don’t you care?”

“Caring doesn’t matter any more.”

. . . .

. . . .

   “Do you still care about me?  Does it matter if you do?”

I could’ve smashed its head in with a rock or stomped it to death or shot it.  Dead.  Either way any way dead.  Never saw a man beg for his life.  The squirrel, begging for its death.  And I’d had the power.  Just like I’d had the power to put myself against Em, against a wall, against the bed, against the air.  Small fragile thing.  Finally, I connected her in the animal kingdom, beyond human.  I’d loved her then.  I love her still.  Though I’d left her three times.  I love her.  Always will.  

“Thad?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I killed your baby.  I think that gives me the right to call you anything I want.  Thad.  Thaddeus.  Did you ever know that God is in you name?”

“So you worship me?  Is that why you won’t leave me alone?”

“Why do you let me not leave you alone?”

If only she were a diseased sick injured dying squirrel.  If only.  I’d put a bullet in her brain.  With a silencer, you know, so as not to disturb the neighborhood.  Bitch.  Cunt.  My love.  Who killed my baby.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to have an abortion?

“No.”

“Well, it ain’t easy.  I bled for a month after it and didn’t see you again until another month after cause you were too busy doing your job.  Fuck me inbetween your job.  Nice, Thad.”

Nice burial for the squirrel.  

Poor baby.

Born without hope after birth.

I’d buried a sick squirrel.

Killed and buried it.

I hate killing.

Done with it.  I hope.  

But if Em keeps going on -

“Well, I just thought you should know.”

I know more than you want me to know.

“I’m sorry if it hurts you.  Just thought you should know.”

What if those are the last words you hear? - sorry if it hurts you.

Silence

  A hush

Undefinable interruptance.

“Thad?”

“Em?”

“I would have kept your baby if I thought for a second that it would have kept you.”

“ . . . you aborted it . . . it’s gone . . .”

“Yes  . . . but I’m still here.”

Until I put myself against you against.  Just a squeeze.  A little too much, too tight on the throat , , , but no, I still love you.  Prayed for the squirrel.  Prayed and cried for and buried, yes, I cried.  Fuck it.  

“Thad?”

“Yeah?”

“Despite everything. I.  Still love you.”

“Okay, my little squirrel.”

. . . . .

“ . . . . what’s . . . what’s that mean?”

“Nothing.”

The breeze has picked up.  Now more swinging than swaying.  Bonafide windy.  I loved her then,  Love her now.  Never stopped.  But I’d left her three times, she says.  I can end her once.  Then she will have left me alone.  Forever.

Going to have a smoke now.  Feed the squirrels and smoke while they chow. 

It’s warm with a steady breeze, just enough to sway the azalea bush in my front yard, sway it without eliminating any petals.  Distinctly feminine, the color of the petals, bright pink mixed with a lazy hue of purple.  Smoking, drinking vodka with a capful of coke, you know, just to give it some colors, some flavor, I’ve come home from one of my jobs, seen to the babies (food, check; water, check) and am enjoying the sound of unmolested, unpolluted nature.  Back inside my phone rings,  It’s her.  Shouldn’t be.  Wouldn’t be if I’d just delete, block her, but she somehow still needs a connection with me and to me that means everything.  

  “Yes, Em?”

“I want you to know something, Thad.”

I’ve endlessly told her not to call me that; she’d long ago lost that privilege.  Still she persists and I understand that persisting in correcting achieves fuck all. So -

“What’s that?”

It could be many things.  She’s wanted me to know that I’d ranked her behind my job.  That I’d left her three times (for three tours) and she’d left only once.  Just that one time.  And I hadn’t fought for her.  Let her go.  Just let her go.  And, she’s wanted me to know, the times that I hadn’t let her go had been when she’d wanted to be released.  Fucked her up, ain’t I?  

“You sitting down?”

“Ain’t sitting up.”

“Always a smart ass, aren’t you?”

“Just tellin’ the truth.  What do you want me to know?  I can’t wait all day.”

“No . . . no, of course you cant, I mean, all I did was wait  for damn near four years for you to decide that I came first . . . that we came first -”

“Em.”

“Don’t interrupt me cause I think you really need to know this and if you keep interrupting me I’ll probably lose my nerve.”

She’d never been short on nerve.  Spitfire, she’d been.  Still is.  Once she’d had the never to spit in my face and I’d slapped her for it.  Another time her nerve had motivated her to accept drinks from another soldier at the NCO Club.  To make sure I loved her, she’d said later.  To make sure that I would defend her.  Against anything, anyone.  Except herself.  

“ . . . okay . . . so . . . do you remember that fight we had at the NCO Club?”

“Which one?”

“ . . .” - gurgling laughter.

