Crank Shaft (ROUND 1)
scent of the day: Nose Rest Day
*Let's workshop this piece about the entanglement of voyeuristic desire and moral complicity, and the particular inertia that follows when both dissolve into witnessed tragedy.
*Extremely rough still. I wrote this in a quick spurt, unedited.
Crank Shaft
I have not gotten up from the curb. The ambulance had taken the body long ago. I just sit here. An officer had been next to me, writing my words. I keep sensing her at my side. Who knows when she left.
Much more day remains. Yet that charged stillness of twilight, like a static blanket, refuses to lift from the neighborhood. Not one sub-woofer rattle, not one weedwhacker—a hush has skewered everything. Like children stuck whispering in the wake of a parental spat that had dipped into screams and shattered glass, even the dogs next door have stopped the usual efforts to escape their minds: the chronic digging, the chronic whining and barking, all of us fight to ignore—if only for what it says about us, not just as stewards of nature but as members ourselves.
A feral cat peaks out from the flea bush of the condemned house across the road. He was a kitten when I found him while trimming that same bush two summers back. Normally he would come to me, the only human whose touch he will permit even though it places him in that spiritual bind between needing to make biscuits and needing to maintain that sleepless guard. But he slinks back into coverage ,as if the world to him even with the lack of usual traffic, were full of tripwires visible only to creatures more attuned to intuition. The squirrels too have stopped leaping. One on a branch over the street, washed out by the high angle of the sun, watches me like a statue.
Sitting here—what else would I do but sit here? The kid, my neighbor’s little boy—I saw the whole thing. It happened while I was watching the mother’s ass through the blinds. I had watched it since Spring. But this was the first time through the blinds. She would wave at me in the garage during my workout. I would bite my lip and shake my head. That had become our thing. Every afternoon she kept in sight across the street, never wasting one bend to the wrong line of sight. The vision of how blown out she must be, especially against how tight she kept what was visible to the public eye—for some reason, stranger still with how white her skin was, pulled hunger grunts from my throat. I had started taking off my shirt and she trimmed down to a hiking bra.
Trash blows across the front yards here. Every morning candy wrappers and chip bags will appear out of nowhere. And this morning she had been bending all around to pick it up, her boy putting on his helmet on the sidewalk and her girl in the driveway peddling the toddler trike. Taking care of myself would be the only thing to save a family. I did not want to waste what I had onto the floor. But I had to. It had gotten to that point. You could feel it. Calling her over would be all I needed to do. She would not need the Hennessy I tucked in the freezer for such a moment.
The boy had some room to grow into the bike. Other than getting on and off, though, he was solid. I had given the bike to him. It had been my son’s. “Oh my God. How can we ever thank you?” the mother said, staring like she had something in mind. “It’s just sitting there. So no biggie,” I said, forced by her glare to direct my eyes at the husband.
The boy had his helmet buckled and stood at the curb. I had just about had my fill. But his struggle to get the bike going kept pulling my focus. What I had in store would already wind up a waste. I did not want it doubly wasted. So I eased back, waiting for him to get going-frustrated that he could not get it going. There were only so many more bends warranted.
The boy—he just tipped over. He pressed down really hard. I told him he has to stand up to put his weight down on the peddle to get going. If he had gotten going, he would have been good. He could ride. I had given him tips. And I told him to mind the cars. Cars go too fast on this road. I told them all that. They had moved here in the Winter. They asked if they could borrow my shovel that first day. And the first thing I told them, seeing that they had kids, was about the cars. I told them that it has been my war for almost a decade. Cars gun it, almost like a “Fuck you” to the signs I put out.
The boy tipped over, trying to get motion. He tipped over the wrong way. Two chains of causality—I saw them meet. I saw them meet before they did. But what could I do? Yelling would have done nothing. There was not enough time. Even if I had my pants on, what could I do? My hand was greased with Vaseline. I saw the tire runover the worst spot. I heard the helmet pop. I wiped down my hands with paper towers. They were still greasy. I had scooped too much in my heat. I prayed at the kitchen sink. I prayed I was mistaken as I waited for the water to heat up enough to lather the dish soap. If I had really thought the prayer would have efficacy, would I still have taken this me time? Would I still have prioritized my vanity? I did not want to touch him like this if I had to touch him. But if marathon runners go on with diarrhea running down their legs—what would that have even mattered?
My ass hurts. My back hurts. But I must continue to sit here. I have no idea why. The squirrel has moved on. I did not see it move. Thoughts rose and dropped away in a time that feels forever despite what the sun says. I pictured myself suckling the mom’s pussy, a fat and lippy mommy pussy (meaty as tuberose smells), to make her feel good after the funeral—to give her some distraction. I picture whispering “I’m gonna give you another baby” as I unload. The shame of such thoughts, just like the thoughts themselves—all of it keeps receding and I remain here.
No one has come for me. My ex-wife will not be here until tomorrow afternoon. I picture myself being here—not having eaten anything, not haven taken as sip of water—when she pulls up for drop off. I picture myself, haggard looking from her point of view through the windshield, milking this somehow for my advantage—some sort of sympathy for me. But that does not suffice to explain why I stay.
Thoughts about how this might be performative in some way (neighbors perhaps looking out their blinds), how this might be a way to thank the universe for it not being my own son or even an offering of sorts to ensure that nothing like this ever happens to my son—those thoughts drop away each time they rise. The choppy internal stream, one busy intrusion to the next, has become more distant—like the legs of those treading water from the perspective of one sinking away from the light.
Now I am mostly empty. The deep gears I have always known to spin have stopped. I feel one with the tree, one with the buzzing wire. I have never known an inertia like this—an absence of desire, or more like an absence that eats up all desire or thoughts or shame or what-ifs. The sun burns my scalp. I have reason to get up. But how can I?
