Sinister: um. how much do you think i could bench-press?

[Kirsten Kenyon]

   another night at the teahouse.  for some reason...probably the 
balmy weather....i felt like dressing up.  i took a seat near a 
window and adjusted my red skirt, looked around and felt it was going 
to be a nice evening.  there was a boy on the floor, playing with a 
black puppy and smoking. he was at the feet of a girl with wild 
blonde hair and shiny metal hoops dangling from places on her face i 
wouldn't have imagined they could.  dangle.  she suddenly broke the 
hum of muffled conversation in a clear, gentle voice, and asked if 
anyone would mind if she were to play her violin for a bit.  of 
course no one minded, so she stood up next to a yellow grandfather 
clock and played a simple melody.  it sounded like something i might 
have heard before. it sounded like a song someone sang to me when i 
was very young.  or like a walk through a forest.  it sounded like 
lying on my back in the summertime, it felt like the sun and it 
smelled like warm grass.  somehow....
  it made me think of things i could well have forgotten by now.  a 
pretty woman in rome who sang sweetly every morning as she hung her 
laundry out the window across the alley. skipping barefoot around a 
norseland farm in a cream-colored petticoat, tugging at my father's 
sleeve so he would lift me high enough to peer at the sheep on the 
other side of the fence.  the wonderful gifts my grandparents used to 
buy for me on their travels.  brightly-painted horses, handmade 
moccasins, little woollen skirts and coconuts carved into scary 
faces.  sitting all night at a place called holy hill, making 
magnificent plans, sharing childish dreams with a girl i thought had 
it all.  a funeral for a girl i only knew by name.  i thought of my 
friend dan.  of people i don't see anymore.
   of people i wish i could see.  of things i wish i were brave 
enough to do.  things that i could do instead of hiding away night 
after night in the teahouse, quietly joining in a modest round of 
applause from strangers behind walls, in darkened rooms.  i 
thought....that i shouldn't stay any longer....
  i walked slowly down the orange stairs to find the place nearly 
empty.  two behind the bar.  one at the window.  two at a little 
table, studying history and getting drunk.  the reverend in the 
corner, setting up his amp.  looking sad.  he's a good man...a chain-
smoking minister who twinkles his eyes and sings the blues.  the last 
time i saw him, i was wearing a plaid coat and standing in line for a 
drink.  he half-sang, half-shouted "wooeee an' we gotta baby girl 
inna plaid jacket, boys, you know what they say bout them girls in 
plaid jackets" and a few people yelled "WHAT?" and he just laughed a 
smokey sort of laugh and shook his head.  it didn't make any sense, 
and he knew it.  but the reverend is the sort of man who says things 
for the pure enjoyment of saying them.  he came upstairs later and 
sat with us....i forget who else was there.  he gave us some good 
advice, and he gave us his business card.  the card said he would 
play "weddings, funerals, private parties, bookshops, coffee shops, 
bars, and revivals."  i remember that.  i thought it was funny.  but 
i've forgotten the advice....of course.  i tend to forget the useful 
things.  tonight, the reverend just called me "honeypie."  
   i went to my car, and i'd had to park in this awful lot on the 
corner.  it's always full of panhandlers, shady characters, brawling 
sailors...i've seen things...ugh.  there was a woman there one 
afternoon a few months ago.  she told me she was hungry. i took her 
into subway and she ordered this gigantic roast beef deal, a large 
fountain soda and a bag of chips.  fine.  THEN she hit me up for bus 
fare.  okay.  i'm a sucker.  she asked for a few more bucks.  i 
didn't have it.  she got sort of mad.  tonight she saw me getting 
into my car.  i locked the door immediately, as i always do.  she 
hurried over and started saying something to me, rubbing her thumb 
and forefinger together and spraying out her lips as she spoke.  i 
started the car and shook my head.  NO.  she kept at it, though.  she 
started tapping on my window, and i would have driven away but i was 
searching under my seat for tigermilk.  i kept looking up at her and 
saying NO and shaking my head, and then she reached for the door 
handle and tried it.  i was so glad i'd locked it...i might have been 
scared, but i think i was just angry.  or disgusted.  or scared.  i 
don't know...i stepped on the gas.  
   this is what happens.
   love
kirsten
   



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