“That’s right . . . so many, right?  I mean the one when you drank some shots of something, something like moonshine, I think, and I wanted a shot and you told me no . . . no, like you had the right to tell me what to put in my body, what . . . what to do with my body.”

“I’m working two jobs.  My spare time is spare.”

“Yeah . . . so say what I want and then shut the fuck up, right?  So romantic.”

“Em - ”

“So I said I was going to order a shot at the bar and you grabbed me and pushed me against a wall” - pause, weeping breath, pause - “you always liked to be against me.  Funny, don’t you think?  Most men would like to lie down and let his lady ride him.  Not you.  You always had to be in charge.  Be against me.”

When it’s breezy, windy, whatever, anything other than perfect calm is against the animals in my neighborhood, particularly the squirrels who’ve nested in the oak in my front yard since as long as I’d taken up residence here.  They’ve survived hurricanes, tropical storms, thunder storms, you name it, just like me.  And I feed them.  Nuts, fruits tossed around the roots of the oak.  If screeching is gratitude in the language of squirrels then they appreciate my efforts; if not, hell, I will continue, after all, I’m the invasive species.  

“I don’t remember you complaining.”

“How could I complain with your hand over my mouth?”

“Don’t remember you fighting.”

“Against you?  You?” - hiccup, gurgle -  “I’m 5’3” and you think I could’ve fought against you?”

“You make it sound like I raped you.”

“Sometimes I felt like you did.”

Sigh of gravel in the throat.  Christ, need another smoke.  Helluva accusation, though not the first time.  Yeah, yeah, so I’d been increasingly more aggressive but never Never NEVER had I raped her.  I mean . . . shit, she’d hugged held kissed me in the end . . . who does that after a rape?

“”Nevermind.  That’s not why I called.  Not what I wanted to tell you.”

Fallen from the nest, I’d reckoned.  This squirrel with a head that’d seemed too big for its body, with eyes that’d seemed, to my drunken perception, to bulge from its sockets.  Writhing, for sure, not living its best life, no doubt, this squirrel in a fallen leaves, eyeing me.  Asking me.  Begging me.  Wordless, voiceless begging.

“Though you should know that even though I never told you to get off or leave me alone I didn’t . . . I wasn’t into it.”

“Okay.”

Begging to be dead as a baby.  It was a baby.  Furry, eyes open, still a baby.  Goofy-headed, bug-eyed squirming baby.  Something had gone wrong.  Somewhere between the womb and the birth something had been fucked up.  Goofed the fuck up.  And there it was:  eyeing me with its rolled eyeballs in its too-big head on its writhing squirming body.  Pawing at leaves.  Weak squeals.  Voiceless wordless begging.  

“I begged you, remember?  Can you even remember?  Being still, just laying there.  But you did your thing anyway.  Well . . . guess what? . . . one of them times made a baby and I . . . I killed that baby.  I killed your baby.  So?”

So I’d decided to kill it.  Kill the baby.  Assumed baby.  Its disease might’ve made it look like a baby, fuck I’d known, but its head was too big, definitely its eyes bulging, no doubt.  Begging begging this creature.  Ain’t killed other creatures?  Human creatures?  Yet here this squirrel, this begging sick squirrel and 

“So what?”

“Don’t you care?”

“Caring doesn’t matter any more.”

. . . .

. . . .

   “Do you still care about me?  Does it matter if you do?”

I could’ve smashed its head in with a rock or stomped it to death or shot it.  Dead.  Either way any way dead.  Never saw a man beg for his life.  The squirrel, begging for its death.  And I’d had the power.  Just like I’d had the power to put myself against Em, against a wall, against the bed, against the air.  Small fragile thing.  Finally, I connected her in the animal kingdom, beyond human.  I’d loved her then.  I love her still.  Though I’d left her three times.  I love her.  Always will.  

“Thad?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I killed your baby.  I think that gives me the right to call you anything I want.  Thad.  Thaddeus.  Did you ever know that God is in you name?”

“So you worship me?  Is that why you won’t leave me alone?”

“Why do you let me not leave you alone?”

If only she were a diseased sick injured dying squirrel.  If only.  I’d put a bullet in her brain.  With a silencer, you know, so as not to disturb the neighborhood.  Bitch.  Cunt.  My love.  Who killed my baby.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to have an abortion?

“No.”

“Well, it ain’t easy.  I bled for a month after it and didn’t see you again until another month after cause you were too busy doing your job.  Fuck me inbetween your job.  Nice, Thad.”

Nice burial for the squirrel.  

Poor baby.

Born without hope after birth.

I’d buried a sick squirrel.

Killed and buried it.

I hate killing.

Done with it.  I hope.  

But if Em keeps going on -

“Well, I just thought you should know.”

I know more than you want me to know.